Vintage train in Bad Doberan, Germany Photo by Felix O. |
By
Heidi Noroozy
As
a child, I had fantasies about living the life of a hobo, hopping on and off
trains, traveling to wherever the rails led. As an adult, I realize I hadn’t considered
the practicalities well enough to appreciate the downside of such a life: the lack
of creature comforts and regular meals—the danger. But back then, it wasn’t the
lifestyle that beckoned to me or even the sense of freedom and boundless
horizons. I just loved trains.
One
memorable rail-riding experience came when I was 11. That summer, my family and
I spent some weeks in a small town called Tabarz in Thuringia, a forested region
of gently rolling hills in East Germany. A network of hiking trails
crisscrossed the landscape and led through the woods from one red-roofed
village to the next. We’d spend long afternoons wandering those loamy trails,
and when dusk fell, we’d return home by way of the Bimmelbahn, a narrow-gauge
train that stopped at every tiny hamlet along its route. The train got its name
from the little bell the engineer would ring on approaching a station. (Bimmeln means to ring a bell.) I could
have ridden that little train all day long and never tired of listening to its
cheerful chimes as it pulled into the next town. To this day, decades later, I
can still conjure up the rich, piney scent of those woodsy trails and the
ting-a-ling of the Bimmelbahn’s bell.
When
I embark on a trip and need to choose a mode of transport, plane travel usually
wins out for the sake of expediency. But if I had my druthers, I’d pick the
rails every time. Most modern trains give a smooth and silent ride, but
sometimes on a regional route, you can still find the old rattle-traps that are
more like a historic steam engine than the high-tech, computerized machines of
today. I love the way they go clickety clack down the line, slowly at first
then faster and faster as they gather speed, until the world whizzes by to a
staccato rhythm.
Hiking in the Thuringian Forest |
Once,
years ago, I had a bit of extra time and rode the rails straight across the
United States, a journey that took three days. By the end of that trip, my mind
was filled with images of wind rippling through golden wheat fields,
green-flanked mountains reaching up to stroke the clouds, and the dramatic
landscapes of the California’s Pacific coast, where waterfalls tumble down
rocky cliffs and the sea carves blue coves out of the rugged shoreline. I
gained a new appreciation for the varied landscapes of the country where I
live.
I’ve
had some fun times on trains. Once, on an overnight trip from Madrid to Algeciras
at the southern tip of Spain, my two friends and I shared a compartment with
three Spanish teenagers. The six of us played hand after hand of Crazy Eights
throughout the long night. I understood no more than five or six words of
Spanish at the beginning of the card game, which we took to calling “Ochos
Locos,” but by dawn I could count to ten and rattle off the names of suits as
though I’d been playing cards in Spanish for years.
Not
every rail-riding experience has been quite so much fun. On a 1980 trip from
Oslo to East Berlin, the train was late and I missed an evening connection
somewhere in the middle of Denmark. The next train heading my way didn’t leave
until six the next morning, so I settled in for a long night of strong coffee
and a good book in the station’s tiny café. By the time we made it to the East
German border, I discovered that, somewhere along the way, I’d lost the visa,
stamped on a separate piece of paper, that I needed to enter the GDR. Possibly
it had fallen out of my bag at that little café in Denmark.
GDR border crossing Photo by Felix O. |
Certain
that I’d be unceremoniously tossed off the train and left behind in the no
man’s land that existed between the two German states, I explained my situation
to the East German border guard—hoping I didn’t look as nervous as I felt. But
he just shrugged, told me to get a new visa as soon as I could, and moved on to
the next passenger.
The
shops, and therefore the travel agencies, were closed for the day when we
reached Berlin, and the next day was Sunday. So I spent two nights as an
illegal alien in the German Democratic Republic before getting my visa sorted
out. No one seemed to care except me.
These
days, I may have abandoned my over-romanticized image of the hobo’s life, but I
still feel a thrill of excitement when I climb aboard a train. Sometimes it’s
not the destination that matters but the thrill of the journey that gets you there.
Heidi, I always love reading your poetic posts. And I agree, finding your way about by train is about one of the most romantic modes of transport there is. Do you still remember how to say the names of the suits in Spanish?
ReplyDeleteThanks, Supriya. Trains go through some of the best landscapes in any country. I don't remember the names of the all the suits in Spanish. I think corazones was hearts and espadas spades, but I might be just assuming that. I forgot the other two entirely. Alli? Help me out here? :)(And I won't admit to how long ago that trip was either.)
DeleteI, too, love trains. On Italian long hauls, I love smelling the lunches that Neapolitan mammas pack--salame and crusty bread and olives. I love looking out at olive groves and vineyards, swooshing unexpectedly through tunnels, and spying hill towns with towers and walls. While the high-speed trains can get you from point A to point B in record time, the sleepy little local trains are fun too.
ReplyDeleteIn Rome we have the trenino (little train)--which isn't all that little. There are several lines, and they cross Rome from outside the city. The one I use most frequently goes from the airport at Fiumicino to about 50 K beyond. It runs every 15 minutes, except Sundays and holidays, and the fare is miniscule.
I would love to ride the rails in Italy. Such lovely landscapes. Someday I will.
Delete