Did I tell you I hate flying and I love trains? So, I’m going by train. Whenever I can. Wherever I can. It has a certain feel to it to tale on tracks. The pace is slow, even though the train goes 230km/h. You can see the landscape hurrying past. It’s trying to run away. But it can not. You still can see it in the far, as it looses speed and slows down.
The stations in the morning are filled with folks running somewhere: Last night owls scamper home, office workers hurry to their warm wooden desks, commuters huddle up in the corner to go down, go up, pass by some stairs to change trains. – Occasionally kissing couples block the way, saying endlessly good-bye, their faces pampered by the dawning days light.
Fog hangs heavy above the tracks. Red signal lights shine through the smokey air. Mist is creeping inside your woolen coat just as you, slandering along the train, found your compartment.
A ridiculously excited man with a funny German accent wishes you a pleasant journey.
No emergency procedure explanation given by young ladies in silly uniforms.
The train starts moving. Its rattling shakes me slowly in a deep, soothing sleep.