Munich by Monday

I snapped awake and laid still for a moment, rebooting my brain. I had fallen asleep fully clothed on top of the bed cover. I sat up just as the wall clock in the other room struck 4. I glanced out the window and confirmed it was morning and not evening, and hoped it was Friday.

I got up, laid my pack on the bed, checked my gear, put on my money belt and positioned my passport holder around my neck and under my shirt. I tied everything down and took it into the other room.

Amazingly, Sheila was in the kitchen cooking breakfast.

"Mornin' love, hope you slept well," she said sheerily.

"Good morning," I replied. "Did Eddie make it home last night?"

"Oh no, they usually keep him overnight to put the fear of God in him, but it never works," she sighed.

"Does this happen often," I asked.

"Oh dear, several times a year, I'd say," she smiled somewhat sadly it seemed. "My Eddie's a special case, he is."

"Well, I certainly hope I haven't been a burden," I said sincerely. "I'd like to give you a little something for my room and board." I held out a 20-pound note.

"Oh dear no!" she exclaimed. "You've been an absolute delight. We've been happy to have you." She waved away the money and placed a steaming bowl of chicken soup on the counter in front of me.

"You've been so gracious and I really thank you for your hospitality," I said. "Are you sure I can't chip in for my upkeep?"

"No, love. Compared to some of the folk Eddie brings home, you've been an absolute joy. Too bad you can't stay longer," she seemed to be saying this honestly, and not just politely.

I took out my contact book and tore out one of the back pages. I quickly scribbled a note on it and folded it up. "I wonder if you'd give this to Dawn?"

"Of course, love," she smiled, this time warmly. She went around and into the the back room.

I jumped up and placed the 20-pound note under the sugar canister next to the stove, then got back to my seat just as Sheila came back.

"How's the soup, deary?"

"Amazing!," I said genuinely. I felt energy surging through my body with every bite. "Best meal I've had in months."

"Good, that should keep body and soul together till you get where you're goin'," she said while straightening up the kitchen.

"How can I get a taxi?" I asked.

"Already taken care of, love. Albert's waiting outside"

I didn't know who Albert was, but I was astounded at the effort she had gone to at 4 in the morning. I finished up the soup, checked my gear one last time, and shouldered the pack. I reached out to take Sheila's hand.

"I am really grateful to you and everyone here. This is the closest I've felt to home in a long time." I was fighting back the wetworks.

Sheila took my hand, patted it with her other hand, and said, "It's been wonderful to have you, love. Be safe and God keep ya on your path."

I thanked her again and turned to the door. Outside, the stocky dark taxi driver from a few nights ago was standing on the walk smoking a clove cigarette.

"You right, then, lad," he said in a strong accent that might have been Scottish, but I wasn't sure.

"Yes," I said.

I turned back and Sheila was in the doorway. I waved to her and thanked her again. She waved back and saw us around the corner. We walked out to the taxi and I climbed in the back.

"Train station," Albert said.

"Yes," I confirmed.

He fired up the engine and revved it a couple of times, then we pulled out. I was finally able to see a bit of Skelmersdale in the early light, as it whizzed by the window. We crossed a large river and within minutes pulled up in front of the station. There was already quite a bit of activity and I heard the chime of the public address system, followed by the usual bright, cherry, and frankly unintelligible muttering.

I thanked Albert and tried to hand him a fiver, but he waved it off.

"The missus already took care of it," he said in a low rumble.

I thanked him and climbed out of the cab. The station was abuzz with mostly men in grey suits, copies of the Times folded under their arms, on their way to the office or business in London.

I found the ticket booth and purchased one to Dover. I stopped and got a cup of coffee to go, then walked down to the platform where the train was already waiting. I walked down the line of cars until I found one with "DOVER" on the placard next to the door. I climbed up and found an empty compartment, threw my pack up on the overhead rack and sat down heavily by the window, feeling more than a little depressed. I sipped at the coffee, which was bland and lifeless, and thought about Dawn.

I wished I had had a chance to see her before I left. I had put the theatre number and general delivery box address in the note, hoping she might come over for a weekend while I was in Munich.

The train lurched and began to pull out of the station. My compartment was thankfully still empty, which I was thankful for. I wasn't much in the mood for conversation. I heart sank when the door slid open, but it was only the conductor checking tickets.

"Dover, lad?" he asked.

I nodded and he punched my ticket and handed it back to me.

I sat in silence watching the English countryside slide past - farms, towns, highways, vast stretches of empty rolling hills. I wasn't really thinking about anything in particular, but I felt as if the excitement of travelling had been sucked out of me.

