Back in the old DDR

Germany - April 2014

Possibly the quickest we’ve gone from deciding to go away to going away. My companion’s best mate was working in East Germany, so we used this as an opportunity to do some exploring.

Landing at Schönefeld and groggily making our way to the station, we must have looked completely baffled, as a friendly local piped up with an offer of assistance when she found us staring blankly at a ticket machine. She told us what tickets to get, which train to catch and what stop to get off at. She even offered to walk us to our hotel. Not once did I find this suspicious or anything other than charming. However, if someone had approached me like this back in England I probably would’ve run a mile. We just don’t help each other like that. During the journey we swapped stories (she was half English, half German and split her time between Berlin and Mansfield where her boyfriend lives) and she gave some recommendations of places to see. I even managed some football banter, but as she was a Man U fan and this was the season of Moyes-content, it was all to easy. Never did get her name, but thank you, whoever you were.

We only spent around 48 hours in Berlin, which wasn’t nearly enough, but we managed to cram a Greatest Hits tour into that short spell. The first afternoon was spent wandering around Tiergarten, including a walk up the Siegessäule (Victory Column). The park was full of hidden paths and lakes. I imagine it’s beautiful in the summer, a shame we had only an hour to spend there on the edge of rainy season. Then we walked up to the Brandenburg Gate and around the various Holocaust memorials. There was a single daisy left on the gay memorial, which was touching in its simplicity. The Jewish memorial was a maze of undulating pathways and concrete posts. Tourists seemed to be mostly treating it like a maze. I have to admit I found the whole thing emotionally confusing, but I guess it’s meant to stir some kind of reaction from you. Also, I got completely separated and lost from Angelos. I panicked, with both our phones off, how the hell was I meant to find him? Luckily, being a million feet tall I just stood on high ground and waited for him to find me. In the evening we dined like kings on fish nuggets and cookies in the glass cathedral Hauptbahnhof.

The next day covered much ground. We started at a DDR museum which offered some enlightening views on what life was like on that side of the wall. I tell myself I can remember watching the wall come down on the news, but it’s one of those clips you see so often it could be a fake/Incepted memory. We then walked along the path of the wall past various information points and crumbling remains. Next was the technology museum which was huge and pretty good value for money. Food is always the biggest memory - I had my first Currrywurst here and it was a tasty experience. From there we went to the Miller chocolate factory/cafe/shop for some amazing white chocolate concoction, then to Checkpoint Charlie and a walk around more of the East side of the city.

In the evening we met up with my mate Andy in a sports bar and I spent the night drinking Magners, ordering in English and generally forgetting I was in another country. Several people he introduced me to said they originally came to Berlin for a holiday and then decided not to leave. I can absolutely see why. It’s a fascinating city that probably has the friendliest atmosphere of anywhere I’ve visited in Europe so far. We stumbled home on the last train from Alexandraplatz, far too giddy on too little drink.

We don’t usually drink too much on our holidays. Mainly because our trips usually involve so much walking and general getting around - relaxing and doing nothing isn’t of much interest to my companion. Also, I’m not very good at “just having one drink”, it’s kinda oblivion or nothing. So the next morning was a struggle, even after an OD on Nutella from the breakfast buffet. It was a scorching hot day, and we started by travelling out to the Olympic Stadium, a magnificent structure. Then it felt like we walked the entire length of East Berlin, taking in an uninspiring computer game museum, a large stretch of the Wall and an overpriced model railway. I did spot several locations from Goodbye Lenin which reminded me I really need to watch that film again.

I spent something like three hours on my feet without rest, so I collapsed on the high speed train to Leipzig and slept all the way. Another hour’s journey on a local service and we arrived in Gera, tucked out of the way in Thuringia and not even warranting a mention in any of our guidebooks. We were staying with George, who was grateful for the company and the opportunity to show us round “this fucking village”. It was good timing, they were setting up their annual fair, this year celebrating the city’s 777th anniversary. We ended up in a bar by the station that we would come to know very well, and start drinking a beer I would get to know even better.

