Portuguese railways: An experiment in human compression

 On Sunday, October 18, I was returning to Coimbra from Galicia by train, boarding in Valença, just across the border from Spain. The journey is supposed to take roughly three and a half hours. I should mention that I am a big fan of trains because they offer considerably more freedom than traveling by car. You can read, watch a movie, sleep, or even get some work done. Indeed, I was planning to spend the journey working on my laptop. Since I am an hourly-paid contractor these days, this meant I could literally get paid while traveling. What could possibly go wrong?

Ordinarily, the regional trains on this route provide the kind of accommodation one might reasonably expect for a journey of this length. Comfortable enough seats, electrical outlets, and some recognition of the fact that passengers may wish to spend several hours sitting down. There is also usually a nice folding table for your laptop. Unfortunately, this time the Portuguese railway operator, CP, had other plans.

The train waiting for us in Valença appeared to be a suburban commuter unit. Imagine a city bus placed on railway tracks, designed to carry people across town, and then imagine being asked to spend three and a half hours in it. The seats were intended for short trips, the accommodation was minimal, and the capacity was clearly inadequate. Still, I had boarded in Valença, so at least I managed to get a seat. As for the absence of a table, well, there is a reason they call it a laptop. I put the computer on my lap and started working. As it turned out, having a seat was a privilege I had seriously underestimated.

As we traveled south, I began to notice, out of the corner of my eye, that more and more passengers were boarding. I was concentrating on my work, so it took me a while to appreciate the scale of the problem. Eventually, the train became increasingly crowded, with people standing everywhere. By the time we reached Barcelos, it was obvious that the train could not accommodate everyone who wanted to board.

This was particularly interesting because CP had been selling tickets for the service. Presumably, there should be some relationship between the number of tickets sold and the capacity of the train provided. These were paying customers, after all, whose desire to travel should hardly have come as a surprise. Somewhere in the planning process, however, someone had apparently decided that the number of passengers had no necessary relationship with the number of people who could fit on the train.

Then things became more interesting. The train backed out of Barcelos station. Why? Nobody seemed entirely sure. We reversed for a while and stopped. At this point, I entertained several theories. Perhaps we had forgotten a passenger. Perhaps the driver had taken a wrong turn. Perhaps CP had discovered that Coimbra was, somehow, in the opposite direction.

Eventually, it became apparent that they were trying to solve the capacity problem by adding another train in Barcelos. This was probably a sensible idea, although it might have been even more sensible to make that decision before the original train became overcrowded. Arranging the additional capacity, however, required an extraordinary amount of time.

There was an additional complication. This was the last train to Coimbra that day. Leaving passengers behind would have been quite an achievement, even by the standards already established. Eventually, we got moving again, and for a brief moment, I thought the situation had been resolved. Then, when we reached Porto, the railway staff instructed us to change trains, and we dutifully complied.

I lost my seat.

Consider the sequence of events. I had boarded in Valença, secured a seat, and spent part of the journey productively working on my laptop. CP then discovered that it had insufficient capacity, interrupted the journey, located another train, and reorganized the passengers. The result was that I found myself standing in another train, unable to continue working. CP had somehow managed to increase the number of available trains while reducing my personal comfort and eliminating my ability to earn money during the journey.

This was quite an accomplishment. I had started the journey seated, with a laptop and a source of income. The railway company had intervened to improve the situation, and I was now standing, holding a laptop that had suddenly become unemployed.

At this point, I considered asking the conductor for a certificate documenting the delay, something that might help with a complaint or compensation claim. The difficulty was locating the conductor. Given the mood of the passengers, I suspected that the conductor had developed a perfectly reasonable interest in remaining somewhere else. I could hardly blame him. He was probably having a considerably worse day than I was, although presumably he was still being paid for it.

I should emphasize that the situation was not the result of a natural disaster, a terrorist attack, or a sudden geological event that had severed the railway. This was an ordinary train journey between two Portuguese cities, along an established railway line, with passengers who had purchased tickets. Somehow, CP had managed to turn it into an improvised transportation exercise.

I have spent much of my career studying the brain. One of my research interests is how behavior emerges from neural systems, and how relatively simple processes can produce unexpectedly complicated outcomes. The Portuguese railway system suggests an entirely new line of research. I would particularly like to identify the neural mechanisms involved in selling tickets for a train, providing insufficient capacity, and then appearing genuinely surprised when the passengers turn up.

There may be an Ig Nobel Prize in it.