Guest contribution by Noriko Hasegawa: My European Rail Rhapsody
On the first Friday in October, I set off on a train journey to Paris to bring a suitcase full of Japanese treats to my niece, who has been studying singing there since this summer. Coming from Japan, I first paid a visit to Angela and Georg, whom I helped with research in Japan years ago.
According to the rail app I booked before leaving Japan (and the paper ticket I printed, just to be on the safe side), the itinerary was simple enough: 13:42 departure from Cologne on the high-speed ICE 314 to Brussels, then switching to the Eurostar, arriving at Gare du Nord at 17:38. A journey of just over 500 km, in under four hours. Having travelled long distances by train in Europe before, I knew I’d rather avoid having to visit the loo mid-journey. However, the idea of saying farewell to Germany without downing at least one beer seemed beyond the pale. Georg, who had kindly come to see me off, and I entered the brewery hall in front of the station. While waiting for our beer, our conversation turned to the list of rules of Cologne (Kölsches Grundgesetz) that we had seen on a souvenir mug at the Cologne Tourist Information Centre earlier. I don’t remember all of them, but I distinctly recall the following three:
- There are things beyond our control; when that happens, we must accept it.1
- Worrying about the future is pointless; whatever is going to happen will happen.2
- No matter what difficulties arise, everything will work out in the end.3
Little did I know that these rules would be put to the test during the upcoming railway journey. Until the very last moment, I sat among the large, boisterous Germans enjoying their drinks in the middle of the afternoon and finished the beer in front of me.
The pilgrimage begins
At around 13:20, Georg and I popped out of the beer hall and headed to the station to retrieve my suitcase and bag from a coin locker. Now, this wasn’t just any old locker – oh no. It was one of those fancy automated contraptions where you open a shutter, place your bags on a tray, and when you press the button, the tray disappears underground or somewhere mysterious. When we returned, we typed in the code from the receipt and, lo and behold, my luggage emerged as if by magic! I was impressed by this marvel of German efficiency, but my admiration was cut short.
Now I checked the departure board, but no ICE 314. I looked again. Still no ICE 314. What’s going on? Georg and I rushed to the information desk. And that’s when the bomb dropped. The train was cancelled! No, wait, it gets better. The replacement train had left an hour ago. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”—my brain screamed. But the stone-face of the guy at the desk was saying, “The sun rises in the east, and trains get cancelled. Deal with it.”
At this point, I could scarcely believe my own eyes and ears, but then again, I reminded myself – I’m in a foreign country. My version of normal doesn’t apply here. It may be a bit harsh for a joke, but does this mean I should immediately follow the Cologne rule 1: There are things beyond our control; when that happens, we must accept it!? No time to waste dwelling on it, though! We raced over to the ticket counter to see about this replacement train, and that’s when the real shock hit.
DB had embarked on some major repair works over for some time, meaning lines across the country were closed, stations changed, routes rerouted, and travel times extended. I’d heard the warnings before arriving in Germany, but I never imagined they’d actually cancel a high-speed train like the ICE. I mean, surely IF the app lets you book the ticket and it’s printed with that glorious DB logo, the train’s a sure thing, isn’t it? Wrong. Turns out, DB couldn’t have cared less.
Unlucky me lost the lottery
It seems that 80% of passengers had been informed about the cancellation via the DB app or something. However, for the unlucky 20% of us who’d used a different app – not German anyway – we’d been left completely in the dark. The lady at the ticket counter, with all the sympathy of someone used to these sorts of calamities, sighed and said, “You’re one of the unlucky 20%, I’m afraid.” She printed out a list of alternative trains with the kind of efficiency that suggested this was all in a day’s work for her. And what did she hand me? An A4 printout of trains – two pages worth! The moment I saw it, I almost collapsed. But there was no time to give up now. Summoning every ounce of determination, I rallied myself. I wasn’t about to be beaten!
Panting and out of breath, we clambered onto the train. Fortunately for me, it was heading towards Georg’s neck of the woods, so he stayed with me until the next transfer station and helped lug my suitcase onto the next train. What a lifesaver! I felt awful that we didn’t have time for a proper farewell or a decent “thank you,” but we’re adults – we’ll laugh about it the next time we meet (hopefully). We waved goodbye as I collapsed into my seat, my pulse racing at 200 bpm, and my blood pressure probably through the roof at 200/100.
