‘Coffee, tea, mineral water, Coke, sandwiches!’ Whenever I hear these words on a train, I automatically start grabbing deep breaths, because I know, as sure as the train’s arrival and departure times, that ‘he’ is going to smell of sweat. Knowing what’s coming, I hold my breath until he has gone past. ‘He’ is the waiter, and when he arrives I always have the same two choices: either I can opt for a session of intensive lung training (my record for holding my breath stands at 51 seconds) or subject my olfactory organ to an endurance test under extreme conditions. ‘A ham sandwich, please.’ Abruptly, I break off my lung training – my hunger is stronger than my need for fresh air. ‘Ham sandwich-a is-a sold out,’ the waiter replies, his face unmoved. With his left hand, he casually grasps the luggage rack above my head and thus transports me firmly and irrevocably to the land of unlimited odours.

‘Well…’ I begin hesitantly, trying not to breathe in further than is absolutely necessary, ‘What else is there?’ ‘Coffee, tea, mineral water, Coke, sandwiches!’ he answers promptly, while staring disinterestedly out of the window. I’m already getting irritated looks from the other passengers, so I jump up, grab the first sandwich that comes to hand and give him his four euros.

The sandwich is ice-cold and dried up, and it tastes ice-cold and dried up too, even though the recipe is actually so simple:

Quality + Friendliness = Success

Not all waiters on our trains have deodorants and selling skills. And they skimped on their training, too, if their attitude to their job is anything to judge by.

My bladder feels close to bursting, but although I really do desperately need to go, I check my watch. Perhaps I can hang on until I get to my destination; then I won’t have to use the toilet on the train. There’s nothing I hate more. From the overall colour scheme to the toilet bowl itself, the key design statement on trains is ‘dingy’. The chances of finding a clean toilet are approximately zero, though in fact, all the designer had to do was to combine the practical with the aesthetically pleasing. And of course, they should clean the toilets more often. A company’s toilets are its calling card, they say. Well, I assume the railway company must be clean out of calling cards...

‘Tickets, please!’ calls a ticket inspector who reminds me of an officer I met while doing military service. Laden with all the utensils of his job, he passes through the corridor, feet splayed to help him keep his balance in the swaying train. It’s a soulmanager I need more than a corporal here.

‘Zurich – end of the line! Passengers are asked to leave the train. See the information boards for connecting services!’ Gee, thanks for telling me. I was feeling so comfortable there, I might almost have forgotten to get off. Now, where’s the nearest toilet?

Amazingly good!

A waiter on a train in Africa pushed his trolley cheerfully through the compartment, greeting each guest with a few friendly words. One passenger was eating a sandwich he had brought with him. The waiter gave him a serviette and wished him a pleasant journey. When he had moved on to the next compartment, the passengers all commented on how pleasant this young man was. When he passed through the compartment again 30 minutes later, almost everyone bought something from him. Being friendly does pay off!

In Indonesia, rail operators installed TV sets in the first-class compartments ten years ago.

In South Africa, the guard distributes the daily newspapers, as they do in airlines. In my opinion, this makes much more sense than printing a railway company magazine that hardly anyone reads anyway.

In Zurich, one woman discovered a niche in the market with her ‘Coffee blitz’. Every morning she offers travellers on the municipal railway network fresh home-brewed coffee from a specially constructed canister she carries on her back.