Monday, 5 October Jim VS the Monoply

Monday, 5 October

Drove Bev to Cam and Ian’s where we had a cup of tea and a bowl of Camille’s homemade chicken soup. I left them there and went off to the Swiss version of Telus-- Swisscom. I immediately felt at home: they are both dictatorial, tyrannical monopolies that offer services we cannot live without. Both provide an environment designed solely to undermine the self-worth of any peon who dares penetrate their fortress.

In Canada, the watchdog is a telephone system tended by cyberian entities who offer an array of helpful options, none of which, after you have gone through the thirty-five choices comes even close to the problem that you want to discuss with a flesh and blood being.

Telus offices in Canadian malls will sell you two thousand year contracts, cost more than the combined total of the GNP of the Ten Poorest Countries (based on 2004 GNP per capita in US$) and then give you a free cell phone that will only work on alternate Wednesday in the west and in Toronto only on February 29th. But they will not give you any assistance with your account. For that you have to go online and run up against the Cyberian-idiot mentioned above.

For those with an inquiring mind, and need to call my bluff ref the GNP of the ten, I must first ask, “Why the hell are you on my blog?”, but I do include the stats as a kind of reward for you sticking this far.

Burundi ... $90

Ethiopia ... $110

Democratic Republic of Congo ... $110

Liberia ... $110

Malawi ... $160

Guinea-Bissau ... $160

Eritrea ... $190

Niger ... $210

Sierra Leone ... $210

Rwanda ... $210

Swisscom’s absolute power over its subjects is one of a more sadistic, sophisticated style of persecution. They have the storefront offices in malls. They staff them with courteous people. So what’s your problem, you ask? You cannot enter into any kind of communication with these folks! Even though they are located just inside the store, are visible, and appear ready to help, you must first engage their version of the cyberian overseer, the electronic ticket dispenser. Press a button, take the resulting slip of paper from its maw and proceed directly to the waiting area where some of the people ahead of you look as if they have been sitting there since Jobs and Wozniak began creating Apple computers in a garage. Others seem to be hanging on in a kind of hopeful trance; a perfect place actually for me to wait the birth of the baby.

But, I was made of sterner stuff. I took my ticket, number 101, noted that the display stated that Swisscom staff were currently serving number 12 from last year’s list, and promptly went off shopping. I returned an hour later and found that they had zoomed up to number 23. After another nip off to only look at the overpriced treats on offer in the mall, and having bought a used a book at a book sale, (3Sfr) I returned. Amazingly, the display read out 97. I decided to wait and was glad that I had. Seems numbers 98 through 100 had legged as I had but had failed to re-appear in time to seize their opportunity of meeting face-to-face with a Swisscom staffer. I lucked in and got a young man who’s english would have enabled him to reside in Newfoundland and be easily taken for a native.

However we did manage to communicate. He fixed my problem, refunded me my 30 francs that the Swisscom modem had snatched and then explained to me how I could simplify any future interaction by dropping by the store. I didn’t have the french to explain I would be using Telus from now on and it appeared that his store of english had run out. I Merci-ed him, he smiled and said, “You’re welcome,” and then I ruined the dialogue by adding, “Take care, Pardner.”

On my way out the store I decided strike a blow for tele-freedom and tossed a sabot into the mix by quickly thumping the ticket dispenser a dozen or so times. My last ticket read 250. God help the poor soul who came in next.

Sunday, 4 October

Sunday, 4 October

Bev Sleeps in, that evening we took Cam and Ian to Dinner. To be continued… but with glorious tales of menus to die for, waiter service from heaven and prices that make you weep.

Saturday, 3 October

Saturday, 3 October

I was enlisted this morning as one of the vehicle support drivers in the charity cycling event I have come to call, ‘The Amazing Race’. It’s real name is ‘Suits on Bikes’. These suits are a group of guys who to participate, have to come up with a sizeable pile just to be allowed to ride up and down the Alps on bicycles. Being that they are entrepreneurs, all of the money has been harvested from well-wishers. This particular ride the proceeds will be going to help build a school in Romania. Ian, my actual driver, arrived on time and we set out to find the support vehicle currently following the riders. Our first task, subtitled, ‘Lost in the Alps’ was to rendezvous (French for tear out your hair in frustration, throw the GPS out the window and finally dance a Highland Fling in joy because the other vehicle has been and sighted and there are still a few hours of daylight left. At the pre-arranged, within 50 kms or so, meeting point, a pinprick on the Swiss map known as, St. Georges de OffenhooterFreutuchlostenner, we met Gabrielle McLeish. Gaby, who was the current vehicle support group driver and two of her sons, Alec and Max, had things to do and with a sigh of relief that Ian had found the riders, she quickly traded vehicles with us and departed.

