“Coach one, any seat,” the man in a silk scarf said to me as I stopped to ask if I was going the right way. My ticket said coach 17, a cramped car in the complete opposite direction. A Eurostar train is big. The further back you are, the more cramped and Noah’s ark-like it becomes. Somehow, though, the nice man thought it preposterous to make me go back all that way.
Still, I was confused. My ticket didn’t say coach one.
He reassured me. “Go," he motioned with his hands in the direction of the lovely, sweat free car. "Take a free seat in the last one, up there.”
I got in the car, which was open and spacious, and happily found myself the only one in it. Hundreds of people on this train and I managed to get a free upgrade to a totally empty car – with a table and tons of legroom, no less.
Who said the Parisians were rude? Well, the men at least. I don’t think anyone ever said that!
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