Dishevelled Travels. Germany. Part 4.

Day 8. Munich.

On a crowded metro train with panelled wooden interior. An elderly nun stares at me disapprovingly. What does she know?
Unfortunately I arrive at the Olympic Park forty three years too late. As impressive a structure as it is a stadium is slightly boring when there’s nothing going on inside of it. Also it has been stripped of the track and the field. So, essentially, I’m looking a large collection of empty green seats. Decide to visit every single toilet block in the stadium to make the entrance fee worthwhile. I admire the graffiti left on the walls by visiting supporters from during the period when the stadium served as the home ground for Bayern Munich. My favourite reads Red Star Headbangers ’96 which sounds like the fan club of an Eastern European thrash metal band.

It’s more lovely over in the swimming hall where members of the public are able to take a dip in the same pool in which moustachioed chlorine hunk Mark Spitz won seven gold medals for the USA in 1972. I’ve forgotten my trunks and skinny dipping is against the rules, unfortunately, so instead I sit in the judges’ chair and watch a group of teenagers messing around on the diving boards. Lack of triple somersault and considerable splash on entry means that I can’t award any score higher than a 2.7. One of them does do a pretty devastating running bomb however which garners the attention of the vigilant lifeguard and her whistle. I give that one a 6.

  
On the beers again tonight (well I am in Germany after all). The good thing about the campsite is that it has a very sociable atmosphere. Get chatting to a trio of Irish girls who all have names which I can barely pronounce properly let alone spell correctly. Lots of Es and Os. They are primary school teachers from Kilkenny who work in Dublin. I love their accents. Also get chatting to a timid young lad from Loughton in Essex which isn’t too far from where I hail from. It transpires that it’s his 21st birthday. Well that’s it, time to celebrate. Like magic the girls produce a water bottle filled with vodka and lemonade (trust the Irish to come fully prepared) and we all decide that a night on the town is on the cards. After necking the mixer we head to the trams where we bump into some smartly dressed locals who are also up for a party. They share their white wine with us and lead us to a very dark and expensive bar in the city centre. By now we are all totally plastered and head to the nightclub across the road. We lose our local guides, or rather they, purposely, lose us. The club is immensely busy. I can barely wrestle my way to the bar. I remember why I don’t like nightclubs as I have to repeatedly bellow my order at the bar guy so he can hear me over the deafening Euro pop. Clubs are busy, loud, full of obnoxious jerks and there’s never anywhere to sit. I’m getting too old for this crap. I’ve also made the fatal error of splitting from the group. I have a better chance of finding a long lost evil twin on an isolated Polynesian Island than locating these Irish girls in this bustling crowd and I’m too drunk to really remember what any of them look like. Finish my beer, battle my way to the toilet, have a big wee then head outside to flag a cab home. I never saw birthday boy again but I hope he enjoyed his night. I wonder if my primary school teachers drunk so much? They had to put up with me as a pupil so I wouldn’t be surprised if they did.

Day 9. Munich.

A new morning, a new hangover. It’s becoming a habit. The irony being that it’s when you drink so frequently that you stop noticing the acute adverse physiological symptoms that you’ve developed a serious problem. I take the pounding headache and Sahara throat as a sign that my body hasn’t given up all hope and still yearns to revert back to a state of reasonable health. Optimistic.

