“I’m a vegetarian, but with one exception: bacon!” my neighbor one seat over suddenly exclaims. I don’t point out that she’s changed the subject; I just ask if she likes hers crunchy.
We arrive in Portland, Oregon. All we see of the rainiest, greenest (most environmental) city in America, full of roses and charmingly intolerant people, is the train station. At six in the evening, we’re in Olympia, at seven we’re in Tacoma, and at eight thirty we pull into Seattle, King Street Station. We get off the train and say farewell to the Coast Starlight, which continues on to Vancouver, British Columbia. We sit outside the station with our suitcases, looking over at the Seattle Seahawks’ stadium, waiting for our friends Diego and Monica.
We did it: we were in Washington, DC, and now we’re in Washington State. We traveled from the Atlantic to the Pacific, by way of the Gulf of Mexico. We went through fifteen states, eleven major cities, and traveled 5,003.5 miles: 2,513 miles by train, 525 by bus, 1,923 by car, 19 by subway, another 19 by boat, and 4.5 on a Segway.
We’ve arrived. My son has carried me here. Without him, I would never have embarked on a journey like this.
Antonio smiles: he knows it.
2
From Berlin to Palermo: A Vertical Europe
The old houses streaked past us, we could see lighted windows in the dark courtyards and in the rooms—it was a matter of seconds—there seemed to be men and women bending over parcels, closing suitcases. Or was it all my imagination?
DINO BUZZATI, “CATASTROPHE”
Dueling Suitcases
I meet Mark Spörrle. He’s the journalist—from Hamburg, as it turns out—whom the Goethe-Institut, Germany’s worldwide cultural institute, paired with me. Their idea is to have an Italian and a German travel together, and see what comes of it. He’s taller than me, stronger than me, and younger than me, and has a suitcase that weighs twice as much as mine. If our journey is meant to demolish the stereotypes of Germans and Italians, then we’re starting badly.
On the other hand, if we’re talking about attitude, there we’re doing well. Mark seems happy to board a train in Berlin and get out in Palermo, just as I am. Certainly, it might be a sign of wobbly mental health. But writers are strange people, whatever the latitude.
In the hotel, before our departure, we challenge each other in front of the video camera: who can empty his suitcase and describe its contents in ninety seconds? The operation unfolds before the eyes of the customers in the bar of the art’otel berlin mitte (that’s how it’s written, lowercase letters and all). The baffled eyes, I should add: they’ve never seen an Italian and a German count undershirts and boxer shorts in a public establishment before, certainly not at aperitif time. By the way, for an eight-day trip, he has brought eight shirts, eight undershirts, eight pairs of underpants. My numbers are more . . . artistic.
In the time available to us before we catch our German train heading south, Mark convinced me to board one means of public transportation after another, transferring all over Berlin like a busking violinist in search of spare change: U-Bahn, S-Bahn, and trolleys all the way out to Marzahn, the eastern outskirts where Communist apartment buildings have been painted, the streets spruced up, and young women are capable of freezing passersby with a glance (they must have learned it from mothers and grandmothers, who were well trained in the years of the German Democratic Republic). An instructive setting, where we could bring schoolchildren on field trips from all over Europe. Here we have proof that Communism is an absurd idea: if even the Germans couldn’t make it work, it simply can’t work.
These days, the neighborhood is inhabited by Asian immigrants, indigenous Fascist skinheads, aging Communists who have requested that a monument be erected to Erich Honecker. (A paltry herd of metal deer, because the East German leader had his hunting reserve around here. If it makes them happy . . .) I visited a youth center here called Betonia—roughly translated, Concretia—in honor of cement. I even went up to see the Pension 11 Himmel (eleventh heaven; Germans think a seventh heaven isn’t enough), in an apartment building of perfect German Socialist style. A curious place: the interior decoration seems to have been done by Little Red Riding Hood after a brawl with Michael Jackson. It costs eleven euros a night, breakfast included.
