December 15th, 1984

I’m a little hazy about the beginning of the day, as I was grabbing snatches of sleep, on + off, but I was aware of odd things, pulling into tiny streets in small towns.  And then I was being shaken awake, + it was being indicated that I should get off, that everybody had to get off.  I sat up.  Was this Munich then?  No, Salzburg.  But there – + the man pointed across the street – was the Railway Station.  Obviously, Val + I were pretty disgruntled about the foreshortened journey, but it didn’t come as a surprise, for we had heard many stories about Turkish buses simply not being allowed into Germany.  And since there was nothing we could do about it, + no point in kicking up a fuss, off we got. 

We weren’t sure about what to do then, even contemplating hitching, until it seemed that the bus company were going to be paying for our tickets to Munich for us.  It seemed faintly incredible that a company could act in so responsible a manner, but so it proved.  We followed the others – not more than 10 by this stage – across to the stn, + were handed our tickets.  After a time we went thro’ a special gate, where passports were checked – having British passports, Val + I passed without a murmur, let alone a stamp, + boarded the waiting, + extremely modern, warm + comfortable train.  It pulled out a couple of minutes later.

We felt contented with life in general, on our way in perfect comfort to Munich stn, from where we could make enquiries about a train to Paris.  But our smug composure was shattered all too soon when the conductor came round, looked at our tickets, + informed us brusquely that they were group tickets, invalid unless we travelled with the rest of the group.  I leapt up, + searched the train, but I knew they couldn’t be on it – they had been behind us in the queue, + would have been bound to have been held up.  So back to the seat, much less happy with life, to await the return of the Inspector.  When he came again, we tried to explain the situation, but he was not what the French call “sympathetique.”   Bloody antagonistic, in fact.  Luckily, he had a colleague on board who was at least prepared to listen, but really flummoxed by the situation.  With stolid German logic, he worked his way to the conclusion that since we were travelling on invalid tickets, we must pay the full fine.  At that, however, altho’ we realised that technically we were in the wrong, we dug in our heels.  The Polizei were mentioned, but that failed dismally to scare us.  Our own suggestion, + one which was finally agreed upon, tho’ with a measure of reluctance, was that we should wait for the next train in from Salzburg, on which we were sure our friends would be arriving.  (We weren’t at all sure, in fact, but it was the most we could hope to swing – the Inspector would quite clearly not stand for waiting for every train from Salzburg until they arrived.  Or not.)  As German stations don’t have platform ticket collectors, the Inspector had to wait with me on the appropriate platform, him hanging onto my passport for security, + already making out the claim form while we waited, so much faith did he have in our story.  Meanwhile, Val was dispatched to change enough money to cover it! 

We didn’t have too long to wait, the next train came in after 20 mins, but my heart fell when, my Inspector asking the departing inspectors whether any group tickets had been shown, he was told no.  Only for it to shoot back up again when, a few secs later, one of them returned + said, (in German, but I understood,) “Turkish tourists?”  And eventually, along the platform they came, just about last, but that was hardly surprising in view of the amount of luggage they had.  Val + I were immensely relieved – it was no negligible amount of money the man was talking about.  He told us, in future, always to travel in a group when travelling on a group ticket.  We agreed, solemnly.

News about travelling on to Paris was not good, for the journey was very expensive.  We checked out buses, but the company we asked said there were none.  So after a wurst, some sauerkraut + a lot of agonising, we agreed to try hitching.  I had serious reservations about it, + left to myself would surely have taken the train anyway, but it was a deadlock situation, only resolved by the realisation that Val’s conviction that we shouldn’t spend the money was stronger than mine which said we should.  So we took the underground + tram out to the beginning of the autobahn heading north, + got our thumbs working.  Got a ride reasonably quickly (+ quite right too, it being bloody cold) to Augsburg, 30 miles away.  The guy, a young chap, dropped us at a petrol station.  And there we stood, for just about an hour.  It was the coldest hitching of my life, I think, for tho’ there was some sun it was watery, while the wind was razor keen.  I blessed my coat, but I wasn’t enjoying myself.  It was painful to turn down 2 lifts, but in both cases they were not too long, + would drop us, we were told, at not spectacularly good places.

But eventually our patience + perseverance were rewarded.  We were picked up by Tom, driving a Mercedes, on his way to Amsterdam.  He was a very nice bloke, even offered us a joint (tho’ I was more than a little taken back when I was expected to roll it..)  Eventually, he helped me out of my predicament by taking over + rolling it himself while still driving along – an admirable accomplishment.  ‘Twas nice stuff too, quite good enough to get me rolling along quite nicely.  We checked his road map, + decided that the best place for us to go was Mannheim.  I remembered, for one thing, that some of the Munich/Paris routes changed there.  Tom also offered us the option of carrying on to Amsterdam with him, + taking the ferry from there, but superficially attractive as the idea was, we said no, but thanks, since arriving in Hull, + having all that way to go down to London did not appeal.

Tom drove us right to Mannheim stn – a gesture much appreciated, especially when he had to break an already long journey to do it.  He then checked that everything was alright with us, + bought us each a glass of mulled wine – it has a special German name, but I can’t remember it.  It was about 5 pm now, + we had a long wait ahead, for the Paris train did not leave till midnight.  (Incidentally, hitch-hiking to Mannheim saved us about $30, so it proved well worth the effort… + cold.)  But killing time in a railway stn is no new experience for us, + we managed this time just about as well as any other.  At 9 o’clock, we had to move out of the warm central booking office when it closed down, but we only had to sit around for a little while., for at 10.30 we had to take a 4 min train ride to Ludwigsplatz, a stn a couple of kms away, which is where the Paris train connected.

Now that was a very weird place.  A large stn, or so I would judge, spread out anyway, but out in the open, like a railway yard.  And totally, completely + utterly deserted, not a soul in the place.  There was an information board, so we were able to find which platform it came in at, + there was a large shopping mall attached to the place.  All the shops were shut, of course, but it was a place to stay to get in out of the wind – not keen, but cold.  We wandered around + about, + out to the platform + back, + the minutes slipped away.  I had a shave, which killed a little time, + we started on a game of “My grandma’s cat” with distinctly Teutonic, frequently Nazi, overtones.

Hardly surprising that we should be tempted into a bit of racial stereotyping when German officiousness had been quite so unyielding. In the diary, we had apparently allowed ourselves to agree that they were in the right, but reading it back now, I think the guy was being utterly unreasonable. After all, no-one had explained such things to us, had merely handed us our tickets, so how were we supposed to know that it would have such a condition attached? We were travelling in good faith, not trying to rip them off, and what bloody difference did it make anyway? As it happened, all was well, but talk about living up (or down) to teutonic reputation.

Back to hitching again, and turning out pretty well in the end, despite the cold. I am guessing that the mulled wine was gluhwein(?), familiar enough nowadays from that remarkably successful German export, the Christmas market; another thing that did not exist (outside Germany and environs) back then. But another big step closer to home.