Round and Round It Goes

My Trip to Germany: Dortmund

Dortmund/Essen – July 4, 2006

Well, we’re in Essen. It’s hotter and muggier here than anywhere we’ve been so far. It’s a very good thing it’s only for one day. Ick.


Starbucks isn't the only thing taking over the world (J's pic)

We emerged from the thankfully air-conditioned Holiday Inn Express (which, sadly, seems to be furnished by the Ikea across the street) for lunch, only to find our way to the cluster of restaurants 75% blocked by a clusterfuck of construction. We finally hit a pizzeria, nearly melting already, eschewing the ghetto taco stand across the street.


You know you want one (J's pic)

Decided to nap in our room’s A/C rather than walk around dullsville. Luckily, it seems Düsseldorf, Essen, and Dortmund are all part of a larger metroplex, so it should be simple to get to the semifinal in Dortmund this evening via S-bahn.

I also tried to call P to no avail – my calling card has no local dialing number from here. Essen sux, yo.

Dortmund/Train to Munich – July 5, 2006

On the train to Munich now, and it’s not turning out to be much fun. I’m sitting on some Samsonite-type bags, and J’s on the floor, in the space between cars. As far as we can tell, pretty much all the seats are reserved from here to Munich. Should make for a nice 5 ½ hour ride.

Anyway…yesterday:

Essen is not a tourist-friendly town. We could find no maps, no real info to help us get around. We got a bit lucky in looking for tickets to Dortmund in that a nice, Middle-Eastern-looking man dressed in some sort of military/police uniform complete with beret stopped to help us out. He punched in our info, said “Now you put money in,” and we were on our way.

This was the first time we’d had to actually travel to get near a game, and the rail experience was hot but fun. At every station was a line of people getting on the train to Dortmund, already decked out in their jerseys, face paint, temporary tattoos, and flags. They got on the train with their beers (I love Germany) already singing, already celebrating.

One guy sitting across from us thought we were Germans (we did look the part in our Deutschland jerseys), and asked me about my cameras. We switched to English, and I felt the need to explain about my Holga, photo geek that I am. I believe a good laugh was had at my expense.

We finally arrived at the Dortmund Hauptbahnhof, and the seas poured forth. It was such a mass of people we could easily understand how the main Fan Fest was already full up.

We were quickly accosted by a group of very drunk guys, including J’s new boyfriend Angelo, who managed to convince J to let him buy us drinks (apparently she couldn’t hear the warning bells that were blaring in my head) before asking her if she would go somewhere with him and “make fun.”


That's the infamous Angelo in the middle (© hermitthecrab 2006)

It took me three blocks to be the bitchy friend enough to get rid of him, but I finally succeeded. He stomped off in a huff.


The Dortmund Meat-Go-Round (J's pic)


The overflow from the Dortmund Fan Fest (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The Fan Fest being full, we went in search of a pub, and find one we did. It was the best bar we could have happened upon. It was packed, and J had designs to stand in the doorway, but yet another of my phobias crept up and I couldn’t handle being in that much traffic for three hours. The waitresses were great, claiming we weren’t in the way at all, then trying to shove some of the guys around to make room for us.


The packed pub (© hermitthecrab 2006)

A very polite East German fan gave up his stool for me (his chair, not his poo), and we managed to acquire another for J. We met Markus, who was from Dortmund and claimed it was the best city for football. A couple more of his friends came in, and we quickly became part of the group. Seems the bar was full of regulars who gathered there to watch games, and everyone knew each other. It was a German Cheers.


Our new friends (J's pic)

We also made friends with Daniel and Eric, the two guys in front of us. These were the lovely fellows who introduced us to Radlers, which we quickly fell in love with: beer and lemonade (Sprite).


(J's pic)

“So we can make it to watch the end of the game,” Daniel explained pointedly at halftime, clearly already at least one sheet to the wind. They refused to let us buy any rounds because, as Daniel put it, “you have traveled…7,543 kilometers, which is…4,392 miles.” I’m curious as to just how accurate that is. (Turns out it’s actually 8474 km, or 5266 mi. Not bad.)

Ah, relief…We’ve made it to Köln (Cologne), and some folks in the dining car were kind enough to offer us seats at their tables, so we’re in seats all the way to Munich as long as we continue to buy waters and coffee. I’m sitting with three middle-aged Germans who have talked nothing but soccer so far, and shared candy with us. :)

The bar periodically broke into chants, cheers, and songs as Germany repeatedly attacked Italy. I partly think it was in an effort to drown out the one Italian fan in the bar who frequently hollered “I-tal-ia! I-tal-ia! I-tal-ia!” Points to the Germans who mostly ignored him. Some amusement was had when we all discovered he was also American, and we insisted we weren’t all that obnoxious.


(J's pic)

Our new friends translated their cheers for us, and it turns out they’re mostly “Let’s go/Come on, Germany” lyrics. Daniel shrugged at their simplicity. One popular song that kept repeating in TV commercials was on that rhymed the years Germany has won the Cup and expressed assuredness that 2006 would be added to the list.

At one point the commercial showed a clip of Michael Ballack sliding on his knees in slo-mo after a goal, then they cut to a closeup of his face. He turns to the camera, still sliding on his knees, and sings along with the song. I nearly lost it. Makes me really want that calendar we saw of him in various cheesy poses.

