Prosaic Interlude # 6

International Intrigue

She ran her hands over my underwear and folded them nicely. The Dutch woman smiled permissively as she patted them again. Standing at a folding table at a gate in Schiphol Airport I unburdened myself in what was not to be the last time. It put me in the frame of mind of our unburdening in 1983 when a group of us went though Checkpoint Charlie to experience to gray chains of East Berlin. Then armed police (Polezi—three syllables verses one) and dogs hunted for propaganda. Now, in Holland, drugs were scavenged. No police or dogs, though, that committed to memory. Funny how those barking, bristling, lunging German Shepherds in '83 stay so vivid in mind. Our plane had stopped over—two hours—long enough for a pot run over to Amsterdam. I just sat tight in Schiphol after getting my bags re-packed—better than I had—by a comely Dutch woman. I did make a call to a friend that lived near Amsterdam. He was not home. People never are at the most opportune times.

Reflection on the way things are—to

which we lean near and far.

__from journal “Tripping '92”

Snow fell hesitantly on Munich in flakes mitered the same. My plane landed at 1 p.m., Thursday November 12, 1992. Our plane taxied slowly, with that rush forward immediately after landing, when you fall forward toward earth and then relax in the hold. I knew it was moments before I'd be thrown into a culture that, judging from a previous visit, had somewhat lofty idiosyncrasies. They were pristine, one might say charmingly so, but likely wouldn't. There were few variables. Few thing were subject to interpretation. I had been north and south and southern Deutschland I found people more amiable, less abrasive, less concerned with your life and how they might make it less comfortable or gemütlich for which there is no appeasing translation. What I saw, what I'd seen, had an exclusive sense for detail that might come in handy some day. The Germans just struck me as a people, in general, who went out of their way to hold their heads a neck higher than the rest of the world. Maybe it was because they had lost two world wars and, I think everyone will agree, those are the most important to win. But I just don't know. I got a vibe, even as I watched from the portal of the plane, from the way the baggage handlers took bags from the plane, shoving them hard and grudgingly on the belt-way to be retrieved in the Flughafen (airport). The language was cunningly ironic. Airport. The workings, cleanliness, security, ticketing, transportation all were more efficient than anything to which I had grown accustomed. That word, their word in German, needed three syllables verses our two. Just an observation.

Munich was geared fr the holidays. Christmas, the anticipation of it, is a big deal. Europe is amazing. They get so much done, the trains and planes run on time around the 24-hour clock, or the chronometer we reserve for the military, the medical profession, and apparently, McDonalds. They get more done with half the area and time on the job. I looked eagerly from the back of a cab. I had plenty of traveler's cheques and a wallet brimming with a sufficient amount of crisp blue tinted Deutsch Marks. My uncashed money was dispersed in pockets of my pack and in my carry-on bag. I never put all my matzo on one rock.

Standing under the doorway of the Hotel-Pension-Mirabell, two block from the Hauptbahnhoff, I teach myself to walk better. I plan it this way. As my tripping begins, as I wake Friday the 13^th to the dawning of adventures, to the clash of culture, to the potential for multi-lingual hostilities, I want to be in walking distance to the main train station. This is my MO I decide and nothing should derail my plans. I aim to get an early start tomorrow, on the day legend has traced its fateful superstition back to the Last Supper.

Checking in the place, set off balance by my pack, I felt the line “Bist du betrunken?” was but there waiting to embarrass me. Just as in Scotland (detailed in “The Cheeky Lad” in my book Finding me—and Them: Stories of Assimilation) I have a sixth sense telling me that my alcoholic consumption is on the mind of the desk clerk offering me a room. He is suspicious and looks at me more than twice, enough to pick me out of a line-up, perhaps also noticing the off-black tone of my skin. The elevator does not work they tell me. I have my doubts. After an exhausting climb of two flights I open my door. There, from my window, from Hindenburgst. 20 in Garmisch-partenkirchenn, I see the Bavarian Alps. I figure I've seen them before, throw my pack on the bed, and begin to jot down notes on my travels thus far. I am not easy on myself, but I am particularly critical of the staff at the Mirabell. I think I know the local language well enough and consider my knowledge of it—so far—to have been helpful.

Downstairs a little bar or cantina serves, among other things, alcohol. I go in for a sandwich, some chips, maybe even some kind of wurst of a German nature. I walk in, sober as a hosteler with no access to alcohol, and the room dulls in its levity. Amidst the travelers they sensed a more foreign element, transcending race, creed or geographical boundaries. I felt the eyes upon me as I settled on a bar-stool. After about 5 minutes of being treated like a gracious ghost, I go to a table, re-asserting my presense in the process. No one served me. No one wanted my crisp blue Marks. Money did not talk, but I walked. I left, having a sketchy idea of why I was not served. Piss on them. Fucking Nazis, I mumble. I had morning on my mind and refused to let Them blemish my trip before it got out of Germany.

Also in “The Cheeky Lad” I explain how I like pushing envelopes. Spontaneity is never next to somewhere. I decide where to go when I look at the schedule that morning at the Hauptbahnhoff. I've never been to Switzerland. It is small, full of mountains and blonde blue-eyed women. Also, I might be lucky enough to go to the German-speaking part.

“Zurich!”

I look up, thrilled my travel plans were going according to the seat of my pants, glad that the wind is with me as I carry my pack. The Swiss are nice, on prima fascia evidence. They are hospitable, seem willing to help and I, in turn, am forthcoming in my amenability. Upon request, they direct me to the Kunsthaus in Zurich. The city museum has many painting suspended from its walls, works collected over decades of careful random curation. I ask, in time, where the restroom is located. That is an experience in itself. Using facilities in Europe is not always the creature comfort lavatory check-list Americans know.

“I growled in Europe,

shedding excess on creá

paper toilette—and then

came the logs—conspiring

on bare-botom bowls.”

A smell emanates from the bowl. It's like a watering-down of usual elements is a least half a globe away. It is definitely something, like shitting in the woods (Norway {part D} blog post), that I will avoid having to do. I come back, having left my pack with the nice man at the door, and browse around some more, determined to get my admission's worth of art. Most of the day is left, thanks to my early start, so I board the train again. I decide on Rome and try t get my worth out of my Eurail-pass.

The Colosseum faces me and I imagine blood-thirsty crowds. I see emperors turning their opposable thumbs, determining the fate of gladiators. The roars are deaf, and centuries predate the Christians going to the lions. Walking along the way I'm in the shadow of the ruinous arena. The sections of clay seats come into view, as well as something else, foreign and modern, but equally as terrifying. Out of the grayness, the darkness that wafts Rome each time a pope is falsely selected, a loudness is heard. An altercation is around the corner and a man jumps out at me! He is a shiftless drifter, an Italian who did not play by the rules. His hair is mussed and a cigarette hangs from his mouth. Three law enforcers, one woman and two men, flank him. They ambush to restrain him, teaching him a lesson he will not soon forget. They create a spectacle worthy of what went on in the Colosseum over nineteen centuries ago. What happened next ended my wanderlust abruptly.