Interrail: Day 4

Day 4: 24th of November

I woke up cold and stiff in my sleeping bag. Grey light from outside shone in bleakly through the window and I wondered whether it was still night or morning.

“Good morning!” Magda said suddenly, coming into the room with a towel around herself. I murmured something inaudible, receiving a slight chuckle from her as she dressed herself while I struggled to find my bearings and my scattered belongings. Somehow regardless where I go, if I spend more than five minutes somewhere I always manage to spread my things all over the area within a few seconds.

Slowly I roused myself, got dressed, assembled the sofa bed and rolled up the sleeping bag. I washed up a little in the bathroom, tried to do something about my unruly dreads so as to look as little as possible as a tramp. Magda chattered easily in spanish as we went to the other side of the apartment to have breakfast. I was far too tired still to offer her somewhat satisfactory replies but she seemed happy anyway. I helped myself to müsli in the kitchen before joining Magda and a few of her house mates in the dining room. Robert that had opened for me last night was there with his girlfriend, both of them trying to feed their baby. There was another couple there too with their own baby. They all looked very much like they had jumped out of some 70’s reminiscence and I observed them subtly as they chatted tiredly to each other in german over cups of steaming herby tea and bowls of müsli with raisins, cinnamon and soy milk.

But it was time to leave, Magda was already late for her eurythmy class. She followed me down the road and before long I found myself standing alone next to the busy road, waiting for the buss. I was infinitely grateful for Magda’s help and pondered over my evening in the Berlin commune with amusement playing on my lips. My back was tired from carrying the heavy backpack and my hands were turning gradually more and more pink as the morning cool began to seep in through my clothes.

With weary eyes I observed the daily lives of the people around me. Cars were speeding past on the road and behind me a family were setting up their fruit stand, shouting to each other in a language unknown to me. Foam shaped in front of my mouth as I sighed and bitterly studied the large coca-cola commercial signs on the other side of the road.

I decided then and there that I did not want to experience the same panic I had felt in Frankfurt when posed with the commotion of the big city. Today would be a day of silence.

The bus took me all the way to Berlin Hauptbahnhof, the Central station. From there I managed to lock in my heavy bag and walked off simply carrying my camera, my recycled shoulder bag containing my knitting, my small journal, a bottle of water and some other small things.

Once again the similarity between Berlin Central station and Heathrow airport struck me like a smack to the head. It took me roughly ten minutes to find out where I could lock in my bag, then another ten minutes to find out when the train to Basel was leaving and after which I had to cross the full distance of the Central station for the second time in order to find the tourist information and buy a map of Berlin.

The signs pointing to Service Point, Tourist Info and Luggage retrieval just didn’t make sense to me, somehow they always seemed to pointing in the exact wrong direction.

Nevertheless eventually I made my way out of the Central station and avoiding the obnoxious groups of tourists, japanese and german alike I set out towards Brandenburger Tor. The air was freezing in my lungs and I wished that I had in my possession a pair of sturdy gloves as opposed to my homemade wrist-warmers. The sky was grey and glum as I crossed a bridge and a park. 

The perverted symmetry of the hedges, benches, paths, and well, everything made me very uncomfortable and filled me with the strong urge to mess things up, tip over a trash can or cut one of the hedges at least a little crookedly.

There was a solemnity, a bleak atmosphere in the morning as I continued to the Jewish Memorial. Silence struck me as I watched the light shining through the opaque gloomy clouds, the pale light glittering on the many surfaces of the monument. I took a deep breath and entered down one of the paths, the light of the world disappearing as I fell deeper and deeper into the darkness of the monument, the feelings that had inspired it pulling me under like a wave of icy water.

I gasped for breath, tried listening after the sounds of the city, the buses and cars and the people but the world was quiet.

I blinked a few times, brought the camera to my eyes and photographed my surroundings, bringing reality in through my lens and letting the picture sink into my brain as oxygen returned to my lungs and I was able to leave the monument behind me with a feeling of sorrow in my heart.

The grey city of Berlin unfolded itself before me as I made my way onwards towards the Jewish Museum. I had studied the architecture of the building in 12th grade and was thus very much looking forward to seeing it in real life.

At some point I must have taken a wrong turn because I did not recognize any of the roads that I was supposed to be crossing on my way to the museum, though of course I always have been quite hopeless at reading maps. The path I chose was a rather desolate one though, much to my satisfaction.

