Leg 2- Central Europe

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Day 7, Friday 26th June, 2009.

By now I was in a definite routine. I would get up early, de-camp and load my bike, and look for breakfast. I would eat as much as I possibly could, especially wherever breakfast was included in the price (in which case I may also pocket the odd sly sandwich for lunch). Packing was becoming more and more of a science, and everything had a specific space in a particular bag or place on the bike. I would try to reach my destination by early afternoon, secure some sort of accommodation for the night ahead, then allow myself the rest of the afternoon for power-sightseeing or any other productive activity. I planned on treating this trip like a job, so the routine helped in that effect. I planned to cycle 5 days a week, and take arbitrary weekends. And even holidays. It also made it easier to justify the hours of boredom and discomfort, in preference to a year partying and indulging. I would hate to think I may be perceived as ill-disciplined or lazy.

Having completed a 5 day detour, I was back on the original route, heading through Belgium. The insect swallowing did not turn out to be an isolated incident, and a I was now averaging about 5 a day. Not a bad substitute for each piece of fruit of I should've been consuming instead. My diet was varied and balanced. From horseflies to greenfly to ladybirds to midges.

For one reason or another, this was my fifth visit to Belgium in the last couple of years. Not always intentional, mind you. I was growing quite fond of it too. Well, the Flanders section at least. Belgium is split into Walloon, the French speaking south, and Flanders, the Flemish speaking north, which extends into The Netherlands. Here, they are helpful and friendly, and don't pretend they can't speak English.

Lunch was in Bruges, sitting in the middle of the main square eating the sandwich and apple that I nicked from breakfast, remembering just how unreal and fairy-talesque the city is. 30 kilometres and a couple of hours east, and I was in Gent for dinner - a city that has a little bit of everything. ie. It's not quite as pretty or idyllic as Bruges; not as interesting or historic as Antwerp; not as important or established as Brussels. I mean it's good, just not as good as its counterparts - think Channel 5, Tim Henman, Ringo Starr, American Pie: The Wedding, Wales, etc, and you've got the idea.

A week in, and I was becoming more and more aware of the things that I did need that I didn't have, and just as importantly the things I didn't need that I did have. I ditched a few T-shirts, cooking-gas cannister, shampoo at a hostel, and then went shopping. Firstly, the practical things: a front pannier rack to balance the weight, a waterproof roll-sack, a foot stand. Once that was out the way, it was time to Pimp My Ride - matching back and front heavy-duty Ortlieb pannier bags, some paraphernalia adorning the trim, and a numberplate to promote my journey and charity. Sweet!

I then pimped my ride to Antwerp. Like Belgium as a whole, Antwerp has historically punched well above it weight (and size). It was privileged with hosting the 1920 Olympics - surely the most inconsequential of any Olympic city. Ever. With a population of about 400,000 it would be like switching the 2012 Olympics from London to Coventry.

It was at a campsite just outside the city that I met a Polish guy, Maciek - “call me Magic”.
Only if you call me Debbie McGee.
Magic was also on a mammoth bike trip, circling Europe. He had already covered 7,000 km in 4 months. He was VERY proud of his bike and equipment. He was carrying 60 kilos of gear (compare that to my 25 kilos) and therefore was well within a position to big-up his kit. He had a bigger and better tent, bigger and better GPS system, bigger and better website (www.bajkajak.pl - if you can read Polish, I'm sure it's fascinating). In short, he was bigger and better. It was all a bit annoying given my bike was newly pimped. It was like bringing home Thelma & Louise on DVD for a romantic evening with your wife, only to find her snuggled up on the couch watching TV with Brad Pitt. Biggest and best of all was his knife. It was a hunting knife with a 10 inch blade, neatly attached to his frame. I am not entirely sure the purpose for such a length of steel, as the closest he'll come to real hunting action will be on the Discovery Channel on his iPhone.
“Will I be allowed this in the UK?”, he asked me.
Probably not, I thought, but just don't go showing it off and you'll be fine. I didn't want to shatter his moment of weaponry pride.
“Great. And this CS gas too?”
“Go for it", I coughed.
“Thanks Debbie”

From Antwerp I headed north and into the Netherlands. Technically this is not the same as Holland - north and south Holland are just 2 of the 12 provinces of The Netherlands, but over time the two names have come to mean one and the same. I was in Holland, and The Netherlands, at the same time. If you get my drift.