Off to the English Garden which is the largest urban park in Europe. This time I do remember to take my swimming trunks as I’m told that there’s a waterfall and river to bask in. Pause for a quick power nap on a bench before heading to the source of the fast flowing stream which cuts through the park. It’s a wonderfully sunny day and the riverbank is filled with young attractive Germans as well as some not so young, and very much naked, older Germans. Why are nudists always shrivelled prunes? I dip my toe into the water. It’s freezing. Take a deep breath, and a small run up, then plunge myself the icy waters. That certainly woke me up. My hangover vanishes instantly. It’s startlingly refreshing and feels religiously purifying. I am being washed of alcoholic sins as well as beer sweats. However, redemption doesn’t come without punishment. The current is much stronger than I had anticipated and I’m dragged helplessly like a drowning cat downstream. There’s no point in fighting it. I relent and let the rapids drag me to what could be a watery doom. I’m whizzed under at least three bridges and past numerous bank side tree branches which are agonisingly out of reach. Faster and faster. I have no idea how deep it is but it doesn’t matter because I’m travelling too fast to stop and sink. I feel like one of those daredevils who throw themselves over Niagara Falls in a wooden barrel. Eventually I cling on for dear life to a purposely installed metal pole about a mile downstream from where I have safely deposited my clothes and valuables in a bush. It will be a soggy and indecent walk of shame through Munich if somebody has pinched them. I guess that the metal pole has been placed here because in the past idiots like myself have ended up drifting into Austria. I climb out of the river and tiptoe painfully over pebbles and dry twigs all the way back to the beginning. Check the bush. A tramp hasn’t nicked my stuff. Brilliant. Perch on the riverbank, take a another big deep breath, jump back in.

After three rounds in the rapids I’m cleansed cleansed both physically and spiritually. On my way home I stumble across a bizarre shrine to Michael Jackson at the foot of a statue of an old army general outside a hotel. Fans have delicately placed hundreds of photos, cards, bunches of flowers and handwritten letters to the deceased King of Pop. There are even celebratory posters to mark the day in which he was found innocent of charges of indecency. It really is rather peculiar and I simply cannot figure out why this alter of memorabilia is here in the middle of Bavaria. It isn’t even the hotel in which he chucked his kid, mattress or whatever it’s called, over a balcony because that was in Berlin. Very strange. Search in vain for a gold effigy of Elvis (if you’re going to have the King of Pop you have to have the King of Rock n Roll aswell) but no such luck.

  
There’s a load of French school kids running around and making an absolute racket at the camp tonight. I hate children. Especially noisy ones. Especially French ones. Especially noisey French ones. Merde.

Day 10. Munich.

Mingle around camp all day. Meet some interesting people and we spend the day chatting and swapping stories. Part of the joy of travelling isn’t just the places you go but the people you meet while you are there. As trite as that sounds it really is true. I notice that all conversations with fellow travellers follow the exact same script:
“Where are you from?”
“How long have you been travelling for?”
“Where have you been so far?”
“Where are you going next?”

The people I spend the day with are:

Phoebe. A cute girl from Liverpool. She insists that she actually lives on Penny Lane. She gets annoyed when I ask if she went to school in Strawberry Fields, if her nan is Eleanor Rigby and if she’s actually a walrus. She’s just finished her A-Levels and hasn’t even turned 18 yet. I feel old. The group of friends she’s with are flustered because one of them has lost her passport and they have to go to the embassy to sort it out. Phoebe stays at camp teaches me how to play a card game called Spit then proceeds to totally annihilate me at it. No mercy. I think she refuses to go easy on me as a beginner because of the sarcastic Beatles questions. This is begging of what becomes a dismal run of competitive pursuits today.

Alfredo. An Italian guy who makes me feel younger again as he’s in his 30’s. He hobbles around on crutches with his foot in a cast due to a football injury. It hasn’t deterred him from travelling though. We have a lengthy conversation about fascism and pilot suicide. We both have flights to catch tomorrow. To Italy.

Mejdi. A Kosovan with long black hair who is allergic to wearing a shirt. He invites me for a game of chess. I agree out of politeness knowing full well how awful I am at the game. I just don’t have the patience. Plus I’m a pacifist. He absolutely obliterates my helpless army. The pawns don’t stand a chance as he charges towards my back line aggressively. This bloody massacre takes place to the soundtrack of Mejdi’s favourite tunes playing from his phone. He’s got good taste. The playlist includes The Pixies, The Doors and The Rolling Stones. He tells me that he used to be a fan of Radiohead but had to stop listening to them because “they make my heart sad”. Considering how little English he understands this is testimony to precisely how depressing that bands’ lyrics are. Back in Kosovo he goes to karaoke every Wednesday night with his friends. His song of choice is Bone Machine by The Pixies. Consequently every Thursday morning he has a sore throat.

