There is a threshold at which a person becomes so important or has such a fancy job that travel becomes a requirement rather than a lovely adventure. These people will be sure to tell you if this is the case; just as it’s apparently the law to disclose, unsolicited, whether one attended Oxbridge.
But even if I were one of those bankers who seems to commute from London to Singapore (seriously: just move to Singapore), I think I would still get a kick out of looking at dolphin-nosed planes waiting on the tarmac.
I love to travel.
The greatest journeys, however, are by train. This is why it is such a travesty that franchising has resulted in the whole experience coming off the tracks: egregiously priced tickets; packed carriages; audio in lavatories that tells jokes.
This is all very stressful, whereas train travel at its best is a pattern-seated oasis. Amid the cacophony of modern life, and in normal times, what better opportunity is there to sit for a couple of hours and lose oneself in a book? I have friends who feel guilty setting time aside to read; on a train they will sink into their seat, ignore their laptop and crack a spine with relish. Lose oneself, too, in countryside rolling by; the unfurling of yellow fields and chewing cows.
And, though my initial reaction to other people on public transport is, how dare they inconsiderately take their journey at the same time as me, I’m constantly having wonderful conversations with fellow passengers. I remain friends with a man I sat next to one Christmas Eve. I will always remember, as a precocious 13-year-old, talking to an older lady about literature. I would like to thank her for sympathetically informing me that Camus is not pronounced to rhyme with aimless. It was a moment of both mortification and growth.
The camaraderie positively correlates with the length of the trip. I am not sure I have been happier than on a Russian sleeper, which is akin to attending a party that moves. Russian sleeper trains are filled with the sounds of laughter, the glug of vodka being poured and playing cards slapping makeshift tables.
I have yet to do the full-on velvety packages that mirror the glamorous train travel of the past. But I do often travel first class in this country because, like Camus, I know how to appreciate slices of happiness. It turns out that I am satisfied by tiny curtains on a tiny drawstring, leg room and a free cheese sandwich.
