A few years back……………………………(somewhere in the 1980’s to be more specific), I had the opportunity to ride on the Blue Train from Johannesburg to Cape Town, South Africa.

I had been in South Africa working in Durban and then Johannesburg with my job as an Athletic Trainer (sports medicine) on the women’s professional tennis tour.

 

 

Because I was in South Africa anyway for work (that was the only way I could have afforded to be there)…………………I took advantage of my time in the country to book a ticket on their famous Blue Train.

I even have a souvenir crystal decanter with glasses from the train to prove it.

I remember talking with the train’s personnel about how the train had to change engines to cross the desert.  They needed a different power source other than steam through the desert.  Coal?  I don’t know.

I know nothing about train engines…………..my recollection might not even be correct………………but I do know that a middle of the night engine change in the middle of the desert was necessary……………..I slept through it…

I had booked a couchette compartment.

It was a wonderful overnight trip.

An experience of a life time.

My trip on the Blue Train has some great memories and some not so great/but equally dramatic ones.

 

 

The Dining Car was wonderful.  The menu was excellent.

 

 

 

I spent a great deal of time there reading and journaling…………………….plus, South Africa has some GREAT wine to go along with it’s phenomenal scenery.

 

 

 

And  gorgeous Protea———why doesn’t the rest of the world know about Proteas?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And did I mention, really great, unlimited quantities of stupendous wine?

 

 

 

 

For this occasion, I even had the opportunity to pull out my ever-reliable/drip-dry/permanent-press/incredibly inexpensive-yet-serviceable little black dress.

It was all so much fun.

I ate, I watched the countryside rock & clatter by.

I sat and relaxed and read………………it was wonderful.

 

What wasn’t fun, was having to punch a guy who followed me back to my couchette after my beautiful dining experience.

But women traveling alone develop that “extra” sense.

 

 

I’ve taught my daughters to NEVER discount “that” feeling…………..it may just save your life.

And it just may have that night.

I had seen him having dinner with his wife and young son and daughter in the dining car earlier.

They left but he remained…

At that point it was dark outside so the windows acted like mirrors for me and I could see everything in the train car without actually looking around.

 

Traveling alone you HAVE to notice those things.

So when I stood to leave, I saw him watching me in the reflection.

The dining car had a few people in it still, but not as many as before.

I walked back to my compartment………………..he followed at a distance.

When I got there, he tried to force himself into my room by putting his arm over my head and shoving open my door.

What surprised me was how calmly analytical I was at the time……………I pivoted around and punched him just above the xiphoid process, and then slammed and locked my door.

I kid you not, I remember thinking he’s got children/we are out in a remote desert/I don’t want to puncture his lung……………

(…………….now as a crotchety, old broad…………..I should have punctured the bastard’s lung.)

What didn’t surprise me was my great right jab ……………..(I have draft horses right now who can still attest to that.)

I knocked him across the hallway and into the window on the other side of the train car.

And that was that…

 

I saw him with his family the next morning at breakfast.

He couldn’t look at me.

The bastard.

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I’d have to say, at this juncture, that I do believe in kismet………………..because in my over ten years of world travel there were a number of occurrences where I could have easily exited this plane of existence…………………..but I didn’t…

 

I must’ve needed to stay for a purpose…

 

 

I should probably blog about some of them…

Why not———I’ve survived to this age to tell my tale.

Patrice & Pascal……………..you ready to listen?