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336 pages, Hardcover
First published August 28, 2025
'I think that you are a Pufferküsser?' he said, wiping his glasses as his friends started laughing.
'Sorry, a what?'
'In German it means you are a fan of trains, a persson who kisses the buffers.'
I gathered this was not a term of endearment. 'I wouldn't go that far.'
'Then perhaps a Eisenbahnliebhaber?'
Over dinner, I'd asked the seventy-year-old if he minded being alone, to which he'd replied: 'I'm not alone. I'm by myself.'
Something shifted in my psyche. From then on, whenever I felt exposed -- asking for a table for 'just' one or taking out a book to hide in -- I'd remembre Patrick's words and pull myself together. Solitude was a gift. In the absence of company, I paid more attention to my surroundings, tuning in to other people's conversations and watching their lips to read whispers. Birdsong was more noticeable, as was dirt under nails, untied laces and wonky eyeliner. Flowers came into focus, the threads of cloud across the moon appearing like smoke.
Only in the West would train operators go out of their way to indulge the traits of cold Europeans averse to social interaction. To me, the beauty of night-train travel lay in the sense of community that grew out of the shared experience: hawkers waving pad thai under my nose; students sitting on my blanketed feet playing cards; the rowdiness of drunks ranting nonsense.
'Dr. Bhang' was sitting in a chair, a framed photograph of Anthony Bourdain looking over us. It showed the gentle chef deep in conversation with a member of staff. Within the pitiful genre of TV travel shows, overcrowded by White male presenters deeply uninterested in travel itself, Bourdain was a gift. His humility and integrity made him the perfect guide to unpicking the uman psyche through food, and his death had left a gaping hole.
These trains had swept me up darkening coastlines, pulled me over brightening border and drawn me through towns at twilight, but what they'd given me was the gift of slowness and time.