Saturday started with a walk up in the hills that held a dense forest that this region is apparently famous for. Then we made our way around around the fair - think an Easter version of a German Christmas market, food and booze everywhere. I had an oversized novelty sausage and spent the day drinking Köstritzer Kellerbier. I’m usually a cider guy, beer has never really interested me that much, but this was gorgeous and way too drinkable. Throughout the day we saw model airplanes in the shape of sheep, a mental marching band and in the evening 777 lanterns were launched down the river. Maybe it was the beer talking, but it looked absolutely beautiful, the flow of the river catching them all in just the right light. Then came what we thought was going to be a hot air balloon launch, but turned out to be one of those things where they all stand there and blast their flame things in time to the music that was pumping out. There was around an hour of this. Still, it was a fantastic day and something we completely would’ve missed if we just stuck to the big cities.

On Sunday we set out to explore the region, first visiting the local capital Erfurt. Another hidden gem off the main tourist trail, it had beautiful ornate streets and an imposing cathedral. There also seemed to be a habit here of knitting covers for lampposts and bollards. Everyone needs a hobby I guess. After spending most of the day here we spent the rest of the evening in nearby Weimar. The very name brought back various history lessons in a tidal wave. On the train there we managed to incur the wrath of the ticket inspector as we were travelling on the wrong sort of train or something. My two companions just spoke very fast Greek at each other until he left us be. Comes in handy. I don’t remember much about Weimar other than eating the most ridiculous over-sized Schnitzel covered in mushrooms, cream and garlic.

Monday and Tuesday were spent taking day trips to Dresden and Leipzig. Dresden was another name that brought back history, and I did feel some weird sensation of guilt walking around the re-built centre and its scorched black bricks. Leipzig was a lot more relaxing and fascinating, with various styles of architecting vying for your attention amongst the former DDR’s charms. There was a Stasi museum that was really fascinating. The bit that really hit home was the feature on a 14 year old boy who was massively critical of the government in a school essay. All of a sudden both his parents and his school were put under pressure to do something about him, and it could have escalated to some tragic end had the wall not come down almost immediately afterwards. 

Our last evening in Germany was spent in a quiet cocktail bar. Every day since meeting up with Andy had been spent getting some level of pissed. I didn’t want to leave. And I can’t wait to go back.

Notes from a small island

Malta - November 2013

“Smaller than the Isle of Wight”, I kept saying. And another place we put our Empirical stamp on, cue much guilt on whatever we fucked over this time round. Anyway, the idea of some winter sun was appealing. We did our usual thing of looking at where was available from Manchester Airport, and chose this little beauty.

We arrived inappropriately dressed for the climate - it rarely went below 18 celsius, especially smug inducing as it was around 4 degrees back in Yorkshire. One crazy old coach journey later, and we were at Buġibba, a concrete pimple on the north side of the island. Imagine Clacton but with a slightly better climate. It was pretty hideous, but we were there for the cheap accommodation, and our hotel was perfect for what we needed, and only around 115 Euros for the whole week. We even had our own kitchen, so breakfast, lunch and most dinners were on us, sourced from the nearby supermarket which got a million points for stocking one of my favourite ciders.

What Buġibba lacked in architecture it made up for in views and cats, and views of cats. The sunset over the bay was beautiful and turned the sky a crazy purple/orange colour. And there were cats everywhere! Mostly friendly, and most of them we wanted to take back with us.

 The first morning brought on the most intense storm, and we were out of basic provisions, so I had to venture out. Buġibba seems to have no drainage system, so every street was turned into a waterfall. Down the end of the road it had backed up to be a couple of feet deep. I made it there and back so utterly drenched, but it was worth it to get our sugar crisp cereal!!

The first full day was spent in the capital Valletta, a hotch potch of tourist traps and abandoned dilapidated buildings. The war museum gave insight into just what the island endured during WWII, apparently a higher volume of bombs fell on Malta than were dropped on the entirely of the UK. It’s amazing to see there’s anything left.

