Mykelle Morrison

Honors 345
Final
Train Stations are Lonely
14 Septembre 2014 :
I have one hour to kill. People hurry past me in all directions, eyes forward, suitcases in
tow. Hardly anyone speaks; this is not a place for idle conversation. And yet the noise is
deafening. The footsteps, the whistles, and the clanging of metal echo in the high ceilings. I
shiver in the drafty air, still trying to decide if Im inside or out. I sit on a bench watching the
names on the screen tick toward the top one by one. Paris Nantes: 60 min. Train stations are
lonely.
I wander to the caf looking for a snack and a warm place to sit. My monstrous suitcase
packed with three months of supplies slows me down as I maneuver through the chairs. A kind
man helps me sit and I respond with a tight-lipped smile and a nod. As I look over the menu I
choose an item I recognize and silently rehearse the pronunciation in my head. Suddenly the
waiter is beside me. My mind goes blank and my palms are sweaty as the words slip out of his
mouth in a language I suddenly forget I can understand. After a not so brief pause I spill out my
carefully rehearsed order.
Je voudrais un jus dorange, sil vous plais
It must have sounded better in my head. He bursts out in an apologetic laugh and repeats my
request for an orange juice in perfect French. Mortified, I nod. The years Ive spent studying this
language seem wasted as my first attempt at using it immediately gives me away. With one
simple request he knew I was not French. Just another tourist butchering their beautiful words.
At least I tried. I drink my juice without another word. I return to my cold bench and continue to
watch the names tick by on the screen. Paris Nantes: 20 min.
***

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Final
If you go to France this is what you will see. High fashion. Sleek black clothes that could
only have stepped directly off the pages of a magazine. Chic scarves add the only pop of color to
their wardrobes. Slender and poised they walk the streets mumbling their beautiful banter, almost
in whispers they speak. They are elegant and cultured, something most Americans only hope to
be. And I, try as I might, cant seem to mimic their effortless grace. The smell of their authority
is almost as pungent as the cigarettes glued between their fingers. Not the expensive kind bought
in a box but the ones hand rolled from the little bags of tobacco leaves always tucked away in a
purse. Their dainty tongues run along the paper sealing up the object of their affection for the
next five minutes. For the next five minutes they will sit and expel that smoke from their
perfectly lined lips creating a cloud that hangs around every door to every building. That smoke
that I fight my way through trying not to cough, trying not to give myself away for the outsider I
am. The American outsider who has never touched a cigarette to her lips, never held that smoke
in her lungs.
***
4 Octobre 2014 :
We arrived at the station at the crack of dawn. Were taking the first train out so we can
make the most out of our day trip. Nantes Le Croisic: 25 min. Its only been a month since our
little Seattle group settled in to France but we didnt waste much time making ourselves at home.
Now that we know the bus routes and tramlines like the backs of our hands, we dont hesitate to
spend our days wandering downtown or exploring the undiscovered treasures this city has to
offer. We know which boulangeries bake the most delicious baguettes and we always go to the
vendor with the best wines at the Sunday market. Our French is improving daily, though not as
quickly as our creatively developed collection of franglais that we use with each other every

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chance we get. Even our French neighbors enjoy learning our newest word mashups. I am
constantly amazed at how quickly this strange place came to feel like home.
Waiting in line to buy our tickets we pull out a handful of euros along with our Cartes
jeunes. The French student discount cards make the train tickets so reasonable; this is our second
Saturday jaunt in three weeks. Upon advice from the local bartenders we befriended, our first trip
was to la Plage de la Baule where we strolled up and down the miles of golden sand along the
western coast. The sleepy beach town had been a refreshing change of pace from our bustling
city. For todays trip we sought out a recommendation from Kvyn who lives in the dorm above
me.
I get to the counter to order my ticket. The man understands me. He does not laugh. He
takes my cash, hands me my ticket, and wishes me a good day. We sit on the benches waiting for
our train. The sickly sweet voice of the woman on the recording plays over and over, reminding
us to not leave our bags, and telling us what trains are arriving. As we chat loudly amongst
ourselves I notice a couple gesturing wildly at the man selling tickets, clearly there is a language
barrier. I silently sigh for the poor tourists; I know how lonely train stations can be.
***
The thing you have always suspected about yourself the minute you became a tourist is
true. You do look out of place. Your money pouch strapped around your waist sticking out
from under your shirt instantly sells you out. Youre an outsider. As if the fancy camera slung
around your neck or the sensible shoes didnt give you away already. But thats not the
problem. You can look and dress however you want. Its your attitude that infuriates me. Youre
in their country. You pay thousands of dollars to travel around the world and yet you cant bother
to learn three phrases in their language?

