Distinctive Breeds

[please see video below text]

A departure board of the old, clattering kind: few lights, great sound – hanging in the Gare du Nord, the train station where passengers heading north bid Paris farewell. People arriving from the north must weave their way towards the street through the crowds, staring upwards at the display until their train’s track number spins into view or recording short videos until the jostling is too much to bear.

A daughter of train-commute culture, I participate in the rail dynamic in general and the Amsterdam-Paris transfer in particular with profound pleasure and some fluency – most of the time. Things got off to a bad start on one occasion, but good fortune was eventually restored, by a number of people, I should add.

The taxi which brought me to the Gare that day pulled up to the main entrance with some speed. I was on the late side and had imagined gathering my bags and setting out swiftly towards the train in an unbroken flow of motion, but this strategy involved backing out of the cab, effectively blocking from my view a small raised yellow barrier next to the taxi lane. The painted mound tripped me and I crashed bags and all, breaking the fall with my left arm.

I still wanted to catch that train, but as I shuffled off, a Porter rushed over and explained that MANY complaints had been filed about the treacherous yellow dividers. They were meant to protect pedestrians on the other side but ended up felling incoming taxi passengers. This eloquent young man of West African origin convinced me that I should at least go to the hospital next door and have my arm checked. He would escort me there after accompanying me to the ticket office to report the accident and secure passage on a later train.

I went along with the plan, and once I was seated under the neon lights of the Emergency Room waiting area, the Porter and I waved goodbye. A handsome medical team from Colombia, Algeria and Senegal x-rayed and bandaged my arm with great alacrity and good cheer - while coping with several regular 'patients' running amok in the hallways in white robes, dashing in and out of the examination rooms; harmless, it was explained, people in need of tea and attention and a place to go more than any medical treatment - and I was sent back to the Gare, supplied with a ticket for first-class and ushered onto the train with apologies and small bows. A man seated across the aisle had witnessed the fuss. He jumped up with a twinkle in his eye to help me store my luggage. A conversation began. It wasn't long before I understood that I was in the company of an International Cat Show Judge, the author of articles and books on distinctive feline breeds. In the hush of our comfortable compartment, I heard stories about the nitty-gritty of Cat Show politics as our train moved north.

I remember the jovial Cat Judge and the concerned Porter whenever I pass through the Gare du Nord. Usually I pause to get a feel of the motionless crowd and read the departure board, even though the track number for Amsterdam doesn't seem to vary. The public announcements have been updated to include an English-language health warning about flu symptoms, an audio nod, I believe, to the warm-hearted medical staff next door.