Tag Archives: walking tours

The Interrailing Adventures of Jen and Emily, Part 4

PREAMBLE: Finally! The long-awaited finale that everyone’s been waiting for.* (*Forgotten about because I got employed pretty much as soon as I got back, and as a result haven’t got round to copying it up until over a month after we got back.) To jog your memory: we have been followed through parks in Amsterdam by strange men who want to show us something, almost mugged in Berlin by people pretending to be mute, pulling off toilet seats in bars in Prague, watched on the toilet by an entirely unexplainable picture of a horse in Krakow, leched on by fat men in the baths in Budapest, and probably banned from Vienna for the rest of our lives due to our terrible singing of ‘Vienna’ and ‘Edelweiss’. I left our heroes at the Opera House in Vienna, with just 5 days of their trip left, but several cities still to see. But first they must remain alive in Vienna, where a terrifying presence awaits them later that night…

Part 1 [Brussels, Amsterdam, Berlin], Part 2 [Berlin, Prague, Krakow], Part 3 [Krakow, Budapest, Vienna]

14th September: Kebab-Pizza Palace, Maria Hilfer Straße, Vienna, 17:33

Last night saw both extreme enjoyment and extreme fear. The former came in the shape of the opera, something I never thought I’d be converted to – how wrong I was While female opera voices are still a little shrill, Carmen’s absolutely banging soundtrack meant that it was not only bearable, but enjoyable, while the costumes, scale of cast (there must have been about 50 people singing on the stage at certain points), and voice control left us awestruck. It’s a great story, too; even though the typical virgin/whore dichotomy with Micaela/Carmen and the moral of the story that being a saucy wench will end badly are now outdated, post-Sexual Revolution, that’s not really the point, is it?

Turns out you genuinely can reserve your standing spot with a scarf (or a ribbon, in my case) – an excellent tradition that I don’t think could be successfully implemented in England. The provision of little fold-out translators underneath the bar in front of you was useful not only for hanging these on, but also for, y’know, translating the lyrics so you can follow the story. We were standing in the centre at the front of the parterre, and probably had better views than some of the viewers who’d spent a hundred or so Euros on their seats – those 3 hours of queuing paid off nicely. We were joined by a man with the deepest voice known to man; a voice so deep I giggled whenever he squeezed past and growled “Thank you” in a way that would well befit a villain. Sadly, Combover Guy must have been standing elsewhere.

However, later that night at the hostel, a presence less adorable than Combover Guy and more chillingly villain-like than Mr Deep Voice awaited us. At 2am, as we were settling down to sleep, a rattling key in the lock heralded his coming, followed by a slam of the door, a clink of keys as they landed at my feet and the pressure of a book resting on the bit of duvet over my foot. I had something he thought was his – my bed.

The bed I lay upon. The bed I’d strewn with my belongings before we’d left that morning, so that no-one could usurp it. The bed he’d removed everything from, and replaced with a bag of reeking clothes and a Bible. The bed he seemingly hadn’t realised I was trying to sleep in, having thrown his belongings on an unoccupied bed by the window in a fit of pique that someone should steal my bed.

Fearing his obliviousness would linger until he tried to climb into that same bed, Emily alerted him to my being there: “Excuse me – my friend’s up there!”. I stirred, to see a man in a green t-shirt much older than us, as he purred “Sorry – I was told two British girls left this morning.” He spoke quietly, and paused between sentences, in a vaguely unsettling way. Finding my courage, I brusquely replied, “Well, we haven’t.” Worried he would stake a claim to the bed I’d slept in the night before, I prepared to defend it. Yet he made little fuss and so, out of politeness, I responded to his questions. They were questions we’d heard from travellers in every city we’d been to – at first, at least. His name was DP, apparently, and he came from Bromley. Emily ruined my plan to give him false names, though he seemed to think her name was Amy anyway.

After these relatively normal beginnings, the conversation went off at random angles, into a series of haphazard topics including Princess Diana, free press, and the abundance of psychotherapists in Munich. These subjects began to loop, to our sleep-deprived confusion. Was he really asking us for the second time in five minutes if we’d been to Munich? Did he think we’d teleported while he wasn’t looking? Was he really oblivious to the fact that, with one eye open, head lolling on the pillow and feigning my best ‘tired’ voice, I was trying to sleep, and really couldn’t give a toss about Princess Di?

