Into the Heart of Bavaria: Munich

Could travel get any better than Rothenburg ob der Tauber?

Tom and Jim didn’t think so. They were sure that nothing could top the warm, generous hospitality they’d received from Hermann and Linda. But they were eager to sample a different type—Bavarian hospitality in the beer halls of Munich.

First, though, a stop in Neu-Ulm, where they’d arranged to visit Captain William “Billy” Bugert, the older brother of one of Tom’s closest friends from Toledo. Billy was a Ranger stationed at the U.S. Army base.

 By this point, Tom and Jim’s beards were filling in—though still a bit scraggly—and their hair was getting longer and more unkept by the day. They felt more than a little out of place walking around the base, surrounded by clean-cut soldiers who snapped sharp salutes the moment they noticed Billy’s rank.

 “What if they don’t salute?” Tom asked.

“They’d better,” Billy said, with a smile that made Jim want to snap to attention and salute to avoid whatever consequences Billy would visit upon the un-saluting.

The captain’s quarters were modest: a bedroom, a kitchenette, a small dining area, and a living room just large enough to unroll two sleeping bags on the floor. Billy had studied German and managed to land this much-desired post, where he captained a squadron of paratroopers. Thanks to his fluency in German, he knew all the un-touristy places to eat (not that there are a lot of tourists in Neu-Ulm). He took Tom and Jim to his favorite local watering hole. There, he told stories of his many jumps, his soldiers, and his interactions with the locals who, he noted, considered America a ‘young nation.”

Tom and Jim swapped travel stories in return. The beer flowed, as did the stories and the laughter.

Until they got kicked out.

From Jim’s Journal:

On to München

Grateful as they were for Billy’s hospitality, Tom and Jim left Neu-Ulm the next morning—still a bit mystified that they’d managed to get tossed from a restaurant. That hadn’t happened in any of their Notre Dame haunts, or anywhere else, for that matter.

So they shook the dust from their boots and headed south to Munich, the heart of Bavaria.

Bombed heavily in WWII, Munich faced the same challenges that many German cities encountered in 1945: rebuilding their city—and their lives. They apparently did an excellent job with the former, for when Tom and Jim arrived and stepped outside the Munich Train Station, the surroundings looked clean, modern, with not a trace of the destruction visited upon the city just a little over three decades earlier. Tom was really into pedestrian zones, so Munich’s main, KarlsTor sent him into near delirium.

From Tom’s Journal: Karls Tor! The most extensive PEDESTRIAN ZONE in all of Europe. The wonderful people-focused walkway winds all the way through town, past the Frauenkirche with its two onion dome towers to the Glockenspiel in the Town Hall MarienPlatz beyond to its numerous urban parks featuring the Viktualien Beer Gardens and Markets and the English Garden (the largest urban park in the world) to the Isar River where one catches a glimpse of the Deutsches Museum, seemingly the entire Smithsonian, 27 major topics, all it seemed in one building!!!

They dropped their backpacks at the youth hostel, which had warning signs everywhere about a strict curfew and no exceptions to the no-entry rule once the gate was locked. Taking note of the closing time, Tom and Jim made their way to their main destination—Hofbrauhaus.

Octoberfest was over—it was already November—but the beer halls were packed. Tom knew from his Let’s Go Europe that the first Oktoberfest had been held in 1810 to celebrate the wedding of Mad Prince Ludwig. He and Jim grabbed seats at one of the long tables next to a group of young Germans who were celebrating something other than the memory of the Mad Prince—probably a soccer game. Soon, two ginormous mugs of beer (33.8 ounces) were placed in front of them by a buxom blond Bedienungin (server) in full dirndl, the traditional German dress: tight bodice with a deep neckline, puffy blouse, full skirt, and apron. The boys sat in awe as they watched the female servers lift several giant mugs and deliver them to the various tables without (much of) a spill. Fully dressed, yes, but somehow more revealing and enticing than anything Hooters would later dream up.

      Photo Copyright (C) David Sanger 

The table rotated with revelers, but the conversation was easy. Most were Americans and Canadians, so it didn’t take long for stories, laughter, and another round—or several—to keep the mood alive. This was undoubtedly the reason the boys found themselves standing in front of the hostel’s locked gate long after curfew. And why they rudely shook the gates and yelled continuously until someone—after a long lecture in German that didn’t sound like early morning prayers—took pity and let them in..

