The night train to Vienna
Fourteen hours, one couchette, a paper bag of pastries and the slow pleasure of waking up in another country.
The ticket said departure 19:42, which in practice meant a crowd of us standing on the platform at 19:20 pretending not to be excited. Night trains do that to people. Nobody boards a night train in a hurry; you board it the way you'd step into a small, rattling hotel that happens to be going your way.
The couchette
Six berths, three on each side, folded up like a cardboard puzzle. My neighbours were a retired engineer from Bruges, a student with a cello and a woman who fell asleep before the train left the station and woke up, as far as I could tell, exactly at the border.
The best part of a night train is that it removes the decision. There is nothing to do but read, look out of the window and let the country go by in the dark.
What to bring
- A small bag you can keep on the berth with you.
- Earplugs. The brakes have opinions.
- Breakfast. The trolley is a rumour.
- Cash for the dining car, which is real and serves goulash at midnight.
We crossed into Austria somewhere between my second chapter and my third attempt at sleep. At dawn the window filled with wet fields and church towers, and then Vienna arrived quietly, the way cities do when you haven't flown to them.