Only Suckers Get on the Right Train

The goal was simple: get to Bled.

Yes, Bled. It’s a small town in Slovenia, and if you’ve never heard of it… Well, that’s your problem.

We were supposed to be on the 10:00 a.m. train. But an invitation to breakfast with one’s Airbnb hosts in the shadow of Salzburg Castle and within a stone’s throw of young Maria’s Abbey (think “Sound of Music” here people) is not to be declined. So delayed, we found ourselves on the 2:00 p.m. train. It was supposed to be a better route in any case. 

Supposed to be.

For reasons we couldn’t quite comprehend, this itinerary had the same travel duration as the 10:00 a.m. train, but without the transfer that the 10:00 a.m. had—an improbable coincidence. But no matter, we marched to the train station singing “do, re, mi” (continue to think “Sound of Music” here).

After ascertaining that our train was leaving from platform six, we marched diligently forward. Trotting to catch up, our eldest had noticed that another train was leaving at exactly the same time from precisely the same platform, which made no sense at all.

Arriving at the platform, the mystery became greater but eventually settled out: apparently, halfway through the route, the train separates into two parts (presumably while stopped). No problem. We just needed to get on the right end of the train. We’re intelligent people. We can do this.

And so we thought we did. For many hours we thought we did. We asked the nice conductor lady if we were on the right train. She seemed puzzled by our destination but said we were probably fine. And we concluded that was good enough. We hunkered down, got out our books, stared at the scenery, and enjoyed the ride.

In retrospect, we should have been more attentive when the barista in the dining car said that we should make sure we go back far enough on the train so that we could get to our final destination. He was pretty sure the next train car back was okay but confident that the dining car was not.

We thanked him and headed back to our seats. But alarm bells should have been sounding. We were convinced when leaving that it was the front half of the train that went where we wanted to go. So why was he ushering us backward?

It’s worth noting that at no point during this journey did anyone ask to see our tickets. If someone had asked us to see our tickets, they might have noticed that we were in big trouble.

The trains separated without much fanfare. And just for fun, I checked the map a few minutes later to see how our blinking blue dot was progressing. It was progressing… but in an unexpected direction. So we turned to a nice woman who spoke English and raised an eyebrow. Sadly, she was pretty sure that we were going the wrong way… but didn’t want to say for certain. Huh. But wait! When we compared our respective desired train numbers, they matched. Huh again. 

It turns out that we were wrong not only about which train car we wanted but also about which train number we wanted. Totally our fault.

So it hit us, like an engine hits a cow on the tracks, that we were going in completely the wrong direction. That’s no big deal when you’re walking; you turn around and walk in the other direction. But on a train, it’s a little more complicated.

Don’t worry; everything turns out okay. We’re writing this, aren’t we? It’s worth noting that the only reason it turned out okay is because of the magical train conductor. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

So what do you do? You keep going on the train because it’s physically impossible to do otherwise. And when the train stops, you think to yourself, should I get out at this stop? Or should I wait until I get to the larger station? And then you ask the conductor, and she says it’s impossible to get where you want to go tonight, which sounds really negative. And you don’t like being around negative people. So you get out right there.

And there you are: in a random small town near the Austrian-Slovenian border. Though you didn’t know it, it’s where you’ve always dreamed of being. Because it’s gorgeous, and you should have come here sooner. But you will have to come back some other time because you have an apartment booked in another town, and not in this town. No matter how gorgeous it is. 

So you turn to the often frustrating—but sometimes magical—device in your pocket (the same device that told you the wrong train number earlier in the day). And it tells you that with just two more trains you can finally reach your destination, thereby changing your original travel plan from one train to three. But that’s okay. Any idea that might eventually get you to a bed (as you notice that daylight is beginning to run away from you) sounds like a winning plan.

With an hour to kill before the next train comes, you go looking for a pizzeria. But it’s not to be; the pizza place is closed. Very closed. So you keep walking and end up looking at this… 

…and eating the snacks that mama packed just in case there weren’t any pizzerias open. Because mama always packs snacks no matter how many times she gets teased for doing so.

The hour goes too fast, and then you’re back on a train, the first of two that should take you to Bled. But not really to Bled, because trains don’t go there. But I’m getting ahead of myself again. 

The next transfer goes smoothly. What did you expect, that everything would go wrong? How cynical you are.

Looking around at this new train, you realize that this train feels a lot more Slovenian (or at least what you assume Slovenia is like) than it does Austrian (at least what you assume Austria is like). And you feel the slight nostalgia for Siberia that comes with well-worn train cars.

Then you bump into someone in the aisle who speaks English super well, who explains that everyone has to get off at the next station because of construction on the tracks. The train will not continue on to your desired station.

If this story had a moral—and it definitely doesn’t—it would be to stop listening to random people on the train.

So you file off at the next stop like everybody else and try to figure out how to get from this even more distant station to your middle-of-nowhere apartment. You wonder if Uber or Lyft work here (they don’t). You look for a taxi stand (there isn’t one). You check bus schedules (possible, but not likely).

And then the magical train conductor—I told you we would get to the magical train conductor—comes into the station and asks (first in Slovenian, and then in English), 

“Why did everybody get off the train?” 

Someone explains to him that there is construction, and this is the last stop. He looks puzzled. And says, 

“No, it’s not. And I’m the train conductor. So listen to ME, not some random person in the aisle.”

And you all get back on the train!

And then you catch your bus—never mind that the bus that goes to your apartment stopped running hours ago, just be grateful that the driver speaks English and can direct you to the next closest station.

And then you take a short walk—which turns into a long walk on account of the bus debacle, but you are grateful that the weather is calm and the night air is only slightly crisp…

…and that when you round the corner and see this:

So, you can see, everything always works perfectly. In fact, it makes you wonder why anyone would bother getting on the right train at all.