We hopped aboard, keeping the boys with us; they were scheduled to join the ride near the end of the race, and had their bikes on the back. We caught up with the lead bunch of riders and after a bit of a briefing from Alistair McLeish we stopped and waited for the rear group to catch up to us. With nothing much to do but admire the quaint town or ville we had halted at, took two minutes, the boys decided to feed the horses in the field across the road. Since Ian had become the designated babysitter for Alec and Max, this job suddenly became a challenge on par with of one of the twelve labours of Hercules. To give him a great deal of credit –after all, any day now, he’ll become a father- he took to the task with an almost effortless nonchalance. Any traces of tentativeness invisible to most, but glaringly blatant to those of us more experienced Dads, I could see that he’ll develop into one of those natural fathers, probably somewhere around their twelfth child. After much to-ing and fro-ing between the two groups of riders, we took a break with the rear group, who’s concept of riding through the lunch hour without a crust of bread bordered on mutiny. They unloaded their athletic rations of sushi and wine and we had lunch by a canal. After gobbling and sluicing they saddled up and we were off again. At another small town, Pleurisy-by-Montagnard-with-Nobypass, we unloaded the boys and their bikes and banged off to get to the finish line before them. The end of the road was Alistair and Gaby’s home and waiting for us was showers and beer. Having been riding with Ian all day and the only perspiration I had leaked being cold sweat, I settled for the beer. All kidding aside, I was amazed at what the guys in ‘Suits on Bikes’ had accomplished. I don’t know how much money they raised, but they did it on their day off and covered at least 85 kms. Well done! Suits on Bikes!

Friday 2 October

Friday, 2 October

Nyon or the European Shopping Trip

Today we ventured back into the city of Nyon, staying close behind as our guide, Swiss Cammy Herbison, led the way in their car. Ian had begged off on some weak excuse of a work deadline or that he had had enough of his in-laws and his own Mother, Father and aunt Gina, all of whom had taken over his last couple of days.

We headed out of our rustic, safe, pastoral farm scene into the lunacy of frenzied drivers in a city who’s motto seems to be, “Recevez l'enfer outa ma voie!” which means, “Get the hell outa the way!” Their code of road behaviour is survival of the fittest.

I didn’t know where we were going. Once in the bowels of the Mall’s underground parking I didn’t know where we were and later, as I tentatively first-geared our way to back up to daylight and the domain of the berserk, I hadn’t the foggiest about where we had been. Kinda like Columbus on his first transatlantic trip. But don’t get me started on what the car does to the Swiss population in general. The German people, not known for their vehicular-restraint, just gave up, turned the entire country in one long race-track, removed all speed limits, called it the autobahn and let’er rip! The Swiss take their cues from their, for want of a better word, weird, cultural background. In Canada we have two official languages. Switzerland has four, three if you don’t count one of them, which many don’t. We are considered by many other nations to be a touch strange for our bilingual policy. With a quad-lingual strategy the Swiss are downright dangerous. Their army is in the Vatican. They couldn’t come up with a national flag so they stole the one from the Red Cross Society, reversed the red cross on white background to white cross on a red background and slung it up the pole. But it is the arena of the automobile where their zaniness comes to the forefront. Meet a citizen in the street, a bar or shop and you couldn't meet a friendlier, courteous person in the world. Shove that same citizen in behind the wheel and you’ve got … let me put it this way, Michael Schumacher, the world famous Formula One driver lives in Glook – pronounced ‘Glonh!’ ‘nuff said. Petrol fumes (Gasoline) react in them like the mad Doctor Jekyll’s famous tipple, producing a Mr. Hyde-on-wheels. Five minutes earlier he or she, gender makes no never mind in this illustration, had probably just given you a pleasant, “Good day.” Now jammed in behind the steering thingy, Mr. or Mrs. Pleasant Swiss Citizen is now glaring in anger while beeping the tinny tricycle horn all European cars have as standard equipment. You are now a bug to be squashed. And that’s all the way to the mall. Luckily for us, we had a guide and made it down into the parking garage with only a year or so taken of our lives.