A short night’s sleep and a long hangover awaited them.

The boys spent three days and two nights in Munich, one of their longer stays in any one place thus far. They took in as much as they could:  The Olympic Village—built from scratch for the 1972 Olympics, just five years before Tom and Jim arrived, and scene of the horrific killing of the Israeli wrestling team and other athletes by Palestinian terrorists. Tom was impressed with how much Munich reminded him of the Scandinavian cities they had visited: pedestrian-only walkways throughout the Alt Stadt (Old Town), an emphasis on urban living for all its citizens, of all ages; no cars in the heart of the city, parking garages out of sight, and a new modern subway system—free—built for the Olympics.

They spent a lot of time in the Schwabing district, famous for its eateries, boutique stores, eclectic beer gardens, and large university student population. They met Carol and Eve from America and spent a good part of the day with them, enjoying the street musicians and even dancing to their music, careful not to step on the creations of the many sidewalk chalk artists.

They also met a young man, Dieter, a graduate student who spoke perfect English and who had not long ago traveled overland through Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, and Pakistan to India, his goal.

Another Overland seed planted.   

Between the restaurants, museums, and beer halls, a financial assessment was needed. After some quick calculations, the boys discovered they were spending approximately $18 a day. Not bad, they reasoned, since the trip so far had been mostly in Northern (and more expensive) Europe. They had decided that once their Eurail passes expired, they would return to the U.K. and tour Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. For that, they figured they’d need about $360 in their pockets (or money belts). And for that to happen, they’d need to get their spending down to about $12 a day. This would not be possible if they spent much more time in Munich. It was time to hit the rails.

But not before one final stop.

Dachau

Just a twenty-minute ride on Munich’s S-Bahn takes you to the infamous Dachau Concentration Camp—without a doubt, one of the most somber moments of their journey, then and now.

What can be written or said about Dachau that hasn’t already been written or said? It won’t be attempted here, except to say that if you have an opportunity to visit Dachau, you must. No person with a conscience or sense of humanity can walk away and not fervently hope for “Never Again.”

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(More on the Overlanders’ reflections on Dachau in the accompanying video.)

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And now for the NOW: Reflections on Munich and Dachau

Comments? We'd love to hear from you! Please share your thoughts in the comment section below.

Along the Rhine - The Traveler's Commandment

Another change of plans.

From Enkuizen, Tom and Jim had planned to head straight to Berlin. They wanted to see the Wall, the Brandenburg Gate, the Reichstag, and Checkpoint Charlie—so much history. And though they would never have admitted it back then, they were also intrigued by the descriptions in Let’s Go Europe of some of Berlin’s more unusual nightclubs. According to the guidebook, each table had a phone. If someone at another table caught your eye, you could call that table to see if they were interested in a chat—or something more. (They later learned that these clubs dated back to the Weimar era, when both telephones and pneumatic tubes were the tools of flirtation.)

Unfortunately for their cabaret dreams, when they got to the Enkhuizen train station, they learned that their Eurail passes did not cover the train to Berlin. After checking their money belts and adding up their American Express travelers' checks, they agreed that the cost of a separate ticket was a budget-buster. Berlin was scratched. They needed to pivot.

Tom pulled out his already well-worn map of Europe, and he and Jim mapped out a new route. Because they had learned that the best-laid plans can go awry at any point, they only made plans for the next several days along the Rhine River, veering slightly off at a town they’d never heard of, but which was another “must see” mentioned by a backpacker in one of Amsterdam’s coffee shops.

The days were a blur, but here’s a condensed summary from both journals:

Cologne: As with Stockholm, the weather—cold and rainy—had a negative effect on their first impressions. While Jim marveled at the view of its famous Gothic cathedral as the train rounded a bend, its black discoloration from centuries of exposure to coal from factory chimneys, along with algae and moss, was not an inviting characteristic. Still, he and Tom ventured out in the rain to check it out. They learned that it took centuries to build, starting in 1248 and concluding in 1880. According to the guidebook, it was built to house the relics of the Three Wise Men. Big eye-roll from Jim.

