Get Yourself a Joker and Take the 'A' Train to Nantes

No Fuss, No Bother, No Drama; Rolling Through France at 300 kph on Wheels

Up yes, but no, not as I remembered. Two sets of escalators, one right, the other left, zig-zagging up, parallel to the front of the station. Through beams, rods, concrete pillars, I can see the Place outside and the tower, but not the way to the trains. Where has the vast high-ceilinged marble-floored hall gone?

This used to be a great high hall, lit by daylight. Now it looks like the entry to the darkest province.

Everybody should know the station in Montparnasse. There's the photo, taken 22 October 1895, still sold as a postcard today, that shows the front end of a steam engine from Granville punched through the street facade, at the arrival level of the station, with its bumpers resting on the sidewalk on the then place de Rennes. A newspaper vendor was boiled to death on the spot. Today, we are concerned with the third version of the Gare, now moved back from the boulevard a good safe distance, behind some really hideous buildings and a 55-floor office tower.

It might even be the fourth version, because its interior has been completely remodeled to reflect the modernity of the TGV-Atlantic line. It seems to me that once-vast open spaces have been eliminated, a lot of floors have been added, as well as a great number of very thick concrete pillars. With the cold steel of the escalators, it looks like a thick prison. It was no charmer before; sort of '50's cross-hatch-kit modern gone sleazy at the edges, but now: this bunker?

There used to be this wide-open space, with one big quai spread out from side to side. As sort of a last, emergency stop, there were three stand-up buffets right where you needed them. Okay, not exactly 'buffets;' if you stood at the bar at the right corner of the middle one, you could get the warmth from the hot dog heater, keep your wine glass filled with this really filthy red stuff - was it wine? - 'Eurogrape' from the 'wine lake' probably; and keep a close watch for your local train to arrive - because if it was late, it would pull out again as soon as the driver switched the lights to red and walked back to the back that became the front as soon as his switched the lights there from red to white, or yellow.

In winter, the hot dog machine was warm, but in summer, passengers would just stand around, as if they were in some comfortable living room, knocking back the old red, or white - gasoline? - turps? - shooting the breeze as the trains came and went, because there was no hurry to get on the old stainless steel... keep the doors closed in winter; try to keep them open in summer - they were rough and noisy and with the ribbed sides you would have sworn the SNCF got them in some sort of brotherly exchange deal from the All-Union Loco works in Kiev.

More darkness where there used to be light; the gayest thing to see are the red tail lights of the waiting train.

The best thing to see was the conscripts on their way home to Brittany from the army; their last drinks in the big city - after many other last drinks between Montparnasse and whatever other station they had arrived from. They always had these sort of totem poles, with badges on them; but it was never clear if these were trophies being carried back... to some place of honor behind some other bar somewhere... Celtic, out west, where the ocean is - maybe they were collective boy-scout badges. The only place I ever saw them was on the quai at one of the buffets at Montparnasse.

This morning, before I got into the Metro, it was grey enough outside. Inside this new, architectually correct but dim station, it was positively gloomy. Still, I found my train easily enough - pure luck I suppose - the number 8813 TGV to Nantes. I held my watch up to the window and at 9.49.59 nothing was moving and at 9.50.00 there was. One of France's SNCF TGV-Atlantic trains was whispering out of the station.

To get on the fast track you have to pay a bit more. You have to reserve a place in advance for starters. I tested a seat in 'fumeur' for Paris Pages readers. You do not need to bring your own smoking materials to enjoy this; in fact it is probably better to take a 'non-fumeur' and just walk through the 'fumeur' if you need a hit once in awhile. If you are traveling cattle-class, you will have to do this in any case in order to get to get to the food and drinks car, number 14, which must be the only restos in France without a smoking section. It is actually a pleasant-enough car if you like brushed aluminum with your particular fancy.

Instead of paying a bit more, you can save a bit on the fare by reserving a 'Joker' more than a month in advance; you save a bit less for reserving a 'Joker' later. If you wait too long, there is no 'Joker.' There's probably no 'Joker' fare on 'red' days; and I suppose May Day is a 'red' day as are most holidays. There's first class too, where all seats have a table and a cocktail lamp. Cocktails come out of airline bottles, so if you want something exotic, bring your own mixer.

Every SNCF locomotive sports a heraldic badge; and they would probably be collector's items if they were a bit smaller.

After the train has passed Le Mans, I ask a conductor if there is a speedo somewhere, like on the front bulkhead of the passenger cabin of a Concorde, so one can see how fast the 'Train a Grande Vitesse' really goes. No speedo. And I had missed noticing the top cruising speed on the prairie before Le Mans - 300 kph. After Le Mans, we slowed to 220 kph he said. I didn't notice that either.

Out the window, things were the same, if not so flat. Up close blurred, the far away disappearing quickly downtrack. Lots of grass, black and white and brown and white cows; standing and lying down, then more grass. Smoke fumes. Dirty windows on the outside; it's winter. Greyhound bus seats. No overhead straps, no standing room. Telephone booths in cars 12, 14 and 16. Airplane toilettes that work. Electric dryer; no paper towels. No drama.

At 300 kph, the TGV is going about half the speed of a modern jet liner. The train has steel wheels on a steel track and the track is on the ground, which is not like a bowling alley. Although from a distant autoroute on which you may be going 150 kph, the TGV looks like an uninteresting model train, only going twice as fast as you; up close it a really quite a large piece of machinery. Unlike an Airbus going only twice as fast again at 600 kph up at 10,000 metres through the thin air of the soft blue sky, the TGV has less vibration, noise, hard bumps, and all those other slightly scary things that can go on up there in those sardine cans that are not at all smooth. The cost of gas for a round-trip to Nantes and back may be about the same as a TGV ticket; but you will be spared the white-knuckles if you take the train.

Instead of a synthesized voice telling you to do up your seat belt, shut the door, check the air in the tires and put out the cat; instead of the jolly dare-devil captain telling you to do up your seat belt, turn off your smoking light, and be ready to slide down a rubber bungee thing; the TGV train driver merely said, sit down and relax for a routine trip. No drama. Life on the fast track in old France.

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Updated 11/95