Dinner was at Cam and Ian’s with Aunt Gina providing the food, cooking utensils, appliances and even a couple of chairs. Brian, Kate and Bev brought the wine. Bev’s bottle came from the farm and she stole it. I have since reported the theft and it will go on her bill.

We were introduced to a meal known as a ‘Pierrade’. This is your basic survival cooking-- flat rocks, fire, thinly sliced animals (deceased), copious amounts of wine.

The Pierrade style of dining was originally developed during a lull in the well-known technological advance which occurred just after the high period of Neanderthal civilization. The lull was a ten year period between the years 600,000–350,000 BC, (BC in this instance meaning ‘Before Cooking’.)

It epitomized the culture of open-fire cuisine. Luckily for us, we didn’t need to build two small fires on the dining room table, top them off with a bunch of flat rocks, let them heat to a finger-melting temperature then slam the meat onto the rocks, sizzle it a bit then dip the morsels in a variety of condiments and sauces.

The heating apparatus that replaced the open fire on the table top, arrived with the advent of electricity and no doubt saved a lot of tables, was the plug-in Pierrade, we used two. Bev and I liked the idea so much that the next day we went online and ordered our own Pierrade. It will be waiting, along with the cat for our return. And no, the cat is not on the menu.

Thursday, 1 October

Thursday, 1 October

Arrive at Glinny – pronounced ‘Glonh!’ found Cam at a Migros, a huge Safeway/Thrifty’s/Quality Foods-style grocery store, which I had taken for a bank. We went in to get some francs and there was Cammo waving at us from a checkout counter.

That afternoon we settled in to the farm/B&B. Later that evening we were driven by Cam and Ian to his Aunt Gina’s place in France, name to follow. There we met Ian’s Mom, Kate and his Dad, Brian. A fun time playing 45s on Gina’s high fidelity audio system (circa 1812, a portable 33, 45 rpm record machine who’s time should be up) and talking about rock and roll. As foreigners in this neck of the woods Bev and I enjoyed the give and take of Brian’s and Ian’s political stance. Generally speaking, Ian’s seemed to be middle of the road while Brian’s was run them all over! Excellent time was had by all. Around midnight as Cam drove us home I requested a light snack detour. Turned out that nothing was open after sundown.

Wednesday 30th September

Wednesday 30^th September (True day number is Day 5)

And The Blog Goes On

Camille had given us her Google-searched info on getting from Hugie to Gleend, – pronounced ‘Glonh!’ and stated that we had a four hour drive. Not having an urgent schedule we departed around ten thirty in the morning. Since our previous trip down the Autobahn had given Bev an overwhelming desire to never get in the car again, we planned to do the trip via side roads.

I realized that that might add a few minutes to the four hour trip, but in the interests of marital harmony what are a few minutes (did you ever notice how close in spelling the words ‘marital’ and ‘martial’ are)? We made it as far as Buhl, five minutes on the Autobahn, thirty on the back roads and stopped for a bite and to do a bit of shopping. Bev had headed for the nearest shoe store, while I found a grocery store complete with an exotic-looking food court. I was able to procure a pork-like pattie in a rock solid bun that the sales person had called something that sounded like a ‘Frickerdill’. I seemed to remember that from my long ago days in Northern Germany, so when she said, “Echt-neuf-offal-bach-whatever, I put a fifty Euro bill in her hand and withstood the glare while she handed me back forty-five Euros in notes and some small change. I met Bev and while she enjoyed a slice of pizza, I struggled through my tiny, tiny, pork burger, shoved into a baseball glove-sized, rock hard, no doubt beloved-as-traditional, dry bun.

Getting back out of Buhl was tricky and the difficulty of finding a southward pointing road did result in a slightly adversarial dialogue that resulted in us having to turn on the defroster in order to see the road.

We pushed on in the direction of Basel, navigating those annoying roundabout that appeared to be placed solely for the purpose of allowing a few farmers to get to their farms without having to open or close a gate. These roundabouts occurred every 50 metres, with occasional long stretches of 75 metres that were designed to lull me into thinking I could shift into fourth gear, only to suddenly find myself back in a roundabout and downshifting with all the grace of an elephant dancing a minuet in high heels. It was somewhere around the seventh hundred entrance and exit of these diabolical vehicular circles from hell that I caught on.

