“Push, push!” My mother yelled. I pushed obediently as she pulled.

Many European railway networks we had traveled on in the past had deemed our suitcases as children, meriting a legitimate child’s travel ticket — traveler’s tip: illegitimate suitcases are offered no concessions. The German railway wasn’t one of them, and our suitcases hadn’t taken kindly to this. Determined to use their method acting skills to prove that age is just a number, they had adopted the qualities of any ordinary child. They were annoying and stubborn and fell over a lot.

“PUSH!”

With an unintelligent thud, the suitcases fell face-first into the Bahn — the Deutsche Bahn if one wanted to make it clear that the impending four-hour train journey from Berlin to Prague was a munificent return gift from the Fatherland. Two more unintelligent thuds graced our own elegant ascent into the train, face first. Those genes are potent.

I stood up and looked around. As fate would have it, the restaurant car was right next to ours: nice! I stood there, admiring the foresight of German coach building, until I was politely ushered along by some nice people shouting at me in German, and my mother, shouting at me in English.

We are small people, and Europeans are kind, so we were among the first passengers to find seats. We collapsed into our seats, strapped in Alejandro and Alice — that is how I shall refer to our suitcases from now on — and I was halfway through my first cookie when it happened.

Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the coach door opened. And they walked in. The tourists. So many tourists. I have never seen more tourists in my life.

The train screeched into motion. The tourist mob fell forward face-first, with an unintelligent thud. I held Alejandro and Alice close to me to protect them, and to keep them from bursting into tears. Alright, it was more to keep me from bursting into tears. What was happening?

“That’s my seat.” I looked up to see a young woman standing next to me. “That’s my seat,” she repeated.

I was confused, so I did what any normal, well-adjusted person would do. I said “Huh…?” and a little bit of drool pooled around the corner of my lips.

She turned to my mother and said, “I’m sorry, but I have a ticket that says this seat is reserved for me.” My mother is better than me in crisis situations, so she looked over the ticket and realized that the woman was right. “But they told us it was free seating!” my mother exclaimed. Traveler’s tip: there is no such thing as a free seat.

Up and down the aisle, other victims of the free seating scam were relinquishing their seats. I was shoved into the two-foot-wide aisle, Alejandro and Alice in my arms, with 20 others, all clutching terrified suitcases. A lucky few managed to find fold-out seats, and clung to them for their lives. Literally.

Because that’s when the tourists started to move.

As it turns out, some people with reserved seats had ended up on the wrong end of the train and now had to push their way through the aisle to get to their seats. And get to their seats they would, even if it killed them. And me. You’ve never truly hated people until you’ve been smashed up against a window with your face in the region of their posterior.

After plenty of pushing, shoving and some cries of “Schwein!” all from me, it seemed like everyone had found their place. We were still packed in the aisle, but at least no one was moving. My mother even found a fold-out seat, while I — and it pains me to admit this — sat on Alejandro.

Then Jesus arrived.

A 200-pound U.S. American with tattoos, a bandana and a Jesus beard, the type who looks like he carries a surfboard to the grocery store — the American, not Jesus — had somehow found himself on the wrong side of the train. He seemed to take immense pride in this achievement. Hauling his backpack over his head, he recited joyfully,

“200-pound American coming through! Make way for the 200-pound American!”

And then he pulled the emergency brake. To quote the wise Australian backpacker next to me, “He did not just do that [mate].”

The train screeched to a halt. The aisle groaned. The American grinned. “It was my backpack,” he informed us proudly.

Overhead, the speakers crackled and an announcer began rapping in either Klingon or a Sub-Saharan click language; it was hard to tell, because the sound system kept breaking down. When the inspectors arrived, they were exactly how I’d imagined them: rotund, generously-moustached and thoroughly confused. They walked around seeking out signs of any potential crisis situation. I did not tell them about the resurrection of Christ.

Nobody tattled on Mr. 200-Pound-American-Coming-Through, who was standing there sheepishly, having realized that accidentally pulling the emergency brake on the Bahn wasn’t exactly something he could put on his résumé. I would have told on him, but my mediocre math skills told me that 200 pounds of American meant at least 20 pounds of posterior. So we stayed united in our silence until the inspectors gave the all-clear sign. The train screeched into motion for the second time, and we breathed a collective sigh of relief at having been left scot-free.

But we were not scotch-free.

The restaurant car, which at one point was the highlight of my life, now turned into the bane of my existence. Just as those of us in the aisle had become reasonably comfortable and had reconciled ourselves to sitting on our children, the people in the seats became twitchy. Taking a cue from emergency-brake Jesus, our seated travelers decided that water would have to be replaced with wine and, because it was Germany, beer.

Every time someone on the far side of the aisle decided they needed quenching, all of us, content on our suitcases, would have to stand up to make way. And then they’d come back with their bottles, and we’d have to stand up again, and try very hard not to trip them on purpose. People flowed up the aisle. Beer flowed down the aisle. I switched between Alejandro and Alice.

Beer on the Bahn was nice in a way, because it made the uninhibited more uninhibited. Through clever eavesdropping, I learnt of the Australian gentleman’s failures with the opposite sex:

“I don’t remember what I said to her, mate, but she ran away.”

It made the magical more magical. One U.S. American backpacker attempted to perform a magic trick requiring playing cards — this was a bit difficult since he did not actually have any cards, but the British spectators were awestruck regardless. The downside was that beer made the small-bladdered even smaller-bladdered, triggering another wave of trips down the aisle.

I don’t know how I survived the journey. It was a blur, figuratively and literally. I think I saw a few trees. Maybe a river? I don’t know, but apparently the scenery was nice.

Finally we arrived in Prague. The train drew into the station. My mother and I looked at each other — we had made it! And we were in the aisle already, which meant we’d be the first to get out of Nightmare Express. Waiting for the moment that we’d be able to throw ourselves back into the clutches of civilization, we hauled up our suitcases.

Alejandro didn’t make it.