Snow on the Semmering

The Vienna Main Station was bustling that sunny winter afternoon. Travellers of all backgrounds rushed through the station toward their platforms, and I was among them - navigating through the tightly-knit crowds as I looked up at a display screen, trying to see how many minutes were left until the train to Graz arrived. Platform 6, and 9 minutes to go, I found when it showed on the screen. And I’m getting close. Despite the weight of my backpack and suitcase holding me down, I managed to find the staircase leading up to Platform 6, where I was greeted by some modernly-designed, colourful electric-powered trains.

Eventually, the train to Graz had arrived - it was a blue and white one that had apparently departed from Prague. As soon as I stepped aboard, I searched for my seat, which was among one of many 2-2 pairs of black-leather seats with some against the windows so the passengers could enjoy the view, while others were in pairs of four around a large, fixed table. I stowed my suitcase on a glass shelf located at the end of the carriage, before stowing my carry-on under my seat and plopped down. I found that a spectacled, smartly-dressed old man in a brown colour scheme and carrying a binder in his arms was sitting beside me. As the train began to chug forward, quickly reaching the outskirts of Vienna, he initiated a friendly conversation by first introducing himself as Herr Oskar Franz. He explained to me that he was a piano teacher who had been teaching at schools in Vienna and across Austria for an astounding fifty-four years and counting, but also liked composing his own music! In addition, the alpine city of Graz was his hometown and he was returning to visit his family there for the Christmas holiday. In stark contrast, I was a young traveller from a faraway Asian country who wanted to see the world, and I was heading down there to go skiing for the very first time.
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I found myself waking up from my nap to the sound of my stomach growling for lunch - my beanie served as a pillow for my head against the hard window. Having taken a picture of the train’s composition from the manual on my phone, I stood up and stretched, then groggily walked down the hall to the carriage where the restaurant was located. Once I stepped into the restaurant, I was met with the chatter of people, soft acoustic music played from a speaker on the ceiling, and the sounds of a kitchen behind a counter in action. The interior was heated but felt warm and cosy. I found an empty space on a red leather bench near a window, and I picked up a menu that was resting on the table, where I searched for something warm to fill my stomach as I had skipped breakfast. The dish that grabbed my attention was a Käsespätzle, which was Austria’s answer to macaroni and cheese, as well as a classic hot chocolate for my beverage. Once I made my order at the counter and returned to my space, I sat back and rubbed my eyes so I could fully wake up and pass the time by admiring the views outside the windows.
However, I wasn’t prepared for what awaited me outside. Up until now, the closest thing to snow that I had seen in my life so far was the artificial snow I had seen in Snow City which I visited with my family as a child, where I slid down a snowy slope on a sled with my parents. That visit had painted a picture of what playtime in winter looked like; I even remember my parents promising me that they would take me to see real snow - something my father had seen growing up in his rural Germanic town with Oma and Opa. I almost lost myself in total wonder when I heard a plate being placed down on my table, indicating that my warm Käsespätzle and hot chocolate had arrived. When it cooled down to a suitable temperature, I savoured the cheesy dish and sweet drink, while I listened to the music and watched the world speeding by outside. I could get used to this, I thought.

And I did - even if I had to return to my seat once I finished my meal, and even if there was just another hour left of the two-and-a-half hour journey, which also involved stopping between a few small towns. To summarise, I travelled down the majestic Austrian countryside which was green in the summer, but was now covered in thick blankets of white snow - from the coniferous forests to the vast wide fields and the plain-coloured houses of stone and brick. But the most spectacular views were those of the colossal, snow-capped Austrian Alps, and those from when looking down from the towering stone viaducts - some of which were on the famous Semmering railway, which was made a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

After some more time spent reading, writing in my notebook, and having some more friendly banter with Herr Franz, I could finally hear the train slow down before finally halting. I could tell we had arrived, and to be very frank, I felt a bit sad, especially when parting with him. The journey was spectacular - every last minute of it. But as I headed to the exit to find Annika, my guide for this skiing trip in Styria and my visit to Austria’s second-largest city, I couldn’t help but realise that while exciting journeys like these come with breathtaking sights, they’re much better when developing a connection with another person - not just someone you’re bringing along with you, if at all, but with a complete stranger. I smiled as I headed toward the exit; there would be plenty of new sights to explore and plenty more kind people to meet. That familiar bubble of excitement filled me, and off I went, stepping out of the station’s exit where I was met with a gust of cold winter breeze whipping my face.