‘Waiting on the platform for a train’….. the start of a lament, or love poem? For some perhaps, but in my case the ignition of a connect more fun than the much-anticipated train journey.
On a morning when breath floats visibly in the air, folk clap their gloves together as though to startle the cold away, whilst others hunch over a coffee, willing it to warm them both out and in. A lady my age, also travelling alone, passes a quick smile. How lovely that a simple gesture of empathy can melt a little of the snow’s effects.
The train arrives. My suitcase looks heavier than it is; kind hands assist. I am lucky to find a window seat near the luggage rack. The lady from the platform appears; it’s my turn to smile. And so begins a journey which passes by far too quickly. Margot and I may have to resort to Google translate at times, but it’s soon clear we feel in the same language. We talk of adult children, travel, environment, covid, and those folk special to us. Like Sue from Lancaster, it’s as though we’ve run parralel lives, with similar challenges, successes and cares. Margot delights that I come from New Zealand. Her husband had a thing for my country, but he unexpectedly died before being able to make the trip. Naturally I encouraged her to venture forth and visit on his behalf. I hope she does.
Today she is off on babysitting duties in Munich. We delight together in the passing snow, and she watches, a little amused I think, as I try to get a photo of the hop gardens we are whizzing by. The train is much too fast for my camera.
But speaking of Hops, how strange to see the gardens, recently bereft of their harvest, now weighed under snow, or at the very least holding themselves tight against prevailing winds. I am told that this area will be knee-deep very soon. New Zealand Hops rarely have to shiver so.
At Munich railway station Margot and I hug goodbye; for now.
A beggar gets angry with me. I see in his eyes the hunger of drugs, and reflect yet again on how obscene that a newborn baby morphs over time into a bag of desperate bones. I cannot help this man. To give him money is to endorse his habit. I just pray he finds a way forward.
The train to Paris! 320km per hour! Faster than I’ve ever traveled across land. The tunnels bring pressure in the ears; not severe but enough to create awareness. Knowing the train finishes in Paris, I feel safe in taking an upstairs seat, from which the view is that much clearer.
This is a French train, and I am confused… at home less-educated folk call the French ‘frogs’ as a derision, yet here we are served this chocolate:
Just along from my seat is a small locked area, where a uniformed guard sits opposite a jovial 30-something obese man. I do not understand why the guard must lock the man in that tiny space when he goes for their food or drink. The ‘prisoner’ is writing a letter on his laptop, for which he gets advice from the guard. They are friendly to each other, and as the journey continues they relax more. By the time we reach Paris, the ‘prisoner’ is free to leave the train on his own. The guard wishes him well, and shakes his hand. What was that all about? A deportation perhaps?
But I have jumped ahead. The train journey requires noting, at least for the views. From my window I see canal boats, and the city of Strasbourg which is now French, but has changed hands at least seven times over the centuries. How confusing. At one stage the city had mostly Alsatian speakers. Nowadays it marks the border, and our phones ping; telecommunication providers advise if our call plan covers France.
After the brightly coloured buildings and orderly cleanliness of Germany, French farms look dull in their greys, browns and clay. The advertising for this journey promised ‘beautiful French countryside’ but I’ll let you judge….
Arriving in Paris, there were three options for transferring to the Eurostar. Walking would normally be my first choice, but the most usual route was apparently beset with slip hazards caused by poor weather, and the popular advice was to avoid this path. Catching the metro came with warnings of overcrowding at this time of day and the chance of losing one’s luggage. That sounded too risky when my barely school-level French was clearly not going to be any help.
That left the third option; taxi. The guide site suggested it would cost approx eight euro, and take just a few minutes. That I could do. As I exited the station, the noise and chaos of hustling taxi drivers and their agents threatened to overwhelm. These gents were not interested in finding out where you were going, or what you wanted. One poor lady had her luggage put into a taxi before she’d had a chance to say a word, and the driver was very cross when he realised she didn’t actually want a taxi.
In the confusion a driver yelled ‘taxi’ at me. I nodded, and he grabbed my suitcase. As we were pulling away from the station forecourt he asked where to. I said the Eurostar station, and he informed me it would be 85 euros. I queried the price, given it was ten times what I was expecting. He thrust a printed card in my face and said this was the standard price, and it must be in cash. I said it won’t be in cash. He said it had to be. Further, he said he would take me to an ATM so I could get the cash to pay him. Several times he mentioned the time of my train, trying to panic me into complying. I yelled at him to stop the car and let me out, right now! I’d heard of these scammers, but hadn’t expected to meet one. He tried to convince me, with some fast talking, but he’d met his match. I wasn’t paying him a thing. He pulled to the kerb, raced around to the car boot and threw, yes, threw, my poor suitcase out into the crowd of pedestrians. By the time I’d retrieved it, that taxi was gone.
I had no idea where I was, except in Paris. Nor did I know where the Eurostar station was. Fortunately I had plenty of time, and Google maps on my phone. Adrenalin was pumping fairly hard, so it took a few minutes for me to relax enough to lift my head and begin looking around, noticing things that are special to Paris.
I couldn’t believe that there really were little wrought iron balconies above me, and cafes serving groups of men sitting around little tables which protruded into the street.
At one cafe a huge stuffed beer appeared to be enjoying a cold drink; even sitting he was taller than me. He confused my brain, being a brown bear, dressed in travelling clothes made from the local flag, but with a bright yellow suitcase. Was he waiting for someone, or just pawsing (yeah, I know) from his travels? Oh dear.
