#1 Trains, Planes and Tresses
Welcome to the inaugural edition of Review Everything 📝
Welcome to the inaugural edition of Review Everything! Join me each month as I endeavour to review absolutely every single possible thing* (*results may vary). As we’re in the midst of summer, where better to start than with three on-the-go experiences: a heart-pounding Channel crossing, a dispiriting duty-free dinner and a mid-air hair revelation.
Sneaking Aboard an Earlier Train
An opportunity presented itself. On my outbound journey, a technical malfunction resulted in a two-hour delay at an ungodly hour. Now, on my way back home, I discovered that there was another Paris-bound train due to leave a full 30 minutes before the one I’d booked. Dare I disturb the universe, thought I. Dare I sneak aboard?
I weighed the anxiety of getting caught crossing an international border without a reservation versus the rare chance to regain half an hour of my life. I pictured a number of possible outcomes: the conductor turning the train around like an aggrieved dad on a ‘90s family road trip, revoking my right to French residency, jail time. I determined the most likely scenario was that I would simply be kicked off and told to wait for the correct train; the general embarrassment of returning to the waiting room with my tail between my legs. Embarrassment seemed a small price to pay – especially given how much I actually had paid for the 18:01 train.
Decision made, I tried not to look suspicious when the platform was called and I sidled up to the travelator. I moved at a glacial pace, letting as many people go ahead of me as possible in the hope they’d settle in their seats and reveal an empty one. Being a natural-born hustler, it pained me how much faffing was going on. Despite my best efforts, I wasn’t even close to the last in line.
Once on the platform, I was faced with an unknown unknown: ticket inspectors. At every door. I’d never noticed them before (I’d always had a valid ticket before). Again, trying to act casual, I charged forward towards the front of the train until I struck gold: an unmanned entrance. Now safely aboard, all I had to do was wait... and wait, and wait… while people continued to faff about with their bags and bits and bobs. While I waded through carriage after carriage pretending to look for my assigned chair, I spotted a man lingering by a luggage rack, backpack slung over one shoulder, furtively glancing about to analyse the seating arrangements. Game recognises game.
At long last, the train pulled out of the platform, with me and my fellow stowaway in tow. I had just successfully stolen half an hour.
The run-up to this journey was about as stressful as trying to buy vodka for a house party in the suburbs when I was 16. AKA, quite stressful. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to prepare hypothetical excuses for prohibited activities. It also made me reflect on how pathetically law-abiding I am, that I’m perhaps not as punk as I thought I was. But all of these troublesome thoughts were quieted as I arrived back in Paris with the sun still shining and the air warm. I luxuriated in my reclaimed time by getting a pizza and eating it canal-side whilst listening to a particularly enjoyable episode of Normal Gossip. AKA, worth the stress.
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Rating: 7 trains out of 10.
Airport Sandwich
An impressive combination of being both stale and soggy. 9€.
🥪 🥪
Rating: 2 sandwiches out of 10.
Timothée Chalamet’s Hair
At a cruising altitude of 35,000 feet, I finally realised what it was about Timothée Chalamet. I’d never understood the appeal of this textbook twink: a perennial teenage boy who looks like he’d smell like socks if it weren’t for all the perfume endorsements. And yet, I’d always been drawn to something imperceptible about him. It’s not his looks or personality, and it certainly isn’t his acting… but then, watching Dune 2 on a 12-inch screen one foot away from my sleep-deprived face, I saw it in full clarity. Like Samson himself, it’s his hair. I have a crush on Timothée Chalamet’s hair. That nest of bouncy, shiny curls that are always perfectly hydrated, even after months spent on an alien desert planet, where a major plot point is about how arid and hostile an environment it is. If only they could harness whatever sorcery keeps those locks so moist, the Fremen would never thirst again.
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Rating: 10 curls out of 10.
Rec Room
Use this virtual trainer to practice getting rejected from Berghain 🎧 compare Usain Bolt to a wombat with this interactive 100m race 🏃♂️ learn how to pronounce the name of every Welsh town 🏴
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