A Week of Wandering: The Night Train

After we returned from Füssen, M. and I wandered about Munich in search of the Hofbräuhaus, which is not far from Marienplatz but tucked away in the irregular tangle of streets beyond the Neues and Altes Rathaus. I wasn't too enthusiastic, as I have a probably unfair dislike of beer culture as the pursuit of drinking one's self stupid and useless (though M. later told me that the important element is not so much the inebriety as the socializing), but figured that the Hofbräuhaus was an important sight anyway. When we entered, there was a sea of people roaring away on the wooden benches, beer glasses in hand, in the warm, dim light. The atmosphere was a stifling compound of steaming breath, beer, and a whiff of sauerkraut. An agitated waitress in her obligatory dirndl was stalking along with a tray of beers, and in patches the floor was sticky with the spilt liquid. There was room upon room, we walked through and found few empty spots (I wasn't keen on staying anyway), and then we were out in the pure, fresh city air again.

So we bent our steps to the Viktualienmarkt, and found another beer garden, where there was apparently a greater proportion of natives. It was a nice atmosphere, cool and dark and intimate with the sheltering trees. After much discussion, we ordered a fine beer, a glass of mineral water, two pretzels, and a dessert. I only had a sip of the beer, but it was excellent, from the dark amber colour to the flavour and the lack of a metallic aftertaste. The dessert was 6.80 Euros, and thereby quite expensive like the other menu items, but it was fully justified by the quality. It was apple rings fried in beer batter, accompanied by a scoop of light ice cream (which unfortunately had a hint of fridge flavour, but seemed to have been made in the restaurant itself with yoghurt or Quark), a berry sauce that was very good and natural, and a garnish of a blackberry, raspberry, mint leaf, and sprig of red currants.

When it was time to pay the waitress, I was conflicted. She had been impatient with us and had taken an unnecessarily long time to come with the bill, reminding me of the dreadfully humiliating time five years ago when Mama and I went to a restaurant near Museum Island and the people essentially refused to serve us. On the other hand, her service was not sneering or sloppy. She was brisk, competent, and friendly, and only quite busy and quite sure that she would not be getting any decent tip from us. So I gave her a generous tip (given that the bill was ca. 15 Euros, it still wasn't much), hoping also that it would encourage her to give another chance to the next tourists who order the cheapest items on the menu; it worked, I think, because she was grateful and clearly felt bad for having been short with us.

* * *

It was late, but I was then determined to catch the night train to Düsseldorf in order to attend my grandfather's funeral. I could have taken a train at 6:15 a.m. the next day, but we had no alarm clock and it would have been cutting it quite close, time-wise. So we returned to the hostel, which was a fairly long trip; I packed up; and then we hurried off to the Hauptbahnhof, running part of the way. I should have arrived too late, but the 10:42 p.m. train was delayed. Still, we had to hurry along the train to the back half, and then an official told us that I could buy reservations in the restaurant car in the back of the train. M., who was extremely nice and helpful throughout, then waved goodbye, and I set off in the train.

Then the purgatory began. The train was crowded; the people were generally the type who would lounge about an empty city square or bar at 3 a.m; it was dark; I was tired and malnourished and worried about obtaining a reservation. I tried to make my way through to the restaurant car, but after three or so cars where the narrow passage was crammed with people, I gave up, also as I had no idea where precisely the restaurant car was. Instead I decided to occupy an empty compartment in the sleeper car, keeping the curtains open and waiting for the conductor there. When the conductor came along, he was highly annoyed to find that I had apparently just marched into a compartment that didn't belong to me. I explained as briefly as I could, so his face cleared up a bit; then I zipped up my handbag and took up my bag, ready to set off to the restaurant car (which, he informed me, was in the very back). But then I was annoyed, and humiliated, when he popped his head back in, apparently to check that I was actually leaving, as if I were a delinquent. As he was still checking the tickets in the rest of the car, he would have been able to tell if I left or not anyway. Hopefully he was seeing if he could help me, instead.

On the way to the restaurant car, I stepped aside into a niche to let someone pass through the door unhindered. As the man passed me, he looked at me and said, with quiet venom, "I would have held the door open, even for you." The only explanations I can think of for saying something so mean is that I may have unwittingly given him a baleful glare, though I was only tired, and that he has had bad experiences with women. Anyway, I was in emotional shock after that, and then tried very hard not to cry when I reached the restaurant car.

The nice lady at the bar directed me to the conductor, a few cars down. So I went off again, still lugging my duffel bag, but before I reached the conductor, I passed two people who asked the passengers in one compartment to show their passports, saying that they were the police. I'd completely forgotten that this train crossed the border to Amsterdam, and the supposed policemen were not only plainclothes but criminal types if I ever saw them, so I suspected something, stopped and asked them if they had their badges with them. They were surprisingly polite considering, and asked me rhetorically if I was the one who was being asked to show her documentation, implying that it was none of my business. But I felt that it was, persisted (hopefully not irritatingly), and one of them said that the other had shown his badge, so it was all right. So I was finally (mostly) convinced, said, "Good, sorry," and continued, feeling dreadfully for having made such an error.

Then I bought my reservation, and the conductor said that I could choose whichever empty seat I wanted in the front of the car (but I chose one that was reserved after all, and had to move again). Then I cried as quietly as I could, certain that the people around me thought of me as a stupid "Heulsuse," and wondering what awful thing I had done or was going to do to deserve what I'd gone through. But I tried to get to sleep as soon as possible. The lights were off, the blinds were closed and I didn't feel free to open mine because another passenger (who had lifted the back of his chair for me, so at least that was something) was trying to sleep at the same window right in front of me, so I had no idea which stations were coming up. There were no announcements. I went to sleep, then woke up again every time the train slowed down and stopped. At length there was music to announce upcoming stations, which was a hip-hop tune with the sound of clapping hands and cymbals. At the time I thought it was funny, but now I fear I will have bad associations with hip-hop for the rest of my life. Five glorious hours later, Düsseldorf came up, I got out, checked the train schedule, went to the washroom, bought food, and then got into the train for Kevelaer.

When I reached Kevelaer, I had forgotten how to get to the right house, so I went to the Basilica square and then orientated myself from there. At the church of St. Antonius, I made a short stop to tie up my hair again, when a trio of schoolchildren walking through the square shouted out "Hey lady, you're ugly!" and so on and so forth, oddly enough in English. I had my back to them, so I had no way of knowing if they were referring to me or not, and I certainly wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of turning around and letting them know I heard them, if they were. But the gratuitous meanness of it, more than the silly words, really got to me, and also reminded me of my bad experiences at school; so I was, more than ever, an emotional wreck by the time that I got to the house. I had no more sleep, but showered, and poured out my woes, which did make me feel better. Still, I haven't even gotten over it yet; it reminds me of the few lines of Dante's Inferno that I know, in which the traveller speaks of the dark, wild forest which he encounters in his journey, "Che nel pensier rinova la paura."*

* (Taken out of its grammatical context) = "Which in the thought renews the fear."