That’s when I realised the taxi driver had inadvertently done me a favour, as only his despicable behavior could have brought me through this part of the city. My feet slowed, and I began to smile. I was walking the streets of Paris! There may not be time for the Eiffel Tower, or the great arts, but here I was immersed in the sounds of a French city. Yet another experience I had not expected. Oh, to have time to truly linger.
Arriving at the Eurostar station, I was one of the first for my train, so had to wait for the barriers to open. And then the usual maze of passport control and customs. By now it was old hat, and a bit boring, to yet again be pulled aside for a body search as my internal metal flared their alarm. No matter that I explain beforehand, there’s always the search. But I am grateful; such thoroughness saves lives. My luggage passed through more easily, unlike the poor builder who was simply trying to take his tools of trade with him home to the UK. Security take a dim view of hammers and drills being on board the Eurostar, but with no luggage check-in there’s little choice.
Once through Security and Customs, there’s the inevitable wait. This is where stations and airports have you, knowing few folk won’t go for long without needing something to eat or drink. The cafe offered ‘salad sublime’… how could I resist! But oh, the disappointment. Half a baby tomato, two shaved slices of raw beef, quarter of an apple, quarter cup of grated carrot, two slices of onion, a two-inch square of bread dressed with tuna paste, and the rest of the ten-by-three inch bowl absolutely filled with uncut lettuce. All for just under ten euro. Oh, and when I ordered a cup of tea, add a euro for the milk. I feel hustled.
At last we are allowed to board the Eurostar.
Seventeen carriages of ninety-four seats each, fully booked, though the three folk who’d paid for the seats around me never appeared. Sixteen hundred travelers! And there’d be another in an hour, and another an hour after that. Who knew there were so many folk crossing the channel?
We set off with high hopes, but oh, the disappointment of discovering the outgoing side of Paris was as dirty and unkempt as the incoming side. France looked rough. Even the allotments had stuff strewn about, broken materials, ripped netting, and certainly no air of love. Where were the stuff of movies; the romance and sunsets?
Just like the other side of Paris, the farms were deary mud. Giant harvesting machines, reminiscent of grasshoppers on steroids, worked across surprisingly short crops which looked too tired and stunted to be worth the effort. The machine’s great wheels left ruts which filled with water more quickly than you could say monsoon. My sympathies were with the farmers who were struggling in this unusual season. What are the odds that this is yet another consequence of climate change?
Further on there were lots of natural wet areas, but devoid of the lush fauna and waterfowl normally expected in such places. How bleak it all seemed in a rapidly encroaching twilight. I turned away, hoping for something more interesting within the train carriage.
A couple my age caught my attention. He had risen from his seat, and was asking her if she would like anything from the dining car. His wife, in her flamboyantly rich furs and rings, completely ignored him, flicking through her magazine. He shrugged and left.
The woman’s appearance demanded a second look. Brown thick hair traced with golden highlights swept across her face from a three-quarter parting, as though to create an abstract distraction from a linearly long nose and high cheekbones. Each eyebrow arched over extraordinarily long black eyelashes, accenting brown eyes. Heavy silver jewelry (just how many rings is too many) flashed against a backdrop of her silver/gold and black loose-fitting long-sleeved cuffed top. Yet the grey-pebbled black scarf thrown carelessly across her shoulders mismatched astonishingly. Black tapered trousers met matching high-heeled boots, but these were no ordinary footwear! Three rows of diamantes ringed the top, only breaking for the elastic strips which designers include for comfortable fitting. All very showy, but there was no hiding the chewed-out fingernails, wrinkly sun-freckled hands, turned-down mouth and lack of smile in the eyes. Lines from her mouth corners to her chin gave the impression of a tired ventriloquists puppet. Sour flamboyance just comes off as horrid.
Soon the husband was back, but oh no, he was not to sit by her with that drink. And why hadn’t he got her one? This poor man asked if he could sit by me. We began the loveliest conversation; what a delight he was, and truly interesting. But his wife was having none of that. She flounced over, plonking herself opposite me, and demanding that the husband tend her needs. And thus it was that I learned their story from her perspective. She was a retired journalist, and could give me tips. Her idea, not mine. I gathered she wasn’t pleased when I could show her I already did those things.
They were heading to London for an occasion, she said. Terribly important of course. She made it sound like dinner at Buckingham Palace. Her dramatic presentation, accompanied by sighs and innuendo, underlined her status. And in her mind France, particularly Provence, is the only place worthy of attention. ‘But you must visit’ she exclaimed. Her husband tried to offer opinions, but she closed him off each time, with more contempt than any person I know would put up with. What hold did she have over him that he smiled benignly and complied. Is the sex that good?
But I was not giving in to her demand for salutation. Eventually she gave up, returning to her magazines, leaving her husband and I to talk. What a lovely man he was! We laughed, shared stories, and debated ideas. I learned of his work in engineering design, and of their home. He was English, but settled in France, the home of his wife. There was a depth and sincerity to this man which invited trust and respect. During the journey he remained at his wife’s beck and call, but I never heard a please or thank you from her. I yearned to yell at the demanding cow. How dare she treat him with such disdain! And the ‘important occasion’ they were going to? A friend’s funeral. I’d never heard of the person, so maybe not that notable after all?
The journey passed quickly, thanks to his excellent conversation. We crossed the channel in good time, but as I’d been warned, the hype of the ‘chunnel’ is certainly not met by the experience; just another train going through a fairly lengthy tunnel. There’s no physical sense of being under the sea, nor of any risk. Next time I’ll fly.
But not to France.
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