That she hadn’t had time to pack a bag was immaterial since she planned on being back in Paris for dinner. That she hadn’t had time to stop at the station to buy a ticket including a full hot meal delivered to her seat was definitely very material. She was ravenous. As the train rocketed through the dark gray suburbs, she swayed her way to the bar car, disgruntled that her lunch was going to consist of a cottony, cellophane-wrapped ham and cheese sandwich with a tiny bottle of toxically tannic red wine. She was further dismayed when she found the door to the bar car locked. Through the glass she could see the barman industriously setting up his wares. He smiled at her and made a victory sign with thumb and index finger to let her know he would be opening up in just two minutes. As she waited, leaning up against the side of the gently oscillating railway car, Capucine reflected on how much Lille depressed her. It was a city that had recently reinvented itself, becoming heavier, more plodding, and even less French in the process.