Up until then I had been of the Slow-Down-To-A-Walk-Stall-The-Damn-Car-Restart-Said-Damn-Car-Edge-Cautiously-Out-Into-The-Roundabout-Oops-Duck-Back-Hopefully-Miss-By-The-Thickness-Of-The-Car’s-Paint-A-Giant-Semi-Arriving-Out-Of-Nowhere-Then-Wait-For-Another-Pause-In-The-Flow-Of-Traffic-REPEAT!-School-Of-Driving-In-Europe-For-The-Timid.

No longer. Now I charge out into the roundabout like a maddened moose with an abscessed tooth, and careen through the circle until Bev cries ‘Uncle’ then I spin off, hoping against hope that I have selected the correct exit. Kind of like roulette with the car being the little ball on the wheel.

We then continue on our merry way for 50 metres and then get to do it all over again. In this manner we journeyed toward Glang – pronounced ‘Glonh!’ until we came to a beautiful bridge over a large river or canal. It was a grand view. We zoomed along in the midday sun as the bridge took us higher and higher, enabling us to look down on dozens of picturesque barges with their zippy sailboat companions dodging and weaving gaily around them. A sight out of a travel brochure. It all came to a crashing end as we nipped along past a sign that said I took to be ‘Welcome to France’; although it could have translated into ‘Bugger off!’

One I recovered from the shock of knowing that we had been moving in the wrong direction, we found a turnaround and scarpered back over the grey, forbidding river and its stupid boats. Lost in France: the trip down the Yellow Brick Road now a postcard from the darkest reaches of hell.

I then told Bev that we were now going back to the big highway, Le Autobahn! Shortly after that we entered Switzerland, got a nod from the Swiss version of the RCMP, wondered aloud about the profusion of tunnels within the city and sped on through to find the Alps.

Glink – pronounced ‘Glonh!’ no longer seemed to be on the other side of the world. We pulled into a gas station to buy some cold drinks and use the toilets.

I had observed, obviously in a haphazard way, the nonchalant manner in which drivers throughout Europe park anywhere they can find a spot.

It seems to me: here I get on my soapbox and offer up a theory of European vehicular culture. The small towns, villages, and tiny cities had all sprung up beside the cart tracks and trails in such a way that with the advent of the automobile, there was no place to put parking lots, gas stations and car lots. The result was this free-for-all style of parking, driving on sidewalks and the seemingly callous disregard for the rights of the other drivers.

1. Take one medieval village blueprint,

2. Superimpose over it, with no regard for progress, a modern day highway template,

3. Keep cow, horse and pedestrian right of ways,

4. Introduce internal combustion engine,

5. Start driving, and

6. Park where’s there’s space.

End of diatribe. The reason for it was to demonstrate how I had cunningly assimilated these attributes. At the gas station I pulled in on the sidewalk, brought the chariot to a halt and began to get out. What I had not picked up on was that the drivers do not block the gas station entrance when they stop. A few irate horn-blowers provided the impetus for me to get back in the car and move it ten yards further along.

In the store part of the gas station I selected my items, took them to the counter and then the neatly made myself misunderstood in three languages, one being my mother tongue. I made no attempt to correct the woman when I gave her a single ten Euro note and she gave me an armful of Swiss money.

Based on the amount she handed over, I was sure she had given me back at least three times more than I had given her. Overjoyed at my sudden wealth, and not being able to communicate to her the mathematical error she had made, I returned to the car to learn that toilets at gas stations appear to be a North American standard that is not always copied here in Europe.

Dreams of early retirement faded rapidly when Bev explained the exchange rate and my pile of cash. We re-grouped and carried on. By this time dusk was upon us and we were unsure of our location in regard to Lausanne, Geneva or anywhere else on the planet.

The alps towered above us, tunnels abounded and shadows chased us on our never-ending search for the mysterious, lost city of Glunck – pronounced ‘Glonh!’. We still hadn’t been able to make a pit stop and both male and female bladders were getting desperate.

We pulled off the highway, found a car wash, a Mercedes dealership and a little dog that dragged a large branch around the parking lot. We slipped into the showroom, located a washroom and all was well. Or so we thought. On stepping back into the showroom we encountered a car salesman, busy locking up for the night.

He looked in astonishment at these two Martians who had suddenly appeared in his washroom doorway. Being a car salesman, he recovered quickly. As he readied himself to swing into his pitch, I slipped in my few words of french, “Aujourd’hui, les sacs en plastique, Mademoiselle?”

