Tr-tr-tr-ain....choo-choooooo

We have been in Nancy for a few days now, and as I grabbed Megan's computer to write this, taking a break from listening to words I don't understand about politics I haven't been here long enough to care about, I decided describing the trip from Paris to Nancy would be the best thing to throw my two Euro cents at, which I will then grab at the end of this post because, well, I f'ing need that to buy bread, man.

Four flights of stairs with 150 pounds of luggage and then the roll/drag I've mastered to the metro, the metro with so many ups and downs of stairs that as of this post I've decided France hates cripples and has created the bicycle sharing programs, such as VeLib! in multicolor, as a way to mock them.  This trip, however, was the easiest of them all.  A week of walk-around-all-day had strengthened body and mind for the physical strain and embarrassment of having so much stuff.

We plopped onto the metro during non-peak hours, so it was only about half full.  Without having to change lines, we made it to Gare de l'Est and waited.   And waited.  And then a crippled pigeon that had a foot like so much balled up gew made us feel bad for him as he panhandled for bread crumbs we didn't have.

The young woman across from us did though, and she fed the little guy.  Ah, that's nice I thought.  And then the pigeon didn't leave.  He hobbled, kneeling in pigeon form, for crumbs.  Yes, the young woman thought, this is the time I shall kick him.  Bam, and he was off.

The train was a long metallic centipede with all requisite compartments for bags and people, and with the people Eurotones to scream through pockets announcing a phone call.  I don't know how to describe these.  Think ring-back tones your friends have, make them louder, add a beat that if it were color would cause a seizure, then-just-never-let-it-stop.  Fortunately the ride was only an hour, and when I would look out the window I could imagine a girl with blond pigtails running to me with Ricola logenzes made from honey found in that tree, or that one, or that one....


We arrive in Nancy.  I nearly crush the man who leaves the train in front of me with our luggage.  We find a map at the train station.  We find the hotel.  Now, the comparison of cities.

Nancy is not Paris. (I know, duh.)  It is less dense, more relaxed, and most importantly, more real.  Paris is attractive for all the reasons we've seen and read all our lives.  It is also a Disney Land of sorts, where as you enter it you know the water will be over priced, there's no way in hell you're letting your kids near THAT thing, and soon you'll leave with less money in your pocket and a few stories and pictures of a place that felt real for a time but you knew was fabricated just for you.

I could see myself retiring there and wasting money in over-priced cafes, because there is so much to appreciate (over a billion metro rides a year!?  good job public transit)  but today, I feel good about being in a French city that reminds me some of home: the sidewalks are cracked, someone is spitting somewhere in public, the people seem the nice and hard-working type, and there is a pizza place down the block.  Ok, so it is a real Italian owned place with the best pizza I've had for a very reasonable 7 euros that will feed two people easily, but still.  Now, damn it, give my money back so I can go get one of those!


Be sure you check out the updated Where Is Joe's Head page & visit our updated itinerary to find links to the places we visited & our photos on Flickr.