As I quietly gaze out the window, the swift motion of the train gradually transforms rustic farm houses and country fields into a rapid blur of colours. My eyes, still heavy with sleep from this morning's early rising time, drift in and out of drowsiness.
I am pleased that a quiet and reflective mood has prevailed inside our train carriage, allowing me to revel in deep thought.
I think as far back as my childhood, to a time when friends who traveled overseas for their school holidays would return home bearing stacks of pictures and stories detailing their wonderful adventures. All that we could do - the ones whose families didn't or couldn't afford to travel to such distant places - was look on in awe and mutter silent wishes.
Of all the distant and exotic places I saw in those pictures as a youngster - and there were many - I had been most intrigued by those of a place they called the ' City of Light ' . I had dreamed of strolling along its lush, manicured gardens and tree-lined avenues. I had always imagined it would be the most magical place.
Suddenly jolted by the loud hissing sound of train, its wheels screeching to a halt, my deep thoughts are interrupted. I smile and glance over at my husband who is sitting beside me reading a book, and he gently squeezes my hand as if to announce that " We have arrived ".
With a slight flutter in my chest we rise and gather our belongings to exit the train. As we step into the crisp morning air that greets us all I can barely feel anything - besides my widening smile as my eyes suddenly glow with joy - The City of Light, I meet you at last!
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