Swiss Missed

I had to make the 7 a.m. plane to Copenhagen. I just had to. If I missed that 11:30 a.m. conference I would be in big trouble.

But if I was so concerned about making that meeting, what was I doing on a mountain railway platform, 800 miles away, the night before?

For one thing, I was feeling confident. Smug, even. This was Switzerland, where the trains--to the airport and everywhere else--run precisely on time. Or, at worst, they arrive early but still depart exactly on schedule, as I knew from numerous visits.

*

My plan was simple. I would take the last little trolley down from the mountain hamlet of Les Avants, near where I had spent a relaxing weekend, arriving in Montreux at 10:58 p.m. There I would catch the 11:01 p.m. express train to Geneva, arriving at Geneva’s Cornavin railway station around midnight. I would walk across the street to claim six full hours of sleep in a comfortable hotel so that I would be perfectly rested and alert for the next day’s meeting. At exactly 6:15 a.m. I would board the train for the 15-minute ride to Cointrin airport, where I would board my plane for Copenhagen.

Such is the beauty of Switzerland’s superb transport and lodging network where all systems run like clockwork.

No problem, I assured myself, as I waited for the 10:38 and the beginning of my trip. Sure enough, the train arrived promptly and we glided down to Montreux quickly, arriving three minutes ahead of schedule.

I was not surprised to see my Geneva train coming early on Track 1--all Geneva trains, I knew, arrived on Track 1. I wouldn’t even have to wait. What a system!

I climbed on board, laden with computer, suitcase and briefcase, and searched for a compartment with an empty seat. But something seemed out of place. For one thing, the train was terribly crowded for this time of night. Why would mobs be headed for Geneva? The sidewalks in that quiet city would be tightly rolled up by the time we got in. And, curiously, most of the train cars were from the Italian state railway, rather than the Swiss railway, as is usually the case.

This was where I should have smelled the first rodent. But no, after so many trips to Switzerland I felt virtually native and confident. I knew my Swiss trains, and I knew Track 1 would get me to Geneva. Unless . . .

Next stop would be Lausanne. It would be followed by a 40-minute dash to the end of the line in Geneva. But as we pulled out of the station in Lausanne, the dash felt more like a crawl. The stretch-run acceleration I always felt on this portion of the trip wasn’t developing. In truth, the train was barely moving and instead of hugging the fast-track edge of Lake Geneva, it was climbing into dark, unfamiliar foothills.

That sinking feeling and cold adrenaline sweat endemic to travelers who suddenly find themselves in the middle of nowhere began to exert itself. What to do? I would have to go against all my principles and actually ask someone for assistance.

“Pardon,” I addressed the elderly lady across from me in the car. “Where is this train going?”

Her answer shot through me like a cold bolt: “Paris.”

“Paris?”

“Oui, Paris,” she said brightly.

And then it struck me: I had jumped the gun in getting on that 10:58 train on Track 1, rather than waiting for my train, which departed three minutes later from the same track.

“Ahh, mmmm,” I mumbled, trying to keep calm. “Does, ah, does it stop before France? I have to go to Geneva.”

“Vallorbe. The border. You can get a train back from there.”

Relief flooded over me. Albeit short-lived relief.

I jumped off at Vallorbe. A handful of anonymous faces scurried off into the night. I was alone in the station. A train was waiting but, like a character in a Grade C anxiety dream, I went from car to car of the long, blue French express and found door after door locked. At last one yielded. I climbed up, only to be met by a French railway conductor who told me to leave.

“But I must get back to Geneva,” I explained. Very important meeting tomorrow, etc.

“Impossible, monsieur. This train is an all-reserved sleeper. No seats.”

*

Obediently, I climbed down, formulating a plan as I did: I would stow away. Most certainly I would get caught, and the meticulous Swiss police would not be amused by an illegal passenger. I would throw myself on their mercy, agreeing to leave the country ASAP. And voila, I could make my 7 a.m. flight. Maybe I’d even get a police escort.

Walking beside the train, I stooped down as low as I could, so no one could see me from the windows. The door of the last car gave when I turned the handle. I entered at supersonic speed and immediately opened a second door . . . to the bathroom. My luggage and I squeezed in, and I quickly bolted the door, perched on the toilet seat, crossed my fingers and began the most unscenic, queasiest, longest and, in some ways, most humiliating train ride of my life.

*

We moved agonizingly slowly. The door handle turned. Feet shuffled away. Five minutes passed. The door handle turned again. Then a knocking. Finally the sound of retreating feet and mumbled curses. A few more retakes along the way. Then, at long last, the train stopped. Lausanne! Not the right town but the closest I could get to Geneva that night.

I set a world record for a getting-out-of-the-potty-and-into-the-station sprint; then walked briskly half a block toward a big neon “Hotel” marquee. It was 2:30 in the morning when a very disheveled version of my earlier evening persona entered the lobby of an unknown hotel. I told the skeptical desk clerk my saga. “Of course, of course, monsieur,” he said soothingly, as he took my $100. Before dawn, just a few hours later, I woke to a rude alarm clock, to catch the first train of the day to Geneva.

One thought crowded my mind as I boarded: Even the most perfect system is not immune to user error.