After humiliating me twice I begrudgingly accept a third and final scuffle. This time we have an attentive audience of his Kosovan friends who mutter and snigger to each other in Albanian. I’m convinced that they are mocking my lack of battlefield control and thus my virility. I approach this match with a new, and I think ingenious, tactic. I play the long game. My plan is to take so long to move my pieces that Mejdi finally succumbs to a fatal lung disease from all the cigarettes he chain smokes while waiting patiently for me to make a move which he already knows is going to be a dreadful decision. Like a form of board game based Chinese torture he watches me brood over possible moves yet consistently pick the worst possible advancement. I haven’t looked it up but I’m sure that the official rules of chess state that it’s a draw if your opponent dies from a chronic illness during a lengthy match. Alas my cunning plan fails. My queen is slaughtered and my desperate King flees for his life like a coward to the corner of the board where he is executed by a belligerent bishop.
“I think is finished” my victorious advisory announces. He’s right. As I surrender Jim Morrison sings “This is the end. My only friend, the end.”

Lick my wounds from the front line with a few beers with a girl from Texas who describes herself as an Asian American liberal molecular biologist lesbian. She’s called Joy. She must tick a lot of boxes on questionnaires. We are joined by the others and as the beers flow conversation gets deep. Existentially deep. The discussion of life, the universe and everything gets a bit animated. The camp manager isn’t interested in our philosophical musings and banishes us all to bed. In the tent myself and Joy, who is sleeping on the other side of the tent, attempt to continue the discussion via morse code using the torch on our phones. Obviously this fails as neither of us can actually understand morse code. Give up and fall asleep where I have a nightmare about Mejdi chasing me while riding a giant chess horse.

Esteban.

Disheveled Travels. Germany. Part Three.

Day 6. Frankfurt to Munich.

Restless night on the Megabus. Up on top deck I feel every sway as if I’m on a deep sea fishing trawler during a storm. Unable to contort myself into a position comfortable enough to dose off. On the few occasions I do flirt with the sandman a bump in the road jolts me awake and the process of attempting to mould my inflexible body into a bearable posture begins again. At 4am I try reading to take my mind off of how uncomfortable I am. Settle into Ernest Hemmingway’s To have and to have not which turns out to be very gripping as well as astonishingly politically incorrect. Enjoy a pleasant sunrise over the small Bavarian villages the Autobahn detour has sent us through.

Arrive in Munich just after 7am. Clean myself up in the station toilets (classy) and head for the tent. 

Not a tent. 

The tent.

The Tent is a huge marquee on a campsite just outside the city centre. I arrive ready to collapse just as everybody else is waking up. The tent resembles a refugee camp or one of those emergency shelters that they house victims of a major earthquake in that you see on the news. Fifty rickety bunk beds set in rows filled with fidgeting bodies. I pick a bottom bunk and pray that nobody climbs on top because the flimsy wire frame looks like it’ll cave in if any creature with a body mass greater than a poorly fed kitten lays on it. I’m worried I’ll become the filling in a mattress sandwich. The noise is a continuos cacophony. The pained echoes of the human condition: a cough, followed by a sneeze, followed by a snore, followed by a bed frame squeak, followed by a fart, followed by another cough, followed by another fart. Fortunately I’m so exhausted that the noise of bodily exhalations doesn’t bother me and I conk out fully clothed while everybody else is getting ready to brush their teeth and start the day.

Wake in the early afternoon when the tent reaches a temperature that disorientates me into thinking that I have passed out in somebodies greenhouse. If I stayed any longer I’d have marrows sprouting from my ears.
Pop into the city centre briefly and stumble across a gay pride parade. This is the second time that I’ve accidentally ended up in the middle of a gay pride celebration. I did the same thing in London last month. Is it a sign?

