May 1

Berlin

The bullet train whisked us from lush rolling farmland to evergreen forests and steep hills about an hour out of Paris when houses of different colors, some bold, started to appear, quite unlike the white and beige house colors in France. The announcements over the loud speaker suddenly changed from French-then German-then English to just German-then English. We were in Germany!

The county side was more hilly and the farm houses and villages more varied but every bit as beautiful as the French countryside.

After transferring about half way to a local train (with many stops) we arrived at the massive train station in central Berlin on time at 5:30, a total trip of almost eight hours. In heading for the taxi line, we bumped into our friends, John and Grace Curry, whose train from Prague had arrived only a few minutes before us, and who would be joining us for the Berlin and Warsaw legs. We shared a taxi to the Adina Check Point Charley Hotel (apartment hotel, two room suites, and very nice) where we enjoyed a very nice dinner in their small bistro. Great to reunite with our good friends from Ashville!

The following day we spent a good eight hours touring the city by bus (Hop on/hop off), by boat (one hour cruise along the Spree River) and by foot (about seven miles worth). At the end of the day we were exhausted.

Berlin lives up to its reputation: high energy, economic powerhouse, rebuilt from the ashes of World War II. Tower cranes dot the city scape everywhere. Much of the architecture is modern, some of it stunning. And when you think that over 70% of Berlin had been obliterated in the war, it is quite remarkable how successfully this city has been rebuilt and reinvented itself. If you were not aware of the history of the city, you probably would not conclude that it was virtually destroyed in World War II or that the city was divided during the Cold War. But the Germans won’t let you forget it. There are history markers and interpretative plaques everywhere, and the plaques do not white wash what happened in the 1930s and 40s. It is not a pretty story.

Compare this with the silent approach you get in Paris and what seems almost like a denial in Spain where we did not see or hear one mention of Franco or the Spanish Civil War, “too sensitive a topic” according to our walking tour guide. That the Germans have embraced and owned up to this horrific period in their history is a testament to their national character and one reason for their strong recovery.

The city has monumental boulevards, a huge park, a well developed river front and enough well designed, modern buildings to put it a league with Chicago. And to think that the rebuilding occurred mostly in the 50s and 60s—the same period that in the US we were building vast sprawling suburbs and office parks—the accomplishment is quite remarkable. That they chose not to imitate the development patterns that were in vogue in the US at that time in retrospect was the right move. Urban planners blame sprawl in the US on the automobile. But automobiles were in use in Germany at the same time. They rebuilt in a manner that preserved the character of the prewar city (urban, mixed use, high density). This was not preordained. They could have gone in a different direction but didn’t; and for that we should all be grateful.

The other thing that really stands out is about Germany is their proficiency in English. I have touched on the challenges we faced in Spain where very few spoke English. As expected, almost everyone speaks at least some English and many speak it better than we do, a fact which goes a long way to reducing stress for us weary, non German speaking American travelers.

Spending only two days in Berlin was shortsighted and a mistake. This is not enough time to begin to think you have a clue as to what is going on. Berlin easily deserves a week, perhaps a month. But two days is what we got and we made the best of it. It also offered some surprises along the way, which are the subject of the next two blog posts.

May 3

Berlin

While Berlin is very different from Paris and Madrid, there are two ways it is similar: It is on a par with Paris with graffiti, which I now realize is not a national disgrace but a continental—perhaps world—disgrace; and the second is there are signs everywhere warning people about pick pocketing.

And you might have guessed it: they got me again. This time (third city, third theft) it was technically not pick pocketing because they stole my brief case, and I can’t get my brief case into my pocket. Now to appreciate just how impressive this feat was you have to understand that ever since the first “incident,” I have been obsessed with keeping close tabs on my brief case because that is where we keep our passports, itinerary with all the tickets and hotel vouchers, and my computer. Remember that at this point I have lost my credit cards, debit cards, money and drivers license. No passport, no identity. No tickets, no travel. No computer, no blog. We are talking major calamity if the briefcase goes.

Because of the doomsday associated with losing the brief case, I carry it around my neck, not over my shoulder. I put my foot through the strap when I am sitting down or in a restaurant. I keep it on my lap at all times when I am on the train and I would use it as a pillow at night if it were not so lumpy. To describe this as a pathological obsession only begins to describe it. I am Fort Knox with legs.

But they got it. And the theft occurred in this nice little hotel! How did they do it? How did it happen? All we know is that when we got back to our hotel the evening of the first day following our dinner it was not to be found anywhere, and you can imagine how hard we looked. I am telling you, these guys are good, real good.

But as luck would have it, Embry’s guardian angel stepped in; and this is one of the few times when none of the critical stuff we need was in the brief case. Computer, itinerary, tickets etc. were safe in our hotel room. So we lost a few things such as recharging equipment and miscellaneous items but none of the big stuff. Catastrophe averted.

