That all went very smoothly.
I was up at six to get the S-Bahn from Gröbenzell to München-Pasing and Hostess was even up to see me off and make sure I actually left the house, rather than coming with me to the station. I could’ve taken a later train but decided not to risk it, just in case. Instead, I had a little walk around the station, spent some time contemplating whether I wanted to buy some sticky buns or get breakfast on the train, then watched the Hilfiger-inspired DB clocks which, I was very excited to witness, count only 58 seconds per minute like the SBB ones.
So that was nice. I don’t get out much.
I was duly standing at point F on platform 10 ready to get into coach 14 and my comfy seat 71 when ICE 690 to Stuttgart arrived on the dot of 08:37 and opened its doors. However. Either the train composition display or the train itself was back-to-front, which meant that everyone getting on at Pasing then spent the first ten or fifteen minutes of their journey walking the to the other end of the train, all meeting chaotically in the middle of the train and getting tangled up with those who’d just nipped to the Bordbistro for something yummy.
And breathe.
That was, in fact, the last unpleasantness on the journey apart from some people’s non-understanding of the concept of the quiet carriage (woman from Australia with the world’s most voluminous lungs and the world’s most tedious fucking adventures in solar panels, I’m thinking of you) but for the most part, all was good. I couldn’t recline my seat; I’m not sure whether this was operator error or whether it was designed that way. In any case, it didn’t really matter because I was quickly in the Bordbistro enjoying my breakfast.
I hesitated between a cooked breakfast and a continental, and in the end chose the continental because I planned to then have lunch on the ICE from Stuttgart to Paris Est. In any case, when I sat at the table to read the menu it was only because I was then identifying as breakfast-curious, but one of the staff spied me, came to the table, and asked me what I was having. And so I had the continental breakfast because I was too polite to say I was only really there because I wanted to a) try out the chairs to see how comfy they were and b) steal a menu as a souvenir.
It was at the moment that the first bit of warm, buttery, jam-croissant entered my my face that I forgave the DB for what must have been just a simple mix-up with the train composition and retracted any previous allusions to anything.
The croissant was properly buttery and sufficiently flakey and warm, served with jam, honey and a popular hazlenut-based spread — one of a small number of German nouns which can or historically could have all three genders — which also went nicely with two warm bread rolls that came with it. And two huge portions of butter. And oh-my-Noodles, proper crockery.
Note to SNCF: your rancid plastic-wrapped sugary bread roll with bits of chocolate in it that you dare to call “brioche” is mocking us.
I didn’t notice what time we got to Stuttgart, but ICE 9574 was sitting on the adjacent platform — in the right order — and ready to go. I’d once again fallen foul of the seat reservation system (almost certainly a croissant-induced oversight that can surely be forgiven) and had a window seat in a not-quiet carriage which, strangely enough, was for the most part quieter than the the carriage I was in on the first train. Go figure. I tried to get lunch in the restaurant car but by the time I investigated around Strasbourg, it was full of people eating their own food or no food at all, which I thought was a bit naughty. I wasn’t particularly hungry anyway what with, y’know — Früstück.
We pulled into the Gare de l’Est probably on time, but I wasn’t looking as I’d left myself plenty of time for changing to Austerlitz where I had a pint in a bar round the back (because Happy Hour), walked around the Jardin des Plantes (because I didn’t last time), then bought a sandwich in the boulangerie on the Boulevard de l’Hôpital.
There’s something comforting about coming back to Simone Herault’s dulcet tones, so I was feeling quite at home when I took my place on the 16:39 Intercités to Limoges. I ate my sandwich and drank coffee I’d brought with me.
We arrived a few minutes earlier than planned, and then left a little late on the TER. I made a mental note not to get off at La Coquille and found the car was still waiting for me and hadn’t been towed away when I got to Thiviers at 21:10, only five minutes later than schedule and about fourteen hours after first getting on a train.
