Like most places, you get here twice: land first, figure the way to town next. After the bag grab and customs queue shuffle-through, it’s no more than down a down ramp to where the rail depot you need turns up. From tarmac to train ready, this sherp is short.
Not yet on the twenty minute affair to the mommy of all places, ‘To Tram or not To Tram?' still a question from the future, you first need a train ticket, one that gets you to Central Station, the one all books and everyone at google claims you need.
Arranged in loose parade formation, self-serve ticket machines patrol the center of the plane/train depot’s great hall. (Those at Google and in the books foretell these being there, where, no surprise, natives manage the self-server to self transaction more readily than tourists, time to decypher buttons for cabin, class, route, and cash or credit outing you as much as the bag you sherp. Any unresolved deciphering challenge (do those things take credit cards or what?) exposing you as no one.
If super secret agents and top notch spies handle it differently, the ticket sellers at the counter speak a multitude of languages and offer you fine service, even though they must know you couldn’t self-serve yourself.
The down stairs down and a brief platform wait follow the ticket purchase, a quick double check the train pulling up is yours a way to return to anonymity, the ticket no one collects yours to keep, an artifact of how you first belonged.