I checked my transfer list again and saw I had to change trains three times before Brussels. Three changes? That’s not too bad, I thought, relieved. I settled in, preparing for the struggle with my suitcase, and looked around the carriage. A monitor hung from the ceiling, showing all the stops and their expected arrival times. You don’t see these back home, I mused. Maybe Germans are just more attentive to detail.
Timetables are kind of a suggestion
But soon I noticed that every time the train stopped, the arrival times for the next stations kept getting pushed back. Ah, now it made sense! As Georg had warned me, the original timetable is more of a “the train might arrive around this time, if you’re lucky” kind of suggestion. So, of course, they needed to update the times as delays occurred. No wonder they need these monitors! By now, though, the monitor was only serving to raise my heart rate and blood pressure.
A glance at my transfer list confirmed the worst: I wasn’t going to make my second connection. My heart raced, and just then, the conductor appeared, checking tickets. All I had was a handwritten paper ticket that read something like, “cancelled due to construction,” scribbled on what used to be my proper ICE ticket. Nervously, I handed it over, unsure if it would be accepted. The conductor smiled and said, “OK.” Clearly, this was all part of the routine for him!
Hoping for some reassurance, I asked him, “What if I miss my next connection? Will the next train be along soon? (I’m asking because I don’t trust the DB app any more, but I didn’t say that.)” He smiled again and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll make it. That train’s delayed too.” What a surreal answer! While I sat there, frozen, I noticed a British (by the sound of it) lady in the seat diagonally in front of me, along with a young man. They were poring over a piece of A4 paper on the table and frantically checking their smartphones, saying, “We’re not going to make it! Is there another train?”
Just then, the three ladies in front of me chimed in with thickly accented English: “Are you victims too?” I raised my hand and said, “Another victim here!” At last, I’d found my fellow travellers in distress. The British lady and her companion were heading home to Brussels after a business trip in Cologne. Of the three ladies ahead, one was Belgian, returning to Brussels by train after ditching air travel, and the other two were Germans. The six of us formed a kind of stranded passenger club, phones and timetables in hand, muttering things like, “The conductor said we’d catch the next train, but this one’s getting later by the second!” We scrolled through apps, desperately searching for later connections, united in our shared misfortune.
As for the conductor who fed me the wrong info? He got off at the next station, clearly done with his shift.
Cologne rule 2: Worrying about the future is pointless; whatever is going to happen will happen. And we missed the connection. We all got off and decided to wait for the next train. The British lady cheerfully encouraged the group, “Let’s stay positive! As long as we’re on the train, we’ll get to our destination eventually!” Indeed, if that train ever shows up at all.
I can’t remember how long we waited, but after some time, the next train finally arrived, and we heaved ourselves onboard. My suitcase felt like it was getting heavier by the minute. But I couldn’t just abandon any of its contents. No matter what, I was going to take it all to Paris!
The train changed its mind
According to the A4 list, it would take about an hour and 20 minutes to get to Liège, where we were to make the next transfer. It was around this time that I realized I hadn’t eaten lunch, so I munched on the snacks Angela had so kindly packed for me. Then, suddenly, an announcement came over the PA system. I didn’t understand a word of the German announcement, but then the Brussels group said, “The train changed its mind. It’s not going to Liège anymore—it’s stopping at the next station! Get ready to get off!” Wait, what?! What do you mean the train changed its mind? What kind of trap is this??? Again, Cologne rule 1: There are things beyond our control; when that happens, we must accept it.
According to the Belgian app, it seemed quicker to take the next train to Maastricht and transfer there rather than waiting here (wherever here was) for the Liège-bound train via Aachen. So, we all decided to switch to the train bound for Maastricht. Hold on a second—where even is Maastricht? Wait, the Netherlands!? I was trying to get to Belgium, so why on earth did I have to go all the way to the Netherlands? But when I looked it up, I realized Maastricht brazenly elbows its way into Belgium. Fine, fine, I’ll do as they say. Weary but determined, we all boarded the train to Maastricht, heading into Dutch territory.