But these questions went unasked, as we listened to his steadily more crazed ramblings. “There are people from all over the world, downstairs,” he said, “Is it a UN conference?”. We pointed out that, in a hostel, you tended to meet people from every continent. This was not to his liking. “I’m not being paid to talk to foreigners,” he spat, “I’m not an MP.” We soon found out that this was the tip of a xenophobic iceberg. His quiet, venomous mutter of “Should’ve been a Nazi” convinced us that we were sharing a room with a psychopath and would be lucky to see daylight again.

The thought of sleeping near a Bromley-born Hitler was too much for Emily’s constitution to bear, so she played dead. This lumbered me with the sole responsibility for fending off the questions of a madman, my pulse throbbing with fear all the while. “Have you got boyfriends in Venice?” he asked. “Do you want to see a weird text I received the other day?” Reminded of the guy who’d followed us in Vondelpark in Amsterdam, wanting to show us something, my fight-or-flight mechanism kicked in. “No thanks, I’m off to sleep now. Goodnight!” I told him quickly but firmly, before rolling over to face the wall. And, as Emily turned off the light, that should have been the end of that.

Except DP did not like the dark, and was reduced to ripping open the curtains and staring out the window. As a siren wailed in the distance, he murmured, “So many illegal things going on in this city.” (Laughable – Vienna is the safest city I’ve ever been to.) Bored of his musings, he proceeded to bang, crash and wallop about the room, attempting to make his bed, and furiously, repetitively muttering, “Where does this go? Where does this go?”. After five minutes of his insane rambling, I was tempted to shout “UP YOUR ARSE, YOU INCONSIDERATE PRICK!!”.

His customarily noisy walk to the bathroom only got noisier once he’d reached his destination, as he began to shout “I’M NOT A JOURNALIST, I’M AUSTRALIAN!!” to himself. Emily and I instantly, simultaneously looked out the side of our bed, looked at each other, and whispering “OH MY GOD, HE’S CRAZY!” in terrified unison. As the door unlocked, we flopped back into feigned sleep again as he started a new cycle of “Where does this go?”.

Emily, who clearly had some kind of deathwish, took pity on him and made his bed for him. I meanwhile was busy fearing for my life and working out a self-defence plan. This primarily involved genuinely contemplating sleeping with my rape alarm in my hand, lest he forget which bed was his and try and get in mine. Decided against it in case I rolled onto the chain and pulled it off in the night, treating everyone to a chorus of noise.

Bed successfully made, the light was once again turned off, and we prepared to actually sleep. Of course, this was merely wishful thinking. He offered us water, which from anyone else could have been a pleasantry, but from a man whose face I suspected could be the last I ever saw before being SAVAGELY MURDERED, it was simply terrifying. He turned the light by his bed on, and – proving that ‘DP’ rhymes with ‘creepy’ for a reason – proceeded to sit bolt upright in his bed, watching us.

My terror had nullified my need to sleep for about an hour now, but finally I heroically gave into slumber. Emily, a far lighter sleeper, was not so lucky, and had wait for DP to briefly leave the room so she could ssprint to his bed, turn the light off, and dash back to her own bed lest he catch her. When she woke, he was sitting in the bed, still upright, still watching us.

Opening your eyes to find someone else’s staring at you, inches away, wide-eyed and manic, is the stuff of poor horror movies. It was also the stuff of the next morning, when – upon opening my eyes – the first thing I saw were DP’s eyes, peering at me through the slats of my bed. “Have you seen my socks?” he hissed menacingly. Stifling the urge to scream, I squeaked out a no, fearing that I would pay for ignorance with my life.

Emily also experienced this rude awakening. For when she opened her eyes, minutes later, she too saw her life flash before them as he crouched, leaning threateningly close to her, and desiring an answer to that fateful question. “Have you seen my socks?” Although I was too afraid to get out of bed, I was heartened to see that the other beds in the room were occupied by some Australian boys – who, it later transpired, had been snubbed by DP as he didn’t like their accents.

He left not long after  this, apparently having found his socks in his suitcase, and having filled in a feedback form which he’d left on the table. Emily kept it, as its text was proof of his madness. In addition to stating, for no apparent reason, that he was part of the ‘humane race’, he answered the questions thus:

What was the best part of your stay?
“Unsure but as if [sic] lost a pair of socks in transit from one dorm bed to another, but ‘found’ them again in my suitcase, without having recall of sequence of events fully surrounding this matter.”