I walked for about one and a half hours before rounding a corner and suddenly finding myself in front of the Jewish Museum. The great building took all the breath out of me as if someone had punched me in my stomach. Tentatively I approached it, holding my camera in front of me like a sword for protection.

I wandered around the museum for some twenty minutes, photographing it from different angles, fervently seeking to catch the perfect picture of the beautiful monstrosity that was the museum.

Time and tire eventually tore me away from there, and with a little more certainty as to where I was actually heading I set off once more, taking note of a rising discomfort in my weary feet.

Berlin had greeted me with the early sunrise of the south but extreme cold in the somewhat early hours of the morning, but now as I began to retrace my steps back to the Hauptbahnhof warmth seemed to overwhelm me. The sensation of accomplishment echoed in the back of my mind, though I knew not quite where it came from.

The odd snowless streets led me back to the chaotic central station. I arrived with 45 minutes to spare and first checked out my heavy backpack again before making my way to the platform, which as anticipated was not as easy as I could have wished for.

By the time I found the platform I badly needed to use the bathroom, the slight ache in my foot had developed into a fully fledged pain and hunger tore in my belly. Twenty minutes remained before the arrival of my train. Each second felt like an eternity as I struggled to control my bladder and focus on something else. I wondered if I would be able to smoke if I sat far away enough from the security guard.

I decided my current state of misery was not worth a possible scolding from a german and instead decided to alleviate the one pain I could do something about.

Hoisting the backpack onto my back again I made my way as quickly as I could do the bathroom, limping as I rushed down the escalator.

Of course, all the signs were pointing in the wrong direction and it took another painful five minutes before I was able to locate the restroom, fish up 80 cents and the rest is history.

When I came back the train was already there and I managed to find an empty seat rather quickly. Well seated I set up camp, which is to say I managed to spread most of my belongings all over the two seats. I quickly found my loaf of organic rye bread from Saltå Kvarn, my tube of vegetable paté and within half an hour I had finished the loaf and leaned back in my seat with an unsatisfied feeling in my stomach probably caused by the bread diet I had been living on since the beginning of the journey.

The train ran straight to Basel SBB and took just over 7 hours.

I worked steadfastly on my computer, even read a few pages of “the Biography of Rudolf Steiner” and begun knitting a green wrist-warmer to match the purple one I had made on my way to Germany.

Outside the landscape changed slowly, from bright green to frozen blizzards to pitch black as we neared Basel.

The positive thing with traveling by train if you don’t think that time is a problem is the slow transformation of the landscape. Often when I have flown somewhere I find it takes me at least a day after arrival before I feel like I have actually landed and can function like a normal human being again.

The hours ran past us as we sped into new lands and the beautiful rolling countryside outside my window let my mind grow accustomed to the new country as we passed over border after border.

I nearly got off at the wrong station in Basel, remembering only that I had to leave at Basel station without considering the fact that there might be several stations named Basel something. I found myself anxiously waiting, backpack on, perched at the edge of my seat, for the train to roll into Basel SBB, as I was quite certain that it was the right stop.

I was swept out into the station along with the mass of people, following the stream of german speaking people. Basel SBB was considerably smaller in size compared to Berlin Hbf, something I found very comforting indeed.

So, I thought quietly to myself. I am in Basel now, how do I get to Dornach?

For some reason I had formed an image in my head where Basel and the Goetheanum seemed to be the same thing and in the same place but as I turned around again and again, reading the signs and schedules (not seeing the name Dornach anywhere) I slowly began to realise that getting there was maybe not quite as easy as I had first thought.

I wandered down one end of the central station, then down the other. I sent text messages to all the YIP’ies I had on my phone, wandered down the other direction once again before I managed to find someone working in the ticket booth. At the same time I got a hold of Emma who was still enjoying the quiet of the Dottenfelder-Hof farm. She told me to leave the train station and take a tram, though I decided, just to be sure, to ask at the ticket booth as well.

The woman selling tickets told me to take the train from a platform I had passed by on my way over to her. A train would be leaving to Dornach within the hour.

I decided to take my chances and follow the woman’s advice as Emma had seemed slightly unsure of her words.

As I dragged my tired, pained feet down the stairs down to the platform I received a phone call from Joana who in panic asked me where I was and if I knew where I was going before she went off in a rant to reprimand me for not picking up the phone. I failed to have noticed the three times she had phone me within the past two minutes. I apologized sincerely to her, appreciating her concern before making sure that she notify Katha at the Youth Section of my arrival.

