Attitude Adjustment

It is always after days like this one, of a kind of proverbial snake chasing its tail, its form flawless, its strength in numbers of its friends all rolling together carrying me to the end of a long day, the end being where I started, just as dark, my breath as clear on the concrete platform as it was twelve hours before, my insides still a Colombian neck tie. But I am still one hour and at least two languages away from there, here in the bar car, my head against the stretch window as the Norman countryside smears by at 200 kph, a drop of casis stirring towards a mandarin horizon fuller than my plastic cup of scotch, tilting with each banking of the train only to level out sharply seconds later, the minimum time required - I suspect - for the stubbly driver to refresh his senses with a good chuckle, which would surely be more frequent if they let me ride up there with him, playing "I Spy" with our eyes closed, testing the emergency brake and scaring cars at crossings with the horn.