I hardly noticed the 2-hour trip to London, and when the train pulled into Victoria station - I recognized it from a dozen different movies - I didn't feel any thrill at seeing such an iconic place, though I did note that I would have to come back to London for a tour.

The train lurched and rocked several times, which I knew was my car being hooked to another train going to Dover. After what seemed like 30 minutes or so, the train lurched again and we started to roll out of the station. I was amazed again to find myself alone in the compartment. The door slid open again and another conductor asked for my ticket.

"Dover, is it?" he asked.

I nodded and he punched my ticket and slid the door shut. I watched London slip by the window and got a momentary thrill when I saw the building that was featured on the album cover of Pink Floyd's "Animals". Then it sailed past and I went back to my brooding.

The city vanished and we were back into countryside. Before too long, we were pulling into the station at Dover. I stood and retrieved my pack and sat again to wait for the train to stop. I had learned from past experience to be sitting when the train stopped. When it finally halted, I pushed my way into the line of people getting off and was soon standing on the platform with no idea what to do.

I wanted the ferry to Calais, so I began walking up the platform until I saw a directional sign that said, "FERRY/HOVERCRAFT".

I stopped dead in my tracks. I had forgotten about the hovercraft. I had seen it on television in various tourist promotional videos and news stories, and suddenly the thrill of travelling was back.

I followed the signs until I found the ticket booth. The next ferry was in 15 minutes, but if I waited 2 hours and paid quite a bit more, I could take the hovercraft. I bit the bullet and paid the extra for the unique experience, then turned to figure out what I was going to do with the extra 2 hours. I looked out the large windows in the waiting area and saw the famous white chalk cliffs of Dover, with the typical stony beach running down to the base of them.

I found a long row of lockers and fed a couple of coins in and locked up my pack, then I headed out for a walk. I found my way down to the beach and started walking toward the cliffs. It was a bit of a struggle because of all the rocks, but after 20 minutes or so, I was standing at the foot of one of England's most well-known natural wonders. I could picture scenes from Monty Python skits and World War 2 movies.

I stopped at one point and lay on the beach looking up at the cliffs. I could see the terminal, so I knew I could get back quickly. I closed my eyes, smelled the sea air and listened to the various sounds of ferries and sea birds.

After a time, I opened my eyes. I don't think I slept, but without a watch I couldn't tell. I stood up, and then nearly fell down from shock.

I was on the only exposed bit of beach as far as I could see in either direction. The tide had come in and gobbled up nearly all dry land between me and the terminal.

I panicked.

I had to act quickly. I had no idea if the bit of beach I was on would also disappear under the waves. I had just walked down the beach, so I didn't think it could be that deep, but I had no clue about the currents. I stripped down to the skin, folded my clothes and put my hiking boots on top. I placed the stack on my head and prepared to swim for safety.

The water was unrelentingly cold and my body quickly went numb. I was terrified I would cramp up and my body would be carried out into the English Channel and eternity. I paddled furiously with one hand, while holding my clothes on my head with the other, kicking my feet as hard as I could. I couldn't feel the beach at all, but I didn't remember any large rocks or obstacles on the way out.

I had to swim far enough out that the waves wouldn't dash me against the cliffs, but I was terrified by the thought of a strong current catching me and whisking me out to sea. I swam with all my might, but the dry beach never seemed to get closer. I could tell by landmarks on the cliffs that I was moving, but looking ahead, I felt like I was treading water.

This went on for what seemed like a lifetime. My arm and legs were burning from the exertion, but every fiber of my being urged me on as fast as I could.

Suddenly, I kicked something really hard. The pain was like fire on the top of my foot, but I found I could touch the bottom. I twisted until I was standing on the rocks and started pushing my way through the water, with a both of lightning running up my left leg with every step. After a moment, I started rising up out of the water and dry beach was just ahead. I forged on until I collapsed, heaving for breath, on the warm rocks.

I wasn't far from the terminal and i suddenly wondered about the crowds at the windows watching this pale, naked figure emerging from the sea. I shook off as best I could. My foot was bleeding from a pretty nasty gash. I reached in my pocket and pulled out my handkerchief, sopped my face dry, then tied it around my foot. I put on my clothes and very carefully pulled my sock and boot over the injured foot. The pain was terrible, but I had little choice.

I hobbled back the terminal and retrieved my pack just in time to see the hovercraft glide out of the sea and up a ramp with a whirlwind of spray around it and a mighty roar from the four huge steering fans on top. It settled onto the ramp, the fans slowed to a stop and a ramp extended out to the passenger cabin.

