The Waiting Room
We are all waiting around for something, but who's waiting with us?
Every day we spend at least a little time waiting. Weather we’re standing in the queue at the supermarket, re-freshing our inbox for that important email or shifting from one foot to the other while we wait for our train to arrive. Waiting is a staple of life. But now and again, waiting around becomes more than a practice in patience. It morphs into a space for novelty, dissembling conventions, turning the mundane into something magical.
(audio coming tomorrow…)
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Athletes, bakers, drivers, farmers and influencers call this time of the morning 'home'. But I’m struggling to stay awake. The sun’s trying to brighten the sky, but the darkness is overwhelming. My bags wait for me at the door, zipped and locked. I’ve always packed the night before, some times I go one step further and start two days prior. I turn my key twenty minutes after rubbing my eyes for the first time.
Amsterdam Centraal is a beautiful building, although I haven’t considered its red bricks for a while. Beauty is like that, it hits you in the face when you first set eyes on it, but routine and repetition lull you into reverie. Then when you're expecting it least, it shows itself again, and you can't believe what's been staring back at you day after day.
Its mixture of gold, emerald, and red conveys an essence of yesteryears when this building was the epicentre of excitement and expeditions. Its grand entryways hold hopes hundreds of years old within its marble columns and dreams and dilemmas in decorations lining the walls. Surprise and suspense echo between the steel rafting and clip-clop along the tiled floors. Even now, that magic persists, but it’s hidden between vending machines and Starbucks.
The ornate clock tower tells me it’s four fifty-five when I reach the station, entering through the main door. It’s another ritual of mine on travel days; I start as I mean to go on, in splendour. Although I’ve begun many trips from this spot, I’ve never embarked on today's route. Amsterdam to Prague should take me thirteen hours, half an hour less if I'm on time. But I’ll be happy with thirteen. I’m meeting friends in the Czechian capital and a couple of people I don’t know. It’s a typical, perhaps, predictable spot for a bachelor party, but those typical places earn their title for a reason. For all its flaws and warts, Prague is one of Europe’s brightest gems, or so I’ve read. I’ve yet to see its beauty for myself.
Announcements start mumbling over the speakers, something in Dutch I don’t quite understand. I think the train to Arnhem is delayed. Or is it Almere or Amersfoort? I suppose it doesn't matter. Neither Prague nor Berlin were mentioned. My train, heading to Berlin first, then to Prague, leaves from platform two and according to my phone, it's still on time. I can even see it, waiting for a long day of service. There’s a kiosk on my platform, and I pop in before finding my coach.
“Good morning,” the clerk says, greeting me like a man accustomed to the early hours.
“Hi,” I say, rubbing my eyes after they’re insulted by the bright lights. I order a coffee and a croissant that’s kept warm under lamps like it’s a sausage roll. The croissant is dull and tasteless, and the coffee is caffeinated brown water. I consume them both as if they’re what I expected. I emerge to bright streaks of sunlight puncturing the glass roof and beam down on the dreariness of a train station before rush hour. I have a beaten-up pair of RayBans in my pocket - a necessity for travel days - and I slip them on.
A few more announcements begin mumbling across the station, something about Den Haag and Utrecht, then Berlin. I peer along the platform to my train. It has ten minutes until its scheduled departure, but what I thought was it has disappeared, and now the tracks are empty. A few brave pigeons take its place, happily pecking at flakes of rubbish left between the steel lines. The departure boards are awash with red additions. It’s a rash, spreading faster than chicken pox, and my route has been infected too. I’ve got at least an hour's wait.
There’s a Burger King on this platform too, but isn’t open, and the kiosk where I brought my disappointing breakfast isn’t made for waiting. They don’t want you to stick around long enough to complain. So, with few other options, I head to the waiting room. On my way, I try to remember the last time I waited in a designated room. I can’t recall a single time. Like the red bricks and marble floors, they are a thing of the past, put into practice long before apps and headphones existed. But an hour is too long to stand and shuffle from one foot to the other.
“Morning,” a fat man says as he passes me on his way out. His button-down shirt is the only thing I notice. Its buttons are holding on for dear life.
“Morning,” I say, although he’s not listening. He never anticipated a reply.
The waiting room is less of a room and more of a hall, with vaulted ceilings and the same attention to detail the entryways boast. Below the emerald sky are lines of modern benches, charging points, and two vending machines. By no means am I the first here. The hall is humming with conversations, both concerned and carefree. I’ve entered a mixing bowl; and I wonder what I am to this recipe. A pinch of salt, a cup of sugar, a grating of nutmeg or an unwanted fly? Whatever I am, there’s hardly enough space for me, and I find a spot leaning against a column between a couple of hikers and a family of four. Barely an improvement on shuffling from one foot to the other.
Thunderstorms are responsible for the delays. In such a flat country, rail and wind fight for dominance. Today the wind is winning, but before we know it, we’ll be pouring onto platforms, then into trains. For now, at least, there’s nowhere to go, so we wait side-by-side. In a room like this, we’re close enough to hear one another's secrets. Equally, we're too close that those same secrets scatter, it's like trying to follow the descent of a snowflake. A kid next to me is being scolded in violent whispers, but when I try to listen, I hear the route details of a mountain.