What could be better?
“Unsure exactly if press free. UN, MP, MEP would really be interested in this matter. I have prayed for good outcomes.”

To be fair, Emily thinks he probably had Aspergers, and I don’t want to further stigmatise mental health. But even if that was the case, he was still bizarre. (And hilarious – we’ve spent the whole day staring at each other ominously and whispering “HAVE YOU SEEN MY SOCKS?” on public transport, much to the confusion of fellow travellers.)

We worked off our remaining terror by taking shelter from the pouring rain in Starbucks again (more beautiful employees were working there today, none throwing straws though) and copying up my blog/updating our journals. When it dried up, Emily went for a free cycle and got pulled over by the police for cycling in the wrong lane. Naturally, I did not take up the offer of a free cycle – partly because it would have made me a huge hypocrite after spending half the trip planning new and unusual forms of torture for the many cyclists who’ve tried to prematurely end my life, and mostly because I haven’t cycled since some hellish misadventures at Center Parcs in 2010, with a bike whose chain seemed determined to fall off at the most inconvenient of moments.

After this, we headed off to Stephensdom Church (very pretty) and Schönsbunn Palace (utterly gorgeous). Mid-jumping picture outside Schönsbunn, I became aware of another tourist jumping with me. Amused by their daring, I turned to see what my new friend looked like. Imagine my surprise when it actually turned out to be an old friend – Adam, who had been one of my co-holidayees on my post-A level results trip to Croatia three years ago!

Following a long catch-up that relayed the horror of our DP experience in full, ghoulish detail, we bid him and his travelling companion farewell and sat in the gardens so I could hastily scribble out a postcard to my parents (I’d kept their postcard from Budapest to myself), before heading back to Westbahnhof to find cheap food. The only downside of my pizza was that a glob of extremely hot mozzarella fell on my hand and SCALDED IT.* (*Emily would like to state that this is an exaggeration, and it just made my hand a little bit red for a few minutes. But it hurt 😦 )

Time to go – the guy on the till looks grumpy that we haven’t paid and left yet.

Signing off,
A Jen who HASN’T seen your socks


18th September: Café Bazar, Salzburg, 11:15am

Since my last update, I have run out of money, been to a beach (at last!) and caught hypothermia. Ok, the last one is a slight exaggeration, but barely – since coming north from Venice to Munich and Salzburg, it has become bitterly cold. Not to mention it is currently raining on a scale that suggests a Biblical flood is nigh, and those treasuring their lives should find an acquaintance with an ark.

We are in Salzburg for a day trip at Emily’s ‘Sound of Music’-loving behest. I’ve seen enough of the film to surmise that it consists of a bunch of singing children, a singing Julie Andrews and some edelweiss. However, this is precisely why it is not at the top of my ‘To Watch’ list – children are bad enough, but SINGING children are on a whole new level of evil. (Though I’ll make exceptions for Aled Jones and Michael Jackson.) Emily pranced about at the scene of the ‘Do Re Mi’ song while I tried to negotiate a camera and an upright umbrella simultaneously, which is more difficult than it sounds. After she took a few photos of me looking grumpily sodden, we decided that we would have to decamp to a local café or succumb to frostbite. I miss my winter coat.

As ever with foreign trips lasting over a week, the closer we get to going home, the keener I am to get back. Living out of a backpack with 4 outfits on rotation is not a lifestyle I could lead for much longer. I long for a room to myself, solitude, my laptop, my lovely gerbil, my wardrobe and being able to ask for tap water in restaurants without causing offence. I especially long for being able to go a day without spending any money; Venice cleaned us out.

The trip to Venice started well; we slept well on the night train, in a compartment we shared with a group of very friendly middle-aged Argentinians. Their English was very limited, and our Spanish virtually non-existent, so we communicated in single words and, when that failed, gestures – but even if we didn’t always understand them, we enjoyed their rowdy, excitable chatter. There’s something so aurally cheerful about the Spanish language. (Emily bumped into them again when wandering round Venice, and they greeted her with typical enthusiasm.)

But it was about to get worse. After trapesing the streets, churches and ferrybuses of Venice for 6 hours to fill the pre-check in time, we arrived at the hostel and I tried to pay my 60 Euro bill for the two nights… only to find my travel credit card rejected. Perhaps not a surprise – I had a rough estimate in my head of having around 100 Euros, but the mess of different currencies on the trip had ruined any plans for budgeting. It’s hard to keep track when you’re constantly trying to convert currencies in your head, especially when their conversion rates vary so wildly.

