How did I leave Perth? A last minute argument with Telstra about a bill, then Customs! Dear God. I know you can’t take liquids into the plane cabin; all I had was a small Fess nasal spray (50ml), so I placed in the mesh side pocket of my camera / computer bag.
“Stop”, screamed the tubby middle aged, uniformed tart, “You’ll have to go back through!”
“Why?” I replied.
“You’ve got liquid here!” she pointed to the Fess.
“Yes, I know, it’s less than 100ml, that’s why I put it there, highly visible, so you could see what it was.”
“You’ll have to put it through again, so we can see what it is,” she demanded.
“You know what it is, you can see it,” I replied. By this time, the queue’s getting longer. “Go back through!” the stupid cow demanded.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I said, what is it about people like you?”
A female Asian tart-in-uniform told me not to swear, I replied that if she’d read the newspaper in the last couple of days, she would have read that a Perth Magistrate had declared it was perfectly OK to swear when confronted with stupid authority, would she like to test the fucking ruling? Apparently not. I had visions of the WA Police Minister with crazed bloodshot eyes, demanding people like me be shot at dawn. I know, I know, I just cannot cope with mindless authority, something Australia and the USA seem to excel in. “Get me out of here,” I screamed to myself. Qantas did, an hour late. The Captain apologised, a thunderstorm in Singapore, combined with only one runway in use at Changi, had delayed the plane coming in to Perth. By now, 30 minutes into the flight, I was looking out over the salt ponds at Useless Loop – I’d driven for Brambles there in years gone by.
Qantas? You thought I was flying Air France. I was / am, but they code share with Qantas to Singapore and although I’d paid for Premium Economy, you only get an Economy seat on the Qantas leg, however there was nobody beside me, so it was OK.
Darkness closed in, little did I suspect that the WA sunshine was the last sunlight I would see for a looong while! The good thing about the delay out of Perth, meant that there was only a 45 minute wait at Changi to board the Air France flight. I popped into a duty free to buy a malt for Ann’s father, (as most of you know, you can’t take duty free booze into Changi, they take it off you and insist you buy theirs!), however, with the current exchange rate, it’s worthwhile buying duty free at Changi – a $79.99 (Singapore) bottle of Glen Morangie cost $53.00 AUS!
On to ze Frog airline and a very sexy air hostess, in a severe sort of way – I KNOW she had a whip somewhere. What was Premium Economy like? Well the legroom is excellent, but the seats are weird, in the same way that French cars work - they don’t, if you know what I mean. The seats are a pod system, that supposedly lie down. They don’t, they sort of slip forward under the next seat (almost), although they have an excellent leg rest, BUT, it’s almost impossible to get comfortable, nowhere near as good as the Qantas Premium Economy seats. I spent a fair bit of time walking around the plane, as my bum was numb and discovered you would NEVER fly Economy with Air France, the tiny seats make Qantas look generous. The Airbus was also (unusually) bloody noisy, but it stayed up and the food was sensational. The wine less so – obviously French and virtually tasteless in that bland European way. The bloke next to me was Norwegian, an IT expert, he’d just spent three weeks in Melbourne and had fallen in love with Oz, he was heading back to tell his wife they were moving as soon as possible.
The night went on and on and on, you all know the story if you’re done the Perth to Europe leg. Occasionally I saw the flickering lights of aircraft out in the night sky but nothing else, then it was 5.30am Paris time and we were descending into the city of romance. I looked out the window, hoping to spot a triumphant tower, or Monsieur Eiffel. Nothing. What I got was cloud and mist, all the way to ground zero, visibility was practically nil. Well, it is winter time!
As with Changi, I didn’t need to go through customs, (transferring to a Frankfurt flight), but my boarding pass and passport were checked four times and stamped once in a very pleasant, welcoming manner. I’d made two mistakes in my chosen clothes – firstly I’d not bothered with a belt on my jeans, I must have lost a little weight recently – every three metres, my jeans fell down, so I walked along with one hand carrying my camera bag and duty free booze and the other hand hanging on to one side of my jeans, stopping every 20 metres to hitch everything up again! You get the picture. I’d also worn a ‘Perth heavy’ long sleeved chambray shirt, knowing it would be winter in Europe,
Perfect … almost. The jacket I knew I’d need if I went outside, was still lying on the bed, where I’d put it during the Telstra phone debacle. And we needed to go outside to get to the Frankfurt connection, firstly to catch a small bus, then to walk up to the aircraft. It was FREEZING, snow and ice everywhere and everybody dressed in clothes to cope with a Siberian winter … everyone that is, except yours truly. I tried to look Aussie Tough and pushed everyone out any queue so I could be first inside the bus and the plane. Up, up and away! Ze Fatherland here we come.