Back at the camp I hear Mozart’s Turkish March. Intrigued I follow the music, with a march of course, into the hut from where it is coming from. I discover that it’s not a recording. I find a girl playing a piano. She’s really good. I’m thoroughly impressed and slightly jealous that I do not possess the musical ability to casually key out pieces of classical music at a campsite.

Later on in the evening I enjoy a few bottles of beer with a group of young lads from Leicester. We are joined by a group of Danish travellers (3 girls and 1 guy) all of whom have immaculate bright blonde hair. Spend most of the night watching the drunkest of the lads, called Paddy, try hopelessly to chat up one of the Danish girls. He’s persistent if nothing. He goes on for a good couple of hours without success. Poor lad. We’ve all been there.

At 1am it’s lights out but myself, the Danish guy and the girl who has finally worn Paddy down (he stormed off to bed in a dejected sulk) sneak off to the far end of the campsite to continue drinking and conversing in hushed voices. We are soon joined by another of the Danish girls who had mysteriously vanished about an hour ago. She shows up with a smug grin on her face. The two girls start talking in Danish while I sit there idly not even bothering to try and work out what they are saying. She then skips off towards the toilet block.
“What did she say?” I ask.
It turns out that she had been getting acquainted, intimately, with a gentleman in the toilets.
“Paddy?”
“No”
“Oh right. So why were you sniggering?”
“Because my friend…she said that the guy…he’s very big”.
That explains that grin .
At this point I notice that the two I’m sitting with are also getting a bit close and I begin to feel a like a spare part. Not wanting to get involved in any sordid Scandinavian shenanigans in a field I leave them to it and trot off to bed. I walk past Paddy asleep in his bunk. He looks upset.

  

Day 7. Munich.

Wake up with slight hangover. It’s exacerbated by the heat of the tent which becomes a giant human oven after sunrise. Couple of eggs for breakfast then off to the city to soak up a bit of culture. Decide that the teddy museum is too expensive and mosey around some churches instead. They’re free.

St Michael’s church features an exhibition called Clouds by an artist named Michael Pendry. It is comprised of hundreds of little white pieces of rope dangling from a fence. Visitors are encouraged to tie a knot in one of the strings to represent whatever is troubling them. Evidently there’s a lot of things on peoples’ minds in Munich as I could barely find a spare piece to tie a tight double knot of my own.

Near the main square is St Peter’s church which is home to a rather macabre crowd puller. She’s called St Mundita and she’s a human skeleton dressed in luxurious royal robes and draped in jewels while holding a ornate cup. She’s propped up awkwardly on her side in a glass display cabinet like an distasteful exhibit from Ripley’s believe it or not. She really is deeply disturbing to gaze at. The glass eyes slid into her sockets don’t help with the general feeling of eeriness. She’s actually Roman and how she ended up here is the result of a gruesome Baroque era fashion whereby the remains of unknown Roman citizens were removed from catacombs and venerated as saints. Ultimately she’s a random woman pulled from her tomb and worshiped by members of the Roman Catholic Church. In what must be a bit of an insult she has been afforded the title of patron saint of unmarried women. She’s reppin’ all the single ladies. I guess nobody liked her enough to put a ring on it. But they had no problem stuffing her skull with gems.

 