The game was 0-0 into overtime, and Daniel ceased to be able to watch. Lehman pulled off some amazing saves on 1-on-1s, as the superfast Italians managed to beat the offside trap several times, prompting several Lehman-based cheers. Odonkor came in as a sub, to many cheers from the locals as he plays for the Dortmund club side (“He can’t play, but he’s fast,” was Daniel’s summation).

With many faces buried in their German flags, unable to watch, the Germans relentlessly attacked while Italy seemed to be playing for the shootout. But it all fell apart in the 119th minute as Germany failed to clear a corner and Italy fired in an absolutely unstoppable goal. Pushing hard, they allowed another in OT stoppage time from Del Piero, and it was all over. Germany is headed to Stuttgart, Italy to Berlin.

The fans were crushed. The East German who had screamed at the game almost the whole time (then turned to me and smiled each time) stomped off in anger and disappointment. The guy who’d stood up in the 87th minute, his clenched fists casting shadows on the screen, yelling encouragement, sat hunched in despair (though our friend said he always did that, and his cheers amounted to nothing more than “Come on, Team!”). Daniel went outside in his misery, leaning against a lamppost, his head hanging.

We said goodbye to our new friends, wishing them luck in Stuttgart, and headed back to the bahnhof, leaving them to mourn in peace.

The crowds were a bit sullen, and since they were already a bit seedier than those in Berlin, their disappointment added to their punkish attitude. A convoy of about a dozen triumphant Italian cars raced back and forth in the street, waving Italian flags and honking, earning a city’s worth of dirty looks.

Polizei were stationed on every corner, with their green uniforms and BMW motorbikes. They corralled folks into the train station, and I had about five minutes of mild panic attack as thousands of people crushed up into the station. As we got close, apparently one rather large man got frustrated that our current was moving faster than his, so he hollered, and his girlfriend, cigarettes in hand, elbowed me as hard as she could for as long as she could.

The highlight for J was when we were about 75% through the crowd. I was tucked in behind her, eyes squeezed shut, trying very hard to make believe I was in a wide open completely empty beach-like paradise. She kept glancing back at me to make sure I wasn’t going to pass out or something.

Then, all of a sudden she hears me say “That guy picked the jersey of the gayest man in the NFL.” I’d briefly opened my eyes to see nothing but the broad expanse of a large German wearing a Jeff Garcia jersey. It was enough to make us laugh, and enough to chill me out until we could pass through the barricades.

Plus, J had yet another drunk German become entranced with her. He walked next to her in the crowd and just stared unblinkingly at her for a good two or three minutes. Freaky.

But we finally got through, caught our train to Essen, and discovered the U to our hotel was closed. We briefly attempted to either find a bus or walk, but were too tired to figure out where the hell we were or how to get where we wanted to go, so we grabbed a cab.

I insisted upon showering before bed, because I reeked so of beer and cigarette smoked that I nearly puked on the train. Germany may be the cleanest place I’ve ever seen, but they definitely make up for it in smoke, cheesy ‘90s mood music, graffiti, and nudity in public advertisements.

Anyway, it was a great night with great people, the best game-watching experience we’ve had so far.

The train is incredibly crowded now, people packed into every conceivable space. Thank goodness for the lovely folks who invited us to sit at their table! Can’t wait to get to Munich so I can call P, relax for a minute, then watch the Portugal-France semifinal.

Later…

We’ve been stuck at the station is Plochingen, somewhere between Stuttgart and Munich for about 45 minutes, as there is a fire somewhere down the tracks. I’m hungry and tired, and all I really want right now is to be able to get to a place where I can put some more HC cream on the ever-expanding inflammation on my head. :(

But it’s not a horrible experience, mostly because we seem to find friendly and helpful people no matter where we go. Our new train mates (since somewhere after Köln) are a woman with her `9-year-old daughter, and two guys around our age. Oh, plus a couple of guys from Minnesota. The Germans have been kind enough to translate all the train announcements for us, and thankfully the more incessantly talkative of the two guys has wandered off somewhere.

Munich or bust. :/

Later…

Some commotion in our car as it is realized the next table over is host to Jairzinho, a member of the 1970 Brazilian team that won in Mexico. He kindly signed autographs and allowed folks to take pictures. We refrained from both, mostly because I always feel awkward turning some normal person into an immortal figure whose signature is worthy of museums or something. Never felt the urge when I lived in LA, and still don’t. People is people, I guess.

I’m hungry. And I’m running out of reading material. Still no Munich.

Heh, a man came into the car asking who the famous person was. We told him, mistakenly naming Argentina as his team (since that’s what giggly, talkative trainmate said), and he ran back for his WC tickets and camera. After getting his obligatory brush with greatness, he stopped to tell us “It’s Brazil, not Argentina. He is Brazil’s second greatest player, between Pelé and Ronaldinho,” as if we really should have known, when he didn’t even know!

Now the car is packed with all Jairzinho’s new friends. I can understand Beckham and Ronald’s desire to move to the U.S. for the anonymity, if this is what a star nearly 40 years past can draw.

Go to next entry: Munich

posted by Lyle Skains @ 11:40 AM