On the one thing people in their 30s won’t shut up about
London to Brussels
One hour. Only one hour from my front door to the platform at St Pancras International train station. With bloodshot eyes from forcing contact lenses into them at an ungodly hour, I watch incredulously as a queue moves smoothly through the neon-lit security checkpoints I just passed. Even on a busy pre-christmas weekend such as this – record time.
Waiting around at airports before boarding is the first thing I started hating about travel. When I began travelling on my own, I waded through the noise, perfume clouds and crying children like Moses parting the Red Sea, untouched by any of these earthly nuisances. Or that’s how I felt anyways, elatedly following in the footsteps of so many intrepid travellers in search of emancipation and worldliness in the waiting lounges of the world’s ugliest airports.
But loftiness wears thin and so reality started to pierce my shield: the seats always already taken in the food court at Stansted airport; the endless corridors you get parked on in your slow progression towards boarding; the eye-ball-drying air that greets you as soon as you step onto the plane. But worst of all, other people’s rudeness (never your own, of course).
There are few things like travel that so clearly divide humanity into two groups: those of us, who have worked in customer service and those who haven’t. Newsflash: The fact that your feet are about to leave Earth, does not entitle you to make outrageous demands on over-worked and underpaid staff. And claiming British Airways perks on a £30 Ryanair flight doesn’t subtly convey that you normally travel in better company; it screams loudly and unequivocally that you are choosing to behave like a massive dick.
A near-decapitation by my fellow traveller’s snowboard catapults me out of my thoughts and back onto the St Pancras platform. As Yocasta and her dad struggle onto the train, I get hit with another realisation: perhaps I’m simply becoming a gigantic snob. Yes, the waiting times at the station are shorter than at the airport. But let’s face it, the real difference between air and train travel is that instead of Burger King and Pret-A-Manger, at St Pancras I can gorge on Paul’s and Ladurée before departure. And instead of Jess and her three boys from Essex heading to Magaluf for two weeks of all-inclusive package holidays, on the Eurostar I travel alongside Jonathan and his two boys on their way to the Alps.
Before I can ruminate any further on what a class traitor I’ve become, the train sets off with a satisfying swoosh, leaving my self-flagellations behind.
Brussels to Duesseldorf
Another thing I hate about travelling is the absurd insistence on ‘not wanting to be a tourist’. It drives me up the walls. Whether you are doing the hop-on-hop-off bus tour or ‘blending in’, taking 3 photos on your vintage camera or walking with a selfie stick glued to your arm, as long as you are willing to pay three times the price a local would to rent your hip Airbnb, the only authentic experience you are getting is what it feels like to slowly chip away at the human fabric that makes a city unique. (And yes, this comment is owed to my very personal circumstance of living opposite a gorgeous Airbnb flat that I will never be able to afford because of the outrageous sums tourists are willing to put down for a 4-night stay).
But before I can start reciting Marx, I find myself opposite a Mexican family on their first trip to Europe. They get off the train in Cologne, only to get immediately back on again. Wrong stop, they are actually headed to Duesseldorf. Would I know whether we are in Germany yet? I love how unapologetically touristy they are. Once they clock that I am German, the questions keep coming: what is the most typical food to eat, what are the most important sights in Germany? Surrounded by authenticity chasers in my hipster bubble, I haven’t been asked about the obvious in so long that I almost forget to mention – Currywurst! Cuuuurrywuuuurst!
Duesseldorf to Mannheim
I still think of that family as I get on my next train. I wish I was more like them, but I am not. In fact, after a thorough analysis I have concluded that I am a third type of traveller, the worst kind in my assessment. Neither openly touristy, nor the authentic one, I am the tourist who ventures out only to end up in places that are exactly like the ones I love at home with people who are exactly like me. I swear, you could send me to the most remote corner in the world and I’d still end up at that quaint street, with the slightly left-leaning bookshop serving pretentious artisanal coffee. The type, basically, that’s completely predictable in not wanting to be like everyone else.
Mannheim to Ljubljana
So, what does make me travel? What motivated this multi-stop trip to Ljubljana?
The answer is simple, the answer is cheesy, the answer is obvious:
An ode to what I love about travelling to see friends and family:
Sharing frantic travel updates with someone who I haven’t hugged in months waiting for me at my final stop. And the way this infuses any journey, no matter how long it may be, with a superb sense of giddiness.
Having to worry about how I smell after 13 hours next to my salami-sandwich-eating nemesis because I am going to be in one place with someone who can experience me with all their senses.
Getting to know the little things about my people’s everyday. Knowing where they keep their hair dryer and which mug is exactly the right size for their morning coffee.
And getting to know the big things too, meeting new friends that shape their lives and make them who they are today.
That’s what makes me want to move.
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