All the single ladies…

 
The church has an ninety two metre high meter steeple tower which visitors can climb. I tackle the strenuous calf busting stairway but soon live (just about) to regret it. It’s important to note here that I’m a wuss. And when you’re a wuss ninety two meters in the sky is high. Really high. At the top of the steeple is narrow balcony leading around edge of the tower. It’s barely wide enough for single file and you have to walk around clockwise. Once you leave the relative safety of the tower building and commit to walking around it there’s no turning back. It’s one way only. A deep breath and I pluck up the courage to go for it. About five steps in my confidence begins to wane and I start to seriously regret my decision. On a clear day the view extends as far as the alps. It’s breathtaking. Probably. I’m too busy readjusting my vice like grip on the railing and looking down at the floor while shuffling along like a whimpering ninny. I managed to convince myself myself that the thin wire cage covering the walkway, which is shaking in the breeze, definitely is safe. I’m sure nobody has ever fallen off of this tower. But there’s a first time for everything. Absolute no chance of stopping for a photo. My hands are shaking and I have vivid images of my phone tumbling through the fence to the pavement below with me flailing behind it after leaning too hard on the mesh which gives way, my body splatting on the pavement in a red squishy mess putting diners off of their lunch in the restaurant below. Halfway around and my state of psychological discomfort elevates from manageable worry to frenzied panic. “I NEED TO GET DOWN”, the irrational voice in my head screams. The problem is that less cowardly visitors block the walkway by taking photos and admiring the view. A rapid scurry to safety is not possible unless I bundle past the ditherers which actually would be dangerous. Plus if they did fall they’d probably clamp on to my arm as they went over the ledge to drag me down with them. With a sigh of immeasurable relief I finally make it all the way around. I practically run down the stairs to get my feet back to precious earth. The look of terror on my face as I sprint down the stairway must have been slightly concerning for those of whom I pass making their way up. I comfort myself with a salted pretzel which is deliciously buttery and restores calm. To add insult to injury the clouds, which have been aching to burst all day, finally gave way as I sheepishly walk back to the tent. I return soaked in rainwater and shame. Nobody must ever know about my little episode up the tower. Oh wait…

Esteban.  

Dishevelled Travels. Germany. Part Two.

Day 4. Cologne to Frankfurt.

Up early to catch the Megabus to Frankfurt. While gathering my stuff as silently as possible in an attempt not to wake anybody (what a considerate guy) I notice that the girl in the bed opposite is totally naked and has partially rolled out of her sheets exposing a bare breast. Morning. 

Get a final dose of dance music from Station hostel as I eat breakfast (egg & sausage) to the time of nineties disco classic What is love? Good question. 

Pleasantly surprised by the Megabus. It was on time, relatively comfortable and had wifi. At £3 it’s an absolute bargain. It costs £2.70 for a return trip to the town centre back home which is a distance of about three miles and there’s always a motley crew of Jeremy Kyle guests and at least one bloke with soiled trousers on the number 65. No loonies on the Megabus. I now have much less trepidation about the seven hour overnight haulage to Munich tomorrow evening. The double decker coach arrives in Frankfurt so promptly that I have two hours to kill before check in at the hostel. 

Have a leisurely stroll into the heart of the city. Frankfurt is a modern city with glistening silver skyscrapers jutting into the stratosphere. It is home to the Central European Bank which is represented by a large statue of the Euro symbol. Frankfurt must rank just below Bongo Bongo land in the list of places Nigel Farage would want to go on holiday. As the centre of European finance Frankfurt is animated with bankers strutting around purposefully in immaculate suits. Even in this blistering summer heat there’s not an untucked shirt in sight. It’s all a bit serious. I bet there’s a booming trouser press trade here. 

Amongst the Rolex and Hugo Boss stores I find Engels which sells every type of offensive and potentially lethal weapon you could ever need for your maiming needs. From brass knuckles and inconspicuous flick knives to Schwarzengger style air rifles. Consider buying a deadly souvenir but I have an EasyJet flight to catch next week and I couldn’t find anything that wouldn’t result in lengthy interrogations and invasive cavity searches. I’m sure that airlines base their entire prohibited items list on the stock take at Engels.

Union Hostel has a large polished reception with three helpful staff on shift and a convertible Smart car on display in the lobby. It’s much more sophisticated than my previous accommodation in Cologne. I’ve been upgraded to the ten bed dorm. Bingo. There’s a lingering smell of body odour in the cramped room. More lighting problems. This time there’s no bedside lamp at all. The only other occupant of the tightly packed room is a middle aged oriental gentleman. He scratches himself vigorously and loudly. 

Venture out to the suburbs for a wander around Volkspark Niddatal. Clean. Well maintained. Not an empty crisp packet or used condom in sight. 

