Riding into the Paris train station coming up from the country; it's a grand terminal. A large space with men and women in uniform, whistles on lanyards, and crowds hustling by.

There is a repetition. Not the sound of the train on the tracks; I don't hear the wheels. The electric wires overhead seem to carry us into the train station silently. The repetition is visual—through the windows I see the bridges go by; we travel through tunnels and all the train stations we gleefully pass, with the river Seine flows alongside our path, heading towards the sea.

Coming into the station, I begin to acknowledge massive posts standing as giants holding up the city of Paris, which I am entering. Support after support after support pass by; but what is it about them that attracts my attention, that comforts me?

The rounded supports are not square and they are not merely functional. They are utterly beautiful in a very homely way. They pass, pass, pass us and no one notices but me. They are curvaceous; they are matronly. They are anonymous and I am sure they were meant to be 'modern’ when installed, to separate the Paris from the past and the Paris of the future.

The columns reach up becoming one with the ceiling, with the canopy, which is also curvaceous, and the columns guide the eye up to the bladder shape undulations in the ceiling. Air vents, and tiles, that’s all it is, but it brings me great pleasure to see them, to share this hidden beauty and to honor their poetry.

Now the Gare d’Austerlitz is being renovated, yet again, and I am afraid we will lose my new friends, by protectors, my aesthetic pals. I urge you to notice them the next time you travel there.