An Idiot Abroad: Chapter 11, the Chunnel

Like wizards, Linde’s are never late. Unlike wizards, Linde’s do not arrive precisely on time. As a rule, Linde’s show up for everything at least two hours early. So, keeping that in mind, I scheduled my taxi from my hotel to St. Pancras Station for four in the morning. After all, I did have to beat the traffic of the morning commute. I arrived precisely three and a half hours early. Perfect. With nothing else to do, I set out exploring.
 
St Pancras railway station, officially known since 2007 as London St Pancras International, is a major central London railway terminus.  It is the station for Eurostar services from Belgium, France, and the Netherlands to London. It provides services to other locations in England, including high-speed trains to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 
 
The main floor consists of restaurants, gift shops, and even a bookstore. Up the escalator is the outbound trains, including the hub for underground connections. It’s a beautiful structure of glass and concrete, and surely worthy of the ten whole minutes it took to fully explore it. 
 
Curiosity satisfied, I set out to find the men’s restroom.  As I approached, the lines of my mentor, coach, and Master came to mind: “Saint Pancras Station. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We will watch ourselves.” I could not help but wonder if he might have been referring to the Saint Pancras restrooms. 
 
Restroom Review:
Going mostly by smell and cleanliness, I am forced to give this facility a thumbs down.  At least there was soap.
 
 
Time moves remarkably fast when being knocked unconscious and rolled in a train station bathroom. Time literally flew by, and luckily, I came to my senses just in time to catch my train. Remarkably, the would-be thieves cared nothing for my personal possessions, and both the suitcase and backpack were spared.
By my scheduled trip, the station was plenty busy, and getting through customs and to the platform was akin to lining up in 1977 for a Who Concert. Taking great care not to either get trampled or lose my passport, I eventually made it to the platform and the walk to my assigned car.
Which brings up another point, I was expecting a sit-wherever-you-can ride like the ones we experience when taking Amtrak. That is not the case with the EuroStar. Every passenger has an assigned seat, and it is important that you not wait for the last minute to either book it or to climb aboard, as you may not find rack space for your luggage.
 
The Eurostar
Eurostar is an international high-speed rail service in Western Europe, connecting Belgium, France, Germany, the Netherlands, and the United Kingdom. Service began in 1994.
This baby is fast too. It has been clocked at nearly 208 miles per hour but restrains itself on passenger trips, never exceeding 106 (I am forgoing converting this to KPH as the whole conversion joke is beginning to get a little stale). But man-on-man, I would have really loved to have had the engineer open this baby up and see what it could really do.
 
Unlike the floor of the Saint Pancras restroom, where I spent the better part of two hours, the train is clean, modern, and comfortable, and provided one of the most effortless journeys of the entire trip. 
 
Travel time was just over two hours, with less than a half hour spent under the English Channel. Unfortunately, it's a rather dark way down there, and there isn't much of a view. No lurking monsters, no catastrophic cave-ins, and most of all, no pickpockets anywhere. We were out of the darkness before you could say, “Coup de Foudre,” and were now gazing over the scenic countryside where occasionally the tip of a village church steeple would appear peeking out from behind a slight hill.
 
(Little-known fact. Church steeples are the tallest structures in the town; the churches are mostly located in the center of town for a reason. When travelling by foot or horse, a steeple jutting up on the horizon signaled you were close. As for locating them in the center of town, why not? When traveling, who doesn’t want to be where the action is?
 
I knew it and decided to make my way to the club car for a Jambon Beurre (Butter and Ham Sandwich).
Moving on a train as a seventy-one-year-old male is challenging enough, but moving on a bullet moving over 100 MPH qualifies as an Olympic event. Using the back of the seats (an occasional fellow passenger’s head as handrails), I wobbled, pitched, and staggered, making my way to the back of the train. 
Somehow how I managed the trip and was soon back in my seat, stuffing my face with one of France’s most digestible treasures.
I had barely finished my sandwich and Coke when the train arrived on the outskirts of Paris.