Katha soon informed me of what I was to do when arriving at Dornach station, which bus to take and to where.

Fortunately an interrail ticket can be used on long distance trains, but also on the metro and the subway, thus I gave my traveling no further thought nor concern once I found myself a seat for both myself and my backpack. Dornach was not far from Basel and before long it was time to leave the metro and step into the dark, chilly evening. I had to ask around a few times before finding out where my bus left from. Eventually the best answer I received was from another bus driver. I hardly had to ask him the question until, after a long gaze from his side he simply asked me, “You go to the Goetheanum?” Whereupon I replied yes in surprise, seeing as I had had no time to mention the matter yet. He gave me another look and explained to me that there would probably be a bus in twenty minutes, bus 66. (If I can remember correctly). Slowly the stress of traveling solo began to lift as I finally felt that things were sorting out, becoming easier, that I was almost there. Of course, the bus proved to be rather tardy. I was thirsty and hungry but sitting where I was on a cold bench, I felt oddly pleased with myself, because despite all my physical discomforts, I was glad, because I knew that there was still strength in my weary body. The enjoyment I felt from traveling stemmed from the assurance of my own strength.  The bus arrived eventually and I embraced its arrival like a well-deserved treat for my patience. I reminded myself with a good amount of irony and humour that the whole journey had been ridiculously environmental as I pushed my way through the cramped corners of the bus and took two seats rather uncomfortably for both myself and my backpack. The bus began to drive after five minutes of standing still, all doors wide open letting all the cold air in. But once the doors were shut and the rather shoddy looking vehicle began to climb the steep hills of Dornach I quickly forgot how cold I had been and rather began contemplating if I should remove my woolly sweater. The world outside was dark and what little light there was came from the seemingly randomly placed street lights. I quickly began to worry that I actually would not notice if we passed by the Goetheanum, something I had thought to be completely impossible at first. Of course, I had never actually seen the place, though I was quite certain it should be visible at least. Nevertheless I decided not to take any chances and approached the bus driver. His english was unfortunately poor at best.

“Are you passing by the Goetheanum?”

“The what?”

“The Goetheanum.”

“Was?” I didn’t know in what other possible way I could rephrase that question, but pointed on the screen next to him describing his travel route. I put my finger on “Goetheanum”.

“Ahaa,” he exclaimed loudly. “The Goh-ete-ah-noom.” I nodded, relieved. “Ja, is the next stop.” He continued speaking to me throughout the journey, of which I understood little, though I appreciated the effort. The bus came to a screeching stop and I stared out into the dark, seeing nothing but blocks of flats and small houses.

“Are you sure this is the Goetheanum? There’s supposed to be a really big building there.”

He looked a bit perplexed before exclaiming in an excited voice,” ah yes, next stop, I sorry.” He closed the doors and I sat down, touching my forehead tiredly. I had no idea where I was, nor did the bus driver seem to know, but it was okay. Next stop he said. And so the bus stopped. I looked out through the window again and seeing nothing turned back to the bus driver.

“There’s supposed to be a really big...”

“Ja, is up there.” I let my eyes follow his finger. A huge grey building atop a great hill loomed down over me.

“Right then,” I said simply, thanked the driver and skipped off the bus. And once again as so many times before I found myself wondering where to go next. The Goetheanum seemed to be the right way to go, thus I walked up the hill, realised it wasn’t where I should be, phoned Katha and had a german answer her phone. I soon realised it was Guy Collins a frequented visitor to YIP. He gave me directions to the Youth Section that I had obviously passed on my way up to the Goetheanum, as it actually was next to the bus stop.

I never avoid a good walk though, and without further ado, walked down the hill and was greeted by the YIP smokers, standing outside the orange Youth Section building.

I was given food, tea, bread and peanut-butter.

The hitchhikers told me of blizzards, of strange truck-drivers, of sleeping on the ferry to germany on a stormy sea.

I thought back to the long hours on the train, thinking how six hours felt like a short time compared to the distance between Denmark and practically everywhere. The taste of peanut-butter reminded me of the quiet conversations I had with the girls in the cramped compartment between Hamburg and Frankfurt. The bright colours and smiling faces of the YIP’ies made me think of the bleak and silent day I had had in Berlin, of the solemnity I had carried the whole day which was now replaced by the exhausted joy of gathering with YIP once again.

And a feeling of being home struck me so strongly, stronger than the distance to Sweden, stronger than my tire and ache. Home is where your heart is, and my heart is touched by people.