So here I am in the town of Fredericia in Denmark. I’ve been to see the sites, and the main pedestrian shopping street, with my Danish friend.

I spent the 12th of August in Kolding with MenZa (of MenZa’s Blog) touring Koldinghus (Kolding Castle) and strolling about the local botanical gardens. We also went walking around the town (even came across a British pub!). I slept well that night knowing that I had prepared and planned, well in advance, my trip to Copenhagen.

Bright and early in the morning (that’s about 8:00 AM for me) I got up, had a shower, got dressed, double-checked my bags, rubbed my hands together in glee (everything’s going according to plan!) and went to the nearby bus-stop.

(you know something has to go wrong here don’t you? Otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this)

I found that the buses don’t travel in the morning on Sundays (check the 13th August, 2006 on your calendars). I had no choice - it would be another 3 kilometre walk to the train station with all my luggage.

1 HOUR (AND THREE COCA-COLAS) LATER…

I turned round the corner of a street, and the station came into view just in time for me to see the 9:09 train to Copenhagen chug into gear and shoot off. Shrugging off my initial disappointement, I entered the train station, had a chat with the lady at the counter, and discovered the next train was in an hour. Plenty of time I thought.

I opened up my wallet and watched in dismay as a couple of moths fluttered out. All I had were a few measly coins in the zipper compartment. Back to the lady in the grocery store, another chat, another discovery: the nearest ATM machine was just outside the train station and to the left. So off I went, out and to the left. In front of me was a road with a row of houses on each side extending as far as I could see. No ATM in sight. I decided to make an excursion into town with my luggage in search of one. I had lots of time left after all - 40 minutes.

When I got back to the train station (with the money) I found the desks at the ticket office to be silent and vacant. The ticket office was closed until 10:45; my train was due to leave at 10:09.

The ticket machine was the only option now. I went over to it, selected Copenhagen as my destination, and a demand for 261 DKK was made. I got out my money, and looked for a slot to insert the notes… there was none. The machine only accepted coins and credit cards. Despite my bad experience with my credit card in Europe, I pushed it in, entered my ATM PIN code and it rejected it immediately. At this point, I was beginning to sweat a little. The train was leaving in 20 minutes, and I had to be on it!

In desperation, I went to the same lady again, and explained my situation to her. She kindly offered to give me 200 DKK worth of change in 10’s and 20’s. With a fistful of coins in one hand, I strode towards the machine once again, confidently this time.

One by one, I inserted the coins from the moutain of silver in my palm. Slowly, I watched the figure count down from 261 to 241 to 221 to 201 to 181 with a series of ‘chings’. Somewhere around 181 it rejected one of my coins. I placed another one in. It rejected that too. Then I put in a third, and all my change came down into the tray below.

As I scooped up the coins from the tray, I could sense the growing crowd behind me getting annoyed and restless. Totally out of politeness (and a little bit out of fear that they’d knock me unconscious if I attempted the procedure again), I stepped to the back of the line to await my next assault on the machine.

Painstakingly, I repeated the process, slowly putting in the coins this time… 81… 61… nearly there… 51… 41… come on… 31… YES… 21… 11… YES! YES!… 1… I quickly scurry to find a 1 DKK coin in my wallet, place it in with the grace of an angel, halo and all. I wait for the familiar ‘ching’ sound of approval from the machine as the sunlight pours through the window, choir singing melodiously in the background, but all I hear is an ominous ‘clunk’ as the piddly 1 DKK coin lands in the tray. Frantically, I search for another one as the heavenly clouds recede above me and the sunlight slowly disappears. One catches my fingers and I place it through the slot. CLUNK!

A bead of sweat forms at the top of my forehead and runs down my cheek to be embedded in the tangle of hair that makes up my scraggly beard. My last 1 DKK coin, and my last chance to get to Copenhagen, is literally in the palm of my hands. I’ve got my eyes half-closed as I push the coin in as if I were afraid of offending the machine if I did it too abruptly…

CLUNK!

…

It’s pitch black, the choir has deserted me, and there is complete silence for a moment. Then, one by one, the machine spits out 261 DKK worth of coins.

By this point, I am really starting to feel the pressure. There are 5 minutes left until my train is due, and I have no ticket, and no means of getting one. What do I do? Should I buy a ticket off someone? Should I play the dumb tourist game - ‘Ticket? Oh, can’t I buy those on the train?’ - and incur a possible fine of 500 DKK? I’m racking my brains for ideas when suddenly a moment of pure genius hits me.

‘Excuse me,’ I say to the woman in front of me, ‘Would you mind buying me a ticket with your credit card? I’ll pay you of course.’ I immediately felt stupid for asking - it sounded so much like a scam. Only a fool would agree to such an arrangement. Thank God this one was. Like a little boy at Christmas time, the joy of receiving this present was wonderful (except for the fact that I had to pay for it). I checked my watch - 10:09.

Time seemed to have stopped at that moment and all became a trailing blur as I burst through those station doors stopping for the briefest of moments to chuck the luggage over my shoulder. To my left and right and extending onwards I saw signs to tracks 1 and 2, 3 and 4, 5 and 6, 7 and 8, 9 and 10. Dumbfounded, I looked at my ticket. Then I realised - I can’t read Danish. Like the closing hours of the final chapter to a doomed story, I checked my watch again - 10:10. I had only choice - eenie meanie miney moe… catch a… what was it… by the toe… if it… smiles… Ah, fuck it, I’ll take track 2.

I bolted up the stairs, backpack bouncing from shoulder to shoulder, and came to a deserted railway.
‘Is the train to Copenhagen arriving here?’ I asked a man sitting on a bench. He said two words: ‘no’ and something in Danish I couldn’t understand but took to be the track number.
‘Er… 5?’ I inquired quizzically. ‘no, no!’ and he repeated the word. After seeing the dumb look on my face he sighed and pulled up ten fingers - and, no, that is not a Danish insult - my train was, as I looked over to the end of the station, currently parked on the furthest track possible - track 10. The doors were already open, and they wouldn’t be for much longer.

Now, it would be a tragic end to the story (and to my last-minute-train-catching reputation) if I were to miss this one. So, what do you think? Did I make it?

Yeah, I did.

By about 5 seconds.