Cauchemar on Ulm Strasse

In September of 2017 I took a two-week trip to Europe.  My plan was to go to French school in Waterloo (note: NOT in Iowa!), run the marathon in Cologne and visit a friend in Germany.  It sounded straight forward.  What could possibly go wrong?

To get to Sea-Tac Airport I took the Rapid Ride and the Light Rail.  I was at the gate with lots of time to spare.  The flight was uneventful.  I arrived at Schiphol Airport (Amsterdam) not overly beaten down (which is rare, for a transatlantic flight).  One can catch trains right at the Schiphol Airport.  I already had my ticket (on my phone).  I found my platform and even got a pasta salad from a shop in the airport.

The high-speed train ride went smoothly.  I arrived at Bruxelles-Midi (the main train station in Brussels) still in fairly good shape.  Now all I needed to do was

•      Buy a ticket to Waterloo
•      Find the platform

After fighting off a scammer, I found a big room that sold tickets.  As I entered, I was intercepted by a woman whose job it was, among others, to make sure one didn’t wait in line needlessly.  When I said I wanted a ticket for Waterloo, she sent me to another room (“The Orange Room,” she said, in English, in response to what was, I’m sure, my impeccable French.).  The room I had gone into was for buying tickets for intercity trains.  Silly me.

The orange room had a long line, for each ticket window, that was moving VERY slowly.  I parked myself.  In time I exited the room with a round trip week-end special ticket (4-1/2 euros) to Waterloo.  There was no time indicated, other than it was only good for that day.  Then I started searching for the when and the where.

There were screens with departures times for les grandes lignes (intercity trains), near those trains’ respective platforms.  In another part of the station (perhaps in a different station, because Bruxelles-Midi and Bruxelles-Sud actually touch (which is sometimes helpful, sometimes confusing)).  There were also screens showing departures for the shorter distance trains.  On none of the screens could I see mention of Waterloo.

Next I found large posters with apparently all departures.  There were pages and pages of these posters.  I searched but could not find Waterloo.

Then I noticed that other lost souls were turning to the guys with machine guns for answers to their questions.  The guys with machine guns seemed friendly and approachable.  “Waterloo” seemed to throw a curve ball at the first machine gun toting guy I talked to.  He genuinely wanted to help, so turned to his buddy in arms.  That guy also seemed confused, though told me that Waterloo was “a la direction de Nivelles.”

Yay – now I had something to work with!  I found Nivelles on a screen and now I knew the platform number and departure time!

When I got on the train, and after we had departed, I noticed a screen showing the upcoming stops.  I became a bit concerned that Waterloo was NOT one of them.  I became even MORE concerned when the ticket checker pointed out that this train did NOT stop at Waterloo.  Prior to that conversation I had consulted google maps and noted that one of the listed stops, Braine-l’Alleud, was very near (a relative term, I was soon to find out) Waterloo.  When I mentioned this, the ticket checker concurred.

I got off the train at Braine-l’Alleud.  It was Sunday afternoon.  Things looked fairly deserted.  I could not imagine another train coming through … for a week or two.  There were no cabs out front.

I consulted google maps.  It showed a 54-minute trip, by foot, to my AirBnB.  I reasoned that, even with my heavy pack, with a determined effort, I could lop a minute or two off of that.

I arrived at my destination with a drenched shirt (it was a warm day), after a walk through quite pleasant surroundings.  A young woman gave me a quick tour of the AirBnB and then said good-bye.

I had made it!!!

The next three nights I did not venture out of the AirBnB.  I didn’t want to even think about another train adventure, much less attempt one.  On Monday and Tuesday I went to class, then went to the store, then spent the night watching French tv, eating dinner, and working on an on-line computer class.

Wednesday was a fermeture scolaire.  Darn, I’d run out of excuses.  There were friends in northern France I wanted to visit.  And there was an architectural pilgrimage I needed to make.  Only three nights in Waterloo remained, and it seemed prudent to stay “at home” on Friday night, because of the early Saturday start.  This left only two nights for evening train adventures.

My friends in Lille suggested I arrive between 4 and 6 p.m.  With that as my goal, in the early afternoon I walked to the Waterloo train station.  There was a short line, at the ticket counter, although some exchanging of life stories appeared to be transpiring.

A man who worked in the station popped his head in the platform door and announced that it was possible to purchase tickets from the machine on the platform.  He offered to hold our hand, while doing so.  I was second in line for the machine/hand.

