TRAINSPOTTING

 

As the summer of 1973 approached, Pud (one of the Roan boys, the only one who didn’t want to get into my pants) and I decided to pool our contacts for an inter-rail jouney through Europe.  Between us we knew enough people in Europe to keep our accommodation costs to a minimum, and in between would stay in youth hostels.  We kicked off in Paris, where we stayed with my penpal’s family in Vincennes. They took us out to dinner the night before we set off for Geneva on the night train.  Probably a combination of wine and too much rich food, but during the night I started to feel shivery.  Pud kept complaining how hot it was and taking off layers of clothing, which I promptly put on.  By the time we arrived at Geneva I was feeling really bad and was as white as a sheet.  We staggered down the platform and into the station looking for a toilet.   I never made it, but at the top of the steps did a projectile vomit that pebbledashed the whole grand staircase down to the ground floor.  Our contact in Geneva was a girl who worked at the UN (a friend of Chris from my office) who luckily had a day off work and came to pick us up.  She was incredibly kind and put me straight to bed while Pud went off and explored Geneva.  

From Geneva we travelled on to Wettingen, near Zurich, and stayed with Pud’s brother’s girlfriend’s aunty Ruth who tried to put us in a double room.  Pud, ever hopeful, didn't object, but I made him sleep on the floor!   From there we pushed on to the Cote d’Azur where we stayed in the youth hostel in Nice, which had already been invaded by a bunch of Roan boys.  After a few days we moved on to Rome where we stayed with my dad’s friends Sue and Tony Armeni and their nymphette 12-year old daughter Deborah.  Pud immediately fell in love with Deborah.  

Then on to Florence, where the youth hostel was a crumbling old palazzo and everywhere we looked was a Michelangelo or a Botticelli.  Exhausting.  Next stop was Venice, where the youth hostel was on an island and could only be reached by motoscafo.  Over the border into Austria, where I dragged Pud round my old haunts in Salzburg.  We were determined to make it to the Munich beer festival, which had just started, but time was getting tight so we only had time to spend one evening there before getting the midnight train to Cologne.  We got spectacularly drunk, and miraculously made it onto the train, but only just woke up in time to get off in Cologne, where Wolfram was waiting to meet us.  After a couple of days in Cologne Pud had to head home for his brother’s wedding, so I bravely went on alone to Amsterdam, where I stayed in the youth hostel.  I returned to London dirty, exhausted and with an incurable addiction to travel.