Entering The Netherlands, I was entering the land where Beatrice is queen. And the bicycle is king. There are over 2,000 km of bicycle paths in Holland, and bikes seem to have priority over cars and pedestrians at junctions. Although I cannot be sure, as I never did quite work out the rules of the road, and got shouted at on different occasions for both waiting and not waiting for traffic to pass. The megamiles of cycle paths are all comprehensively signposted and mapped. Only a baffoon could get lost. I did. Several times. With its flat as a Dutch pancake topography, the Netherlands seems to have been designed for cycling. The closest thing I found to a hill was a speedbump. The one peculiarity, therefore, is why the city centres continue to be so cobbled, as it does nothing for my suspension or wheels, let alone my future generations at the end of a long day in the saddle.

Everyone is on bikes - from babies in bike trailers to 80 year old grannies. It was one such unfortunate old lady that I forced off the road. Not intentionally, you understand. I think it must be the law in Holland to have a bell on your bike. I don't. So to counter this, I would shout “beep-beep” whenever I wished to overtake someone. This poor lady was obviously not familiar with such signalling and panicked, swerved, hit the curb, and went head over heels over handlebars onto the pavement, landing heavily and smashing her knees and elbows. I felt obliged to stop and use up some of my first aids on her wounds. I'm all heart, I know. A few squirts from my water bottle, some generously applied antiseptic cream and a painkilling pill, and she was starting to regain her senses. About the same point, her friend arrived (who had clearly not noticed her missing companion for a few minutes). She spoke more English that the old lady, and just wanted to check I had not given her anything, as she has a blood condition and has special medication for any such instances. Nope, I lied.

One disadvantage of this whole cycle culture is that I get no special favours in Holland. Just another guy on a bike, not the celebrity treatment I've become accustomed to in other countries.

Via Rotterdam, Delft, Den Haag and the coastal dunes I was nearing Amsterdam, when I got a text message.
“You don't happen to be in Holland, do you?”
Why, I do. My friend Mike was working in Utrecht for the week, and after some further correspondence, invited me down to the luxury hotel complex where he was staying. Well, at first we were considering meeting in Amsterdam for the evening, but the draw of a Hilton burger and a hot spa trumped a greasy kebab and cold shower, so I rode the 60km in the wrong direction. But an evening of pool, darts, hearty food, and strawberry daquiris made it all worth while. Plus, the return to civilisation would set me in good stead for Amsterdam. I had some friends arriving the next day, for a weekend of - well - Amsterdam.

Having not properly had a conversation with any real people for 2 weeks, I was feeling a little stir crazy, as I chatted away to his workmates (and mine too, I suppose). If that is what I'm like after 2 weeks, by the time I complete a few months of solitude across Russia & Kazakhstan, I'll be nuttier than a Bombay mix. I have had a radio to keep me comfort - more by luck than judgement. I intended to hand it back to mum at Brighton. To my great delight, not only could I pick up Radio 5 during Wimbledon fortnight, I am able to receive BBC World Service just about anywhere. In between listening to Russian for English Idiots on my iPod, it gives me some small attachment to home. But there is only so much chat one can listen to, so occasionally I will tune into the local radio for some pop. They play the same tunes you'd find on Radio 1, but with one major difference; Being central Europe, they do not find the need to dub out any swearing in the lyrics. Gwen Stefani, Eminem and Green Day all transmit some fruity language across the national airwaves. And I never quite appreciated how much Lily Allen swears in her songs - she seems like such a sweet girl.

Arriving in Amsterdam several hours before my friends, I had the urge for a coffee, but I couldn't find a Starbucks or equivalent anywhere in the city. Although Amsterdam is full of “coffee houses”, the ironic thing was that it was the hardest city to find a house serving a standard coffee. Enough irony for even an American to get the drift. (I was about to apologise to any American readers for that remark, but then I remembered the Alanis Morissette song - “Isn't it ironic. Like rain on your wedding day”. That's NOT irony, that's just a bit of bad luck, like pretty much every other example in that song. But now I come to think about it, she's Canadian, so I do apologise after all).