I moved down to the loading area with about 200 other people, and watched as the passengers disembarked, some chatting excitedly, while others - grew suits with copies of the Times under their arms - checking watches and hurrying through the crowds.

After a moment, the gate opened and two stewardesses began checking tickets and directing passengers to board. I got through the gate and stepped out onto the ramp leading to the cabin.

I looked at the hovercraft sitting there like some ultra-futuristic crab sitting on the ramp. At the base was a heavy rubber skirt strong enough to keep the craft elevated above the cement. The cabin area was two decks, the top one with larger windows than the bottom, which I guessed was an observation deck. There were identical bridges fore and aft, and there were four pylons sticking up from each corner with a massive propeller on each. As I was walking across, the blades were slowly turning the opposite direction, preparing to launch again.

I boarded on the lower deck, where there were three clusters of seats - six across down the middle and four across down each side. At both ends, there was a large staircase leading to the upper deck, and most of the kids were heading that way, while most of the grew suits with copies of the Times were jockeying to get seats closest to the exit.

I went toward one of the stairs and up to the observation deck. Here the seats were in rows long-ways facing the windows, with a central aisle and several smaller ones branching off. I managed to grab a seat directly in front of the window, dropped my pack and immediately removed my shoe. A little blood had soaked through the handkerchief and sock, but for the most part it appeared to have stopped. My foot was throbbing, though, as I dug through the pockets of my pack to find my aspirin. I swallowed two with a swing from my water bottle, and sat back hoping the pain would subside quickly.

A child ran by giggling and racing another to grab a seat by the window. As he ran by, he kicked my outstretched foot, sending new bolts of pain up my leg. I moaned and sank into the rather uncomfortable chair and gazed at the white cliffs of Dover, which nearly claimed my life.

After a few minutes, the public address chimed and the familiar unintelligible voice announced something terribly important that I couldn't understand. There were several banging noises throughout the craft and then the motors started revving up. Soon the roar was so loud that I could hardly heard anyone sitting around me. There was a lurch and a momentary feeling of floating, then the craft slid down the ramp, kicking up a whirlwind of sea spray, and moved out over the water and gradually picked up speed.

I had no idea how fast it went. Once the cliffs were out of sight, there was nothing but distant ships to judge speed by. It didn't seem very long before the PA chimed, followed by static and mumbling. Leaning over to look forward, I could see the terminal at Calais approaching. I moaned and started getting my shoe on again, though the pain was quite a bit less now. I was sitting on the edge of my seat ready to depart when we slid up on the ramp and settled onto the ground. The ramp extended from the terminal and everyone moved to the stairs.

I let the crowd go first so i could hobble slowly down the stairs with my 20kg pack on. By the time I reached the lower deck, all of the suits were gone and the last of the tourists were filing out. I was one of the last to disembark.

A blast of cold air hit me as I entered the terminal and I realized I hadn't felt air conditioning in some time. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time I had felt it. The cold air felt refreshing and the last of the sea dampness quickly evaporated. It was going on noon and I found a thoroughly overpriced cafe and ordered a coffee and croquette, which I gobbled down like a ravenous hyaena. I hadn't eaten in nearly nine hours. The strong French coffee revived me a bit and I felt ready to start the next leg of my journey. I swallowed two more aspirin, stood up carefully putting pressure on my injured foot, hosted my gear and set off to find the ticket booth.

the terminal at Calais was a beehive of activity. Thousands of people were moving around in a kind of grand ballet, some running with great purpose, others strolling with no particular destination at all. Parents stood in huddles while kids swarmed around them begging for goodies or a rest or whatever.

I found the trip board - a vast panel of white on black printed leaves that spelled out destinations, times and platforms. I spotted a chair nearby and dropped my pack and sat down gratefully. The station clock read 12:37, and as I sat there, every few minutes the board would spring to life, with the printed leaves flipping around until they all settled on a new list of places to go.

I waited for a time until I saw, "MUNICH - EXPRESS - 18:45 - 7" followed by a list of towns that the train stopped in that was so small, I couldn't read any of them, though I gathered it would pass through Switzerland. In any case, it arrived in Munich at 7:30 the next day, and I thought that would be a perfect way to get some sleep without having to pay for a hostel.

I found the locket, purchased my ticket and turned, realizing I now had five hours to kill before the train left.

I wander slowly and carefully down the concourse, streaming crowds flowing around me like a boulder in a stream.