“We have to be here by midday; if not, we’ll have to turn around,” the taller mountaineer explains to the shorter one. The short one looks nervous at the reminder of the dangers awaiting them. Judging by his immaculate gear, it’s his first time.
“If you don’t pack it in, we will go home right now,” the dad replies, already exasperated by the day. It’s ten past five.
“But don’t mention it to Sophie,” a voice mutters conspiratorially to another. I look around, trying to find its owner, but I can't. I’ll have to wait for Sophie.
There’s another stream of mumbling announcements, I assume, repeating the delays. The mumbles echo in the lofty room, drowning out everything below the speakers they spring from. A few people strain to decipher the message, believing a tilt of their head will make the difference. Most of us, myself included, are lost in something else. I’m lost in the room, looking around behind my tinted lenses.
Across the hall, leaning against the opposite column, a man in a well-tailored camel suit. He’s middle-aged with a balding head, but he’s fighting back with a curated quiff of a handful of heavily gelled strands. Out of everyone here, he looks as comfortable in the early hours as he might at midday. I wonder why? To my simple eyes, he doesn’t look like a baker, driver, or farmer, and he's too old for athletic pursuits. Influencing is a broad profession, so perhaps that's it. It would go some way to explain the suit. A broadsheet covers his face from the arch of his nose south, I can just about see the colour of his eyes as they move from right to left. Or, I guess from his perspective, left to right. His pupils are surrounded by an uninspiring shade of brown. This morning's news, or yesterday's, has a two-page spread about the war with an image of a burnt-out tank taking centre stage. He’s manipulating the paper as I’ve always wished I could, but every time I read a newspaper, I spend half my efforts taming the exhaustive pages. To his left, a pair of young girls in bright hoodies and grey sweatpants whisper into one another's ears, removing and returning their headphones each time the other has something to add. They are sitting on the floor, looking around like they've got something to hide. I wonder if these are the two waiting for Sophie to return. I watch their lips, trying to read their movements, but they tell me nothing. After a few seconds, they sense my intrusion, blush and cover their words with their hands.
Next to them, a row of scouts wait on a bench. Typical rolled scarves and toggles identify them to the world. Their patch-covered bags rest between their legs or act as a pillow hugged tight to their chests. There’s a maple leaf patched on one and a Union Jack on another. I can never stop smiling at the sight of their cream shirts, they’re a reminder of my own time sporting a toggle in their rucksack ranks. They were happy times. Summers spent hiking in the Alps, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, and building rafts which would fall apart mid-voyage.
“Where are you heading?” The dad asks me, snapping me out of my daydream. His eyes look even more tired than his voice.
“Prague. My friend's bachelor party,” I say, lowering my sunnies. “And you?”
“Disneyland,” He whispers, rolling his eyes.
“Lucky you,” I say, glancing at the kids playing on an iPad at his feet. They’ve been quiet since they were scolded.
“Tell me about it… Do you have any?”
“Not that I know of,” I say, and he leans closer. I can feel his breath on my cheek.
“Keep it that way.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be selling me on the idea?”
“I’m not much of a salesman.”
“Fair enough… When were you supposed to leave?” I ask, and he looks at his watch. It’s an old Rotary with a yellowing face and patchy strap. The tan lines poking out around the edges tell me he’s fond of it.
“In an hour.”
“Nice watch.”
“Thanks, it was my Grandad’s,” he says, and I want to tell him he doesn’t have to hold onto the strap. But that seems rude, so I resist.
“Why are you here so early?” I ask, pulling his wife into our conversation.
“Someone didn’t read the schedule properly,” she says, appearing behind him. She looks more put together than her other half, a layer of foundation smooths her skin, and her blush brightens her cheek. I can’t say if this has always been the case, but today at least, he’s punching.
“Oh, no. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
“Don’t worry, mate. I’m always in trouble,” he says, gripping my shoulder and feigning a smile.
New additions put an end to our conversation. Three rowdy Americans come bursting in, cursing the whole country, as if the weather is decided at election time. But in all fairness, their baseball caps and blue jeans are dripping wet, changing colour as the water saturates the fabric. The wind has chased them inside, whistling with fury through the gaps in the window frames. One of them, a spotty teenager, is huffing and puffing like he’s waiting to blow something down while he takes off his cap and jacket. His companions, another young-looking boy and an older girl, maybe in her early twenties, remove their coats with more care, trying to avoid the puddle forming around their feet.
“Our train’s delayed?” The spotty boy asks the girl.
“Yeah, for an hour.” She replies.
“At least we missed the rain.” The dad whispers in my ear. He’s not wrong. There aren’t many things worse than sitting in a chair for thirteen hours while the clothes on your back slowly and ineffectively dry. Perhaps adding screaming kids to the mix would send anyone over the edge.
“I’m going to get some coffee. Do you want one?” The dad asks, and his offer puts a smile on my face.
“No thanks, I've just had one.”
