Just before a tunnel that leads into Rotterdam, the high speed Thalys train became a no speed train.
The announcements got progressively worse. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a red signal, and we’re just waiting for it to change. We’ll be at Rotterdam Centraal very soon.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a red signal and we don’t know why. We’ll let you know when we know more.”
”Ladies and Gentlemen, there is a problem in the tunnel ahead, and we’re awaiting more information.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen, there is water in the tunnel. The Thalys train will not proceed until it is safe. This may take some hours. Those passengers intending to get off at Rotterdam Centraal should exit the train and walk to the Metro station.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we don’t know when we will proceed. Passengers wishing to get to Rotterdam or Amsterdam may wish to get off the train and walk to the Metro station. Take the Metro to Rotterdam Centraal, then seek instructions on how to get to Amsterdam.”
The by now quite drunk Canadian couple across the aisle were decisive. They chose to stay on the train and drink it out.
I too was decisive. I had a 6pm check-in deadline in Amsterdam. I was going for the Metro option. The Metro in The Netherlands, by the way, usually means trams. The place is two centimetres above sea level, so underground subways are mostly out of the question.
The Thalys conductor was also decisive. He was outside the train having a cigarette. I asked him how exactly one got to the Metro. He pointed towards a gaggle of suitcase-wielding decisive people in the distance. “Follow them,” he said between smoke-rings.
I stumbled down the embankment at the side of the train towards a pedestrian bridge. By the time I’d got to the steps, there was nobody in sight. Should I go back to the train? Not this cookie who used to be a Boy Scout. I had a plan.
I’m sure you’re thinking I climbed a tree or lit a campfire. Actually, I downloaded the Google map for Rotterdam, and used the CityMapper app to guide me through eerily quiet housing estates to the tram stop. There were a few people there from the train who seemed to know what they were doing, so I decisively (but discreetly) followed them.
Seven stops later, Istrode dragged my suitcase into Rotterdam Centraal. I spotted the last remaining passenger from the train at the end of an escalator, but then I lost them. I was on my own again. After some time frantically crisscrossing the vast station, I found the ticketing office. I knew they’d want to help a stranded passenger. I went straight for the counter.
I was told to take a number and wait.
I took a number, but it was for the wrong type of train. Finally, some twenty minutes later, I explained my situation to a mildly helpful chap at the Thalys counter. I was to go to Platform 11. I could use my Thalys ticket there to get to Amsterdam.
Platform 11 was mostly deserted, so I walked down the platform to get a long overdue coffee. When I walked back, there was a small crowd of vaguely familiar individuals with suitcases. Within minutes, the familiar red of a Thalys train appeared and eased to a stop. After a small weep, I kissed the nearest conductor. It was two hours since I’d made my own personal version of Von Ryan’s Express, but I’d made it. This was epic stuff. I could sell the film rights. I chose the same carriage number as was on my original ticket, and crawled down the aisle, pushing my suitcase before me.
Two very drunken Canadians greeted me. “Hey, Aussie, you’re back...”
The announcements got progressively worse. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a red signal, and we’re just waiting for it to change. We’ll be at Rotterdam Centraal very soon.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a red signal and we don’t know why. We’ll let you know when we know more.”
”Ladies and Gentlemen, there is a problem in the tunnel ahead, and we’re awaiting more information.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen, there is water in the tunnel. The Thalys train will not proceed until it is safe. This may take some hours. Those passengers intending to get off at Rotterdam Centraal should exit the train and walk to the Metro station.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we don’t know when we will proceed. Passengers wishing to get to Rotterdam or Amsterdam may wish to get off the train and walk to the Metro station. Take the Metro to Rotterdam Centraal, then seek instructions on how to get to Amsterdam.”
The by now quite drunk Canadian couple across the aisle were decisive. They chose to stay on the train and drink it out.
I too was decisive. I had a 6pm check-in deadline in Amsterdam. I was going for the Metro option. The Metro in The Netherlands, by the way, usually means trams. The place is two centimetres above sea level, so underground subways are mostly out of the question.
The Thalys conductor was also decisive. He was outside the train having a cigarette. I asked him how exactly one got to the Metro. He pointed towards a gaggle of suitcase-wielding decisive people in the distance. “Follow them,” he said between smoke-rings.
I stumbled down the embankment at the side of the train towards a pedestrian bridge. By the time I’d got to the steps, there was nobody in sight. Should I go back to the train? Not this cookie who used to be a Boy Scout. I had a plan.
I’m sure you’re thinking I climbed a tree or lit a campfire. Actually, I downloaded the Google map for Rotterdam, and used the CityMapper app to guide me through eerily quiet housing estates to the tram stop. There were a few people there from the train who seemed to know what they were doing, so I decisively (but discreetly) followed them.
Seven stops later, I
I was told to take a number and wait.
I took a number, but it was for the wrong type of train. Finally, some twenty minutes later, I explained my situation to a mildly helpful chap at the Thalys counter. I was to go to Platform 11. I could use my Thalys ticket there to get to Amsterdam.
Platform 11 was mostly deserted, so I walked down the platform to get a long overdue coffee. When I walked back, there was a small crowd of vaguely familiar individuals with suitcases. Within minutes, the familiar red of a Thalys train appeared and eased to a stop. After a small weep, I kissed the nearest conductor. It was two hours since I’d made my own personal version of Von Ryan’s Express, but I’d made it. This was epic stuff. I could sell the film rights. I chose the same carriage number as was on my original ticket, and crawled down the aisle, pushing my suitcase before me.
Two very drunken Canadians greeted me. “Hey, Aussie, you’re back...”
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| Image:© urbanrail.net but I don’t care, because they owe me. I’m using their map. |