I cam upon a bookseller and realized that I hated "The Women's Room". It was a depressing tome about depressing lives in a depressing suburb, so I stopped in to find something more uplifting. I scanned the racks until I found a lone copy of Larry Niven's "A World Out of Time," which I had not yet read. I paid and went back out on the concourse.

Looking around, I spotted a pub that looked relatively dark, cool and quiet. I hobbled down and went inside, finding exactly what I was looking for - a sofa against one wall, with a small table and no additional chairs. I really didn't want company right now. I nearly fell onto the sofa, braced my pack against the wall, threw my book on the table, and leaned back with a mighty sigh.

Before long, a beautiful French girl with short dark hair and a heart-shaped face holding a tray approached the table.

"Que voudriez-vous boire ?" she asked in polite, sing-songy French. The French, I noted, always assumed everyone spoke French.

"Je voudrais un gin tonic double avec du citron vert," I replied in halting French.

"Oh, wonderful, you speak French!" she said pleasantly, a lovely smile of perfect teeth spreading across her face.

"Just a little and not very well," I replied as smoothly as I could.

"Your French is quite good," she gushed. "Where are you from?"

"Texas," I said, holding my breath.

"Incroyable," she said enthusiastically. She paused for a moment and I braced for it.

"Who shot J.R.?"

I slumped, the moment ruined, but she laughed and asked me to wait for a moment as she went over to the bar. She returned in a few minutes with a tall glass partially filled with gin and a can of tonic, a wedge of lime dangling off the rim. She placed both on the table with a graceful squat, popped the can and poured a little into the glass, setting the can down next to the glass.

"Would you like a tab?" she asked pleasantly.

"Yes, I will be here for a few hours. I am waiting on my train."

"Very well," she said smiling. "How about something to eat? Maybe pomme frite with mayonnaise?" she offered.

"Sure, that sounds perfect," I said, smiling back at her.

She wandered off and I finished mixing my drink. After the second swig, I felt the pain and tension ease significantly. I grabbed my book and began reading.

The waitress eventually brought my French fries and a small bowl with the translucent yellow-brown jelly they called mayonnaise. Despite the unappetizing appearance, it was quite good, as were the fries. I ordered several more drinks throughout the afternoon, with my leg propped up on the sofa and the laces of my boot loosened. It was a pleasant afternoon whiling away the hours. The waitress occasionally stopped to chat and bring me another gin tonic.

At a little before 6, I asked for two double gin tonics and poured them into my spare water bottle, while the waitress watched with an amused look on her lovely face.

I asked for the bill, and after converting francs to dollars in my head, found it wasn't nearly as bad as I was expecting. I said thank you and goodbye to the waitress and she wished me "bon voyage".

I stepped out to the concourse again, my head a bit woozy from the gin tonics. I looked at the signs in both directions, but didn't see anything helpful. I turned to go back and ask directions, and the waitress was standing directly behind me. I jumped back in shock and she laughed pleasantly. I asked her which way to platform 7, and she pointed to the left. I thanked her and she offered me a slip of paper. I took it and read it.

"Daphne 485 4743 21 Calais"

I looked up at her. She smiled. "If you come back to Calais, you should call me."

I smiled and introduced myself and suddenly wished I had more time. "Thank you, I will certainly call you when I come back."

Daphne gave me a double kiss on the cheek and pointed me off down the concourse. I thanked her again and turned to leave. As I walked along, I was sorely tempted to stay on a bit, but my little voice kept urging me to get to Munich, so I tucked the piece of paper in my contact book and hobbled on.

When I arrived at the platform, I began scanning the placards by the doors. This train had cars marked as French National Railway, BritRail, DeutscheBahn, and probably more, but I found the car marked Munich and got aboard. The car was nearly full, but I found a compartment with a woman in business attire in her mid-30s I guessed, and a man about the same age in a grey suit with a copy of the Times. I nodded to them, dropped my pack and hoisted it up on the rack, then sat by the window opposite the woman. She was reading a fashion magazine with Grace Slick on the cover and the headline, "Rock & Roll Lifestyle". I chuckled quietly to myself.

I pulled out my book and before long the conductor yelled, "Board" and the train whistle sounded. With almost no sensation of moving, the train began to roll out of the station. For a moment, it looked to me as if the station was moving, until we broke out into the bright evening sun, picking up speed until scenery nearest the train looked more like an impressionist painting than distinct objects.

I stood and fetched my water bottle with the gin tonics and sat again. The conductor came by and punched our tickets, but otherwise it was quiet as the other two read and I stared out the window at the passing scenery until it was dark.