So I gave the woman at the desk 20 Euros and tried 40 on the card. When it was rejected again, I was taken aback. Less than 40 euros?? Christ. Time to borrow 20 off Emily, and try 20 on the card, before ringing home to get my finances supplemented….

Rejected again. SHIT. The woman on the desk glared at me as I flapped helplessly, completely unable to comprehend where all the money had gone, regretting the £18 bar crawls in Prague (especially the one that ended prematurely) and the overpriced Cream Coolers in Starbucks, before Emily nudged me aside to pay on my behalf while I frantically texted home and waited for reinforcements to my bank card. So this is what it’s like to have a card rejected, I thought.

It took a long and aggressive kerfuffle on the phone between father and bank to get more money on the card (we’d been misinformed when buying it – turns out you’re not allowed to get a third party to top it up), but it was eventually successful, while my search for notes in my bag was fruitful as I discovered a trove of 60 euros in one of the ‘safe’ pockets in my bag. 150 euros on my card, and 20 in my wallet, should have kept me going quite steadily on the fiscal front.

That is, until I reneged on my “let’s not go on a gondola, I can’t afford it” pledge the next day when Emily pleaded with me to go with her. Ah, the joys of tourist traps – the privilege of telling people I’ve done something entirely clichéd was worth 1 Euro per minute each. It was alright, but the cost made me feel pressured to enjoy it, which nullified what would otherwise have been a fairly relaxing experience. Now I’m down to my last 30 Euros (again), I have to say that I regret splashing out on it.

We’d been to the museum in St Mark’s Basilica on the Sunday after arriving, while a service was occurring downstairs; the sound of the congregation singing had really added to the experience. Everywhere else, however, was ludicrously expensive and suffocated with tourists, so we went to the island of Lido in order to pay a visit to Santa Maria Elizabetta beach, the only one in Venice. After initial reluctance, I unbuttoned the bottom of my dress, tied it up like a sarong and went paddling up to my knees. Emily went for a proper swim and, while getting changed afterwards, accidentally flashed a granny, who judging by her grin enjoyed the view.

We then got to the serious and mature business of drawing things in the sand with our toes. Having already paid tribute to DP on the night train with a biro-drawn heart tattoo encircling his name on my arm, we drew a heart in the sand and dedicated it to him. Emily wrote her name, while I strived for originality and artistic skill, opting to draw a sandy penis outline. (Some things never change.) We then moved on to writing ‘Interrail’ (Emily) and ‘952’ (me, in honour of my Countdown glory); on having the latter photographed, I thought it would be hilarious to spontaneously throw my dress up and give the camera a cheeky glimpse of my bikini bottoms. The granny who’d admired Emily’s errant cleavage grinned again at the sight of my swimwear-clad pudenda. I’ve had so little sexual attention on this trip that I’m inclined to count that as such.

Decamping to a restaurant soon after, I satisfied my craving for calzone on one the size of a very tall, thin baby. Although it hasn’t wiped out the memory of how glorious Zizzi’s calzones are back home, it was extremely nice. We planned to spend the evening on the canal, drinking wine. Yet it was not to be; the goodwill from both the calzone and a hysterical laughing fit on the ferrybus back to the hostel (caused by Emily taking a picture of me pulling the single most horrific face known to man) was ravaged by a fiasco with the Countdown series finals tickets, so I decided it was better not to inflict it on the outside world. As it turns out, we wouldn’t have been able to drink the wine we’d bought in any case, as we’d slightly overlooked the need for a corkscrew.

The gondola expenses wouldn’t have totally unbalanced my bank account had it not been for us being royally fucked by the Italian train ticketing system the next day. It turns out that, for the privilege of SITTING ON AN ITALIAN TRAIN, we had to pay a surcharge for the first time (night trains aside). 7 euros for a 5-hour train from Verona (our stop-off point) to Munich was reasonable, but 18 euros for a 1-hour train from Venice to Verona?! Fuck RIGHT off.* [*NB: You can tell that the whole money issue had made me quite grumpy.]

