Day Five: Mistakes, Miscalculations and Other Near Disasters
As much as I enjoyed the wedding and our time in rural Germany, I was anxious to get back to the conveniences and excitement of Berlin. (I do want to return to the area, but only with a car.) In fact, I was so anxious that I misread the train schedule and herded Peter out of the hotel on a quest for a train that didn’t exist. The train plan looked simple enough – train from Altenberg to Heidenau, where we’d switch to a train for Dresden. I misread the schedule though and thought the train left Altenberg for Heidenau at 8:50. Actually, it was leaving Dresden for Heidenau. The train from Altenberg to Heidenau didn’t leave until 10:17.
Yeah. Peter was none too pleased that I dragged him out of bed early to catch a train that didn’t exist. So we were stranded at the Altenberg train station (the closed station with the deserted platform) until 10.17. Our trip into Dresden went smoothly enough and I went into the ticket office to sort out our trip to Berlin. Our tickets were open-ended on the return, so I needed to find out which train we should take.
The guy didn’t speak English but I was able to tell him I needed a non-stop train to Berlin. He charged me an upgrade to do that and printed me out a schedule and ticket supplement for the 12:05 train. I tried to reserve seats on the train, but he told me no. With my child’s vocabulary and comprehension, I didn’t know if it was a “no you can’t” or “no you don’t need to.”
We got the platform with about 25 minutes to spare and Peter went to get some lunch. About 5 minutes after he left, our train pulled up. I was worried we’d miss the train, so I texted Peter and then set out to make sure that it was our train, since the board said it was going to Hamburg. (But it was going to Berlin first.) Peter arrived, with a plate of bratwurst in hand, just as the doors seemed to be closing, at least the door where I was standing.
We hopped on the train and proceeded to struggle along the narrow corridors, looking for a compartment. After about two train cars, Peter had an unfortunate incident involving a rude man, a hyper-ish kid and a pair of insistent-on-closing-right-on-him automatic doors. The upshot of this incident was that his bratwurst went flying and his patience got a bit fried.
We got off the train and walked on the platform to another car, still looking for unreserved seats. We did find a pair in a compartment, but two different people in the compartment insisted to us in what I think were different languages that we could not have the seats. I didn’t know if they were just being rude or if someone really was sitting there, but it didn’t help our moods much.
We finally trudged into the car of last resort, the bar car, and dumped our bags down. Peter went to search the last train car and I resigned myself to having to sit in the corridor with a very disgruntled, tired Peter who would have every right to blame me for the ongoing train debacle.
Peter found a couple of seats in the last car, which just had regular seating, not compartment seating. We stowed our luggage and gratefully collapsed in the seats, only to become aware that we were most likely sitting in first class. Rather than wait to get turfed out, Peter sent me on a mission to get it sorted out somehow.
I found the conductor having a smoking break and had a nice chat (in English) about our seat situation. I learned that we could upgrade our tickets for € 19 euro and I jumped on the chance. When the nice conductor printed out our upgrade slips, I thanked him profusely, saying “You’ve saved my marriage!” I don’t know if he understood exactly what I was saying, but the sentiment was clear enough.
We arrived back at our hotel in the mid-afternoon and received a room that was more along the lines of what we were paying for. We were disappointed not to have the suite, but the room had tall ceilings and big windows, so it was alright even though it was only just big enough to hold the bed.
In the evening, we had some time before we were meeting our friends for dinner, so we headed out to Alexander Platz and went to the top of the TV Tower. It was a good view, high enough so you could see everything but low enough so that you could still see details. It was also cool to see places after acquiring a certain familiarity with the city.
Since the weather was a lot more agreeable, we headed back outside after the TV Tower and lounged on a bench on the square. I thumbed through the guidebook and happened about Gendarmenmarkt, which was billed as the most spectacular square in Berlin. We hopped back on the U-Bahn and went to check it out.
