Christmas is coming. The trains are fuller than Christmas markets and their visitors. Somewhere Last Christmas is playing on loop and as soon as the first tentative snowflake makes its way down to earth, everything goes pear shaped.
Memories of my last christmessy trip homewards flash through my mind the moment I take the chance to reserve a seat on an ICE train as early as August, thanks to a record-breaking deal. I saved a couple of bucks, but my travel time increases significantly. First from Halle to Nuremberg, only to return half of the way back to the northernmost tip of Bavaria. But everything that glitters is gold for a student’s budget, fuelled by the hope that this year’s trip will be better than last year’s snow-covered odyssey on the Regionalbahn.
Finally: The day which I’ve been mentally preparing for for weeks has arrived. In unexpected expectedness, the train is delayed due to a failure in the operational schedule. Admittedly, this time it’s my fault. Having booked the train ages ago, I’d forgotten that today’s the day. Barely on time myself, the train apparently also forgot when it was supposed to be at the platform. Here I am already, full-heartedly recommending more reliable and less stressful means of transportation to people who actually want to arrive at their destination. For example, how about a reindeer-drawn sleigh, keeping it appropriately in style for the festive season?
After minutes of worrying about the cold and frost biting off my toes (the P in ICE surely doesn’t denote punctuality) the train decides to fulfill its purpose and arrives at the station. In this almost magical moment I contemplate whether I should believe in miracles again. Yet as the train hisses to a stop it tears me from my thoughts and I decide to hop on board to escape a frosty death just in time.
The seat I’ve reserved actually exists, which compared to other journeys comes as a decent surprise. “It’s all going to go well”, I think, looking forward to a relaxed journey, being as naive as a new commuter who’s excited about their first BahnCard. We glide through the landscape, past small towns, further and further south and slowly evening dusk settles in. But hold that thought, why’s the train standing still?
Our journey’s delayed indefinitely, the speakers creak and crackle through the wagon, the message being barely audible. Reason for this inconvenience is the sudden/unexpected onset of winter. The travelers’ heads turn towards the window almost in unison and, as a matter of fact, if one looks really closely/hard/through a magnifying glass, stray snowflakes sporadically swirl to the ground. They thank us for our understanding. Which understanding?! It’s always the same crap with this shitty service. I should’ve walked or at least put my idea with the sleigh in action.
To pass the waiting time, questionnaires are passed around by DB-personnel, questions centering about customer satisfaction. Everyone ticks little boxes angrily and the collective need to immediately quarter the DB management arises. Regrettably, this service is not available at the moment. The next announcement thanks us for vivid feedback and points our attention towards the on-board bistro and its culinary supply. Unfortunately, a longer queueing time may be expected. But what else to lose? The Christmas presents I stacked in my luggage for the less beloved of my relatives, for whom one always just gets something in some deli shop — those presents become more and more tempting. Still vinegar, oil and some fancy seasoning salt aren’t particularly nutritious on their own. Moreover, sometimes you gotta spoil yourself! The money I saved on my special-offer ticket wants to be spent!
I’d have to spend a fortune, yet there’s mulled wine and it hits even harder on higher blood pressure and an empty stomach, even devoid of seasoning salt. Before scouting for a seat, I drown the first half of the drink. There’s only a rock and a hard place. One’s a group of inebriated women in their mid-forties, returning from their corny Christmas market stroll, daring to drown their mundane lives in extraordinary amounts of mulled wine. The other one’s a table occupied by at least eighty percent of whiny children, all below the age of eight. The kid’s table is mine at Christmas already, especially with the extended family present, as the only way to the grown-up table comes with a fixed salary and a job that doesn’t bring you happiness. At home, being a student is neither a job nor an achievement.
The group of women I’d usually give a wide berth it is then. They’re people who certainly each have a wall tattoo screaming the word “LOVE” plastered across their walls, and who’d proudly stand by saying they’re not crazy but a special edition. I declared them my archnemesis a couple of train journeys ago. But if you can’t escape them, become (a part of) them. As Sunzi said ever so wisely: “Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.”
As soon as I sit down, I am absorbed into their alcohol-infused clique and notice we have nothing in common, except for the mulled wine. We laugh a lot and understand one another little. The kids weasel up and start running/scurrying around us. If they’d just be quick enough, as in going at light speed, they would, according to Einstein’s theory of relativity, age slower than (those of) us who sit around aimlessly. The faster you move, the more time slows down. Well, that’s a natural law the ICE doesn’t abide by.
I survive from one cup of mulled wine to the next. The on-board bistro is still tanked up (and so am I). The atmosphere’s at flashpoint and the increasing demand is reflected in the decreasing supply. No more mulled wine. There’s wheat beer though … that’s just Bavaria. An elderly man of the type Father-Christmas orders a coffee and is collectively booed upon. Handing him his hot beverage, the waiter remarks: “A coffee for the young lad.” A brief fit of panic rushes through me. How long have I been here? What if the old man went on-board as a young man? Eventually, I devour my last sip of mulled wine and decide not to worry about Einstein, time and the lot.
Meanwhile Christmas songs start blaring from somewhere – Christmas songs alternating with Schlager music – and a flashback of my yesteryear’s journey on the infamous Regionalbahn catches up with me. A Reinhold-Messner-lookalike moves to get out and knocks on the train to bid his farewell. As far as I can tell his lips form a “toi toi toi”. I’m not sure whether he surrenders entirely or prefers to walk the rest of the way.
The blissful sounds of Wham! roaring through the wagon nearly drown out a scratchy announcement which promises that we’d be moving soon. Jubilation erupts. In-between a tear of joy is shed. People lie in one another’s arms as if first and second class were only mental constructs. The train starts. A sensation I’d nearly forgotten how it feels like. The Father-Christmas-Double, apparently having been our DJ for the whole time already, turns it up a notch. Ballermann music boards the train. The Party-train’s on full speed now. Everyone’s bawling: “The train, the train, the train doesn’t have brakes!”
My fellow-travellers’ mood fails to carry me any longer. I long for the often carolled but never really existing silent night and try to escape the party-bistro, staggering just slightly. My reserved seat, once I find it again, is miraculously unoccupied. I fall into my seat and the rest of the journey passes in throbbing darkness. I dream of my passenger rights and of a hefty compensation waiting for me for having been forced to endure my personal limbo. Reality tears me from my slumber, bass still pounding from the bistro, as another announcement rings: “Sänk ju for träwelling wis Deutsche Bahn!“
Text and Illustrations: Michelle Ehrhardt
Translation: Atlanta Apel, Luca Köhler