Arriving at Maastricht station, we all headed to the ticket counter to double-check our connection to the train to Liège. By this point, our little group had shrunk to four eager souls bound for Brussels. And lo and behold, a shocking new revelation came to light: it turned out that nearly twenty victims of the selfish cancellation of ICE 314 had made it to the counter at Maastricht station, most of whom were foreign tourists. Among them were a few young travellers who had journeyed all the way from South America, utterly bewildered by the sudden cancellation of the ICE and trying to make sense of how they’d ended up there. As for the train that had decided to abruptly stop halfway through its journey, it was like a bolt from the blue for them. For me, too. Those accustomed to chaos back in their home countries couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of being caught up in such a mix-up in Europe, and especially in Germany!
With more than thirty minutes to kill before the train to Liège, the four of us shuffled off to the waiting room for a spot of respite. We devoured our snacks we had like it was the most important meal of the day—welcome to our brief afternoon tea! The two who lived in Brussels revealed that they had initially planned to drive the company car back from their business trip in Cologne. But their GERMAN colleagues had insisted, “It’s much easier by train. Train’s always so easy!” This prompted a round of dry laughter, and the British lady quipped, “Now, all we can do is breathe!” After dragging my weary body and heavy bags around all afternoon, that line sent me into fits of laughter. This lady was simply hilarious!
As we got chatting, I found out her hobby was road cycling, and I couldn’t resist asking, “Have you ever been to see the Tour de France?” She was ready with her reply, “My dad was a champion!” What a revelation!
“And he died the day after he won!” That was another jaw-dropper! I remembered the broadcasts during the centenary event, which indeed touched upon some serious accidents, and I was aware that there had been fatalities. “That accident going down?” I asked. “No, going up.” For those in the know, it was already clear. During the 1967 Tour de France, just shy of the summit of the notoriously challenging Mont Ventoux, her father took his last breath. His name is etched on the monument at the summit, making it a sacred site for Tour fans.4 At the time, she was only three years old, so she has no dark memories of that day. It seems she enjoys cycling herself, a passion her father loved, perhaps a testament to her optimistic nature inherited from him.
Back from real disasters to everyday problems
Finally, it was time to board the train to Liège. However, upon arriving at the designated platform, we found two separate trains sitting at either end. A shiny new train boldly showing on its head it was heading to Liège, so we started hauling our luggage in that direction. Yet, an elderly man sitting on a bench piped up, “That train isn’t going anywhere.” We pointed out the destination sign, but he stubbornly refused to budge. Left with no choice, we dragged our bags to the other end of the platform, where an old, rickety train was parked. Halfway on board, someone exclaimed, “Is this train even leaving?” The disheveled appearance of the carriages made us reconsider, and we began hauling our luggage back to the newer train. The same elderly man was still there, insisting, “I was on that train earlier, and I heard it—it’s not going.” Once more, we trudged back with our bags. Oh, what chaos! How could two different trains be at opposite ends of the same platform? Talk about unhelpful! Why do European trains have steps anyway? Lifting our suitcases every time we boarded felt like a form of torture. And why on earth was the weather so lovely? Every little thing began to annoy me. But then again, this is what happens when you’re in a different country. Cologne is far back now, but still Cologne rule 1 applies: There are things beyond our control; when that happens, we must accept it. True, getting worked up won’t change a thing. All it does is raise my heart rate and blood pressure, making me feel more exhausted and worse off. I decided I had to focus on what was in front of me and just plow through it all, mindlessly. But this must be some sort of punishment. Or surely be the training to reach enlightenment!
Sure enough, as the old man had said, the rickety train finally started moving. Thank you, wise elder! It must have been around 5:30 PM at this point. We had boarded our first train around 2 PM, only 3-1/2 hours ago, but it felt as though I had been swaying on trains for months. It was now a sunny afternoon—too sunny just being in the train. For the first time in hours, I finally began to feel somewhat settled. And then, nature called.
One of my travel companions kindly offered, “I’ll watch your luggage. Go ahead and use the loo.” Gratefully, I took her up on it. But of all the times to need the loo, it had to be on this rickety old train! Just as I had feared, the restroom situation was as dire as I’d imagined. However, since we had just left the starting station, it was still relatively clean. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I suppose. After all, the toilets back home in Japan are simply too overly marvelous. We’re a nation with an almost obsessive attachment to our toilets. You could practically live in a public restroom if you wanted! We are indeed overly pampered in our daily lives. Behold, this journey is certainly a form of training! There’s no doubt about it. Accepting the reality before me, I noticed there was toilet paper and a sink to wash my hands. What more could one wish for? Learning the Cologne rules, enlightenment is close at hand.