Verona was fairly pretty, but the postcards were terribly tacky; covered in gaudy love hearts and single-minded in their quest to promote the city’s legacy as the setting of Romeo and Juliet. We eventually found ‘Juliet’s house’ with its balcony, statue of Juliet and trails of ivy growing up the walls. It was nearly as busy as St Mark’s Square in this little courtyard, stuffed with people queuing to have a picture of themselves groping Juliet’s metal tit and grinning lecherously. We decided to forgo this classy and mature tradition and instead have pizza for breakfast instead – “When in Verona”, etc. It was all going so smoothly until a mysterious 4 euro charge for ‘coperto’ appeared on the bill. Fearing we’d been charged 4 euros for the breadsticks we hadn’t asked for or eaten, we asked the waiter who’d ignored us for ages what it meant. Shouting “Coperto, coperto!” and looking exceptionally moody, he gestured at the small print in the menu declaring a 2-euro service charge per person. If Italians could charge you money to breathe their air, they would do.

We encountered another grumpy man on the train, this one dressed in hideous waterproof camping clothes. He disappeared from our train carriage for around an hour but, having left his rucksack  among us, we kindly saved his seat for him at the expense of seat-deprived youth who were far better dressed. His gratitude was manifested in snapping at Emily when he returned for her putting her feet up; I resisted the urge to snap back at him that his outfit was offending my eyesight, but we were halfway through a bingo-filled game of Scrabble and I didn’t want to fight him until I’d won. (I did, but by a slim margin.) In between Scrabbling, I heroically read over 300 pages of Rebecca (agonisingly, arriving in Munich with 5 pages to go), and almost accidentally decapitated people trying to get my rucksack down and get my iPod charger out.

The hostel was down a road opposite the station – highly convenient – and we prepared for the horror of what a 40-person dorm would look like…

…Surprisingly, it seemed ok at first glance. Although it was just one room, it had four ‘sections’ with 5 bunkbeds in each. The mattress was awful, but the other hostellees were well-behaved enough for me to sleep well after we returned from a steak restaurant where I had some cracking beef goulash (featuring what I’ve come to recognise as the best food ever – paprika). Embarrassingly, I was the noisy roommate who wakes everyone up this morning, as my alarm went off while my phone went for a game of Hide and Seek in my bag. Oops. At least it was Animal Nitrate blaring out and not Skrillex. The woken hostellees should consider themselves musically educated.

It was the showers, not the sleeping arrangements, which proved horrifying. In Venice there had been nice showers with the downside of being a) not particularly frosted on the windows and b) right in the middle of a communal bathroom shared by about 30 people. Fortunately my modesty was preserved by this smattering of frosting and people being thankfully absent as I showered. Munich’s showers, however, had no frosting, and you had to walk past them to get to the toilets. Water came through three jets and at blazing speed and force, and stopped every two minutes, meaning you had to press the hateful button again and subject yourself to further water torture. It was essentially like showering under a miniature water cannon, and about as effective and enjoyable as that sounds. The dressing room was also communal, hidden from those visiting the toilets by only a curtain, but with no curtains within to stop you revealing yourself to others in the changing room. I promptly took the chance to inadvertently flash an Australian girl, who I’d already made tentative about the experience with my tales of shower horror by assuring her it was one of the worst experiences of my life. First world problems.

Now I’ve finished my jasmine tea, and the moustachioed man in lederhosen and garters next to us has left, we’re about to flee to the station, again at the mercy of the weather.

Signing off,
A very soggy Jen


Later: Douche-Barn to Munich, 15:02

WE HAVE SEEN SOMETHING I NEVER EXPECTED TO SEE IN AUSTRIA. Something terrifying. Something unnatural. We have seen… Austrian girl-chavs. Clad in leggings of all sorts of hideous patterns and colours, hair bigger than Dylan Taylor’s ego and ferocious scowls at better-dressed females (i.e. us), it was just like being back in Tonbridge – especially with rain cascading all around us.

We wrote a special song for them to the tune of ‘Edelweiss’:

Austrian chav. Austrian slag,
You look unhappy to see me,
Leggings tight, make-up bright,
You look pregnant to me, to me!
Baby below, may you bloom and grow!
Your womb will grow forever.
Austrian chav, Austrian slag,
Leave your homeland forever!

On a not particularly nice Douche-Barn to München (the ‘munch’ of which has amused us nearly as much as the word ‘box’ did during our games of Crib), the toilet on which Emily fears she has contracted gonorrhoea from. Fortunately contracting an STD from an unsanitary toilet has taken her mind off sulking about losing to me twice at Crib, after a ridiculous amount of luck came my way.

View from train window is very pretty. Have concluded that Austria is allergic to both dry weather and ugliness (chavs aside).

