B Bahnhof Ostkreuz, we board the IC bound for Dresden. It’s as full as Uncle Rudi at Christmas. “Two reasons,” says a man with beer-sweat on his brow. “First: today Leipzig plays against HSV.”
“And secondly?” I ask. “Can you ride in this train as far as Lutherstadt-Wittenberg with a Deutschlandticket, since this isn’t a Regio train.” “There are such things,” I reply. “Cheers,” he says. “Cheers,” I say. We had booked seats. But they are taken by three Leipzig fans. We already saw them sprinting through the station crowd. So, clever.
We try to glare them into leaving. They ignore us as we stand on the stairs to the upper deck. At least, in that sense, this train resembles a real regional train.
When I ask my kids to shoo the seat-thieves away with a shout, they give me the bird. “Don’t bother,” the beer man chimes in again. “They’ll get off soon anyway. Then you’ll still have your seats.” He opens a fresh beer. “Cheers,” he says. “Cheers,” I say.
“You know,” he continues, “my friends and I are also heading to the game.” He points down the stairs. One of the three there looks vaguely familiar to me. I linger, puzzled, until he looks up and recognizes me. He had, in fact, as a kindergarten teacher, taught my son how to blow out a candle without fear. We remember it warmly.
He and his guys make the trip because one of them is an HSV fan, he explains. And that the next train will be just as full. “Cheers,” the man with the beer says once more. “Cheers,” I reply. Without the football travelers, we manage to squeeze ourselves six into four seats. We still enjoy good conversations all the way to Dresden. Outside the window the countryside rolls by, gray and wide. It’s so cozy that we decide: you can also be happy as a sardine in an Intercity can.
