Rasmenia

I stared out the window, watching Germany roll by as we made our way to Freiburg.

“You know,” I said to Olivier.  “I can’t recall the last time that I had a decent cup of coffee.”

He pulled on his beard as he steered our little Renault up the highway.

After a moment of recalling all of the cups of coffee we had had recently, he finally stated, “We haven’t had a decent cup of coffee since we left France.”

It was true.  I had some drip coffee from a bakery with my kanelgiffel in Copenhagen.  We made some nasty instant sludge while camping in Sweden & had some watered-down American style joe with our Frühstück in Berlin.

What I wanted was a double espresso, served with a cube of sugar & a square of chocolate on a tiny saucer that I could drink at a tiny table on the sidewalk.

It would have to wait.

We drove on, until we finally arrived at the campground where we would be spending the night.  As lovely as the city of Freiburg is, I have to say that this place really had nothing to do with camping.  Then again, I’m from Colorado, so my view of camping varies a bit from what we found in this place.

I’ve mentioned before how camping in Europe is very different than camping in the Rockies.  But, this… this was something else.  An old man who was working at the campground told us where to park & pitch our tent.  After we got set up, he promptly returned to reprimand us for parking our car in the dirt & pitching our tent in the grass.  It seems that we should have done the opposite.

We looked down at the patch of dirt, which was peppered with rabbit turds & squirming with ants.

“We didn’t put our tent on the poopy anthill,” Olivier said.  “We are assholes.”

“That guy looks like an old lesbian,” I said.  “He knows nothing about camping.  I’ve decided that he’s the bigger asshole.”

I looked around & couldn’t believe how many people there were – the place was filled, well over capacity.  Our car was parked right in front of the opening of our tent – about 3 feet away, but that didn’t stop people from wandering in between the two.  There wasn’t enough space for little kids to play (& there was a shitload of them) so occasionally, a ball or little boy would bounce off of our fucking tent.

It was during this night of camping that I learned to say, “Raus!“, which means “out”, or “go away”!  Very handy.

Lucky me, I was still dealing with the sickness that I had been dealing with over the past couple of weeks.  Because of this, Olivier & I barely slept… evidently, there was some problem with me kicking, punching, crying & having a fit due to suffering a painful defeat in the clutches of a disgusting mucous assault.

I don’t deal well with being sick.  I’m really much more of a broken bone, torn flesh, straight-up injury sort of person.

So, in the morning, Olivier pried me from the sleeping bag, in spite of my complaints, promising that an afternoon in Freiburg would be well worth it & would make me feel better.

He was right.  We took a walk through the big outdoor market, picked up a few more postcards & whatnot before we blew out of Germany & back into France.

We jumped back into the car & began heading west again.  In no time at all, we found ourselves in the region of  Alsace, in the village of Colmar, surrounded by its distinctive buildings, with their unique timber framing.

Indeed, we were finally back in France, where the signs once again became legible.  Back in France, where the wine flows like a river, where the cheese stinks & the old women are surly.

So, we were back in France, but weren’t quite ready to return home just yet – we still had plans to spend a night at a Chambres et table d’hôtes in Alsace.

“There’s a vineyard near here,” Olivier said.  “We can go do a tasting & pick up some Alsacian wine, if you want.”

“Oh, I want,” I said.  “But, first… I think I just want a coffee.”

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Technocrati Tags: travel, humor, France, Germany, Freiburg, camping, Alsace, Colmar, coffee, camping, Europe, Copenhagen, Sweden, Berlin

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Entering Sweden & making our way to Malmö was pretty uneventful.  I was still battling the sickness that I had acquired during the night that we had spent camping in Germany.  We weren’t planning on doing much of anything in Sweden, other than relaxing & spending a night in our tent before heading back to Germany.

We didn’t foresee any problems.

We didn’t foresee any weirdness.

Rest.  Dinner.  Sleep.  Breakfast.  Should be easy.

We arrived at the Malmö Camping & Ferie Center & went into the office.  It was the usual thing: the guy showed us a map, pointed out places to pitch a tent & where to pee.  Good enough.  So, we were ready to pay.

“You also have to buy the camping card,” camping ground employee guy informed us.

“A camping card?  What’s a camping card & why do we have to buy it?”

He looked at the two of us as though we might be completely daft.  We looked at him as though he might’ve been drunk.  He held up his hand & presented a plastic card.  “You can’t camp without it,” he said.  “It’s the law.  10 Euros & you can camp all year.”

