It was 0800 when I walked out of Berlin’s ultra-modern, all glass and steel Hauptbahnhof, reputedly the largest train station in Western Europe. The streets were quiet with few people about. At Capital Beach Café on the River Spree, deck chairs were being set up on the manmade beach front.
Where east meets west and new meets old, and two walls–not just one–used to divide them.
I got to Berlin early this morning without much of a plan. I made a reservation to leave again ten hours later (which is in 15 minutes) and as much as I could easily hang out in the station all day (it’s faaaaabulous!), I decided to go for a walk. At 0730 hours few people were around.
After doing a bus tour (15 Euros), which was okay, and a walking tour (free and fabulous!) I’m now back at the station with a new “U” destination chosen. Rather than tell you where it is, though, I think I’ll keep you guessing. Won’t be there until tomorrow afternoon so will update you sometime after that.
Have a wonderful weekend!
I left Senec, Slovakia at 1050 and caught the train to Bratislava, to what I thought was the main station. No. Ended up at some other Bratislava station, Nove Mesto, which was the wrong bloody one. Then had to wait one hour until 1240 to get to the right place.
1335 hours and the door had still not opened to Platform 1 for the Vienna train due to depart at 1340.
“You must ago around to Passport Control,” the woman at the ticket counter said. How was I supposed to know that?
At last back on an air-conditioned train heading towards Vienna, Austria. Things were getting better already. Or not. How many bloody stations are we stopping at? I’ve counted at least ten since we set off. Fuck knows when I’ll reach Vienna. Maybe not until nightfall.
The plan had been to catch the direct (with only one change) 1430 to Copenhagen out of Westbahnhof but because of my delay in Slovakia, I missed that one. The next option left at 1622 hours but there would be connections. Eight of them.
Only got as far as the first one, Munich, before I missed the next one. Received SMS from my brother inviting me to Barcelona for a few days. He and his girlfriend would be there. Since I now had options, what with missing my train, I asked about trains to both Barcelona and Copenhagen.
It would be complicated to reach Spain. I ummed and ahhed and thought about it—What about flights? No, too expensive—before plumping for the next Copenhagen-with-only-one-change-train. I didn’t have to pay for the ticket—although did opt for a cozy couchette behind a curtain—and I’d be keeping on track, heading in the right direction to complete the alphabet.
I slept pretty well, although didn’t realize there were blankets until I woke up this morning, so things were a little chilly at times. Also didn’t realize when making the reservation that there’s an option of an “up” or “down” couchette. I had to scramble my way to the top using the aluminum step ladder. Once ensconced, though, I was happy as a clam.
Was expecting to arrive in Hamburg at 0753 hours so got my bags together and waited for arrival. Next stop was Hannover. Miles away from Hamburg. Hhhmmmm… Perhaps there was another time change that I’d been oblivious to. But that was impossible.
“Enschuldigung,” I asked a gentleman that passed by in cycling shorts, “Wieviel uhr is es?”
I managed to pick out sehr, very, and spater, later.
0848 hours and things just kept getting better. I asked the conductor what time we’d arrive in Hamburg and she said something along the lines of “Spater, zwei und halb stunde,” which I think meant two and a half hours late.
I eventually arrived in Hamburg after 1030 and am now waiting for the next train. Must be feeling much better because I don’t seem to be bothered in the slightest. Smiling in fact (maybe something to do with the positive comments everyone’s made).
So, that’s been my last few hours. How you doin?
PS: Love ya tons, Bro, and can’t thank you enough for the kind invitation and hope you understand. Maybe you can take me to Barcelona to celebrate when, and if, I get to the end of this journey……… 
I woke up in Senec, Slovakia, with big puffy eyes from all of my crying. The bottle of wine I’d bought to get drunk and forget about everything the night before sat virtually untouched on the bedside cabinet. Now that’s a bad sign.
I considered my options:
• Go straight back to England, take a break or simply give up;
• Continue heading east and visit a “T” place in Ukraine; or
• Head north to Czech Republic for “T.”
None of the options really appealed to me. I was tired of the heat, the standard of living, and the language barrier, but I really didn’t want to fail.
I looked at the map and decided to head to Copenhagen, Denmark. Don’t ask me why. It wasn’t even one of the countries on my list. A last minute decision which I rationalize as follows:
• It may be cooler;
• My rail ticket is still good for a couple of days to get me all the way up there,
• If I’m stuck on the train for 20-plus hours, I won’t have the need to be outside in the heat running myself down even more; and
• There are several “T” places in Denmark I can choose from once I get there.
And, if I still need to see a doctor, my E-111 card covers me there, too.
