Planes, Trains, and Ought-To-Go-Feels

So I'm back in New York. Some call it Gotham, The Big Apple, The City That Never Sleeps. I call it Urine Soaked Subway Town, but it's still home. The rats are right where I left them. Never has the angry phrase, "Hey fuckwad, getcher ass outta my parkin space" seemed so melodious to the ears. It's a bittersweet feeling being home, more so because I almost didn't make. As Robert Burns once poetically wrote, the best laid schemes o' mice and men often go astray. Truly this is meaningless, since mice can't even spell the word scheme and their thoughts are rarely committed to paper for future analysis. Burns, a Scottish lyricist, may have had a bit too much smoke in the ole bagpipe, if you catch my drift. Nevertheless it may apply in this situation, as my best laid plans, sans mice, nearly crumbled beneath my feet. My tightly scheduled travel plans called for the following: ferry from Hvar to Split; train from Split to Zagreb; train from Zagreb to Salzburg; flight from Salzburg to Stansted (UK); bus from Stansted to Cambridge. Thus begins my final tale.


As the evening ferry pulled away from the dock in Hvar everything seemed in order. The engine roared as we picked up speed and an acrid exhaust billowed from the rear. Hvar quickly receded into the distance, its physical form dissolving into memory. Kristen (my Canadian travel companion) and I were even treated to a spectacular sunset on the way back. The sun lit up the horizon like a fitting analogy that a more talented writer could conceive. Two hours later we reached the shores of Split and headed for the train station. Our train tickets were a touch confusing. We were both taking an overnight train that passed through Zagreb on its way to Budapest. I was supposed to hop off the train in Zagreb at 7:30 in the morning - where our intertwining paths would finally diverge - and Kristen would continue further on to Budapest. The lady who sold us the ticket mentioned that there would be an hour long layover in Zagreb, which struck us as strange, but anything is possible in Eastern Europe. We did our best to confirm all of the information before leaving but we were stymied by her imperfect English. The train arrived when it was supposed to and we quickly hopped on and secured our place in a six-seat compartment. We closed the glass door and spread out as much as we could in order to dissuade others from entering. Passing some gas probably would have sealed the deal but we managed to restrain ourselves and our luck held out. As we rolled away from the station I pulled out some playing cards and taught Kristen how to play Texas Hold 'Em, an American version of poker where the person with the best hand gets bombed and their oil fields are siphoned to replenish U.S. reserves. The hour grew late and we settled in for the night, stretching out our legs across the seats before falling into a pleasant slumber.



"Zagreb!" yelled the ticket-taker in Croatian, as he flung open the door then loudly stomped off to the next compartment and repeated the process. Startled awake, we were both disoriented and slow to rise. I blinked hard in the morning light and glanced at my watch. It was only 6:30. On overnight trains it is fairly common to get a wake-up call well in advance of a major transfer station, so I was unconcerned when the train began to slow for a stop. Poking my head out of the window I didn't see any signs for Zagreb on the stations walls and the station didn't look all that big when one considers that Zagreb is the capital. Just to be on the safe side I leaned out the door and queried a platform attendant about our current location. His thickly accented response, "Budapest", was a sure-fire indication that he didn't understand my question. I thought about making a quick dash off the train for a better look but was afraid the train might leave without me, since stops are generally only a minute or two. Feeling really uneasy about the situation I quickly moved around the train trying to see a sign, any sign, that would tell me where we were. I still didn't see anything so I decided I better pack up my stuff, since it was currently strewn around our compartment. The train let out a piercing hiss then slowly started to move. At the end of the platform a sign suddenly came into view: ZAGREB GLAVNI KOLODVOR. Fuck.