Bonn: The main destination was the Beethoven House, founded in 1889. Tom’s journal indicated his new appreciation for the composer’s genius. Jim’s only comment in his journal was less enthusiastic—not with Beethoven, but with the venue. “You’d think they’d at least pipe in some of his music,” he wrote. 

Boppard.  Partly surrounded by medieval walls. As they disembarked from the train, Tom and Jim saw two backpackers sitting on their packs, one of whom was wearing a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap. They struck up a conversation and, Six-Degrees-of-Separation style, uncovered a mutual acquaintance of Jim’s. Jim didn’t record the name, but it was probably one of several friends who attended Xavier University in Cincinnati. A foreshadowing of meeting an ND grad in a bar in Cairo.

Bingen. From Jim’s journal: Beautiful view of the Rhine, crowded youth hostel. After settling in and joining the others, the game of “Where’ve you been?” begins. You win if you can name more places than the others. One-upmanship at its finest.

Bacharach: Tom and Jim met two more Americans—Barb from Erie, PA, and Linda from Upstate New York—who recommended a youth hostel that was also a medieval castle. With their pleasant and memorable stay in a castle at Einkhuzen in mind, Tom and Jim trudged up a steep hill to Schloss Stahleck. They were rewarded with another beautiful view of the Rhine. 

From Tom’s journal:  Barges moving in both directions seemingly one every five minutes; HO trains on both sides of the river; bicyclists and hikers enjoying the walking paths along the mighty Rhine. It turned out that the Hostel was closed, but both Tom and Jim’s journals report that they talked their way into staying the night. Still a mystery how they did that.

Rothenburg ob der Tauber. Though on the Tauber and not the Rhine, Rothenburg turned out to be one of the most memorable places the Overlanders visited—ever. With its medieval walls still intact, Rothenburg is one of only four towns in Germany that escaped invasions, regional wars, and two world wars with its city walls untouched. (The other three are Nördlingen, Dinkelsbühl, and Berching, all in Bavaria.) As Tom recounted (aloud!) from his Let’s Go guidebook, Rothenburg even escaped destruction during the 30 Years' War of Protestants and Catholics (1618-1648). One reason may have been the Catholic General’s innovative idea for avoiding a massacre. He said he would not invade the city if someone in the town could drink a gallon of beer in one gulp!  Rothenburg’s retired mayor appeared and accomplished that goal. Village saved, and what a village!  Bells towers, cobblestone alleyways, clocks, specialty shops (lots of Hummels)—Rothenburg is the quintessential Christmas card.

 

In fact, the town was already decked out with lights and Christmas decorations when the boys arrived on a late November night. And by late, we’re talking near midnight, well after closing time for the hostel they had planned to stay in that night. The town seemed deserted. The boys had no Plan B.

 

And then, as they would experience more than a few times during their travels, salvation came out of nowhere.

 

“Do you need help?” a deep voice called out. Heavy German accent.

 

The boys turned to see a burly blond man in a leather jacket approaching.

 

“Ah, oui…yes… I mean, ja,” Tom started, using his trademark broken-English diplomacy. “Um… una pensione? Know where is?”

 

“Nein. All closed.”

The boys looked around as if for a miracle hotel to pop up or a couple of benches to sleep on. Not a great prospect. It was cold.

 

“Follow me,” the man said, “My wife speaks English more.”

 

Out of options, the boys followed the man to a nearby parking lot. He led them to one of the few cars still in the lot. On the back windshield was a decal for Northern Arizona University. The passenger door opened, and a woman stepped out and spoke with the man in rapid German. She then turned to Tom and Jim and smiled.

“Why don’t you come with us?” she said in flawless English. “We live not far from here. If you need a place to stay, you can sleep on the floor of our family room.”

 

Did the boys pause to consider the possibility that they were being invited to a house far, far from this safe, Christmasy town by a husband-and-wife tag-team of sado-masochistic killers?

 

“Sounds great,” they said.

 

Hermann and Linda lived on a small dairy and soybeans farm just outside of Rothenburg. They had been in town to have dinner at a friends. Once they reached their cozy little home, they insisted on a bedtime snack for the boys, which turned out to be more of a complete dinner than a few crackers with cheese. While the two of them stuffed their faces and drank down several bottles of powerfully stout German beer, Hermann and Linda shared their story. The couple had met while Linda was touring Europe, fell in love, married, and went into the family farming business, taking over the business from Hermann’s father, Peter, and had been living on the farm ever since. Hermann’s face grew ruddier with every beer, and his laughter as Binks interrogated him about life on the farm.

