Here’s a report on our trip, which was a great success in accomplishing its main purpose, which was to get somewhere else, fast. Germany and the Netherlands were the destinations chosen. Somewhat randomly.
Just to start with, and in my own defense, the whole car thing in Amsterdam wasn’t entirely my fault. We’d arrived in Frankfurt at eight in the morning three days earlier, bleary, confused, and confronted with the fact that people were speaking another language. Sue, feeling perhaps the effects of six months of chemo, an overnight flight, a whirlwind marriage, and two Atavan, was functioning at the level of a single-cell organism, whereas I—the one in charge—was operating more in the higher-order vegetable category. Neither of us has much of a sense of direction to begin with, so most conversations began not with “wow, look at that,” but “where do you think we are?
I was a bit overwhelmed by the prospect of having to find the Hertz agency, sign a lot of confusing papers, and then the terrifying knowledge that we’d have to locate ourmanual transmission automobile in a giant garage and immediately enter, at high speed, into an amazingly complex tangle of German highways in search of the airport hotel that we probably wouldn’t be able to check into until late in the afternoon. But the main point, and the one to remember, is that the first car was a Diesel, a nice Opel. When we found it, in the bowels of the garage, it seemed far too big—like a minivan--so I trudged back to the Hertz counter (a long way), cut in line (somewhat embarrassing), and made a quick switch to a smaller car, which was a sleek black Citroen.
The next day, after a lot of driving, we reached Amsterdam, which was dreamy. Everyone there is blond, tall, attractive, riding a bicycle, and addicted to nicotine. I’d forgotten, or never really knew, that the main feature of the place is the concentric ring of canals that are like the ribs of the city, connecting various neighborhoods on watery roads. Lynn and Chris had taken an overnight ferry from England to join us for the honeymoon, a concept—the honeymoon--which seemed pleasantly ironic to me. Can people this old be on a honeymoon, or are we just heading for the barn? Come to think of it, which I did, honeymoon is a strange word to begin with. When I got home, a friend looked it up and discovered that the first part refers to the sweetness—the honey--of a new marriage, and the second part to the fact that the sweetness will quickly fade, “as with a moon which, when full, immediately begins to wane.” Thank god we only planned a two week trip.
In fact, before we left, a few people had told us to make sure we announced loudly and regularly that we actually were on a honeymoon, because it would result in lots of free stuff and special treatment. I only dragged this gimmick out twice, first at a cozy Amsterdam restaurant where, just before dessert, I casually but clearly mentioned it to our friendly waiter, in hopes of a complimentary dessert, if not a free meal. “Hey, thanks, great meal. And by the way, we’re on our honeymoon!” He looked at me and said “Congratulations.” Then he looked at Lynn and Chris and said, “So what are they doing here?” and handed me the bill.
We had to get gas before heading for Delft, but by this time our GPS had become completely crazed—it actually seemed more perverse than inaccurate in what it told us to do, like getting us into inescapable and repetitive loops through heavy construction sites in Amsterdam, as the gas gauge got deeper and deeper into the red. (The GPS got worse and worse. Desperately lost in the middle of Germany, we would turn it on to discover that the car’s little blue icon was now in the middle of the Zuyder Zee.) I finally saw a station and darted in, but with the tank on the wrong side of the pump so that I had to stretch the hose around the car, and could only jam the very tip of the nozzle into the tank. But man, was I relieved to have found gas. However, when I had pumped a mere seven litres, a horrible question exploded in the center of my mind: Is this car a diesel, like the first one? It better be, because this is diesel gas I’m pumping in.
It wasn’t a diesel, which I realized before getting to the eighth litre at which point my life passed in front of my eyes. One of those moments, thankfully rare, when you realize in an instant that you’ve suddenly and inadvertently really fucked something up? Something very important, that you’re not going to be able to hide or lie about? In what seems like an eternity, but is probably only a few seconds, dark thoughts invade, as in MacBeth: not as single spies but in battalions: The trip is a bust, I might never get out of Amsterdam, I might have nowhere to sleep, food and money will run out, the marriage might be on the rocks, the Dutch police could get involved, this might end up involving the Nazis in some way. No matter what, the honeymoon is over. Just a free-fall of panicked thoughts that happen in the blink of an eye before you come to your senses and grasp that you probably won’t die, but you’ve got to figure something out.
A number of extremely helpful people have pointed out that they thought it was impossible to make this mistake, because the nozzle on a diesel pump is too large to fit into a tank meant for benzine—which in our country, we call gas. But remember, I had discovered that you actually can force that top inch into the opening of the tank if you have to, which you do sometimes because European cars have the gas tank on the wrong side, at least the wrong side from where I’d pulled up to the pump. And remember also that the first car we’d been given actually was a diesel! As I noted earlier, this wasn’t really my fault.
