And so I found myself on an 18-hour train bound for the northern border of Sweden. My train car was quiet. I passed the hours reading French literature and practicing card tricks, watching the trees outside the train get thinner as the fields turned white with snow.
Riding a train isn’t like driving or flying. It lacks the modern smoothness that allows you to take the kilometres rushing underneath your feet for granted. You can feel it. Each rail joint vibrates in your chest, creating a heartbeat rhythm of wanderlust and the exhilaration of adventure.