Riding in Cylinders

Why I get into cylinder objects to be hurled across distances is beginning to make less and less sense to me. Sometimes it’s an airplane, but more often it’s a train.

I’ve done the Argelès-Geneva train run for years. When I was still working I would take the train at 10 p.m. in Geneva arriving in Argelès just as Lopez was pulling the first hot bread from the oven. He would see me and put a tartine and hot chocolate at my table. I’d have two full days in my nest then Sunday night at midnight I would reverse the route arriving in Geneva at 8 with time to rush home, shower and get to the office only a little late.

French sleeper cars, called wagon lits, have six bunks. Granted they come with blanket, pillow and water bottle, but there is still a steerage feeling about second class. First class has four bunks not that much better. With the exception of the Paris-Argelès route, the sleeping arrangements are not gender separated.

During the many trips I have met some wonderful travelling companions. One group of mothers and daughters from Zurich turned into an overnight pajama party. Another time I shared experiences with a travel writer that was doing the handicapped person’s guide to France. When I thought a group of recent American college graduates would be a problem, they turned out to be great kids even if they didn’t know who John Calvin was, what the Protestant reformation was or even what a Puritan was, although Thanksgiving did trigger recognition.

Some have been less nice. One woman took my blanket so her small son would have something softer to lie on and made such a scene that I used my coat for a cover (people tease me about my duvet coats, but all the teasing in the world made the coat worth ecery feather). Another time a couple arrived and woke the whole car as they flipped on the light (most people try to be quiet) to arrange their affairs and had a lengthy and loud conversation long into the night.

Once I was with a girl friend. This was her first overnight train trip. We were in the top bunks, the lights had just gone out and she whispered across the car, “Good night John boy.”

Now that I no longer am working I more often take the day train, but on this last trip I decided on the night one. It is still off season and the middle of the week. There was only one other passenger, a man.

Being locked into a compartment with a strange man made me uncomfortable. Overall trains are safe. One summer there were a few pocketbook thefts and once someone was murdered in the toilet, but when I lived in the States two acquaintances were murdered, one in her home and one in shopping mall parking lot. I did not give up having a home nor would the murder keep me from a parking lot.

The only thing the man did all night was breath and from time to time turn in his bunk. He did not even snore. At Lyon he got off, giving me a private car for the next couple of hours. He was considerate enough to slip out silently carrying his shirt and jacket so he could dress in the aisle. I am sure he had no idea that his presence had caused me concern. Now on the other hand if I were to find myself alone in a compartment with Garou or George Clooney they might not be safe from me.