Today the sleep debt from the two previous days suddenly appeared, like finding, upon standing from a table, that I am strapped to a backpack full of bricks.
Although staying awake was a bit of a fight, the day itself was again full of joy. Simply sitting in my pretty Parisian hotel room with the French sun smiling upon the city was enough to make me happy -- the wallpaper a rich pink brocade and the bedspread damasked with deep red roses.
And again sitting up in the morning and eating breakfast -- small cops of orange juice and heavy cereal and my bleary-eyed Will -- we packed our bags and headed towards the bullet train station. 
Ironwork arched above us and the trains lined up, sleek as if molded by the force of the air through which the move. I though instantly of Harry Potter as the people rushed past us, lugging shopping bags and children and small dogs; and wondered if I could reach Hogwarts if only I rushed through one of the walls.
Across from us on the train sat a beautiful French woman cradling a black cat in a blue blanket. Every so often the cat would mew or peer its small head at Will and I; its eyes were weirdly clouded over. The woman would whisper a few words to the animal and cuddle it against her bosom; by the end of the ride, the cat lay unmoving upon its back, its mouth open and its eyes shut. A passing child stroked its chin and belly but the cat did not respond -- I wondered if it were still alive.
Finally, Avignon. I had slept the entire time on the train and awoke to an entirely new countryside. Hills and bare trees in neat rows stretched out in front of us, and I tried to re-orient myself amidst this new open landscape.
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