Chapter 1: Reflections on the Train

As I sit aboard a TGV on a Saturday evening, my mind wanders to the concept of Small Spaces. I envision delicate structures of slate and stone, supported by slender legs, adorned with crawl drains, ladders, and impressive views from lofty heights. Boxes made of metal, topped with cedar and leather, come to mind—one resembling a hat with a mattress that hugs the crown, another glowing like a dragon's eye.

The Beast Train speeds through the night, destined for Paris, enveloping a diverse group of passengers in its bright, baby-blue interior. They drift into nostalgia, recalling childhood days spent playing hide and seek in cupboards and sliding down flumes that lead to buttered toast with jam. Heads droop on propped arms, lulled by the rhythmic whoosh of the train.

"Trains are for crying," someone croons in a "How To" video, echoing in my thoughts. Transitioning from warm sunlight to the biting cold, I envision myself as a hero clad in yellow armor, journeying onward and upward, sharing my rich and vibrant Southern landscape with the envious towers of the North.

With me are my cherished sketches, a roll of canvas, some undergarments, and moisturizer. I am the yellow knight, determined to carve out my space as a legitimate artist among fifty aspiring creators showcasing their work at the Legion d'Honneur in St. Denis for ten days—approximately the same time it took St. Denis to journey to this location after losing his head in town.

Where he laid his head now stands a magnificent Basilica, his tale rooted in a world of dragons.

Instead of relishing coffee by the sunlit La Gravette, I have bundled my work into a portable collection, stowed in a shopping cart, placed in a building that once celebrated diligent paper pushers amidst the vibrant and often perilous Banlieues of Paris. The threat of violence looms large this frigid Christmas of 2016.

The spirits of the old Queens next door must be stirring in their graves!

Ah, I’ve just lost my double seat to a newcomer from Avignon—a charming fellow fighting for a better world. God knows we need more like him—but, alas, he carries the unmistakable scent of garlic, wafting from every pore that has likely never seen soap.

I’m at a crossroads: either I succumb to the overpowering odor or make my way to the Bar, where rumor has it a Virtual Smartbox Experience awaits those displaced by an overload of garlic.

Garlic scent or tech distraction? It’s a conundrum—but I can hold my breath for the next three hours.

(Did the creators of the Small Space Glamping Welsh Hat Dragon Initiative factor in body odor when aiming for an authentic childhood experience? All the rustic wood in the world can't mask the stench of a damp hiking sock kept indoors due to the incessant British rain. With windows sealed against the elements and not a hint of space to maneuver, where does one hide the steaming sock? The allure of exposed slate is lost when it’s overshadowed by the reality of a smelly refuge, akin to being trapped in a Camper Van on the roadside, void of any glamour in the dreary drizzle.)

If I were Cy Twombly, I would express the smell through visceral, vibrant strokes of glossy off-white paint on recycled cardboard, splattered with wild green. But I am not, and I’m beginning to regret bringing my Life Drawings, meticulously packed for this trip.

This isn’t art; it’s merely practice—why would anyone want to see it? A few sketches might hint at struggle, revealing lines crafted from the subconscious, but most are just traditional nudes. "So she can draw! So what?"

Perhaps I can find some inspiration—a pop of color that might complement someone’s carpet? Vintage movie posters or an aunt's watercolors of the Yorkshire Dales could also do the trick!

"Life is 10% what happens to you, and 90% how you respond."

AND: "Nobody wants to read your garbage."

I've chosen to endure cold discomfort instead of cozy winter warmth, all in the name of experience—pushing beyond my comfort zone. It's a universally acknowledged truth that stepping into challenging situations broadens perspectives, enhances personal growth, and even combats premature aging.

Enthusiasm is key, as echoed by success stories like Leonard Bernstein and Picasso. Maintaining a child-like curiosity and perpetual questioning can lead to a fulfilling life, even if it becomes lonely after friends and family drift away due to incessant "Why?" inquiries.

Thus, I embrace the acrid aroma surrounding me in my cramped, blue train compartment, contemplating the battle I’m about to face: showcasing my modest creations alongside strangers from a vastly different culture in a historic venue, a symbol of elite artistry that is being transformed by Permaculture and bio-conscious movements.

I accept that this is part of my 90%, and regardless of the outcome, simply being here is a victory—I'm just doing it!

Next to me, M. Odour lifts a flap of skin above his left ear (the one adorned with a diamond earring) to reveal his Pineal gland. Shocking!

He seems aware that I am a sun knight—recognizing the warmth radiating from me (yes, still menopausal!)—and he audaciously exposes his third eye in a manner that is decidedly inappropriate for public viewing. Still, at least he possesses one!

Most passengers appear to have left their intuition and primal instincts behind in the tunnels and towers of yesteryear.

Perhaps the garlic enthusiast is a kindred spirit, displaying his colors in a way that invites acknowledgement.

What would a neo-liberal do?

I know—pretend it’s a virtual Pineal gland, that such things don’t surface on a TGV speeding toward the city of Reason and Enlightenment—and ignore it!

I glance at Odour. He winks back, pulling a flap of skin down to cover the offending eye, leaving only the earring to sparkle.

It’s curious how the mind wanders after sitting for too long, with coffee now a distant memory.

A child two seats away stirs, disturbing the peace with loud, excited babbling through her pacifier. Now she’s singing!

If this were a film, someone would produce a guitar, and the entire carriage would join in a heartwarming, international sing-along.

But it isn’t, so we all make a beeline for Carriage 14, lured by the promise of Smartbox delight, where we can escape any real-life interruptions.

Time to lower my metaphorical pen sword and close my eyes…