The Umbrella in Gare de Nord
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The Umbrella in Gare du Nord "Have you ever travelled alone?" This query from the taxi driver, who dropped me off at Ashford, still resounds. I'm in Gare du Nord, reluctantly going home. My ridiculously heavy holdall, which very conveniently has no wheels, has already punished me by leaving deep red grooves in my hands. They throb rhythmically with my pulse. I await the moment of doom, the moment my train is called and I have to lug this stupid hunk of leather to the platform, like some dead creature. The strobe lighting expresses an unhealthy yellow hue over all who pass beneath. Also, the bulbs provide irritation by buzzing continuously, this can be compared to angry bees searching for nectar. Perhaps this is their revenge for being trapped in one of the most depressing departure lounges ever. The one which tears you from the romantic graces of Paris. Breathing in...

