TRAINS!
I was standing on the platform of the railway station, a eurail pass in my hand, a backpack at my feet, looking at the departure board. Hamburg, Copenhagen, Milan, Budapest. No one knew where I was. It was before cell phones, before email. I was not expected anywhere, though my grandpa's letters were being held at the American Express office in Paris. I was alone. Free. And very, very happy. It was the moment I fell in love with travel.
Trains ARE travel. To me, airplanes have all the psychological appeal of an elevator. You are contained in a metal box, with unnaturally quiet strangers who pretend not to see you. There is no real sense of where you are, no control. But trains…
Let me tell you the things I have seen on a train.
From Trivandrum to Cochin, India. It is an old British Raj train, with proper compartments arrayed along a hallway. During the day, my compartment seats eight. Big enough to keep to yourself or find someone compatible to chat with, small enough for everyone to listen to one person talk if they are interesting. A perfect number for casual socializing. So perfect, in fact, that Club Med used the European train compartment size to decide that most of their resort tables should seat eight.
It is now night, and the bunks have been set up along both sides of the compartment. I am in an upper bunk, moaning. On my way to India, I had stopped in London. One of my wisdom teeth was aching. I decide to see a dentist before heading to the wilds of Kerala.
The dentist asked if I wanted any anesthetic (yes please) then put in a filling. It felt funny. Only in retrospect did I remember that the British are not known for their beautiful teeth.
By the time I get to Trivandrum a few weeks later, I am taking codeine every hour. This train is going to take me to Cochin, where a friend has arranged for me to see her dentist, the highly esteemed Dr. Baby. I just have to last the night.
So I withdraw to my bunk and simper quietly. The only other person in the compartment is an impeccably groomed middle-aged Indian man. Soon after getting onboard he leaves to walk the unsteady, rattling hallway. Within minutes he is back with a young American woman he met down the corridor.
They sit on the lower bunk against the opposite wall and continue the conversation started in the hall. He is explaining to her that, as a swami, it is incumbent upon him to take on the sufferings of others. To understand, to feel. "Oh yes, yes," the American is very sympathetic to his plight, his burden. She moves a bit closer.
I loose track of the conversation because waves of tooth pain have caused me to start sobbing. I exhaust my supply of Kleenex and start to sniffle into the sheets. I catch the swami throwing me a dirty look. I am cramping his style.
The woman quietly tells her pet martyr that she has some wine in her compartment, if he is not too busy to join her there. They are up and out before my next convulsion. The rest of the trip I am left alone in a codeine daze. A car meets me at the station and takes me straight to Dr. Baby. He pulls the tooth. The pain is gone. He is now my personal swami.
Somewhere in Germany. I am sitting across from a man, maybe 75 or so. WWII holds heavy memories for my family and I have yet to visit Germany. I am traveling on a Eurail pass, trying to decide if I should get off and explore, if fifty years is enough. The man asks me, in broken English, where I am from. Canada, I answer. He looks out the window, remembering. In a friendly, faraway tone he says: "Canada. Canada. I shot down some Canadian planes during the way." I keep going until I get to France.
From London to Reading. It is a short trip, only half an hour, but it is on the power suburban run. Most of the people on the train are pouring over confidential office documents, easily seen by those around them. But this time I am not peeking at Oracle performance number, I am looking at a cheerful, elderly man with actual handlebar mustaches (when they look like that, the word HAS to be plural). He is chatting to the man facing him. When it is his friend's turn to speak, he lifts an ear trumpet, an actual honest-to-betsy ear trumpet, pokes the narrow end in his right ear and points the open end at his friend. They chat enthusiastically about the shortcomings of their wives until it is time for me to get off.
Northern Manitoba. I am standing at the station in The Pas, talking to the station guard. A train grumbles and rumbles by, surprisingly full, heading even more north, towards the Native towns further along the tracks. I ask if the cars are always that full. "You think that is packed? You should see it around Mother's Day. All the boys going home. It is the biggest day of the year. Father's day isn't as popular though."
Somewhere in Germany. I am crossing Germany again, on my way to another American Express office, several countries away, for letters from grandpa. I am broke, hungry, tired. The others in my compartment are well-heeled, middle-aged German businessmen. They ask politely about my travels, my country, me. I chatter on until I am too exhausted, then, excusing myself, I prop myself up against my backpack and fall asleep. When I wake up, all but one of the businessmen have left, and there is a twenty deuchmark note in my hand.
I look at the remaining man, confused, angry. What is this? He explains that one of the others traveling with us thought I looked like I could use it, and so he tucked it into my hand before he left the train. I feel oddly violated by his charity. Indignant. Sullied. But he was right, I do need the money. I am hungry. And furious. The man still in the car with me cannot understand my reaction. Neither can I. I get off the train in Hamburg and have my first good meal for a long time.
Stockholm to Oslo. It is a golden Northern summer and I am heading to Bergen because it is as far as the train will take me. The two young women in my compartment ask if I have been to the islands off the coast of Oslo. No, I haven't. Oh, you must, they say. One of them has a family home there. They are on their way to visit her mom. Come with us. I do. The mom picks us up at the station. A short drive to the dock and the small outboard motorboat. Ten more minutes and we are there. It is small, rugged, and rocky, tamed by a log cabin and leashed by a well-built dock. It reminds me of the Laurentian lands that grew me. It feels like home.
But there is something I am not catching. Some undertone in the mother's looks.
It takes me a while, but I get it. The women are gay, and the mother wonders about me. And maybe they do too. But I am not, and soon I do not fit so well. I want to stay, it is so beautiful, comforting. But I am told, firmly, time to leave. They drive me back to the train. And I travel on.
IF YOU GO
Leave the itineraries behind, get yourself a train pass and just go. Certain places are real train countries. The U.K., New Zealand, India, Canada. All offer train passes of some sort. The most common: www.britrail.com, www.raileurope.com and (for Canada) www.viarail.com.
