The platform was filled with young revellers in traditional garb, accessorised with beer bottles and cigarette packs. There was a lot of chatter, some boisterous singing. I watched them, intrigued. It was relatively chilly, but I suppose the thrill and excitement of going to VolkFest (a beer festival and travelling carnival) at Canstatter Wasen, Stuttgart, was keeping everyone sufficiently warm. Other commuters not making a beeline for the event looked indifferent at best, and apprehensive at worst.
The train quickly filled to the brim with these youngsters heading for the next station about 5 minutes away. It appeared as if the train had been chartered for them and it took a few minutes of boarding before the doors finally closed. From my little corner next to the door at the other end of the train, I watched bodies pressed gleefully against one another: boys in checked shirts and berms, girls in dresses that generously displayed their ample bosoms. Boys sat gingerly on each others' thighs, while the girls looked a little more comfortable in their boyfriends' (at least I assumed them to be) laps. A couple standing right in front of me couldn't stop sticking their tongues down each others' throats as their friends engaged in random banter.
The train emerged from underground and the site of the festival came into full view. One of the girls standing next to me squealed with delight at the sight of a huge ferris wheel and started bobbing on her feet. A guy next to her put his arm around her from the back and smiled. The kissers stopped momentarily and cheered together with the others.
The station arrived and calls rose for the doors to open. Then they started to spill out, as if the train could not bear their load anymore. Some boys started singing again, the girls chatted and laughed. Within a minute or two the train's interior made itself conspicuous again. There was space, there was an uncomfortable silence, accustomed as the ears had become to a cacophony of voices.
I remained behind, together with a few passengers around me. We were accompanied by the gentle roar of the carriage being pulled along to the next stop, together with the bottles rolling and clinking as they met on the train floor.
The train quickly filled to the brim with these youngsters heading for the next station about 5 minutes away. It appeared as if the train had been chartered for them and it took a few minutes of boarding before the doors finally closed. From my little corner next to the door at the other end of the train, I watched bodies pressed gleefully against one another: boys in checked shirts and berms, girls in dresses that generously displayed their ample bosoms. Boys sat gingerly on each others' thighs, while the girls looked a little more comfortable in their boyfriends' (at least I assumed them to be) laps. A couple standing right in front of me couldn't stop sticking their tongues down each others' throats as their friends engaged in random banter.
The train emerged from underground and the site of the festival came into full view. One of the girls standing next to me squealed with delight at the sight of a huge ferris wheel and started bobbing on her feet. A guy next to her put his arm around her from the back and smiled. The kissers stopped momentarily and cheered together with the others.
The station arrived and calls rose for the doors to open. Then they started to spill out, as if the train could not bear their load anymore. Some boys started singing again, the girls chatted and laughed. Within a minute or two the train's interior made itself conspicuous again. There was space, there was an uncomfortable silence, accustomed as the ears had become to a cacophony of voices.
I remained behind, together with a few passengers around me. We were accompanied by the gentle roar of the carriage being pulled along to the next stop, together with the bottles rolling and clinking as they met on the train floor.
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