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Honors 345
Final
Bonjour

Parlez-vous anglais?

Merci

Its really that simple and yet you saunter up to the man behind the counter and off you go with
your thick southern drawl making your arrogant American demands. Because youre staying in
all the touristy spots in the touristy cities of course the man understands your English. He shows
you your room or hands you a map as you continue on with your ignorant comments about your
knowledge of his city. With a bitter smile he does his job to accommodate your needs. All the
while you wonder why the French are so rude.
***
15 Novembre 2014 :
There is no train station today; instead we travel by bus. Anne Marie, our French
grandma, counts us off as she herds us onto the bus like sluggish cattle. Its early. Very early.
The sun has not yet graced us with its presence, nor its warmth. Silvery mist hangs around us in
the square where we met the bus. The moisture somehow manages to penetrate my plaid cotton
scarf, sending a shiver down my spine as I waited my turn to board.
Our study abroad package promised us three excursions to nearby landmarks. We do most
exploring on our own, but for these three trips everything is planned and taken care of for us. I
step on to the bus feeling oddly light. I let my hand fall from its instinctive clutch over my purse,
always on guard against the dreaded pickpockets. But what would they steal today? Just a phone
and 20 euros of spending money. No tickets, no passports, no credit cards. Anne Marie holds our
entire day in her frail grasp.
I relax onto the itchy bus seats. Looking out the tinted window I see people walking by
shooting us knowing looks. A tour bus. Suddenly I am very aware of my current status as a
tourist. Traveling on our own people definitely know we are American, but there is some sort of

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silent respect for our efforts at blending in and doing things their way. I slump a little further
down in my seat avoiding the eyes outside that I know still trail the bus. With a roar the bus pulls
out on to the road.
Anne Marie has brought us breakfast. We pass the buttery croissants around as she breaks
into her spiel. In perhaps the most elegant French I have ever heard she begins to tell us the
history of le Chteau de Chenonceau. We are headed to a historic castle that has housed a
plethora of French royalty since the thirteenth century. Despite my somewhat still rudimentary
French, I listen to her melodic story as though it were a fairy tale. Once again I fall back into the
comfortable delusion that I am just another French student on my way to visit a piece of history.
But then we arrive. We march off the bus like ducklings onto the castle grounds and resume our
rightful role as tourists.
***
What do you think when you look at us? Are you excited at the prospect of meeting
someone new, someone whose life is so different from your own? Or do you cringe at the sight
of us? Another American tourist crowding your subways and filling up your favorite cafs. Do
you resent us for taking a million pictures of all the silly things you see every day and making a
spectacle over a building, which to you is just another store? Or do you appreciate our business
and our interests in your home?
You see them walking with cameras slung round their necks, cheesy brets perched on
their heads, and cheap trinkets made in China clutched in their fingers. They marvel at your
history, your architecture, and your art. You probably wonder what it is they learn, after hours
spent in museums, galleries, and tours. What do they take home and tell their families and their
friends? You probably think they bring home a picture of the Arc de Triomphe, not the reason it

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was built. You probably think they bring home sand from the beaches of Normandy, not the
history of the battle. You probably think they bring home chocolates and macaroons, not an
understanding of the delicacy of French cuisine. Youre probably right.
What happened to create this barrier between locals and tourists? Tell them how to be
better visitors to your country. Tell them, I mean us, how to learn about your culture to bridge the
gap and create a harmony. Tell me how to blend in to your world.
***
5 Dcembre 2014 :
I didnt even make it inside the station. I felt sick from the minute I got up. Hoping it
would pass, I packed my things and headed out, determined not to let it deter my trip. Its finally
my weekend for Paris. Three months in France and it took me till the second to last weekend to
finally make it there. Maybe the universe is punishing me for not putting the city of lights higher
on my priority list.
I didnt make it to the inside of the station. I barely made it to the trashcan outside. The
plague had caught me. It crept slowly through our entire group, claiming one, maybe two victims
at a time. It consists of about twenty-four hours of violent illness, and then it moves on leaving
you crippled with exhaustion and relief. And here it was, choosing me as I embarked on a fourhour journey on public transportation across the northern countryside of France.
I head straight from the bathroom stall in the station to the bathroom on the train. I cant
get comfortable in my seat because only five or ten minutes will pass before Im on my feet
again, dragging myself up and down the aisle. The woman sitting across from us looks politely
concerned when I shoot her my apologetic glances, but she shrinks into her seat as far as she can.
As far away from me as she can.

