It may stand as a monument to Napolean's great victory, but Austerlitz station, close to the hospital where Diana, Princess of Wales, breathed her last, is a grim old place.
The approach is functional and drab, the facilities inside are poor and not all the restaurants out on the Boulevard de l'Hôpital look very inviting.
But failing to find places on a late TGV back to Toulon from the more familiar and more user-friendly Parisian terminus, the Gare de Lyon, it was to Austerlitz that we made our way, for the overnight sleeper.
Like meals chosen, without asking the price in advance, from the day's catch at Sauveur's restaurant on the island of Port-Cros, off the Var coast, French sleepers are things that may take a second attempt to drive home the need for caution. I made a mistake years ago in booking the sleeper to Pau, and have now made another.
This time, my fundamental error was one of language, specifically an example of those faux amis of French. I booked two "superieur" beds and, in my mind, that translated as a reference to quality. Too late did I realise that it related only to height: I had chosen the upper pair of two bunk beds. That meant two other passengers - a raunchy honeymoon couple, maybe, or a couple of snoring, belching drunks. These things are lotteries.
Not to worry. We were paying for first class travel (admittedly, that does not in France mean breaking the bank by comparison with the rate for second), the ticket inspector on the platform had been extremely pleasant, insisting on speaking a little English, and surely something could be done.
Walking back from our carriage towards Monsieur l'Inspecteur, I smiled at the elderly couple with the dog before the terrible thought dawned on me. No! Er, yes ... by the time I returned to the carriage they were indeed, the three of them, working out how best to share their two bottom bits of the bunk beds.
I was able to offer some placatory reassurance. M l'Inspecteur had noted my desire for an upgrade, or at least a move to a compartment of our own. He'd be back to see us within five minutes of the train leaving Paris.
No need. A certain Frenchwoman's cunning, and highly deleveloped instinct for the crafty move, had already marked out a compartment a few steps along the carriage as being not only empty, for now, but without beds made up, suggesting that it would remain empty. Not for long; we were in and installed in no time.
"Oh," said the old lady as we moved our things, "you're doing it - moving, I mean. We were going to look, too. Last year, we were put with someone who had an allergy to dogs."
So off we went to our lower bunk beds and settled down for the noisy night ride. I love trains so don't mind this sort of thing in the least. But I would admit that sleep came slowly, perhaps not helped by the indigestion that served as a legacy of the not-very-good Indian restaurant on the Boulevard de l'Hôpital (why do I persist?).
Also, the beds felt quite hard and the compartment could have been more thoroughly cleaned - and the train came to a shuddering halt north of Marseille. A fault in the power supply to the line kept us there for the next two-and-a-half hours.
The overnight journey ended up taking 10-and-a-half hours, though it was possible to fight through the crowds on the Toulon station concourse for a prepaid envelope to send off for a partial refund, not something I could imagine happening in the UK.
Never again? One of us had made that decision back in Austerlitz.
Recent Comments