All year?  Wonderful!  We’re only going to be here for one night, but knowing that we have this useless thing for the entire year is comforting.  So… bravo, Sweden.  You’ve got a good scam running there, jacking every single person who wishes to camp 10 Euros for a plastic card which provides no benefits, rewards, hand jobs or any other useful thing.  Just the privilege to camp, which most people have managed to do sans card.

After we bought some snacks & mocked the useless card, we drove down the path, past all of the campers & RVs to a wide open space between some trees.  We thought it was a little weird, this being the area for tents & there was absolutely nothing… no one at all.  Well, except for a few ducks & bunnies.

We took a stroll around the campground & noticed something a bit odd about the campers & RVs that were occupying much of the place: they appeared to be permanent.

Indeed, we were surrounded by several RVs & pop-up campers with small picket fences, lawn decorations & portable patios.  There were satellite dishes, dog houses & flower beds.

These people weren’t camping – they were living in a goddamn campground.

Somewhat baffled, we went back to our camp site to have dinner.

I sat in the tent, feeling sorry for myself since I was still sick, while Olivier unloaded all of the cooking supplies from the car.

I would like to say that after dinner, we simply went to sleep & rested soundly, but that would be bullshit.

The wind pounded our tent for the entire night & we were so smart that we had pitched our tent rather close to a lamppost that stayed on all night.

Once the sun was up, the wind had stopped & it was time to abandon any further attempts at sleep.  Olivier broke out the cooking supplies once again.

“You want me to boil some water for tea?”

“Yes, please,” I replied as I rubbed sleepy crap from my eyes.

A bit later, drinking my tea, I asked, “Are you going to make some oatmeal?”

So, we had our oatmeal.  Olivier turned to me.  “I guess you want some coffee?”

I nodded my head.  “And maybe you could toast those English muffins.”

Drinking my coffee, I watched as Olivier placed the muffins in the tiny pan… I was still watching when he burned his finger on it.

“That’s it!”  He tossed the muffin halves into the tent.  “I’m tired of playing Little Chef!”

Little.  Chef.

Ok… so, I knew that this was one of those times where it’s really better not to laugh, that it’s just too soon & that once the person has calmed down & the pain of the searing flesh has abated, then it’ll be ok to laugh.

I erupted with hysterical laughter at that very moment.

Since we were actually in Sweden, I initially thought that perhaps Olivier was making some sort of befuddled reference to this:

But, no… I was mistaken.  According to Olivier, it was because, “My pan is little, the cups are little, my spatula & the silverware are little & I don’t want to be the fucking little chef anymore!”.

I laughed until I hyperventilated, then decided that it was time to get our shit together & get ourselves the hell out of Sweden & its weird campground with picket fences.  So, I began packing things up & headed toward the bathroom to get myself ready.

However, my path was impeded by some pushy fucking ducks mooching for snacks.

Of course, clingy little shits that they were, even after I had met all of their demands, they refused to leave.  They loitered around the tent & once we had packed that up, they hung around the car & I wondered if they might chase us as we made our departure out of Sweden, demanding more breakfast treats.

You may not believe that wee little ducks can be bullies, but you’d be wrong.

After creating a diversion with some bread, we jumped back into the car & made our way toward the Oresund Bridge, or the Øresundsbron.

In spite of the fact that I was paralyzed with fear (bridges + water = stark terror) I have to say that this thing is rather impressive, being part bridge & part tunnel, spanning for about 10 miles.

Yeah… a big scary bridge that dives under the fucking water!  Brilliant!

We spent the next 5 hours or so on the road before arriving at our room just outside of Berlin, where we would be spending the next few days.

After we talked with the owner & unloaded our car, Olivier went right to work, setting up his little pans, little cups & utensils, ready to play “Little Chef” once again.

Well… only until we could get our hands on the Wurst, Bier & Frühstück in Berlin.

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Technocrati Tags: Travel, Sweden, Germany, Europe, Humor, tourism, food, cooking, ducks, animals, Oresund, Bridge, ridiculous, camping, campground

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When Olivier & I woke up in our hotel room in Breda, we couldn’t focus on much except for breakfast.  Here’s the thing about breakfast: each time I leave France, I get all worked up & dizzy about what this new place will be serving for the first meal of the day.

