Or maybe I just have an OCD
If you are no stranger to public transport, maybe live in a world capital, such as New York, London, or Paris, you are most likely able to relate to my germaphobia when it comes to trains and subways. And aside from the germs, sticky handles and manky floors there is the issue of punctuality or reliability of services.
Some trains can, of course, be nice and punctual (I would love to travel through Switzerland once I win the lottery) but, at any rate, in some of the places I frequently travel to and where I am used to taking buses, trains, metros or long-distance trains, there are only different levels of delays, cancellations and grime. I don’t know about you, but for me, the ‘next level’ is the kind where I come home and put all of my clothes into the wash right away.
Having gone through life as a visually impaired person, I have always been entirely dependent on public transport whether I liked it or not. When all my classmates got their driving licences, I was already wasting my time on drafty platforms and sat on grimy bus seats. The trip I am writing about today is a perfect example of the colossal waste of time and discomfort travelling on public transport often is. It would ordinarily be a 2-to-3-hour drive at your own leisure with a boot full of stuff if you so desired. Instead, it takes me 6 to 7 hours door to door and anything larger than a small carry-on trolley will prove to be a handicap. Even on the expensive high-speed trains that link several European capitals, I have experienced my far share of traveller’s grief; starting from out of order loos to train breakdowns in the middle of nowhere, and staff threatening to simply offload luggage because people dared to bring more suitcases than the tiny shelves could hold. To this day, I have not understood why there is next to no space for suitcase storage on a long-distance train linking capitals and airports.
Sometimes, I just wish I was born in the olden days when trains had luggage carriages and people would take care of guarding your suitcase. Now, the rail companies resort to cutting staff to the bare minimum and advising you that there are pickpockets on the train, which basically means that it will be tough luck if your seat is far down the other end of the carriage and your suitcase goes missing while you try to enjoy your journey. Stay anxious, and God forbid you might fall asleep.
I have probably been spoiled lately when most of my trips were by plane, a fact I was rudely reminded of when I recently travelled to Germany to spent orthodox Easter with family. While I did splash out on a first-class high-speed train ticket for the first leg of my trip, the comfort if bought me was rather limited. For some reason these trains do not make seating compulsory (a reason why I avoid those high-speed trains around the Christmas holidays like the plague) and anyone can get on it, no limits. Literally.
Frequently, this means having to argue with a person who has occupied the seat you have reserved for a fee they were not willing to pay. Corridors are full of people standing or sitting on the floor like bored teenagers during school recess. I have also once been on a train that was so overcrowded that the entire corridor was full of people standing, with a lady literally standing over me breathing down my neck for two and a half hours. It was highly uncomfortable to say the least. This time, I had a noisy family of six crashing the first-class carriage for a portion of the way with heaps of plastic bags, kids running all over the place, music blaring from phones or tablets and a number of fellow passengers getting agitated and confrontational, and – no surprise – no train staff to be seen to deal with the situation. It remains doubtful whether these people had a ticket, let alone one for first class. I, however, pretty much regretted paying the extra fee for that part of my trip, as already on the prior intercity train the first-class compartment was adorned with spilled food and trash on the floor and the only tangible difference to the second-class carriages was the colour of the faux leather seats.
WC fees in the station where I switch trains are up 60% within two years – an increase that is directly proportional to the decrease in service and cleanliness, with the only ‘cleaning’ being a half-hazard mopping of the floor; no towels, no soap, the usual. Great value for money. But it can always be worse I suppose. At least toilet paper was still stocked. The ‘voucher’ you get in exchange for the exorbitant toilet fee gets you a 50-cent discount on a 3.80 EUR espresso at Starbucks served by a grumpy, lost-looking student wearing a ‘save the planet’ T-shirt and a random array of tattoos all over her arms. This waitress/barista couldn’t care less about your customer experience, which is apparent from the blank look on her face when you tell her what you’d like to order. These days, you are not even asked for a fake name to be attached to your order anymore. Default solution: paper cup, no questions asked. It is also your own problem if you first need to clear the trash of other customers off the table should you wish to enjoy your beverage sur place to kill your waiting time. Having the table wiped down? A daring luxury. I recommend a stash of anti-bacterial wipes. They always come in handy. Sitting at my freshly disinfected table, I wonder what these employees answer when they are asked in their job interviews what it is that motivates them and why they want to do this job as opposed to any other.
