Multiple-choice reading

Last spring, I took the overnight train from Paris to Vienna with a small suitcase, a notebook, and a slightly guilty feeling. Flying would have been faster and, if I’m honest, probably cheaper. But after years of promising myself I would “travel more responsibly”, I finally decided to test what that phrase really means when you have deadlines, limited holiday time, and a phone full of tempting flight deals. The train felt like the grown-up choice—less dramatic than a protest banner, more practical than giving up travel altogether.

At the station, nobody looked like an environmental hero. People were tired, checking emails, buying sandwiches, and trying to find their platform. That was comforting. It suggested that changing habits might not require a complete personality change. Still, as I squeezed into my compartment and watched the city lights slide past, I wondered whether my decision was meaningful or just a way to feel better about myself.

By morning, the train had crossed several borders without me doing anything more complicated than turning over in my bunk. When I opened the curtain, the landscape had shifted into wide fields and small villages, the kind that look as if they have been in the same place for centuries. I arrived in Vienna with the unusual feeling that I had actually travelled there, not simply been delivered. It’s a romantic thought, and I’m aware that romance can hide inconvenient facts. Trains are not always powered by clean energy, and they aren’t available—or affordable—for every route. But the experience made me question the way technology has trained us to value speed above all else.

Vienna itself has become a symbol of “liveable city” culture: reliable public transport, plenty of green spaces, and an impressive number of cyclists who seem calm even in busy traffic. I was there to meet a friend, Marta, who moved from Spain to work for a company that develops software for energy-efficient buildings. Over coffee, she described her job with the kind of enthusiasm that usually disappears after the first year of employment. “We’re not saving the world,” she said, “but we’re making waste more visible. Once you can measure it, you can’t ignore it.”

That sentence stayed with me because it connects two things we often keep separate: personal lifestyle choices and the systems that shape them. It’s easy to tell individuals to recycle or to take shorter showers. It’s harder to admit that many people don’t control the heating in their rented flats, can’t afford newer appliances, or live in places where the only realistic way to commute is by car. When responsibility is presented as a private moral test, it can feel like a trap: you either become perfect or you give up.

The city’s approach seemed less interested in perfection and more focused on making the better option the easier one. I used a travel card that worked on trams, buses, and the underground without needing to download three different apps. In the evenings, I walked along the Danube Canal, where teenagers played music and office workers sat with takeaway noodles. It didn’t look like a campaign poster. It looked normal, which may be the most persuasive argument for change.

Of course, Vienna is not a fairy tale. Locals complained about rising rents, crowded tourist areas, and summers that are getting hotter. One afternoon, a sudden storm flooded parts of the street near my hotel. The receptionist shrugged as if it were just another inconvenience, but she also said, quietly, that these storms used to be rare. Climate change can feel abstract until it interrupts your plans. Then it becomes personal in an uncomfortable way.

On my last day, I visited a small exhibition about “smart homes” in a design museum. It was full of sensors, voice-controlled lights, and fridges that can suggest recipes. The displays were clever, but I left feeling uncertain. There is a thin line between technology that helps us waste less and technology that simply adds new reasons to consume. A home that tracks your energy use can be empowering; a home that listens to you all day can be something else. The future often arrives disguised as convenience.

On the train back, I tried to decide what I had learned. I hadn’t become a different person. I still wanted comfort and I still checked my phone too often. But the slower journey gave me space to notice my own habits, and that, I think, is the point. Responsible travel is not only about counting emissions; it’s also about paying attention—about choosing, when possible, not to let speed and ease make every decision for you. I can’t promise I’ll never fly again. I can promise that the next time I do, I’ll think harder about why.