A train ride...

Lounging over lunch of fried beef and leftover ratatouille comparing with Pierre the efficiency of France's healthcare system and our system that is agreeably is somewhat of a mess, we realize we have 5 minutes to catch the bus for Bellegarde and the train station. We jump up leaving behind cartoon clouds around assorted plates and partially eaten cake and rush down 3 flights of polished wooden steps and run the half block to meet the bus just as it enters town. In Bellegarde we have coffee at the neat picturesque station cafe and wait for our train. No paper or throwaway even in the train station--coffee in little ceramic demitasse cups with saucers and wine in glass. The only obvious disposable items were at McDonald's! Our bullet nosed train silently glides into the station seemingly suspended between rail and overhead electric cable and we take our reserved seats with a polite "bonjour" to the woman sitting across the little fold-up table and store our luggage in the overhead rack. With little delay and almost inperceiverably the train moves forward accelerating to smooth blinding speeds. No back and forth rocking or click-clack of the rails here! With a few stops in quaint mountain towns the car fills with travelers dragging luggage, locals carrying shopping bags and tourists pushing bikes--all headed to the warmth and escape of southern France. The mood is respectfully quiet with hushed conversation or self reflection. Sarah knits as I write--our activity interrupted as one of us spots interesting scenery out speeding windows. Clusters of old mid-evil villages no longer excite us but we are still thrilled by the sights of castles, whole or part, that dot most hilltops along the valley and giant windmills slowly turning wind in this corridor into electricity. For hours we pass bare rock cliffs thrust up eons ago forming this route for merchants and warriors. In Marseille we dine on baguette sandwiches of ham, cheese and butter that Pierre insisted I make before leaving with crisp apples from the trees surrounding his office for desert. A conductor comes through punching little holes in tickets and police stroll through, their German Shepherd sniffing ankles and bags. With a left at Marseille we head east, facing forward now rather than backward, with the sun reflecting gold off the Mediterranean and neat rows of grape vines turing the same color with the changing weather. Palm trees now grow next to stucco houses with small balconies taking advantage of the day's final light as the shore curves away south and north. We will soon be in Nice and walking distance from the hostel. I know a lovely little bar just around the corner....