But incident number four does give one pause. For one thing it is now apparent that you can be vigilant 59 minutes out of the hour, and the one minute that you are not looking they will pounce. In fact I had a chilling nightmare last night, causing me to wake up in a cold sweat. I was an aging antelope in a huge herd of antelopes and wildebeests. The herd is moving slowly from Spain to Russia and is surrounded by lean, hungry lions, eyeing the herd carefully with beady eyes, looking for any sign of weakness. They keep their eyes on the very young and the old, waiting for the animal to get behind, to stumble, to show even the slightest sign of weakness; then they pounce. I was trying my best but falling behind the herd. Just before they pounced I woke up.

Now the problem is that we have just visited the three “safest” cities we will visit. If this is the kind of experience we have had in the “safe” cities, what can we expect when we reach Russia or Mongolia or China? We have had numerous people warn us about Moscow, one who claimed that nowadays it is virtually impossible to spend any time in the city without being robbed, suggesting we barricade ourselves in our hotel room. Our son, Andrew, who has worked in Moscow, travels internationally a lot on business, and knows the city well says that the fears are grossly exaggerated but not totally without merit. He has taken the initiative to have a friend meet us when our train arrives.

It is not that we have never travelled before. We (one or both us) have been to China, India, Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia, Kenya, South Africa, Gabon, Tanzania, Peru, Japan, Turkey, Israel, Jordan, Uganda, Cameroon, Mexico, Honduras, Tahiti, Russia, Israel, Egypt, Croatia, Bosnia, and most of Europe—most of the time by ourselves rather than being with a tour group. In all this travel I have never had anything stolen before. What is going on?

Embry has pointed out that she has not had anything stolen. Perhaps this is a clue.

May 3

Berlin

It is May first and this is our second day in Berlin. It is time again to explore European health care.

I am sitting on the cold, concrete floor of the emergency room of Charite Hospital, which could be the world’s largest –and perhaps oldest —hospital, located in the former East Berlin sector. It is not about me or Embry. This time it is about John, our traveling companion, who, with his wife, Grace, has joined us for the Berlin and Warsaw legs. He has what he believes is possibly a serious infection (“cellulitis”) in his calf, a potentially dangerous situation which requires strong antibiotics to avoid calamity. Prospects do not look good for seeing a doctor any time soon. The lobby is crowded with around 50 forlorn people, and John has been standing for some time in a line that has barely moved . I just gave up my seat to a lady who appeared to be older than I am and indisputably in worse shape.

But we are seeing Germany in a way that few Americans do. We are experiencing the German health care system as it really is. We are experiencing the real Germany!

Actually the biggest challenge was getting here in the first place. We never dreamed it would be this difficult and certainly would not have been, had we just taken a cab; but we decided to take the metro (very similar to the French metro) and walk. (Embry and Grace were visiting museums, and based on Embry’s eye experience in Valencia, I naively thought we would be out of the hospital in time to join them for a late lunch.)

The hospital is like a small city with scores of buildings, resembling one of the ancient and now defunct mental institutions in the US. Picture “One Flew Over of the Cookoo’s Nest.” We wandered from building to building trying to find the emergency room, asking for directions along the way, when we could find someone, which was not very often. The vast campus was eerily quiet, almost disserted, due, I suppose, to the fact that May 1 is a national holiday in Germany, called “work day,” when everything is closed and almost no one works. Most of the people we asked did not speak English; and the few who did gave us conflicting directions. (One older guy, about my age, scolded us for not speaking German, “You are in GERMANY we speak GERMAN!”) My health app (on my replacement iPhone) showed we had walked almost six miles, a good portion of which was on the campus of this giant hospital.

John finally got to see the intake specialist, checked in and joined me on the floor. I thought it would take forever since there were a lot of people who had gotten there before us who had not been called; but in an hour, his name was called and he emerged from the small intake office 300 Euros poorer and with an appointment to see the dermatologist. We located the dermatology clinic in one of the smaller buildings, which like everywhere else we had been (except the emergency room) was deathly silent with virtually no sign of human life. In about fifteen minutes a petite, brown-skinned woman, probably in her forties, wearing a white doctor’s coat and a headscarf appeared, smiling and motioned for John to follow her. In thirty minutes he walked out with the order for the prescription he needed, and we were back to the hotel at five. John was very pleased with the treatment he received. The professionals were cordial, knew what they were doing and treated him kindly. High marks for the German health care system.

We had an excellent dinner at a small bistro last night and now are off to Poland. There was, however, a bit of frustration regarding finding the restaruant. The clerk at the hotel, a young woman in her thirties, had recommended a restaurant nearby and made a reservation for us. At the appointed time we came downstairs to the desk and asked her for the name of the restaurant and the address. She have us the name, which began with what sounded like a “V,” and when asked about the address, said, “It’s over there, you can’t miss it,” and pointed to her right. When asked about how long it would take to walk there, she said 15-20 minutes. Fifteen to 20 minutes meant it was a least a half mile, perhaps longer. In our view the instructions insufficient. So we asked again. She sighed and threw up her hands as if to say, how many times do I have to tell you.

So the new strategy was to take it one step at a time.

