Kindness of Strangers

Travel days make me nervous. I know something difficult and out of my control will happen; I just don’t know what it will be, and it’s this unknowing that makes me uncomfortable. I had an inkling that today would be hard from the moment we purchased our tickets to Viana do Costelo, 200 miles north of Lisbon, near the Spanish border. We will spend the last two weeks of our time in Portugal based in the north, shuttling between Viana, Guimaraes, and Porto. When we purchased our tickets a few days ago we tried to buy them from the automated machine, which was confusing. It asked us if we’d like a half price ticket (yes, please), or a first-class ticket (versus what?). We aborted the process and went to the ticket window instead.

Here we learned that half-price tickets are for seniors, and that first-class seats are “just better.” Being 30-something budget travelers, we chose the second-class tickets for 26 Euros each. The ticket agent informed us that we’d have to change trains in Porto for Viana do Costelo, and that our connection time was five minutes. She advised us to take a later train with a better connection, but we are gamblers when it comes to such things. I convinced myself that I was okay taking the risk, until it came time to actually take the risk.

I studied our tickets before leaving the hostel. “CARR 21, LUG 114-116.” I confirmed that this meant we were in car 21, in seats 114 and 116. Paolo, our front desk guy at the hostel, was kind enough to print out a train schedule for us, totally unsolicited, while we were at breakfast, listing all the cities we would pass through. “Do you think we’ll make it?” I asked. “Eh, I don’t know. That Lisbon Porto line has lots of problems. But I think you be okay.”

As the train approached the station, I looked for car 21, but all I saw was 1 and 2. Which one was ours? We hopped on at the back of the train, in a car marked one, heaving our backpacks onboard. The seats looked very plush. “This has to be first class,” Maikael said. “One must be for first class, two means second.” We made our way towards the front of the train. The cars were marked in the following fashion: 8, 42, 81, 21, 22. Our aerobics teacher at home, DJ, often counts out of order to keep our minds off the fact that we are doing 100 repetitions of a certain exercise; walking through the train had the same disorienting effect.

We made it to what looked like Car 21, and there was a woman, chatting on her cell phone, sitting squarely in Seat 114. “Maybe this is a different car?” I said. Maikael stayed with the luggage as I crossed into the next car, the train lurching back and forth. It looked as if the next car was 22. “Disculp?” I asked a woman. “Este es car veinte uno o veinte dos?” The other car was 21 – how would we tell this woman she was in the wrong seat? My Portuguese phrasebook doesn’t give any guidance on this matter.

I made it back to the other car, and asked the man seated across the aisle for help. He confirmed this was, indeed, car 21, and told the woman something in Portuguese to the effect of, “You’re in the wrong seat. Get out.” She shook her head vehemently and pointed to her tickets.  Her seat was 114, but it listed completely different cities. A pitt formed in my stomach. We must have gotten on the wrong train.

I sat next to the woman, and our de facto translator, Pedro, offered Maikael a seat next to him as we waited for the conductor to sort things out. Upon studying our tickets, he determined that we were in the right seats, the right car, and the right train. The conductor spoke to the woman in the Portuguese, and she got up, looking surprised, and left. “She was on the wrong train,” said the conductor. He took our tickets and looked at our connection. “This is very fast,” he said. “But if you miss this one, there is another five minutes after.” He mapped a route for us and gave us very specific directions for transferring in the Porto station. “Do you think we’ll make it?” we asked. “Maybe. It’s possible.” The Portuguese are nothing if not optimistic.

As we reached the outskirts of Lisbon, the cityscape quickly changes to gently rolling hills of golden grain and lush countryside, something of what I would imagine Tuscany to look like. Soon, the landscape unfurls into pure green. Acres of grapevines surround fields of corn, with an occasional palm tree sprouting out of the field. Huge manors mingle with modest, red tile-roofed houses. Even the passengers change, as urban hipsters are replaced by salty old men sporting the characteristic garb: a short-sleeved dress shirt, a pocketed fisherman’s vest, slacks, and loafers, topped with a driver’s cap.

The conductor provided periodic updates as we approached Porto. I had been watching the time, and we were quickly falling behind schedule. We’d never make it. “This isn’t looking good,” he said. “I don’t think you’ll make the first train, but maybe the second.” As Porto loomed in the distance, even making the second train seemed unlikely. Ten minutes outside of Porto, the conductor came by. “I called the train in Porto, and they are going to hold it for you. But you’ve got to be ready to run.”

I was completely taken aback by this gesture, the ultimate demonstration of the kindness of strangers. I had heard that you can tell a lot about a country and its people by how their trains run. Portuguese trains are often late, but now I have an inkling as to why: putting humans ahead of schedules is more important.

As we pulled into the station, the conductor called ahead to check what line we were arriving at so he could give us more specific directions for our connection. He ushered us to a separate door. “I’ll stand here and tell you where to go.” “We’ll run fast,” I said. “I hope we make it.” “Don’t worry,” he said, “if they said they’ll hold it, they’ll hold it.” As the train ground to a halt, he opened the door. “Look for the train marked Valenca. Be careful. NOW RUN!”

We raced down the escalators, our backpacks swinging. I wanted to wave back, to blow kisses for this kind act, but I didn’t have time. We rounded the bend, not seeing any trains. A conductor was waiting for us and pointed to the left. Another passenger pointed, too. Finally we saw it: Valenca. We hopped on the train, breathless and laughing. An old woman spoke to us in Portuguese. “Are you the people we’ve been waiting for?” she asked, as if we’d been eating bonbons and simply lost track of the time. “How long have you been waiting?” Maikael asked, in Spanish. “Five minutes!”

Moments later the train chugged out of the station, taking us closer to the beach and farther away from skepticism.