Off the rails
Everyone has a plan until they ride a train in Germany.
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. That was my plan, at least.
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 for everyone.
They did not.
Half an hour before departure, 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” joyfully dropped its anchor on the departures screen to announce our cancellation.
The agonizingly slow single-file queue at the Deutsche Bahn 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 agent pronounced our destination in a thickly accented way that was unintelligible to those of us not well-versed in Danish geography. (Although 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 to sporadic grumbling. Passenger 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, and 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 others, renewing coalitions from the platform in Hamburg. A fellow passenger took relief in a patch of tall weeds that was otherwise consumed 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 dexterity in shedding us from their custody 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 to forage. 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 folks there didn't speak much English – which was fine, because at that point neither did I. With equal parts skill and mercy, they baked the most satisfying, rapidly consumed pizza in Danish history in exchange for 90 crowns and what was probably a confusing amount of American gratitude.
After a restroom break, an odd-tasting provincial cola, and a well-meaning yet wildly off-course right turn, it was back to the station for one 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 wrap up the adventure before the clock struck three.
Primary takeaway: Planning only goes so far. Execution matters. Sometimes the responsibility is yours, sometimes it rests with 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, even when things go off the rails.