When it was my turn, and he’d asked me my destination, and I had said Lille, he informed me that I needed to go to Braine-l’Aleud.  I hadn’t expected to ever get back there, yet only three days after my previous, albeit unintended visit, here I was, going back again.

This was confusing, of course: Brain-l’Aleud was south, Brussels was north.  Who was I to question the man.  He held my hand, while I inserted my card into the machine (with my free hand).  The machine did not like my card.

Just then he noticed the train arriving.  I held out a bill, he grabbed it, and ran inside.  Just when I was certain the train was going to leave without me, he exited the station, with the ticket and some bills.  I thanked him and ran to the door of the train.  Just before I got in, someone tapped me on the shoulder.  It was him – I had forgotten to take the coins!

At Brain-l’Aleud (by the way, if you think this name is hard to say, you are right: the locals drop the ‘l’) I was emboldened, went up to a machine, and purchased a ticket to Lille … for only several euros.  While awaiting the next train to Bruxelles-Midi (now the center of my train universe), I pondered how it was possible for the ticket to be so cheap.  Perhaps with the help of my phone I learned there was a Lille somewhere in Belgium (probably kind of close).

So I went into the station and waited in line.  When I reached the counter, the man concurred that I’d purchased a ticket to the wrong Lille.  He said that, as my Lille was in another country, he would need to consult with a co-worker - one specializing in international travel - who was off doing something at the moment.  So I stepped aside, while he turned his attention to the queue.

Eventually this feat of international diplomacy was undertaken and I was back on the platform, awaiting a northbound train.

At Bruxelles-Midi I found my platform (full disclosure: I did consult with a man carrying a machine gun).  The train arrived 20 minutes late!  Lots of people were getting on.  I was happy to find a seat in the space between cars.  There was an announcement that some technical glitch was holding us up.  20 more minutes passed.  Then there was an announcement that, due to a problem on the high-speed line, our train would not be departing for at least another 1-1/2 to 2 hours.

I had been beaten.  Sigh.  There was no point in continuing.  My plan had been to spend several hours with my friends, then make it back to my AirBnB that night, because I had French class the next day. 

I returned to Waterloo and repeated the lifestyle of the three previous evenings, first sending an e-mail to my friends in Lille, explaining why I was going to be a no show.

Needless to say, my nascent train travel courage had taken a hit.

The next day I went to class, but kept thinking about the architectural pilgrimage to Liege.  After class I went for it!!

Things started out well enough.  I had studied the schedule and knew when to catch a train from Waterloo to Bruxelles-Midi.  Once in Brussels I studied the departure sheets and found my train to Liege listed.  I noted the time, waited a bit, then went to the departure display.  To my shock, there were THREE trains leaving at the same time.  One of the three had the letters ‘IC’ after its name.  I recall that my train had those same initials, after its name, on the paper display.  So that was the train that I got on.

After traveling for perhaps 20 minutes, I got an uncomfortable feeling.  So I took out my phone to check my location on a map.  Yikes – I was headed in the exact opposite direction from Liege!  I got off the train, at the next stop, and awaited one heading in the opposite direction.  I returned to Bruxelles-Midi, without a ticket, found the platform for the correct train, and waited.

Now my two hours in Liege could only be one hour.  I arrived at Liège-Guillemins while there was still light in the sky.  This made a great backdrop for photographing this enchanting feat of architecture.  After hurriedly photographing many parts, from many angles, I turned my attention to food and eventually got a sandwich, then sat in the extremely plain plaza to eat it and admire the station.

The train that would take me back to Bruxelles-Midi arrived at Liège-Guillemins about 15 minutes late.  The connecting time was originally to be 25 minutes.  Now it was more like 3 minutes!  I would have to quickly find my platform.  I did not want to miss the train to Waterloo because I knew that, especially at night, they ran sparingly.

The train to Buxelles-Midi somehow continued to lose time.  When I reached the station, there was no time to find out what platform.  I raced through the station and ran up to the platform I had come in on, earlier.  There was my train!

An evening well spent – my train travel courage had received a big shot in the arm. 

My next train adventure was not until Saturday morning, when I bid Waterloo adoo.  I made it to Bruxelles-Midi without incident.  I checked the departure sheets, found a train that was arriving in Cologne at the time my train was arriving there, assumed that was my train, and waited for it.  While waiting, one of the machine gun guys verified that I had a valid ticket for train travel.  Did I really look like I was just sitting in that chaotic place because it was enjoyable? 

