I�m writing this on a train, near the end of my five hour journey from Montreal, where I�ve been for the last three days, back to Toronto, where normal life will resume.
I love the train; it�s such a civilized way to travel. The aisles are wide, the seats are comfortable, and my luggage is stored safely out of my way, but still in view. I have room for my legs and my purse and my laptop bag and the giant volume that is the last Harry Potter book. (I always forget that I read faster than I think I do, which is why I still have an hour in the journey and no more Harry Potter to read and sniffle and sob over. Traveling by train becomes distinctly less civilized when one is sighing, wet-faced and emotional, over the pages of a book, and trying not to let the sniggering passengers see you go through a whole miniature packet of tissue.)
At any rate, like a grown-up, I trundled five hours east to the French-speaking city to do some businessy-type stuff that will, hopefully, result in growth and success and money for my company. I was quite nervous at the whole prospect, until I reminded myself that I was the boss. Sometimes, I forget that part.
And of course, as it usually happens as soon as I leave my own city-limits, I turned into the type of capable, sophisticated woman that usually leaves me seething and bitter when encountered at home. Isn�t that just bloody barking? I climb on a train, or hop on a plane, and I�m suddenly engaging and charming, making the people around me throw their head back in delighted laughter every three minutes. I stay home, and can barely cross the street by myself, completely in awe of any female that can manage to cut her own meat.
I swear, I think traveling, for me, has the same effect as �shrooms. Now, I�ve never dabbled with fungi � I�m not even a fan of the Muggle variety � so I�m only guessing here, and once you�ve dealt with all the hair under your arms, kicked off your Birks, and put down your bong, you can correct me if I�m wrong. However, I think that, perhaps, traveling to places where different sales taxes have to be calculated on my purchases leaves me in some kind of euphoric state, whence I believe myself to be fascinating and lovely. (This is not a fact vs. theory thing. I�m reasonably sure that there are people out there that actually do believe that I�m fascinating and lovely. On an average day though, I�m not one of them. I know. It�s inconvenient, but what can you do?) There�s even a hallucinogenic thing that happens when I flash a boarding pass, where I look in the mirror and firmly believe that my ass looks rather fetching. Somebody should really do a study on this, don�t you think?
Maybe the world would be a more peaceful place if everyone was forced to relocate every couple of months. Think about it� I can�t be the only person in the world who suddenly becomes intelligent and amusing every time I travel. Imagine� Every morning, everybody would nod approvingly at themselves in the mirror, full of confidence, self-esteem at high. Eyes would sparkle, strangers would smile at each other in passing, bullies wouldn�t exist and every child would have a friend. Nobody would settle for being the other woman, wives wouldn�t get angry at cheating husbands, husbands wouldn�t resent their single friend�s lives, friends wouldn�t gossip and lie and double-cross each other, brothers and sisters would see eye to eye, neighbors would shovel each other�s snow, nobody would litter, taxes would fall, politicians wouldn�t philander, entertainers would stop flashing their labia, Korn would stop recording, communism would fall, class systems would collapse, famine would end, strife would be unheard of and everyone would agree that I had a really great ass.
Jesus. I should take the train more often.
I�d write more, but I�m about half an hour from Toronto, my hair is a disaster and I really need to put on some more make-up.
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