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.