Monday April 28 2008

The train pulled up. Our tickets bore cabin and carriage details, but as we crossed from one carriage to the next from inside the train, a disgruntled guard standing on the platform waved us back. We obliged and climbed inside the cabin which corresponded to our ticket number. It was a small chamber with four cramped looking blue beds, two up and two down in traditional bunk style. We made ourselves at home. Brodos stowed his luggage on the top bunk while I removed my shoes and hung out a wet towel, which had failed to dry at Aakarp's place, on the little ladder. We settled down to eat some chocolate.

Five minutes later, four Jewish pensioners shuffled up to our cabin door and began peering in and clucking amongst themselves. They clearly wanted to get in. Mere minutes into beginning to unwind, we suddenly contemplated the possibility that we would be spending 11 hours packed like sardines into a tiny room with four old people who clearly hated us. Brodos muttered an exasperated "oh fuck off" just loud enough for them to hear.

The situation can't have looked much better for them. Doubtless expecting a hassle free journey, they had reached their cabin to find two grubby Englishmen collapsed inside amidst an assortment of shoes, sweet wrappers and drying laundry.

Nobody had wanted this. But while they may have felt affronted, we felt pure, exhausted dread. And so we gathered our things together, gave a half hearted smile and headed off to find help.

We unearthed our actual cabin one car down. It turned out that the guard hadn't been waving us back after all. God knows what she had been doing, because it had looked exactly like waving us back. She now guided us to our room, unlocking it and ushering us in. It seemed slightly smaller than the previous one, but was also a little more plush, complete with two beds and a sink. It had the distinct advantage of not having four elderly people in it.

We liked the guard. She was extremely grumpy but also strangely attractive. Between the pair of us, our buffoonish charms had earned cheerful smiles from the vast majority of travel operatives encountered on our journey. Notwithstanding the heroin faux pas at Stansted, we'd won over air hostesses, pierced ticked sellers and security personnel. This one, however, was not playing. We named her Faceache.

Next week: A Selection of Traditional Austrian Cheeses.

Read from the start:
A Geek Adventure

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