Okay, time to pack up all this shit. It's balls hot out today in Paris, so I decide to wear my backpacking American uniform: Baseball cap to hold up my hair, plaid shorts, running shoes and a sleeveless t-shirt to show off my guns.
So everything's packed, the house is as clean as it's going to get, time to head to Paris Est to catch the night train to Berlin. To be honest I'm a little bit nervous about the trip. Obviously the idea of going to a strange new city doesn't really bother me, neither does the fact that I can speak enough German to get myself into trouble but not back out. Much more worrisome: I have no idea whether I actually have a ticket on this train or not. I shelled out 100 euro for an overnight train on this website that even google barely new about, some kind of German version of Orbitz but only for trains and only for hugely discounted trips between Paris and Berlin. So discounted, in fact, that when I tried to upgrade from a sitting ticket to a sleeper ticket I got redirected to a more reputable website. Fuck that noise, I'm trying to minimize cost by maximizing suffering. I'm not about to pay 10 euro extra so I can lie down.
Do I actually have a printed ticket? No. Whatever, I'm sure everything will work out fine when I get to the train station.
In spite of the fact that I've got probably twice as much stuff in this backpack as I'm supposed to I feel like I'm handling all this weight pretty well. I make it down to the station with time to spare, time enough to get a sandwich and a coffee with enough left over to sit around and get bored. Okay, time to go print my ticket.
What do you mean I can't print my ticket here? You don't have machines that print tickets? Oh, I see, only for people who bought their tickets from real websites. Okay, well that makes sense.
So now it's a mission: one hour to find some random place to print out my ticket in the middle of Paris. One hour to schlep my 100+ pounds of random garbage up and down the streets of Paris Est looking for an internet cafe. I stop a few people to ask for directions, most are just unhelpful, one actually tries to launch into a story about how he used to own an internet cafe (sir, are you actually getting bleary-eyed over a fucking cybercafe?) but the WiFi Bistro drove him out of business. Holy fucking Industrial Revolution 2012, I just need a goddamned inkjet. Eventually I find a little place tucked into some exposed brick nothing where I can print out my ticket for only 11 euro (faaack). Well, crisis averted, at least.
Of course, they would put the discount cars way at the end of the train; you have to walk past a veritable museum of luxury to get to steerage.
I finally get to my seat, way at the back of the train. It's a tiny space, by the time I throw down all my stuff there's hardly room in the compartment for anything else. Ten minutes go by, however, and I'm starting to feel pretty good about my chances of having the compartment all to myself. Another minute passes and a family of four angry, tense Germans shows up. Oh well. After another minute a French girl comes by who not only shares my compartment but my seat assignment as well. This is amusing, but less amusing when another girl shows up with the same problem. Though admittedly, when a balding Indian man arrives with yet another copy of the same seat reservation, I can't help but laugh. We show our tickets to the official-looking man with the hat and vest. He spends several long seconds looking at all four tickets, then says, "Well, obviously you can't all four sit in the same seat." Thanks, hat guy.
Once we get out of the station, though, I really start to appreciate my decision to take the train rather than some cheap flight. The countryside between Paris and Berlin is beautiful. The noise that the train makes is even more beautiful. Seriously, the little snippet I've posted here is probably my favorite sound from the entire trip. I recommend putting on a solid pair of headphones, cranking up the volume, getting comfortable and letting the sound fold over you.
Around two in the morning I start to get tired and head back in the cabin to try to sleep. This, as it turns out, is impossible. I know this is going to sound crazy, but to get a sense of what these chairs are like you have to imagine something like sitting in coach on an American Airlines red eye only even more uncomfortable. All that's between me and the metal floor of the train car is what feels like a plastic chair from a public bench. It actually feels like they took a bus stop, bolted metal wheels to it and then snapped it onto the back of an international train. These seats are so unpleasant to sit on that it doesn't even feel fair to talk about them in terms of comfort, a bit like talking about the nutritional value of a liter of gasoline.
But man oh man, does the night wear on...
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| That, bitches, is how I roll. You think I packed enough shit? |
Do I actually have a printed ticket? No. Whatever, I'm sure everything will work out fine when I get to the train station.
In spite of the fact that I've got probably twice as much stuff in this backpack as I'm supposed to I feel like I'm handling all this weight pretty well. I make it down to the station with time to spare, time enough to get a sandwich and a coffee with enough left over to sit around and get bored. Okay, time to go print my ticket.
What do you mean I can't print my ticket here? You don't have machines that print tickets? Oh, I see, only for people who bought their tickets from real websites. Okay, well that makes sense.
So now it's a mission: one hour to find some random place to print out my ticket in the middle of Paris. One hour to schlep my 100+ pounds of random garbage up and down the streets of Paris Est looking for an internet cafe. I stop a few people to ask for directions, most are just unhelpful, one actually tries to launch into a story about how he used to own an internet cafe (sir, are you actually getting bleary-eyed over a fucking cybercafe?) but the WiFi Bistro drove him out of business. Holy fucking Industrial Revolution 2012, I just need a goddamned inkjet. Eventually I find a little place tucked into some exposed brick nothing where I can print out my ticket for only 11 euro (faaack). Well, crisis averted, at least.
Of course, they would put the discount cars way at the end of the train; you have to walk past a veritable museum of luxury to get to steerage.
I finally get to my seat, way at the back of the train. It's a tiny space, by the time I throw down all my stuff there's hardly room in the compartment for anything else. Ten minutes go by, however, and I'm starting to feel pretty good about my chances of having the compartment all to myself. Another minute passes and a family of four angry, tense Germans shows up. Oh well. After another minute a French girl comes by who not only shares my compartment but my seat assignment as well. This is amusing, but less amusing when another girl shows up with the same problem. Though admittedly, when a balding Indian man arrives with yet another copy of the same seat reservation, I can't help but laugh. We show our tickets to the official-looking man with the hat and vest. He spends several long seconds looking at all four tickets, then says, "Well, obviously you can't all four sit in the same seat." Thanks, hat guy.
Once we get out of the station, though, I really start to appreciate my decision to take the train rather than some cheap flight. The countryside between Paris and Berlin is beautiful. The noise that the train makes is even more beautiful. Seriously, the little snippet I've posted here is probably my favorite sound from the entire trip. I recommend putting on a solid pair of headphones, cranking up the volume, getting comfortable and letting the sound fold over you.
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| Rolling shutter had a lot of fun with this one |
But man oh man, does the night wear on...
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