Train journeys could be so serene, if I hadn’t somehow gotten myself cursed. I would never be able to leave a train without having lived through a moderately traumatic experience. I guess I must have pissed off a DB AG board member with an affinity for witchcraft.
It’s finally time!
I have at long last managed to collect, along with a truckload of trauma, enough BahnBonus reward points and can now treat myself to a luxurious upgrade into first class. My yearning for a finally relaxing journey makes the cost of 500 points well worth it. For only 250 more I could have fulfilled my dream of owning a weeding trowel, but you can’t have everything.
Now, nothing should stand in the way between me and a relaxing train ride. We manage to pass through the first 60 kilometers without any bigger troubles. My reserved seat (sometimes you just have to spoil yourself) is empty, the compartment is quiet and my spirits are high; despite me, against my expectations, not having been offered a glass of champagne upon entering first class. I was in such a good mood, I didn’t even think about potential mishaps. But then the quiet rumble of the wheels turns into silence. That cannot be good. We’ve come to a stop. Unscheduled!!!
There it is, the barely understandable, tinny voice of the conductor filling the silence. In between many “uhms” and “uhs” I can just barely decipher what he’s saying: that he believes we will be moving shortly. “Believing is not knowing”, I mutter. Instantly, a cold shiver runs down my spine and I have to shake myself. I’ve only ever heard this sentence from those teachers who clearly should’ve spent more time looking for a career after graduating high school. I feel the urge to wash my mouth out with soap, puke on the spot, or something in between.
Categories: City, Country, Standstill
For a long time, nothing happens. I try to remain positive. At least I’m part of this train’s upper class. I am untouchable. Not even the sad glances through the glass doors from the lowly riffraff of cattle class passengers without seat reservations changes that. As I ever more nervously shift in my very comfortable seat, the conductor makes yet another announcement and my worst fear becomes reality. This will take some time. Distorted by the tinny tones of interference, it sounds like he’s either telling us about problems with the tracks’ switch or a body left there by a witch. In any way, as it looks like we will remain stopped for the foreseeable future and because some passengers have to stand, he opens up my beloved first class to the mob. The only thing of worth to me, my only joy! I really must have pissed off Stagnatos, God of trains.
The glass doors, up until now separating the upper and lower class, open and the once so clearly marked border between the classes is done away with. A wild gaggle of eighth-graders are the first to brave the exploration of the lands of improved cushioning and increased comfort. Immediately, the typical teenaged scent, comprised of energy drinks, feeble attempts to overpower the adolescent sweat with axe body spray, and peanut butter puffs with a heart note of BiFi sausage, enters my nose. But they behave — as long as their phones keep them occupied. But soon the inevitable happens: they’ve scrolled to the end of TikTok and Instagram.
What remains? The group decides on an ancient game, to many only known through tales: they’re playing Categories. The 20 kids turn quiet. The obligatory “A” sounds out and shortly thereafter “Stop!”. They land on the letter “K”. This leads to discussions regarding the category “celebrities”. How are the points distributed among the Kardashians? Should they differentiate between Kim, Kourtney, and Khloé? Does “Kardashians” count, despite being an umbrella term? And where does that leave the Jenners, Kris, Kendall, and Kylie?
No Regard for the Loss of Seats
I eavesdrop on a fighting cosplay-couple, which, due to the delay, now won’t make it to Comic-Con in time. Their tempers are heated, the argument grows louder, and the last shouted sentence: “No, Lionel! I have spent eight hours working on your vest, we are going!” is brought to a full stop by a new announcement crackling through the intercom.
“Nothing is moving anymore on our section.” The conductor goes to explain that an evacuation train will be arriving, in which we then will have to climb into via ladders. This will be done coach by coach, to prevent panicking. When it’s our turn, I find myself standing in the midst of the, now rather loud, eighth-graders. In front of me, a boy begs another to please show him photos of his oldest sister again, who he thinks is “so damn hot”. Behind me, new cotton candy flavoured lip gloss is being applied, while the teacher does a head count of her class. I see her start over again and again, her face showing more despair each time. She is counting a child too many. Me! I give her a long and piercing look. Our eyes meet, I slowly shake my head. That’s when she realizes her mistake as well, but with my height and in that frenzy, it’s not really surprising for this to happen.
As I finally crawl across the narrow ladder, the new seating arrangement is the only thing on my mind. Neither my reservation nor my ticket class will be taken into account here. I refuse to believe this bitter loss and thus find myself in the first stage of grief: denial. But now for a change (change, get it? Because we had to change trains … I hate myself!) I got to move from an open-plan into a six-person compartment. The idiot density here is not as high. In the open-plan compartments, someone is always talking too loudly on the phone, and some random child is always craving either a roll with raw mince and way too many onions or a fully loaded döner and with way too much garlic.
A short while later, I am asked if the other seats are free for the taking and I nod without sparing a glance. A guy sits down, his after shave makes my eyes tear up and I’m pretty sure I can taste it, too. I‘d much rather have that puberty sweat back, please! Now I decide to take a closer look at the origin of that waft: bald, tattoos that just barely don’t break the constitution, and no headphones or anything; he’s just staring straight ahead. To my relief he already gets off at the next station, and I can breathe out and relax again.
The peace and quiet doesn’t last long. A man, type barefoot shoes and bouldering, enters my compartment. Only a few minutes pass and he has already taken out and opened his lunch box. It emits a scent straight from hell’s olfactory division: Harz cheese, kohlrabi, and radishes. His jaw is working less on the raw veggies than I am on suppressing my gag reflex. By the time he closes Pandora’s box again, I’m already lightheaded from holding my breath. But what’s this? There’s an asshole in every one of us! I’m once again realizing that a train is the best place to hate people. He starts building a tower out of small tupperware, glass jars, and boxes, containing mysterious but likely fermented contents, on the seat next to him.
The leaning tower of Fermentisa has not deterred yet another traveler from entering our compartment. The older-looking gentleman donning a brown tweed suit sits down in the window seat opposite of me. He looks around, as to assure himself of something, and reaches into his laptop bag. From there he retrieves a paper cup and a piccolo bottle of red wine. It must have been the most exquisite looking bottle I have ever laid eyes on, its form as well as the label pretty much scream: “Not even first class is good enough for me!” Lovingly, he pours himself a small sip into the paper cup and swirls it fervently. Encouraged, the younger raw-veg-fanatic with wooden jewelry to his right opens a Jever beer. Two parallel worlds, divided only by a wildly patterned middle seat. The heavy smell of the red wine starts spreading across the compartment and the vinophile takes out an anti-capitalist book and starts reading. Looks like some people still manage to surprise me.
During the final kilometers of my journey, I learn to accept my situation and the smells, and enjoy the picture of contrast sitting in front of me. As the end of this odyssey comes closer, the tweed-man starts wiping out his paper cup steadily with a napkin from his pocket and tests if the screw cap keeps the rest of his wine safe in the bottle — by turning it on its head. The other one starts stowing away his box collections Tetris-style. Meanwhile I start to realize that within eight hours on trains — which have felt much longer — I only made it 60 kilometers towards Southern Germany, just to end up back at my departure station. They say the journey is the reward, but I would rather just arrive!
This acknowledgment kick-starts the second stage of my grief: anger. “Why does this always happen to me?!” I quite like traveling, really! Or at least the “arriving” part. The journey does not appeal to me at all. Maybe next time, I’ll try out the FlixBus again. A woman painting her toe nails in the seat next to me somehow doesn’t seem that bad anymore.
Translation: Ellen Helmecke