An Ordinary Train Ride to Paris
Some experiences in life stay with you forever—especially when they put you in mortal danger.
In January of 1976, I went to Paris for a recording session with Phonogram. Afterward, I visited some friends living on the Left Bank. They offered for me to stay the night, but I decided against it and opted to take the night train back to Amsterdam.
While on the platform, I bumped into Bobby Reid, a jazz bassist, and his girlfriend Jane. We sat together in first class for a while, chatting and passing the time, before I eventually moved to second class, leaving my guitar with them.
I kept my money—a few guilders—and my passport under my sweater, careful to keep them secure. After a while, two elderly men got off the train, and I settled into my seat, eventually falling asleep.
Suddenly, I was jolted awake by a sensation. A man was standing over me, reaching toward my purse. I jumped up, startled, and shouted. In a panic, I dashed for the door to escape—but before I could get far, another man appeared, grabbing me and pressing a gun against my stomach. His cold voice told me to sit down, threatening to throw me out of the window if I didn’t comply.
I had no choice but to obey. I sat back down and opened my handbag, showing them there was no money inside. The two men exchanged rapid words in French, their conversation short but intense. After a tense moment, they seemed to come to a decision: I was of no use to them. With a quick glance, they left.
Still trembling, I ran back to Bobby and Jane in first class. I explained what had happened and stayed with them for the rest of the journey.
Later, at the border, I told two border patrol officers what had occurred. They took me through the train compartments, looking for the thieves. It turned out another Dutch girl had also been targeted by the same pair. We managed to track down the crooks, and they were promptly removed from the train. The girl and I had to give statements, and only then were we allowed to return to our seats.
My sister later told me that she’d read in the newspaper about a string of robberies taking place on the night train to Paris—confirming that I wasn’t the only one who’d been caught in their net.