Let’s start with a note to self: never again Thiviers.
There are a couple of things I came to regret as the first train of the day made its way north from Thiviers towards Limoges:
- Thiviers;
- my choice of coat.
I decided to give Thiviers a go this morning as it was great for the impromptu trip to Mont-de-Marsan and is better-served than La Coquille, but when I arrived early for the 09:10 to Limoges the car park was already full, confirming suspicions I’d allowed to grow to kill the time during the drive behind a succession of slow-moving white vans. One car space had a moped in it which I contemplated moving (by hand, not by car) but concluded that doing so would elevate my sense of entitlement higher than whomever’s it was, but was nonetheless très irked; there’s covered parking for two-wheelers and my car is not parked in it.
I went round a couple of times, hoping vainly that a space might magic itself free during the time it took to nip round the one-way system, but ended up conceding that I’d have to park on the street. I’m sure it’ll be fine, and if it isn’t there’s not really much I can do, but there’s a lot to be said for frequenting a station that doesn’t have many trains and adjusting your plans to fit.
By the time I was on the train to Paris I was in a much more contemplative mood once I’d found my nice big comfy seat.
During Monday’s journey back from Mont-de-Marsan morning I had the sudden realisation that I’d forgotten to confirm my option for the 10:03 to Paris and that my reserved seat on a filling train would’ve have gone, along with my cheap seat. Thankfully, I was not the only one to have forgotten to confirm their option as previously unavailable places isolées had been liberated which meant I would no longer had to spend the whole three-and-a-half hours sitting in a compartment of six. A compartment of six usually finds itself at the bottom of the list of places I’d like to sit, particularly given how much I like having a window to lick. I got half a window, which I considered a suitable victory.
There was no feast for this journey for I had planned it around having time for lunch in Paris, though I did bring my own coffee and some breakfast to keep me alive until then. Instead, I took the time to observe the passing world until I realised I’d seen it all before and nothing much was likely to have changed in the couple of months since I was last in Paris. Around Châteauroux the rain started making patterns on the window as if it had cracked. It was about this time I start regretting my choice of coat.
Across the aisle sat a woman who was one of those people who insists keeping their bag on the floor next to her rather than putting it in one of the in the luggage racks clearly marked with pictures of bags so even the challenged among us recognise them as somewhere to put our bags. She had the air of someone who’d cluck and ruffle her ample bosom in the face of rule-breaking in others, yet also at the slightest suggestion of hers. My quiet loathing was quickly diverted to the woman who didn’t have time for the trolley service being in her way. She stood next to me, seething at the woman holding the scalding liquid who suggested she really could wait thirty seconds more rather than clamber over the bag — now a brilliant strategic move — and the trolley. I think she turned my coffee in those thirty seconds. I ate a madelaine defiantly but without making eye-contact.
Intercités 3641 pulled into Austerlitz on time. The queues for the ticket machines in the métro station were absurd, but that gave me time to chat to a nice man from Tarbes. His accent was challenging, verging on impenetrable, but he was thrilled to have someone help him get to the Gare de l’Est, and as we did, seemed genuinely and vocally surprised at Parisians trying to get onto the métro before the doors had even finished opening and we had got off.
My original lunchtime plan was to go for a curry at the same restaurant I’d wanted to eat at on my way to England from Strasbourg at Christmas, but this changed over the course of the line 5 journey from Austerlitz. I briefly considered the Bouillon-Chartier, but instead found myself having a glorious light lunch at Le Daily Syrien Veggie on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, the first choice of the day I didn’t regret one bit. It was a little more expensive than I expected because Paris, but was nonetheless intensely yummy and worth every penny (centime).
ICE 9563 from the Gare de l’Est was quite busy but I’d had the tremendous foresight to at least choose to be a silent zone. This was a compromise as for some unfathomable reason the DB site doesn’t let you choose your seat in first on international ICEs. Instead, you can choose window, aisle, quiet or “handy”, a choice which is promptly but efficiently ignored by the booking system as it allocates you a seat at random. Mine was at the end of a quiet carriage, at least, but in an aisle seat next to a window seat with no window.
The joy of the quiet coach is that it has pretty little icons to tell you to put your phone into silent and speak quietly for fear of disturbing other passengers. Or at least, that’s the theory. To make or receive a phone call, you must traipse to the not-at-all soundproofed vestibule at the end of the carriage to have a “whose language can be shouted the loudest into a phone?” competition with the other people who also, unsurprisingly, can’t be heard by their interlocutors. Everyone can hear clearly (“Hallo?” “Oui, allo?” “I’m on the train!“) as the over-zealous door sensor ensures there’s little-to-no fucking chance of the quiet carriage actually being in any way quiet whatsoever as there’s an open door in the middle of the barely-glazed partition. The person in the seat next to me duly refrained from using his phone, perhaps for fear that it might distract him from the task of smashing seven colours of shit out of the world’s loudest laptop keyboard. No icon for that.
I sought solace in thinking I might now have a grasp of the German sense of humour.
Keyboard and multiple Phones left the train at Strasbourg and calm was restored. As we passed into Germany at Kehl, most were unmoved at the reminder of our obligation to wear a mask. I had a pack of twenty with me and considered handing them out but in the end concluded there’s always hope that by not wearing masks they’ll cull themselves out of existence before my return trip on Tuesday.
We got to Karlsruhe only five minutes late which was fortuitous as the connecting IC 2269 to Munich had been delayed by a further ten minutes, a figure it managed to beat when it arrived in Munich fourteen minutes late. Unlike on its international trains, the DB site allows you to choose your seat on domestic trains from a little map which even shows the direction of travel — SNCF take note — so I was determined to find seat 45 (window) in coach eleven, right next to the Bordbistro.
My dream was that I could spend the remaining few hours of the journey philosophising about the romance of rail travel as I sat eating whatever I was having for tea from a proper plate rather than out of a plastic box, all the while drinking beer out of a proper glass. Once I’d walked the length of the train looking for coach eleven, the guard informed me that “coach 11 isn’t here today.”
I found a rock-hard (but leather) seat in a six compartment with a lockable door in coach ten and settled down for a relaxing few hours, a pleasure short-lived thanks to crackly announcements over a malfunctioning speaker that ensured all but the most vital information was imparted. Claudia, my new friend who joined the train at Stuttgart and who was unsurprised that the DB had reserved the wrong seat for her, battled with the volume controls for a while until we eventually sorted it through sheer bloody-mindedness..
About an hour before the end of our journey, the heating came on. When the guard came to check our tickets, Claudia enquired about the trolley service which had, apparently, long-since run out of anything useful and was now locked in a compartment in coach twelve.
According to Claudia, the DB has no money and a huge, ailing network that needs perpetual maintenance, yet is permanently fighting a losing battle with the government of a country with a green agenda but an enormous car-manufacturing industry. My surprise at the absence of German efficiency amused her tremendously as she explained that booking tickets on DB Intercity trains is pretty much a practical alternative to gambling, in between bouts of knitting something that I wasn’t quite brave enough to ask about.
Outside it became progressively darker until only lights slid past the window, occasionally casting a new hue of Edward Hopper (on a bad day) into our now-warm and quiet compartment. Claudia gave me some suggestions for my trip and when we finally pulled into München-Pasing, helped me buy my Streifenkarte to kill the time to the next connection following the one she’d just missed. She deposited me on the correct platform and got me onto the S3 to my home for the next few days, Gröbenzell, just as the TGV I could’ve booked but didn’t — because I wanted an adventure — sailed past, buffet car and all.
Host(ess) was waiting for me at the station. There was Noodly (be praised) soup.
I had a fabulous day.
