Fragment #6 - One day in Paris

I never really took the time to visit Paris. I know where the gymnasiums are located, but I have never had time to take a walk on the Seine’s embankments. Melaine’s parents wanted to visit the Picasso exhibition in the Grand Palais, and they took us with them. It was my Christmas present, although they couldn’t have us tickets, as they had all been sold. We woke up at five and drove up to Poitiers in order to take the TGV. This big can is some kind of a national pride in this country. They often use it to match speed records. It sounds a bit ironic to me as their railroad company is first and foremost acknowledged for its inclination toward strikes and delays. I don’t understand why it is so important and amazing that the French train outsped the Japanese one, reaching 280 km/h, especially considering that it will never be that fast while carrying passengers. But I suppose a line in the World records’ Guiness book is more important than shortening the travelling time. Not that it was any different in Ireland, anyway.
Travelling by train always makes me drowsy. I saw nothing of the landscape past Châtellerault, and I only woke up when my ears tickled me when going through the numerous tunnels that precede the arrival at Montparnasse Station. We walked a lot until noon, when Melaine’s parents left us for their exposition. Her father took us through the whole Montparnasse quarter. He trailed us round from his former office to the hostel he used to sleep into, and every single restaurant in which he once ate. We had our lunch in a nice and small Chinese restaurant. They left us after the meal, heading towards the museum, while we went on our way. She took me to the Museum of Natural History, and we wandered through the gardens, the Evolution Gallery, and the Paleonthologic Gallery. I awed in front of every stuffed animal, and insisted on being shot in front of every dinosaur’s skeleton. I behaved like a child in every way, and I had a whale of a time. That was great! I have always been keen on dinosaurs and lost species. Like every other little boy I suppose. Standing under a gargantuan dead Iguanodon was one of the best present ever made to me.
And here we are now, having a walk on the Quai St Bernard, laughing at the “museum of outside sculptures”, hugging ourselves to get shielded from the biting cold. Notre-Dame is offering us its best profile. But as I walk peacefully, I cannot help but feel a twinge of sorrow. I kind of wish my parents were the ones who brought me here. But they did not even call me, for what’s supposed to be a family celebration. Not that I actually expected them to do so. My sister did call, though. She feels for me. I told her it didn’t matter, but it is not really accurate. It matters.