The plane broke through the clouds into the winter sunshine. An hour later, we dove back through the clouds again. Frankfurt was exactly the same as Paris, grey to sea level, nothing to be seen except landing lights, buildings and aircraft in a grey, grey swirling mist, all very different to the 40c+ of Perth!
I steeled myself for the German Customs / Immigration people, who would no doubt make the Perth tarts look friendly and got a hell of a shock. NOTHING! NOBODY! NO CUSTOMS TO GO THROUGH! Just a sign saying ‘Anything to declare, this way.” I walked through the exit, straight into a machine gun carrying policeman. He ignored me, Ann came running over. I was dumbfounded. I later read that the European countries, Australia and England let each other know who’s where and what, the Germans already know you’re there and don’t feel the need to grill you to death. Amazing. As I said to Ann, “If this was Australia, or the USA, I’d be on the floor with a thousand guns pointing at me … and the WA Police Minister in a bloodshot-eyed frenzy screaming in the background. Welcome to Germany!
Part 2
Ann looked at me, “You can’t go outside dressed like that, you’ll freeze to death!” I replied that I was just about to open my suitcase and get out a warm coat, then I noticed the dog. There, in a Frankfurt Airport café, was a woman sitting with a dog at her feet. Nice dog. Nice woman, but! Oh well, I’d heard it was far worse in France. Then I noticed there wasn’t the smoking I’d seen so much of in German airports previously. Ann told me they now have dedicated smoking areas, which, for a non-smoker like me, is far more civilised.
We were travelling to Munster by train, a 200km plus trip from Frankfurt, I’d made a mistake when I booked the trip, not realising that Dusseldorf was a lot closer, but it turned out to be a good mistake … visually … for me, not Ann!
We caught the shuttle bus across to the station and my first real blast of the German winter. Bracing? It was like nothing in memory. Snow I know (I’m a Kiwi) and a couple of years ago, I stood in short shirt sleeves, in the snow in Colorado, but this was breathtakingly (literally) cold. “I told you,” Ann smiled, “We’ll have to buy you proper German winter clothes, or you won’t survive.” I began to understand, as we stood on the train platform with the wind from hell blowing through my very bones.
I was studying the architecture of the station – very similar to the airport and something I was familiar with, in my previous life as WA marketing manager for Audi. The steel and glass honeycomb design that Audi insisted upon for dealerships in Australia, not understanding, (or perhaps wanting to understand,) that the Australian climate meant that soaring overhead glass was not a good idea. But here in Germany, it makes sense, months of low, or no sunshine and you want all the light possible, it’s perfect for the climate, assuming it’s double glazed. This was the start of my understanding that I was now in a very different world to mine.
The train. Fantastic. I love trains, it’s THE way to travel … well, driving is de reguer for me of course!... flying is so boring and a bloody pain with all the imposed officialdom, if I had my way, I’d never fly anywhere, but of course, time is the issue. The Germans do train transport incredibly well. Ann complains that the trains are often never on time, but the combination of a vast network and vast numbers of people, mean that there will always be the odd delay. You can buy a coffee, or meal, even on suburban commuters, brilliant and we had free entertainment on our train from Frankfurt to Munster. The on-board announcer (“next stop,” “coffee,” etc), was as camp as a row of tents. Gay? This ‘guy’ was Queen of them all – “Hellooooo,” in the best Cabaret tones, “You can buy a coffee now, it’s sooooo nice.” He would even say, “Bye, bye” as people got off at their stops. Ann told me that other passengers were laughing and enjoying the show as well.
