Munich-bound!
I packed up – not without some difficulty, even though I thought I was doing well – then dragged my bag down four floors. This encouraged me, as I was pretty sure that the worst part of my day would now be over. It was also nice to think that while I was the only person taking my unique trip, I was leaving two good friends in one country and meeting another in another, though I was sorry to miss Alissa’s paper later that day, which I hear went very well.
I checked out and went to meet the taxi that I had arranged the day before – my first phone call in Slovenia. The taxi, sadly, never arrived, and I tried to flag one down after fifteen minutes. Unsuccessfully – it’s like they don’t want my money.
Though I had left plenty of time just in case something like this happened, eventually I had to start walking – sore feet and all – towards the train station. I got all the way to the Dragon Bridge, outside the university and halfway to the station, before finally two taxis competed for me – typical. Anyway, while both the Rough Guide and local advice had promised an €8-9 trip, it cost less than €2.
I went into the information office to check whether I needed to validate my ticket by machine or not (something one must do with all printed tickets in Italy, for example, but I was unsure of the custom elsewhere). Having found an English speaking gentleman who ushered me to a seat, I launched forth.
“This may be a stupid question, but…”
“No, no, don’t worry. Continue.” He was very reassuring, though he seemed to think one could use the word “lady” in a similar manner as “madam” in the UK. I was a bit taken aback when, having (reassuringly) taken the ticket from me and pointing to the relevant section, he began, “Look, lady…” but I did eventually catch on. It was quite charming, in the end.
With a final, “Thank you, lady,” I was sent onward, to the lift, trying not to smile too broadly when leaving. I was trying not to laugh, but in a very happy way.
Getting on to the train, first class of course (well, there was a special deal for students), two well-to-do American ladies of advancing years were rather alarmed by the automatic closing of the doors on a timer, and began to bang on them and yell loudly. I was able to assist, demonstrating how one presses the green button at the side to open them again. It’s amazing what one takes for granted (especially the European rail network), which on reflection doesn’t actually seem all that obvious after all. Three Italian men materialised from one carriage down to help with their bags, and two were summoned back by the third with – as far as I could tell – seemed to be chastisement for less than chivalrous behaviour in leaving me to lug my own bag up the steep stairs! Italian became my fourth (I really hoped final) language of the trip.
As I hoisted my bag onto an end-of-carriage luggage rack, I overheard the two ladies (the only other passengers in the carriage).
“I’m sorry I lost your contacts.”
“That’s okay. I’m sorry I mixed up the passports.”
I recognised this sort of trip – the sort of appealingly chaotic – from my own “best laid plans”-type scenario that morning. I find this sort of thing incredibly encouraging.
Shortly after pulling away from Ljubljana central station, we were gliding by aquamarine and turquoise waters fringed by a thousand trees, a sheer cliff on the other side, and overhead a biplane. Soon we saw high, rocky Alpine peaks, with wooded church-adorned hills and fields of sunflowers. An overabundance of the picturesque. Made a mental note to ask God why he didn’t save some of that kind of beauty for Cumbernauld, or if we could put in a transfer request. “One Alp, please.” I was sorry to be leaving Slovenia, though ready to move on, should moving on have to occur.
In a worrying insight into my character, my illusions of originality shattered when I realised that my travel diary this time was probably completely inspired (ooh, sudden tunnel) by the writings of Michael Palin. Who is not only funnier than I am, but since he crossed the Sahara on a camel, travelling first class to go to the opera in Munich while listening to my iPod doesn’t exactly seem intrepid.
We went into shadow and the drop in temperature made me shiver. It was a good feeling, and I relaxed into the comfortable seat.
The man behind me moved to the seat opposite as I composed a limerick about Lake Bled (see, nothing rhymes with “gondola”). He asks if the seat is free in a familiar and very English voice. It’s… Michael Palin? I knew he was working on something in Central and Eastern Europe, but I never expected to run into him. We talked about Doune Castle and arterial sclerosis until he suddenly burst into song, “The hills are alive…” and out came the voice of Julie Andrews, circa 1965.
