Well. Today turned into more of an adventure than I really wanted.
I spent a lot of time looking at trains yesterday and decided the 11:28 Intercity service from Amsterdam to Antwerp was the perfect train to get me to Lille for my 17:16 TGV. In the absence of a dining car for the whole day, I imagined I’d probably have time to graze at something for lunch somewhere nice then get a connecting train from Antwerp to Lille with time for a leisurely change to catch my TGV to Angoulême. As my TGV wasn’t until 17:16, it seemed perfectly reasonable to leave myself time to accommodate a delay or need for food.
This was my plan.
I’d contemplated the earlier train and could still have caught it, but decided I’d made my plans sufficiently well that I’d prefer to stick to the original plan rather than rush things. In any case, I was on a tram which passed my favourite purveyor of coffee at around ten – opening time – and decided I had plenty of time in hand before the 11:28 to treat myself to some cake and coffee for breakfast. There was only one kind of cake, so today’s incredibly simple breakfast decision was whether to eat just a little cake for breakfast, for fear I might not want/need to have any more cake later, or just eat all of the cake for breakfast. I decided the second option was the best in the absence of a sturdy container in which to transport the cake, so I scoffed the lot and sallied forth on the tram 2 from Koningsplein to Centraal Station where, the plan was, I’d get into the NS Lounge in time to sit in peace and quiet until it was ready to take my train.
I arrived with lots of time to spare, and thought about going straight to the lounge but instead decided to take a leisurely coffee in the old first-class waiting room which is now the Restaurant 1e Klas, a fine railway station establishment with its own cockatoo. At first I wasn’t sure I wanted coffee, but then I remembered I’d had cake for breakfast, and also that it might be considered rude to stand and gawp at the place without actually buying anything. I considered more breakfast, but remembered I’d already had cake for breakfast.
When the station was designed in 1889, there were three waiting rooms available for those travelling depending on their class of travel. The Restaurant 1e Klas is in the old first class waiting room. There is coffee chain in the second class waiting room (just wrong). Both have high ceilings with church-like arched windows with wooden panels and pillars. In the first classing waiting room there are palm trees, and a cockatoo, whose name is Elvis. I wanted to have a meal here last time I came but circumstances dictated otherwise. If I’d not been tired and expected on Saturday night, I might have had something light then. A station with a proper restaurant is a glorious thing and all station restaurants should be preserved forever.
The menu is more suited to an afternoon departure – all the pastries are a bit too puddingy, but the cake is cheaper than the cake I’d had for breakfast – but I had a very nice coffee accompanied by the bustling clatter of cutlery against china and then, four euros lighter, withdrew to the much more calming atmosphere of the NS Lounge where I had a couple of bottles of sparkling water and a coffee to try and keep things under control. My breakfast was starting to have an effect and my only desire at this point, after using the facilities without drawing attention to myself, was to cling to my bag long enough to get the first train of the day, at which point everything would be alright.
Reassured, and over-thinking whether the fourth cup of coffee of the morning had been absolutely necessary, I looked at the departures screen and saw from the safety of my big red comfy sofa that the 11:28 to Antwerp had been cancelled.
This didn’t appear to be the news I was waiting for, just as another wave of breakfast kicked in, but after a brief exchange with the lady in the lounge who possibly understood what was happening to me better than I did, I found myself gripping my bag on a big red leather seat on the 11:15 from Amsterdam to Rotterdam, reflecting somewhat critically on my breakfast decisions.
The train was misleadingly called a Sprinter which seemed to saunter into every station there was between Amsterdam and Rotterdam to arrive twenty minutes later than the train that left ten minutes after it. This gave oodles of time to be philosophical about things being out of my control and to consider that I might be in a better frame of mind after a longer journey. It also distracted me from arguably the second big mistake of the morning, which was taking the first train to Rotterdam rather than the fastest, but as Number 14 puts it, “there is no benefit in worrying whatsoever.”
Also, it was extremely pretty outside the window yet no amount of staring out of it and thinking really hard would make the train go any faster; all I could do was cling to my seat and enjoy the lovely blurry greeny things floating past the lovely window and hope that one day, one day, I’d get to Rotterdam and, as a new secondary concern, that my feet would still work.
I tried reading some of my book, but it was incompatible with my hands.