Tired as I was, I could not take my eyes off the view outside. We were travelling alongside the Rhein and although the day was gray, as was the water, the mountainsides of dormant vineyards on impossible slopes, the ruined castles and stunningly picturesque villages were simply overwhelming. I know I have to come back in the summer (do they have sunshine I wonder?). Not for me the riverboat cruise method, I’d drive, so I could stop and take it all in, visit a ruin, walk along a tiny vineyard, stop for coffee in a little village, the area is that beautiful. All the while, barges, (admittedly nowhere near as big as those that ply the Mississippi) sail past, flying Dutch, German and French flags, leading me to notice the paucity of private boats and yacht clubs, I only noticed a couple of very small yacht / boat clubs, very different to Australia (and New Zealand), I wondered whether it was the weather, boating in the winter would not be a pleasure.
As I continued to marvel at the German rail system, I also began to understand why they could sustain such a system, there are large towns every few miles, they have a large population in a relatively small country (compared to Australia). Using Perth, Western Australia as my reference point, while Perth has a population of just over 2 million people, the city is spread over a radius of about 65kms in width (east to west) and 160kms (north to south), to the east, the next major town is Kalgoorlie, (600kms away), to the south, the next major town is Bunbury (160kms away) and to the north, Geraldton, (600kms away). In case you’re wondering, there ain’t nothing to the west, except the Indian Ocean, next stop South Africa and that would be a bloody long rail tunnel! The tyranny of distance and low population are the double whammy that will probably always make it economically impossible to sustain a public transport system (in Perth) like the German example. It’s different on the east coast of Australia (Melbourne, Sydney and to a lesser extent, Brisbane), but private transport (the car) will remain king in the West for a long while yet, by virtue of enforced necessity.
Munster. We alighted from the train, to be met by Ann’s beaming mum (Brigitte) and slightly hesitant dad (Hans) – how do you be a stern, appraising father with a bloke close to your own age, not to mention the barrier of language? My German is almost non-existent, but fortunately Hans and Brigitte have enough English to overcome the issues, not to mention that Ann’s English is brilliant.
We left my luggage in Hans’ car and walked to their local watering hole – the Stuhlmacher, named after the family that’s owned it for about 250 years, although it’s been a meeting place / pub for Munster people for at least 800 years! The town has been around as a major trading place since circa 850AD, which rather puts European history in Australia in perspective! And the history is utterly compelling.
Although my roots are the Highland of Scotland – the Ross’s left Rothes (on the Spey River), for New Zealand, in 1846, having moved from their home at Tain approximately 100 years before that (I traced my family back to approximately 1462 in Tain some years ago), so there is no real connection with Germany, there is a growing sense of understanding how history has shaped the destiny of my family.
The pub was wonderful, olde-world and the company inviting and accepting – apart from my first obvious failure – I don’t drink beer and it seems the Germans do, in vast quantities … in the middle of bloody winter! I have no idea how they mange it, not put to fine a point to it all (too much information), my bladder would never last! I didn’t feel like a wine, so I settled on a Jim Beam (bourbon) and coke. Hans explained that this had been his family’s hotel since he was a boy, he’d been coming here for over 60 years and they welcomed and farewelled everybody at the pub, as a tradition, it suited me.
We then drove the 25kms or so to the village of Warendorf – famous for its horses and where Ann’s parents have their respective homes. We were stating at Hans’ place in the centre of town. Utterly picturesque, Hans’ home is relatively new, about 20 years old, although you’d never guess it from the outside. There are strict covenants about new buildings, to ensure the character of the town remains intact, so form the outside, the house could be two hundred years old, but step inside and it’s modern, quite Scandinavian – Hans has always liked Sweden … and Swedish girls. Shh!
Stairs! The Germans do stairs, in a big way, everywhere, very similar to Scotland, I must admit, I prefer our Australian one level, big, open plan type housing, but then that’s a design absolutely suited to our climate. Here in northern Germany, the long, cold, dark, damp, winter, means that every room has to be heated and that ain’t cheap, so small rooms are the way to go, with doors closed to isolate the area being used. It all makes sense and I learn that these days, Germany is very reliant on Russia for its natural gas, if the flow stops, Germany freezes.
Freezing? As I write this, I’m sitting in pyjamas – I haven’t worn pyjamas since about the age of 12, plus a dressing gown, with a sleeping blanket wrapped around me and it’s 9.16am, so time to brave the shower, then perhaps sit with a wine (Hans does a wonderful mulled wine) and write more later.
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