Epic Journey, Part 1

Just for my girls in Europe (ETA: and Seattle), here’s the full story of my epic journey home.

First, some technical information: all times are EDT, even for the parts of the story that take place in Europe. This is intended to keep the timeline clear.

The story really begins two days before my departure for the States. I was visiting Dani and Claus. On Wednesday, the heat was unbearable and I had a great deal of difficulty falling asleep in the unairconditioned apartment. In the end, I probably slept only three or four hours. Thursday, being my last day in Germany, was a whirlwind of visiting with friends who I hadn’t seen in four years and may not see again for a very long time. I ended up staying awake more or less all night talking and finishing my packing, save for a short catnap around 10 pm (4 am Friday morning in Germany). We left for the train station at 11:30 pm, and I left on the train to Frankfurt shortly after midnight (6 am Friday in Germany).

The first leg of the journey was a small commuter train that travels between Regensburg and Munich, stopping at all but the smallest villages. No first class section, but that’s no big deal. This was a double decker, though which meant lugging the luggage up and down steps no matter where you sit. I couldn’t squeeze my luggage down the narrow aisle without seriously (and understandably) annoying the commuters. So I left the two bags in the vestibule area and took a seat on the aisle near the staircase. This did not last long.

(TIME OUT—one of my esteemed classmates just used the word “validivity”. Help me.)

Back to the story. The arrangement of seating and luggage was not working out for me because I could not see the luggage and was therefore forced to jump up every time the train stopped at a station to make certain that my luggage didn’t take an unscheduled and unaccompanied trip into the Bavarian countryside. And the closer we got to Munich, the curvier the route got, so that eventually I had to get up and hold my luggage to keep it from flying around. But it’s not like I haven’t traveled in the SRO parts of trains before, so that wasn’t a big fat hairy deal. However, I somehow managed to pick the one train car in all of Germany that still has a smoking section—namely, the top deck of the car, which has no doors separating it from the stairwell, so the smoke can qualm unabated into the ostensibly non-smoking part of the train. It wasn’t so bad at first. But as we got closer to Munich, more and more people started lighting up, presumably to cram that last cigarette in before the start of a non-smoking working day. All train stations and subways in Munich are non-smoking, as are many (perhaps all) workplaces, so that might very well be the last chance to smoke for hours. The cloud of carcinogens grew thicker and thicker, and unlike the older trains, this nice, new double decker train does not have windows that open. I was dying by the time we arrived.

The next leg of the journey was a four hour trip in the high-speed ICE train. This train is nice, even in second class, with comfy seats, a restaurant car, smooth riding, and generally clean facilities. It’s much nicer than flying, if you ask me. But I wasn’t riding 2nd class—the Eurail pass for anyone over 26 only comes in 1st class. So I was riding in style. I had a reserved seat, which turned out to be in a compartment. The seats were leather, there was a table with electrical outlets for laptops, and the door shut out most noise from the rest of the train. Luxury.

My compartment was already occupied by two middle-aged men in suits. I figured that meant a quiet ride with them absorbed in the morning paper or reports or whatnot and me happily reading Harry Potter und der Fenixorden (or whatever the proper German title is—quite frankly, I am too lazy to look it up) and eating poppyseed pastries. Boy, was I wrong. If Finbar were a middle-aged German business man, these men would be Finbar. From the moment I walked through the door of the compartment, they were joking with each other and me, telling stories, and talking (as they say in German) about God and the world. Before they got off the train in Mannheim, we had talked about everything from the style of watch favored by Americans to linguistic difficulties in international business settings, to how cultural differences are reflected in languages, to (god help us all) George W. Bush. Nice guys, very funny. And unlike many Europeans, they were willing to listen to me when I tried to point out how their stereotypes of Americans were inaccurate. (Except for the watches. They were and probably remain to this day convinced that all Americans wear large plastic digital watches. Mine is small and silver because I’m “not a typical American”). I really enjoyed the trip, which is good, because that warm glow is probably all that kept me from going postal at the Frankfurt Airport.

The train stops in a terminal attached to the airport. It’s all brand-spanking new and totally different from my last trip through Frankfurt four years ago. The signage, however, is abysmal, especially considering the number of non-German speaking Americans (and others) pass through this airport either as members of the military (and their families) or as tourists. When I say that the signage is abysmal, I don’t just mean “Oh, the signs weren’t in English”, I mean there were almost *no* signs in any language telling you how to get to the various terminals. I managed to piece the path together, and it could not have been more convoluted if it had been designed by a maze-builder. There were lots of steps involved: you go up two floors, then down one, then up one, then down three, and so on. And I would bet you that I walked at least three miles. I wasn’t too fussed just yet, because it was only about 5 am (Friday) and my flight didn’t leave until 8 am. But did I see a single luggage cart? No, I did not. But the final kicker was that the last set of escalators was broken. I wanted to cry. In fact, I wasn’t sure exactly how to wrestle my two rolly bags and two backpacks (one normal sized, one giant-hiking-the-Appalachian-Trail sized) down all three narrow flights of escalator-stairs. I took a deep breath and started the agonizing trip down one stair at a time. Great burly German men were pushing past me without even a glance in my direction. By the time that I got to the landing between the 1st and 2nd flights, I was *soaked* in sweat and my arms and legs were screaming. I was also thisclose to tears. I started the 2nd flight, but could not make it to the next landing, seized by a cramp in my side. I was standing on one step, holding my side, gasping in pain, using my body to wedge my rolly bags against the stair above me to prevent them from rolling past me and tumbling uncontrolled down the stairs, bowling over old-lady tourists and small children clutching their teddies. And did any of the big, strong men passing me by stop to ask if I was OK or if I needed help? No, they did not. CURSE YOU!

