Willy Trolove: English unites in a Europe still divided by tongues

COMMENT

There is unease on the platform. The famous French train, the 300km/h TGV, is due in a minute. It has a reputation for being punctual and it will stop only briefly. Heaven help anyone who delays it.

On time to the second, the shining titanium arrow appears noiselessly in the distance and whirs into the station. The boarding passengers align themselves with the doors, which open outwards and sideways as if practising for parts in the next Star Wars film.

The disembarking passengers battle with their baggage in the spaceship confines of the train and spill from the carriage. A frantic man drags bags onto the platform and returns inside. Again and again he carts out more and piles them on the concrete.

The seconds tick by. The passengers waiting to board grow nervous. The man with too many bags is taking too long. Sweat polishes his brow.

A platform guard notices that the passengers at this carriage are not boarding. He strides our way, eyeing the clock. If this continues, the TGV will be late. The guard demands an explanation. The sweating man explains as he unloads more bags. The guard grimaces and barks encouragement.

At last the man has unloaded all his luggage. He yells into the carriage: "Allez. Allez. Allez."

A snake of small children, each one holding the hand of the one in front, emerges from the train. One little girl is lifted down from the carriage and the platform. She giggles, her tiny feet kicking space. The snake stretches and finally it pulls its tail, a female schoolteacher, from the doorway.

The boarding passengers plug the open hole like Pooh after dining with Rabbit. The train is late now and every second counts.

Too polite and too tall, I am the last in line. The guard panics and starts pushing passengers. I give him a look that says "Push me and I'll thump you one". Out of spite, he blows his whistle while I am still waiting my turn to board.

The door closes on the man in front. I wedge it open by planting a boot in the carriage. The high-speed train starts moving while I am mostly outside it. Fear gives me strength. As I struggle with the door, the guard runs alongside hammering my backpack with his fists as if I am a bung he can jam into a wine barrel.

I get through the door and it closes on my pack. The train accelerates. The platform runs out of length and the guard disappears. With one final heave I free my pack from the door and collapse into the carriage like a new-born calf.

The TGV gains speed and the G-forces build as it traces the great wide-radius curves of its jointless rails. In minutes it is carving across the French countryside like Torvill and Dean over a Sarajevo ice rink.

Most people have found their seats but in the aisle an argument is in full cry. An elegant Italian woman is confronting an arrogant German. From what I can tell they both have the same seat reservation.

The debate increases in vitality. At last a Frenchwoman gets to her feet. She is offended that the foreigners cannot resolve their differences. The flawless French ticketing computer would never assign the same seat to two people.

Politely she asks to see their tickets. They ignore her. Frustration digs a shallow trench above her eyebrows. "Parlez-vous francais?" she asks.

Again she is ignored. Upset that foreigners could board a train in France and not respond to the lingua franca, the Frenchwoman fumes. Finally she gives in, and, ashamed, asks: "Do you speak English?"

"Yes," the Italian woman replies. "Ja, of course," adds the German. In no time at all the combatants are talking politely to each other in the Queen's own tongue.

This is the new Europe.

A few weeks earlier, I met some Spaniards in a tapas bar in Madrid. A banker told me that 10 years ago you needed German and English to survive in his Spanish bank. Today, he says, nobody needs German. I asked him why.

"Partly it is because Germany used to be so powerful in Europe and today it is struggling. But mostly it is because all the Germans speak English now."

And so I sit on the TGV as it barrels across France at 300km/h, while an Italian and a German, with the help of a Frenchwoman, resolve their differences in the unofficial European language of common sense, good manners and cucumber sandwiches.

Who says that Britain isn't a part of Europe?

* Tapu Misa is on holiday.