Where was I? Oh yes, Amsterdam! When my friends finally arrived, we settled down with a beer. 3 days and countless beers later, we asked for the bill, and they went home again. I'm told there are other things to do in Amsterdam. Who knows?

To repress the inevitable resulting hangover, I figured a long day's riding would be helpful. Heat, dehydration, loss of balance, impaired reactions. Not helpful at all, would you believe.

After some much needed sleep, water, and recovery, the next morning I was heading east again, towards a town called Sneek, across Afsluitsdijk. This 30 km dyke was built to separate the inland freshwater bay of IJsselmeer from the North Sea. Other than being a highly convenient crossing point, it also provided a very strong tailwind. I opened out my arms, and the wind alone pushed me along at a highly respectable speed. If I held an umbrella out in front of me, I'm sure I could have literally sailed my bike to the mainland on the other side of the bay. At the cafe midway along Afsluitdijk, I met a Swiss guy, Sebastian, who was cycling the opposite way - i.e. Directly into the strong head wind. He said cycling up the Swiss Alps was an easier ride. Now I understand why most people head eastwards on these round-the-world journeys.

For the first 16 days, the weather had been unabated sunshine. As I neared the the German border, it all changed. In a thunderous deluge. I was stuck in the middle of nowhere, and drenched. And to add salt to the watery situation, I suffered my first flat tyre of the trip. Changing an inner tube under a leaky tree, surrounded by flash lightning and lots of metal, is not as fun as it sounds.

I dripped into Bremen that evening. Here I met a couple of Danish guys cycling the opposite direction, to Brussels. I was about to take a left turn to Denmark myself, via Hamburg and Kiel. So we swapped soaked maps, advice and general philosophies. An hour or so later that evening, I rang my German friend, Julia, who lives in Berlin. I promised her I would let her know when I was in Germany, as she said she would come visit me at the weekend, wherever I might be.
“What are Hamburg and Kiel like?” I asked.
“Kiel's got a beach, not much else. Hamburg is big, but not as cheap or interesting as Berlin”
Cheap and Interesting - 2 words to guarantee my attention. On the scale of diversions this trip, 400 km out of my way to Berlin was nothing more than mustard off a bratwurst's back. Plus I didn't have to be anywhere specific until Oslo, in 15 days.
“How's about I come to Berlin - you can show me the city. And do my laundry?”

Despite the rain, Germany is too friendly a country to dampen my spirits for long. The people are incredibly welcoming, and the prices are surprisingly lower than The Netherlands. The next 3 nights were at cities each associated with world famous brands;
Bremen, home of Becks (No, not that Becks)
Hannover, seed of the British Royal family
Wolfsburg, home of Volkswagen.

As far as I can gather, Wolfsburg exists as a city because of the presence of VW alone. The VW plant in Wolfsburg dominates the city, and the entire northern section is taken up by the factory. Wolfsburg is pretty much sponsored by VW - the arena, the football team. Even the street names act as a Who's Who of the good and great of the German autowagen world. Benzstrasse, Daimlerstrasse, Deiselstrasse, Porschestrasse, and several other strasse's I didn't recognise but assumed were motor-masters.

Wolfsburg have also just won the German Bundesliga for the first time in their history. A small industrial city winning such a title would be equivalent to Blackburn Rovers winning the Premiership. Now, that would never happen.

As I continued east along route 188, I was riding through a spruce woodlands. Parked in dozens of mini laybys, were campervans. A perfect place for pitching my tent for the night, I figured. The first van had a scantily clad girl sat in the front seat. As did the next, and the next, and so forth. Must be some sort of gathering.
I pulled up beside one of the vans and tapped on the door. The girl shuffled along the seat, re-positioned her assets, and wound down the window.
“Hi, do you speak English?” I asked.
“Yes. Can I service you?”
“Yes, please” I replied, innocently, “I'm looking for somewhere to pitch up for the night”
“OK, get in. It will cost you”
It suddenly occurred to me that this might not be an impromptu slumber party, and that perhaps these were ladies of leisure. I quickly made my excuses and embarrassedly hurried away. Forgetting to even cross-check the cost against a city-hostel.
On arrival at the next town, Gifhorn, I asked a Tourist Information rep whether these were indeed prostitutes. They were, and the police happily turn a blind eye to it in this region. Just to confirm, that's route 188 between Wolfsburg and Gifhorn, if you've now got your pen.