When it came I got on board a train bound for Cologne and away we went.  This was a high speed train.  At times we hit 240 kph.  Things were going well until the ticket taker scanned the ticket on my phone.  Then he became indignant and pointed out that this was a high-speed train and that I had paid for a regular train.  I was mortified.  I asked, in French (mistakenly using the infinitive for the subjunctive), what I could do.  He was German and seemed rather exasperated.  After some officious hemming and hawing, he finally walked away in a tiny huff.

I made it to Cologne.

From Köln-Hauptbanhof, I walked to the AirBnB, an uneventful undertaking.

Two days later, when it was time to leave Cologne (the day after running the marathon), I devised a clever shortcut, to simplify getting out of town.  Although my ticket was for a trip starting at Köln-Hauptbanhof, I strongly suspected this train had to pass through the Köln-Messe station, which was much closer to my AirBnB.  I found an on-line train trip planner and confirmed that it was possible to go from Köln-Messe to Berlin (my destination).  I felt so clever … always a danger sign.

Reasoning that I could catch my train where I was, I went outside of the station and sat on a bench in the plaza.  I did some people watching, I read a bit from my book.  Then, just as a random act, I decided to take a closer look at that train trip planner.  Scanning the details, I noted with horror that the proposed itinerary had one going from Köln-Messe to Köln-HBH, there to catch the train to Berlin.  My train was leaving, in seven minutes, from the other side of the Rhine!

I ran into the station and raced to the far side (where the tracks were located).  I got up onto the correct track (I can’t remember how I knew) and caught the first train to arrive, westbound.  There was no time to purchase a ticket!

When I got off, in Köln-HBF, I found the platform number, ran to it, and caught my train!  Plenty of excitement for one day.

My time in Berlin was merveilleuse (translation: wunderbra).

During the next two days my long-time friend showed me wonderful sights AND sounds (we went to the Philharmonic!).  The time passed rather quickly, and then it was time for the biggest travel nightmares of the trip.

I was to fly from Berlin to Amsterdam, via Charles De Gaulle.  Then I’d spend the night near Schiphol.  The goal was to be rested for the 10-hour flight back to Seattle.

We had rough weather getting to the airport.  Strong winds, in northern Germany, had caused many flight cancelations.  Standing on a train platform, we had to retreat behind a wall because we were being pelted with twigs and leaves.

When we got to the station there was an announcement that runway operations had been stopped, due to high winds.  My flight was listed as being 15 minutes delayed.  I waited in the somewhat cramped wing.  Eventually the screen at the gate indicated the flight was delayed for 30 minutes.  Now it would be nearly impossible to make my connection at CdG.  I went up to the counter person and mentioned this.  She responded that perhaps my connecting flight would also be delayed, so they were keeping me with the original plan.

I waited some more, and the screen kept indicating increased departure delay.  It was with sorrow, while waiting, that I noted the flight leaving from the adjacent gate was going directly to Schiphol.

Eventually the counter person announced that people with connections could come up to be accommodated.  I was informed I was now booked on a 7:20 a.m. flight out of Charles de Gaulle.  So much for my plan to start the long flight back with a good night’s rest.  I was also told that Air France would be putting me up in Paris - they couldn't put people up in Berlin because all of the hotels were filled due to all of the flight cancelations.  And I was given a 10 Euro voucher.

I exchanged the voucher, at a food counter, for some food and drink.  The woman had informed me that there would be no change, but she made up the difference by giving me a pile of Haribo candy!

The flight to Charles de Gaulle finally took off, three hours late.  We arrived at a quiet airport, where most everyone had gone home.  I wondered around, looking for an Air France counter with the lights still on.  I ended up at baggage, where I got in line. 

When I reached the front of the line I immediately put the Air France person at ease by assuring her that I did not lose baggage!  I merely asked where to go.  “Embarcation,” she informed me, “Niveau un.”

Fortunately I remembered that the French call the second floor “Level One.”  I went upstairs, found a counter with lights on AND with personnel … and got in the slow moving line.

I decided it would be prudent to not show the boarding pass for the morning flight.  When I got to the counter I produced the original boarding pass, for the evening flight to Schiphol.  It probably didn’t matter.  They informed me I was booked for a flight out in the morning.  They gave me another boarding pass, a box of food, a pouch with toiletries, and some vague directions for how to get to the hotel – “Vous passez par securité.”