 

Before retiring to the floor of the family room, Binks’s last question to Hermann was whether he and Linda often extended such hospitality to bedraggled backpackers.

 

“Nein,” Hermann replied. “But if a traveler needs help, you help.”

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 And now for the NOW. Reflections on "Along the Rhine - The Traveler's Commandment"

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Nirvana on the Zuider Zee

After whirlwind visits to New York, London, Copenhagen, Oslo, Bergen, and Amsterdam, the boys were tired. Embracing their new traveling mantra, “Be flexible,” they took another look at their planned itinerary, which called for them to head into the heart of Germany. But Tom and Jim agreed that it might be a nice break to find a smaller, Flam-like town to recharge their batteries.

Tom pulled out his dog-eared Let’s Go Europe and one of his maps, falling apart from multiple re-foldings.

“Here’s one—Enkhuizen,” Tom said. “It’s on the Zuider Zee.”

That sparked Jim’s attention and fond memories of reading about Hans Brinker, the Silver Skates, and the boy who plugged a dike with his finger.

Located about 40 miles northeast of Amsterdam, Enkhuizen sits on the shores of Ijsselmeer and Markermeer lakes. For most of its history, which as a city started in 1356, Enkhuizen was an important harbor on the Zuiderzee and a major trading hub for the Dutch East India Company. At one time, it had the largest herring fleet in the Netherlands and for a long time was known as “Herring Town.”

Upon reading this (aloud, per usual), Tom envisioned a fishing village, with boats, seagulls, and women on the docks, waiting for their husbands to return home from the open seas with the day’s catch.

More reading revealed that although for centuries it played a prominent role in the herring fishing industry, the city now focuses on other economic sectors—water sports being one of its most popular and profitable. But what struck Tom and Jim was the town’s quiet charm—its cobblestone streets, numerous cafes and restaurants, and a population of just 10,000 (now closer to 18,000).

One of Enkhuizen’s major attractions, then and now, is the Drommedaris, a 15^th-century fortress and bell tower. Back when Tom and Jim visited, its upper floor, once a prison, had been converted into budget lodging. For just 6 guilders—about $2.50—they could toss their sleeping bags down in the large open space. The tower also housed a 44-bell carillon—which nearly knocked them off their feet when they chimed as they dropped off their backpacks.

They had arrived early in the day, so after stashing their backpacks, they rented bikes (just 5 guilders for the day) and set off. They pedaled along the canals and into the countryside, where even the ducks and swans, it seemed to Tom, waddled up to say hello. As with the small village of Hilton in England, Enkhuizen struck them as the perfect storybook setting.

That feeling only deepened in the early evening as they walked the cobblestone streets. The houses were lovingly tended—flower boxes on the windows, small gardens in neat plots, lace curtains pulled back even at night. You could peer in and see families gathered at supper. Bells rang constantly from the Drommedaris, the local church, and the town hall. Children played in the park. It all felt like a brief step into utopia. Nothing to fear in Enkhuizen.

That night, they were surprised to see that no other backpackers had checked in, and they had the entire third floor of the Drommedaris to themselves. All that space—atop a former fortress and prison—was fitting. It was Halloween night. Spooky.  And it gave them a taste of what a late-October night felt like inside a drafty 15^th-century building.

Tom and Jim spent Halloween '77 as lone hostelers atop the 15th-century fortress, Drommedaris. (Photo (c) Drombar)

The next morning, Tom and Jim continued their exploration of the town. As they descended from the third floor, they discovered that the other floors were used for various local activities and cultural events. That particular morning featured a fencing match. The boys sat and watched for a while, not knowing the sport but enjoying the cheers that erupted with each sudden thrust and parry.  

They also visited the Enkhuizen cemetery, where many of the gravestones marked the resting places of men and women their age—or younger—casualties of WWII. They also visited the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers. Known Unto God. They both reflected once again on the incongruity of the horrible events that took place in this now quiet and peaceful place.