Don’t really know what to do with ourselves now. Returning to the hostel and its rubbish Wifi doesn’t appeal, but neither does walking around Munich in temperatures of 9 degrees C and heavy rain, especially as our shoes are damp (Emily’s toes have turned a delightful shade of mouldy orange). We’re tempted to just stay on trains all day instead, but fingers crossed it doesn’t come to that.

Signing off,
Crib champion of the world Jen



19th September: Maccy D’s, Karlsplatz, Munich, 16:51

The end is nigh! They think it’s all over, it will be in 5 hours! And so on, and so forth. Our continental adventures are coming to a close. We’ve been in here for about three hours so far, killing time after our walking tour (led by the very amusing tour guide Diana) and before we find proper food, get the S-bahn to München Flughafen and enjoy Duty Free (without actually buying anything; I have 11 euros 50 cents left and need 2.60 of those for the train). We have spent our hours here being typically competitive; I’ve won out another hard-fought game of Scrabble 381-374, taking me to a decisive 3-1 H2H victory there, while Emily has reclaimed her Crib champion status and reinforced her devastating superiority at Speed (which I am useless at). We’re too evenly matched at Irish Snap and Rummy to declare an overall winner.

Yesterday evening was eventful to say the least. We played card games in the hostel lobby before being approached by two cute Italian guys. Sadly their plans involving us were not those of debauchery and bunk-bed-breaking passion (not that it would be easy to summon much passion in the depressing dorm, on a mattress like a crash mat with barbed wire snaking through it), but of playing Uno. They taught us the rules before swiftly regretting it, as I won twice and Emily won once. After three games of good-natured competitive banter and discussion, we regrettably required feeding, so tried out the Italian restaurant opposite the hotel.

There was a sense of déjà vu for us as its décor was Venice themed, maps of the islands and photos of an unrealistically empty St Mark’s Basilica. The pizza was nice, but the waiters, after initial pleasantness – calling Emily ‘madame’ and offering us wine and excellent breadsticks – grew suspicious of us, possibly because I had no drink with my meal. We haven’t had tap water in a restaurant since Berlin, so I thought I’d sneak down to the toilets to swig from my (very battered) Hungarian plastic bottle when thirst demanded it. The waiters, possibly telepathic, began watching us intently from then on: every word was heard, every mouthful of margherita pizza stared down. We were slightly unnervedm especially as none of the other youths dining there warranted the same beady-eyed watchfulness.

Eventually I snuck of for some water, multi-tasking by going to see what Emily promised was a rather unusual vending machine in the bathroom. Moutned on the wall there was, indeed, a vending machine offering – for the reasonable price of 2 euros – “sexy gags”. Why a ‘sexy gag’ would be required in the WC of an Italian restaurant I dread to think. It also offered ‘sexy slips, tangas and mehr’; Google reliably informs me that ‘tangas’ are underpants and ‘mehr’ simply means ‘more’. What more could a vending machine in a restaurant offer? What more would you want it to offer? So many questions, but no answers.

Afterwards, we returned to the dorm to pack our bags for our triumphant homecoming. We were interrupted by an American voice addressing us, uttering the words every woman longs to hear – “Should I wear a tank-top or a t-shirt?”. Assuring the voice’s owner that a tank-top would be wonderfully suited to the cold air outside, he thanked us and emerged, tank-top clad, arms emblazoned with tattoos, and clutching a bottle of ‘Olde English’ malt liquor, in direct violation of the ‘no drinking in dorm rooms’ rule. He proceeded to give us a lecture on the historical significance of this beer, as well as it’s ‘brass monkey’ form, in which it is mixed with orange juice. We misheard ‘brass’ as ‘breast’ and chose to refer to it thus from then on.

He disappeared to harass, in an inimitably aggressive manner, some poor American girl on her laptop in bed, while his friend Ginger Mike joined us, also swigging Olde English. He offered it to us and we duly tried it; Emily found it less awful than Mike had told us it was, while I winced so hard at the taste that Mike roared with laughter and encouraged us to drink not only more ‘breast monkey’ (even worse with orange juice than without), but also the full contents of the tiny Jaeger bottle we’d hardly touched since Berlin thanks to illness and abstention from drinking post-disaster night in Prague. He was far friendlier than his boorish friend, who with self-important zest shouted at Laptop Girl that he was about to tell her ‘the greatest story ever’ – a plan hindered by the arrival of a highly unimpressed security guard, who told them to bring their alcohol upstairs and stop drinking in the dorm. They assured him that they’d be upstairs in five minutes.

