We’d met one month before, on a rare sunny afternoon in Paris, after I answered his advertisement in the newspaper. He wears grey walking shoes, blue tinted glasses, and the barely veiled superiority of a true eccentric. He’s 6 feet tall, carries a tan leather case and dresses in a modest blazer, shirt and tie. “The only place of its kind in the world.”Īndre Flon-de-Nere is a 71-year-old harmonica-playing atheist with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and a slight paunch. The trains snake over a bridge, and speed through tunnels, clickety-clack followed by the satisfying hiss of steam. The crowd of museum visitors gasps and chatters excitedly. The trains interweave along three tracks, travelling the wide expanse of the table, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, winding in and around miniature evergreens and a reproduction train station. He manipulates two small levers to power a series of antique toy trains. On a cold November morning in a Gothic village in south-central France, an old man is seated at the helm of a long wooden table with both hands perched atop a black control box.
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