The cities, London–Paris–Vienna–Belgrade–Istanbul, each more rich, more complex, more mysterious–in the sense of not easily or willingly giving up their secrets, than I could ever imagine; layer upon layer of stories, piled up with the centuries, open and the at the same time closed, seductive and brutal.
Four weeks ago I had a coffee and criossant at Le Pain Quotidien, next door to the Royal Festival Hall, a stylish, beautifully presented, "Boulangerie et Table Commune" prior to walking through to Waterloo Station and the midday Eurostar to Paris. An experience of the refined and the rustic. All the customers that I saw looked interesting, cultured and beautiful.
The Eurostar was, of course, fast and smooth, so streamlined that we could fully give in to the omnipotence of efficiency.
We had a difference of opinion as to whether to walk from Gare du Nord to Gare de l’Est or get a taxi but a street plan made it clear that the other station was ‘just round the corner’ so off we set with our little wheeled suitcases (have these, now ubiquitous bags, got a name?) into the afternoon Paris of roadworks, and rebuilding, traffic, and a rich brew of ethnicity, little shops, and very little time before needing to board the sleeper to Vienna. mmj, who had done the research, counselled the need for food, because there would be nothing on the sleeper, so we found a brasserie that was serving food at four in the afternoon and partook of their menu rapide, steak frites and salad, a glass of wine, rococco decor and a waiter of the old school, severe and superior.
Overstuffed with the too early dinner we boarded the sleeper, met the carriage attendant–a handsome young Austrian, found our somewhat claustrophobic compartment, and perched uncomfortably on the too hard seating.
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