And to the trains! We bid Marie a fond fare-thee-well and leave her puffing like a smokestack on a Marlboro Red. It's one of Max's. His carton from Duty-Free in North Carolina is something of a whirlwind memory and all that's left is this last pack. And we aren't even in Berlin yet. Although that time is fast approaching and as we hump our way down to the bus stop we'd arrived at just two days ago, talk turns to Germany with an excited air. Everyone we meet who'd been to Berlin like it. Hell, they love it. They want more of it. When we get to the Copenhagen Central, there's ten or so minutes to spare before our train departs (we had checked the times online and found a route to Berlin via a lovely little sleeper train leaving Malmo, Sweden sometime around midnight). Perfect. And we're going to get a little taste of Sweden as well. Things can't be going any sweller.
The train to Malmo is a somewhat commonplace affair now. Headphones in and Willem Maker drolls raspy, twang-blues through a mind wandering. My temple finds its familiar rest on the wide and high double-paned train window as all the soft water and green coastlines of Denmark fly by and behind us.
[stop]
It's funny how sometimes you don't realize you've fallen asleep until your eyes open. And for a split second you have no idea where you are. My eyes open with a giggle as we slow down and pull into Malmo station. Ah, Sweden. How similarly Danish. There's a five minute wait until the train to Berlin departs and when it pulls up and we jump on, we're thoroughly excited. Marie and Denmark are in the memory banks and we're off to another new adventure. And what's this? There're bunks and sinks in all the cabins! What a way to travel! We de-bag ourselves and the train starts moving. When the conductor comes by, we happily show him our EuRail passes.
But something's wrong. The conductor doesn't return our smiles. He's quite livid, in fact. First in Swedish, then (I assume he gathered from the blank looks on our faces) in English. "You have to get off! You did not pay!"
Like hell we didn't. I paid almost five hundred dollars for that stupid pass. "What do you mean?" we exclaim waving our passes in the air.
But he's adamant. "This is a sleeper train! You do not have a ticket! Your passes do not work here!" That last part takes a second to click. "You are getting off at the next stop."
He stands menacingly over us as we gather our things and shoo's us down the narrow corridor towards the exit like dogs that have peed where they ought not to have, always standing right behind us. When we're in front of the door, mashed together at the end of the car, he spouts something in Swedish over the blower and the train suddenly slows to a stop, and we find ourselves booted off on some train platform (Persborg it says) just outside Malmo proper. We watch the sleeper train disappear off into the distance down the line, the reality of our situation slowly setting in. It's late. Twilight's already upon us, and it'll be dark soon, and we're in the middle of this Swedish suburban nowhere. It looks like where Ikea was born.
[stop]
It's takes us a few minutes to figure where exactly we are on the map (It's all in Swedish and looks about as foreign as Middle Earth) and that our best bet is to try and get back to Copenhagen (via Malmo), and by the time we realize we need to be on the other side of the tracks, our train's already pulling in. The platform's is a cast-iron and bolt simple monstrosity raised high above a quiet street and empty bus stop below. We grab all our things and fly down the three flights of stairs to sidewalk and under the bridge and up again, three more flights, bags jumping and jostling and cutting in shoulders with each hop of the step. We make it to the top just in time to see the doors close and the train zoom off, and we yell and shout and wave our tired arms like crazy travelling misers, but it's no use. Trains stop for no one, especially not young, stupid Americans who thought they could just ride the sleeper train to Berlin with no qualms. The next train back to Malmo won't be for another hour. What a colossal fail. The world's gone to sleep around us it seems. There's not another moving soul about, and the sky's gone that richest of dark blues, lit faintly florescent by the platform lights and the street lamps below. Persborg's a ghost town.
We look at each other, and I see it for the first time. That slow-building, tired desperation in the eyes. Maybe I only see it because I feel it in myself as well. The conscious giggles at our follies as if to say, "Way to go, idiot!" And I smile and sigh deep and heavy, still reeling from our trans-platform sprint.
"Well, what now guys?" Grant suggests, "Movie time?" Ha, we've got an hour to kill I suppose.
"Movie time," Max and I chime together. God, what would we do without each other (and Grant's laptop).
Not to much surprise, but a quick look around the platform reveals no outlet so we suck Grant's trusty macBook battery dry with an old classic to lift our spirits; Grandma's Boy, recently downloaded. The world's not what it used to be, and it melts away between familiar laughs as we try to forget all our present misfortunes, almost too easily. The time flies by on fairies' wings. They're a present from my roommates.
