The etiquette train

It’s tricky business riding European trains these days ~ as I found myself doing last week.

Modern carriages have a single aisle down the middle with two seats on one side and two opposite. You only have to rub elbows with one neighbor. Open your newspaper and that’s that.

However, you might also board an older train with compartments ~ each with 6 places. Passengers push each other down the narrow corridor checking out the compact compartments for the best seating. This is group travel, after all.

In #3 a scruffy old man is asleep, an unlaced shoe half off. A party of teenagers sprawled over each other occupy the next. A family with big suitcases and crying babies are in #8.

I settle for #12. Empty in Eindhoven where I begin my journey. Soon the compartment fills up. An attractive young lady sits opposite me by the window. She’s dressed smartly and carries an expensive laptop case. She’s wearing a black pendant hanging against her white blouse.

Several students get on and talk ceaselessly in Dutch and French. One girl is wearing an Islamic headscarf. An English businessman is up and down trying to get a strong signal for his cell phone. Nigel? It’s Ian here. I’m going to miss the meeting. My flight was cancelled in Frankfurt and they’ve put me on a bloody train. Where am I? Looks like Holland – lots or rain outside.

An elderly Dutch woman shoves her way into the vacant middle seat and announces ‘good afternoon’ to no one in particular. She’s dressed in walking shoes, a heavy sweater and is armed with a short umbrella. She smells of fresh air and pours herself a cup of coffee from a hidden source.

The social dynamics change at each stop. You almost need a little book of etiquette - not unlike the train schedules that people used to carry in their pockets. Soon the others are gone and the young woman and I are alone. I need to stretch my legs and in doing so I bump her foot. She looks over at me – her head bobbing with some tune in her earphone – smiles encouragingly and says something in Dutch.

In the long tunnel past Dordrecht, I nod off and doze. I imagine the two of us on the old Orient Express. The lights flicker and go out. Suddenly, there’s a loud noise in the next compartment and the young woman seeks comfort in my arms. In the middle of night we get off in some forgotten Balkan town where there’s a hotel behind the small station. There is one room available and I give the tired clerk behind the counter some crumpled Romanian bills from my wallet.

Rude, screeching brakes awake me from my slumber. The compartment is empty, my pretty, young companion and her pendant and fancy laptop case are gone. When did she get off? Outside it is raining and through the mist I see the sign for Rotterdam – my destination.