A Rather Pleasant Interrogation by the German Police
So here we are in Luzern, Switzerland, probably the most scenic city in the country, according to the guidebook, and it has been raining for two days, hiding the surrounding beautiful Alps mountains behind a thick curtain of mist. At least we have umbrellas so that we can walk around the city, taking in the architecture along the cobblestone streets. But, let’s face it, you don’t come here for the architecture, which is, well, kind of boring. You come to see the mountains. So it has been a bit of a disappointment, this Switzerland. And it has been expensive. I still cannot believe I paid 4 francs, about 3 U.S. dollars, for a cup of hot chocolate that turned out to be Ovaltine.
This morning we set sail in the rental car for France. We will stay tonight in a town somewhere along the road to Paris, then the next day we will hit the City of Lights and finish out our trip there, eating baguettes, sipping wine and feeling superior. Or something.
There is some catching up to be done regarding the past few days. So, for your reading pleasure, here are the highlights, hand-picked for their exciting content:
- In the Czech Republic, Sarah had the pleasure of driving an extremely green, Communist-era car that handled like a disoriented old mule. It got us where we were going, though, which was Ceske Krumlov, which I have heretoforth declared The Most Beautiful City in Europe. As we made the trip back to the village of Kaplice, we witnessed the clearest, most stunning rainbow I have ever seen.
- I held my own in a game of foosball with Petra and her friends. They had no idea what “foosball” was, though, calling it “football” instead. “Foodball?” they asked, puzzled.
- My birthday was spent roaming Prague, where we saw St. Nick’s, heretoforth declared by me to be The Most Beautiful Church in Europe, as well as a sprawling castle and the grand old Charles Bridge. We ate something called spatzle, which reminded me of gnocchi, and discovered that Prague is a much more pleasant place at night.
- The coffee sucks in Czech Republic. And here’s another thing that bothers me about Europe: the water, which, unless you specify “no bubbles,” will likely arrive carbonated.
We spent WAY too much time making jokes about the highway exit signs in Germany, which read, “Ausfahrt.” You can imagine the jokes didn’t end when we spied another sign, “Ausgang.” Yvonne, our host in Germany, probably thinks we are insane.- Finally, here is the part about a most pleasant interrogation by the German police. Well, you see, I was rolling down the autobahn at a comfortable speed, when signs appeared warning me to slow down. However I was busy showing Sarah how to properly work the stereo. So I missed those speed signs as well as a sign warning of “radar controll.” So I was going 109 kilometers per hour in a 60 kph zone when a bright light flashed on the side of the road. “What the heck was that?” I said aloud, turning to see a van by the side of the road. I slowed down and wound around a curve, where a group of police officers appeared and herded me to the side of the road. I stopped the car and turned off the ignition. An officer approached. “Vere are your paperz?” he said, and images of an S.S. officer crossed my mind. Turns out that going 109 in a 60 kph zone was excessive (in other words, I was pushing about 70mph in a 35mph zone), and so I was fined 120 euro, about 150 U.S. dollars. We pretty much paid the fine and went on our way, but the paperwork took some time, so we stood around and chatted with the officers, who turned out to be extremely friendly. One of them even proudly told us which beer brands are the best in Germany. I tell you, the Germans had this whole operation efficiently organized, and it was actually quite a pleasure being fined for speeding.
- We zoomed through the teeeeeny country of Liechtenstein, which is about 15 miles wide. Didn’t take us long, but it was beautiful, with a big bank of mountains on one side. We had dinner in the capital town of Vaduz, where our sweet waitress reminisced with us about being in New York in 1969, where she even went to Woodstock. “Those were different times back then,” she said, smiling.
- We stayed our first night in Luzern, Switzerland, with Johanna, a very sweet, very cute girl with not much room to spare but a huge heart. She is another find at www.hospitalityclub.org, a great resource for travelers who want to meet up all over the world. I had fun talking to Johanna about her life. She’s from Austria and here in Switzerland for school. The next day Johanna showed us around town, taking us up to the old city wall, where we persuaded her to climb up to the tower despite her fear of heights.
Johanna
Heart Attack Special
Hungry for a hearty breakfast, Sarah and I ducked into a back-road restaurant on our walk from the hostel to the older part of Prague. As we stepped inside and tried to orient ourselves, a waitress snorted in our general direction.
