The RER train’s trip from the airport terminus to Gare du Nord was just over thirty minutes, and as was Mary’s trademark, she seemed to enjoy her sweet slumber for the entirety of it. Perhaps the beauty of fallen snow didn’t capture her attention like it did for him; after all, they’d seen enough of it in the land of the rising sun. The train doors opened onto the platform at Gare du Nord and<b>instantly</b>the rush of brisk winter air filled the carriage. Such a feeling would do better than any inspector at hurrying tourists from a train! Arthur turned back to face Mary and gave her a little shake; nowhere near as gentle as the one he’d done on the plane. This time there was some urgency at rousing her from her drowsiness.<br/><br/>“Come on now,” Arthur murmured into her ear, lifting her to her feet with his arm still lazily draped over her shoulder. “Let’s get you to bed,” he laughed, admiring just how<i>talented</i>she was at staying asleep. He turned back for a final look at the seat (unfortunately, the horrible patterning was unable to be avoided) to ensure they’d left nothing behind. Satisfied, and realising that now they were well-and-truly<i>in</i>Paris, he let out a deep sigh and rolled their suitcases from the carriage out onto the platform.<br/><br/>“How far now?” Mary asked, slurring her words as she readjusted to the feeling of being awake. It wasn’t her fault, really— those anti-histamines were a lot stronger than Arthur realised. He remembered the first time he tried them, swamped with hay fever in the Chicago spring. It was like their attempt at dealing with hay fever was to put one to sleep, rather than dealing with the actual inhalation of pollen. It would seem that his mind couldn't stop returning to signals from the past: now it was the springtime in Chicago. He'd grown up there-- his first job, his first car, his first kiss, first love-- they all belonged to Chicago. Camilla... she did, too. Apparently not anymore though, now she was haunting the streets of Paris. He'd left Chicago after they'd broken up; unable to bear the idea of bumping into her on the street. He'd done the typical masculine thing of... running away. Arthur looked for a metropolis as far away from Chicago as he could-- Tokyo-- and moved straight there within a month of the relationship's dissolution. Now he was back in the same world as Camilla. With Mary. At the same time. It wasn't exactly a recipe for... success?<br/><br/>“Not far,” he answered quickly, raising his eyes to the myriad of platform markers and signs above him. He looked for the signs that transferred them to Magenta, where they’d have to ride to Saint-Augustin via Haussmann. Travelling across Paris was much easier by foot; he’d read, but unfortunately in the depths of winter, with half-comatose girlfriend and two suitcases? Maybe they should just catch a taxi. He looked down at their tickets, pre-paid, for a trip all the way through to Saint-Augustin and realised he didn’t care about the few Euro he’d lose for convenience. “Fuck it,” he says, “let’s take a cab.” Mary’s eyes widened, countering him almost instantly. “What about the tickets?” Arthur could only laugh, shaking his head. “Who cares,” he reasons with her, “it’s only a few Euro. I’m tired and you’re… well, you’re on another planet.” He gives her a goofy, toothy smile, and they change trajectory from the Magenta station to the Taxi rank, marked easily for their sake about three-hundred metres from the platform they’d disembarked on.<br/><br/>Stepping out the front doors of the terminal, Arthur and Mary were greeted with what could only be described as a winter wonderland. Napoleon’s Place was coated white; reflecting all the lights of store-fronts and street-lights from the snow; making it appear like a light-headache. You couldn’t exactly see the stars in Paris, especially not here, right outside Gare du Nord: so this was the best the city could offer them. He looked to Mary and pressed his lips, tenderly, to her forehead; his fingers brushing away strands of her blonde hair to ensure he touched the skin. To their right, another hundred metres away, stood an army of suited taxi drivers ready and waiting for their approach. “Monsieur!”, “Mademoiselle!”, “Monsieur!”— alternating cries rang out, piercing the beautiful moment as they tried to outdo either each other for the couples’ business. Arthur could only obey formality: the first cab off the rank was the one that deserved his money.<br/><br/>“Monsieur, mademoiselle,” the elderly taxi-owner greeted the pair, bowing with a flourish usually reserved for theatre. A loud<b>pop</b>signified the opening of the trunk, the man working at a feverish pace to stow away their bags. It was like the tornado of snow that had fallen upon Paris had morphed into this hunchbacked male; sweeping them effortlessly from the side of the street into the back of the car. A garble of french swarmed his ears next, and Arthur stood no chance at deciphering it. He waved his hand side-to-side, “Anglais, s’il vous plait,” he parroted, like he was reciting a recording. The driver laughed, shaking his head. A fruitless endeavour, apparently. Arthur was left with little recourse but to simply state their address, “Rue de Castellane,” he begins, speaking with some level of uncertainty. “Near… uh…” his English, stammering, returns. “Madeleine. Saint-Augustin.” Arthur names the two closest Metro stations, hoping the driver would understand. A gruff bark meets his request, and the engine hums into gear; as if that was the final sign of agreement. The radio, louder than any 5-star Uber driver would ever play, filled the empty space in the taxi cab. Some sort of French pop music; like he’d heard from Isabelle Antena, years ago, cut out any talking he was expected to have with the driver; or with Mary. He flicked out his phone to track their movements, mapping the distance from their current location to the pin marked for their AirBnB. Fifteen minutes, light-to-medium traffic. At this hour? Paris was truly something else-- and he hadn't even begun to realise that fully.