Off the rails

The rail journey from Hamburg toward Copenhagen, scheduled for 6:53 on a Saturday evening, did not go as planned.

By itinerary, the train would pull into Odense, Denmark just after 10:15, allowing for a thoughtfully arranged hotel check-in, shower, snack, and much-desired night of rest.

For those going on to Copenhagen, delivery would follow at 11:35 — plenty of time for a piece of weekend revelry, had things gone to plan.

They did not.

Half an hour before kick-off, word began to drift along the platform that all was not well. This is to be expected lately for any train under German control. Within minutes, the phrase “zug fällt aus” dropped its anchor on the departures screen to rejoice in our cancellation.

The resulting single-file queue at Deutsche Bahn's help desk was the first of several unnecessary things that night, since everyone received the same answer to the same question, over and over: “Up to the left, bus to Padborg.” The destination came out in a thickly accented way that was unintelligible unless you were really primed on your Danish geography. (The lack of awareness of Padborg makes more sense once you arrive in Padborg.)

Anyway, up and out we went, searching for a white bus with no number.

Ten, twenty, thirty minutes, bus after bus, none of them ours. Miffed silence ripened into sporadic grumbling. Alliances formed and dissolved, with some — not many — venturing back into the city, roller bags pitter-pattering over cobblestone, in search of answers, a taxi, or the refuge of a beer hall.

Within an hour, the myth of the white bus became real and the traveling party compressed itself into our sardine-tin-on-wheels for the two-hour ride to … somewhere?

At 9:35 we were ejected into Denmark at Padborg, a station that – in the late hour of arrival – looked like a boneyard for rail equipment from the Kohl era. It was the backdrop for a sedate, listless, unsheltered ninety minutes until the next step of our journey.

What to do?

Calisthenics, for a couple of folks, flexing hamstrings and exercising frustrations. Light banter for most, renewing coalitions from the Hamburg terminal. One explorer took relief in a patch of tall weeds otherwise content with devouring an old engine car.

A question came to mind, for which there was an obvious-in-hindsight answer.

Q: “Why here? Why, of all places, leave us here?”
A: “It is the first station across the border.”
Q: “So they literally just wanted us out of the country?”
A: “It appears so.”

German hospitality! Deutsche Bahn’s proficiency in shedding us from their books and their conscience was either impressive or infuriating, depending on which side of the Rail War you were on.

In roared the next train at 11:05, ten minutes after a handful of stern-looking law enforcement personnel emerged from the darkness like orange-vested cryptids to patrol the platform. They performed no evident duties other than telling us we were free to board, which alone made them of greater help than anyone from Deutsche Bahn.

Naturally there were two passengers for every seat, leaving the slow-moving or unfortunate to wedge themselves into the aisles and entry doors for the next hour and change. We were advancing on another Danish town, Fredericia, which held the promise of an even longer layover – 105 minutes this time – before the last, long-awaited train to bed.

But peak performance requires fuel, and hunger was now a factor. There is no vending machine at the Fredericia station and the lobby’s convenience store had inconveniently closed for the night. Tired but ravenous, it was time for foraging. Let’s see what lights, if any, could still be lit in the midnight hour.

Milano Pizzaria! A thin-crusted beacon on the dark and lonely road, three-quarters of a mile away. The good people there did not speak much English – which was fine, because at that point neither did I. With artisanal mercy, they crafted the most satisfying and rapidly consumed pizza in Denmark’s history in exchange for 90 crowns and a confusing amount of American gratitude.

One restroom break, one Danish cola, and one well-meaning yet inaccurate right turn later, it was back to the station for the final challenge — a seat of any kind for the half-hour ride to Odense and the promise of an end to the day.

Luckily the gods smiled – or yawned – and seats were to be had. After some pleasant grousing with an old ally from the skirmish at Hamburg, it was time to disembark and bring the adventure to an end before the clock hit 3.

(Or was it just the end of the beginning? Could the hotel be locked and the front desk empty? Of course. For another day, perhaps.)

Planning only goes so far. Execution matters. Sometimes the responsibility is yours, sometimes it belongs to others, but it can — and over time, it will — fall apart at key moments. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, and try to take something good from the ride, wherever it goes.