Before catching another overnight train, they walked once more along the canals, past cobblestone alleys, windmills, red-roofed row houses with furniture hoists. This, Tom remarked, was how life should be lived.  As night fell, this feeling deepened as they could easily see scenes of domestic tranquility.

From Jim’s journal: Walking in the cold wind and looking in the windows of the small cottages, so close to the sidewalk/street. A woman in a chair, legs tucked beneath her, head tilted, asleep. A man in a chair in a corner, reading. A child? Maybe. Warm.

From Tom’s journal: The streets, the houses, the friendliness, the shops, the canals, the bicycles, the nightly walks, the bells, the children, the flowered parks, the smell of the bakeries, the water always nearby, the use of cycles, the windmills, the fine weather, the small local pubs serving the sausage and cheese you want and top off with a Heineken. Just needed a town crier!

It was another extended “Moment of Nirvana” for the two Overlanders. But Germany—and beyond—beckoned.

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 And now for the NOW. Reflections on Enkhuizen:

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Amsterdam: Definitely Not in Ohio Anymore

The backpackers Tom and Jim met in Scandinavia were eager to share their must-sees and don't-bothers about their upcoming visit to Amsterdam:

"Don't miss the Rijksmuseum. Awesome."

    "Too crowded. If you want to see The Night Watch, buy of box of Dutch Masters cigars."

"Take the Heineken tour. It's free and you can get a nice buzz on by noon."

    "Heineken? That's not real beer."

"You can get whatever drug you want, anywhere you want."

    "Don't buy from the Moluccans. They're aggressive as hell and their hash is garbage."

Just as they had eagerly anticipated the good, the bad, and the tawdry on their way to New York City, Tom and Jim couldn’t wait to experience canal-laced Amsterdam—The Venice of the North.

On the train from Bergen, Norway, they shared a compartment with a couple from Colorado. Ellen, a history major, was thrilled to be visiting Amsterdam for the first time. She looked forward to seeing masterpieces from Holland's Golden Age. She was especially psyched about the newly opened Van Gogh museum and the chance to walk the historic canals that earned Amsterdam its nickname.

Doug, by contrast, was a seasoned backpacker who had been to Amsterdam several times and seemed interested only in replenishing his drug stash. It was he who had warned them about the Moluccans. “And stay away from the Youth Hostel,” he added. “It’s full of thieves.” 

After parting ways with the Colorado couple at Amsterdam Centraal (not a typo) Station, Tom and Jim were surprised to run into a familiar figure on the train platform: Devron, the mysterious “Man in Black,” as Jim had dubbed him. They had first met him on the ferry in Aurlandsfjord, the spectacular branch of the Sognefjord in Norway. In his characteristic formal manner and aristocratic accent, Devron greeted them with, “I should very much like to find accommodations with you.” The three of them booked a room at a hotel near the train station, costing 12.5 Guilders each—roughly five dollars in 1977. By the next morning, the trio agreed that the cramped quarters weren’t worth the “exorbitant” price,

Since Tom and Jim enjoyed the youth hostels they’d stayed in so far, they decided to ignore Doug’s advice and try their luck at the Christian Youth Hostel—located, ironically,  in the heart of Amsterdam’s notorious Red Light District. A stone plaque above the entrance read, “Jesus Christ is Lord of This House.” (The hostel has been considerably updated and upgraded since then, but at the time it was loud, crowded, and dingy.) Several signs in the check-in area warned against pickpockets. The dorms were segregated by sex, and Tom, Jim, and Devron found themselves among fifteen to twenty men, none of whom spoke English and all of whom looked, as Tom later put it, “The greatest collection of freaks and burnouts from a wide assortment of countries.” They were loud, leering, and—frankly—in dire need of a shower.

Jim slept in his clothes that night, money belt tucked under the waistband of his jeans.

Before all that, though, the newly formed trio spent the day hitting all the must-sees. They started on a boat tour of the Canals, followed by a visit to the Rijk and Van Gogh museums. They stopped in several bars, where beers were served with cheese-and-cracker boards—no salty peanuts for the Dutch—and the vibe was bright and social. Drinking, it seemed, wasn’t the point. Socializing was.

