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[center]Gare de Châtelet – Les Halles | April 14, 2012, Noon[/center]

The noise of the train tracks, in their repetitive motion and constant sequence, had long since faded into a peaceful background. Like the rolling hills and passing skies, it seemed another aspect of a simple landscape. The lull of the gentle sounds and sights led Sonya to slumber, despite the sunlight falling in through the windows. She had chosen to leave for Paris on the very last day possible, taking the train overnight. Priorities, she claimed, must realize the worth of a career over pleasure. The other women at the shelter had nagged her to leave earlier, to enjoy the sights and wonders of the most romantic city on Earth. Finally, after 20 years of living in the cold and barren lands of the North-Eastern ends of the continent, she would see and feel the warmth of the West. 

The train had gone on for more hours than Sonya normally slept in a week, having begun its trek yesterday morning. The motion of the train was soothing, somehow, to both Sonya and her baby son. Little Dmitri slept peacefully in her arms, wrapped in a woolen blanket, an image of a perfect calm. Though their accommodations were public transportation, the two had the car to themselves. It was nothing significant, it was nothing new, but it was exciting nonetheless. The empty car, the empty station, the silent conductor, had all contributed to this aura of mystique. An air of mystery was built around this journey, which offered at the end the previously impossible destination of potential sanctuary. In the meantime, she could enjoy the solace and comfort of the steady rhythm of the train tracks, as she gradually woke to the fluctuating horizon.

Dmitri woke in an instant, and cried out with a soft noise. Sonya rocked him, as the train began to slow. The natural landscape had changed, to the shape of a city. To her first glance, Paris seemed anachronistic; the classic architecture, reflective of centuries old techniques, were mixed in with modern structures, with no sense of order among their scattered forms. Some were familiar, some hauntingly so, while most were strange and foreign. New. 

The train station, the usually thriving Station Châtelet – Les Halles, was empty, as the station in Poland had been at her departure the previous morning. Sonya took her time in leaving the car, and station. In one arm, she held her groggy son, while her opposite hand held the strap of a satchel containing all she needed for her stay in this place. Sonya wore her best clothes, a brushed cotton pantsuit, paired with her only pumps. Her son was dressed in a similar fashion, as the tiny child wore a suit, complete with a tie. She had sewn the outfit herself, in an assumption that the other invitees might have higher expectations of socioeconomic status than she could fulfill in her usual dress.

Upon exiting the station, Sonya was met with the busy streets of Paris. A cobbled mixture of residents and tourists, they all seemed equivalent strangers in her eyes. Inconspicuous, even with her dark skin among a mostly white crowd, Sonya moved through the crowd with a leisurely ease. No one bumped into her, for who would disturb a mother holding a baby in the mid morning? Untouched as she walked through the people of Paris, Sonya pulled from the satchel that fateful envelope.

The letter had arrived on her birthday, the first since she had left Russia, but not by any conventional method. The address of the shelter was unlisted, unable to receive mail in the traditional fashion. No, the letter had arrived in the hands of her baby, or rather, his mouth. He was at the early stages of teething at that point, and gnawed on anything he could find. Where he had found the letter, Sonya did not question. Within it, there were few documents- among them, a map of Paris, with directions written in Russian, with a transliteration into French, as if to dictate to a cabbie. Finding the station marked on the map, and tracing her optional paths, Sonya developed a plan. The residence she was meant to attend could be either a short car ride, or a several hour long walk. 

There was a beauty here, something new, undiscovered to Sonya. She had known Paris in stories, in pictures, and in books. She had learned of its wonders through the words and experiences of others, but never had she herself stepped foot in such a bountiful treasure. It was something she wished to savor, to cherish, for the brief tenure of her stay at the residence Bonaparte. She therefore chose to walk. Tying the satchel over her shoulder, Sonya pulled her son close. He laughed, a soft little giggle, bringing a smile to his mother's face. Tucking the envelope and its contents into her bag, Sonya began her journey towards a new life.