Amtrack
In typical fashion, I was running late, hair still partially damp from the shower, ringlets clinging to my the back of my neck, bangs dry and parting in the breeze as I hurried to the truck. Steve drove me to the station, stopping on the way at a nearby news shop so I could grab a magazine. It was a long train ride to Boston, and I’d need some form of entertainment. This particular place carried newspapers from every corner of the globe (why do we use that phrase post-Columbus?) and enough magazines to make choosing only one a chore. I briefly considered the myriad options and decided on Elle. Seemed like the perfect balance of fashion and fun. I snatched a copy from the stand, plopped down my money and was on my way again.
Steve and I said our goodbyes and I boarded the train. I’d miss him, but I was eager to get to Beantown and see my sister. I surveyed my seating options, and since no single seats were available, I settled for one next to a young man about my age. He didn’t acknowledge my arrival, and I sighed as I settled in, surmising his cool demeanor would make for an extra long trip.
Mighty glad to see you, Elle.
I reached down and retrieved the magazine from the side pocket of my duffel and sat back to enjoy some fluff text and photos.
Huh.
It seemed in my haste to select reading material, I’d failed to realize this particular edition of Elle was printed ENTIRELY IN FRENCH. This is a language that is music to the ears, a language with with I am vaguely familiar (If you need to know where Phillipe is, I’m your girl. He’s at the pool. With Anne. You’re welcome.), but it is a language that prevents me from comprehending one ounce of any article, as only knowing two or three words per page will do that.
Go me.
The only reading material I brought was written in French.
For French people.
Or non-French people who are fluent in French.
Which I am not.
And I was seated alongside a bump on a log who oscillated between snoozing and fiddling with his Walkman, and who appeared to be incapable of human interaction of any kind. Was I surprised by any of this? Not at all. A day in the life.
I simply did what any self-respecting woman would do in a situation like this: I pretended to be fiercely interested in the magazine I was clutching in my hands.
Lunch time rolled around and the beast beside me awakened a bit and may have grunted a word or two in my general direction. I seized this opportunity to vacate my seat for a few minutes, stretch my legs, and read the lunch menu on the wall.
Which, thankfully, was written entirely in English.
After securing what I can only describe as the open version of a pizza-flavored Hot Pocket, I made my way back to my appointed place next to Mr. Chattypants. I think he was eating a hot pretzel, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Between bites, he began to exchange pleasantries.
Oh my gosh, it’s alive. And talking. And… surprisingly friendly!
Over bad pizza and never-ending stops along the way, we chatted, laughed and actually hit it off like we’d known each other for years. I eventually felt comfortable enough to share my blunder du jour and I broke out the Elle. We howled as we pored over the magazine together attempting to piece together the stories and inventing some of our own.
My dear reader, this was a perfect scene from a film.
Except I was very happy in my relationship. And this boy and I were both going to exit the train and go our separate ways. Which we did, waving and calling out our goodbyes to one another as we parted.
I’m trying to remember now what his name was. Was it Steve, too? I don’t know.
But it was a time when I met a boy on a train.
That began somewhat badly and turned out quite nicely.
And I’ll probably remember it forever.
This post was part of Mama Kat’s pretty much world-famous writing prompts:
2.) Describe where you were when you met a boy. (inspired by Sadie Dear)