We spent most evenings watching movies on a Dubai-based satellite station, or music on the German channel Deluxe TV. They had a mash-ups section that was ridiculously well put together, and they also got me into Philipp Poisel, so cheers for that.

Each additional day was spent off in different corners of the island. The weather mostly held out. It was rarely full on sunny, but it was never anything approaching cold. The best day was spent up on Gozo, a small island to the north. The guidebooks say you could spend a full week entertained here, and I could definitely see that. There was something quite charming about the place. The highlight was a walk around the cost and various sights that brought to us.

The Hypogeum was another highlight - underground tombs that are among the oldest stone structures in the world. It holds its fascination in that it was discovered by accident, we’ll never truly know how it was made or what significance it has, and there could be dozens more of these hidden around the island.

Food! For all of its red-faced English pensioners in English bars, Buġibba did come up trumps with the most amazing restaurant. We ended up going there two nights in row we loved it so much. The speciality were platters of locally sourced starters and desserts, with rabbit for main. I remember being in taste heaven, it was amazing. Although the second evening did seem to be preparing for a hen do - there was a massive penis cake left on the table next to us.

The cost of things was another revelation. It helped that we were making most of our own meals, but I took out 120 Euros at the start of the week and came home with plenty of change. After wallet burning trips to Japan, Norway and Switzerland, this was a welcome relief.

The end came with the usual holiday envy. When you arrive on one of these fast turnaround budget flights, you see all the miserable sods waiting to get on your plane to shuffle off home. Meanwhile you’re bouncing down onto the tarmac eager to get started. Then comes the reverse: you are the miserable sod, utterly envious of everyone getting off your plane about to start their holiday. Bastards.

I feel like we pretty much covered the whole island in a week, and that was pacing ourselves. I wouldn’t want to go in high season - the infrastructure seemed fit to burst with the minimal tourists that there were in November, and we had the bonus appeal of walking around shut down beaches like it was a ghost town. For a cheap getaway, this was perfect.

Can’t Speak French

Paris - Easter 2013

I’d wanted to come back to Paris for some time. I was last there in around 92 or 93 with my Dad, not long after the Tunnel opened. I remember eating lumps of sugar for breakfast every morning, and there were mushrooms growing on our hotel room skirting board.

My companion had already been twice, perhaps three times, but has no memory of anything in particular, so was happy to go with me again. It was my first journey from St Pancras and on the HS1 line, which went from the city to the tunnel in less than 30 minutes. This is how rail travel is meant to be, not stuck behind years of delayed consultations and obstructors to progress.

We arrived around the time of year when the clocks go forward, so having another hour jump forward seemed to be more baffling to my mind than a larger time shift would have been. Dazed and moderated exhausted, we dumped our stuff at our hotel and set off to see whatever we could cram into our first evening. This ended up being the Pompidou centre and Notre Dame (the outside of each, anyway). Little did I realise that I look at a photo of Notre Dame on our fridge every day. We had one of our better meals at a chain restaurant that offered three courses of deliciousness and a glass of red for a reasonable amount of euros. Set menus seemed to be all the rage here, and certainly made our job easier.

As the song goes, I can’t speak French. At school our year was split into two, half started with French, the other German. I was on the German half. Then in Year 9 the top set of each half got to do the other language for a year. So I had one year of two lessons a week. It didn’t stick. I struggle enough with German and I learnt that for five years. So once again I relied on the international language of pointing at things and looking confused when someone reeled off a load of local talk at me.

On Saturday morning we attempted to visit the catacombs. However as it was the Easter weekend in one of the most popular tourist cities in the world, one or two others did too. The queues were ridiculous, so we went to spend the day at the Cité des Sciences et de l'Industrie, which I have another strong memory from visiting before. Back then they had a mini TV studio that you could control every aspect of, and an underground botanical garden that was meant to represent some Jurassic wonderland. This time around there was a planetarium that was so soothing I had to fight to stay awake.

