Travel: The art of changing trains

Rail travel often involves changing trains. I’ve always delighted in the transition from one train to another. These can be great moments to observe the railroad in action, make photos, and perhaps chat with railroaders and fellow passengers. I’ve sometimes planned changes to include a short layover. For many travelers changing trains represents unwanted stress and produces a host of anxieties. Will you make your connection? Which platform should you be on? What if the connecting train is late? Connections can be further complicated when you are traveling in a group or carrying a lot of luggage. The joy embraced by that veteran rail rider who casually saunters to the head end to capture photos is lost on the traveler fearful that an oversight might result in a night on a bench in some forsaken railway platform.

I learned the art of changing trains at New Haven, Conn., where as a youth, my brother and I would make a connection. Typically, we’d change between a Budd RDC that worked the shuttle from Springfield, Mass., to a through train on the Northeast Corridor. We made this journey several times a year to visit my grandparents in New York City. On one occasion, about 1979, we were traveling northbound with my mother. When we alighted from the Boston-bound train, I was delighted to find a two car RDC set where the leading car was still lettered for the defunct New Haven Railroad. Most passengers were focused on boarding the trailing car, I said, “Lets ride the New Haven car!” My mother acquiesced and we happily boarded the Budd antique, only to find that most of the remaining passengers had followed our lead. Clearly that 12-year-old knew where he was going.

I’m not immune from train-change anxieties and missteps. More than 20 years ago, on a trip across Silesia in Poland, I was waiting on a crowded platform for my late-running connection when an announcement was barked over the public address system. Not being fluent, I didn’t catch a word, but became alarmed when most of the other passengers hastily moved toward the stairs. I wondered if I should stay the course and continue waiting where I was, or follow the pack? I followed, and rushed to reach my train as it squealed to a halt on the opposite platform.

If I’d hesitated, I would have missed it.

On another occasion, I was changing from a local train to the Zaventem Airport train at Bruxelles-Nord/Brussel-Noord. Normally, the airport train runs every 15 minutes. I was already a bit tight on time and when I scanned the departure boards only to find that no platform listed for the airport train. SNCB (National Railway Company of Belgium) staff are easily identified by their distinctive and smart-looking uniforms. I approached the nearest railroader and asked in English, “What platform for the airport train?” He gazed at the departure boards, then studied his portable device and said, “Oh! There is a problem. Follow me.” He led me to platform 8, “You will wait here. The first train, it is canceled; but I assure you, the second train, it is running.” I waited 20 minutes before a new Siemens Desiro Main Line railcar glided gracefully along the platform. I boarded quickly along with a crush of similarly anxious airport-bound passengers. I made my flight, but it was very close.

In April 2016, I crossed northern France by riding a series of local trains. I began the morning in Basel, Switzerland, and changed trains at Strasbourg, Metz, and Charleville-Mezieres among other places. I had a hotel waiting for me at Valenciennes and my final change was at small station. I knew the connection was tight and worried that if I missed this train on the final leg of my all-day journey, I’d be on that platform bench!

When the ticket checker came through the carriage, I voiced my concern. She said, “Don’t worry, that is my train too. You will follow me and we will make it, but we must run.” Our train kept losing time; the 7-minute connection, dropped to 5, 4, and then a mere 3 minutes. I waited anxiously in the vestibule. Before the train had come to a stop, the ticket checker opened the door and we hit the platform running. We darted down the first flight of stairs, sprinted underneath the tracks and up the stairs to an adjacent platform.

I could hear my train stopping as I dragged my wheeled bag up the stairs, and then jumped aboard as the doors closed behind me. No bench for me, just a lesson to not cut it too close between trains!