Zug to the Zig

My journey from London to Leipzighypezig begins at 5AM on 1 February 2020. It is an important day: the end of my ridiculously long Christmas holiday, the end of the Biggest Veganuary Ever, and of our time in the EU. Mere seconds after i post this smug (and yes, intellectual) Instagram story reading "fuck Brexit bye bye" from my plush seat on the Eurostar, a tannoy announcement informs us that there are damages to the tunnel; meaning our train is stuck at the edge of England for the foreseeable future. I am reading Frisch's Homo Faber in which a plane crashes and the protagonist gets stranded in a desert for hours. Somebody is punishing my smugness.

Three middle-aged Brits destined for Rotterdam are pontificating at a high volume across the aisle from me. I try to read my book but instead involuntarily learn a lot about how badly each of them slept the night before, and about their upcoming annual conference. I remind myself to appreciate being able to understand and mutely mock nearby strangers, as it is a past time that I found difficult to maintain during my last stint abroad. But then they 'banter' about claiming political asylum in Germany because of Brexit; my moral compass flairs up and have a SOHF*.

2 hours and 5 minutes of delay means I miss my next two trains so I won't get to Leipzig until nearly midnight. So much for dropping into what will be my new flat, for the girl I'm replacing's leaving party... I did think it was a bit too cool for my standards to arrive in a foreign land and just ~swing by a house party. My journey will now take 17 hours and unsurprisingly I did not sleep the night afore departure (worrying about what time zone my Eurostar info had been given in) (it is given in the local time zone if you're wondering) (in the cold light of day this is very obvious). Nevertheless I find my first two train journeys very enjoyable. I'm never quite sure what I've done during them, but always feel disappointed that they're over.



I have tried to re-steel myself for resilience during solo foreign travels (#globetrotter alert xo) but the overall triumph of Marseille (my criteria being an absence of any major mental health crisis) has slightly lulled me into a false sense of security. In Brussels I feel totally unafraid and efficient using French to ask a woman for new train tickets due to the delay, but then in Frankfurt station, where I plump for some tofu noodles for dinner, I experience my first teetering towards tears. Everyone is speaking German and I'm exhausted and hungry and the noodle man is unsmiling and very rush-y and I accidentally say merci to him. It's quite helpful that it is such a momentous day in UK-European history; reminding myself that I may be one of the last British Erasmusers makes me stop feeling sorry for myself and count my blessings. The noodles are yummy (despite the tofu) and I start writing this, so get distracted. My tears are absorbed back in. Good times.

So I prevail, but during the last leg (3 1/2 hour train from Frankfurt to Leipzig) I start to really feel kaputt. I can't be bothered anymore. First, I get stuck in first class, which goes on and on for about six carriages: a socio-hierarchical labyrinth on wheels. Then I realise I've not drunk a drop of water since before bed the day before (24 hours earlier) so I shell out €3 for the only non-alcoholic beverage they serve: fizzy water. What IS it with Germans and fizzy water? I begin to think this is all a terrible mistake. Why did I choose to pick up a new language at uni? I am too old for this Sheiße. Stuck in my ways. My brain is too far gone. I can't deal with the most minor of cultural shocks anymore.

I keep thinking about how much less exhausting than my train journey it would have been for Trump to sign the Paris agreement for climate change. If sea-waters continue to rise DESPITE my self-inflicted, highly inconvenient travel arrangements I will be livid: even my hugely inflated sense of righteousness does not justify this grim slog. 

The clock strikes midnight on 2nd February, and there I stand in front of Leipzig Hauptbahnhof: Alone in (the Better) Berlin.


*Sense Of Humour Failure