12 Hour Train Rides & Other Love Languages
Foray 010: A Travelogue from Paris to Berlin
A train station is a great place. That’s why I’m spending two hours here. That, and because I just missed my train to Berlin.
Train’s are the best and also the trickiest. They can really deek you out. Because it’s a train and not a plane I have this strange subconscious belief that I can cut it as close as humanely possible and still make it.
I have been proven wrong. SNCF (French national train system) has a new rule where the train’s doors close 2 minutes before departure time instead of 30 seconds as they usually do. Coincidentally it is those exact last 2 minutes I always rely on. Needless to say, I arrived to a stationary and very locked train.
I’m not fully at peace though. A missed train is a missed train. Thankfully the SNCF employees are incredibly kind (very rare for France) and helped me reschedule my train at no extra cost. I think it might have to do with the fact that they saw me run to the train doors and bang on them just after they closed. I am happy to report that I did not cry. That’s progress.
Finding a coffee and a croissant, I sit. I still have two hours. My mind is preoccupied, I am worrying. I have taken so many trains in my life already, having used Europe’s advanced train network to the extreme in the last 6 years.
Night trains and short trains, scenic trains and multi-day trips. I could’ve flown to Berlin, it would’ve been 50 euros more and it also would taken 4 hours less time, 6 if I’m counting my missed train, but it would’ve been much less fun. I’ll choose the longer journey any day.
Train stations, especially older ones, feel human in a way airports never could. The big glass dome ceilings, metal ramparts, it’s soothing to watch the trains pull in and out of the platforms, my bag securely tucked on my lap. A good train station is a place where you feel safe but unwatched, moving but unhurried. The skin-stripping sanitation of the airport is diminished, people can walk in and out; I see someone smoking inside.
We’re now 4 hours into my train journey, hurtling from Paris to Frankfurt. My ticket, revoked and reprinted, had no seat number on it so I was told by one of the train conductors to ‘find an empty seat and fight for it’ which did not inspire a lot of confidence.
Yet I managed to do just that. Choosing an innocuous aisle seat on a row with no real window, I sat and waited tentatively, expecting to be ousted at any second. By now I have my method down, every time someone passes me, glancing at my seat, I just stare at them and smile. No teeth. So far no one has asked for this seat. I am crossing my fingers this good luck holds out.
In fact, I believe my good luck has tripled. The woman who was sitting next to me has been walking around the carriages the entire trip, only leaving her jean jacket behind to mark her territory. Relaxed and happy to have the row to myself, her jean jacket suddenly moved and a little turtle’s head popped out. This was shocking but also charming and I gave him a chin tickle which he loved. I laugh now to think about her boarding the train, arms wrapped tightly around her jean jacket, trying to sneak in her pet turtle under the conductor’s nose! It’s so nice to see adults act like kids. Glib and sneaky with a turtle under their shirt.
I really shouldn’t have said that, I think I jinxed myself. The train’s just broken down at our penultimate stop on the way to Frankfurt, Mannheim. If you know anything about Mannheim, you know is primarily for trains and things going wrong with trains. The last time I was here was during another train trip, this one 40 hours long, from Paris to Croatia, consisting of 2 night trains and a run in with the Slovenian police at 3am. Hopefully my luck will be better this time.
The German ticket office is supposed to help me yet I don’t see how they can do that when the line stretches out about an hour long. Joining at the back of the queue, I have the sense I will not be getting to Berlin any time soon. The man in front of me and I start chatting, he commiserates with me as he is French but lives in Berlin. Apparently what I have done is silly because, as he says, ‘the German trains always break down, the service has been awful since Covid’. This makes me feel insecure about my travelling choices so I ask him, if he’s so knowledgeable, why did he take the train from Paris to Berlin too?
‘I was in the mood for a hotel stay.’ He replied, ‘you have no idea how many hotel rooms the DBB (German national railway) have gotten me.’
This really did not make me feel good. Thankfully it was his turn next so I didn’t have to reply. Instead, now at the front of the queue, I went to the other German ticket officer, who was very blond, and before I could even finish saying the word ‘Berlin’ a piece of paper was thrust into my hand. “New Itinerary” he said. It had me going completely out of my way to Northern Germany before connecting down to Berlin.
“But this takes an extra 4 hours?” I asked.
“Yes, fastest route.” He nodded like he was both proud of himself.
Understandably flustered I moved to the side of the queue and simultaneously tried to stuff my new ticket into my bag while thinking about what this schedule change meant for me, and whether I should talk to a different officer. In the midst of my delirium, I suddenly realised someone was standing in front of me, unnervingly close to my bags, and speaking to me in German.
A dazed look in this man’s eye, he paused like I should reply to whatever he said. This also did not make me feel particularly great. I took a step back, clutching my bags and replied with the universal ‘what?’. The guy, dazed eyes rolling, looked like a mix of a high schooler, a grandpa and a petty thief, took a step closer and told me, in English, he thought I was very pretty.
“Okay.” I said, “Thanks. Bye.”
Not my best work but wow did it feel good to see him walk away.
The guy at the coffee shop helped me figure out what time my new train took off at as it was also 45 minutes delayed. A sat on the platform and sipped my coffee-whip cream concoction, concentrated on not getting my bags stolen and not thinking about the journey ahead of me. Berlin suddenly felt very far away.
I texted my best friend, telling her I’d probably get in around midnight, assuming everything went well. With the way things were, midnight might be optimistic. The folly of my original 6pm then 8pm arrival time mocked me yet I was slightly consoled by asking around and realising that even if I had made my first train I would’ve arrived in this situation anyways.
