The Longest Train in the World

Blog #1: The Longest Train in the World

The only way to really differentiate the segments of such a trip is to identify each with my seat. Some seats are stiff and unforgiving, others are wide and plush. Many should have been burned at the “We Hate Disco” rallies held some twenty years ago. The yellow and brown scheme is frighteningly prevalent all over eastern and central Europe. This brings me to conjecture #1: European countries are required to sell their old train cars east. Much like some of our favorite states (West Virginia, Arkansas, Louisiana, parts of Kentucky and Mexico come to mind), Europe likes to pass on its less attractive modes of transportation in place of the newer and cleaner.

The first leg of the Brobdingnagian trek was in a six-person compartment from Bucharest, Romania to Budapest, Hungary. In a way I should feel very privileged. There were no chickens on my train. I have yet to witness this, but I am told on good authority that this does happen in some parts of the world. Chickens aside, I am specifically referring to the Orient Express. From the travel guides I have read, Bucharest was on the Orient Express—and for good reason. It was sometimes called Little Paris, just a little further east than the, uh, big one. For a few examples of this, take a look at the pictures I took of Bucharest. Wow, that sounded like a commercial. Here is the link:

http://www.imagestation.com/album/pictures.html?id=2126849903&code=15975998&mode=invite&DCMP=isc-email-AlbumInvite

From what you can see, this was once a beautiful place. Unfortunately for the Romanians and the rest of the world, we remember one of the many reasons we did not like the Communists. Beauty was out; drab was in. Bucharest, as the capital of Romania, saw more of this destruction and concrete reinvention than the rest of Romania. The dearth of pictures comes from the fact that I was only stopping for a day on my way back from Bulgaria and did not have much time.

So I was fortunate because I was in a compartment for six people and there were only five of us. It is not uncommon for the train companies to try to fit eight people in these cozy second class compartments. Do not be deceived: in these cases, more is most definitely not better. I was next to an old couple and across from a teenage girl dressed all in pink with her father. The first few hours were uninteresting; the old couple caught a post-dinner nap. The pink girl could manage a little English, but not enough for a conversation.

Whoa, Nelly, when the old couple woke up they were refreshed and ready to go! It was non-stop talking for a couple hours. Every once in a while I heard “American,” or something close, so I can only imagine what the conversation was about. Of course the old lady, through the pink girl, asked where I was from, why I was in Romania and if I was visiting a girlfriend. No, no girlfriend, I replied. And with the eyes I have seen on match makers before, she informs me that Romanian girls are very pretty. I knew there was a bit of mischief going on. Aside: I just ended a sentence with a preposition. Huh. I think she was concerned that I had so little to do and I was just writing away in my little journal. No girlfriend. Poor boy: how does he get out of bed in the morning?

After Chatty Kathy lighted the train, the three of us managed the best we could and caught some shut-eye. This brings me back to the seats. These were a bit stiff, a little too far apart for proper leg-propping, but far enough apart as to provide some breathing room. I have definitely ridden on worse. When I was alone and stretched out on the almost-bench, I had the pleasure of the seat edges digging into my sides. They left an impression, let me tell you.

So I am sending a proposal to the Hungarian train system in which I assert that their new motto should be, “Who stole the toilet paper?!” I was thankful to my Let’s Go travel guide when it warned me to carry your own roll with you. This train was actually quite nice… I have a feeling it actually belongs to Austria. At this point I was able to begin taking advantage of my first-class Eurail pass. You see, those of us unfortunate enough to be age 26 and over have to pay almost double because we are no longer considered “youths.” On the flip side, I had an entire compartment for six to myself, the seats were new and comfortable and the air-conditioner worked. What more could you ask for? Other than a plane, that is. This train took me through Vienna all the way to Nürnberg, Germany. This is where it became, shall I say, interesting?

Power walking. There should be a new game people play—it would have great economic benefit to all of Europe as it would be an excellent new avenue for gambling. Contestants are lined up at the gates, time is running out, the desperation is apparent on faces, mouths are frothing and buckles are screaming against the pressure. No, this is not the race for the bathroom; it’s the no-holds-barred sprint to your connecting train! I think the rail engineers try to see just how far they can push the time limits of these ridiculous schedules they are allegedly keeping. They have cameras with zooming technology, allowing them to see the slipping, sliding, crying passengers dart for the next train. It’s not as if the seven minutes I should have had would have been ample, but cutting that time in half is a good tactic for elevating the blood pressure.

Conjecture #2: The Christmas Party. They must have a Christmas party at the end of each year and give out awards for the engineer who has caused the greatest agony to passengers without actually causing material delay to the train “schedule.” All you are really thinking is, “If I miss this connection I will be stuck in this train station until 8:07 tomorrow morning. My last shower was 36 hours ago and I think I smell myself.” So there I am, running through this train station in Nürnberg with my monstrous 75-pound pack, pushing small children and hip-checking old ladies. We call this power walking. My glutes (or “butt cheeks” for those of you who haven’t lifted weights in a while) are screaming at me today. After repeating this a number of times in my 30-hour journey, I believe I could become a Marine. You always hear those stories about “running in the middle of the night with a 60-pound sack and an ankle broken in three places.” Be real. Whoa: 60 pounds, no little kids, no old ladies and no chickens in the background mocking your failure. Chickens: now that’s pressure. I could be a Marine. If it weren’t for the fact that I am overweight and lazy. And… not brainwashed enough.