After a couple of hours, a gleaming green tow truck arrived, out of which leapt a striking tow-truck operator named Helene, with a smile on her face, and sympathy in her eyes. I thought she looked like Joan of Arc, or some sort of Dutch Viking. For the second time, I laid out the “we’re on our honeymoon” line--actually, I shouted it at her as she got out of her truck--with no real purpose other than to try to divert attention from the monumentally stupid thing I’d just done. The plan was to tow the car to a facility where the fuel tank could be pumped and the engine cleaned. The honeymoon card seemed to have made her even more friendly and sympathetic than she already was, even a little wistful: as we rode with her in the cab of the truck she sighed “You got married! This is wonderful. It means there is maybe hope for me.” After a few hours of pumping and cleaning, we were on our way to Delft.
Obviously the main thing about Europe is that it’s old, and I was intent on searching out the oldest things I could find. In this regard, Delft was a jackpot. The cobblestoned square is flanked by the New Church on one end, and the Old Church on the other. The New Church was built in 1381, and the old church was built starting in 11something. And the New Church contains the mausoleum of the revered Dutch hero, and Father of the Country, William the Silent. We could use a leader like that.
Even though the town square was just behind our hotel, and we’d been given clear directions to it (just turn right!), it took us a while to find it; but as they say, even a blind squirrel finds a nut every once in a while, and we eventually discoveredourselves in a large, beautiful, cobblestoned expanse on a cool, sunny Saturday morning, almost alone, gazing at the ancient buildings. There was a light breeze blowing, and very few other people were about, leaving us to luxuriate in the presence of very old things, and the contemplation of slow and relentless time. Soon, the bells began to peal. Gorgeous, cascading, crystal clear notes, filling the space. After a couple of minutes of reveling in this waterfall of sound, Sue said“Are you noticing that the bells are playing My Way?”
Leaving Delft was a nightmare. The car’s icon had made it by now into the North Sea, ceaselessly borne against the current of our itinerary towards... Finland. The highways in both the Netherlands and Germany are brutally demanding of total concentration, so when you’re traveling at 120km/hour, and what seem to be rocket ships are passing you in the left lane, hearing a voice insistently shout “in four hundred meters, turn right, turn right, turn right”—pause—“immediately make a legal u-turn whenever possible,” is terrifying.
Completely lost, I began navigating by the position of the sun, while trying to ignore Sue weeping quietly next to me. After a couple of days we’d made our way south to Fussen, a town right on the Austrian border. Though I don’t really want to get into it, can we agree that there’s something a little unnerving about Germany and Germans? A little too sure of themselves, not much regard for the personal space of others, way too much wurst, a bit of a dark past. Also, they have these toilets with a sort of shelf, presumably because a healthy life requires regular examination of the daily by-product. You just have to avert your eyes, unless, I guess, you’re German.
One morning we took a walk along the Lech River, which runs through Fussen, and though it was misty, we could occasionally glimpse the foothills of the Alps. After a while found ourselves on the outskirts of town in the parking lot of a nearly empty industrial area. Imagine my surprise when I heard Sue say “Um, that man is carrying a body.” And, right there in front of us, there was a man carrying a body! He had it slung over his shoulder, where it limply and grotesquely flopped—especially the head--as he headed for the open back doors of a van, next to which stood a man in a green, military-looking jump suit. In the back seat was another body, in a posture that indicated rigor mortis had set in. The spark of life had clearly been extinguished from these two poor souls, and the view into the van was gruesome in the extreme. We were nonplussed and alarmed. What’s the German equivalent of 911? And could calling the cops result in our getting tossed in the van with the corpses? On our honeymoon?
As the doors were closed, and the van began to drive off, we realized that these must have been dummies, probably ordered up for some military exercise. Amazingly realistic dummies. The guy who’d lugged them out of the building and placed them in the van got on his phone, obviously to report that the grisly cargo was on its way—I actually heard him say the word dummy--and I happened to catch his eye. He didn’t say anything, but gave me a look that, translated from the German, clearly meant “that was pretty weird looking, wasn’t it?”
Well, this report of innocents abroad is coming to a close, even though I haven’t mentioned the many world class museums and strange castles we visited, or the myriad ways in which travel is so broadening, even more sowhen you’re completely lost and confused most of the time. However, I do want to mention the emporium we happened upon in the ancient walled city of Rothenburg, which featured a window display of hundreds and hundreds ofsausages, arranged in coils, bouquets, and rings, framed on the margin by thick, shield-like slabs of meat, with a few lemons placed throughout to offset the deep red colors of the carnage. The proprietor, whose name was spelled out above the door in those old, high-German style letters, was one Erich Trump.
We went somewhere else, saw some more things, then came home, still happily married, to begin a new chapter--which, at this advanced age, is surprising, and certainly feels much better than beginning the epilogue.