Just a quick note for all of you who are wondering if there are crazy people in France... yes.
The other evening, Alex and I were returning home from some assortment of Parisian things, when we sat down on the train. The trains in Paris have seats that face each other in sets of four, and Alex and I slided in front of a large, muscular man with three or four necklaces. He smiled at Alex.
So the train pulls out of the station, and Mr. Smiley, less than a foot away from me, pulls out a small pocket knife and with a flick, opens it. He eyes the blade, thumbs it several times, and then runs it across the top of a small paper package. Okay, I thought... he just needed to open the package. My knees and groin area are safe from stabbing.
So he folds the knife and puts it away, and turns the small paper package over so that its contents may fall into his hand. What falls out? Another pocket knife, twice as big. Needless to say at this point I put my backpack in my lap and planned my escape. He proceeded to thumb this larger, sharper blade, until he was seemingly satisfied with it's killability. No, not satisfied yet, he realized. He sliced the paper package. Again and again, he slashes this small piece of paper, each time inspecting the paper wound his new toy has left behind.
Now, Alex and I are watching most of this through the corner of our eyes and the reflection in the glass, but I assure you he was enjoying his little series of sharpness tests quite a bit.
He finally establishes that yes, his new knife can cut through paper, and he folds it up. He reaches into his backpack and pulls out... a plastic bag containing a knife magazine. He looked at the cover for a moment and I guess it inspired him.
He set the magazine aside and took the plastic bag it was in and started slashing at it. He made a long gouge across the middle and decided his knife could also cut through plastic. So he finally puts away the dang butcher knife. We sigh relief.
Then he starts rummaging through his backpack again. Alex leans over and whispers to me (in Spanish) that if he pulls out a third knife, we are moving seats. Luckily for us, it was not another weapon but an entire book of said devices. He thumbed through the pages of assault and hunting knives until we reached our stop. That was the longest train ride yet (9 minutes in actuality) and is the last time we will sit next to les crazies. Next time we're gonna move after knife one.
