In the quiet suburbia that makes up most of Utah, trains are only for three kinds of individuals: the homeless, the student, and the event-goer.
The latter is due to the lack of public parking, both in the valley and in Salt Lake proper. Parking lots do exist, but for the larger events like Jazz games and comic book conventions, the event-goers can range in the thousands. That makes trying to track down parking an absolute pain in the butt, especially with downtown’s one-way streets a special kind of hell. The frontrunner train runs north and south, and for those willing to park at the stop ‘n rides along the way, it makes for easy access to the Salt Palace where the annual FanX comic book conventions come to, well, convene. Every autumn, nerds of all creeds, colors, and fandoms arrive in grand attire for the auspicious occasion. There’s no greater fun than sharing a train lined wall-to-wall with Geralt of Rivia, Pikachu, Deadpool, and Sailor Moon all in the same section. And if you didn’t know your way to the convention center, well, lucky for you there are brightly-colored anime schoolgirls Pied Piper-ing the path to guide you. The sports games are a little more divided, with the opposing teams and their various colors taking care not to socialize across the aisles. But both intrepid groups, geek-attendee and Jazz-goer alike, do produce a sour BO smell that lingers in the train long after the crowds have gone.
As a student, I rode the train from lack of car. I remember learning of some students parking their car to the stations to then embark on the 45-some-odd minute commute to SLCC. To them, the round trip price was still cheaper than the combined cost of gas and rush-hour traffic.
The first category is self-explanatory. Because the trains run with little to no attendants checking tickets, the homeless often hop long-term rides aka escapes from the extremes of cold and heat. One time I had to move benches away from a homeless woman. Less because of her economic situation, and more because of her screaming at the air next to me.
Needless to say, my own personal experience with trains was somewhat limited. Though at the time in Soderala, I felt more in the category of the first: With all of my possessions stuffed into backpacks or overflowing from an old shopping bag, it was hard not to feel that way. With no under-seat accommodations large enough for my luggage, I moved into the next car.
If you know nothing else about traveling by train in Europe, know this: some trains have assigned seating you must follow on pain of death. And others do not.
As I shuffled along, I tried to glean which was which. Most sat down without an anxious glance at their e-ticket, so I took a chance and sat down to the closest open seat to the luggage rack. The area had four seats facing each other, with wraparound seating hugging the semicircle that made up the facilities about twenty feet further forward. There was a couple to my left at the two-seater booth of windows, and a guy across from me, closest to the window in our section. I had re-packed my bulging shopping bag in the limited space of the corridor without any of them blinking an eye.
If you’ve ever needed to do anything resembling moving around in a public transport bathroom, lemme tell you, you gotta get creative with the space. More than once I bumped the door, and feared the certain-like partition would spill me out into the row of seats just outside.
If Guy-across-from-me noticed the Girl-across-from-him looked like a completely different person when I returned, he didn’t advertise. But to me, it was like night and day: in place of grungy sweatpants and messy bun, I was feeling good in a fresh set of clothes and makeup. My hairbrush was nowhere to be found, so I hid my mass of unbrushed waves under my yellow Utah beanie.
Swedish public transport culture is interesting. You can be completely surrounded by others, and still have your own privacy. From what I had observed, Swedes valued personal time and very much valued it from others. Guy-across-from-me seemed to be working hard to be busy on his laptop and textbook reading, but that was fine with me. I sat pondering for a bit, trying to decipher the mixed morass of feelings in my heart.
I had been apart from my housemates and newfound friends for what had to be under an hour, with the prospect of adventures ahead. It is indeed easier doing the leaving instead of being left, though that makes it no less hard. There were so many things I wanted to say to my friends, things I wasn’t adapt at sharing verbally. So I took out my phone, and began to type. What I could not say, I could write.
By the time I finished the post on the WhatsApp group, a sizeable amount of time had passed. I must have dozed off, because I no longer had any idea of where in the train journey I was. We were at some stop somewhere, not that I could see out the window. I snuck a glance at Guy-across-from-me. He was apparently done with the whatever laptop work he was grinding away at, making a sigh that expressed just how much he had left to do. I paused right here, wondering if I should go ahead and hazard a question for him. The Swedish pause for consideration was strong in the back of my head. But the train would be leaving the station soon, and I couldn’t miss my stop.
“Ursäkta,” I began, motioning to Guy-across-from-me. Duolingo had officially given up on me, the little owl informing me it was embarrassing how many days of practice I had missed. But one phrase at least I had going for me. “Tallar du Engelsk?”
The faintest of smiles formed on his lips, one he tried with no success to suppress. “Yes, I speak English,” he replied in sincerity, without a trace of an accent. It was a pretty decent assumption that any random Swede spoke impeccable English, but I still felt weird assuming it.
“Cool. This isn’t Stockholm station, is it?”
“No, it’s not for another ten minutes.”
I think he could hear my mental sigh of relief. “Perfect.”
It was right about then I noticed how good-looking he was. He was tall. Well-proportioned, with either a physique that denoted frequent trips to the gym, or natural athleticism. His teeth were straight, pearly and white. His forehead was high, dark-blonde straight hair peeking from underneath a backwards ballcap. His teal shirt matched his cap, a dark grey denim jacket sitting off to the side with his discarded laptop and book.
