Day 597 - Copenhagen to Oslo
Getting from Copenhagen to Oslo
Viewed from the train en route to Oslo
Day 597 – 57°
The morning of May 16 found us rolling quickly north by train into Sweden thanks to of one of the world’s great engineering marvels: the Øresund Bridge, which, it turns out, is far more than a bridge. The train sweeps from Copenhagen beneath the Baltic Sea toward the Swedish city of Malmö. A cable-stayed bridge, nearly 8 km (5 miles) long, connects itself to an artificial island where it disappears into a tunnel that runs another 4 km (2.5 miles) before re-emerging into the light. It was a stunning ride.
Once in Sweden we continued through its green farmlands on our way to a connecting train in Gothenburg that would take us onto Oslo where we would board a flight the next day to visit Nana in Pittsburgh, and resupply ourselves after having travelled some 12,000 miles from central Chile, south to Antarctica, north to Montevideo, across the Atlantic and, finally, this far into western Europe.
Things looked to be clicking along, and then at Varberg we were told, rather bluntly, everybody off the train: electrical problems.
The power lines were down up ahead. Grumbling and thoroughly annoyed, everyone emerged onto the platform. A small man with thinning hair wearing Swedish Railway insignia cringed, awaiting the onslaught of questions.
"When will the next bus come?"
“15 minutes to two hours," says the diminutive conductor. This is not an answer anyone wants to hear.
"A taxi?” Someone asks.
“For 50 people?" says another man, big with thick shoulders.
“How about several taxis?" Says a regular commuter, who is clearly disgusted.
I'm not sure how far away Gothenburg is, but I know we aren't close so I ask, “How much does a taxi cost?”
“A few thousand kroner, I think," says the railway man. "I don't know. You can split the cost."
“If we take the bus, will we make the next connection?" I ask.
“I would take a taxi. You will be reimbursed," says the conductor without explanation. I'm pretty sure getting any reimbursement would be a nightmare. But I ask by whom?
“Whatever company you bought the ticket from. It's an EU thing."
More discussion ensues among our fellow passengers. Everyone, it seems, has connections to forwarding trains, and it now appears that almost no one will make them.
"Where do we get the bus?" I ask.
The little man points vaguely, "Down there and then up to the right."
Somehow I had expected better from the Swedish rail system, but it turns out the country has more than a score of companies that handle rail. I had no idea what this particular one was and truthfully it didn't matter much right now. I felt like we were like the people left behind on the TV series "Lost." Where was the famous Scandinavian penchant for order, clarity, punctuality? Did it depart at the Danish border?
We discuss the possibilities. Cabs? Most were being turned down for vague reasons by whatever cabbies were available. Varberg was a small, mostly empty town, not replete with taxis. As for the bus, no one knew where to pick it up or when it might arrive.
I checked Uber. The app said that it could pick us up for 1580 kroner, about $160. I watched my Uber app continually tell me it was contacting a driver, but nothing was happening. In the meantime, we walked like aimless sheep to where 40 or so other lost souls had clustered. Eventually Uber gave up and informed me no cars were available.
Now there are 50 people on the corner. Since we had missed our original connection, Cyn looked for and found a later one. If we could make that we wouldn't miss the jet departing for Pittsburgh the next day.
I was talking to Graham from New Zealand when a fresh crowd from another train appeared. That brought the number of clustered orphans to roughly 100, all wandering the street corner, clueless and untethered. Soon I hear a trumpet, and then a saxophone. The recent enrollees in our new urban army were apparently university band members. Now a trombone and a cymbal, and then the little band of college age players began to play "Stand By Me." It was rough at first, but they begin to warm up, and get into the swing of it. People start snapping their fingers, tapping their feet. The sax player is riffing pretty well. Smiles are coming out all around. I was impressed with the choice of the song. And the whole idea was brilliant and so offhand. The perfect thing to do when people are frustrated and cranky. It does nothing to accelerate the arrival of any help, but it was such a positive, human move.
In the midst of this, after we have been cooling our heels for an hour and a half, a taxi drifts down the street and a woman wearing glasses and braided blonde hair steps right in front of the it! It stops and she talks to the cabbie. Before she and her teenage son get in, Cyn quickly walks up to her and asked if we can join.
"Yes," she says. "Please do!"
Cyn signals to me. I've been talking American politics with Graham, but catch her out of the corner of my eye. I grab our bags. I tell Graham, maybe there's room, but when he arrives there isn't. And he's OK with that. We toss our bags in. I shake hands with Graham. He says he'll be in touch and then Cyn and I pile in.
Soon we're off on the highway to Gothenburg doing 80 mph. Our savior who snagged the cab is named Svalla. Her son is a tall, slim kid, wearing a baseball cap and AirPods. His name is Sigmar. They're from Iceland, but moving to Sweden and they have a meeting to make with the Swedish Immigration Department in Gothenburg. They've been struggling to get their paperwork straightened out, but Sweden is overwhelmed with Ukrainian immigrants so the system is clogged. If they don’t make the 3:30 who knows when they’ll get another one. It's now 2:15 and it's 60 miles from Varberg to Gothenburg.
The taxi driver seems unconcerned and ignores all speed limits. We arrive at the Gothenburg train station in half an hour feeling like we've made it to Valhalla. We depart, pay our half of the cab fare, wish Svalla and Sigmar luck and make for the station.
We would make the second connection at 4:30. Even time for food. Soon afterward we boarded the train and by 9 pm we were in our hotel at the Oslo airport. The next morning, almost five months after leaving home, we'd be back in Pittsburgh, assuming the jet didn't break down somewhere over the Atlantic.