Sometime the next day I crossed into the former East Germany. 20 years on from the collapse of the communist state, the differences are still stark. The infrastructure is industrial and decrepit, the buildings blander and more functional, people speak less English, are older as a rule (many of the younger generation have moved west), and the Stop/Go figurettes on the pedestrian crossings are more commie looking.

The one clear exception, that I saw at least, was the city of Potsdam, just outside Berlin. There remains the most magnificent palaces and gardens within the massive Souci park. Upon entry to the park I noticed a No Bikes sign - to me it indicated no cycling - so I allowed my pushbike it's nominal purpose, and pushed it. I wandered around for 10 minutes or so, and took the key photos, at which point a security guard ran up to me and panted;
“Nein Fahrrads” - That's no bikes. “30 euros penalty for the bike”
Playing dumb and using charade like gestures, I explained that I thought I was simply not allowed to cycle in the park, hence my dismounted posture. I wasn't going to pay 30 euros anyway.
“This is Germany. There are rules”
At this point an east German girl, Dahlia, with near fluent English came to rescue. I explained to her about the round-the-world bike ride to help the poor kids in Africa, and that if I had to pay 30 euros that would be 30 euros less for life-saving aid. Or something similar.
I have no doubt her translation was more diplomatic, but either way he eventually and begrudgingly relented, before stomping away muttering;
“This is Germany. There are rules”.
It was a phrase I encountered more than once. On another occasion I got chased for crossing an empty road whilst the red man flashed. Another time I turned up tired and hungry at a hostel at 6:45pm. Dinner was scheduled until 7pm. The chef was also the receptionist, and spent 20 minutes checking me in. I then asked for some dinner.
“Nein. Dinner finished at 7”
“Er, yes, but I was here 20 minutes ago, but you faffed around doing paperwork first”
“7pm. This is Germany. There are rules”
But if there's one card I can play above all others, it's the lost, pathetic soul, in need of a bit of support. He was persuaded to relax a bit, and allowed me to help myself to the leftovers in return for helping him clear up.
The same trump-tramp card got me a free night at the campsite in Antwerp and an upgrade to an ensuite room in Lille. Pride, what pride?

Berlin is a great city. I won't dwell on the history - it's too protracted and complex for me to do it any justice. The atmosphere and vibrancy alone is worth a mention though. Berlin is like a huge Camden Town, full of uniquely, freaky characters, styles, attitudes. Mostly in a good way. I arrived Saturday evening at Julia's. I was taken out by her and her friends to an open roofed warehouse-type club, and did not go home until the Sunday sun was burning the Berlin morning mist away. Staying awake mainly thanks to the magic qualities of Red Bull - invariably topped with whatever shots I could pronounce.

The last country on my circuitous tour of Central Europe was Poland. Not knowing a word of Polish, or even the exchange rate of the Zloty, I think I survived okay and averted any attempts at being ripped off (if not, ignorance is bliss). In the 3 days from Berlin to the northern Polish ferry port of Swinoujscie on the Baltic coast, I stopped off at a lot of towns with not a lot of vowels, spent very little, and had a thoroughly pleasant time without really being able to fingerpoint what it was I did.

If you're still reading, thank you for your patience.

Happy travels, Tim
www.fullcycle.org.uk

Day 26.

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Photos

The journey so far
(Excluding London to Brighton)

Entering Belgium
At 579 kilometres

Debbie and Paul in their glory days
but where's Wizbit?

Entering The Netherlands
At 751 kilometres

Cyclepaths for psychopaths
Anyone spot Batman?

Entering Germany
At 1367 kilometres

How ironic, Alanis
Like the good American advice that you didn't take

Say cheesy!
Tourist photo under the Brandenburg Gate, Berlin

Entering Poland
at 2,001 kilometres

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