At Rotterdam I made a point of going to the lounge out of spite, just to have a wee and a bottle of sparkling water. That man from Monday, The Rotterdam Rotter, was there so I made sure he saw my (tactical) bag to ensure he knew I was travelling inter-fucking-nationally and hoped he counted himself lucky because if I’d had my slippers on, he would have feared me. A fifth coffee nearly materialised but after a long moment of deep contemplation over the veritable cornucopia of coffee available from the coffee machine, I decided I didn’t need another coffee after all and that much more important was the choice a nice seat away from other people so I could blend in and, importantly, appear perfectly normal. I found a big comfy seat in which nobody could see me being perfectly normal, had my glass of sparkly water, tried to avoid eye contact, determined the platform of the 13:11 Intercity to Antwerp, got on it, and waited for it to leave. All perfectly normally; I’d had cake for breakfast.
By this time my perception of all that was unfolding had mellowed from impending doom to quite an enjoyably unexpected but not entirely unforseeable little adventure. I used the time on the train to check arrival times and platform numbers in Antwerp so I didn’t have to spend time running around, then melted again into my seat with a big grin on my face to watch the pretty things.
If I’m honest, I’d really had enough cake by this point but it was in it for the long run and seemed to have started a last-ditch campaign of attrition. Much water and micturation kept me clinging on but everything required just a little bit too much effort to make for the relaxing journey I’d had in mind. People tried their luck in first and I learned that Dutch train guards take no shit. “I said it twice in three languages. Red seats first class, blue seats second class. What colour are these seats? Are you paying the difference in fare or are you leaving?” And he stood and watched them leave. My hero.
At some minutes near time o’clock we pulled into Antwerpen-Centraal.
I was very excited coming up the escalator from the subterranean platforms into the passenger hall, even though nothing has changed since last time. There appeared to be very little to do in the 21 dilated minutes between trains and I nearly got some food but was reminded I’d had cake for breakfast and thought that I shouldn’t be in Antwerp without going for a quick gawp at the station in all its train-cathedrally glory, so I went outside and had a gawp. The sky was blue. The station was quite bright. The fountain was sparkly. Then it was magically some nearly minutes later, possibly, so I went back into the station and found the departures board to check the platform hadn’t changed. It hadn’t. I successfully navigated to platform two where things were reassuringly as they should have been.
At a few minutes before the 14:37 was supposed to leave platform two, a nice gentleman wandered up and asked if anyone was going to Gent. We established I was, which was quite an achievement for all parties involved, and a hasty last-minute platform change was effected – just what I needed – to platform six (like platform two but four bigger) where a local train was waiting to take us to Antwerpen-Berchem. Intercity 714 had ungergone a station reassignment and was no longer identifying as a train leaving Antwerpen-Centraal. From platform two to platform six was easy if not full of potential distractions (“you have two minutes”) and in Antwerpen-Berchem the train to Lille was waiting for us, as promised.
Today I learned that IC 714 is direct to Lille Flandres if you’re sitting in the part of the train that doesn’t go to Poperinge; there is no change necessary in Kortrijk, even though it’s listed in the RailPlanner app. Knowing this as we finally pulled out of Antwerpen-Berchem I was relieved, because there was now only one change left between me and salvation, there was nothing more to be done, and I had given my most. A wave of cathartic bliss washed over me. The train slippers were deployed. Gent-St. Pieters station looked interesting.
I checked I was in the right section of the train for Lille, which I was, pretty much every time the guard walked through the carriage, just in case. She announced it for me too just as we pulled into Kortrijk where the train split. After an interminable wait in which I thought she’d lied to me and I was destined to spend the rest of eternity needing delicious snacks in Kortrijk, we lurched into movement again at 16:13 and about forty minutes later pulled into Lille Flandres. I had time to dash to M&S for a sandwich, to nip out and grab a quick puppet selfie of the station, and then to board TGV 5240 departing platform seven at 17:16.
It left on time. I was on it. I smiled.
For a moment or two along the way I had been very concerned that things would all go awry very quickly indeed and that I’d end up having to go via Paris or, worse, getting a lurid Ouigo, but the inevitable moment of the closing doors and the initial lurch homewards came and before long I found myself slumbering in my comfy seat, the effects of breakfast (finally) abating, train slippers drawing looks from other passengers.
I should’ve bought more food in M&S, for the SNCF’s idea of luxury is speed, not cutlery; a tin of Heineken with a paper cup and a packet of crisps for 7€ is not a fitting end to a glorious journey. There was an inquisitive young child. The mother didn’t contain it. Seat 31 in voiture 3 was between two half windows. It reminded me of Prague. I read some of my book.
TGV 5240 from Lille Flandres pulled into Angoulême on the dot of 21:21, by which time I’d nearly forgotten that I’d had cake for breakfast.
I’m still not entirely sure why I came here.
