There's a certain rush I enjoy from rushing to make connections and departures. Understanding it's not always in my best interest, I was out in the streets of Frankfurt at 8:15 am to catch an 8:50 train. My itinerary was like clock work.
8:20 - arrive at metro station
8:30 - depart destination metro station
8:35 - arrive at train station
I had 15 minutes, perhaps more time than I've ever given myself. I needed to have my Eurail pass officially stamped before I could use it, so I walked into the DB customer service and ticketing office. The room was large with agents sitting at windows circling the room. Fresh off my trip from England, I eagerly searched for the end of the queue. There was a calm and relaxed atmosphere as several passengers lounged on the stylish padded benches with no queue in sight. I approached a window with an agent who seemed ready to help. With no one else around looking interested to take up this man's offering of help, I figured I'd go for it. All would have been great, but I needed a service number before he could help me.
Returning to the room with a ticket stub with bold black numbers reading 198, I saw that they were only servicing 182 at the moment. About 8 of the 25 or so windows were open. The time was 8:40, and a little panic set in.
Every other passenger seemed to have a much more difficult task than getting a pass stamped. The turnover was slow, with each passenger taking several minutes as though they were more so determining their next chess move instead of train journey.
The frustrating part was seeing the windows free up and the agents patiently waiting for the correct numbered passenger to show up. At times they would wait around for someone who had clearly left, either that or someone with poor vision or was extremely slow, or possibly both. After a reasonable amount of time, they would skip the number and move on. I stood a few meters back from one booth that kept trying to find someone with the right number. I looked at the agent with an expression that said 'I would be more than happy to have you help me instead of wasting your time with that system!'. 188, 189, 190. The numbers were getting closer to what I had in my hand, as the same agent advanced them. I silently encouraged her to go quicker, wanting to enforce some sort of 10 second rule.
Four of the windows were training windows, which were all open, with the new employees patiently waiting for their supervisor to come by and teach them another trick in the art of issuing tickets. I stood patiently, well, politely may be a better word, passively encouraging a new employee with a smile believing in her skills to stamp my rail pass with an official date. Believing my ability to make subtle hints was working was immediately shot down when she slid a small sign that said 'Employee in Training', in front of her to block my eye contact with her. Before doing so, she looked at me with an expression that said 'I know perfectly how to help you, but I'm going to milk this training badge as long as possible'. I assume she was waiting for her supervisor to come by and explain how to properly douse all four corners of the stamp with ink.
In reality, I know the powers of a training badge first hand. I wore mine with pride well after I was hired when I worked at Zellers. Wearing it allowed me the ability to look down at it as an excuse for anything that went wrong months into the Christmas season. The badges should really be used as a motivational tool for employees. Along with being employee of the month, a gold plated 'employee in training' badge would be awarded to alleviate pressure from demanding customers.
The call number on the screen was now 195, and the time was 8:46. I felt like it would take a miracle to catch the 8:50 train. Anxiously looking at the different windows, I tried to predict which one would open first. 196 was called, then 197. It was 8:49 when I saw booth 21 finish up with her previous customer. I raced over waiting for her to call my number, as if it was a card game of slaps and the second I saw 198 I needed to slam my stub onto her desk. The transaction took 20 seconds to complete, then I sprinted to get my bag that was sitting in the corner and ran to platform 9 with the urgency of being on the Amazing Race.
The 8:50 train to Interlaken, Switzerland, left 2 minutes later and I was joyfully confused how I was able to make it. Now with 4 transfers ahead of me, a day of joyous train travel will take me to Lyon, France, where my CouchSurfing host promises of a large urban music festival for the evening. So long as I don't need a number, it'll be music to my ears.
8:20 - arrive at metro station
8:30 - depart destination metro station
8:35 - arrive at train station
I had 15 minutes, perhaps more time than I've ever given myself. I needed to have my Eurail pass officially stamped before I could use it, so I walked into the DB customer service and ticketing office. The room was large with agents sitting at windows circling the room. Fresh off my trip from England, I eagerly searched for the end of the queue. There was a calm and relaxed atmosphere as several passengers lounged on the stylish padded benches with no queue in sight. I approached a window with an agent who seemed ready to help. With no one else around looking interested to take up this man's offering of help, I figured I'd go for it. All would have been great, but I needed a service number before he could help me.
Returning to the room with a ticket stub with bold black numbers reading 198, I saw that they were only servicing 182 at the moment. About 8 of the 25 or so windows were open. The time was 8:40, and a little panic set in.
Every other passenger seemed to have a much more difficult task than getting a pass stamped. The turnover was slow, with each passenger taking several minutes as though they were more so determining their next chess move instead of train journey.
The frustrating part was seeing the windows free up and the agents patiently waiting for the correct numbered passenger to show up. At times they would wait around for someone who had clearly left, either that or someone with poor vision or was extremely slow, or possibly both. After a reasonable amount of time, they would skip the number and move on. I stood a few meters back from one booth that kept trying to find someone with the right number. I looked at the agent with an expression that said 'I would be more than happy to have you help me instead of wasting your time with that system!'. 188, 189, 190. The numbers were getting closer to what I had in my hand, as the same agent advanced them. I silently encouraged her to go quicker, wanting to enforce some sort of 10 second rule.
Four of the windows were training windows, which were all open, with the new employees patiently waiting for their supervisor to come by and teach them another trick in the art of issuing tickets. I stood patiently, well, politely may be a better word, passively encouraging a new employee with a smile believing in her skills to stamp my rail pass with an official date. Believing my ability to make subtle hints was working was immediately shot down when she slid a small sign that said 'Employee in Training', in front of her to block my eye contact with her. Before doing so, she looked at me with an expression that said 'I know perfectly how to help you, but I'm going to milk this training badge as long as possible'. I assume she was waiting for her supervisor to come by and explain how to properly douse all four corners of the stamp with ink.
In reality, I know the powers of a training badge first hand. I wore mine with pride well after I was hired when I worked at Zellers. Wearing it allowed me the ability to look down at it as an excuse for anything that went wrong months into the Christmas season. The badges should really be used as a motivational tool for employees. Along with being employee of the month, a gold plated 'employee in training' badge would be awarded to alleviate pressure from demanding customers.
The call number on the screen was now 195, and the time was 8:46. I felt like it would take a miracle to catch the 8:50 train. Anxiously looking at the different windows, I tried to predict which one would open first. 196 was called, then 197. It was 8:49 when I saw booth 21 finish up with her previous customer. I raced over waiting for her to call my number, as if it was a card game of slaps and the second I saw 198 I needed to slam my stub onto her desk. The transaction took 20 seconds to complete, then I sprinted to get my bag that was sitting in the corner and ran to platform 9 with the urgency of being on the Amazing Race.
The 8:50 train to Interlaken, Switzerland, left 2 minutes later and I was joyfully confused how I was able to make it. Now with 4 transfers ahead of me, a day of joyous train travel will take me to Lyon, France, where my CouchSurfing host promises of a large urban music festival for the evening. So long as I don't need a number, it'll be music to my ears.