Tattoo Guy became more obnoxious when the security guard, who was of subcontinental origin, left. He ranted about his ethnicity, featuring some highly racist slurs, while Mike told us he loved us and that we were his favourite two people in the world. He had reached the state of drunkenness where kissing the top of random girls’ heads was the order of the evening, and literally tried to drag us off to meet him and Tattoo Guy’s friends, in between repeatedly trying to get us to drink breast monkey, though we refused multiple times.

We shifted towards the door, where Tattoo Guy began harassing another American, this time a native of Baltimore by the name of David. We immediately liked him for his good-natured humouring of the two drunkards, who by now had grown irritating; when Mike offered me the breast monkey for the hundredth time, I accepted it and, when he wasn’t looking, hid it behind the lockers, retrieving it only when Tattoo Guy berated him for losing it. Meanwhile Emily and I focused on bringing ‘grim’ and ‘grotty’ to the forefront of David’s vocabulary.

The security guard reappeared and kicked the lairy friends out, while giving us a sympathetic smile as Mike grabbed us and dragged us out the dorm, proclaiming that we were his ‘ladies’. Exchanging furtive glances on the stairs,  Emily and I decided that meeting the random friends of a racist and an inebriate was a bad idea – especially as it would have involved getting into a stranger’s car. Once the others had released us from their grip and stumbled through the key-protected door separating the rooms from the foyer, we fled back to the room, waiting ten minutes before returning to the foyer to use the internet. Leaving the hostel to look for a club, we saw the backs of Mike and Racist Guy outside as they bothered a passer-by. Fearing they would turn round and try to force us to go with them again, we high-tailed it back to the room, where we bumped into David once more. We chatted to him about cheerful subjects including jobs, university and a heightened state of existentialism brought on by the breast monkey’s godawful taste. Finding him funny and extremely easy-going, we took him up on his offer of going for a drink before he had a Skype appointment with his ‘mom’ at 10.

Various seedy-looking casinos and extortionate bars were passed over before we came to a hotel bar with garish décor, including garish zebra-print seats and bright red walls and carpet, in which we settled. A misunderstanding led to me being bought a beer which, while still not to my taste, was at least drinkable and not wince-inducing, to the point where I finished it all by myself in between discussing accents, TV shows and David’s difficulty with finding a boyfriend in Europe due to the impeccable dress sense of continental European men. He dubbed this dilemma ‘Gay or European?’, a game that we enjoyed the idea of.

10pm rolled around too soon and, after imploring us to add him on Facebook, he departed for an internet dcafe. One of our other conversations – that of the ‘Essex girl on a night out’ look so favoured in England – had caught the ear of a nearby patron, who remarked to us that “You haven’t exactly given him the best impression of England, have you?”. Expecting him to rebuke us, he then continued, “Mind you, it is accurate…”

Despite having a perfect English accent, this middle-aged man was actually Dutch. We embarked on a discussion about the disparity in university fees and expectations between England and Holland, which may sound dull on paper but was actually really interesting – the Dutch pay 1150 euros a year for uni, but are perceived to have not finished their degrees if they don’t do a Masters, even though technically they have. He was shocked by our fees, as you can expect given the £8000-a-year difference between the two countries.

Admittedly my concentration was rather diminished by my being directly opposite a TV showing Napoli v Dortmund in the Champions League. On one occasion – a Dortmund chance – I gasped as it hit the top of the crossbar. Not seeing the TV, the Dutch guy thought I was gasping because the waitres hadn’t caught my eye as I looked in her direction, conspiratorialy whispering “She’s not the most attentive.” He seemed surprised when I told him the real reason, especially when I professed no real attachment to the game, save for a preference for Dortmund to win on a friend’s account.

We left around the 80-minute mark of the game, hurrying through the rain and back to the hostel. Emilt returned to the room first, only to be confronted by a very inebriated Australian who wanted to know her plans for the night. When she said she was off to bed, he eagerly responded, “Can I come? Let’s cuddle!”. While I’m sure a horribly ruined Aussie ‘cuddling’ with her would normally be top of her priorities (NOT), she surprisingly passed up the opportunity, preferring instead to sleep alone. The Aussie then got lairy with the room’s other occupants, including lovely David. Mercifully, security removed him and we thought we were free to sleep…

So we thought. More Australians were there to disturb the peace (I’m pretty sure that 50% of European hostellees are Australians). A group of three friends were in their beds, right next to us, making absolutely no effort to sleep, instead giggling loudly and shouting out the names of random foodstuffs. Eventually a heroic American girl shouted “WILL YOU GIRLS SHUT UP??” and, a few giggles aside, they did. I can sleep through most things, but their rowdiness was not one of them.