I wasn’t quite sure what this meant, but I also caught that I was supposed to go down a level.  Once down I saw the guys with machine guns.  Perhaps they were being referred to as security.  Remembering that, at Bruxelles-Midi, the guys with machine guns were fair game for asking directions, I went up to one and said I was looking for the hotel.  I showed him the piece of paper on which the Air France person had written “L2.”

He responded that he did not know where L2 was, nor where hotels in general were.  There was a rare open food counter, nearby, and he asked the guy running it if HE knew where the hotel was.  He seemed aware of the hotels and said that one needed to take the train to reach them.  He pointed me in a direction.  I thanked both gentlemen and headed off.

I ended up walking all of the way to the end of the terminal, occasionally seeing signs for shuttle to hotels.  I found a place to catch a train that ran between terminals.  I figured that L2 was one of those terminals.

Not long after the train had departed, I read the small print on the hotel voucher.  It indicated that the Yotel was located in the terminal I had just left!  I got off at the next stop.  Fortunately it was not so late that the trains had stopped running!

Back in Terminal E2, I proceeded to retrace my long route.  I kept looking for maps.  Whenever I found one, it was of no help.  There was no mention of the Yotel (the term printed on the voucher).

I went back and forth a few times, near the middle of the terminal, feeling completely stymied.  Then I read the small print again, on the voucher, and discovered a phone number for the Yotel!  I phoned and asked for directions and was told, as the Air France person had told me, to pass by security.  I asked for the level and was told Level 1.  I was told to go to “Porte L.”  This jived with the “Halle L,” on the voucher.

Once upstairs I found a sign that said KLM, with an arrow.  I had no way of knowing if it meant the airline, or halles (portes) K, L and M.  I couldn’t find any of them, anyway.

Then I noticed the security that one must clear to get to ones gate.  All of the lights were off, and all of the booths were empty … save one!  I went up to the woman and said I was looking for the Yotel!  She asked if I had a passport.  When I produced it, she immediately stamped it, pointed in a certain direction, and told me that I had to hurry.

I ran in the direction she had pointed.  To my surprise I discovered another train system.  This one circulated completely within the terminal.  There was only one problem – it had stopped running for the night because it was after 12:30.

I walked back to the security kiosk, doing my best impersonation of a tourist who had been beaten down by circumstances.  Fortunately the gentlewoman took my case to heart.  I first asked her if there was a way to walk to the Porte.  She said it was very far.  I responded that that would be no problem (as I didn’t have much choice).  She phoned, she radioed, she pointed to some stairs and said I needed to go down.

There I was met by an employee who was transporting a wheel chair to near my destination.  We proceeded to walk through the bowels of Charles de Gaulle, in the middle of the night.  We had an enjoyable conversation, in French.  He told me this little junket would allow him to go home early.

Eventually he reached his destination.  He gave me directions to the Yotel.  Was I ever relieved to find the front desk (humorously labeled Mission Control).  I reached my room at 1:15 a.m.  I knew of these Yotels, but had never experienced one.  I opened the door … and was practically in bed already!  Hiding in my room, safe within my womb, I touch no one and no one touches me (except for TSA personnel).

The Ubiquitous Candy

It had been an altogether way too long day from hell!  I opened the food box.  It too contained, among its selection, Haribo candy!  

I got 3-1/2 hours of sleep, took a shower, and managed to find my departure gate without finding the internal train. 

There was an amusing incident, just before reaching my gate.  It started just before reaching security.  A plane had arrived and a wave of people swarmed into the hallway.  Everyone was black (my guess is their plane was arriving from Africa).  After clearing security, many of them, and I, continued to a wing of the terminal.  Being the only white face, in a sea of black faces, I must have caught the attention of one of the guys with assault weapons; he gave me a subtle gesture, as if to say “Dude … butt over here!”

As I approached he asked “Parlez-vous français?”

I wanted to respond “Do I speak French!?  Is the #$%&ing pope Catholic!?  What do you think I came all of the way over here for!?

But, instead, I meekly responded “Oui, monsieur,” with just a soupçon of irony in my voice.

He asked for my passport and then asked where I was coming from.  “Bair len,” I responded, trying to give it a French accent, so I wouldn’t seem like a poseur.

This surprised him, until I explained we had arrived the previous evening, en retard, because of the weather.

“Ah, vous avez passé la nuit ici!”  I nodded.

He returned my passport and wished me good trip.

The rest of the trip home went smoothly, but the accumulation of nightmarish ordeals had left my confidence with my ability to navigate the pitfalls of public transportation somewhat shaken.

The Nightmare