Notes From A Polish Train

They looked like they came as a pair, like they belonged together. 

The train was busy, this regional service from Szczecin to Miastko carries commuters daily and at this time of year it  takes people shopping in preparation for Christmas eve. Carriages packed with people, parcels and luggage, filling up the aisles and taking up seats.

Making my way by rail in the dark, looking out the window to look at my own dusky reflection occasionally disrupted by the yellow lights of a quiet train station. The carriage is bright and busy, traveling like a beacon through the Polish countryside. Passing fields that I know are there, I've seen them before, but not now. The anonymity of the darkness means we could be anywhere. 

Across the way are two short Polish women, sitting next to each other, dressed not identically but with a matching scheme of a red bobble hat and a gray zip up fleece, done up to keep out the cold. They didn’t speak often but when they did it was to briefly scold the other and then return to sitting, quietly waiting for the yellow glow of their station to appear.

In the aisle next to them are two ballooning shopping trolleys with packages (presents?) poking out of the top. It seems they had spent a day in the city, buying for the christmas season before returning to their part of Western Pomerania. I was told you often see people from the Polish countryside on these trains heading to more urban areas for shopping or business. Away from the tourist-filled towns of the Baltic north there is an agricultural heritage to the region.

This service has only a couple of carriages; you won’t find a trolley offering vodka and pierogi, so if you want a snack, you’ll have to bring it with you. And, did our red bobble hat friends bring snacks? They brought, in essence, a deconstructed chicken sandwich. They would take a bite of a roast chicken leg then chomp on a bit of buttered bread. I was both in awe and jealous at the sight of it, purely because all I had had for sustenance was one fifth of a small bottle of cola. These ladies were prepared. 

The journey continued with each person leaving the carriage like specks of sand through the throat of an hourglass, slowly but consistently. On the other side of me sat a young Polish couple, wrapped up warm, munching on biscuits. Him reading Assassin’s Creed in Polish while she was on her phone. Both disconnected in the moment but with the odd glance and shuffle of leg that is shorthand for small talk among close travel companions. 

Above the rattle, noticeable American accents carry down the coach. “What are Americans doing on this train?” remarked my partner in surprise. “What’s a Scottish guy doing on this train?” I pointed out. People are traveling home. Whatever home is, people gravitate towards it at this time of year. For food, connection, a hug, a cry, a catchup to remember, to forget. They all have to get there somehow. Why not on this train? In this part of the world? In a red bobble hat.