In the afternoon, Mark, determined to educate me about Germany, takes me to Spandau, stronghold of the capital’s middle class. We go to visit a Futternapf outlet, the leading chain of pet stores; it seems that this Futternapf store has a higher sales volume (including products sold on the installment plan) than any other retail outlet in Germany, and doesn’t know the meaning of downturn. I meet parrots with a Wagnerian gaze; I visit gymnasiums for cats; I examine food meant for pythons. This will be helpful preparation for our Italian journey, I tell Mark. Maybe Goethe did the same thing, but he never wrote about it.
At noon, a pause for lunch on the seventh floor of the Kaufhaus des Westens—familiarly known as the KaDeWe—a major department store that makes an Italian La Rinascente look like a roadside grill and Harrods, a Middle Eastern bazaar. This is the amusement park frequented by well-to-do elderly Berliners with time on their hands. They move like jerky footage from a hand-cranked movie camera and order ponderously from waitresses who serve them in slow motion. They have traces of youth in their eyes or their hair; but they’d already started a family when, on the other side, the East Germans built the Wall. But so far, nobody’s knocked them down.
My New Car! I’m About to Cry
A hundred trains a day! Fourteen tracks on four levels! The Berlin Hauptbahnhof is so intensely functional that it can stir any traveler’s soul. Except for a German traveler. Mark is widely known as a sarcastic critic of his country’s railways (Deutsche Bahn, or DB). Today he lives up to his reputation: he assures me that many Berliners preferred the old railway station, and he insists that first-class sections of trains are occasionally left out beyond the platform cantilever awnings, forcing the travelers to get drenched in the rain.
Maybe so, but it strikes me as a magnificent place. I’m almost sorry to leave—in part because the minute we do depart, we’re surrounded by kids: high school students from Stuttgart, on their way back from a field trip to the capital. They come in making noise, trade seats, shout names and requests. But they must have been out all night, because they fall asleep almost instantly. Thirty sixteen-year-olds with their eyes closed, as if under a spell. Since I have work to do, I silently thank the Good Fairy.
Our train departs; besides Mark and yours truly, there is Soledad Ugolinelli, who is in charge of translation and logistics, and Gianni Scimone, who is responsible for keeping a video diary of the trip. The train runs from Berlin to Basel, but today we’re going to get out at Wolfsburg, where Mark—if I’ve understood correctly—has organized a courteous and complicated reception. We arrive on time (of course); we are told that a fifth of the state of Saxony works for Volkswagen or for allied industries (naturally); everything appears spotless and efficient (predictably). Even the lost-luggage office is operational, though that’s the realm where uncertainty reigns in train stations around the world. The only contrivance that’s out of order is the conveyor belt running along next to the stairways. Apparently someone put his child on the belt instead of a suitcase, and that jammed up the works.
AUTOSTADT, the city of cars, proclaims a sign by the river. The leading tourist attraction in all of Lower Saxony. Volkswagen: cars for the people! Every day some three thousand Volkswagen vehicles are manufactured here. Six hundred a day are handed over to customers who come here from all over Germany to pick them up. They save on shipping costs to the dealership, but they spend just as much to enjoy the experience. And so, I ask myself, why do they do it?
But then I actually witness the ritual of the delivery, and I understand: a German industrial symphony, for which I, too, would be willing to pay the price of admission. A screen lights up, announcing the customer’s name, the model of vehicle, and the exact time of
delivery, which takes place in an atmosphere of intense emotion. The new owners take pictures, record videos, pose next to their shiny new purchase. Families with children approach the new car as if it were a miraculous apparition. It may be the perfection of the various mechanisms, the little lakes, or perhaps the flowers, but I almost expect a thunderous voice from on high to announce: “I am Volkswagen, your carmaker! You shall have no other carmakers before me!”
But that doesn’t happen. Only peaceful sunbeams shaft in through the glass, lovingly illuminating the Polos and Passats ready to begin their new lives.
How to Miss a German Train and Live Happily Ever After
After an excursion to Hötensleben, population 2,650, a perfectly preserved memorial to the border with the GDR, a person feels better. Is this marketing of bad memories? No: it’s a warning to future generations. Not only did we see a chunk of the Wall (with a capital W), but we also managed to avoid slamming into a wall (lowercase). The driver, a German of Romanian descent with a vague resemblance to Michael Caine after a hard night out on the town, displayed a distinct animosity toward traffic lights, and tended to ignore them. When we pointed this out to him, he replied: “I’ve taken a safe-driving course.” A safe-driving course! We offer him our heartfelt congratulations. Never contradict whoever’s at the wheel, especially along the steep and winding roads of Saxony-Anhalt.
