17 March 2015. Italy -> France
I propped myself up against the train wall, crammed inside the aisle of the now moving train. My legs were straddling both of my bags as IÂ tried to make as much room as possible for yet another passenger to pass through.
I was standing outside what was supposed to be my room for the overnight ride, but I couldn’t get in as a large, 6’4″, 300 pound man was blocking the doorway as other people were getting settled inside.
Based on the smell of the cabin, I wasn’t sure wanted to enter anyway. It had that rosy smell of a gym locker room combined with the B.O. that has been marinating for weeks, all of it trying to escape the tiny, cramped space.
This was my first experience with an overnight train. I was headed to Dijon, France (yes, home of the mustard) where I was leading an all-day humor workshop the next day.
My normal rule when traveling is to get in the day before so I don’t have to deal with various hassles, but I had assumed that since I was getting a bed in the overnight train, that would count as the hotel. I was quickly realizing I had assumed wrong.
I’d never experienced an overnight train before, so I didn’t know what to expect. When I was booking the ticket I saw  multiple options, the cheapest of which was a six person room and you could select either mixed or female only.
Somewhere in my head I guess I had illusions of what that might be like. I assumed that, like most of the trains I had taken in Italy so far, this wouldn’t be completely full. I had thought maybe there’d only be four people out of a six person room or that it’d be a larger room or that there’d be some traveling co-ed’s who were taking time off after graduating college to explore the world and I could converse with them about European travel.
None of those things were true.
My room had been booked to full capacity, 6 tiny beds for 6 grown men (yes, I’m counting myself as a grown man in this scenario).
The room wasn’t very big at all. It had single-sized (if you can call them that) beds stacked three to a side: one at the very bottom of the floor, one in the middle, and one up top just two feet from the ceiling.
There was an aisle down the middle about the same size as a single bed and then another three on the other side.
Where you’re supposed to put your luggage I did not know.
My room already had four of the occupants inside, one of whom was in the bed I was supposed to be in. Myself and two others were standing outside of the closet-sized room, including the behemoth standing in the doorway.
The smell of body odor was larger than the room itself so I knew I had to do something.
As the train started to pick up speed, the conductor came through and was checking tickets. I very politely asked in English if there were any upgrades available and he pointed towards the front of train and said to go to the cafeteria car to check.
I immediately grabbed my two bags and headed down the tight train hallways, making my way, car after car, until I finally reached the cafeteria.
There, a different conductor saw me, smiled, and said, “Looking for an upgrade?”
I guess he could tell by the look on my face, for he knew exactly what was going through my mind.
“I’m feeling a little claustrophobic,” I lied. “I was wondering if you had any room in a place that was a little bigger.”
“Give me a moment, I’ll get the lead train conductor.”
The conductor came in and I asked him about an upgrade.
“Oui, you can upgrade to a three person room in First Class, that’s 30 euro; a two person room in First Class, that’s 50 euro; or a one person room in First Class, that’s 70 euro.” He said in a French accent. “The three person room, I can tell you only has one other guy right now, so you can get only two people in one room for the price of a three person room.”
That definitely sounded better than the sardine can I had just left.
I said “I’ll do the the three person room” and handed him my credit card, which fortunately, had a chip in it.
Europeans, and much of the rest of the world it seems, have moved to much more secure credit cards with a chip-and-pin system, rather than the swipe and sign method in the US.
Luckily I had upgraded my card before I had left the states. Unluckily, I had already learned, my card was a hybrid of the two: a chip-and-sign card. That meant it had a chip, but no pin number to go with it. And on certain machines, it wouldn’t work at all.
When I heard a beep that clearly was associated with failure and not success, my fears were confirmed: his portable credit card reader was one of those machines.
I scrounged through my wallet for what Euro I had left: exactly 29 euro. My face dropped. I thought back to the six bedded room of stench that was technically mine and nearly cried.
“I’m sorry I only have 29 Euro.”
The man who I first saw in the Cafeteria car must have seen the terror in my face as he quickly said “That’s all right†and chipped in a Euro himself for me to cover the full 30.
I thanked him profusely for his assistance as the lead conductor gave me the upgrade. He told me to follow him and I walked with him toward the front of the train.
As soon as we entered the next car you could tell things were different. The aisle was wider. It was well-lit. Things were bright.
I thought of the movie Snowpiercer, a movie about the apocalyptic world that took place on a single train that traveled around. In it, there were two classes: the working class that was in the back that lived under deplorable conditions and ate bars of food made out of bugs; and the First Class that luxuriated, partied, and did whatever it is they wanted. It felt like I was moving to the First Class.
He took me to the room, knocked on the door, and a man opened the door. He was speaking on the phone in some language I couldn’t understand or place. The conductor said, “You have a roommate” and left.
I apologized to the guy, saying I’m sure he expected to get the room to himself, but there I was to ruin it. He didn’t seemed to fully understand and just went back to talking on his phone.
I climbed up top to my bed and quickly feel asleep to the rather neutral smells of the First Class.
