Nine days traversing a continent
Joanna Mikulski
Innsbruck Stimme
February 2, 2001. Fifteen minutes into a night train ride to Dresden. The car rumbles and squeaks over the tracks. I stretch my legs out on the top bunk of our sleeping car.
My fingers, spine and chest tingle as motion overwhelms me. A month to leave reality, to let trains transport me across boundaries and cultures.
February 3, 2001. Dresden. In the morning we arrive in the East German city. I lock my backpack in the train station for four Deutsch Marks and a prayer that it will still be there that evening.
Cold and grey snow covers the streets; construction sites that belie the devastation of a conflict almost 60 years in the past. Here, the ancient and the modern rise from the ground side by side. The facade of the cathedral appears an elderly masterpiece. The inside lacks the painting and the gold gilding that adorned the original. Only people enliven the interior of the beautiful shell.
February 4, 2001. Berlin. I slept the night in a room with six other beds. The showers are down the hall. I awake my traveling companion Kirsten at 8 a.m. and by 9:30 we have eaten breakfast and consulted the map that would aid our navigation of the metropolis.
During this free museum Sunday, the treasures of the ancient world are open to us for nothing at the Pergamom Museum. Kirsten and I walk through the heated halls thankfully.
That night we collapse in the hostel, exhausted from the hours in motion and surrounded by the Australians that seem permanent residences of such European establishments.
As I play Monica from Montana for a rather forward guy from Melbourne, I realize the fluidity of identities.
February 5, 2001. Berlin. Today we visit Checkpoint Charlie, the former U.S. post on the East-West border that now houses a museum documenting the stories of and methods of escape from the GDR.
I watch a Japanese couple take a photograph in front of the sign, "You are now leaving the American sector," right after I pay six dollars to enter the museum. Ironically, this line that just 15 years ago people died fighting over has become a tourist attraction.
The hostel owner suggests a bar for the night — a local joint. I walk self-consciously into the hole in the wall only inhabited by Berliners. We have left the safety of the tourist district and entered the realm of real life. A couple at the table beside us welcomes us to their home, pleased that we speak their native language.
February 6, 2001. On a train to Hamburg. An amiable mother and her two-year old daughter share our compartment. The mother speaks with pride about her country and of her pleasure that those once trapped behind the Wall can now partake fully in its beauty.
February 7, 2001. On a night train to Bruges, Belgium. I eagerly await a few hours of sleep. Only a few days into a month of travel life without a stationary home has caused my eyelids and legs to grow sore and heavy.
February 8, 2001. Bruges. We rent bikes from a woman at a small cornerstore and ride circles around some windmills. An hour later the warm cloudy day turns into a cold rainy day and we stand with raindrops dripping off our jackets and hair in front of the door to St. Salvatore's church.
A group of 5 year-old boys enters before us. After running and shouting through the rows of pews, one of the clan lights his cigarette on a votive candle. He then held the door for us as we left. That night we meet one of the Australians from Berlin and spend the night playing pool.
February 9, 2001. On a train to Amsterdam. We considered remaining on Bruges' quaint streets. Instead we journey to the city where the smell of marijuana overwhelms the district around Central Station. A walk through the red light districts opens the eyes of a good Catholic girl.
February 10, 2001. Tomorrow we must meet friends in Paris.
"Can we get a reservation on the night train to Paris?"
"No. That train only runs from April to October."
"When is the last train to Paris today?"
"It already left."
Now aware that no one from Belgium travels at night to Paris in February we take a train to Antwerp.
February 11, 2001. We arrive at 11 a.m. in the Brussels train station.
"Could we make a reservation on the train to Paris?"
"No. All of the trains are full."
"Is there any way we can get to Paris today?"
"Not with my company. Maybe if you take two trains."
At the information desk:
"We need to get to Paris today."
"We have one train. It gets to Paris at 10:14 p.m."
"Great. Are there any other trains?"
"No."
And I had planned to write a column about the convenience of train travel. Twelve hours after arriving in the Brussels station, we reunite with our friends, who had spent the week in the British Isles.
From the top of the Eiffel Tower the next night, I believe that I can see the lights of Spain, my next destination, beyond the expanse of Paris.
Joanna Mikulski is a sophomore currently spending the year in Innsbruck, Austria.
The opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.
All Viewpoint Stories for Friday, February 23, 2001
