Day 28 - Bertchtesgaden to Vienna

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Day 28
Monday July 28
I sipped my coffee, grabbed a knife and spread a healthy pad of creamy butter onto a piece of freshly baked bread. The table was neatly set. Nothing special. Nice. The coffee was strong. Just as I like it. Mid-sip, I gazed up at our hosts’ doddling about the kitchen. The retired couple appeared to be in their early 60s. They were quite reserved, conservative people. The pictures in the buffet include those of young children whom I presume to be their kids. The year is 1995 thus simple math would place them as mere toddlers back when the city earned its’ historical prominence. While I presume these kind folks were still slobbering on themselves in 1940 their parents would not have been so innocent.

Berchtesgaden was a Nazi Town. The ‘Who’s who’ of the Deutchland National Socialist Party all had vacation homes within the town. It was perfect. ‘Perfect’ for the leaders of the master race. But questions bubbled up as I supped my morning cup of caffeine. Who were the faces behind the faceless hoard that stood left arm outstretched; saluting their Nazi war machine as it confidently strutted by along the thoroughfare? Where did my host’s parents live? Were they resident’s of this town? Was that house the same one that one of them grew up in? It probably had some renovations but certainly the home dated back to the 40s. Who owned the house then? What did they see? What parades did they attend? Were my hosts taught the ‘Heil Hitler’ salute in their youth? Did my male host goosestep around the playground for fun? Did he play Hide and Seek, hoping not be the one who had to pretend to be a little Jewish kid? Please forgive me from my regular return to the theme of war. However, I find it rather difficult to avoid when you are munching on your muslix while staring at a cabinet containing old pics of dour Krauts in full soldier uniform.

But I remiss, our hosts were very nice people. I learned that they were both ex-Olympians who competed in the winter Olympics back in 1960s. Their skis and medals were showcased in a cabinet affixed to the wall. Fine and dandy, but what would grandpa think if he heard I was sleeping with the enemy (so to speak.) My grandfather and his 3 brothers and sister served with the Canadian Forces during WWDeux. They were stationed in England, Germany and the Netherlands. All five returned to Canada after the war and brought home the haunting memories of watching their friends die…die almost on a daily basis during some parts of the war. And there I was commending the enemy for their tasty freshly baked bread. From what I can recall of my grandfather, if Grandpa knew where I was and what I was doing I am certain that initially he would be shocked. It would turn to amusement and then, over time, to pride. He would be proud of his grandson. Proud that his personal sacrifice gave me the freedoms to visit towns like Berchtesgaden. He would be proud that I was the visitor and they were the hosts. I have now walked the streets of Berlin, Hamburg and Munich. Sixty years ago the young men of the Allied forces firebombed these ancient cities to smithereens. And yet, every time I visit their rebuilt town squares, cathedrals or civic buildings, I stand tall and proud. I stand free. I feel free. Could I have done so without the selfless effort and sacrifice of my forefathers? I doubt it. Great work, grandpa. Thank you.

Four days is plenty of time in a global tour of monumental proportions. Four days ago, he latched onto me in Rothenburg aching for someone to speak English to. Together we ventured down to Salzburg and after a frolicking night with the local fraunlines, we continued onto Berchtesgaden. Sure, I quite enjoyed having a companion to travel with for a few days. We drank. We ogled women. We explored and ogled some more women. Yet, my mind has always focused on the next stop. I was looking East and he was heading West. Thus upon arrival at the Berchtesgaden train terminal, James and I shook hands and each went on with our own meanderings. James was a good folk. Good lad. Good drinking partner. Learned lots. BTW…James, if you find yourself back in Salzburg when you head back West, say hello to the young vixen with the shapely form and the wandering eye. Tell her that the scruffy Canuck says “Danke”.

Remember the Dance of the Kunsthistoriches? Cocktails under the warm glow of the amber streetlights in a corner café? How can you forget ‘the long goodbye’? What would make a young man retrace his steps and revisit a city 400 kilometers out of the way enroute to Venice? Simple, the memory of a young lady, found, lost and then sought after again. I was travelling back to Wein to see Yolanda.

The first time I arrived in Vienna, I hauled my backpack up and down Vienna’s streets. I went from hostel to hostel, hopelessly, desperately looking for affordable accommodation. My search ended in vain and pain. Physically and financially, I was drained. I wound up staying in a pseudo-hotel paying a price much higher than my typical daily budget. However, this time my greeting would prove to be very different. This time, Vienna embraced my arrival. Upon arrival, I exited the train and followed a long corridor that ended at grand room of the terminal. Questions flashed in my mind. Will she be there? Will I recognize her? What if I couldn’t find her? What would she think about some guy she met for a few hours a few weeks ago travelling halfway across the continent just to see her? We only spent about 12-14 hours together. It was fun and interesting and neat and fascinating yet was I blowing the entire memory by trying too hard? Was I weirding her out? All these concerns raced through my mind as I stepped through the door. Then, there, directly across from me on the other side f of the room was a 5ft 4 sweetheart, a smile brimming as wide as she is tall, waiting for me. Yolanda.

I have never had anyone wait for me. (You can’t count your parents or the Arab guy waiting nearby in a taxi). Yet, there was this virtual stranger, standing there, waiting for me. Me. She dragged along the wee pug, Ludwig too. Thus, awash in awkwardness I approached and remet her all over again. Immediately I was drawn to her eyes. Piercing, dark, calm, adorable. They were the same ones I was drawn to while we danced around the porcelain cutlery and the intricate little watches at the Kunsthistoriches. Also, it appeared that she aged these past two weeks. Disregarding her graffitied backpack, she was now sporting ultra tight black jeans and a form fitting black t-shirt. Yolanda was no longer a high school honey…it appears that she has graduated. The young miss now looked to be in the midst of that fabulous age young ladies travels through between high-school and college. I call it the ‘age of experimentation’. Class is on.

Together, we walked from the train station to her flat. If you can recall, she was working in Vienna as an au-pair. By looking after a young master youth, she hoped to pick up some rudimentary German. I dropped off my gear and we all went out for a romantic meal at a local Scottish restaurant. Considering the size of the gaping hole in wee Ludwig’s heed that required filling, we settled on McDonalds. Gobbly, gobbly. I sat back in amazement and watched the pint sized garborator cram his gub full of hamburgers. I think he packed away 4 kiddie burgers. Again, this display of eating prowess served us well as it formed an opportunity to joke us through the strangeness of the situation. I chatted about Salzburg (minus the good stuff) and Prague and Budapest and told her funny stories of my endeavours. She recalled the great time we had together. We laughed about when half of the Vienna SS was out looking for a back-packer, his Spanish companion and a missing uberkraut. I bought Ludwig some ice cream to shut him up and continued on our way to her flat.

Back at her place I sat back on a couch as she put Ludwig to bed. (what do young krauts count when trying to get to sleep? 1, 2, 3 Goosestepping soldiers chasing Gypsies?) She quickly returned and we rekindled the burning embers of our young relationship. As we sat together, a whole lotta small talk ensued….small words, short sweet. We both knew that my time in Wein was limited and we had to get to the point. So to really impress her, I pulled out the flower that I plucked from the ground atop the mountain in Berchtesgaden. Job well done. She was truly impressed with my thoughtful gift...so much so that we were able to say goodbye….to such an extent that I nearly missed my train. As I left her standing on the doorway of her place we both knew that that would most likely be the last time we ever see each other. Her hometown of Barcelona is quite a distance from Toronto. But, you never know. I can always save up my airmiles. The scary thing is that if I tried to develop something from this long, long distance I am certain that I may just want to keep her. Now that is scary.

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