“Hello, um, do you speak English?” Sarah asked, for we had long given up attempting to exchange preliminary pleasantries in the Czech language.
“Nay,” the waitress said, looking over the two Americans with a tortured sigh. She did indicate, however, that she spoke German, which was of little obvious use to us.
Hungry and resigned to an overly complex dining experience, we stumbled to a corner table by a window, where outside a line of schoolchildren meandered past, occasionally stopping to gawk at us.
We waited for the dismissive waitress to return with menus. This is a fairly standard practice, after all: The customers sit down and the waitress brings a menu and perhaps even takes a drink order. We waited. An eternity passed and no sign of service. My stomach churned, startling a man at a nearby table.
“Wait, wait, here she comes. … Oh, no, she’s gone again.”
“I don’t think she likes us,” Sarah said, stating for the record what we both already knew as a fact. “Did you see how she glared at us?”
Finally, I walked up to the front and snatched up two menus. We had spent too much time trying to find a restaurant that served breakfast at 11 a.m. to get up and leave in defeat now.
The food list was helpfully transcribed in English, and so we settled on omeletes and potato pancakes. And then we waited again. This was the part where the waitress was supposed to come by and take our order. More waiting.
Sarah twiddled her thumbs or something, and I flipped through a color-heavy map of Prague that featured humorous Czech phrases on the back. You could learn how to say, for example, “How much for your poodle” or “Pardon me, your buttocks are truly beautiful.”
The stealthy waitress tried her best to avoid detection as she serviced another table, but I had turned my chair around to face her and flag her down. I believe I would have tripped her if necessary.
She grumpily took our order and vanished again. The food arrived soggy with grease and was really nothing to write home about — so I won’t.
We ran out of orange juice halfway through the meal but didn’t dare to waste our energy on trying to get more. When we got the bill, a mysterious service charge was attached.
What was a fellow to do? We paid the bill, skipping the tip, and gathered our belongings to leave. I recalled a phrase from the back of the map, and so, looking over at an older couple perusing the menu, I rubbed my belly with a groan.
“I am having a heart attack,” I calmly told them in Czech.
And we shuffled up the stairs and into the sunshine.
Honorary Police Officers
As we stepped off the train in the Czech Republic, I half heartedly shouted the name of our friend Petra, and about three women turned around. I guess Petra is a popular name here.
We found our pal Petra, who bearhugged us and introduced us to her mother and the boyfriend of her mother, George. Petra’s mother does not speak English and the only English that George knows is “no problem,” so Petra is serving as our host and as our official translator.
The drive into town was a harrowing nighttime ride down what Petra volunteered is “a very dangerous road.”
George, smelling faintly of fine Czech beer, stomped on the accelerator, manhandling curves around steep hills in the blink of an eye. I checked to make sure my seat belt was secure. A bicyclist on the side of the road quickly became a blur in my sideview mirror. George was laughing maniacally when a large rabbit hopped into the road, peered into the racing headlights and panicked.
It all happened so fast, but when I saw the crunch of rabbit fur and rubber bumper, I covered my mouth, which hung wide open in shock. George raised his arm in the air and declared something in Czech that must have been, “Oh well, the rabbit is dead now,” and kept speeding down the highway.
While we were getting over the bunny massacre, Petra explained that there simply was not room at the house for us, and that we would be much more comfortable in another place they set up for us. “No problem,” we told her. She elaborated on the new arrangements. “It is at the police station,” where George works, she said.
“There is a bed, and a toilet and shower.”
When we got to the police station, George opened up a set of iron bars, and showed us a tiny jail cell, with two concrete cots and a toilet in the middle. I pretended to be impressed.
Fortunately, old George was playing a trick on us. Our real room was upstairs, no iron bars, and much more comfortable.
So long story short, I have been roaming the halls of the local police station in Kaplice, Czech Republic, wearing a Policie hat, and pretending to be important. Somebody has to do it.
More highlights from the past day or so …
- Petra’s mom not only washed and ironed our laundry, but drove us around and cooked a great Czech meal. She was so nice to us.
- “Shall we go see the gypsies,” Petra asked us. “They are doing an all-day event.” Sure, sounds great. I imagined taking pictures of exotic dancers. Um, no. Not quite. What we found was a small-town carnival, like you would find at fall festivals all over the United States. “This is the gypsies,” Petra told us, confused by our mistaken impression.
