By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
There’s something beautiful about train stations. The shrieks of goodbye combatted against the outcries of hello, the clanking of suitcases and the thuds of footsteps, life breathing into every static motion. Unless, you’re like me. Running late. Again. Then there’s something daunting about train stations. Luckily, with the help of a kind guard, I managed to haul my suitcase onto the almost moving train with little time to spare. Rolling my suitcase down the narrow aisles, avoiding the stares of those hanging from above, I located the bunk I would call home for the next 21 hours. And home, it truly would become. Within 5 minutes 4 different people stopped to stare, the downside of staying on the lower bunk, more space but that equals higher visibility. All of them whispering in a language they don’t realise I speak, and I don’t stop to correct them. It’s all a game, a game I was playing until I look up to find him. He’s looking at a phone I can only assume is his mothers, intensely staring at the moving images paying no attention to the surroundings, then the inspector comes and like every little boy he jumps up, quite literally, at the opportunity to swap his ticket for the bunk card. As I do mine and make a little conversation with the guard, suddenly I become more interesting than the moving images across a screen. It starts with a jump. Jumping back and forward between his mothers’ bunk and mine, giggling as I pretend to be injured each time he does. It swiftly moves on to hide and seek, and whilst the walls are lined with bunks it does not hinder the boy’s ability to sneak into every corner of the train carriage, ignoring the stares of the elderly who sit fans in hand and scowls perfectly etched onto their faces. His mother soon beckons him back, profusely apologising to me to which I can only reply “No need, it’s the most fun I’ve had all day”. And it’s true. This is my 3rd train in this adventure, and I yet to feel at ease, at home. Until now. This feeling only expands as we spend the next 17 hours sharing stories of our homes, cultures, and food. As the mother insists, I eat with them, rest when they rest and drink her local herbal tea, it is then I am reminded that home can be a million miles away, and yet the feeling can be so close. There’s something beautiful about trains, the sound of children laughing as they experience seeing the sea for the first time, the whip of the fans that fan the elders in the heat and the jingle of the guard pacing up and down the train keeping everyone safe. Unless like you’re me. Leaving. For good. “Older sister where are you going, it’s not our stop yet!” The doors shut behind me, and again I am alone. Suddenly there’s something daunting about trains.