It’s decided that our leader, Christina, is Irish and not Bavarian. Her use of logic
qualifies. Along with the fictitious, “it’s just a short walk to (fill in the
blank),” her information about our travel out of Lithuania to
Warsaw, Poland, is also an interpretive blend of fact and
optimism.
We will change time zones, and arrive by train after a fifteen hour
trip, door to door. Christina has befriended the conductors of
each train on our route so that each connection knows we will
come as a group to the platform. We counted four trains, but
Christina said it is only three – the first 2-hour local train doesn’t
count. She counts only inter-City trains. Ok. We don’t have to
run with baggage pounding because all trains are on time and we
have about 20 plus minutes to change trains and carriages.
Train 2 has a farmer in worn, woollen pants and even older, sturdy
Wellies. He carries a huge basket that’s piled high with fresh mushrooms
like the ones we saw while hiking the woods. Each station has side rails with rail cars
stacked high with cut timber. A few hours before Warsaw, we pass a
railyard loaded with black coal, shining in the afternoon sun.
The landscape is a pastoral Fall. Most of the hay is already baled
inside white, plastic balls, or is left in short cylinders at even intervals in the
fields.
Train 3 has many young families. A father with two young sons
are embarrassingly ADHD or similar. It’s all the Dad can manage
to keep the boys in the car as they bolt up and down the aisles,
try to open the doors between cars, and pull at the clothes or belongings of other passengers. There are three screaming tantrums during the hour and a half ride. I cannot imagine the 24 hour/365 day life they must live together. The thought eclipses any annoyance I may feel.
Train 4 is seven hours long. We read, play games, listen to iPod,
tinker with iPad. Fon finds herself emptying her daypack to look
at its bits and pieces, simply to pass the time. Spritzer, gum,
jewelry, water, etc. Spritzer, gum, jewelry, water, etc. Repeat.
We have seats assigned to three cabins that are obviously modified to seat eight.
This train line learned well from its airline cousins for removing
most comfort from passenger areas. All luggage must stow in
these cabins, too. It is a challenge for even the aspiring engineers
among us to pack it all in. Shoes come off for fear of attracting a fine from the
conductor. No one is keen to pay 50 euros if caught with their
shoes propped on the upholstered banquettes.
We spread wider to occupy an extra cabin so that four of us ride in
each. At each station, people come on board. We hope they pass our
already cramped cabins, and find seats elsewhere. They do. Several hours
before our destination, at least one toilet stops working. As long as
the train moves, the odor doesn’t collect in our second class car.
The smokers are instructed to use the broken bathrooms to smoke.
That’s one way to break a habit.
It’s worthless to try to ventilate the cabins by lowering the outside
windows; Manure that fertilizes the Polish fields competes with
the WCs for what little free air is left. Luckily, by nightfall the
sweet smell of burning fields masks the day’s odors.
Despite the foul environment, we snack on crackers, sip water bought at the first station, nibble chocolates
from the States, knaw apples from the park’s trees, and bite into sandwiches made
at the homestay with cheese, salami, and cucumbers brought from
Vilnius. It also passes the time.
Conductors and station matrons, as well as aproned cleaning
women for the carriage aisles, change as we go along. It appears
that there is a correlation between shoe heighth and station status.
The more historical the station appears, or the more affluent the
station’s village, the higher the heels on the station matron. She
comes to the platform, stands straight with feet together, and
signals with a raised, round circle on a stick for
the conductor to know that everyone is boarded.
I spend only part of the day under the sleep spell of motion
sickness meds. I must rely on meds for these endless train rides or wavy ferry
passages or nauseatingly long bus trips. I had hoped that my
childhood’s kinetic bearings and inner ear would work it all
out by now, but at 64, those chances are slim and none. If it
wasn’t for the daisy chain of wondrous destinations that we must
reach in a short time, I would really slam this part of the Intrepid
adventure.
We’re graced with a lingering, pastel sweep of sunset over stands
of trees and darkening, open fields. Fon and I take the 50 euro risk and stand on the seats
to get a photo through the lowered cabin window. Fon’s Canon
bests my Nikon with a priceless shot that makes it look like the sun
itself is setting the harvest bonfires.
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