Train no. 873 departs Wolfsburg at 3:40 p.m. for Göttingen, where eleven Nobel laureates studied. Then a regional train for Weimar, where Goethe and Schiller lived, and, sometime later, a failing republic made way for a rising housepainter. The train is packed. I arrive in the carriage out of breath—second class; Mark considers first class to be a sign of morbid weakness—and look around for a place to plug in my computer. I find it immediately and mentally extend my congratulations to the Germans for their railway efficiency. But I discover that the outlet is dead. There’s no electricity. A stranger approaches me. He introduces himself, gives me his business card. He’s an engineer who’s built railroads in Egypt, Qatar, South America, and Siberia. He suggests sticking a pencil into the outlet, “to reset the fuse.” A pencil? I ask. A pencil, he confirms. I do as I’m told. It works! What a country Germany is. They put technicians in second class to help passengers.
I have only one criticism of Teutonic efficiency. Mark really ought to take a look every now and then at the timetable and, while he’s at it, at his watch. At 1:09 p.m., the scheduled time of departure from Weimar printed on the ticket, after our visit to the Goethehaus (Goethe’s House), we’re in a restaurant struggling to down a gigantic sausage, a Thüringer Rostbratwurst. As a result, we miss our train for Fulda, the connecting train for Munich, and all our reservations. I suspect that Herr Spörrle did it on purpose just to convince me that the Germans aren’t all that precise after all. But I’m not falling for it: I’m convinced they went so far as to organize a state of disorganization, as a gesture of hospitality. They just wanted to make me feel at home.
* * *
At last, we reach Munich. We take rooms at the Fleming’s Hotel in Schwabing, where I can devote myself to the study of the German spirit (hotel division).
FIRST POSTULATE
Four-star hotels in Germany can be split into two categories: efficient and extremely efficient. Everything will work—Internet, shower, thermostat, television, erotic movies added to your bill under the heading “Media Package”—but you’re going to have to figure out how to work them on your own. No one will help you. The young women at the front desk won’t offer explanations. Their idea of service entails three steps: (a) Fill out the form! (b) Take the key! (c) Now beat it because I’m busy!
SECOND POSTULATE
On your bed in an Italian hotel room, you will find one pillow and one blanket. On German beds you’ll find a series of objects, some of them soft, where you can lay your head; and two narrow goose-down quilts, which meet in the center of the bed and are designed to slide sideways over the course of the night. Don’t complain! Instead, simply try to collect all the covers you can find (on the bed, in the closets and wardrobes), pile them up, and climb under, adopting the method of the Indians of the Great Lakes region.
THIRD POSTULATE
Many Germans don’t know how to peel a Weisswurst, but you must pretend to be more inept than they are. Beating them at the task would be a needless humiliation: it’s as if a friend from Hamburg came to Italy and understood before you did how to twirl spaghetti on a fork. Important point: during breakfast (das Frühstück) load your plate as if you had just finished a hunger strike (eggs, sausages, cheeses, smoked fish, cold cuts, cucumbers, and a bunch of other indigestible items). Emit grunts of satisfaction. Then, when no one can see you, leave everything on the table and hurry off to order an espresso.
How to Deal with Railway Germany
This morning, after breakfast, a short tour of the capital of Bavaria. The city, which I first visited in long-ago 1978, and which I’ve seen many times since, is pleasantly Southern. Behind Marienplatz there are forests of asparagus for sale and lots of visiting tourists. The Nordic Herr Spörrle was born in Flensburg, practically in Denmark, and he observes the confusion in the streets with some amusement. I ask for a Weisswurst, which was invented here in 1857 as a way of recycling waste meat. It’s almost one o’clock in the afternoon, so I really shouldn’t: these delicate white sausages—Mark explains, as I begin to discover his didactic side—should be eaten only before noon. This was required by an age-old law, for hygienic considerations bound up with the raw materials, and the law stated that violators would have their fingers chopped off. I look around, but all the Bavarians I see have unchopped hands.
