On the Train to Versailles

The ride from Paris to Versailles is not a long one. It is filled with tourists and Frenchmen alike, filing onto the rattling metal box through the picturesque countryside, lost in their own world as the train moves on. A child sits on the upholstered seats – scratchy and weathered beneath her supple skin. She places her head upon her mother’s lap, eyes wide open, resting as she watches the inhabitants of the train play out their scenes. Soon, or is it immediately – who can tell – two men enter. They amble over to the empty spaces and seat themselves, their weary legs grateful for a rest. The young girl stares. She has the eyes of a dreamer and they the souls of a muse. The two men share a wedding band and the hand of one rests upon the other's knee. Thus, as the train moves along, the young girl watches. They are in their world and she is in hers.

The train ride to Versailles is not a long one. Its belly is filled with souls, and its breath is halting, moving along as it exhales thick smoke into the crisp blue sky. On the train to Versailles, there is a young girl and two men. There is a mother, grandparents, aunts and uncles. Sisters and brothers, cousins and friends. Strangers who are meeting and lifelong friends who have just departed. The train to Versailles is a world unto itself. The train to Versailles is a story. The train to Versailles is a silent symphony. 

To make music is a wonderful thing. The orchestral swells of a beating heart fill the minds and bodies of the listener as sounds travel from one to another. It expresses emotions and romanticizes life in a way words cannot. To create such a wonderful thing is, well, inherently human. Plainly speaking, to live and to love, to laugh and to cry, is mortal. So, the grand machine lugs itself along, clanking with every step and singing its forlorn song. The train to Versailles is a symphony. Therefore, the train to Versailles is human. 

The child stares at the couple in front of her. They wear shorts and button up shirts, apparel appropriate for the warmth of the day. She herself wears a sundress and a t-shirt. The train itself, however, is hot and smells of sweat and grass. Its odor is distinct to the French countryside. It is the aroma of the train. Through the pungent odor, and perhaps in spite of it, the rattle of the tracks echoes across the steel – almost as if to protest against the warm embrace of the train. Inside, the young girl continues to dream.

I once feared the mundane. I cried – cry. To a young girl, fantastical stories are not merely fiction. They are a window and a promise into another world. They are an escape. So the young girl fantasizes, and the train to Versailles battles on. The two men carry with them an air of the Italian Riviera, salt baked into the crevices of their skin and sun baked smile lines tattooed onto their faces. The girl cannot place their ages. With them comes the image of a small cottage, cobblestones leading to the sea, and pastel painted walls. As the two men sit, the little girl wishes. She envisions a life, that of the two men, one of love and contentment. Though they speak in a tongue unfamiliar to the girl, possibly not even Italian, the ones in her fantasy do not utter a word. In her mind, however, this is enough. 

The young girl knows nothing and everything about the men in front of her. They are her curiosity, her fixation. They are new to her, a principle embodied by careless strangers on a train. Yet, their wedding bands are displayed prominently and the one by the window firmly has his hand upon the other’s knee. It is certain. After departing the train, the girl wonders aloud to her mother whether she thought they were a couple. The girl already knows the answer, but is downplaying it to keep this private fantasy to herself. This story is hers – her contentment, her savior, her escape. She wants this moment to be frozen forever. The train to Versailles is a mysterious ride. It is baked in the sun and sugared by nostalgia, sweetened by honey, and dripped through the windows as the French sunlight oozes into her heart.

What does it mean to truly be forgotten? What does it mean to be mundane? Are the hopes and dreams of the girl still alive, embedded in the person she is now, or do they remain in that honey sweetened memory? Did the men live in a seaside cottage on the coast of Italy, or is this simply the story that the girl has created – built over the years. The train to Versailles is a memory, one enshrined in hopes and dreams and covered in a golden, syrupy air. Despite many moons having passed, the train to Versailles still exists in the girl's memory. The two men are embedded in her mind. Their imagined life, one created purely from a wedding band and a quiet child, is nothing but her fantasy. 

What does it mean to be forgotten? What does it mean to have one’s essence faded away into obscurity, with problems once so grand now not even recalled. Is it comforting or terrifying? I suppose it could be both. The swells of music and love and life and death and dreams and hope and fantasy. Does the child still exist? Do the men? She has certainly been forgotten by them. In fact, it is unlikely their memory of her remained for the rest of the day. Yet they are there in her mind – immortalized and etched into the musings of a child. The storyteller has been forgotten, but not the story – ironic, isn’t it? What does it mean to be loved? What does it mean to die? Does one truly perish when they expire or when they are forgotten? Thus, is the memory the same as the living soul? Is the person the same as the one they were before, or does a version of ourselves die every second we are alive?

The men are no more yet they are eternal, and the young girl is treated to the same fate. When all who were on the train are gone for good, reduced to ashes or empty shells, will the train to Versailles still exist? Does the train to Versailles still exist – with its shining hues and sickly sweet flowers, comfortable chairs and warm air still as it moves through the countryside. Does the breeze still cut through the rosy atmosphere with a freshness known only to those in the train car? What does it mean to live? What does it mean to die, to forget, to love?

A train to Versailles is a very strange thing. On it, a memory is imprinted upon a young girl. Why this one among so many others that have been forgotten? In time will it fade or grow stronger? And is it the same fantasy as before? What is time for an immortal? Are we not living in all the seconds we have been alive and thus omniscient? Or are we reborn with every second that ticks by? I do not know nor do I think I ever will. I fly from paralyzing fear to honey soaked comfort. I am not the same person yet… I am a collection of my memories. And now, so many years later, I am still on the train to Versailles.