I think that I’ve been upgraded because there’s nobody else in the hostel. Had dinner (Frankfurters, naturally) in the spacious self kitchen and chill out lounge which resembles the abandoned mess hall of a battleship. All I have for company is a library of Stephen King novels, a heavy hardback copy of Die Bibel and a mouse which scurries from underneath the pool table which has no cues or balls. The wall is plastered with photographs of raucous parties taking place in this very room as if to mock me. If I get too bored I can always pop a few doors down to Dolly Buster’s XXX internet lounge (is there any other type of internet lounge?) which was enticing clientele by blasting out AD/DCs Highway to hell when I walked past, and peered in, earlier. 

Turns out that I’m actually spoilt for choice when it comes to perversity as the hostel backs onto a seedy red light district frequented by drug addicts and sinister looking street corner pimps. I see an elderly man limp through the mysterious beaded doorway of Eros which advertises “toys of optimum pleasure”. Even German butt plugs are efficient. Take solice in the fact that if things gets too desperately dull in Station Hostel I always have the option score some smack and sit on a brutal twelve inch dildo. Without lube. 

  
Day 5. Frankfurt. 

“If the immediate and direct purpose of our life is not suffering then our existence is the most ill-adapted to it’s purpose in the world”.

These are the bitterly cynical words of pessimist nineteenth century philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860). I read them from his melancholic essay On the Suffering of the World while lingering over his subtle tombstone in Frankfurt Main Cemetery. The gravestones in this enormous park cemetery are meticulously maintained while the surrounding trees and bushes are allowed to flourish. The cemetery maintains a fine balance between allowing nature to blossom without decimating headstones. It’s incredibly tranquil and serene. Still I find myself sympathising with Arthur’s surly observations particularly regarding tedium.

“Want and boredom are the twin poles of human life.”

With twelve hours to kill in Frankfurt, the city where he retired to and died, I know exactly what he means. Having exhausted every free museum in the city I find myself without nothing else to do but head to the cemetery which is a staunch reminder that “our existence is so wretched and its end is death”. I’m glum. I didn’t get a great nights sleep as my oriental roomie snored like a mountain bear which had swallowed a megaphone. This morning he was scratching again. Loudly.

“We are conscious not of the healthiness of our whole body but only of the little place where the shoe pinches”

Or, in this case, where the thigh itches. Schopenhauer believed that life is driven by a constantly unsatisfied will which is forever searching for satiation that it can never fully attain. Pleasure is merely the absence of pain and we all have an itch that needs to be scratched. Some more urgently than others. Evidently. 

It’s midnight and I’m waiting at Frankfurk train station for a Megabus. It’s an hour late. I can’t help but ponder Schopenhauer’s exhortation to “imagine, in so far as it is approximately possible, the sum total of distress, pain and suffering of every kind of which the sun shines upon is in it’s course”. In this instance it’s the moonlight shining discourse but the sentiment holds. I see an emanciated topless junkie, ribcage poking through his skin, passed out on the pavement with his head resting on a plastic bag filled with a stained duvet. A shifty women eyes up potential pickpocket victims. I’ve seen her strike twice already. A group of alcoholics who, judging by the mountain of discarded beer bottles piled up by their makeshift cardboard box camp, have been boozing since dawn engage in a lively argument that I suspect I still wouldn’t be able to comprehend even if I understood German. A shivering old man on crutches is greatful when I hand him an empty Coca-Cola bottle. He’ll get 20 recents for recycling it. He carries a little collection of used bottles in a crate. All of this takes place to the backdrop of the PriceWaterhouseCooper tower which glows triumphantly. 

I feel a mixture of relief and guilt as, at 1am, I retreat into the safety of the Megabus to leave this sorry neighbourhood and continue my journey. As we pull I away I see the old man rummaging through an overflowing bin adding to his bottle collection. I wave but he doesn’t see because the windows are tinted. 

  

Esteban.

Disheveled Travels. Germany. Part One.

