Profile
Blog
Photos
Videos
We were welcomed aboard 'Er Baby' by the pleasant-sounding Austrian woman over the train PA system. The child concerned was one of the Austrian rail network's OBB trains, which daughter and I were catching from Innsbruck to Budapest. It's pronounced 'Er Bay-bay.'
Unlike many babies it performed faultlessly. It was quiet, didn't smell, and was predictable in its habits. It also kept us informed without wailing - via the onboard digital display - exactly which station was next, how long till we got there, and whether we were running to time or not. If we weren't, the arrival time was in orange. And as those of us who are parents know, orange-faced babies mean only one thing: danger.
This was important to Catherine and me as we would have to change trains at Vienna, and would have a scant nine minutes to do so. Being kept informed was essential.
Meanwhile, we sat back and relaxed in First Class, not because we are hugely affluent, but because, thanks to a lovely alignment of our stars, we both qualified for a discount; Catherine because she is 25, and still - under the rules and regulations of Austria's baby railway - a 'youth', while I, being sexty-plus, qualify as a senior. Ka-ching! Savings.
Mussolini seems to be remembered only for making the Italian trains run on time, so maybe given that Italy and Austria embrace at their northern and southern borders, something of that has rubbed off. The train departed on the second, and arrived at various stops along the way almost to the second. If it didn't, it wasn't out by any more than a minute, and made up time on the next leg. But I knew I shouldn't have relaxed.
The carriage was spotless, seats comfy, service very pleasant, toilets clean (yay, real running water, soap dispensers with actual soap in them, and a hand drier with actual hot air!). The onboard Wifi also worked, with an excellent signal strength. I was tempted to email Richard Branson and suggest he join us so he could see just how much better his Virgin Trains could be, but I didn't want to spoil the journey.
Out of the (clean) windows we watched mountain ranges glide by, the snow increasingly less as we travelled further east. In the end the mountains too disappeared, around Salzburg, where the hills, instead of snow, are alive with the sound of Julie Andrews.
The Sound of Music has brought the sound of cash registers to Salzburg. (Singing: 'The tills are alive...') Tens of thousands of tourists make the pilgrimage to visit various locations featured in the film, but one significant place remains out of reach: the green hilltop where Ms Andrews twirled and sang, surrounded by mountains. It is privately-owned, seemingly by a farmer who wants nothing more than lonely goatherds high on his hill. He certainly doesn't want herds of tourists twirling around selfie-ing themselves.
By Linz station we were running five minutes into the orange. I was willing the baby to get a move on, but it just sat there in the station doing nothing as the seconds, precious seconds, ticked by. Finally we moved. I hoped the train driver was on a performance bonus.
Perhaps he was; the screen changed to show that we would arrive at Vienna only one minute late. I wanted one or preferably two minutes early, but maybe his bonus was based around being on the dot. Maybe it was called the Mussolini Bonus. Come on baby, don't say maybe, I sang (in my head), to encourage more urgency.
About 15 minutes (three of those orange) before St. Polten Hauptbahnhof we were doing a respectable 233 kilometres per hour, but the late arrival time didn't change - we were still going to be late at the next station. There would be one more stop, and then Wien - Vienna - which at this point was now optimistically showing the original arrival time of 16:30 in a calm and pleasing white colour. The train settled down to a steady 200 kph, while I willed it to go faster, or at least not any slower.
With 16 minutes to go our destination arrival time turned an ugly orange, 16.32, meaning we would now have seven minutes to change trains. At a station which you're familiar with that's not usually a problem, even if it does involve some sprinting, but I'd never been to Vienna station, and anyway, it was fully remodelled in 2014 so for all I knew a sprint might actually be a marathon.
I discovered that looking at my watch had no impact whatsoever on the flow of time. Instead I collared the ticket inspector and asked if he knew which platform our Budapest train would leave from, and which we would arrive at. The OBB rail gods were with us; he said we would arrive at platform nine and our train would leave from ten, basically the same platform.
I threw my arms around him, kissed him on both cheeks, and told him Mussolini would be proud of him. Also that Britain should never have decided to leave the EU.
Part of that may not have actually happened. Anyway, infuriatingly we had to stop one more time at a suburban station on the outskirts of Vienna. Why are people SO SLOW? They mess about, block doorways, have no idea that some of us are on a mission. I used to read Thomas the Tank Engine to my son when he was little. I know for sure the Fat Controller would have had a heart attack by now - I was well on the way myself.
JESUS WEPT! Why are we still here? This train is called a RailJet for God's sake! We were standing now, our backpacks on, Catherine had scored her body-bag (with snowboard inside) from storage and we waited in the aisle as the train PA announced we were approaching Wien.
And then we stopped. Completely, utterly, alongside a road underpass with nothing to see but graffiti and concrete. Not a platform in sight. The baby was not crowning after all. Just when you thought it was time to break out the cigars, no. Another Braxton Hicks false alarm.
I glanced menacingly at the display, which now showed we would be five minutes late, leaving only four to change trains. I hoped my kissing and cuddling of the train guard would pay off and that the train would in fact be on the same platform.
Decades went by. People around me grew visibly older, stooping as osteo problems slowly invaded their frames. Nobody else, however, seemed to be in any urgency to catch the Budapest train. They laughed, joked, talked on mobile phones. The scum. I hoped up front the train driver was chewing his fingernails, knowing he could kiss his bonus goodbye.
Than we moved, ever so slowly, and infinitesimally picked up speed to a snail's pace, and finally platforms appeared. I looked out at Platform 10 and saw nothing - no train. I shook my head at Catherine, who by now was starting to assert herself in the crush to reach the doors. 'Body-bag coming through! Deceased for Budapest! Make room please!'
We fell off the train onto Platform 9, and as I was about to fall to my knees and shake my fists skywards Catherine pointed to an older and much shorter train further along the adjacent platform. I quickly pretended I was just doing a knee-bending exercise, and we both struggled our way towards the grey beast. It didn't help that a guard somewhere blew a whistle.
The train number didn't match our ticket, and there was no signage that this was for Budapest. Daughter pragmatically said, 'Ask that lady,' indicating a woman who was in the carriage doorway.
'Budapest?' I asked, eyebrows raised as I pointed to the carriage. 'Yes, I think so,' she replied in good English, and then pointed to a sign inside that said 'Warsaw.' 'But I am confused too...'
We decided that since we'd been told our train would leave from Platform 10, the woman was wanting to go to Budapest, the train was about to leave and the timing was right, that we should just get on, and worry about it later when we reached Poland.
As it happened, it was indeed the right train, and we got to Budapest's main railway station on the dot of 19.19.
Father and child both well.
- comments
Marg Somerville Hahahahahahahahahah! Very enjoyable Mike!!
Sarah Whew. I know too well what that feels like. Hope you have a wonderful time.