Big celebrations and early morning flights are never a comfortable combination – unless the celebration is not really all that exciting and the daybreak departure becomes a perfect excuse to fold up your napkin and slip away early. On more than a few occasions, I’ve had the good sense to read the room early enough in order to plot how things might unfold. In between courses or spins on the dance floor, I pause for a few moments and go through a checklist of questions:

1. Is everyone having fun? If so, how much longer will this evening run for?
2. Am I having fun? If so, how much longer can I run for?
3. Do I seize the opportunity to exit with an early wave of sensible people?
4. Do I sign up, instead, to be one of the last to leave?
5. What time do I need to depart if I want to get a decent sleep?
6. If I’m not going to sleep, when do I need to leave to make the mad dash back home or to the hotel?
7. Have I packed? (Silly question, of course I haven’t.)
8. Do I know what I need to pack?
9. Is there a possibility of a later flight?
10. Can I at least assemble myself properly when I get to my destination?

All these questions flashed through my head on Tuesday evening as I joined a dear friend for his 40th birthday. While the night started at a homely Lebanese restaurant in Maida Vale, west London, I had no idea what was planned after the array of mezze and main courses were served. Would there be dancing? Were we heading elsewhere? In the back of my mind, the reality of a 6.40am flight to Vienna was flashing big and backlit. Could I stomach a midweek STP (straight to plane)? Or was there going to be room to squeeze in a couple of hours before the dreaded wake-up call? As the dinner table discussion turned to how “three is the new two” – in terms of how many children people are having – I got the sense that the party wasn’t going on much longer as there were babysitters and nannies to relieve. Soon after, chairs started to move and then the lights went up and bedtime was magically imposed.

I could easily have been tempted to go elsewhere but, 30 minutes later, I was back in the flat. I was weighing up whether it was wise to pack for a two-week tour taking in Vienna, Munich, Tokyo and New York before going to bed or, instead, to fumble around at 4.30am, thinking through what might need to be stuffed into my bag. As tempting as the bed looked, I pulled out my trusty Boston bag and went through the necessary wardrobe calculations.

Fifteen minutes later, my little carry-on was packed, my travel outfit laid out but, just when I was ready to jump into bed for three and a half hours of sleep, I wasn’t tired. I must have drifted off and was woken some hours later by the driver ringing. I ran into the shower and was down on the street in 20 minutes.

There was considerably more action on my street than I’m used to at 5am on a Wednesday as a rag-tag collection of cars rolled up in a sort of dishevelled motorcade. A bunch of brutes jumped out and stood watch as a couple of leggy, equally dishevelled girls clattered between vehicles and flat-nosed men grunted from the rolled-down rear windows.

Thirty minutes later I was with the cheery security staff at the airport listening to them negotiate with an equally cheery woman about what the heels of her shoes might be made of. The security team said there was metal inside and that the shoes would need to come off. The owner of the too pointy footwear said they were made from carbon-fibre and wouldn’t set off the X-ray. While they were working through the periodic table, I delicately made my way around them, lifted my bags on the belt and swiftly collected them.

About 30 minutes later, the clapped-out BA 757 was revving up on the runway (I thought the airline was retiring these planes?) and shortly after we were making a hard left over Farnborough. As we made our way to the Channel and the pilot warned of rain and high winds in Vienna, I thought there has to be a better way. Rather than STP, what about STT – straight to train?

In the super-speed rail world of my dreams I would have left the party, gone home, packed and caught a midnight high speed train to Vienna. I would have boarded a dimly lit carriage, settled into a comfy seat with a generous pitch and deep recline and dozed all the way to Munich. Somewhere around the Austrian-German frontier I would take a seat in a perfectly appointed dining car and tuck into a very Mitteleuropean breakfast buffet, knocking back two “melanges” crafted by a Trieste-born barista.

As most European legacy carriers have all but given up even trying to run a differentiated business class product, a completely high speed Europe, where the connections are fast and frequent (and round the clock), can’t come soon enough.

Tyler Brûlé is editor-in-chief of Monocle
tyler.brule@ft.com
More columns at www.ft.com/brule