Public Transportation is Hard

Just when you think you’re starting to get the hang of public transportation, it humbles you.

Yesterday I was on my way to Zellik Riding Club from my homestay in Laeken.  I made it from the tram stop to the train station and with my riding boots on and helmet strapped to my backpack, I strutted onto platform 3 of the Jette train station and patiently waited for my train to roll in 15 minutes later.

As the train rolled up right on time, I hopped in and found a seat by the door, since Zellik was only one stop away.  After a few minutes, I knew we were coming close to my stop, so I got up and waited by the door for the train to stop only… it didn’t.

It blew right through Zellik train station. “That’s ok, I’ll get off at the next one.” Only it didn’t stop there either.  Or at the next one, or the next one.  I stood frozen at the door for about a half hour just hoping that I would feel the breaks start to slow down and the train would roll into some station in the middle of rural Flanders so that I could get back to where I needed to be, or at least back to somewhere I knew.

So like the “adult” I am, I did the sensible, responsible, mature thing.

I called my dad.

“Dad, for all I know I could be on my way to Germany, I can’t figure out where this train is going,”

“Ok, well do you see anyone?”

“No, there’s only one other passenger, and I don’t see anyone who works here,”

“Ok, well is there a button you could push for information or something…?

“Let me see… This little one says ‘assistance’ do you think that would work?”

“Sounds like it to me,”

I pushed the button.  And a red light came on and the alarm went off, and a dutch voice that sounded pretty urgent came over the loudspeaker.  I felt the brakes start to slow down. Eventually we rolled into a tiny train station and a man in the Belgian Rail uniform appeared to see who was dying.

And it was little me, shaking like a leaf, muttering something about how I was on the wrong train.

In hindsight, I’m very lucky that this man was kind enough to see that I knew I messed up, because apparently he could have fined me big time. Luckily, he helped me figure out where I needed to be, gave me a reassuring smile and nod, and re-boarded the train that I eventually realized was bound for a town just outside of Antwerp. Nonetheless, my 5 minute train ride turned into a 45 minute train ride, and I accidentally did the equivalent of pulling a fire alarm without a fire.

I feel obligated to write a letter to Belgian Rail explaining that the word “assistance” is a little mild, I think “emergency” would be a little more appropriate.

So finally, I arrive in Zellik, ready to ride a beautiful Belgian Warmblood, only to realize the bank suspended my debit card, which I needed to not only pay for my lesson, but also to purchase a ticket back to Jette.

What God did I anger?