Day 1. London to Cologne

Not a fantastic start. I have a whole row to myself but Germanwings flight 4U0358 sits impatiently on the tarmac at Stansted. The pilot offers us his apologies but there are thunderstorms over Germany and we are waiting for permission to take off. The delay ends up being longer than the flight itself which is a swift fifty minute hop across to the European mainland. We managed to avoid the wrath of Zeus. The descent into Cologne presents a contrasting landscape of brutalist power plant turrets which pump thick grey smoke into the atmosphere and patches of dense green forrest . Thanks to the storm customs is deserted and my bag is already circling the carousel when I make my way to luggage reclaim.

It’s a short train ride into the city centre station which sits on a square in the shadow of a dauntingly enormous gothic cathedral with darkened svelte spires pointing sharply into the muggy tangerine sunset. The Station Hostel, as the name suggests, is about three minutes walk from the platform. It’s your standard backpacker affair. Unglamorous, functional and communal. The receptionist was pleasant enough although he felt it more pressing to beseech me into seeing the band who are playing in the bar next door tomorrow night rather than telling where my room is. According to him they should be playing large stadium venues. After I promise to check out these future chart toppers he hands me a key card. The corridors are white with a thick horizontal red line running the length of the wall. Room numbers are painted in stencil next to the doors. The decor reminds me of a stairwell of a multi-storey car park. The room itself is a decent size with four single beds. Three are taken but there’s nobody about. I spend a few minutes trying to diagnose what’s wrong with the wall socket that the bedside lamp is plugged into before I locate the source of the problem, there’s no bulb. Dump my stuff and head out for some grub.

A Currywurst is a large sausage chopped up and smothered in a sweet and mildly spicy ketchup source sprinkled with mustard powder. It looks a bit like a dog chewed up a Bratwurst, didn’t digest it fully, then did a lumpy liquified poop. Despite appearances it’s a decent bit of nosh. I suspect that sausages are going to become a staple during my time in Deutschland. There’s a sign hanging directly next to the bedroom window which illuminates the entire room advertising Reissdorf beer. Expert marketing which must have burrowed itself into my subconscious as I realise that this is the exact brand of beer which I’ve absent mindedly purchased 4 bottles of.

My fellow occupants have returned to the room. A Canadian girl, a South American guy who has a vocabulary limited to “hello” & “goodbye” and an exchange student from Aberdeen. She tells me that there’s not much to do in Cologne. She managed to see everything of interest in a single day. She even took a day trip to a nearby city, Dusseldorf, which she described as equally bland. I could have guessed that from the name. It sounds dreary. She concluded her damning review of Köln by categorically stating that she’ll never return. The only place duller, she reliably informs me, is Frankfurt. Excellent, that’s my next stop. End my first night by delving into Aphorisms of Love and Hate by the chippy Frederick Neitshcze. Fall asleep ruminating over such uplifting maxims as; “because one of the two loving people is usually the lover, the other beloved, the belief has arisen that in every love affair the amount of love is constant: the more of it one of the two grabs to himself, the less remains for the other person“. Can’t help but wonder how many terrible girlfriends he must have been through to come up with that. 

Day 2. Cologne

There are major acoustic issues with Station Hostel. Upon approaching the station incoming trains have to navigate a sharp bend which locomotives screech over in metallurgic agony. Throughout the night I listen to the grinding screams of carriages sounding like they are giving birth to a Transformer. When the trains aren’t crying in pain the shouting of drunkards from the bar next door echoes down the street. On the plus side the other occupants have all checked out when I awake so I use this opportunity to commandeer the bulb from another lamp in the room. I suspect that there has been an ongoing game of musical bulbs in this room as there are only two working bulbs but four bedside lamps. I can’t be the only one who had the bright idea (pun intended) to nab a bulb in the interim between guests checking out and newbies arriving.

