Departing Paris...

I am at the bus station in Paris about to depart for Munich. A 12 hour bus ride. 12 hours. 10pm to 1045am. More like 13 hours. I am nervous about crossing the border even though I am a day within my 90 day limit.

The air here smells fetid, like a long unmaintained subway tunnel even though there are ducts of various shapes and sizes snaking their way all around the ceiling, which is painted a brilliant blue and looks like styrofoam. A young woman paces slowly and juggles talking on her phone and listening to music on her phone as if she is interacting with the device as opposed to what it transmits, she has that semi-concentrating look on her face where she stares in the middle distance intently. Occasionally pigeons fly around under the ceiling. I love it when pigeons make it indoors, like a little fuck you to mankind, you cannot keep nature out, as hard as you try. Though these busstations can hardly be called indoors, even though enclosed. Sort of a middle space, neither one nor the other. A bus maneuvers a nearly impossible route between two concrete pylons. My bus. I am going to Germany for Christmas, my first Christmas away from home, from my family. No mom, no dad, no sister. The bus says Deutschland-Paris and with its mirrors looks like a giant bug. It is my bus. It is gonna eat me up. Eat me up, maybe check my passport for some tense seconds, and spit me out in Munich. Goodbye Paris, France.