Grabbing my pack I dashed towards the closed door and threw it open. Maybe I've seen a few too many movies but the gravel alongside the tracks didn't seem to be sliding by too fast, though we were definitely picking up speed. I quickly calculated that if I missed my train connection in Zagreb, I would miss my flight to England, miss my bus to Cambridge, miss my flight home, then have to wander the streets of Europe, broke, homeless and hungry until I died in the gutter outside a Starbucks (those damn things are everywhere). Well I certainly wasn't getting to let that happen. I held my breath and stepped up to the lip. At that exact moment a rail worker on the adjoining track yelled loudly at me in Croatian, angrily pointing towards the open door. As if to emphasize his point a train suddenly came around the corner on the neighboring track, significantly increasing both my risk factor and my blood pressure. Our train still wasn't moving all that fast but now I was afraid that if I jumped I might end up under the wheels of the inbound locomotive and become twice the man I am today. I resigned myself to fate and backed up to close the door. But then the strangest thing happened. I still don't know the cause, whether it was the other train coming in to the station, a routine move before a turn, or that the conductor saw an open door with some human appendages dangling out, but our train started to slow down again. I had no idea whether is was going to fully stop or not but I decided I wasn't going to find out. I chucked my pack out the door and jumped. Jumping onto a narrow gravel corridor from a slow moving train in a pair of flip-flops is definitely not the best idea I've ever had. That being said, it was an unmitigated success. My heart was racing as I took stock of my toes, ankles, and knees. I turned to see Kristen standing in the doorway. I yelled up at her to quickly run back to our compartment to see if I had left anything behind. She disappeared from view as the train let out another loud hiss. It was starting to pick up speed again. Kristen reappeared in the doorway and the next thing I knew a pair of shoes were flying at my head. I had forgotten my hiking shoes. The last I ever saw of her, Kristen was waving goodbye as the train sped her away from the station and out of my life.



I made my connection to Salzburg, which was a huge relief. A quick bus ride later I was at the airport, eagerly awaiting my RyanAir flight to Stansted. RyanAir is the skinflint's airline of choice for jetting about Europe. Sometimes they literally sell tickets for $2 before taxes. It's not uncommon to see flights advertised from London to Rome for $60 round trip. They are able to achieve these unheard of prices through a series of crafty innovations, such as single-class cabins and not putting in enough fuel to reach your final destination. They also have a curious boarding process whereupon they announce all rows simultaneously and the crowd rushes to the narrow entrance as if St. Peter had just called a moratorium on entrance through the Pearly Gates (which might seem a prescient analogy when one considers the bargain basement price I paid for my window seat). Elbowing grandmothers, children, and the infirm I dashed for a seat near the front so I could quickly get out when the plane landed and catch my bus to Cambridge. I don't know whether it's some manner of pheromone I exude or what, but I ended up next to yet another Canadian girl. We chatted about this and that until an oratory faux pas on my part changed the course of the evening. In deference to our 90 minute flight, I foolishly remarked: "You know, this is actually one of the shortest rides I will have taken on this entire trip". As the final word of that imprudent observation escaped from my lips a stewardess came on the intercom and announced the following: "Ladies and gentleman, I am sorry to disturb you, but are there any doctors onboard the aircraft this evening?" I shit you not. There was a bit of a commotion near the back of the plane but since I was in the fourth row I couldn't really see what was happening. Within moments the pilot gets on the horn and alerts us that we will be on the ground in exactly seven minutes due to a "medical emergency". This from our maximum cruising altitude of 36,000 feet. My heart skipped a beat and I clutched the seat as we immediately angled into the steepest dive I've ever encountered. We were descending at a rate of 85 feet per second, which is great when you're dropping water balloons on your sister from a treehouse but not so much fun when plummeting towards the earth in an aluminum can.



When we touched down (in Germany, no less) the airfield was alight with the flashing strobes of emergency vehicles. With the plane still on the runway, a half-dozen EMTs quickly boarded up a mobile staircase and ran to the back. They eventually carried someone out of the back of plane. It turns out the guy was all right, just had some bad sushi or something (note to self: don't eat sushi on discount airlines), or at least that's what they told us. We sat on the tarmac another hour while they unloaded every bag from the belly of the plane in order to find this guy's luggage. I suppose if they were lying about his health it's possible they just folded him up inside his Samsonite expandable suitcase for the rest of the trip home. After the luggage was replaced we had to refuel then wait to get back into the flight rotation. All told, our 90 minute flight ended up taking almost four hours.



So, not surprisingly, I missed my bus to Cambridge. Though that had more to do with the Draconian way station they call Customs than with the lateness of the flight. There's nothing like standing in a line for an hour so someone can ask you if you slept with any farm animals in Europe. As if anyone would admit that. Well, this is getting excessive so I better wrap it up. I managed to catch a later bus to Cambridge where my extremely accommodating friend Val still welcomed me into his home at three in the morning. I got a final night's sleep wrapped in a giant feather comforter, caught a bus to London, and had a pleasant and uneventful flight back to the States. So here I am, take me or leave me.