A journey with hindrances

Saturday, March 17th, 2012, 3 AM. 


Plagued by my old foe familiar from many trips to Germany, the sleeplessness of jetlag, I finally decided I might as well write instead of unsuccessfully trying to get back to blissful oblivion. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 


 This is how I had intended to end the last blog entry from the Calgary airport, but had to cut it short because the boarding call finally came: If the beginning of this trip is any indication, I will have fun. When I was waiting for my turn in a busy washroom a little while ago a sudden clatter made all of us women turn to the far end of the line of stalls. There was a moment’s silence, then a voice asked, “Are you okay?” A peal of laughter was the answer, followed by a “Yes, I think so”. It turned out that the door of one of the stalls had mysteriously got unhinged at the top and tipped towards the rear wall, fortunately missing the unsuspecting woman inside. Needless to say, once it became clear what had happened and it was ascertained that she didn’t get hurt the whole washroom was filled with laughter. I wonder what will happen next ... 
                         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 


Maybe it is not such a good idea to engage in speculations like that, because something just might. As if a five hour wait at an airport wasn’t enough, the delay was extended first by forty minutes, then by an hour, and finally, an hour and a half later, boarding commenced. After a while everybody was seated, waiting expectantly for the plane to start taxiing – but nothing. Stewardesses were walking back and forth checking overhead bins one last time, calmly listening to remarks about the temperature inside the plane – it was getting hotter and hotter – talking to passengers here and there. 


 Every once in awhile the captain reported that there were still issues to resolve, apologized for the heat, thanked us for our patience (we had heard that line more often than we cared for since the plane started to be delayed), mentioned something about starting the left engine to get some fresh air into the plane, even explained what we would be hearing when it did, or that we’d smell some jet fuel for a moment once the engine caught – but nothing happened. 


 And then, there it was, the longed for stream of fresh air! We were informed that, unfortunately, this did not yet mean imminent departure: they had opened a door in the rear, which at least brought the temperature down to a more pleasant level. Still, however, “the air current was not strong enough to get the engine started” –whatever that meant! - and more air needed to be brought over from the hangar, the captain informed us. Somehow we didn’t feel very much reassured when we heard this latest development. 


 Finally the longed-for engine noise set in, and at 9:15 PM – two-and-a-half hours later than planned – we were airborne. Everything went smoothly after, service was good, and we made up about half an hour of that lost time by the time we landed in Frankfurt. On our way out, the flight attendants thanked us for our exemplary acceptance of the circumstances. It seems they often have much different experiences on occasions such as these. 


 Our carousel was the only one in motion when we came down to the baggage area, and soon we were on our way, some to catch connecting flights to Delhi and Cairo, others, like me, close to the end of their destination. 


The delay meant that I would be that much later to arrive at my cousin Sigrid’s in Gießen, a university town about an hour north of Frankfurt. It was not feasible to book a train ticket from home, of course, and now I hurried to “the railway station” to get “a ticket to my destination”. No problem, the friendly ticket seller told me, the next train was due to leave in a few minutes, and I’d just make it. I would change trains at Frankfurt’s main terminal, and again in Friedberg, and would arrive in Gießen an hour and a half later, at ten to four. Great! This was going to work out beautifully. 


 Once I had walked over to track 104 from 102 at my first train change (Frankfurt is a huge rail terminal!) I sank back into the seat and relaxed, enjoying the sun on my face, the greening landscape flying by outside the window, the little towns where we stopped for a couple of minutes to dispense of passengers and pick up new ones. I still hadn’t had time to phone Sigrid, who by now would be starting to wonder if I’d ever make it, but both at the airport and at the main terminal I had just barely had time to catch my train. I’d have ten minutes in Friedberg, at the last switch, which should be long enough.


 The estimated time of arrival there came closer, and since I was not familiar with the stations along the way I just enjoyed the ride. Then came the announcer’s voice over the loudspeaker system: “Kronberg. This train ends here. All passengers have to get out.” 


 “Where do I catch the train to Friedberg,” I asked the man waiting beside me by the door before disembarking. “Friedberg?” he asked, looking at me questioningly. “There is no train to Friedberg from here. You must be on the wrong train.” 


 Oh, great! Now what? Thankfully, Kronberg still has a railway office with a clerk, unlike other stations that sometimes have only ticket dispensers. I explained my dilemma to this very friendly man, and he told me not to worry, I’d make it to Gießen by 4:30, and it wouldn’t be difficult at all. He scribbled a few words on the back of my ticket and stamped it in case I would get into trouble for not having the right ticket for that line, and explained carefully where I had to change trains again. 


 I have no idea how I could end up on the wrong train, because I am sure it was track 104 where I boarded, just as I was supposed to. Not much used to using public transit, it didn’t occur to me to check the sign on the train. I just had the time – which was about right – and the track, and thought that was sufficient. I had not taken into consideration that at a station as busy as Frankfurt there would be trains leaving from the same track constantly. Live and learn! 


In Kronberg at three o’clock I still hadn’t been able to notify my cousin, and the first switch wouldn’t leave me enough time. The second one was only twenty-five minutes from my last destination. My cell phone had no signal in Germany, and I decided to try if there was wifi on the train so that I could use Skype.No such luck, however. 


 A well-dressed elderly woman came in, looked over to me and said, “busy, busy”, nodding at the computer. “Not busy”, I said, “just getting a bit desperate.” “Do you want to use my phone,” she asked. “It is registered in Switzerland, so the call has to go through there and will be more expensive, but if you keep it short you are welcome to make your call.” Yes, this worked, and Sigrid, notified in time, expected me at the station. 


 I encountered such friendly people in those first few hours in Germany, sleep deprived and not quite with it as I was, from two very friendly railroad clerks, a profession that is notorious for being grumpy, to the woman with the cell phone and another one addressing me when I was lugging my heavy bags up the last flight of stairs at the last railway station where I had to switch trains. Like so many people who hear I am living in Canada, immigrated there more than thirty years ago, her eyes lit up, and she asked many questions about my life there. Canada is still the land of dreams for many Germans: big, empty spaces, silence, forests, fields – or the land of unlimited possibilities.


 Yes, I am very lucky to live there, just like I am lucky to have roots in this country where beauty means something quite different. It has all worked together to help make me who I am now. 


 By now it is four-thirty in the morning, and in a couple of hours I will get up to get ready for another day of adventure. Last night, after saying good-bye to Sigrid, I took yet another train north, this time one of the high speed ICs that stop only rarely. I got out at the small town of Wabern. Our friend Wilfried was there to pick me up, and this morning I will help him and his son Martin sell eggs and potatoes at the local farmers market. It will be a busy place this close to Easter. 


 Maybe I should not again ask the question: “I wonder what will happen next?” ......................