Another journey on Eurostar and another chance to catch up on some of my blog writing, which I never seem to have enough time for these days.

They are currently remodelling Gare du Nord, which meant that my outbound journey was absolutely chaos. They did not open check-in for the 08h07 train until about 07h45 – and with only five passport inspectors. I did a quick calculation, and figured that they were trying to process nearly 1,200 passengers in 20 minutes – the 08h07 train is nearly always full. Needless to say, it all ended in tears. My train pulled out ten minutes late, with hundreds of passengers failing to make it due to the huge delays at customs and security. Others have pointed out that I am anal to the point of being compulsive about arriving ahead of time for trains and planes – but I made my train, unlike the many stranded behind.

Had a good set of meetings in London. It was a good chance to catch up with old friends and colleagues, plus a chance to meet all of the new people they have brought on board while I was away in Singapore and subsequently in Paris. After our meetings (marred only by the fact that one of our guys had his laptop stolen – gallingly, from inside a church) we headed out to the pub for a few pints – a tradition that I really miss about the UK.

My office mate in Paris overhead me talking to a colleague about going out for a few beers, and he practically begged me to invite him along next time. So I will. Never let it be said I am not importing British best practice!

They have just completed the new Eurostar terminal in St Pancras. While it is lovely, I don’t find it terribly user friendly, and the location is very inconvenient for most of the places I need to go. I really miss the convenience of Waterloo.

Most annoying, though, are the new lifts they have installed. These are modern times. Most people are used to lifts, and how they work. A single “ding” to indicate the arrival of the lift is normally all the prompt we need, plus a flashing light if they are feeling really generous.

But not the new lifts in the Eurostar lounge. No, these are lifts with Tourette’s.

“Lift has been called. Please wait.”
“Lift arriving soon.”
“Lift has arrived. Doors opening.”
“Doors closing. Please stand clear.”
“First floor. Doors opening.”
“Doors closing. Please stand clear.”
“Lift has been called. Please wait.”

Bear in mind that this lift only travels between the ground floor and the first floor, a total journey of about 4 meters. It hardly requires the entire commentary included above. I’m surprised they didn’t insist on all the announcements being in French and English, just for the sake of completeness.

Jerome will be here for the weekend – in fact, I understand he is in the Eurostar just behind me. If I had known, we could have travelled together.

There is a family of American tourists sitting head of me. They are reading their guide book to Paris out loud. It makes me smile that the biggest concern they have about coming to Paris is stepping in poo. According to their book, it’s everywhere.

From my experience, I think the book is spot-on. Now please excuse me while I find someplace to scrape my shoe.

It’s another Monday morning and I’m whizzing across the French countryside at 260km/h on my way to Zurich, courtesy of the TGV. I’m nibbling on a lovely pain au chocolate and a hot espresso and thinking to myself what a civilised way this is to travel. Breakfast in Paris, lunch in Zurich, and none of the associated aggravation that comes from having to deal with security at the airport. My only complaint is some slightly misleading advertising – my “window” seat isn’t a window at all, but the pillar between two windows. I can just about see out the window if I lean back far enough. Maybe this is my company’s way of encouraging me to work on the journey.

It’s been a busy week. I started off in the Paris office on Monday, the last time I’ll be in before Easter. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday were spent in Blois, in the Loire Valley, holding a series of meetings with my client’s finance team. Our accommodation was less than glamorous, even making allowances for the fact that it was the middle of the off-season and we were the only ones in town. The hotel was right out of the 1960s (which was probably the last time it was renovated, or the duvet changed) and was only just clinging on to its three-star rating.

The factory was interesting – as factories always are. I was busy with a workshop when everyone else got a factory tour, which was a little bit disappointing – I was expecting something very much out of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, right down to the Oompa Loompas, but it turned out that most of the factory was staffed with normal-sized men and women wearing green boiler suits. My colleague was a little too interested in the rejection chute of one of the production lines – he got such a fright when one of the chocolate bars shot out that he jumped back and landed on one of the other machines, setting off the alarm. Way to keep a low profile, fella.

As promised, the entire site smells of cocoa, which they bring in by the truckloads and load into enormous silos. One of these days, someone is going to drive in with a truckload of milk…

I’d barely unpacked on Thursday night when I had to head to London on Friday morning for another workshop. I’m earning Eurostar points at an alarming rate and can now recite most of the timetable off by heart, and I find myself wishing they would change their menu more frequently as you can only eat the same meal so many times before you become desperate for a change.