It’s taken me four missed connections in 24 hours and I’ve now only just made it to Hamberg, Germany. Will get the next train to Copenhagen in a couple of hours.
It’s been six weeks since I left the UK and since I’m currently back there again, due to sickness–actually, old-age in the family–it seems a good a time as any to update you on my travels.
Six countries down: Germany (Argenbühl-Eglofs), Liechtenstein (Balzers), Spain (Cullera), Portugal (Darque), Andorra (Encamp), and Italy (Frattammagiore). Only another 20 to go.
I sat on the bus from Argenbühl-Eglofs this morning and felt happy. I wondered if my feeling of contentment stemmed from all of the signs of religion in Bavaria. Frau Schmidt has pictures of the Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ throughout her home, and everywhere I went, I saw crucifixes of many different shapes and sizes. Residents of the local towns also get their homes blessed each year. You can tell this has been done by the chalk markings above the front doors.
Suddenly a child of no more than two years old started to wail in the seat in front of me. The sound was quickly followed by a wretch and then the child proceeded to vomit not just on herself, but her young mother, whose knee she was sitting on, and the dear old lady who had been in the unfortunate position of picking the empty seat next to the child when she got on the bus.
“Enschuldigung, bitte,” I said, and reached over to offer my last packet of valuable tissues. There was little else I could do after that except sit back and wait to arrive at my destination of Wangen.
Within minutes, people all around me on the bus started to sniff, pull faces, and shift uncomfortably from side to side. I, on the other hand, took a deep breath and couldn`t smell a thing!
Not sure if Mary and Jesus had anything to do with it but I sure felt blessed after that.
It did nothing but rain yesterday. Frau Schmidt had me sitting in front of a “Super Thermolite” heat lamp that looked like it dated back to the Middle Ages, which was supposed to help my congestion. She gave me ointment to rub on my chest, oil drops for my nose to stop me suffocating, and some “bonbons” for my sore throat.
I can’t taste a frickin thing. For all I know, this evening I could’ve been drinking cows’ urine and eating rabbit poo at Gasthof zur Rose, rather than regional white wine and Hungarian goulash soup. It all tasted the same… of nothing. When the chef came over–I think to ask if I liked my meal–all I could do was smile and say, “Ja, gut, danke schön,” and pat my tummy like it was the best stuff I’d ever had.
German food just doesn’t excite me. I don’t start salivating when I look over the menus, at dishes such as: “toast with cured trout fillet with scrambled eggs,” or “young salted herring fillet with apple, pickles, onions in sour cream and boiled potatoes.”
One thing I’ve found strange about Germany is that when you ask for your meal check/bill, the waiter comes immediately, gives you your check, and then hovers around with their change pouch while you scramble to pull money out of your wallet. There seems to be no such thing as a “holding period,” whereby you get a few minutes to look over what you’ve spent, or deliberate with the other guests around the table if the price is correct. Okay, so I had no other guests to talk about my 9,30 €, but that’s not the point.
Despite all of the pampering and gastronomic delights, I’ve decided to move on and make my way to “B” in Liechtenstein. There’s only one—Balzers—so no hat’s required.
The region of Argenbühl is great for cyclists and cheese-lovers, in addition to being a Nordic walker’s paradise. When the weather warms up, this area will be beautiful, with plenty of green fields to stomp across.
As I ate dinner last night at Hofwirtschaft Löwen Eglofs, I could see through the window a group of about ten people gathering for what must have been their regular Nordic walk. They stretched for a short while and then set off with arms and poles swinging. Frau Schmidt would have approved.
For walking routes, with varying levels of intensity, visit Gästeamt Argenbühl.
Frau Schmidt knocked on the door to my door.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Just a bit of writing,” I answered.
“Nein, nein, nichts gut,” she said, “Come, we go out. Just bring your papers.” I showed her my passport and she nodded.
I thought we were going for a stroll around the neighborhood but she headed towards her car, a champagne-colored older model Mercedes. She must have read my expression and explained. “I need petrol, come.”
“When anyone comes to stay with me, they’re always with someone,” my host said. “Now I have someone I can share with.”
So off we went. To share a trip to the gas station together. We drove down narrow lanes for several miles, through the village of Lindenberg, which is famous for its hats, until we finally pulled into a parking lot in the village of Scheidegg. I had seen gas stations as we drove but Frau Schmidt appeared not to notice them.
“We go for stroll, come,” she said and got out of the car.
We looked through clothes store windows, where Frau Schmidt made a point of telling me she does not wear “hosen.”