I judge a country based on its breakfast.  Sure, there are other small, less important factors that affect my opinion of a place: the booze, the people, the sights… but, these are all nothing compared to the importance of what food a country starts its day with.

France, I love you, but a croissant & cup of coffee just doesn’t cut it for me.  This is a snack.  Fail.

Holland, on the other hand… they have their shit together in this area.  There was fruit, cereal, plates of meat & cheese… yogurt, juice, coffee, pastries & a variety of bread.  A chubby woman with an absurdly sincere grin brought me a plate the size of Greenland that was covered with runny eggs & bacon.

I was drunk on Dutch cheese & bacon.  Afterward, all I could do was gurgle incoherently with glee.  I didn’t want to move, but I had no choice.  As soon as the feast had ended, we had to stuff ourselves back into our scorching Renault oven to drive ourselves to Germany.

It was going to be a few hours, so we’d have entertain ourselves like the jackasses that we are… singing ridiculous made-up songs is a pretty good way of passing the time during a road trip.

While we were on the road out of the Netherlands, Olivier & I each remarked at the profound lack of tulips & windmills.  We did see a few windmills off in the distance as we sped down the highway, but not once did I see rolling fields of tulips.  It’s a good thing that I was drunk on Dutch breakfast cheese, or else I might have been very riled up about another cliché crashing down to the ground in front of me like this.

Another thing that we had to do besides keeping an eye out for confirmation of cultural stereotypes was to find postcards to send to friends & family.

It seems that the cagey bastard who swiped the tulip fields had also gotten his mitts on the fucking postcards.  We couldn’t find anything, so we had to settle on some free ones that we found hanging on the wall in a gas station.  Now, receiving a postcard with a picture of a gas pump on it & some gibberish written in Dutch may not seem classy to you, but… well, you’d be wrong about that.

Triumphant with our classy free postcards in hand, we were back on the highway & heading toward a campground just outside of Hamburg.

Just after we entered Germany, we made a rather wonderful discovery: Germany has something that France doesn’t.  Something that Olivier & I often lament because no one should ever have to go without it.

Of course, I’m talking about this:

As soon as we saw it, we were speeding into the parking lot, running inside & in the best German that Olivier could spit out in his excitement, he was ordering Whoppers.

Fuck.  Yes.

I also noticed in the Burger King the cleanest bathroom ever to be found in a fast food restaurant.  Likely it had something to do with the dude hanging around outside the shitters charging people 20 cents a pop to clean up after everyone.  We ended up seeing this all over the place in Germany & while we weren’t used to tossing out some change each time we had to see a man about horse, it was actually worth it because… well, you know – public bathrooms can be terrifying.

Anyway… on to the campground.

We stayed at a campground in the town of Großensee, just to the east of Hamburg.  We had picked up a few bottles of German beer somewhere between Burger King & putting up our tent.

We also had plenty of butane & canned ravioli.

We were pretty much set for the entire night.

Well, we were… until around 1:00 in the morning when I awoke in agony.  At some point during the night, it seemed that someone had attempted to remove the tiny bones of my inner ear with a rusty pair of needle nose pliers.

Evidently, I had also swallowed a fucking golf ball that was still lodged in my throat.  I was in pain.  I was outraged.  Naturally, I did what I always do in these situations.

I wept like fucking baby.

In the morning, instead of getting excited about breakfast, I was pouting & choking, sobbing into my scrambled eggs.  I was also barely able to speak, so not being able to bitch endlessly about my suffering was a bit of a bummer.

Obviously, I wasn’t very cheerful about this shit.

Olivier was on the phone, trying to find out what kind of medication to get from the pharmacy.  Words such as “infection”, “antibiotic” & “prescription” were flying around.

We went into the nearest pharmacy & Olivier threw together some words from his rusty German to discuss with the pharmacist all of this business with “antibiotics” & “prescriptions”.  Fortunately, the pharmacist didn’t feel like dicking around with us much & probably figured that if we were pill poppers trying to scam him, we wouldn’t be asking for fucking amoxicillin.

So, antibiotics & aspirin in hand, we were off to Copenhagen, where I would eventually be able to speak again.

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Technocrati Tags: Breda, Holland, Netherlands, breakfast, Germany, Hamburg, Burger King, bathroom, Whopper, Großensee, tulips, windmills, stereotypes, cliché, travel, road, camping, sick, pharmacy, ridiculous, food, postcards