Sunday was more eventful. In the morning there was a bomb scare at the tower, more on that later. We started with a walk around Anvers to find the Café des 2 Moulins, where Amélie was filmed. It was heaving with customers but we managed to grab a table and eat what was probably the best meal we had there. Gorgeous waiter too. As we were paying customers I didn’t feel too bad taking the odd photo, but people were just walking in off the street, snapping a picture and walking out again. Bit cheeky, I thought. And the books say this place has finally fallen off the main tourist trail, god knows what it was like at its peak. My other memory of the place was the power cutting out every 15 minutes, but they still put on a mighty quick & decent service despite the crowds.

Walking around the centre of Paris was eerie, it was like a deserted city in some places. We walked a massive route that took in various parks and landmarks. The entrance to the Louvre was insane. Why anyone would want to spend hours in a queue to then spend a few seconds near a painting is beyond me.

We made it to the Eiffel tower to find it still cordoned off after the earlier bomb scare, with machine gun wielding police patrolling the grounds. Then we made for the Grande Arche de la Défense - another landmark I stare blankly at on our fridge every morning - for a walk around its modern Docklands-esque architecture.

Getting back to the tower in the evening was one of those real planets aligning moments. There was only one entrance open (one was under maintenance and two more were still shut following the scare) so you can imagine the size of the queue for that one leg. I got a hot chocolate and we contemplated heading across the way to get a view of the tower’s hourly light show. Then the leg nearest us re-opened, and we ran to the front of the queue. We were probably up and back down again in the same time some losers were still queueing. Ha!

It wasn’t until we got around halfway up that I remembered I am terrible with heights. There was a slight breeze, but my paranoia made it feel gale force. Every time I took my camera out of my pocket I envisioned it tumbling over the edge, and me with it. Very calming. Still, it was one of those things you have to experience at one stage or the other. The hourly sparkling lights display looked amazing up close, but they looked even better an hour later when we viewed them from afar, combined with the fountain show. It was quite a spectacular sight.

Our train back wasn’t until Monday afternoon, so we had time for one last walk. We started along an abandoned railway viaduct that had been transformed into an urban park and walkway. We were constantly dodging joggers. We ended up at the Père Lachaise cemetery. And I had to admit to feeling a combination of underwhelmed and unease. This was a tourist spot that was also somewhere people come to genuine express loss for their loved ones. I felt like none of us outsiders really had any right being there.

One last lunch, and then back to Gare du Nord and the grubby holding pen they cram you in which just pales in comparison to St Pancras. A fine weekend.

North By North North

Tromsø - February 2013

This trip was a combination of two things: my companion’s desire to to see the Northern Lights, and my disastrous journey to Japan. The voucher we got as compensation for my cancelled flight paid for a chunk of the travel, so we headed inside the arctic circle during what was meant to be the peak of an 11 year cycle of solar activity.

The sheer power of the cold climate was the first thing to grab me. I’ve never experienced sub zero temperatures like this, it certainly put winter in Yorkshire in perspective. Not only that - everything was functioning! Airports, roads, general services - again we are shamed in a nation where a light dusting sends all our infrastructure to hell.

We arrived quite late on a Thursday evening and got instantly lost. However, Tromsø is a small city on a small island, so most things aren’t that far away, even if you are going in the wrong direction. Our hotel was pleasant, warm and had a fantastic breakfast buffet where I continued my habit of Eating All The Nutella.

Luckily most imported TV was subtitled rather than dubbed, so we didn’t struggle to find something comprehensible to watch. Simon Cowell Talent Show Variant was present and correct with Norge Idol. It was interesting to see most of the local adverts depicted a country with lush green valleys during summertime. Aspirational I guess? As the only greenery we saw all weekend was covered in a few feet of snow. There was also an advert for butter which included swearing Vikings playing ice hockey that made us chuckle.