Upon arrival at my destination’s central station, I am greeted by people pushing into the train before I can get off, the escalators don’t work, and the general vibe is pissoir and ‘just make sure you don’t touch anything’. I am left wondering, once again, why nothing changed for the better in the 35 years I have been arriving at this station. I feel the urgent need to disinfect my hands ASAP but cannot. I first need to use the sticky touch screen machine to buy my 4 Euro ticket for 2 stops on the tram. At some point, they obviously discontinued the ‘short distance’ ticket that was available in my youth. Granted, that’s a while ago. But most seem to be free riding anyway; no checks, no tapping in with a transport card, no barriers, nothing. Getting off at the underground station – this one was surprisingly clean but always has been since it is in the poshest area of town, I am stopped by an elderly Japanese lady who asks me why the lift isn’t working. I am afraid I have no answer for her. I smile politely and walk on. Only to find that the escalator isn’t working either. Luckily, I go to the gym and suitcase carries are part of my full body workout routine. From there, I drag my little carry-on down a number of blocks, attentively watching out to avoid the dog poo on the sidewalks.
Taking the tram and bus to church the next evening, I can’t help but wonder why everyone just gets on through whatever door, including those displaying the ‘no entry’ sign. God only knows who of these people actually held a valid ticket, but the driver, who keeps the front door closed, appears unbothered. Yet again, I could have just gotten on without paying. After church at night, the driver lets us in at the front, visibly confused when I ask for a ticket and give him cash for it. Does anyone ever pay I wonder? Then again, it shows.
Making my way back home on the high-speed train on Sunday afternoon (second class this time) I am boxed into my assigned window seat (because why would we be able to choose a seat when we are already paying for it!) by a grouchy lady doing crosswords on the tray-table in front of her. She is visibly inconvenienced by the fact that I want to get to my seat and have luggage to hoist up to the rack made for people 6 feet tall. Sighing with impatience, she also gives me the annoyed side-eye when I dare to ask her to let me use the bathroom after a while. Since I want to silence those hostile vibes, I take my headphones out. And just like that they have run out of battery and a power outlet is apparently also too much to ask for on a long-distance highs-peed train. However, I must be fair and recognize that the newer trains display seat numbers right by the aisle in a rather large font. At least this saves me from being aggressed by fellow passengers yelling at me as it used to be common practice before when I could not find my seat and no one was willing to help me ‘because I wore glasses’. It is the little wins we need to celebrate, right? And I am indeed very grateful for this huge improvement.
Various delays (nothing new here) make me miss my connection and I am waiting for the intercity train to get home. Dirty would be an understatement for that one and somehow, I have no idea why trains are just so gross all the time. I swear the floor hasn’t been mopped in a month, and I am not even talking about the fabric on the seats. All I can think of is to not lean back and touch that seat with my hair.
Dehydrated as usual when I take public transport to avoid having to use the loo, I arrive home. I throw all my clothes into the laundry and take a long shower. I am really done with trains for a while and there’s no way I want to wear those jeans again before I haven’t washed them.
And at the end of the day, I wonder whether those people advocating for train travel instead of taking a plane have actually ever been travelling on trains for real. Or maybe it is just me and I am spoiled and suffering from an OCD more serious than I think.
For obvious reasons, this blog does not contain any pretty pictures. I apologise for that. As usual, I have paid all tickets, coffees and toilet fees myself. I would welcome being sponsored by Swiss or Japanese railways or the fancy Orient Express from Paris to Venice in the future. Just kidding!
