I am not a fan of conspiracy theories. Not at all. Crop circles, the Illuminati, none of that makes me believe in higher powers.

And yet there is something I must tell you: the railway fairy is in league with our federal government.

You will, like any reasonable person, demand proof. Please grant this blog entry the time to provide it.

Once again it was Sunday, shortly after 9:00 p.m., when I found myself heading toward platform 3, where the weekly odyssey toward Düsseldorf usually begins. Calmly, I endured the shouting fits of KSC fans, who loudly and without hesitation suggested that Karlsruhe, or rather its football club, was the center of the universe. Meanwhile, I stood at the edge of the platform, waiting expectantly for my colleague.

I couldn’t help but smile quietly, because this time I had managed to secure one of the coveted reservations in Carriage 37. You remember, don’t you? Carriage 37 usually flies completely under the railway fairy’s radar. She is, after all, primarily responsible for Carriage 38 and only switches to other cars in rare and exceptional cases (see: Railway Fairy)

Once again, I fell for one of the fairy’s truly ancient tricks. I was just about to allow myself a moment of joy. About the train arriving with only a minor delay. About a functioning seat in a relatively clean compartment.

And believe me, over the past few weeks I have seen compartments and carriages in far worse condition.

At the very moment I was about to sink into the pleasantly warm seat, planning to relax for nearly three hours with a pleasantly warm cup of coffee, letting my pleasantly warm thoughts grow wings inside this pleasantly warm compartment, the realization struck me like a bolt from the blue.

Oh, how foolish of me.

How could I forget that a metaphysical being like the fairy would surely possess omnipresent qualities as well?

As announced by railway staff at every station, it is not possible to move between the two sections of the train during the journey. This physical law may apply to ordinary passengers, but it is almost certainly suspended for the railway fairy.

She announced her presence by raising the temperature.

Suddenly, the “pleasantly warm” carriage first turned into a bio-sauna, which gradually evolved into a hot-air sauna approaching the 100°C range. I may be exaggerating slightly here. It was probably only around 40°C. Let us refer to this perceived temperature as the Railway Fairy Chill Effect.

Just moments earlier on the platform, I had wondered why I was once again traveling without my protective jacket. With boarding the train, my perspiration issues began almost instantly.

What can I say. All viable escape routes immediately raced through my mind. First, I tried Carriage 28. No luck. The air conditioning had failed there as well. The same was reported for Carriages 26 and 25.

The highlight of this exercise was the reassuring smile of a sweat-drenched conductor, who offered passengers not a cold bottle of water, but the latest headlines from the Handelsblatt.

Perhaps he was under the absurd assumption that passengers’ perception of temperature is directly proportional to the current Dow Jones index.

I needed information. Immediately. When would I be able to escape this hell?

Back at my seat, I desperately searched for the leaflet titled “Your Timetable Guide”, which, of all places, was available at my seat in three different versions. Presumably, the discerning passenger is expected to determine for themselves which train, on which route, they are currently on.

At this point, I would like to offer a suggestion for improvement. Dear railway fairy, please place one of your official timetable books at every seat. That way, the conductors won’t be so overwhelmed when trying to find the next possible connection during delays.

While searching for the time of the next stop, my eye caught an advertisement from the federal government. It informed me that washing my laundry at 40°C would contribute to the climate catastrophe. Alongside it were my car, my gas heater, and my computer. The only way to escape this dilemma, it claimed, was to regularly travel by train.

A second wave of realization buried me completely, and once again I mentally tumbled through the vortex the fairy left swirling through my brain as she rushed past.

Dear railway fairy, I understand. You can turn the air conditioning back on now.

I am aware that it will soon be too warm everywhere, and that I personally bear some responsibility for it. I understand this. I have internalized it. I will never drive a car again.

But please, please, please turn the damn air conditioning back on in this damn compartment in this damn carriage on this damn train.