Happy about the right decision
When I finally made it out of the loo, the Belgian lady watching my bags glanced at her smartphone and said, “The flight I was going to take was delayed, so I decided on the train, but it turns out that flight got cancelled too. So, I guess I made the right choice after all!” We could only laugh in response. The right choice, indeed.
As long as you’re on the train, it’s bound to get to the destination. However, thanks to DB, this common sense had been shattered before we boarded our last train, so we remained on high alert until the very end. But thankfully, the train between the Netherlands and Belgium did indeed arrive at its destination. Phew!
And what a sight greeted us at Liège station! The futuristic and stunning structure was designed by Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava. Had we taken the ICE directly to Brussels as planned, we never would have seen this beautiful station. We had to believe that, or the chaos of this afternoon would have been in vain. When the Brussels-bound ICE finally pulled into the platform, we all burst into applause and high-fived each other. In that moment, we felt as triumphant as if we had just won the yellow jersey at the Tour de France.
One by one, our group of four got off at their respective stations in Brussels. At MIDI station, I waved goodbye to the remaining two. What wonderful travel companions—they had made the journey bearable, and somehow fun! Thank you! Though we shared a brief moment of hardship and exchanged friendly words, we parted ways without even introducing ourselves, cheerfully returning to our separate everyday lives. This, too, must be the Cologne, or perhaps European way, as I had heard from Angela and Georg the day before.5
Now, I had to secure a seat on the Eurostar.
It was Friday night, and Brussels MIDI was packed. I headed toward the Eurostar platform and rode the escalator up. I had a first-class ticket, but my reserved train had left almost four hours ago! Still, it wasn’t my fault, so I had to negotiate my way on board with the conductor. First class was at the back, carriage 15, and there was a ticket checker at the entrance. When I explained that I missed my reserved train due to DB’s engineering works, I was told, “Talk to the conductor in carriage 11.”
Off I went, dragging my suitcase, shoulder bag, and backpack, which felt like they were gaining weight by the minute. Had I inadvertently packed a meteorite?
There were only three minutes left before departure. Ahead of me, a few passengers were negotiating with the conductor, slowing things down. When my turn finally came, I explained my situation. The conductor responded with a brisk, “That’s OK, get on!” and pointed to the second-class entrance in front of us. “But I have a first-class ticket!” I protested. “That’s OK, the train has to go,” the conductor insisted. It was far from OK for me, but with the train about to depart, I had no choice but to board. The thought of waiting for the next Eurostar was unbearable, especially since my body clock had already passed 2 AM.
Bracing against the weight of the world
As I boarded the train, I quickly realized that the area near the entrance was packed to the brim with passengers. I bravely used my suitcase as a shield to push my way further inside, only to discover a mountain of suitcases piled high near the connecting area. Oh dear, the thought of standing amidst this sea of luggage for the next hour and a half was enough to make me feel faint……
Back home in Japan, most people would just hand over their heavy bags to the delivery service and travel light. But here I was, surrounded by all these folks dragging their heavy bags like they were preparing for an expedition to the North Pole (and yes, I was one of them)! It was a totally unnecessary complaint that flitted through my mind (clearly, I still had a way to go before achieving enlightenment), and as I braced myself against the weight of the world, the conductor reappeared from his mysterious disappearance. He cheerfully announced, “You can move to this seat in Car 15; it should be available.” Ah, what a heavenly blessing! But just as quickly, I recalled the struggle ahead of me—navigating through the jam-packed Car 11 to Car 15 (although one of them was a bar car). The thought alone made me feel nauseous. But I persevered.
When I finally reached first class, the luggage area was blissfully empty—like a mirage come to life! I triumphantly heaved my suitcase into the rack and began searching for the seat number the conductor had mentioned. The car was nearly full, but lo and behold, my assigned seat was indeed empty! Another sigh of relief escaped me as I literally flopped into my seat.
I texted my niece waiting in Paris: “I’ll arrive around 9:30, so go ahead and have dinner without me. I’ve barely eaten in the whole afternoon. I had some food Angela packed for me, but I’d appreciate it if you could grab something for me!”
