My attempt to reach the Pyrenees by train failed before it began.
I had planned to go to the Atlantic end of the Pyrenees this week, where I would begin a long mountain hike. Here’s how it looked on paper.
I would hop an expensive ÖBB Nightjet from Berlin at 7:04pm on Tuesday, arriving at Paris Est at 9:38 the next morning, alongside other breakfasting passengers who’d spent a restful night in their compartments, rocked to sleep by the grinding of the wheels.
I would then cross the city by subway to catch the 12:04 TGV to Hendaye from Paris Montparnasse, with time enough to spare for lunch at La Crêperie de Josselin nearby.
I imagined myself on the upper deck, sipping wine and looking at vineyards as my train sped past Bordeaux.
It was the best laid plan of mice and men. I should have expected it to gang aft agley.
The day before my departure, my scheduled 9:38am arrival time at Paris Est was changed to 11:04am with no explanation. No one warned me about this, of course. I only found out when I double-checked online using a trick in the ÖBB SCOTTY system that an agent had told me about on the phone.
An hour wouldn’t be enough to cross the city by subway in time to catch my second train, so I searched for alternatives.
The only solution would involve bailing out of the Nightjet at 5:30am in Strasbourg — the first station on the French side — to take a faster French TGV to Paris Est, arriving in time to make my connection. Nightjet said they would compensate me for this, so I bought the additional TGV ticket.
Not ideal, but such is travel.
I set out for my local U-bahn station on Tuesday afternoon, brimming with optimism and overloaded with hiking gear, where the dreaded warning chime informed me that all trains were “running irregularly”.
At first I thought they meant ‘on time’. Irregular is the norm these days. I can’t think of a weekend in the past two years when a short subway trip didn’t involve no-show trains that vanished from the board the moment they were supposed to arrive.
Thankfully the wait wasn’t long. We were in the midst of a heatwave, and those stations get pretty hot when the thermometer hits 35C.
I made it to the S-bahn line, three stops away, where an unhappy crowd of sweating commuters clogged the platform beneath electronic boards that said the next train wouldn’t arrive for at least 25 minutes instead of the usual four.
I found out why the next day from the newspaper:
“Delays and cancellations occurred on the Ringbahn on Tuesday. Numerous trains were stopped on the line. The reason was a dog on the tracks between the Landsberger Allee and Greifswalder Straße S-Bahn stations. Because the animal resisted and had to be caught by hand, the power lines in that area had to be disconnected.”
Traffic across Germany was also disrupted that night, but it had nothing to do with my route. Also from the newspaper:
“Rail traffic in northern Germany was severely disrupted due to an overhead line malfunction, a bomb disposal operation in Osnabrück, and embankment fires in Hamburg, Lower Saxony, and Saxony-Anhalt. Passengers on regional trains in North Rhine-Westphalia should expect train cancellations and delays on Wednesday as well. Due to high temperatures, disruptions are expected on numerous lines, according to railway companies Eurobahn and Nationalexpress. For example, embankment fires could occur again.”
So much for buying a sandwich at the station. With any luck, there’d be food for sale on my train — if I managed to catch it.
When the S-Bahn finally rolled up, it was Tokyo-subway-packed. Unlike the Tokyo subway, Germany has an aversion to air conditioning. They don’t like open windows, either, because a draft on your neck causes catastrophic illness for which the only remedy is extended sick leave and weak infusions of herbal tea.
I only had four stops to Gesundbrunnen, but my shirt was soaked by Beusselstraße. A puddle formed around my boots at Westhafen. By the time we reached Wedding, I looked like I’d just climbed the Matterhorn.
I assumed my train would be waiting on the platform. The ticket said I must be in my compartment fifteen minutes before departure, after all. But there was no sign of the elusive Nightjet.
A young kid in glasses walked up and said, “Are you taking the train to Paris?”
“I hope to.”
He handed me a QR code with a little packet of gummy bears taped to it.
“I’m a student researching why people take night trains. I’d be very grateful if you complete this survey.”
When another train rolled in to the same platform three minutes before 7:04, I knew mine wasn’t coming.
I saw the student passing out candies to a cluster of travelers further down. “Ja,” he said, “it is always late.”
The night train finally showed up 45 minutes later, after vanishing from the arrivals board for twenty minutes, leaving everyone scratching their heads.
An announcement said this was due to “a delay preparing the train”, and that they were sorry. They didn’t sound sorry, but neither do the U-Bahn announcers when they say the same thing. I wonder if it’s the same voice? A specialist like that would be in high demand here.
Passengers filed on board and wedged themselves into compartments. I waved goodbye to my wife through the window. I’d only managed to read one page when the weak ventilation flow stopped and the sound of the engine faded to silence.
I consulted SCOTTY, just as the helpful phone agent had taught me, and saw a flurry of numbers in red.
Our 7:04pm departure was now delayed to 10:15. Five minutes later, it changed to 9:15 before reverting back to 10:15 again.
They would occasionally switch it to twenty minutes from the current time, raising our hopes like an abusive spouse who swears the mind games will really stop, but the next faux-departure inevitably passed.
