Train Trio

I had never been to the train station at 3 o’clock in the morning before this weekend. I do rather love new experiences and I will stow this one in my memory bank for years to come. And when I think back on the experience, I will hope to never experience it again.

As I walked in to the Aachen main train station at 3am, utterly tired and irritable, I found out where all of the homeless people sleep. As I shivered and tugged my scarf, I did have the wherewithal and energy to feel thankful and blessed that somewhere I had a comfortable bed to sleep in and I did not have to live in the Bahnhof. The Obdachloser, the roofless in German, looked like a troop of boy scouts at a camp out all snuggled on the cold floor of the station in their sleeping bags. I felt rather like I was intruding on their personal space.

But I learned that in the wee hours of the morning you do not just see the homeless. This is where one apparently ends up when they have consumed, or are still consuming, generous amounts of alcohol. I wasn’t sure whether or not to feel apprehensive or intrigued, and I think I felt both in my sluggish stupor. Everywhere I looked, swaying people peered at me or ignored me with glassy eyes or crooked grins. Some spoke emphatically and passionately the way inebriated people can, pointing their fingers and waving hands to make their words clearer. Others lolled their heads around, no longer concentrating on the world around them and apparently feeling as tired as I did. The club-goers seemed to have also moved their parties to the train stations at that hour and I dodged high-fiving guys and girls in very short skirts.

I had three trains to take to get to the Duesseldorf airport. The first train I simply gave the world the skunk eye I wondered why on earth anyone would be up at that God forsaken hour to take a train somewhere. What was I doing taking a train at that hour to try and catch a plane I wasn’t even booked on?

The second train had clearly been the party transportation. I sat in a compartment with a window freshly doused in party puke. And if the stench hadn’t let me know it was all-too recently thrown up, I knew for sure after I stepped in what was covering the aisle. Fresh and sticky vomit. The large, bloodshot eyed (however, no more bloodshot than my own) man in my compartment dealt with it by drinking Jaegermeister. It was now approximately 5am.

On my third train, I had stowed my suitcase where I could not see it and I was so tired I had a moment of panic, certain I had forgotten it on another train. No. Whew. It was still there. I then enjoyed the chatty Serbian man who was very focused on the quality of water in Aachen, and Bill Cosby. I’m not sure there was a connection between the two.