At 1:31 p.m. another train awaits us. We will leave this interesting (German) south and descend to the (Italian) north, by way of Austria. At the main Munich station (Hauptbahnhof), the police have shut off access to the tracks ahead of us: a bomb threat, apparently. Mark remains unflappable. I see greater signs of alarm, however, when his father, Günter, appears unannounced. Günter Spörrle is an actor by profession and lives here in Munich. He has a regular role in Tatort (Crime Scene), the longest-running German television drama. In this situation, Spörrle Senior is behaving like a good papa: he brings us muesli bars and plenty of water.
While the Spörrle family carries out its traditional rituals, and we prepare to say farewell to the Germanic universe, here are a few pieces of advice for anyone who might choose to emulate our experience.
Germany by Train
INSTRUCTIONS FOR SELF-DEFENSE
1. ALLOW PLENTY OF TIME TO BUY YOUR TICKETS from the automatic vending machines. They operate like Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason; but if high school philosophy is a distant memory, they’re quite capable of throwing you off. The procedure is time-consuming, and if there is a pack of travelers in a hurry muttering behind you, it can become unnerving. One good way of settling the matter is to lean your forehead against the metal and burst into tears: someone will come to your aid. Well, if you’re a dark-haired young woman from Florence, this ploy will certainly work. For a silver-haired Lombard in his fifties, on the other hand, it might not.
2. TURN OFF THE RINGER ON YOUR CELL PHONE. If someone calls you and you’re on a train, don’t answer. Avoid conversations any longer than ten seconds. If it’s something urgent, rather than facing a wall of silent collective disapproval, lock yourself in one of the restrooms (the restrooms on the ICE, or Intercity-Express, trains are full of Italians, Frenchmen, and Spaniards talking animatedly about love and business). On German trains the normal Latin practice—sharing your personal business with the rest of the car, who in return offer comments and advice—is vigorously discouraged.
3. IF YOU HAVE A COMPUTER, USE IT (check your mail, watch a movie). If you have a book or a newspaper, read it. If you have cookies, eat them. If you have a fruit juice, drink it. If you brought a Battleship board game, play it (without making whooshing noises for the launching of
the torpedoes). If you’re sleepy, get some sleep (or at least yawn). The important thing is to do something. Inactivity, especially if combined with watchful observance of one’s neighbor, is viewed with suspicion.
4. MAKE AN EFFORT TO SPEAK A LITTLE GERMAN. It is a sweet and logical language, but you pretend you find it harsh and difficult. Nothing can stir the soul of a German teacher—they’re everywhere; don’t dream of being able to avoid them—like a foreigner who doesn’t know how to pronounce “wahrscheinlich.”
5. DON’T TRY TO BE FUNNY. The railway staff in Germany wear magnificent red caps. It is forbidden to take one home as a souvenir. If you absolutely cannot resist, offer to barter some item of headgear brought with you from Venice. I almost forgot: warn the other party before substituting one item of headgear for the other. Deutsche Bahn AG might not look kindly upon one of their conductors wearing a straw gondolier hat.
The Mystical German and a Cheese-Driven Ecstasy
At the Brenner Pass I purchase a copy of La Gazzetta dello Sport, to prepare for my reentry into Italy. Here the young people are already shouting at a volume that is imperceptibly higher than that of Munich, and decidedly louder than in Berlin. At last, we reach Bolzano, our first stop in Italy. Mark darts out of the train, emerges into the alpine sunlight, sniffs at the wind, and shouts ecstatically: “Die Luft! Die Luft! The air, the air!”
There we go, I think silently: We’ve lost another one.
And that’s just the beginning. You should see him in the afternoon, at the facilities of the Panini family in Modena, leaning into the transcendent depths of cheese making. His gaze is filled with a wild surmise at the ranked choirs and dominions of aged Parmesan cheese. A majestic spectacle, an intoxicating scent. Friedrich Hölderlin would have sat down and composed a poem on the spot, but Mark Spörrle just heaves an ecstatic sigh.
Off the Rails Page 6