The Solo Traveller

The instructions are written in German, and I study the words as if I’ll soon know what they say. It’s 10pm and there are few people here at the train station; I don’t know how to buy my ticket, and the people I’ve approached have done little to ease my worry. My voice quivers as I start to stress. I approach a lady who works for the station.
“Hi, do you speak English?”
She nods, but says nothing.
“I don’t speak German. Can you please help me buy a ticket?”
She grunts, but still says nothing. She walks to the machine and presses the American flag in the bottom right corner. A new window appears, and it’s asking me to click the appropriate language. The lady selects United Kingdom, and the instructions turn to English. I thank her, but she walks away with a grunt.
“Bitch,” I mutter.
I buy an ABC ticket, and then look around for a timetable or for a board that lists departures. There is none. The hostel website said that the ‘Airport Express’ train usually leaves from platform three, so I drag my luggage up the stairs and look around for a train that isn’t there. There are no incoming trains listed on the board, but I sit down on the bench anyway.
The train station is empty; it smells like burnt rubber and cigarette ash. I hear nothing but my wispy breath as it travels out of my mouth and tackles the icy wind of German winter.
After ten minutes, I stand up and look down the train tracks. Nothing is coming, and I only see one train waiting at a platform at the other end of the station. I go back underground, avoid the rude woman from earlier, and I approach another who works here.
“Hi. I need to get the Airport Express train?”
She frowns at me. “I don’t know what that is. Where do you need to go?”
“I need to get to Alexanderplatz station, and then from there I’ll get off and take another train.”
“The train waiting at platform fifteen will stop at Alexanderplatz.”
I don’t stop to thank her. I start a brisk walk towards platform fifteen, and I pull my scarf up closer to my neck. Berlin is a lot colder than Amsterdam was.
Two guys are walking to the same train, and they tell me that I have to stamp my ticket before boarding. They are only in Berlin for two nights; they are here to hit the clubs. I stamp my ticket in a hurry and carry my suitcase to the second floor of the train. As I sit down, I see the ‘Airport Express’ train arrive at platform 10. It stops for one minute and then leaves.