It was late by the time we pulled into Gare du Nord in Paris. Both my companions gathered their things and left, and I finished off the last of my gin tonic while watching the activity on the platform. At one point, a short stocky man, probably Turkish or Arab, came in and sat down across from me. He had a thick, dark beard and wore far too much cologne, to the point I nearly gagged. He nodded amiably to me, then pulled out a book and began reading.

After a moment, two boys, maybe teenagers, came in and took the other two seats. They were chatting excitedly in what sounded like a French dialect, but I only caught the occasional word or two. The Turkish or Arab man was reading a book that I noticed was the Koran.

When we left the station, there was little to see but a blur of lights, so I went back to reading. The two boys went on chattering non-stop, but it didn't disturb me, since I didn't understand what they were saying.

After an hour or so, the train stopped in a small town. The platform was just an open stretch of concrete and the station house very basic. My companions all left at this point and a man in his 70s or so came in. He was clearly a Frenchman, with a tweed jacket and a dapper cap that were timelessly styled, but just a bit beyond crisp and new.

"Good evening," he said in course French with a gravelly voice, as he removed his cap and sat diagonally from me.

"Good evening," I replied.

"Ah, you speak French?" he said hopefully.

"A little and not very well," I said.

He smiled and nodded, as if that was the right answer, then put his head back and was snoring before we had left the station.

I must have slept too, since I was rudely awakened by a conductor in a new uniform and my book was on the floor. The old man stirred and fished in his pocket, producing his passport and ticket.

"Passport and ticket," the conductor said to me as he took the old man's documents.

I handed mine to him, he checked both, punched the ticket, and handed the bundle back to me. He then unceremoniously slid the door shut. The old man looked at me and shrugged his shoulders with a bemused look on his face and was soon snoring again. As the train pulled out, I caught sight of a sign that said "FRIBOURG," confirming that we had entered Switzerland.

I had no idea what time it was when we reached Zurich, but the constant stops and ticket checks had caused me to give up any hope of a full night's sleep along the way. It was still dark out and I scanned the platform for a clock. It was just after 4 in the morning. The old man had vanished somewhere along the way and I was alone for the time being. There was still a vague odor of the Turkish or Arab man's cologne lingering in the compartment.

The station chime sounded and I caught something about Munich, just as the door slid open and two grew suits, this time with the Allgemeine Zeitung instead of the Times. They sat across from each other nearest the door and buried themselves in their papers.

I shifted in my seat and tried to get comfortable, and eventually drifted off to sleep again, only to be rudely awakened when the door slid open with a bang and a conductor in yet another uniform announced, "Tickets und Pässe bitte."

The two businessmen pulled their out of their jacket pockets and I fished mine out of my neck pouch. I assumed we were now in Germany.

We finally pulled out after a few minutes of banging and squealing brakes, as the cars were detached and reattached to another train. The sky was just starting to brighten in the east and I hoped for another hour or two of sleep before arriving in Munich. But no such luck. We were stopping every 30 minutes at small towns along the way, and each stop came with a ticket check and punch.

By the time I got down in Munich, my foot was throbbing, my head was aching and I felt like I could sleep for a month. It was after 07:00 on Saturday morning, and thankfully I had two days to rest up before reporting to work.

I could barely walk as I limped out onto the street. I had no idea where to go to get a room for a day or two. I limped back in to the Information booth and asked the attendant for the nearest hostel with private rooms. She thumbed through a card file and produced a card for a "zimmerfrei" about a kilometer away. The attendant pointed to a bank of payphones and said i could call ahead to check availability.

I thanked her and went to the phone, and pulled out some coins, but realized I only had British pence and a few centimes. I looked around and found an exchange, took the haircut on the fee for being in a train station, asked for five marks in coins, and went back to the phones. I had forgotten to separate my currencies, so I threw the coins on the shelf and fished out the pfennig.

The the line picked up, I inquired about a room. As luck would have it, they had one and I put a hold on it for one hour so I could get there.

I hobbled out to a taxi and climbed in. I showed the driver, who was Indian or Pakistani, I didn't know which, the card. He rolled his eyes at such a low fare, but drove on. Within in a moment, I was at the door and a matronly woman of 50 or so greeting me. She led me to a table just inside and registered my passport.

"You are welcome to breakfast. The room will be ready shortly," she said pleasantly.

I limped severely into the dining room as a short Spanish man came out of the kitchen with a plate of cold cuts and freshly baked rolls, with a steaming cup of eye-bulging coffee on the side.

I sat back and signed.

I like Germany, I thought.