Apparently trains breaking down in Mannheim was all the rage. Perhaps a ploy by the German hotel syndicate? Who knows.
I love when cultural stereotypes get flipped on their heads. It’s incredibly bewildering and fun. A small part of me loved the fact that, based on personal experience, the trains leave on time more frequently in Italy & France then Germany. I was really trying to focus on the silver linings.
Another silver lining was the conductor of the train parked in front of me, not my train of course, lighting up a cigarette inside his cabin, leaning against the front door to watch the frustrated passengers fume on the platform. He looked so stylish with his perfectly waxed moustache and waist high pants, puffing away from the comfort of his cabin. It’s the little things that count.
Eventually our train pulled into the station and we all clambered in. About 3/4 of the passengers were all victims of the last broken down train so no one had any seats or truly any idea what was happening. Having just managed to claw myself a seat on the last train, I wandered through the carriages till I came upon a miraculous place; the restaurant carriage.
Now most trains have cafes or some semblance of a food stand but very few have proper restaurant carriages with big booths and table service. An older lady was sitting by herself in a big booth so I half-asked half-pleaded to join her, given the onslaught of people who were hurtling through the train hungry for a seat. She smiled and said ‘of course!’ which felt akin to sunshine in the moment.
I ordered some sparkling apple juice and a baked pretzel. When in, err not Rome, the German countryside? It was great.
Speeding by, I wiped out my laptop and continued on the long progress of giving my novel its final edit. A task which feels similar to sheering a particularly fast-growing sheep. Odd, but that’s the analogy that comes to mind. The sun was setting over the green hills and forests we passed, hurtling over bridges suspended across rivers and gulleys. If you need time to think, a 12 hour train is truly it. And if you don’t need time to think then a 12 hour train is, still, truly it. You’ll always get to where you’re supposed to go.
The restaurant carriage was the place to be. A few booths down, a couple was arguing loudly in French before coo-ing to each other in English and then switching back to arguing in French. I believe this might have been for my listening enjoyment. I also had a great time eavesdropping on the conversation between a young Australian backpacker, an older German woman and a middle-age French doctor who had just lost her mother. It was genuinely revelatory. A good public service would be to sponsor one-off impromptu podcasts.
Every time the train would halt in a station all the tableware would go flying off. My apple juice nearly crashed into my table-partners curry, forks and knives got sacrificed but in the end we all started putting serviettes under the dishes to make the 4 hour journey a little more comfortable. Because yes, we were really in it for the long haul.
When,eventually we approached my stop, I and half of the train crowded towards the door. Conferring with a young German woman, we confirmed that yes, we were all heading for Berlin, and yes, we were all under threat of missing our connection as our current train was running late. This connection was the last train to Berlin, pulling out of the station at 11pm. We made game plans. We would all run to the platform, if someone got there in time they’d hold the door open for the rest of us.
Under bated breath we waited. Our train pulled into the station and halted, I frantically pushed at the door’s green button in the ever so slight chance it might make the doors open up faster. When they finally did we jumped out of the train, bolted towards the escalators which were, of course, all broken. Taking them like stairs, my carry-on suitcase was a slight hindrance as I hoisted it up, thankfully a few of our fast team members darted forward.
Mounting the next set of stairs to our connections platform, I watched as the woman I had talked to climbed the stairs, landed on the platform, looked around and threw her hands up in grief. Missing it was unthinkable. Taking the stairs two at a time, I continued climbing up the platform till I reached it. It was true, the train wasn’t there.
Yet the Germans are at least consistent in their malfunctions and this train was, thankfully, also running late. Saving grace for the fifty or so of us people who had bolted for this last train to Berlin, we breathed out a collective sigh of relief. Talking amongst ourselves, shaking heads, wishing luck. It was a fun moment of knowing strangers very well. I saw a few people I had sat close to on the very first train 8 hours ago.
“We’ve been together since Paris!” One of them exclaimed as they saw me looking at them.
We all burst out laughing. I have never loved a train station at 11pm so much.
Our much anticipated train arrived, grinding to a halt. Snagging a window seat, a real treat, I stared out the window at the darkening countryside as we sped by, desperately hoping this would be my last train of the night. As a sign everything would be okay, we rolled by a massive Volkswagen car factory. Everything about it screamed industry with its smoke columns towering into the sky and endless sprawl. I specifically loved the huge VW sign lit up at the front of the building. I had to take a photo, it’s just so German.
It’s easy to feel unsettled, so many things can shake us. I lean my head against the window, listening to Paulo Coelho talk about life’s whispers as my eyes track the night sky. I’ll be in Berlin soon, then a taxi, and finally my best friend’s home, I’m so excited to see her and spend the next few beautiful days with her in Berlin. Write, hang out, see the city and talk so, so much.
But for now, I’m happy to be right here, on this train, surrounded by these somewhat strangers and thinking about all the whispers I’ve heard. I didn’t know it but I guess I needed a long train ride. You’ll always get to where you’re supposed to be.
P.S. The train ride back from Berlin to Paris was equally eventful. I got stung by a wasp on my thumb and, due to ‘malicious attacks’ on the French rail system ahead of the Olympics, it ended up being another 12 hours. But who’s counting?
Also, here’s the playlist that soundtracked my journey! It sounds like a cross between autumn heartbreak, Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette and a hack hair dye job:
Thank you for reading!! If you enjoyed this travelogue please give it a like or comment and, as always, subscribing is very appreciated and very free!!
All my love,
xx J
I totally loved reading your account of your trip to Berlin!! A train trip to remember!! Lol 💕
I enjoyed your journey. A fun read!