On the Other Side of the Alps

I've just spent my October holiday (and a whole lot of money) on a trip to France by train. After eight weeks of working and making the most of being in Milan at the same time, it was wonderful to be on the train and have time (nineteen hours to be precise) to read, do crosswords and indulge in extended periods of pensiveness while watching the landscape go by. What I love about taking the train is that the travel becomes as much part of the trip as actually being at the destination.

I had taken the train from Paris to Milan a couple of times before, but never from Milan to Paris. I don't know whether it was the direction of the journey, the weather, or just my state of mind, but the scenery on this trip was much more impressive than I remembered. The train goes across the Lombardy plains, which were totally flat and covered in mist, then into more hilly country, plunges into tunnels and comes out on the other side where you get stunning views of the French Alps. Then the mountains turn into hills and gradually flat farmland, at which point I think I fell asleep and woke up in Paris. What surprised me was how different it was on the other side of the border. The landscape seemed gentler, less dramatic and somehow very...French.

Another thing that surprised me was the border checks, even though they've happened every time I've taken that train. At the first stop on the French side of the border, the police got on the train and checked everybody's documents. I've never understood why they do this, because France and Italy are both Schengen countries and nobody checks your ID card when you go from France to Germany or Luxembourg but the controls are really thorough. On the way back, there were customs officers checking people's bags and on the way there, somebody actually got made to leave the train because they didn't have documents. I was lucky I had my passport – you're supposed to carry ID at all times in Italy but I often don't and I just happened to put it in my bag in case I needed it.

I didn't actually stay in Paris. I just walked over the bridge from the Gare de Lyon to the Gare d'Austerlitz, noticing the Seine flowing langorously beneath me and the chilly air of northern Europe clinging to my cheeks, and took the RER to St Quentin where my friend lives. This friend was my first French friend. We used to go to the swimming pool together, swim and chat for an hour, and then convince ourselves that we'd earned indulgent meals afterwards. I've always appreciated the fact that she was so nice to me, even when, with all the noise of the pool, my ears full of water and my poor quality French, I could only understand about half of what she said.

I spent 2 nights at her house, mostly doing girly things like shopping at watching chick flicks, and playing with her one year old baby. Thanks to 3 of my friends who live in France having babies within 6 months of one another, I now do a great line in bilingual baby talk, which is really easy to practise because it's perfectly acceptable to say the same thing over and over and over again. What I loved about most about the whole trip, in fact, was the way that I didn't feel like a tourist in France. I felt at home.