A few minutes later, I felt able to go on and started my torturous journey again. And like Cosette, my load was unexpectedly lightened by a sympathetic angel. But instead of a French ex-convict on a mission of mercy, my angels were two tiny women dressed in saris. Neither of them spoke German or more than pidgin English. Each of them grabbed one of my bags and lugged it to the bottom of the stairwell, where they waited for me to catch up and then waved goodbye with smiles as I thanked them profusely. I hope, wherever they are, that someone shows them the same great kindness that they showed me.

After all of this, I was extraordinarily dismayed to find out that I was nowhere near my goal (check-in at the international terminal, for those that have lost track of the thread of the story). I still had to take a shuttle bus to the appropriate terminal. I slogged up to the bus stop just as the bus pulled away. But hey, no problem, there’s another bus sitting a few yards behind it. I walked toward the second bus, only to see the doors whisk shut and the driver pull away from the curb. But wait! There are no people on that bus! What’s going on? The bus drove maybe 50 yards forward and stopped. The doors opened. I moved forward and boarded. I did not want to try to maneuver my luggage into the narrow aisles, and there were no luggage racks or anything, so I boarded at the rear door and moved up against the windows with my luggage, prepared to stand for the duration of the trip. But no, the driver had different ideas. He came stomping down the aisle, yelling at me in a thick Turkish accent that I had to get out of the aisle because “Other people besides you want to ride the bus”. I tried to explain about the whole heavy suitcases thing, but he just kept yelling, and finally, he picked up my big suitcase and heaved it up into a set of seats and told me to put my carry-on on top of the suitcase. So, instead of taking up just enough room to stand against the wall of the bus with my suitcases immediately in front of me (touching my legs, no less), I ended up taking up *four* seats—one for me, one mostly blocked by my hiking backpack, and two taken up by the big suitcase. But, you know, other people besides me wanted to ride the bus.

By this time, it was about 5:30 or so. Still no problem with time. Except that the bus just sat there. People had gotten on and the bus was fairly full—no empty seats that I could see, but still room to stand. So we continued to sit there. In a bus full of people. With windows that could not be opened. In the sun. Did I mention that Germany was in the middle of a heat wave? The passengers started to get mutinous. An elderly British woman started yelling in a clear, perfect German that this was ridiculous treatment of passengers, that her dogs were treated better than this, that the driver was a barbarian. A gigantically fat man started yelling up to the front of the bus, “My children can’t stand this much longer. Is this bus planning to leave anytime soon?” And the whole time, the driver sat, blissfully ignoring us, talking on his cell phone and fixing his hair in the side mirror (his window was open). After more than a half-hour, we finally took off. Tires squealing, we pulled up to the terminal and the passengers spilled out of the doors. And there I sat, unable to move until the entire bus emptied so that I could start prying the luggage out of the seat, into the aisle, and out the door. Did Mr. Bus Driver come back to help? No, he was fixing his hair again. I was finally reduced to a screaming fit along the lines of “You made this mess, you clean it up!”. He grudgingly slogged down the aisle and pulled my luggage out for me.

Having finally made it to the international terminal, I was now starting to worry slightly about the time. It was about 6:15, and Icelandair requests that passengers for international flights check in two hours before departure. I was now at slightly less than that. I was thrilled to find luggage carts in large numbers, and finally unstrapped the heavy hiking pack. Thus unburdened, I shoved off for the check-in counters. Of course the Icelandair counter was all the way at the opposite end of the terminal. *sigh* I wended my way through the throngs at United and Delta and my heart soared when the blue and gold Icelandair logo came into sight. But the problem was that there didn’t seem to be any actual lines, just a huge crowd of people milling around with carts full of luggage and a whole line of counters for small airlines. Not wanting to get into the wrong line or cut in line or something, I flagged down one of the red-blazered airport staff and asked her where the line for Icelandair check-in was. She pointed to a place, I thanked her, and rolled my cart there. And stood and stood and stood, while every line but the one I was in started moving. A woman and her daughter who were just in front of me asked the same woman what was going on and came back with the answer that Icelandair check-in was moving to the Acme Air counter and we would have to get into that line. So we moved over and joined what might be the single largest line of passengers I have ever seen. And I’ve flown on Christmas several times. Anyway, we were snaking slowly but inexorably toward the front of the line and suddenly I noticed that the other passengers all had Acme Air tags on their luggage. The feeling of unease grew as I finally got far enough forward to see that there were people in Icelandair uniforms at the Icelandair counter and that they were checking people in. I started looking around for Red Blazer Lady. But she was nowhere to be found. I wasn’t sure what to do.