I can concur that Gendarmenmarkt is indeed the most spectacular square in Berlin. It has three graceful old domed buildings and then a line of stately apartment blocks. Our experience was enhanced by a violin player busking near the national concert hall. It was the perfect way to unwind after a tiring and stressful day’s journey – laying on a bench, soaking up the architecture and ambiance while Vivaldi plays in the background.
One weird thing about Berlin is that you can’t forget World War II while you’re there. It’s a strange subtext, like the elephant in the middle of the room that no one talks about. The older buildings bear the scars of bullets and shells and so many of the reconstructed buildings, with their jarring 50s and 60s architecture are just a different sort of scar, like a skin graft instead of scar tissue. While we were in the Gendarmenmarkt, a DC-3 flew fairly low overhead.
I could clearly make out its shape and its two engines. I couldn’t identify what it was, but I could tell it wasn’t your standard commercial jet. For that passing moment, I could picture the doors opening up and bombs tumbling out. It was just an automatic vision, planted from years of newsreel and film footage.
When I asked Peter if he’d imagined it dropping bombs, he admitted that he sort of had for a second, but then knew it was A. not a bomber and B. was an Allied plane, so “it wouldn’t be dropping bombs….except, of course, this is Germany so it would have.”
Our dinner plans were to meet up with our friends at the Rosenthaler Platz U-Bahn station and then head out toward a couple of places recommended in the guidebook. We ended up eating at a place that was near the other places, although not specifically listed in the book. It was an open, airy Italian and pizza restaurant, whose menu was in both Italian and German (but no English).
I don’t think our waitress was German (if I had to guess, I’d say she was from one of the Eastern Bloc countries, but I could be wrong) but she did speak pretty good English and was happy to try it out on us. In fact, she was so happy to try it out on us that she pretty much ordered for us. Peter told her he wanted the prosciutto and mushroom pizza and she told him “no, that is too easy, I think you should have this”, indicating another pizza that she unfortunately was not able to translate entirely. She made recommendations and when we balked, she made her recommendations more forcefully. We got the sense that we could order whatever we wanted and she was still going to bring us whatever she thought we should have.
The antipasto platter she recommended was heartily enjoyed by all. The main courses met with varying degrees of appreciation. Peter and I swapped pizzas (his sausage and tomato for my chunky mozzarella, cherry tomato and spinach) and we all shared around. It was also stunningly cheap – it cost less for the four of us than the last meal Peter and I had together in Dublin. (And the places were probably of similar status although the food was much better at the place in Berlin.)
Yeah. Peter was none too pleased that I dragged him out of bed early to catch a train that didn’t exist. So we were stranded at the Altenberg train station (the closed station with the deserted platform) until 10.17. Our trip into Dresden went smoothly enough and I went into the ticket office to sort out our trip to Berlin. Our tickets were open-ended on the return, so I needed to find out which train we should take.
The guy didn’t speak English but I was able to tell him I needed a non-stop train to Berlin. He charged me an upgrade to do that and printed me out a schedule and ticket supplement for the 12:05 train. I tried to reserve seats on the train, but he told me no. With my child’s vocabulary and comprehension, I didn’t know if it was a “no you can’t” or “no you don’t need to.”
We got the platform with about 25 minutes to spare and Peter went to get some lunch. About 5 minutes after he left, our train pulled up. I was worried we’d miss the train, so I texted Peter and then set out to make sure that it was our train, since the board said it was going to Hamburg. (But it was going to Berlin first.) Peter arrived, with a plate of bratwurst in hand, just as the doors seemed to be closing, at least the door where I was standing.
We hopped on the train and proceeded to struggle along the narrow corridors, looking for a compartment. After about two train cars, Peter had an unfortunate incident involving a rude man, a hyper-ish kid and a pair of insistent-on-closing-right-on-him automatic doors. The upshot of this incident was that his bratwurst went flying and his patience got a bit fried.
We got off the train and walked on the platform to another car, still looking for unreserved seats. We did find a pair in a compartment, but two different people in the compartment insisted to us in what I think were different languages that we could not have the seats. I didn’t know if they were just being rude or if someone really was sitting there, but it didn’t help our moods much.
