On our way back from a very special conference in Louvain on the reception history of John’s Apocalypse, a young Afro-American soccer player and a local couple board our train.
The young guy, twenty years old, is in Europe to play professionally for a local club. His life clearly is all about soccer. He eats, speaks and sleeps soccer. The young couple, we soon find out, are on their way to a wedding. They simply boarded the train together, shared the same section in the train, started chatting and began to share their journey with each other in an endless, ongoing, spontaneous chatter in which everyone around them was sharing.
They spoke about a whole encyclopedia of topics, about how expensive trans-Atlantic flights were ("We paid 400 dollars. "Man, it cost me 800 bucks"), they shared information about cheap flights in Europe ("remember the name: Ryanair"), then spoke about where the Euro was accepted as currency (and the young man is wrongly told the Dutch do not use it), on racism in the States and in Europe ("I do not care about politics. I do not see a white or black or pink person. I only see a human being."), on countries where one can find beautiful women and then finally they analyzed in depth the ins and outs of soccer (soccer players earn millions and millions), football (in Europe they do not call it soccer), cricket and rugby. Their conversation varied from the sublime to the uninformed.
Then the ticket examiner pitches. He examines the tickets of the three, which, as it turned out, were not valid for the class in which they were seated. So, instead of chasing them out, he friendly pointed out to them the huge numbers, not really to be missed, on each coach which indicated what class they were. As if he and they did not know. But, as the Germans say, his response to them was “toll,”great – so non-burocratic, friendly, non-racist, tolerant, accepting or großzügig. They play the innocent, those who are so unaware that they sinned, those who have never thought there would be a number one or two on a train coach. And the guard, in a friendly mood, play along - so next time just watch out for it. He gives them permission to remain where they are. We are all relieved. This is a good journey.
When he exits, satisfied, they continue with their discussion. The train speeds along, whilst a voice announces every station. Time flies. The chattering keeps on, the contact is intimate and friendly. Until the American looked out of the window at the station where the train had stopped. "This is the station where I must meet my friends," he remarks calmly. "This is right. I need to get off here." He had two bags as big as coffins with him. (A young, twenty year old guy, schlepping all that stuff behind him over a wide ocean and many countries. He is still young, I thought, as I eyed with the experience of a seasoned traveller our small bags with which we crossed the African continent.)
By the time he got hold of his bags, there was that ominous hiss which accompanies closing doors of trains in Europe. And we all know such doors close. Like in the Bible. Do not even think of knocking on the door. The train picks up pace whilst I sweat cold sweat on his behalf.
He now had to pay for the extra leg of his journey, get off at the next station (which was far, given the fact that ours was a speed train), buy a ticket back, find a train, a platform and then hope his friends would still be there to meet him.
So, imagine my suspense and stress on his behalf as I listened to the intensifying problem. What now? How shall we help him? He is in a new country, different customs, different language, strange places, no communication with the friends, alone.
Then comes one of the beautiful moments when one regains, as the worn-out pronouncement always goes, one’s faith in humanity. The new friends, themselves on a long journey, promptly reassured him, helped him take his bags to the train doors and even got off with him at the next station.
As I was looking back at the party on our way to our other train, they were intently studying his travel information. Far from home, unused to the culture of the new place, a scatter-brain who did not even look out for the station where he had to get off, he had people who cared for him, stood by him and helped him out.
People there, at the right time, at the right place to care for someone. His race, the colour of his skin, was irrelevant. For him, but also for them, this was clearly more than a train journey they shared. It became a spiritual journey, filled with compassion for the one in need.
I take a picture from a distance (see enclosed). It is a wonderful study of these three as the, in comeraderie, study the alternatives together, intently, lost in a world of finding solutions, helping out, caring. And, from afar, the observer from Africa drinks in this scenario. A train journey has become a spiritual journey - not only for the soccer player, but for his friends and for those who listened in and were taken up in experiencing humanity.
Can one really be pessimistic about the future?
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