I also cannot sleep through multiple deafening choruses of the Champions League theme music, which some guy had set as his alarm and took an age to turn off. It was funny the first time, but the second time – at 5am – was a bit of a piss-take, as the annoyed mutterings from other beds testified.

More pressing matters were at hand, however; namely, the atrocious state of the already slovenly bathroom. It was flooded with an inch of water, the dressing room partition curtain had been torn down, one of the draining foot mats was upturned: a chaotic sight met our eyes. Not to mention that the two lit toilet cubicles were toilet paper-free and, while the unlit one did, it reeked of death and rotten things in there. For the first time in the five years since I concluded that daily showers are paramount to my well-being and personal happiness, I forewent a working, available shower and opted to look instead like an urchin with no access to hot water, soap or shampoo for the rest of the day instead. Even feeling unclean all day would be better than using those mouldy-smelling communal showers.

Then to the walking tour, where we saw the ‘Glockenspiel’ at Mariaplatz, the Old Town Hall (now a Barbie museum), a church that had been ‘built by’ the Devil, a major beer hall, and the Residential Palace, among other things. I wish I could have afforded a tip greater than 1 euro for our engaging and irreverent tour guide, but we quite literally couldn’t afford to, unless we sacrificed food and train tickets. It wasn’t THAT good.

And then onto Maccy D’s. Since we got kicked out the absintherie in Prague, I have a new-found appreciation for places that let you sit there for hours on end without being kicked out.

Signing off,
Scrabble champion of the world, Jen


Later: Plane to London Gatwick, 11:21pm (European time)/10:21 GMT

Home! We’re coming home! And we almost didn’t make it. The bane of our lives, finances, of course being the reason.

We’d been assured at the hostel that a train ticket to the airport was 2.60. We’d allocated this knowingly so we wouldn’t be stranded, penniless, in Germany for all eternity, even though this meant that when it came to paying the waiter in the cheapo Italian restaurant we’d ended up in, there’d been an awkward moment when he ‘jokingly’ (i.e. dead seriously) asked if he could keep the whole 10 euro note we’d laid down to pay for the 6.90 euro pizza we’d shared. I let him keep 50 cents, which he looked extremely unimpressed by – but if he wanted extra cash, why not increase the prices?

As it turned out, tickets were actually 10.40. I had a grand total of 5 euros left. Imagine the panic, especially when Emily’s card was rejected. Contemplating the possibility of being stuck in Germany forever – my parents couldn’t top up my card again – Emily then remembered she had her mother’s credit card at her disposal. While this too was rejected by the ticket machine, we knew it wasn’t because of a lack of funds: rather, the machine just didn’t like those particular types of card, and so after a deep breath we hurried to the human-operated tills and bought the tickets there. Bizarrely, the tills have a ticketed queuing system like the one at Clarks in Tunbridge Wells. Typical German efficiency, I suppose.

Hereafter followed a quiet trip on the S-bahn to the Flughafen (I was extremely shaken by the possibility of not being able to get home), during which a German guy with dreadlocks tried to coerce us to give him our tickets when we disembarked, and a fairly smooth trip through the airport. Although we were originally confused by the check-in guy’s insistence that we needed to dispense of our rucksacks in the ‘large luggage’ bit, for some reason hidden behind a flower shop, we soon found it. Duty Free held numerous wonders that, despite being tax-free, were still out of my budget, as well as a postcard of the Allianz Arena for Spanky (what Dortmund fan wouldn’t want a picture of their rival’s stadium?), the dinkiest bottle of Jaegermeister you’ve ever seen (half the size of our one from Berlin) for my baby brother’s 18th birthday, which I’m sure will have been much improved by my absence, and an extremely grumpy woman on the till. Excitement levels haven’t raised during an entirely uneventful flight, which was 10 minutes late leaving, but is now hovering over England. Bless my homeland forever…

Signing off for the last time,
A Jen who is really very cheerful to be entering British airspace, because for all its flaws I really do enjoy being able to order tap water in restaurants and fluently speak the native language