As I was waiting for this fated connection, I am in equal agony with a man standing in the exit gates. After misunderstanding his first attempt, I finally made out “Sprechen Sie Englisch?” Why, yes, as a matter of fact I do. This is funny because I find myself asking this question so many times a day that when it is asked of me, I usually sputter something profound like, “Da. Ja. Si. Oui. Yes! D’oh! What country am I in???” At that point the answer is normally clear This particular gentleman is an Englishman living in Boston, traveling the world teaching music seminars. He says that he is able to teach people enough in three to four days that they can go practice 10 minutes a day and become quite proficient in their instruments.

I can see that happening. Not with me, of course, but it may work for others. I would probably last about 3 days and hide said instrument at the bottom of the closet. I think, of all things in my life, I have learned to buy no more instruments. Yes, my family is out there laughing at me right now. Let us count the instruments. There was the clarinet in junior high, the B-flat bass clarinet, the E-flat bass clarinet, the trumpet shortly thereafter, the B-flat bass clarinet in ninth grade, the hammered dulcimer my first year of college, the Celtic “whistle in D” that led up to my dulcimer purchase, there were at least two different recorders between the ages of six and twenty, a kazoo or eight scattered in there, and the fated guitar purchase. I think that was all of them. Ah, no, there was the Jew’s Harp somewhere around twelve. You remember those: the little, twangy metal things that you stick up to your lips, flick the arm and shape your mouth to make the sounds. Caution for those of you with a burning desire to take up the Jew’s Harp: avoid flicking the metal arm straight into your teeth. I have had more pleasant experiences in my life. I count twelve. I’ve been on the wagon for over six years now and maybe I will be a survivor this time.

Back to the globe trotting musician. We were in neighboring compartments on the train from Nürnberg to Stuttgart. I learned that the endless fields of yellow flowers that have suddenly bloomed everywhere in the last two weeks in Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, Austria, Germany and Switzerland are rape—as in rapeseed oil. When farmers need to let a field lie (lay?) fallow for a year, they plant rape because it helps put nitrogen back in the soil. I learned that the Hungarian language is not derived from Latin, Greek or any of the other Indo-European languages. It is most closely related to Japanese, and that only slightly. Beyond that, it’s a language of metaphors much like an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation when Captain Picard is stranded on a planet with this alien. From that description, you’re thinking, it could be any of the ST:NG episodes… and you’re right. Our musician had Einstein’s theory of relativity explained to him by a couple of 12-year-old Hungarian girls over dinner, yet again putting the American school system to shame.

Mercifully, the next dash for my last train of the journey was not as mad as the others. I had 10 entire minutes to find my first-class seat. I think there were two of us in the entire car… it’s a good thing I spent that extra money on a reservation. This, however, was the epitome of luxury. It was like a business-class flight, but with more elbow room. There were desks between the facing leather chairs. There was a plug so I could use my computer. There was even a waiter who brought a cart around, selling chips and coffee at Switzerland’s super-inflated prices. A single drink cost about as much as a really good meal, including drinks, in Bulgaria. Welcome home to Switzerland.

One last warning to those of you out there who want to join me in my world travels. When someone, even someone who appears to have good intentions, offers you something that looks like milk and smells like sausage, I would decline. This unmarked plastic bottle was the cause of many tribulations. Silly me: when I was offered a drink, I thought it was one of those, “Wow, this is great, would you like to try?” moments. This was, however, one of those, “Ooh, this smells awful, smell it!” moments. Please do not confuse the two. Thanks, Heather, but no thanks. It probably was not such a good idea to stick that not-so-empty bottle back in your purse as a Bulgarian souvenir. I hope you are not still having nightmares.

What is the moral of this fable? Swiss promptness is a farce. I laugh in the face of Swiss time-keeping perfection. I’ve heard and even told the stories of Swiss timeliness, but I have been unconvinced. Every single Swiss train I have ridden on has been 3-4 minutes late. Yes, there is something to be said for consistency, but there is also something to be said for being on time. This really wouldn’t bother me if it weren’t so blown out of proportion. If some guy based his entire performance on his talking canary, and I paid money to see his talking canary, I would be very upset if his canary did not talk. However, if you have a canary at home and it does not talk, I really do not care because you have not sold me a ticket telling me the silly thing would talk.

On the other hand, while Eastern Europe has a bad rap for awful trains, I think it is undeserved. Of all the trains I rode out there, every single one was within 1-2 minutes of the said arrival time. Of course that one train that was an hour late was probably the Turks fault, so I will ignore the incident. Granted, those trains may take a week and a half to arrive at the next little sheep barn, but it will be very prompt. This was a good thing considering that most stations lacked signs and schedules telling me what train was sitting in front of me. To continue the analogy, this would be the same as if I came to visit you and your canary actually could talk and you hadn’t even charged me admission. I admit, poorly constructed analogy, but it’s my journal and you don’t have a choice. Actually, I am fortunate to be alive. Between the chickens and unlabeled trains, I could have ended up in a small fishing village in Eastern Russia snuggling with some large Eskimo. That would have smelled.