My attention turns back to the room. The man across from me is engrossed in another story, this time he’s showing me a page filled with men in suits shaking hands in front of flags. Next to him, the two girls have become three, and I wonder if the new redhead is Sophie. I must have missed her entry while the dad had my attention. The scouts are almost all asleep. One is unconscious, dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
“Maybe that isn’t the best idea,” the short mountaineer says to the taller one. I look over, intrigued by his nervousness. They’re flicking through an app, now and again pausing to read a comment.
“Argh, it’ll be fine. Look at this,” the taller one says, zooming into a grainy image. It’s either a stone ridge or an iceberg. Whatever it is, there’s no way I’m going to find out.
The sun is inching into the sky, dispelling the morning gloom. Sharp reflections bounce into my face, so I slip my sunnies back on. It’s almost six, and my delay is still an hour. Time does funny things when you’re waiting around. The maths creases my forehead, and I wonder how long I might spend in this room. Waiting until the winds have blown themselves out.
“Any news?” The dad asks, returning with two coffees, one in each hand.
“Nothing good,” I say.
“We’ll be here for another hour, James,” James’ wife says, and he looks totally defeated.
“How’s the coffee?” I ask.
“Terrible, but better than nothing.”
“You can sleep on the train,” his wife says, taking her cup and giving me a flash of mischief that probably had some hand in creating the two sitting between their feet. Unlike the man opposite, her dark eyes are captivating. I wonder how many men have been inspired by a single flash.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he replies as much to me as to her.
Out of nowhere, there’s a scream at our feet. One of the kids has bitten the other, and now the waiting room is ringing. The sleeping scouts shoot up, distraught at their rude awakening. The one with the Union Jack wipes the drool from his lips. Opposite, sympathy fills the brown eyes as they peer over the newspaper. Here’s a man who has already been through the early morning tantrums and waiting room rumbles. Perhaps that’s why he looks so accustomed to the early morning hours. So I have an addition to make. The mornings belong to athletes, bakers, drivers, farmers, influencers and parents.
“Come on, both of you outside,” James says, and I shudder a little at his fatherly sternness. He tries to shepherd them out, but they refuse, so he begins pulling. Their little legs step awkwardly behind him, protesting their relocation. His wife follows, sweeping up their bags and nestling the coffee between her elbow and ribs.
“Need help?” I ask, but she doesn’t hear me.
“It was nice to meet you. Have fun in Prague,” she says, passing me and slipping through the closing door. Her mischief has been replaced by a natural composure that mothers seem to be given to deal with public tantrums.
“You too,” I say before she’s out of sight.
Once the screams fade, a collective hum takes their place. Good news is what people have been hoping for, but a piece of drama will do. It pulls everyone out of their separate world and into one where we all occupy the same space. Now I’m not the only one looking around, noticing the differences between those waiting. The scouts are on the move, noticing something behind me through the window. I follow them with my eyes as they leave and see twenty more folded scarves and toggles waiting outside. The rain has stopped, and come to think of it, so has the whistling. Then as I think about taking the vacant seats, the mumbling returns. The man in the suit looks to the ceiling, praying for luck. Then just as quickly as the scouts, he’s leaving, folding his broadsheet into a neat rectangle. The girls are still lounging on the floor, listening to something more interesting than the mumbling lyrics of the station master. Maybe they have nowhere to be after all, people are strange in all sorts of ways, and perhaps their quirk is waiting in a waiting room with nothing to wait for. Waiting around for the very sake of it. Just as I’m pondering their presence, Sophie arrives.
“Soph, where have you been?” One of the hoodie-wearing girls asks.
“Sorry, I had to re-pack.”
"Lies!" The redhead shouts. "You were with Josh."
"Yeah, and then I had to re-pack."
“Classic,” the other hoodie says, and they all rise with a purpose.
I follow them out, slipping but not falling on the puddle left by the soaked Americans. The platforms are bustling now, and so are the tracks. The brave pigeons are cowering beneath benches, picking at the steady rainfall of pastry flakes gifted by clumsy commuters. The board tells me I still have to wait ten minutes. But that time can be spread across my feet, so I wander along the platform to the empty space and resume my wait. As I shuffle from left to right, I look for the others. Tired James, his composed wife and his biting children, the hoard of cream-shirt scouts, the morning man in his fine suit and Sophie and her friends. A few coach lengths further down, Sophie and her sweatpants conspirators are boarding the train to The Hague. The scouts are hidden, I spot them through moving windows, pulling out of the station. Union Jack has his bag against the window, already trying to find sleep again. Once their train has left, I have a clear view across five platforms, and I can see James carrying his daughter as she sleeps on his shoulder. Mum and brother follow behind. They’re waiting again, this time to board. Disneyland is only a few hours away. The morning man isn’t in sight.
The station is immense and feels twice as big now with the rush hour traffic flooding in. He’s probably sliding along tracks right now, unfolding his newspaper with crips precision.
Finally, the train to Berlin pulls in, and the doors open with a warm welcome. Come in, they say with a hiss. Your wait is over. I find my seat, 12A, a window seat with extra legroom. We’re about to leave when he sits beside me. He has a fragrance of information and ink.
“I thought we’d never leave,” he says before we jolt forward. "By the way, I was a baker and a parent. I even ran cross-country once upon a time."
Love, Luke