Mykelle Morrison
Honors 345
Final
The train sighs to a halt in Paris. Its been at least twenty minutes since my last escape
from my seat. Things are starting to look up, and it couldnt have been more perfectly timed. Our
next leg of the journey was the subway from the station to our hotel. There are no bathrooms on
a subway. I wait with the bags while Tamar goes to buy the subway tickets. The minute she
walks away I realize that I celebrated too soon. No time to get to a bathroom. Here I am, in the
middle of a train station in Paris, people walking all around me, and Im throwing up in a
trashcan. My stomach fights on, angrily determined to rid itself of this horrendous germ, taking
everything I have with it.
Finally, a sympathetic passerby timidly approaches. He is trying to hand me a bottle of
water. I try to tell him Im ok. In the few seconds I can breath between my stomachs furious
bouts of rage I attempt to communicate that I dont need any help. But in my wearied state, I
cant seem to come up with enough words to string together that he might understand. One day
this story might be funny. But right now, train stations have never felt so lonely.
***
I feel like Ive paid my dues. Three months living in a country, completely integrated into
their culture and society, dont I deserve to feel like one of them? But Im still not sure that I do.
Where do I find the line between tourist and local? I visit the castles and the museums and take
pictures with the overstated landmarks. But I frequent my favorite restaurants and pubs and I buy
seafood at the market on Sundays for dinner. I study the language but I also study the current
events, the history, the pop culture. Ive been sick here, Ive cried here, Ive rejoiced here. You
dont truly know a place until youve experienced all three. When I leave Nantes for a weekend,
people ask me where Im from. Seattle. Nantes. Seattle. Nantes. Im no longer sure what to say.
How long do you have to be somewhere before it can feel like home? I want to proudly declare

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that both cities are my home. I belong to both and they belong to me. But these people that
surround me here, Nantes is truly their home. Can I lay claim to this place that is really theirs? Is
a tourist someone who comes for a short time, knowing they must leave? Or do you stop being a
tourist the moment you feel you belong?
***
17 Dcembre 2014 :
Im back on a bench. My suitcase probably weighs ten pounds more than it did the last
time it was in use. Darkness still lingers outside; the sun wont rise until I am sitting on a train
rushing past that flat countryside once more to the airport in Paris. This will be the last time I
gaze out over the soft green fields that melt into a pale blue sky forming a blurred horizon. But I
miss my mountains.
The doors glide open welcoming another morning traveler into the mostly deserted
station. I tug at my scarf, shielding myself against the chill. My beautiful French scarf, like all
the girls wear. I have four more like it tucked safely away in my bag to distribute as gifts upon
my return. It has become my constant travel companion. Tough and sheltering from the elements
wherever I go, it conveniently doubles as a soft pillow when tucked gently against a window. I
tend to find myself waiting in cold places like this rather often when I travel.
A guard walks by with a gun longer than my arm slipped ominously under his. The
stench of urine and vodka creeps up behind me. The raggedy man sleeping under a bench has
knocked over his bottle. The clear liquid runs across the floor as the guard orders the man out.
Yet I hear softness in his tone, as if this might be their daily morning ritual. The three of us
waiting on our benches for our trains pretend not to notice the encounter. Instead we watch the
screen. Our respective destinations creep toward the top one by one. Nantes Paris: 15 min.

Mykelle Morrison
Honors 345
Final
Preparing to board my last European train, I am ready to come home. And yet home is
where I am leaving. The dorms and the school have been my shelter. The restaurants and bars
have been my escape. Europe has been my playground. My group has been my family. This train
station is so lonely. Not because everyone keeps to themselves and not because I cant
communicate. I am lonely for everything Im leaving behind.
***
I think of France every now and again. I think of it when I pass an Irish pub, hoping to
look inside and see a redhead with a long scraggly beard behind the counter. I think of it when I
pass through a wine aisle in the grocery store, each time optimistically looking for our favorite
bottle. That crisp, almost bubbly kind unique to the Pays de la Loire region. Its never there but I
cant help but check. I think of it when I turn down a croissant, a baguette, a crepe, because they
just wont be the same. I think of it when I pass through that occasional cloud of smoke on a
sidewalk. That smoke that now induces instant nostalgia for that country, that culture, those
beautifully mysterious people that could only ever exist there.
For a while I was part of that. I wore their clothes. I ate their food. I drank their wine.
Their culture was my culture. At least thats how it felt to me. Im not sure that I ever really
belonged there, not in the way they do. Those three months are a distant memory, tucked away in
the corner of my mind where I can access them when Im feeling lonely. But even if I never truly
belonged, I have those memories of a place that felt like home when I was so far away. On the
days when being myself feels a little too mundane I like to think back to when I was French.
Chic and brooding, I sat in train stations thinking I was lonely.