He caught me looking at the latter, the spine of which letters read in English. I caught him looking at my shirt, the design of CALGARY in repeating rainbow block letters. Maybe he thought I was Canadian.
“Are you Canadian?” I blurted out.
At that he did laugh. And hot damn, what a nice laugh it was.
“No, I grew up in Soderhamn. I was just visiting my parents.” I don’t hide my facial expressions well, which at that moment took on a look of utter bewilderment. This handsome bastard was visiting the random-ass town of Soderhamn? The same one I could (and did) ride a bike across in like half an hour? He was the equivalent of a Tom Welling growing up in some random small town like Smallville or Dogpatch (and yes, I know I’m blending universes there just a tad, but you get what I’m sayin’ with that). But this was Sweden, I reminded myself, the land of really, really, ridiculously good-looking people, even in its Podunk recesses.
“Well, I’m definitely not,” I joked.
“Of course not, you’re American.”
He said it so matter-of-fact. Like it was obvious. So I asked him how he knew. I could have been Canadian from my shirt, and we share similar accents.
“It’s just. . .” He thought. “I don’t know, you just seem so American.” Besides the CALGARY shirt, I was in what I thought were nondescript clothes. Jeans, white tennis shoes, the yellow Utah beanie the only other indicator, but the state shape outline embroidered on the side was so subtle, if you didn’t know what it was, you wouldn’t know. Maybe it was the fact I was like half this guy’s height, with a tinge of yellow brown tan. My hazel eyes and textured dark hair in the braid down my back were exactly the opposite of most native Swedes I’d met. Usually when fellow travelers find out American, it’s followed by the subsequent exclamation of “But you don’t look American.” Sometimes I counter that with, “Well then, what do Americans look like?” To which they don’t really respond. The United States is a vast land, conquered and colonized by several countries. I think what they mean to say is “You don’t look Caucasian” but hey, it’s not like the second-most spoken language in the United States is Spanish or something. In other words, thank God Guy-across-from-me didn’t share this sentiment, cuz that would have lowered his attractive-ness score. (As it was, he was batting at a solid 9.8 out of 10, imo.)
But I digress.
We had a ice conversation. Small talk, casual chitchat, nothing earth-shattering, but still nice. He told me about how he was getting ready to move to Berlin, while I explained I was meeting a friend from Utah who was from Stockholm. I’d be there for a few days, waiting to meet up with my sister in Paris.
“To be honest, I’m surprised you wanted to have a conversation with me,” I admitted. “I understood it was rude to talk with others on public transit, via Swedish consideration.”
He made a face. “The younger generation, we’re less traditional than our parents. Besides, you’re American,” he added, as if that should explain everything.
“Oh-kay.” He read my perplexed expression that confirmed no, that explained diddly squat.
“It’s like this,” he elaborated. “Swedish people like American culture. Not just pop culture, but the way we perceive you. To us, Americans are friendly and open, while Swedish people are more reserved. I knew I could have a conversation with you because it would be something you might culturally be open to. So I can do it without being rude because it’s not rude to you.”
That gave me so many more questions, but they stayed semi-formed in my head. Besides, the train was starting to slow.
“This is Stockholm station,” Guy confirmed, gathering his effects. His long arms slid into his denim jacket, slinging his bag strap across his chest. I likewise (though with not half as much coordination) gathered my effects and donned my gear.
“I’m so sorry to ask, you’ve been so kind, But could you maybe point me in the direction of my platform?”
He glanced at my phone, nodding to himself of the platform number. “Of course. But,” here his eyes narrowed. “If you wanna get through the station, you have to be aggressive, okay? Make sure you push back.”
I thought he was joking at first, but he was dead serious. Never in my life would it have crossed my mind to battle my way through a station teeming with the descendants of Vikings. . .but I nodded anyway.
He wasn’t kidding about needing to be assertive. Bumping and passing with no regard for personal space in the bustling station, it was dog-eat-dog when it came to making a walkway, though nothing I hadn’t encountered in any station before. Maybe along with his friendly and happy image of Americans, he imagined we were always polite and friendly in traffic situations? Not sure on that one. But lucky for me, hustling directly behind a six-foot-something Swede made it easy to navigate the busy station. He glanced back at intervals, making sure I wasn’t crushed or lost, much to his credit. Apparently he took his guide duties to heart.
He stopped right outside a corridor. “Once you go through, stay to the right, and you can’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” I beamed with gratitude. “That would have taken me forever to find. Good luck in Berlin.”
“Goodbye as well,” he smiled. God, was he handsome.
In another life, in another station, as braver, more adventurous person, maybe I would have stood on my toes, reaching up to kiss his smooth-faced, sandalwood-smelling face.
But like I said — I have an overactive imagination. And I’m awkward as all get out, to boot. The moment ticked by, lost now in the crowd. Goodbye, I said again. And with a wave, that was that.
So much for the romantic train station rendezvous, I thought, but not without a laugh. I grabbed my overstuffed bags, through the corridor. Because with the prospect of a fresh adventure in your path, it’s impossible to fee too much regret.