Maybe the heat had addled my senses? Did we leave ten minutes ago like the website said, and I just didn’t notice? If so, why were those people outside keeping up while standing still? No, all electronic evidence to the contrary, I had to conclude my senses were correct.
My phone buzzed with a message from my wife: “I’m still above the platform, wanting to see you off. It never departs!” I told her she might as well go home.
A ripple of optimism passed through the carriage when a conductor came by checking tickets. I pulled him aside and showed him my phone. Our upcoming stops were slashed with red — except for Strasbourg.
“Do you think we’ll still get to Strasbourg on time? I have to bail there to catch a TGV.”
He said he’d find out. When he returned he was clutching his phone, looking at exactly the same website I was using.
“This is incorrect,” he said. “We definitely won’t leave before 10:15, but it could be delayed beyond that.”
The reason? The driver wasn’t there. In fact, he didn’t seem to be anywhere. The crew knew as little as we did.
I sat in my sweltering, shabby compartment with two other guys and a mountain of luggage. The power and air conditioning came on again, followed by a strange gurgling from the sink.
“Maybe they’re filling up with water?” said the Pole.
The gurgling stopped. The fans stopped, too, and the engine drone faded away again. A bead of sweat dropped from my nose. I heard it hit my nylon trousers.
“I have to go straight to work in the morning,” said the Frenchman.
“I have to catch a train at Montparnasse,” said the Canadian.
“What time?”
“Noon.”
His eyebrows arched in a Gallic shrug.
This had clearly become a pipe dream. I spent the first hour searching for alternatives from Strasbourg to Hendaye, but they all connected to the same train I was already booked on. The one I was going to miss.
“Maybe you could try getting to Toulouse?” said the Frenchman.
I did check it in desperation, but that would just leave me stuck somewhere else.
Berlin Gesundbrunnen sweltered on one side of the window, and we sweltered on the other. As the second hour began to tick by, I realized even bailing at Strasbourg in the middle of the night was no longer enough.
Could I switch to a later train? If so, how late?
All later trains from Montparnasse were fully booked, even if I could have afforded the change fees. I was doomed to be stranded in Paris, with an overpriced hotel on my credit card and even more money spent on expensive last minute high speed trains.
I closed my eyes and pretended I was somewhere else, but they just kept opening again and staring at that French guy’s seat. He’d left a wedge of cheese right next to me, with a little bag of bread and some crackers to go with it.
I hadn’t eaten anything since noon. My unintended fasting fired forgotten brain synapses that told me with increasing urgency that I should bite his cheese and blame it on a mouse in the carriage. This seemed perfectly reasonable, given the general state of the train.
I was reaching for the cheese when he came back.
Gallic eyebrows rose and fell. I redirected my arm to my pocket and whipped out my phone with a flourish.
The usual news sites couldn’t distract me; I’d already skimmed them three times each.
I needed to reassure myself I’d made the right decision, so I checked SkyScanner for last minute flights, assuming they’d be crazy expensive. They were less than the price of my train tickets.
Isn’t it interesting how our brains work when a cascade of unfortunate events crashes over us?
It begins with a semi-reasonable compromise — ‘If I bail at Strasbourg in the middle of the night and take a French train, I can still catch my Paris connection’ — but that option closes, so you make another deviation, and another. Before you know it, you’re ten compromises in from what was supposed to be a simple plan.
Browsing SkyScanner brought me back to my senses. Better to be stuck at home with options than Bethleheming around Paris in a heatwave trying to find an affordable inn.
It wasn’t easy to pull my backpack from the overhead space once I’d made my decision. Not because I was reluctant to leave, but because the train just wouldn’t let me go.
Elastic straps clung like jellyfish, twining themselves around my shoulder straps and tangling deliberately in the buckles. I briefly considered using my Swiss Army Knife, but it was zipped inside the top pocket beneath a tentacular Gordian knot.
I finally freed my belongings by mountaineering into the luggage rack via the light switch, and went outside to call my wife. The conductors were gathered at the far end of the platform, shrugging their shoulders and looking at phones.
Four travelers with backpacks spoke to the staff and left at 9:30pm. The Nightjet was still sitting at the platform when my S-Bahn train pulled away.
I was a fool to think a train journey to the far side of France would be convenient, pleasant or easy.
Ironically, I’m about to release an episode of Personal Landscapes about the joys of rail travel in Europe.
To be fair, the norm in Germany isn’t the norm everywhere else. Only one of eight trains I took in Poland last Christmas was late. We didn’t see another delay until we crossed the German border on our way home, where we were instantly 30 minutes behind.
What next, you might ask? What happened to my long-awaited hike?
I went online the following morning to look for flights.
You’ll never guess what I found — unless you live in Europe, in which case you probably expected it: a two-day air traffic control strike in France that also affects flights passing through their airspace to Spain.
But that’s okay, because it gave me enough time to write this article for you.
I found a surprisingly affordable direct 2.5 hour flight to Bilbao for Monday, and an early morning bus that should have me at the trailhead near dawn the next morning.
And then I really am going hiking.
Inshallah.
