I really like to travel.
I especially like train travel.
Every time I step aboard, I can’t help but believe that I am entering into an Agatha Christie mystery. With or without spats, there is something terribly romantic about train travel.
A car dedicated to every function. There is the club car where club sandwiches are available.
The bar car, perhaps my favorite, where I hope I will find a white-jacketed bartender vigorously shaking martinis, but usually only find a hatch with miniature bottles and a steward.
Sometimes it’s closed. Then I just squint and dream!
There is no better way traveling city to city than on the super fast ICE (InterCityExpress) trains.
The ever-changing landscape whizzes by. Meadows turn to forest and then back to fields. Some are covered in rapeseed, others in poppies. The train slows as it pulls into small towns that I would have never seen.
Then it begins hurtling again at break-neck speed. The rhythmic beat of the rails keeps time to the martini being shaken by that white-jacketed mixologist in the bar car of my mind.