Transit Adventures in Copenhagen

The plane touched down in Copenhagen very late.  I remembered Rick Steves raving about Copenhagen’s airport, but, at 10:30 at night going on 24 hours of no sleep, nowhere is rave-worthy.  I made my way out, found an ATM from which I took what seemed an unconscionable sum since the kroner is worth so much less than the dollar, found a ticket machine, and easily bought a train ticket to the city center. 

Finding the right train was another matter.  Peering at my Streetwise Copenhagen map, I found the Danish name for their central station, and eventually located a platform that seemed to advertise it as a destination.  There was no longer reliably comprehensive language around me—I missed the Belgian French, so relatively easy to decipher.  A train pulled up, and some English with it—an LED screen instructing me in no uncertain terms not to get on it (evidently only an English speaker would try, as there appeared to be no equivalent Danish message).  That train emptied out, detached itself in an alarming burst of static electricity from the wire above, then reversed the performance, reattaching and shooting off empty into the night.  I watched it go with exhausted dismay, but eventually, later than promised, another train arrived, and I got on it after asking “Copenhagen?” of an official-looking person.  He confirmed, but a group of Spanish-speaking girls who seemed delightedly certain they were on the wrong train disconcerted me.  They located an English-speaking passenger who confirmed their suspicion but allayed mine—we were headed to the central train station in Copenhagen. 

The ride was quick, and I found myself on a stark platform with no signs in any language telling me where to go.  I followed another passenger up a flight of concrete steps and found myself standing on a sidewalk that ran along an unmarked street.  I wandered to a corner and found the cross-streets also unmarked.  There was a building sort of in the vicinity of the trains, but it had no sign declaring it anything, and no clear entrance, so I didn’t feel confident identifying it as the train station.  I dragged my suitcase as briskly as my exhaustion would allow to another corner, and finally found a street name.  I rapidly located myself on my map and took off down the dark street, keeping my head up and my pace quick to put off anyone who might want to bother a small lost person burdened with a large suitcase.  I came across one of the two streets that led to my hostel, but was sorry to be walking along it after dark—it was poorly lit and lined with clubs, increasing my nervousness.  Following it awhile and heading around a bend, though, I encountered an enormous sign that said “Hostel,” pointing me right to my destination.  I got inside, paid, refused to rent linen or a pillow, and hauled my case up a curving but new-looking staircase.  I found a bathroom and then my dorm, where I settled in in the dark, surrounded by sleepers in bunks.  I made use of the wifi to tell people I was still alive, then suddenly found myself unable to sleep.  It actually took quite awhile to drift off, despite my 24 hours awake. 

I slept late in the morning, til nearly 10.  Blearily, I got out of my bunk (bottom) and dug through my suitcase.  I felt monumentally disgusting, and was so happy to find the shower room easily and to find it large and clean.  I showered, feeling so much more human. 

Dressed, I put some things in my backpack and headed outside, where it was actually cold and grey enough to make me wonder if I should return to the hostel for my rain jacket.  I found a grocery store where I bought a triangle sandwich (my favorite sort of sandwich), a banana, and a roll of temptingly familiar Oreos.  I ate on the steps of a church in a nearby plaza, eyeing pigeons warily.  

Church steps make a good breakfast picnic table.

Fed, I headed back for the train station.  I needed a reservation for my train to Berlin in a few nights. 

Inside the station building (much easier to locate by daylight), I made a circuit, looking at all the shops that filled it, then went into the crowded ticket office and took a number for “international.”  My number was a good twenty people away, so I found a seat on a bench and even an outlet for my phone.  Tired of people-watching when I could understand nothing that was said, I pulled out my nook and continued reading Bill Bryson’s African Diary, a book calculated to make anyone in Europe appreciate almost any sort of accommodations whatsoever, all the while keeping a watch on the screen with the numbers.  Mine got closer and closer.  It had been paused for awhile several numbers from mine, so I looked down to read another page.  Suddenly, it was several numbers past mine.  Frustrated, I got another number.  This added confusion to my frustration—the international numbers were nearly through the 600s on the screen, but my new number was 533.  I went to the help-with-numbers-but-not-tickets podium, where I was told that, in Denmark train stations at any rate, 500 and not 700 follows 600.  I shrugged and sat to wait again, this time on steps, as the bench had filled.  This time, I would pay better attention.

Around 531 the numbers stalled again.  I had my phone unplugged, all ready to rush to the counter, and again, I glanced down, this time only to read a couple of sentences.  540s when I looked back up.  I couldn’t understand it.  Feeling murderous, I took a third number, and elbowed my way to a space behind a bench at the center of the room.  I let myself read, but stopped long before my new number.  Even staring at the screen, I barely scrambled to my designated counter before the screen leaped ahead to higher numbers. 

My reservation on an overnight train to Berlin was horribly expensive.  I should have made it in the US, whatever the shipping cost Rail Europe wanted to charge.  Having the price told me in kroner just made it seem worse—I’m sure I stared at the clerk in disbelief while trying frantically to convert the number he’d just said to me into US dollars.  I didn’t have a choice, though; I bought it and the clerk validated my rail pass.