That slowed him and before he could sell us a couple of Smart Cars, a Mercedes Benz and some land in Florida we asked directions to Lausanne. Undoubtedly measuring my IQ based on my command of the language, he swallowed his sales talk, unlocked the door and hurried us out.

As we marched back to the car, Bev said that a couple of minutes longer in the WC and we would have been spending the night each curled up in a Smart car on the main showroom floor.

The trek resumed. Night had fallen, as had our hopes of a quick end to the four hour journey. We had now been traveling for eight hours. In the town of Echallons we decided to pack it in and get a hotel. Finding one was tough but we lucked in, not like the poor guy who checked in just ahead of us. He explained in German and English that he had been wandering around for an hour and a half barging into hotels in the neighbourhood and finding no room at the inn. The God of Stupid Travelers had intervened on our part and we had arrived on the doorstep of an Inn/Pizza – no Donairs – establishment.

One Pizza, two beers and a shooter of Schnapps apiece and we were feeling sufficiently cosmopolitan to venture into conversation with the owners, five teenagers at a table nearby and the earlier mentioned stranger who had lodged himself at the bar. I gave the kids five Ranger stickers that I had brought to use as bribes at borders and customs and they accepted them eagerly, once Bev explained to them that I was not a traveling sticker salesman. Shortly after that, off to bed and the end to an interesting day.

Tuesday 29th September

Tuesday 29^th September (True day number is Day 4)

Return with us now, to those thrilling days of yesteryear as we continue with Day Two. We were settled into a two bedroom suite on the top floor of the Hotel Schwan. After negotiating the two sets of stairs with our bags and the assistance of Alfred, prop. of said hotel, we settled in for a short nap. Up a few hours later, we set off to find the PMQ (Permanent Married Quarter) where Bev spent a few years with her family as a high school student. We had no luck at all. Then we shifted our focus to locating the apartment where she lived as a military wife with the little kids known as Cammie and Mike. No luck there either, but we did come across a small shrine/church on the outskirts of Hugie and at the edge of a cornfield. Bev went in to pray for enlightenment while I nipped into the cornfield to … you know.

As we headed back to the hotel Bev said, “I don’t understand it? Am I dreaming that I ever lived here?”

She pointed out toward the horizon and I said, “I think that’s the Rhine out there.”

“Can’t be, I used to live over there.”

“Well, since you’ve been gone for 37 years, I’d say they have now put a river or a canal right through your old apartment.”

While that did not endear me to Mrs. Marco Polo, it did get her thinking.

We re-found ourselves out on the Strasse Main, which to the uninitiated is Main Street, when Bev realized that we had driven into town from the wrong direction. We had been looking in the wrong quadrant of town. Once that was sorted out we trotted off to find the apartment. And there it was! That taken care of, we went back and had a terrific meal in a restaurant then headed off to bed.

The next day we went shopping. Bev bought boots, blouses, tee-shirts and pants. I bought a couple of pastries and a drink. Those chores completed we decided that the day would not be complete without another nap. Jet lag the excuse. Around three o’clock we set out to find the PMQs. Here an amazing incident took place. Seeing a small deli I suggested that we needed a little snack; even though that meant that we would need to cross the street against the thundering herds of Semi-trailers using good ol’ Hugie as a bypass route to avoid the Autobahn road works. Too many of the large trucks were going by at that moment, so we looked at what was on this side. Beside us was a Donair/Pizza joint that Bev would have only ventured into if it were located on the Bull-running street of Pamplona and the bulls were bearing down her.

But for some reason, the stars were aligned in a formation that shoved her into the place and we each ordered some kind of bun/pita/bread envelope stuffed with unidentifiable meats, dripping with unknown condiments and overflowing with what Bev, being a herbalist of renown, stated with 20% certainty was lettuce.

We noticed a man playing the gambling machine nearby, and in exquisite Deutsch gave him a greeting. We ordered, then headed in to find a table.

Some time later the guy came by on his way to the toilet and said, “Enjoying your trip to Germany?”

We said, yes. He came back, suddenly hit the jackpot and while he was getting all his coins converted into paper money, he said, “Where you from?”

Spoke excellent english. We told him and then he said, “I was in the Army, PPCLI.” I told him I had served 21 years in the PPCLI. He turned on his bar stool, pointed at us and said, “Did you know Frank Bishop?”

I started laughing and said, “Yes, kinda.”