London was a day trip – I caught the evening train home, which ended up being part of the “Snow Train” service (which carries British skiers down to the French ski resorts) and was loaded with noisy Brits carrying cases of beer and doing their best to get in the spirit. Not exactly the relaxing end to the day I was hoping for. I slumped down in my seat next to a similarly-dismayed investment banker about my age, and we both did what anyone would do to remain sane – we pulled out our Blackberries and started a game of Brickbreaker.

I got home about 10pm and headed straight for bed, shattered from a long week.

After a sedate start to Saturday, we went out exploring, me with camera in hand. We had lunch at our local (a nice steak), then headed down towards Notre Dame to explore some of the bookshops. I ended up with a few French textbooks to improve my business French (which currently consists mostly of me pointing and asking whether “I can do the stuff with the thing, or whether it would be better to use the other thing instead? In England, we used another thing to do the thing.”). I continued my walk up the Seine while Aude headed back towards home for a haircut. Saturday night was dinner in and a movie (Juno) – in “V.O.” because 1) I hate dubbing and 2) I wouldn’t understand the dubbed French, anyhow.

Another sedate start on Sunday, then off towards Chinatown for a big bowl of Pho at a restaurant called (wait for it…) Pho. It was pretty miserable outside, so we headed back home for a leisurely afternoon and evening. And like that – it’s Monday again.

I’m officially a convert to rail travel. This week, I’ve done Paris-London by Eurostar, London-Birmingham by Virgin Trains, and Zurich-Paris on TGV. Without exception, the trains have been quick, reliable, comfortable and clean. Yes, I’ve heard all the horror stories about what happens when trains go wrong. But door-to-door, I think they’re just as quick as taking the plane and far less hassle, as I can work the entire journey.

As I type this, I’m enjoying a lovely glass of Riesling and a scallop and saffron risotto as I watch the Swiss countryside go by. It’s much more agreeable than the cold cheese sandwich and lousy cup of tea I had on my flight from Birmingham to Zurich last night. I paid more than €560 for my economy class flight ticket. My first class train ticket cost me €132. I can’t understand why anyone chooses to fly in Europe.

On Monday, our meetings were held on an active production site with a chocolate factory just outside the meeting room we were working in. Everywhere you went, there was an overwhelming smell of cocoa – I felt like any minute Willy Wonka was going to pop out and say hello. It was really bizarre. I raided the factory shop after our meetings and have come home with a suitcase full of chocolates – I figured they’d make good conversation-starters at the office.

I stayed in the Radisson SAS hotel on Monday night. Those crazy Scandinavians have their own unique sense of design. The room looked like a cross between a Bang & Olufsen stereo and a TV test pattern, all the carpets and soft furnishings a rainbow of reds, pinks and purples.

After my short flight to Zurich, I managed to arrive in Zug around 11pm, only to discover that the hotel had managed to give away my room (and, this being Switzerland, they’d given it away with remarkable efficiency – it had been resold by 7pm apparently). They finally managed to find me another hotel room at the motorway hotel – the very last one, a handicapped room and very noisy at the top of the stairs. It certainly wasn’t the Ritz.

It’s nearly impossible to find a hotel room in Zug (note to investors: building a hotel in Zug is a sure-fire winner) so I’m back in the same motorway hotel next week. Hopefully they’ll put me in a nicer room next time as a “regular”.

I’m back in Paris today and for the weekend, a chance to catch up on a load of admin at work and unpacking at home.

A very brief update — currently travelling constantly. I was in Paris for the weekend, then in Birmingham for two days, and am currently in Zurich. I’ll be back in Paris for the weekend, then back to Zurich again next week.

Look for an update later, but right now I’m spending most of my life on trains!

It’s my last weekend in Singapore, so I decided I should probably take the opportunity to do a little sightseeing, despite the poor weather. I waited for the worst of the rain to clear in the morning, then jumped in a cab to Arab Street to see a different side of Singapore life. Lots of interesting shops (and a nice change from the branded stores that line Orchard Road) and a chance to buy a few souvenirs to bring back home.

Bussorah Mall, just off Arab Street. Bizarrely, this enclave of Muslim life in Singapore is decorated for Christmas.

The Sultan Mosque

One has to wonder whether this is the biggest belly-dancing shop in Singapore, or whether this is simply a belly-dancing shop that caters to the biggest bellies in Singapore?

Five brand new Maseratis were lined up in front of Raffles Hotel, presumably for some sort of launch party? Given the high taxes on cars in Singapore, expensive cars like these are a relatively rare sight despite the number of high-earners here.

The famous Raffles doorman

Christmas, Singapore style. Barney entertains the kids with a Christmas show. I’d wager that less than 10% are Christian. No one seems to care — Christmas here is an all-enclusive holiday, and more importantly, another excuse for shopping!