“Is the restaurant on the street the hotel is on?…No? Ok, is it on the next street? Okay, not there, what about the next street?” In asking these questions we determined that it was on a street beginning with a “G” and containing about six syllables and totally unpronounceable. And it was “over there you can’t miss it. Fifteen minute walk.” But not knowing the actual name of the restaurant or the whereabouts of the “G” street was still not enough, so we all just stood there, looking puzzled, staring at each other, at which point she sighed again and handed us a Xeroxed copy of a map that showed the exact location of the restaurant and its address (“Rotisserie Weingrun, GertraudenstraBe 35”) She gave one final sigh and a disgusted look that said, “Ok, so now are you happy?”

Well, yes.

The food was terrific, better than any food we got at any of the restaurants we visited in France, and despite having to walk in the rain with no umbrellas, well worth it.

Another day with challenges, adventures and a happy ending.

April 29

En route from Paris to Berlin

Goodbye Paris! We are off via bullet train humming along through the bucolic French countryside at 320 kmh (180mph), headed to Berlin. France was terrific! A wonderful combination of being a house guest and a tourist. We spent about as much time talking and catching up with old friends as we did sightseeing. Highlights of the last two days in Paris included a concert in Sainte Chapelle featuring Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” (at twilight with the stain glass windows glowing a magical blue), Mozart’s “Magic Flute” at the Paris Opera House (modern setting, quite extraordinary), a goodbye dinner at a quaint restaurant (where oddly we were the only guests), the Louvre and Musee d’Orsay (Embry only. I was in the Apple store buying a replacement iPhone. ), lots more walking (Under Mireille’s wing we visited two beautiful Medieval churches), and trying to keep up with our indefatigable host, who seems to have more energy than both of us combined.

The weather has also continued to cooperate. We got rain for a couple of days in Quimper, and it was raining pretty hard in Paris when we returned on Sunday. But other than that, it has been sunny and partly cloudy with high temperatures in the mid 60s.

I find myself asking why it took me song long to realize just how magic Paris is. Embry’s response was that it was probably the weather. While I am affected by the weather, that does not explain it.. The city is magic.

One thing I will remember most fondly is the French bread. Every morning Mireille would appear at the breakfast table with coffee and fresh baguettes and croissants still warm from the bakery oven, where she went every day before breakfast. One morning I volunteered to get the bread and was given careful instructions as to where to go. Walking there took a good fifteen minutes, and I counted six other boulangeries along the way. (“Others are not good enough; you want only the best.”) If Mireille’s boulanger is the best in Paris, then I figure the baguettes and croissants we ate every morning are the best in the world. I have never tasted bread this good and unless we return to Paris, probably never will.

So what about these two wonderful countries, France and Spain, which we are leaving behind as we head north? While Spain is arid and France lush, to two tourists like us the similarities seem to outweigh the differences. Both have rich histories with plenty to be proud of and plenty to be ashamed of. Both have preserved the old and historic parts of their cities and yet are modern in their public infrastructure and have excellent mass transit systems and public spaces. Their vitality and energy levels are high, but you also get the impression that the Spanish and French know how to enjoy life.

One day in Brittany Embry recalled the old saying, “Americans live to work, but the French work to live,” to which Martine replied, “This is definitely true.” And I think it applies to both countries with their obsessions for good food, good wines, the importance of the family and having fun by just hanging out.

We found people to be very friendly in both countries. In Spain, our inability to speak Spanish was an issue, but not insurmountable with a little sign language; and we experienced none of the cold shoulder that tourists often complain of in Paris. This could be because Embry is fluent in French, and we were with French people most of the time.

Both countries seem to be doing better on environmental issues than we are. You see many wind farms and solar panels. Lights automatically go out when you leave the room. People use public transportation and drive small cars.

That is not to say that life is perfect in these countries. There seem to be a lot more smokers than in the US, and smoking is permitted in the outside areas of cafes. There has been a lot written about the sagging economies in both countries, especially in Spain, where unemployment is very high and young people find it hard to get jobs. Emigration continues to be an issue, and being accepted into the culture if you are African or from South America seems to be difficult—probably harder than in the US where being a country of immigrants defines us despite the current controversies. Of course, there is the perplexing graffiti issue which I have been complaining about, which seems to mean something, but no one can say exactly what. And finally there is the security problem. Somebody got my wallet in Madrid and somebody else got my iPhone (probably) in Paris. In a perfect country people don’t steel wallets and iPhones from frail, elderly tourists.

( And we haven’t even gotten to Moscow yet where we have been advised by several people that if we want to be safe to avoid all public transportation, all taxis and not to leave your hotel.)

But if some creature from outer space dropped in to check out the the planet Earth and stopped in Paris or Madrid, my guess is that the report back home would read “pretty good spot, worth a visit.”

So in a few hours we will be in Berlin where we will meet up with John and Grace Curry, dear friends who live in Ashville, who will join us for the Berlin and Warsaw legs. John is an old friend from Davidson College days and from graduate school in Chapel Hill, when I was in planning school, Embry in the UNC School of Public Health and John in law school. We will take off our home exchange and house guest hats and become full time tourists.

What will it be like in Germany? We have both been to Germany but before the Wall came down; and I have never been to Berlin, which has the reputation of one of the world’s great cities– in the league with Paris or New York. Stay tuned.