I quit whining and start wine-ing

The Eurostar is hot. Stuffy. There isn’t any airflow. I’m trying not to think about the woman two seats back who seems to have been coughing non-stop for the last five minutes (I had Covid last Christmas and I’m not looking for a repeat performance). I’m wearing too many layers. The train is going too fast and a wave of nausea passes through me.

I am reminded of the fact that I recently learnt how to say ‘I am feeling travel sick’ in French: J’ai mal au coeur. ‘I have a pain in my heart.’

It feels far too romantic to describe feeling a bit sick on a train, but that’s the French for you.

We have about one hour left in the journey when my wife, Julie, suggests we move to the cafe carriage on the train to try and cool down. I agree. We’ve got lucky and the cafe is only one carriage over – it won’t be long between standing up, wobbling between the seats trying not to make eye contact with other passengers, and our destination.

I make a loud groan as I stand up. I think I even say “ooh, me knees,” somehow ageing myself by twenty years in one movement. It’s definitely time to get out of our seats. I’ve been static and anxious for too long.

Blissfully, the cafe carriage is cooler. I lean against the window, right in the blast of the air conditioning, the cool glass a sweet relief against my forehead. I close my eyes for a moment. I ignore the man listening to something on his phone, loudly, through his speakers, a few feet away. I’m too tired to rage.

“Shall we get some rosé?” Julie asks.

My first reaction is to say no. I’ve never drunk wine on a train before, and the idea seems a little wild to me*… but I hesitate.

*If you’re wondering, no, I’m not fun at parties.

I’m tired from the travel, nauseous, overheated, sweating in my many layers, and probably infected with Covid again because that coughing lady wasn’t wearing a mask (I checked).

If that isn’t the time to have wine on a train, when is?

The result it both of us leaning against the cool window, sharing a can of rosé*. The liquid inside it is suspiciously orange and has a bitter bite to the end of the sharp-taste.

*we wanted to be really classy and not drink from a bottle.

On reflection, no, the Eurostar is not the place to have a rosé, but you know what? It was exactly what I needed.

I got to Paris with a smile on my face and, despite everything, the journey didn’t seem so bad after all.