Visited the impressive Cathedral which is partly to blame for the lack of other attractions in the city. During the Second World War Cologne was obliterated by continuous air raid attacks with the distinct and immensely tall spires of the cathedral serving as a giant holy “bomb here” marker for allied pilots. The city was flattened during relentless bombing raids including Operation Millennium where one thousand bombers rained explosives on the city in an attack so severe it’s intended impact was to cause enough devastation to knock Germany out of the war completely. The Cathedral itself suffered several direct hits but remained standing although battered and scarred. It is no stranger to existing in a state of disrepair or incompletion, although construction began in 1248 the medieval labourers took the longest tea break in history and downed tools in 1473 leaving the project for later generations to complete in the 19th century six hundred years later. Its height to width ratio is staggering which results in dizzy spells and sore necks for visitors who gaze up at the towering roof from inside.

  

Traditonally it is a site of pilgrimage for Catholics due to its possession of what claims to be the bones of the three wise men. (I’ve never understood why they were considered so wise. What’s a baby supposed to do with a load of myrrh?). So I’m slightly baffled by the appearance of a contingent of Tibetan monks in full orange garb nestling amongst the pews.  It all made sense a bit later when I saw an Asian restaurant called “the Buddha”. They must know the owner.

  

Later that afternoon I decided that waiting to use one of the two showers available for an entire floor of people wasn’t a productive use of my time so I hatched a sly plan. Across the road is a Hilton Hotel. These places always have health cebtres with gym, sauna and showers. So I put on some sports clothes and exuded confidence as I strolled past the reception desk rehearsing which blag I was going to use to gain access to the health spa. I was almost disappointed when the unimpeachable story I’d settled on, something about leaving my room key with an absent minded girlfriend who had wandered off, turned out to be an unnecessary precaution as a friendly member of staff held the door open for me and handed me a towel without saying a word. A workout and detox in the steam room later I emerged smelling of lavender Molton Brown shower gel.

Invited for drinks with my new roommates who are a Mexican couple from Tijuana. As we leave, heading for the party district across town, we walk past the bar next door where the receptionists’ favourite band are underwhelming a lacklustre audience. They sound dreadful.

Day 3. Cologne

Formidably hungover this morning. Wake with the unpleasant sting of chili in my mouth then remember my new Mexican buddy Angėl literally spicing up our beers with Tabasco source. I assumed it was a Mexican custom but in retrospect I think he was just really drunk. I woke just in time to bid the pair farewell with Angèl offering some questionable advice regarding my pounding head.

“Just have another beer man and you’ll be fine” he instructed with a playful smile.

 I’d rather drink Tabasco source on it’s own. Managed to drag my sorry self for a stroll along the Rhine then into the Old Town where, remarkably, I was cable to stomach a CurryWurst. At the sausage stall a young lad with a thick Yorkshire accent was telling some acquaintances about the time he got himself arrested for exposing himself in front of a police car. Suddenly feel better about my condiment spiked night. At least I didn’t end up in the cells.

“Oh well. Live and learn don’t ya” he shrugged.

Back to the Cathedral square where a guy with dreadlocks plays an infectiously catchy tune with a flute accompanied by some bells he’s attached to his feet of which he taps on the floor rhythmically. Feel guilty about only giving him twenty cents for an entertaining and novel performance but I’d used the rest of the change on the CurryWurst which was now spinning around inside my fragile stomach.

Decided on a early night as I have to catch a bus tomorrow morning. Went to the kitchen for a peaceful cup of tea before bed which was interrupted by a surreal slice of insanity. A guy waltzes in the room and produces a portable speaker before shouting in a thick Germanic accent
“YOU LIKE HOUSE MUSIC!”
It was more statement that question. Before I had a chance to retort he began blasting out heavy house music while bobbing his head intensely. The racket attracted a group of Spanish revellers from the lounge next door who began a small rave just inside the doorway. I’m trapped. During the festivities one of the Spaniards knocks over a beer bottle which smashes onto the floor while another slips in the spillage and whacks his head on a cupboard. Throughout this manic chaos I sip my tea calmly. I manage to escape the flash mob as they are mopping up the mess. The DJ was still in the corner lost in an electro induced trance. Bedtime for me.

Esteban