Nomad as a pylon. There was only one person that I am aware of having met twice by what I assume to be pure coincidence in the course of InterRailing over Easter. She was an Australian, and presumably still is. But then it seems that most of the people that one meets on long-distance trains are Australians training to be travellers.
We met for the first time on a narrow-gauge steam train journey from Kurort Oybin to Zittau, which as everyone knows is more or less along the border between Saxony and the Czech Republic, if that is what it is still called this week. We struck up what I shall tentatively call a conversation on the feeble strength of our both using international tickets on a very silly train. It went no further than exchanging our excuses for existence, over coffee and what ought to have been cakes. Hardly conversation, I know. Chatting-up is not my strong suit. It gets worse.
After Saxony I headed up to Scandinavia for the holiday weekend and by the following Thursday was coming South again, arriving back in København Hovedbanegård with my colleague in tow. It is essential, when passing through Denmark, to make the best of any opportunity that presents itself to consume pastries. They quite outshine Danish Pastries available anywhere else, even as close as Sweden. So we called in the little bakery tucked into the corner of the station hall. Parallel lines. My Australian was there too.
So I introduced them, and they did the sorts of things girls do when they meet, you know. And my colleague being quite heavily pregnant, they made a big fuss about that. She, the Australian that is, was still heading North, and oh my goodness was this a coincidence or was this not, my goodness. You can imagine. It went on and on. I was only able to shut them up by threatening to eat their pastries as well as mine.
And then she went off to catch the Oslo train and we went for a bus. I never did find out her, the Australian's, name or phone number or address. I seem to be out of practice, both with picking up and with succinctness. The only albeit feeble excuse I have to offer is that having a heavily pregnant colleague in tow can cramp one's style. It doesn't do much for succinctness either.