We pulled into Gare du Nord in Paris just before 9 PM. It was about 15 minutes later I arrived at the apartment in Place des Vosges by taxi. But when I discovered that my niece had bought me bananas and yogurt, I felt every ounce of strength leave my body. I should’ve told her I wanted something meaty!
Despite enduring such a grueling half-day, I struggled to sleep that night due to my insatiable hunger, not to mention the lingering jet lag. However, what began as a despairing train journey transformed into an unexpectedly delightful adventure, filled with unforgettable memories. It was, in some ways, a lesson in mental resilience. Well, Cologne rule 3 (No matter what difficulties arise, everything will work out in the end) was true. And I can only imagine that the great ascetics of the Omine Thousand-Day Pilgrimage felt something akin to this after their trials. While my half-day journey was a mere blip, I felt like I’d been reborn, somehow more tolerant and understanding of all things living. Is this what enlightenment feels like?
Back in Japan
Upon my return home, I called upon my trusty delivery service at the airport to help with my now-heavy suitcase from Paris. Feeling as light as a feather, I made my way to Shinagawa station to await the shinkansen, reflecting on how my suitcase would arrive at home the next morning. What a fantastically convenient service! It made me want to bow down to all the dedicated people behind the scenes. Yet, when I saw the train roll in, perfectly on time, I was hit by an indescribable sense of dread. Just think about it—a colossal vehicle, brimming with people, running on the dot every single day. Isn’t that a bit terrifying? It hardly seems humanly possible! True, not everything is managed by humans, but you can’t help but wonder about all those poor souls sacrificing everything and working themselves to the bone to keep this circus going. And yet, here in Japan, the culture has zero tolerance for failure, even when sometimes it might just be alright to let things slide!
On one hand, you’ve got the folks in other part of the world who, despite their dodgy infrastructure, manage to live with a cheerful resilience, finding clever ways to get by. No, it’s not that the infrastructure is a complete shambles; it’s just that fixing those worn-out facilities takes precedence over the convenience of passengers. After all, if they continued to use crumbling structures, even more inconvenient situations would inevitably await the poor passengers, so you can’t blame DB for prioritising repairs. The construction work should be done during the day, as it is more cost-effective and, more importantly, would benefit the health and welfare of the repair workers.
On the other hand, in Japan we have a country where an apparently flawless infrastructure is held together by people sacrificing everything outside of work. The lack of compassion and downright intolerance here is something else. Even when typhoons hit and services are pre-emptively suspended, the CEO feels the need to hold a press conference to apologise to the nation. Really, do we need to go that far? Shouldn’t we just be grateful for the measures taken by the service providers to avoid the worst effects of the typhoon? Trains are a means, not an end. However, in Japan there is such an abnormal obsession with means and processes that the original purpose is often forgotten.
The moral of the story
When I try to consider the perspective of both the users and service providers, I find myself pondering which country is actually easier for people to live in. This isn’t just a conversation about infrastructure, after all. However, it seems there is a solution that could improve both situations: just a little compassion for others.
But wait a minute, Georg also said this: ‘Every fool is different.’ (In Kölsch language6: “Jeder Jeck is anders”). No matter how many solutions we discuss here, a fool will always be a fool—it may just be a flaw inherent in human nature. Besides, if nothing changed no matter where we went in the world, travel would lose all its enjoyment. Telling another country what they should or shouldn’t do is incredibly rude and entirely unwelcome meddling.
In any case, for me personally, this trip reminded me how important it is to address inconvenient situations directly instead of blaming someone else. It’s crucial to do your utmost to find a way forward. After all, you were born alone, and will die alone. That’s why, while we’re in this world, we want to spend our time with humour and share smiles with the people we meet. With that said, the Cologne rules will always stick in my mind for the rest of my life.
Footnotes
- First Rule in Kölsch Language (Germans have to look for translation too): Et es wie et es ↩︎
- Second Rule in Kölsch Language (Germans have to look for translation too): Et kütt wie et kütt ↩︎
- Third Rule in Kölsch Language (Germans have to look for translation too): Et hätt noch immer jot jejange ↩︎
- Tom Simpson (British cyclist) ↩︎
- Eleventh Rule in Kölsch Language (Germans have to look for translation too): Drinkste ene met? ↩︎
- Small dictionary of the most important terms in Kölsch ↩︎