I awoke somewhere high in the Alps, near the Austrian border.
You couldn’t look ten feet in any direction without some serious neck carnage. It was all stunning. We stopped at Jesenice for passport control, and the German was music to meine Ohren! Austria seemed pretty, at first, but then we disappeared into a tunnel for fifteen minutes.
We hit our first Alpine lake at 11.45 – and how improbably blue.
Halfway up a mountain, looking down on an idyllic valley, the peace of the carriage was shattered by the whiniest family ever. And they had to sit right across from me, didn’t they? They gave the very competent and longsuffering conductor the worst time. At one point the parents actually moved away to get a break from the kids. Not cool.
At length we arrived at Salzburg Hauptbahnhof, which was, sadly, the most glamorous part of Salzburg (long a coveted destination) I could hope to see on this trip – though as I had a good moan about that in my journal, we crossed the river and got a great, if fleeting, view of the fortress and iconic skyline of spires. Sigh. Next time, Salzburg, we meet properly.
I wondered what it is that makes all these rivers cloudy and turquoise. We crossed into Germany under cloud, which was at least promising. Danny had spoken of rain. I earnestly hoped that coolness and not mugginess ensued.
Traunstein looked interesting – apparently mediaeval and compact, a little like a Tuscan town, though I had never heard of it before. Listening to Keb’ Mo’, I started to get squirmy, with only fifteen minutes to go. I was quite ready to get off the train. Then the sun came out. Great, I thought. Now we can die of the heat in Germany, too.
The first clue that Munich was an actual city, and Ljubljana a generously proportioned town, were the miles of suburbs the train travelled through. I disembarked (wrestling with my bag – I hoped I “grazie”d enough to convey my gratitude towards my Italian helpers in Ljubljana) at the station – an actual station! Even Salzburg just had platforms. It was also hot. Definitely hot.
Fighting hunger, I barreled past the many food stalls in the station and found a taxi rank. Despite having looked up the address of the hotel and mentally rehearsed – “Ich gehe nach Hotel Am Markt, Heiliggeiststrasse sechs” – all my German totally deserted me in the moment of truth. “Ich gehe… ich gehe nach Hotel Am Markt-” by this point the driver had my bag in the boot and was reaching for my carry-all, nodding intently “-Heils- um, Heiliggeiststrasse vier… nein! Sechs.” And I’m supposed to speak this language. It’s the only one I’m any good at. Doesn’t bode well.
Despite this, I got there without incident. I noted immediately the multi-laned roads, and some attractive Art Nouveau detailing on huge buildings. Suddenly I remembered what a city feels like! And the guidebook said Munich has a reputation as provincial. It seemed big enough to me.
I tried to redeem myself, linguistically speaking, by attempting conversation with the taxi driver. But I had not yet recovered from the humbling experience outside the Hauptbahnhof, and I resorted to such ravings and inanities as “München ist so schön” – Munich is quite beautiful – which sounds all right, but by the time I regained my composure and was confident in my sentence construction (well, my confidence was bruised), we had descended into the underpass beneath the old town.
Clearly I had made an impression as a linguist, as the driver proceeded to explain in English that one couldn’t get right to the hotel, but it was just round the corner and he would bring my bag and show me. I traipsed wearily along behind, and managed to check in with the clerk, bouncing back and forth between German and English. Feeling a little better, I crammed myself, my expanding suitcase and a carrier bag containing a pair of men’s shoes, two rubber ducks and an assortment of other items into the tiny – seriously tiny – lift. Travel by Rene Magritte. Unbidden, the Mikado rose into my mind and I spent the ride humming – with apologies to G&S – “I’ve Got A Little Lift”. Groan. I know.
My first glimpses of Munich.
Read On: Mozart in Munich #2: What's the Wurst that Could Happen?
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