Categories: postcards
Date: 01 July 2008 23:43:30
I think that last time your roving reporter filed a despatch from Brussels she forgot to extol the wonders of the loos in that station. Allow me to make up for this oversight.
As anyone travelling solo will know, certain tasks are complicated by one's luggage. Whatever you want to do, go to a shop, the loo, look at a timetable, your luggage has to come too. When there are two of you, the luggage can stay with one person while the other tootles off on the errand unencumbered by an extra 20 kilos.
When in Brussels station last September, I visited the ladies' powder room. I was delighted to see that not only were the cubicles enormous allowing the luggage to be comfortably accommodated, but the doors also opened outwards permitting luggage and owner to enter the little room easily and not to have to battle for floor space.
I was almost looking forward to re-encountering the facilities at the station when I looked at my itinerary.
London St Pancras International d 12:57
Bruxelles-Midi Eurostar a 16:03
d 16:03
a 16:21
Luxembourg d 16:33
a 19:38
d 20:17
Trier Hbf a 21:06
You will recall that I had not had much time previously to study the itinerary on account of the late arrival of the tickets. Now I just stared in increasing panic. What was this curious departure at 16:03 - exactly the same time as the train was due to arrive - and just where was I going to arrive at 16:21? And would 12 minutes (assuming there were no delays) be enough to crash through the unknown station to find a train to Luxembourg due to leave at 16.33?
As the Eurostar rolled to a halt, I hurled myself out, ran as best I could with my bag digging into my shoulder, overtaking all the other passengers. I raced down the escalator two steps at a time and flew across the concourse to find the departure board. There were no trains leaving at 16.03 - or 16.33 for that matter. I espied an information desk - and then saw the queue.... I then found the travel centre - and then saw the queue. I fought my way through the hoardes to find a timetable. Breathing through my mouth (someone had decided it was the perfect place to relieve himself and it *stank*), I studied the timetable. I helped someone else find his train but neither of us could find a train going to Luxembourg.
World traveller (cough) that I am, I happen to know that in Brussels there is a station called Bruxelles-Luxembourg. I think this is so named to confuse the foreigners. I did not want to fall into their pesky trap and find myself stranded with a load of haughty commuters making their way home from the European Parliament.
There was a train going to Namur and Arlon at 16.33 but as my geography of Belgium is at best sketchy, I had no idea if this was going remotely in the right direction for my purposes. In the absence of a handy map, I crashed back across the concourse to look at the departure board. Still no trains advertised as departing at 16.33 which by this time was in about 12 minutes' time.
I cast anxiously about for a man in uniform - no railway employees to be seen. I hurried back to the timetable - remembering to breathe through my mouth - perhaps I had missed some information earlier - then back to the departure board - the train for Namur and Arlon was advertised for 16.33. I belted up the escalator to platform 11. No mention of Luxembourg. Back down the escalator I thundered and ah! at last! approached two men in navy blue suits wearing official tags around their necks. I asked if they could help me find the train to Luxembourg. One asked where I was going. “To Trier” I said. “Ah, that's in Germany,” he said. I agreed - resisting the temptation to say that I was fully aware where it was located - I just needed to find a wretched train going in that direction and preferably in the next 5 minutes. He ambled off to the useless departure board saying something about “he'd be pleased to try to help”. I then looked at his colleague more carefully - and nearly died. The ID tag was not a railway employee tag at all. These were two passengers who were doing their best to assist a slightly crazed woman who had accosted them with barely a by-your-leave.
I apologised profusely, extricated myself and went to approach a group of men who had something railwayish written on the backs of their jackets. They did not have quite the right sort of jobs (I think they were involved with security) but at least they worked there. One rather sarcastically said that it was easy to find the train, you just looked at the departure board. He told me the train would leave from platform 11. "Mais, monsieur," I protested, "it doesn't say it is going to Luxembourg." He insisted he was right, so back up the escalator I leapt to wait for about 30 seconds on the platform. As the train drew in, there was a display on the side saying Arlon, Namur and - ta-daa! Luxembourg. Good grief! If only this information had been a bit more forthcoming earlier I would have had time to visit the facilities with the large accommodating doors! Relieved - at least in one sense - I boarded the train and sank gratefully into my seat.