By now it was 7 am, and I was really worried because the lines were long and I hadn’t gone through security yet. I thought that I was really playing things safe by arriving at the airport three hours before departure. What on earth was going on? Red Blazer Lady came into view, but she was studiously avoiding eye contact with the waiting line of passengers. Eventually, I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I swung my stuff out of line and made my way over to her. She oh-so-casually started to wander away, so I had to yell after her “Hey! Which one of these lines is supposed to be for Icelandair check-in? That one or that one?” She turned and oh-so-disdainfully points to the original line I was in. I wanted to explode. “Are you sure? Because you also said that that line was for Icelandair. I don’t have time for another mistake.” She started denying that she said any such thing, yada yada, and eventually I had to interrupt. She insisted that the original line was the correct one, so I headed over and joined the end of the line, fuming. It was hot, I was tired (been awake for most of the last 48 hours by that point), I was worried that I would miss my flight, I was hungry, and I had to pee. And this was the slooooowest check-in line ever. Ever.

Cut to the point where I finally get to the front of the line. The gent behind the counter saw my blue passport and immediately addressed me in English. This is one of my biggest pet peeves. Don’t assume that just because I’m American I can’t speak any language but English! Now, in fairness, I understand that most people are just trying to be friendly and don’t intend to condescend. That’s why, despite my annoyance, I’m never nasty to people, I just reply in German, “I can speak German” in as friendly a manner as possible. Most people smile back and switch to German, everyone’s happy. Not this guy. He responded in English, “That’s OK, you don’t need to worry about it. I can just speak English.” RRRRRRRRR! That’s just flat out rude. I’m not worried about speaking German. If I was, I would just have accepted your original unspoken offer to speak English. Furthermore, if I want to conduct the transaction taking place in Germany in German I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. It’s the language spoken in that country! It’s even the official language! And don’t condescend to me!

I repeated my standard sentence in a much less friendly manner.

He switched to German.

Now, here’s the part of the story that I know Dani and Claus are most looking forward to: when I heaved my bags on the conveyor belt, the total combined weight was 58 kg. Yes, that’s right, fifty-eight. My sigh of relief at not needing to pay the excess baggage charge could be heard in Siberia and is probably responsible for Hurricanes Frances and Ivan, thanks to the butterfly effect. Sorry, Florida.

Anyway, this is when I found out that the flight was delayed until 9:30 a.m. Well, OK, but the thing is, I have to connect in Reykjavík and delaying the flight by an hour and a half will probably make me miss the flight. And if I miss the flight in Iceland, I won’t make it to Baltimore in time to get my flight to Our Fair City. And then I won’t be able to drive to Buffalo with Finbar in time for his parents’ anniversary party—you know, the one we’re hosting. Nothing to be done about that right now, I guess. Wonder what’s to eat in this airport?

I was appalled to discover that the defining culinary opportunity at Frankfurt International Airport is McDonald’s. And the place was swarming with loud Americans and their ill-behaved children, screaming at each other in English and generally acting like the stereotype of the Ugly American. Now, I don’t particularly care for McD’s in the States to begin with, although I do occasionally get the urge for a Big Mac (usually followed by the realization that there’s a reason why I don’t normally eat at McD’s), and I have philosophical issues with eating at McD’s in a foreign country (why go 7,000 miles and eat/do the same things you do at home? Not to mention my general unease with the effects of what one might call “McDonaldization” in the wider world). There were, it’s true, some other options: an expensive “Tex-Mex” bar (complete with plastic Corona banners), an expensive pasta restaurant, and an extremely expensive sit-down restaurant. Faced with those choices, I decided to either eat the cheese crackers and beef jerky in my backpack or wait for food service on the flight. There were still Euros burning a hole in my wallet, and I’d held off on buying German magazines the entire time I’d been in Landshut so that I’d have a pleasant diversion to look forward to on the long flight.

There was a small Presseladen downstairs, and I bought a gigantic stack of magazines, which probably technically put me over the weight limit for baggage. Good thing no one weighs a carry-on at the gate. I went through security, which took maybe 2 minutes, since no one was in line and started wandering around the gate areas, savoring my last chance to move freely before I strapped in for the first leg of a really long trip in the cramped quarters of Economy Class (otherwise known as Deep-Vein-Thrombosis Class). Back in the corner of the far wing of the gate areas, I found a little gourmet grocery. Heaven! I bought Brie and Salami and fresh Semmel and a cup of Griesbrei and a tiny little bottle of red wine. Then I bee-lined it back to Gate 26, where I spread out a little epicurean feast on top of my carry-on and thoroughly enjoyed the wait for boarding.