Paris Set Me Free
All The Whilst & Wherenots
RER station Biblioteque François Mitterand, named after the worst use of an awesome architectural opportunity of the last 20 years, ETA approx. 30 seconds. And yet what's this desolate landscape of Dickensian desolation and and omnipresent Orwellian oppression?
And isn't Paris supposed to be a bleedin' smoke free zone, and all that? Whatever happened to the Kyoto Protocol, eh? That's what I'd like to know.
Strictly speaking though, we're not quite in Paris yet here. Only a pigeon poo away mind you, but not - quite there.
It always grabs me, this industrial landscape just a moment before entering Paris proper. And there's something about the railways which seems to encourage this wistful wariness, and uneasy foreboding, as if we should be grateful the train we're on's still moving, because if it drew to an inexplicable, shuddering halt...
Then again, it frequently does, with intercom explanations ranging from manically enthusiastic drivers who give us the second-by-second, flickr-by-flickr account of the slightest signal change, through manic depressive, feeling-our-pain bleeding hearts who need a hug, right the way down to the must frustrating of all... sinister, stony silence.
Anyway, this train didn't stop; we're looking at an on the move, suburban Paris urban landscape of the sort a million commuters don't see on any given weekday or weekends either, I'd be so bold. It was there for the taking and it took me, the smoke's theoretically steam from the motors being used to disappear a metropolis' worth of muck, and then there's us, sat here in the middle of it, still moving if we're lucky, watching our filth go up in flames, all the more thankful for the fact it's someone else's job and we can get on with the highly specialised task of watching the world go by, whilst pretending not to notice.
All The Whilst & Wherenots
RER station Biblioteque François Mitterand, named after the worst use of an awesome architectural opportunity of the last 20 years, ETA approx. 30 seconds. And yet what's this desolate landscape of Dickensian desolation and and omnipresent Orwellian oppression?
And isn't Paris supposed to be a bleedin' smoke free zone, and all that? Whatever happened to the Kyoto Protocol, eh? That's what I'd like to know.
Strictly speaking though, we're not quite in Paris yet here. Only a pigeon poo away mind you, but not - quite there.
It always grabs me, this industrial landscape just a moment before entering Paris proper. And there's something about the railways which seems to encourage this wistful wariness, and uneasy foreboding, as if we should be grateful the train we're on's still moving, because if it drew to an inexplicable, shuddering halt...
Then again, it frequently does, with intercom explanations ranging from manically enthusiastic drivers who give us the second-by-second, flickr-by-flickr account of the slightest signal change, through manic depressive, feeling-our-pain bleeding hearts who need a hug, right the way down to the must frustrating of all... sinister, stony silence.
Anyway, this train didn't stop; we're looking at an on the move, suburban Paris urban landscape of the sort a million commuters don't see on any given weekday or weekends either, I'd be so bold. It was there for the taking and it took me, the smoke's theoretically steam from the motors being used to disappear a metropolis' worth of muck, and then there's us, sat here in the middle of it, still moving if we're lucky, watching our filth go up in flames, all the more thankful for the fact it's someone else's job and we can get on with the highly specialised task of watching the world go by, whilst pretending not to notice.