Next thing we know he came over and introduced himself as Don McNab. We spent an hour or so with him, all of us marveling over how serendipitous this meeting was. He treated us to a number of beers, picked up the tab for our meal and then we bought a couple of beers as well. By this time, me, not being the drinker I had been on my previous visit to Germany, had begun to feel it. As had my bladder.

We left Don and returned to the now-cloudy mission of locating the MacLean family PMQ. As we marched on past the cornfields, I began to feel the need to …you know. Bev was euphoric on seeing recognizable landmarks. I was wishing for night to fall so that I could relieve the pressure. We skip past the next few moments of our trip and carry on, noting that Bev did find her PMQ, high school and a few other landmarks. As night finally began to fall, we made our way back toward the hotel, passing by another huge memory, a bar that 37 years ago was called Tiffany’s. It still bore that name, so of course, we went down the outside stairs and entered. A few of the locals were quenching their thirsts around the bar and we joined them. Bev chatted, I drank. They chatted, I bought a round and shortly after, we hit the Strasse for home. We could now happily leave Hugie, all Bev’s aims in this part of the world accomplished. All the we had left was a short drive down the Autobahn to find Gland, – pronounced ‘Glonh!’ and our little girl.

September 26, 27 and 28

Jim & Bev Tour Germany 2009

Bev and Jim tour Germany - Days 1, 2 and 3

A note of Sympathy to any loyal blog followers and a note of apology to those who stumble upon it by accident. I do have to renumber the bloody thing as I am sitting in our Farmhouse Hotel, ‘Rustic Paradise’ on Sunday morning 4 October 2009, no longer knowing what day we did what and what we are going to do now.

Started Saturday, 26^th September Day 1

-Departed Parksville by truck at approx 1100 hrs

-Ferry to Twassen

-Truck to Richmond area to the airport

-Plane left for Calgary at 2000 hrs

Sunday, 27^th September Day 2

-arrive Frankfurt approx 1600 hrs

-shuttle to Express Holiday Inn

-supper in a Gasthaus

Monday, 28^th September Day 3

The actual, Now-In-Germany-Being-Tourists-Day-One account (True day number is Day Three) of our adventure. It began peacefully enough with a delicious and varied continental breakfast at our hotel. It went downhill from there.

Missed the shuttle to the airport. Missed it again, got the third attempt. I was off to pick up our rental car and then return to the hotel. Once there I was to pick up our navigator, Amelia Earhart’s little sister, Bev. She was currently up in our room praying to every deity she could envision, begging them to change the speed limit on the Autobahn to one that only permitted 30 kms an hour.

At the airport the car rental went well. If you don’t count the guy doing my paperwork and who was asking me questions in English while also helping a colleague with a knotty problem (in German) and yelling in French at another colleague over on the phone. I trumped him by farting in Swahili, burping in Yiddish and muttering expletives deleted in pig Latin. He was not amused and in revenge gave me a vehicle that was parked in another country.

After finishing up with him, I trudged manfully through tunnels, one of them, I’m sure being the Chunnel, then took escalators, elevators and more tunnels to come out on Level Two, but three or four miles from the Avis booth. I wanted Level One. Not knowing if Level One was up or down, I went in and asked a curmudgeonly Avis lady where Level One might be. She offered something in German that indicated that she could care less which level we were even on so I tried again. Staying in the language that I am most fluent, I tried again, a bit louder, thinking she might be as deaf as I was. She scowled, pointed at the glass doors that I had just come through and snarled, “Not this floor!”

Luckily for me, I caught that and had the foresight to rephrase the question with no mention of this floor, since we seemed to have established that we were (both of us) on Level Two.

She pointed at the pavement, realized that she was indeed dealing with a moron and loudly said, “Down one!”

A day or two later, I reached my vehicle. I knew it was mine because the lights flashed when I pushed the button on the key-assembly-thingy I had received at check-in. A car’s lights flashed when I pushed the doo-dad. It was two lanes behind me and while I was standing directly in front of the parking space listed on my papers, that car over there had to be mine. I pressed buttons and it flashed lights. Turned out to be the easiest and clearest method of communication I was to experience all day.

That car had to be mine and I got in it under the impression that all was required was to drive away from the airport following the directions that the shuttle bus driver had given me. I distinctly remember the words, “Short trip.” And was grateful that he didn’t smugly offer up the old chestnut, “You can’t miss it.”

