The Heart Attack in Brussels Centraal Train Station

Night was making it’s slow, stead ascent into the town of Brussels; the last light from the sun mere slivers upon the edges of the tallest buildings. The blue dusk gave the town a sort of fairy tale glow and I couldn’t help but be saddened that I would only be able to see a small part of it.

Aunt River and I had just disembarked from the first of three train rides we were to take that bittersweet day. We had bid a fond farewell to Amsterdam and to Paris three days before that and were returning to my home in England.

We figured we had about an hour and a half to grab some food before our next train, so we made our way to the food court. Brussels Central was mostly closed for the night with the exception of a couple of fast food restaurants to cater to late travelers such as ourselves. I recall saying to Aunt River that we should eat, but keep a close eye on the time. The next train to London after ours departed in the morning. I didn’t fancy sleeping on a bench on the platform, and I can safely assume that neither did Aunt River.

We sat, ate, watched those few people around us come and go, and planned our next step. We didn’t know where our platform was, so once we finished dinner that was going to be our objective. Once we found it, we would be home free. I was already familiar with St. Pancras Station, and from there I knew my way home by heart.

When we finished our meal, we checked the time.

It was Panic O’Clock.

We had about fifteen minutes to find our platform and catch our train.

We scooped up our things and headed back towards the platforms. The sign for ours seemed to point towards a closed door, and an elevator. We chose the elevator.

Upstairs we found no sign of what we were looking for, but we did find one man standing behind a row of counters. He told us we would have to go back downstairs.

We came back down. Twelve minutes to go.

We wandered around the hall looking for a sign that didn’t say closed, all the while our panic and frustration was rising because where in the of Heaven could that sign be pointing to – until finally we strayed close enough to the closed door.

It opened automatically.

That beautifully infuriating glass door, with it’s frosted horizontal stripes and lovely decorative teapot printed on it, which looked more like a closed up tea-shop than anything remotely resembling a train platform, slid smoothly open to welcome us … to security?!

How? How could I possibly have forgotten about customs and security?

Aunt River had an excuse, she hadn’t traveled as much as I had in the past two years, but I had been in airport after airport, and the same principle applied. Even though I lived in England I still had a Canadian passport. I couldn’t just hop gleefully from one country to another like everyone else in the European Union, nor could I pass in and out of secure areas as I pleased.

We hurried forward and handed our tickets to the security attendant, who with widening eyes said “You are very late! What are you doing?! Go!”

We gave our passports to the customs agents who looked at us with cold, unfeeling eyes. Questions were asked and monosyllabic answers were given.

We collected our papers and hurried once more, this time to security. Let it be known that I have been in lines for security that easily held one hundred people or more. None of them ever felt as slow-moving as this one.

Did we have coins in our pockets? Did we have anything dangerous? We needed to take off our shoes, because of course we did.

Aunt River and I agreed, while our bags were being scanned, that although the seat numbers are posted on the outside of the train cars we would simply run into whichever compartment was in front of us. If they wanted to give us trouble for getting into the wrong compartment they could do it while we were already on the train.

Our passports were stamped. We were scanned. Our baggage was checked.

Three minutes to go.

We ran.

Not that weird adult trot we all do when we’re running across a street whose light is about to change. No, we were booking it like little kids playing tag with their older, faster siblings.

We even ran up the escalator, my suitcase never seeming so light to me as it had then.

The attendant on the platform, likely noting our red faces and huffing breaths, waved at us to come over to him. “Don’t worry about the seats,” he said, his voice holding all the calm that I did not feel. “The train is almost empty. Just sit wherever.”

We boarded, out of breath yet suddenly bursting with laughter. I checked the time.

Forty seconds to spare.

We hadn’t even sat down by the time the train started moving.

Mainly, I attribute our luck to my habit of checking the time frequently, and to the fact that both Aunt River and I are bilingual. We can’t even recall whether or not we were being spoken to in English or French, all we know is that we understood what was being said to us. I pity those who don’t speak either of those languages and who find themselves in a similar circumstance.

Despite this one moment, I can vouch for train travel as the most relaxed method I’ve used to get from one location to another. You can ride in comfort and peace, letting the scenery roll by while you read a book or chat with your travel buddy. There’s significantly less stress than going by plane or boat.

That said, be on time, or pray that God have mercy on your rushing soul for it is insignificant to a train on a schedule!