We finally trudged into the car of last resort, the bar car, and dumped our bags down. Peter went to search the last train car and I resigned myself to having to sit in the corridor with a very disgruntled, tired Peter who would have every right to blame me for the ongoing train debacle.
Peter found a couple of seats in the last car, which just had regular seating, not compartment seating. We stowed our luggage and gratefully collapsed in the seats, only to become aware that we were most likely sitting in first class. Rather than wait to get turfed out, Peter sent me on a mission to get it sorted out somehow.
I found the conductor having a smoking break and had a nice chat (in English) about our seat situation. I learned that we could upgrade our tickets for € 19 euro and I jumped on the chance. When the nice conductor printed out our upgrade slips, I thanked him profusely, saying “You’ve saved my marriage!” I don’t know if he understood exactly what I was saying, but the sentiment was clear enough.
We arrived back at our hotel in the mid-afternoon and received a room that was more along the lines of what we were paying for. We were disappointed not to have the suite, but the room had tall ceilings and big windows, so it was alright even though it was only just big enough to hold the bed.
In the evening, we had some time before we were meeting our friends for dinner, so we headed out to Alexander Platz and went to the top of the TV Tower. It was a good view, high enough so you could see everything but low enough so that you could still see details. It was also cool to see places after acquiring a certain familiarity with the city.
Since the weather was a lot more agreeable, we headed back outside after the TV Tower and lounged on a bench on the square. I thumbed through the guidebook and happened about Gendarmenmarkt, which was billed as the most spectacular square in Berlin. We hopped back on the U-Bahn and went to check it out.
I can concur that Gendarmenmarkt is indeed the most spectacular square in Berlin. It has three graceful old domed buildings and then a line of stately apartment blocks. Our experience was enhanced by a violin player busking near the national concert hall. It was the perfect way to unwind after a tiring and stressful day’s journey – laying on a bench, soaking up the architecture and ambiance while Vivaldi plays in the background.
One weird thing about Berlin is that you can’t forget World War II while you’re there. It’s a strange subtext, like the elephant in the middle of the room that no one talks about. The older buildings bear the scars of bullets and shells and so many of the reconstructed buildings, with their jarring 50s and 60s architecture are just a different sort of scar, like a skin graft instead of scar tissue. While we were in the Gendarmenmarkt, a DC-3 flew fairly low overhead.
I could clearly make out its shape and its two engines. I couldn’t identify what it was, but I could tell it wasn’t your standard commercial jet. For that passing moment, I could picture the doors opening up and bombs tumbling out. It was just an automatic vision, planted from years of newsreel and film footage.
When I asked Peter if he’d imagined it dropping bombs, he admitted that he sort of had for a second, but then knew it was A. not a bomber and B. was an Allied plane, so “it wouldn’t be dropping bombs….except, of course, this is Germany so it would have.”
Our dinner plans were to meet up with our friends at the Rosenthaler Platz U-Bahn station and then head out toward a couple of places recommended in the guidebook. We ended up eating at a place that was near the other places, although not specifically listed in the book. It was an open, airy Italian and pizza restaurant, whose menu was in both Italian and German (but no English).
I don’t think our waitress was German (if I had to guess, I’d say she was from one of the Eastern Bloc countries, but I could be wrong) but she did speak pretty good English and was happy to try it out on us. In fact, she was so happy to try it out on us that she pretty much ordered for us. Peter told her he wanted the prosciutto and mushroom pizza and she told him “no, that is too easy, I think you should have this”, indicating another pizza that she unfortunately was not able to translate entirely. She made recommendations and when we balked, she made her recommendations more forcefully. We got the sense that we could order whatever we wanted and she was still going to bring us whatever she thought we should have.
The antipasto platter she recommended was heartily enjoyed by all. The main courses met with varying degrees of appreciation. Peter and I swapped pizzas (his sausage and tomato for my chunky mozzarella, cherry tomato and spinach) and we all shared around. It was also stunningly cheap – it cost less for the four of us than the last meal Peter and I had together in Dublin. (And the places were probably of similar status although the food was much better at the place in Berlin.)
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