- I have learned one useful Czech phrase: “One beer, please.”
- We ventured into Linz, Austria, yesterday, to browse an antiques market. There were lots of strange characters there. At an outdoor cafe, I ordered an iced coffee, but when I got it I had coffee with ice cream and whip cream. Not exactly what I pictured, but I did not complain.
- We were blown away by the stunning beauty of the nearby town of Ceske Krumlov. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous town. More on it later, when I get a decent keyboard. And I am not even sure I spelled the name correctly. By decent keyboard, I mean one that does not invert the Z and Y key. And one on which I can make an apostrophe. A question mark would not hurt, either.
Oh well. Life is good. We are going to Prague in the morning, and I will celebrate my birthday there on Tuesday.
Ceske Krumlov
Scribbled on the Train to Kaplice
Along the rolling Danube River in downtown Regensburg, Germany, sausage and beer lovers rejoice at Historische Wurstkuche, an outdoor restaurant near an impressive stone bridge. Built on a dozen pillars by Romans in the 12th century, the bridge was an engineering marvel of its time. Today it is closed to public traffic, but it remains a central gathering spot. Camera-toting tourists stroll across the span, running their hands over the old stones and enjoying an unspoiled view of the city. Below, families gather for a quiet picnic on the banks of the river. A man on a bicycle stops to fish for a while after work.
Regensburg, like much of western Europe, revels in such gathering spots. You’ll find several cobblestone town squares in any city, each with a smattering of outdoor cafes and shops, and smiling folks enjoying coffee drinks in the soft afternoon sun. On church steps, monuments and other places that afford good scenic views, friends gather to talk and to meditate.
Sarah, Yvonne and I settled into our chairs at a round table underneath a large umbrella. All around, the German language hung in the air as people chatted and their children frolicked in a fountain nearby. We took turns nibbling on an overflowing glass of ice cream, and as we spoke about what life is like in our respective homes, the sun slowly slinked down toward the horizon.
Some highlights from the past few days:
- I forgot to mention this from our jaunt into the Netherlands: Aging prostitutes sat in big windows, hoping to lure customers and looking like living, cigarette-smoking mannequins in a twisted department store.
- On our way to Germany, I had a pleasant realization that the country is the official Land of Gummy Bears.
- We climbed the stairs to Walhalla, a museum outside Regensburg that was built in the Greek Revival style. The view from the top was a mind-blowing 180-degree look at the landscape below. Cars the size of thumbs whizzed along the Danube, a helicopter whirled overhead and you could stare effortlessly for miles into the horizon.
- Yvonne took us to a small Irish pub in Regensburg, where two German singers performed covers of Bob Dylan and Lynnard Skynnard. “Where are the Irishmen?” I wondered aloud, missing the lovable drunkards from the Irish pubs back home. “The Germans must have kicked their butts,” Sarah snapped back.
- Many of you know that I have a little theory that Germans love David Hasselhoff. Well, I curtly asked Yvonne about this, and her evasive answers left more questions than answers. “Yvonne,” I asked, “is it true that Germans love David Hasselhoff?” She looked confused, then smiled broadly, searching for the right words. “I guess it is true that many do, but I don’t,” she replied. But then she continued about how she wasn’t even interested in the 1980s actor’s recent divorce or the pending lawsuit by his ex-wife. Hmmm… “Sure seems like you know a lot about David Hasselhoff, Yvonne,” I said. She feigned ignorance and tried to change the subject to Don Johnson. I think this just further proves my theory that Germans love David Hasselhoff.
- On the way to Kaplice, Czech Republic, yesterday, we took a wrong train and wound up three hours off schedule. No one spoke English, so we had to resort to hand gestures and onomatopoeia to get back on track. Later, a conductor woman with an ironed-on frown admonished me for stretching my legs into the seat in front of me. She wagged her crooked finger in a big show of disapproval, and then every time she passed after that, she furrowed her brow and glared at me, daring me to do it again.
- The beer still floweth smoothly in this part of Europe. I’ve had so many different kinds — good ones — that I can’t name them all. Basically I have one, then try another brand. In Czech, you’ll find the city of Plzen, birthplace of the beloved Pilsner beer. And also in Czech is Budweiser — the original, and namesake of its inferior American spinoff.