The first day was spent wandering around the city and getting our bearings. Once again the trusty 7-11 was there to provide us with sustenance, but at a much more inflated price than Japan. We took a bus out to the winter gardens at the uni to find it was a very apt name - the gardens were lost under a mass of snowfall. Even the benches were barely visible. We also took a walk over the bridge to the northernmost cathedral in the world. Tromsø also has the northernmost Burger King in the world. The More You Know.

Saturday was the best day. We left early in a minibus to be driven even further north into the wild. We were with a group of people who were going to go on some kind of sled ride, but it was just us two taking part in our activity - snowshoe rambling. We were kitted up in giant bodysuits and left to put on our snowshoes which were unruly devices for sure.

But then it was just us and the wilderness. We tracked our way around the edges of the farm or whatever it was we were on, seeing lakes, mountains and reindeer both wild and captive. I love walking through freshly fallen snow, the crunch sound is one of my favourites. There was a lot of crunch. After an hour or so of this we were due back at the farm for complimentary tea in a wigwam. Then it was back to Tromsø to prepare for the evenings hunt to see the northern lights.

Every night there are dozens of tours that promise you spectacular sky displays. Our company alone sent out around 10 packed coaches full of people. We went for one of the low key tours that promised hot chocolate AND a cookie. Sold.

We departed around 10pm and the first stop was around 90 minutes away in some kind of layby. On the journey there someone pointed excitedly to the sky and said they could see the lights, and I was disappointed just to see a small cloud formation. Where was the green glow? Where were the dancing skies? We piled off the bus and the first thing that hit me was the stars. Millions of them! I’ve never seen such a spectacular sight. I was happy just seeing this - free from light pollution and slightly delirious from the low temperature despite wearing a dozen layers. There were northern lights too, and I had to admit to continued disappointment. You are sold this photoshopped lie that you’ll see an atmosphere of luminescence right from the start.

The truth is, it takes a long time to reach anything like that, and it’s much more likely to appear that way through a camera than through your eyes. Walking around gazing upwards at the majesty of it all, it was annoying to be chastised by various camera nerds who claimed we were ruining their shots. They spent the whole night looking at this splendour through a camera display - their loss. There were specialist camera trips they could have gone on, and I wish they did.

So there we were, lying back on a snowy bank, counting shooting stars that chased across the sky. The organiser came over to us and said “you do realise the main show is over there, right?” beckoning to the lights. He took an “official” photo of us with the northern lights over our shoulders, although it did involve keeping your eyes open for ages while a blinding camera light shone right at you. I blinked, so I appear to be half asleep. As it was gone midnight by then, I probably was.

We bundled onto the bus and set off for the Finnish border. We arrived in another layby to find the temperature clock telling us it was -17. Christ! The trees and bushes were skeletons of ice. It was a proper North Of The Wall moment. And the northern lights were getting their sky groove on. Still not as glowing as you’d hope, but visibly green and moving. It was hypnotic. The inside of my nose was turning to icicles and I didn’t care. It was beautiful.

One quick reversal across the border with Finland and we were on our way. I think it was gone 2am by the time we arrived back to our hotel. Exhausted but enchanted by it all.

Sunday was a slower start, and mainly involved exploring the remainder of the island. There was a massive frozen lake that we spent a lot of time walking on and around. Couldn’t get over the sensation that it could crack at any second. On the way back into town we passed a graveyard, and next to one or two tombstones stood a candle. I can only assume that these were real candles and not fakes, but the idea of going out to light a candle for someone every night got me a bit teary. But when it’s several degrees below freezing your tits off, no one really notices.

For our final meal we ate reindeer, which wasn’t nearly as guilt inducing as I thought it would be, given that we saw some cuddly examples out in the wild. Bloody tasty it was too.

The flight home was actually three flights, a lot of waiting in Trondheim and then a mad dash through my old nemesis Copenhagen airport. We will meet again, delayer of flights.