I stalled it a number of times during the trip out of the parking space in reverse; did I mention that I rented a standard, had not driven a standard in fifteen years and that I had no idea what the German instructions were about in my papers? The only bit of English was my signature.

After a few re-starts, I got out of the parking space and made my way up to the surface. Level One is subterranean, about three feet higher than hell. Boy was it hot down there! Don’t ask about air conditioning, I didn’t, so I had no idea whether the car had it or not.

A patch of blue sky, a couple of semi-trailers on my starboard side, and a lane free of automobiles dead a head. I banged the gas pedal to the floor, remembered that the clutch was not a second brake pedal and shifted from first into fourth. The car nearly died, the semi closest to me blared some kind of apocalyptic air horn in my direction and shoved himself past at 100 kms an hour.

Out on the Autobahn I saw nothing that resembled the trip Bev and I had taken by shuttle out of the airport yesterday evening, or a reverse of the trip in by shuttle half an hour ago. At the slow pace of 100 kms on the Autobahn you will be passed by any Teutonic turtles in the area, so I goosed it up to 120. That got me out of the bicycle lane. I cruised along looking for landmarks. I spotted one or two trees I thought looked familiar. Problem was, they had grown fifty feet in my absence. By this time, although I didn’t know it then, I had been steadily heading west rather than the suggested direction of south, which would have brought me a whole lot closer to the hotel.

I decided to get off the Autobahn. If you decide to visit Germany and the time comes for you to get off the Autobahn, be aware that the little red circle with 30 printed in its middle stands for 30 kms an hour and is not the highway number.

I managed to avoid a wreck by gearing down, braking and praying all while wondering why there was no cup holder in the car and would my travel mug dump its contents during this rapid deceleration.

We, meaning me, the car and the travel mug, found ourselves in a quaint little town that still remains unidentified. It did have a quiet, peaceful, pastoral bike path that was the only parking spot I could see. I pulled in there, was treated to some unkind words by a pair of bike riders looking for the Tour De France, most likely a couple of British and or Canadian cyclists. I reversed out--twice. While waiting for a break in the traffic, no Autobahn, but still a steady flow of cars and small trucks, I saw a pedestrian. She stopped when I said in my best German, “Hello, do you speak English?”

She looked at me as if I were from Mars, pointed at her watch and told me, I suspect, the time. I glanced at her watch and then repeated the question a bit louder in case she was deaf. She realized that she had a bus to catch and in the only english she possessed said, “Bus. No time. Go!” and she go-ed.

I realized that I was learning something: if her watch was correct, by this time Bev would have been kicked out of the room and would even now be standing beside the Autobahn with a pile of luggage.

A teenage girl and her mother or Parole officer came out of a building and I put the same questionnaire to them. By means of gestures, words, some German, mine all English, we got the idea that I needed to go back to the airport and give it another go, this time on the correct highway. They hopped in their SUV and I hopped into my car and followed them. We got out onto the Autobahn. We moved along, with only a stop or two for them to let me catch up. We pulled over under a big sign that showed a little plane flying on its side. I nodded my comprehension, told them that we Canadians had invented that little piece of roadside hieroglyphics, thanked them and we parted company.

I traveled along, came to the airport and in some intuitive fashion bypassed Terminal 1 and 2, waved in the direction of Level One and headed out to find my Sweetie. My knowledge of the rollercoaster style method of assembling clover leaf highway systems near airports all over the world stood me in good stead. I chose one road, breathed a prayer that this was not the same road that I left the airport on a lifetime ago, and put the pedal to the metal.

Lo and behold, somewhere down the highway I took a turnoff that could have been the one we had traveled last night. I got off the Autobahn without causing any forty car pile ups (that I was personally involved in) and then in a panic, slammed on the brakes, downshifted, flipped on the turn signal and turned into a one way street going the wrong way.

I had seen the hotel sign. Ignoring the horns of startled drivers, I moved off until I found another one way street, but known for my consistency in driving matters, took it in the wrong direction as well. Ten yards later brought me to the hotel driveway.

I parked, got out of the car and nonchalantly walked into the hotel lobby. Bev was sitting there, munching on an apple amid our luggage.

Compared to that portion of our trip, the actual voyage to Huglesheim was a breeze. I even got the little bomb up to 135 without Bev noticing it. The passenger side handhold will have to be replaced, but we arrived, and are now in a nice suite in a Gasthaus.