“I only wear these,” she said, pointing to her skirt. “They,” gesturing back at the trousers, “are not for old married women who have had many children and big ‘ends’.” Frau Schmidt has five children and 15 grandchildren, and far too many cousins, nieces and nephews to talk about. From what I can tell, her “end” doesn’t look that big.
After looking in windows, I followed Frau Schmidt up a pathway. Several Nordic walkers carrying their ski poles headed towards us. Frau Schmidt pointed out after they’d passed that they were not carrying the poles or moving their arms correctly. She proceeded to swing her arms front and back, both at 90 degrees to her body.
“It is pointless them doing it like they do. They have legs for that,” she said. Hopefully, where we were headed, our legs would also suffice.
An hour later, after walking up and down hills, with views across to the moutains, our little “stroll” ended and we got back into the car. During our walk, as she zipped up my sweater to help keep my chest warm, she was surprised to learn I was 35 and thought I looked much younger (thank you, Frau Schmidt). I was more surprised to learn that she is 74.
We continued with our journey, presumably to the gas station. The car kept going higher, and the lanes got narrower and narrower. Evergreen trees hugged the road tightly. Frau Schmidt told me about her childhood and upbringing. She was born in Austria, and at the age of three had to move with her family to Germany.
I then noticed the sign.
“Are we now in Austria?” I asked.
“Ja, Österreich,”
I saw another sign for “Möggers,” and commented that it seemed an awful long way to come just get some petrol for her car.
“It have friend now,” she said. “We go scenic route.”
On we drove and Frau Schmidt continued with stories of her youth. Suddenly, we came to a stop.
“Ach! Barrier.” Frau Schmidt said.
She turned her head and looked right, up another lane. No barrier there but there was a sign that read “VERBOTEN.” Even I know what that meant. Frau Schmidt didn’t miss a beat though and carried on driving past the sign.
“If we are stopped,” she said and grinned, “I say my legs do not work.”
Finally, we could go no further. Our destination was a look-out spot, or vista point in Pfänder. From here I could see the Rhein Valley, or “Tal,” plus the mountains of Germany, Austria and Switzerland. And, if I squinted, I could apparently see Liechtenstein, too. Below us the towns of Lindau (Germany) and Bregenz (Austria) bordered the Bodensee, which stretches for 60 km.
The return journey home was much quicker and we did eventually stop for gas just before crossing back over the border. Although it was 19 cents per liter cheaper than in Germany, I have a feeling Frau Schmidt had been far more interested in the scenic route with her new friend than saving money on gas. I’m glad. If I’d been traveling with another person, I doubt I’d have made it to Austria today.
Frau Schmidt is an imposing figure. Tall, with silver hair pulled back from her high cheek-boned face, she reminds me of Audrey Hepburn. She greets me with an exceptionally firm hand shake, one that doesn’t release until she’s guided me across the threshold and into her very dark hallway.
“Grüss Gott!”
The hearty welcome to “Pension Sonnenheim” is much appreciated, especially since I nearly died last night. I woke up around 2 a.m. and couldn’t breathe. When I tried to take a deep breath it was impossible. I started to gasp and panic before remembering that during my last wake up, I’d rolled up a piece of tissue paper until it resembled a tampon and shoved it up my right nostril in an effort to protect the pillow. It worked.
I follow Frau Schmidt up two flights of stairs to the attic.
“There are five men staying downstairs,” she says, and then makes a noise like a snorting pig, heaving her chest up and down, “So I put you up here, alone.”
As she pushes open the door in front of her, I’m expecting to see a shoebox-sized room. On the contrary, the accommodation she’s offering me for 15,00 € a night (including breakfast) takes up the entire length and breadth of her house. To the left are two single beds; to the right are another three single beds lined up and a living/kitchen area. The dining area is directly across from the doorway and catches all of the sunlight. It also has unobstructed views of the snow-covered mountains to the south. I know where I’ll be spending most of my time over the next couple of days.
A white net curtain divides the three beds from the sofa and stove.
“In the summer, I have families that come and the children usually stay here” explains Frau Schmidt, gesturing to the sleeping area. “It is very basic but enough for them. I made the beds myself.” She lifts up the mattress to expose loose wooden slats and laughs. They do the job.
Frau Schmidt lets out a chesty cough and sniffs a little. She’s been sick now for over ten days.
“Have you been to the doctor’s for antibiotics?” I ask.
She points at your stomach and tells me she never takes anything like that.
“They’re bad for you.”
Me, on the other hand, stopped at the Apotheke first thing this morning and asked the pharmacist for help curing my ailments. She prescribed GeloMyrtol® and some Ricola-like lozenges. Bring on the meds, is what I say. I’m fed up feeling like crap and will go mad if this lasts ten days.
