How European Citizenship Saved me from a Fine

By Kinia Adamczyk

On the train between WARSAW & GDAŃSK, Poland -- I was on the verge of tears when the ticket controller finally decided not to fine me. There was a man at the table next to me (in his late forties) who was having his fifth beer (I’m estimating) since the train left Gdańsk for Warsaw at 9:25. It must have been around noon. He was looking at me, less and less discreetly. I was shouting, louder and louder.

"I will NOT sign the fine. I'm a European citizen and I have the right to have a student discount. This is bloody discrimination," I said. "European law precludes Polish law when they are in conflict! Here, I have the EU Treaty in front of me."

"I don't care," the controller said. He and his assistant didn't accept my ISIC card + my student ID + Polish passport as legitimate proof that I'm a student. These days, it seems three pieces of ID just don’t cut it.

The controller’s assistant was already busy scribbling the fine.

As I repeated yet again I wouldn’t sign the fine and the controller threatened to call some security forces at the next stop. Even the waiter got involved. (We were sitting in the restaurant wagon.)

"Ma'am, just take the fine and then go complain when we arrive at the station. They will refund you and even give you a train ticket for free if you explain what happened…"

Yeah right, when? Between two exams? At midnight? Like I have the time to go and wait five hours to speak with PKP (Polish Railways) customer service. And then get told to bugger off. (This happened in December, right in the middle of my exam session.)

"Fine," I said. "But I want both of your names and I swear I am taking you to court. You'll hear from me again." I was practically crying.

"Ok, ok, no ticket. It's ok." They didn't even say: "next time, make sure to have the right ID…"

Oh my gosh. It actually worked… Thank you, professor Biondi (the man who taught my European law course at the College of Europe).

They left. I ordered a third tea to chill the *&($# out. And then the waiter came to my table, leaned over and whispered to me:

"The gentleman over there… he's from Chechnya. He says that if you have financial problems, he can help you out. If you're hungry, he'll buy you some food."

Uhhh, thanks, but no thanks, I said. I don't have any financial problems. But I looked at the man who was having his sixth beer by now and said, "Bolshoi spasiba. U mienia probliema niet." (I had heard him speaking in Russian earlier.)

The Chechnyan man smiled, left his half-empty beer cup on the table, headed to the bar, and left. Three minutes later, the waiter arrived to my table with a platter full of chocolates, crisps and juice. I almost burst into tears I was so incredibly touched. I thanked the waiter and asked him to thank the man.

Wait, wait! It's not finished.

Enter the controller's assistant. He must have been no older than 26.

Assistant: "Are you ok, Ma'am?"

Me: "Yes, thanks for asking. I'm sorry I reacted so emotionally earlier. I didn't mean to be rude."

Assistant: "That's ok. I saw you are tired and stressed. You know, we are not all mean controllers…"

(Exchange of formalities, banalities, etc. Chat, chat, giggle, giggle.)

Me: "You know, if the European national transportation systems were more integrated, we'd actually all be happier. Think of the Deutsche Bahn… they are so much more organized. Imagine if all of Europe was harmonized like that. You'd probably have better working conditions."

Him: "Yeah, you're right. The DB is a lot better than PKP."

Me: "You see?"

(More formalities, arguments, etc.)

Me: "Don't forget to vote at the next European elections!"

Him: "If you're running, I'll vote for you, Ma'am."

(In the meantime… the Chechnyan man brought me coffee. Bolshoi spasiba.)

Assistant leaves. I start speaking to the Chechnyan man. In Russian. "What's your name?"

His name is Hassan. He's from Grozny. We talk quite a bit. Or he talks. It seems he's a writer. He had fresh bruises on his forehead. Greasy hair, but clean pants and shoes and fingernails. He has no home. He's going to Warsaw, where he’ll sleep in a guesthouse…

"Thank you for the food, Hassan. You have a big heart."

"Spakoyna." No problem.

"Hassan, where's your family? Back in Chechnya? In Grozny?"

He shows me a video of armed men on his mobile phone.

"She was shot…" More tears in my eyes.

I told him I'm a journalist. He wanted us to meet again, so he could tell me about the world. He gave me his number. I was a little bit reluctant, but he wasn't pushy. So I took the number.

"Hassan, if we meet, we'll drink tea. If you drink so much beer, I won't be able to meet with you."

He smiled. "OK, no vodka." I added: "And no beer." We both smiled. We talked a bit more. I asked him not to speak too fast because my Russian was not so good. He told me he is tired now, but when he rests, he’ll write everything.

He'll tell me about the world, about peace. He'll write a lot.

We parted at the train station. His eyes were gleaming from the alcohol.

Maybe I will see Hassan again.

I hope he sees peace back home first. CR

Originally published at cafebabel.com