Three hours to Frankfurt, half hour to change, then 3 hours just over to Munich. Not bad. A sprint across cold misty northern France and Belgium and now we are in an equally cold but not so misty Brussels. Not in any hint of excited mood at all. On my first small beer in L’Orient Express. No barmaid! An old Algerian man perhaps; perhaps the manager’s father. 1235 now, 1 hour 50 minutes till my train leaves, scarcely time to do anything but stay here in Orient Express. As always the Jupiler ice old. Bravo. No excitement; tired of course. Ah, a barmaid—apologies for being late. 1pm. 9 hours till any hint of naughtiness. A heavy cross to bear all the way across Belgium and Germany.