That evening, before returning to the Youth Hostel, they walked around the Red Light District—De Wallen, as the locals call it. It is the oldest district in Amsterdam and specializes in the world’s oldest profession. Tom and Jim walked along the main canal, Oudezijds Achterburgwal, wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the women in the windows lounging about in barely-there lingerie. Almost as surprising was the normalcy of it all: People returning home from work—home might be right above a red window—couples strolling along nonchalantly, families wending their way through the throngs of tourists.

“Doc,” Binks said at one point, “We’re definitely not in Ohio anymore.”

Devron played it cool, of course. The Mystery Man In Black launched into a monologue about the more sophisticated European mores versus America’s puritanical mindset. It may have been the beers sampled in the various bars they visited that led him to eventually claim that if he were to go into one of the “shops,” the woman inside would pay him. Tom and Jim laughed, but Devron didn’t crack a smile. When they half-seriously offered to pay for his hostel bunk if he’d just go inside and ask how much she would pay him, he demurred, then declined.

“I don’t want to show off,” he said.

After a restless night in the Youth Hostel (Jim still half-expecting to be robbed at any moment), the three visited the Royal Palace and then split up for the rest of the morning. Tom and Devron toured the Heineken brewery, while Jim wandered around DAM Square, ordered a coffee, and watched the street performers. Every few minutes, a young man would lean in and stage-whisper, “Haaaaash?”

The three regrouped for a late lunch before heading to their final stop in Amsterdam—a sobering counterbalance to the city’s freewheeling spirit: The Anne Frank House, located at Westermark 20 the Prinsengracht Canal. As one of the most famous museums in the world, there’s no need to describe it here. Despite the long line outside and the crowd inside, the house was eerily quiet. Afterward, Tom, Jim, and Devron were uncharacteristically quiet as they made their way back to the hostel to pick up their backpacks en route to Centraal Station. Devron was off the Italy to scout out more framing opportunities; Tom and Jim had decided on Germany for their next leg of the journey.

On the train, Tom immediately pulled out his journal and a brochure he’d picked up from the Anne Frank House and copied down her most famous diary entry:

“In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever-approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again.”

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And Now for the NOW: Reflections on Amsterdam

Comments, Observations, Questions? We'd love to hear from you! Please share your thoughts in the comment section below.

Oslo to Bergen -- The Fjords Will Set You Free

As they journeyed deeper into Norway, Tom and Jim revisited the words of a more experienced—if decidedly haughty—backpacker they’d met in Stockholm.  

“Typical American tourists,” he had scoffed. His accent was hard to place, but his disdain was crystal when they’d told him that they were going directly from Stockholm to  Amsterdam. 

“Skipping Norway? You two are mad. The fjords would change your life.” He insisted they were crazy to skip Norway and its fjords. He then launched into tales of his overland journey to India.

Now, as their train left Oslo’s city and suburban limits and began its ascent, Tom asked, “How long do you think it would take to go Overland all the way to India?”

No immediate response from Jim. He was focusing on the dizzying climb into the mountains, with seemingly very little ground between the track and the abyss. Sometimes, especially when the train emerged from tunnels built to protect the rails from the hard winter snows, it seemed there was no ground at all.

“I hope the engineer isn’t drinking,” he said, finally. “Or depressed.”

Though at times nerve-wracking to take in, the scenery was truly spectacular. Quaint red houses and barns grew smaller as the mountains loomed larger. Forests stretched out endlessly, lakes sparkled like mirrors in the sunlight while deep ravines and valleys showcased distant houses and immaculately manicured farms.  

Jim noticed that Tom, uncharacteristically, didn’t have his nose buried in one of his travel guides but was instead spellbound by the passing scenery. Later, in his journal, Tom would write that the trip from Oslo to Flåm was “humbling.”

“No matter what happens in our lives, the mountains, the waterfalls, the fjords, all this will still be here,” he wrote. “The goals of life that we are conditioned to possess and drive for do not seem worth it if the pursuit kills oneself in the process. And here… in the grip of all this natural majesty, you realize just how insignificant those efforts are. Can’t wait for Flam and the fjords.”

To reach Flåm, the “typical American tourists”—not-yet Overlanders—transferred onto a local train at Myrdal. After a descent on some of the steepest train tracks in all of Europe, with fantastic views of cascading waterfalls, they reached the tiny village, located at the end of the famed Aurland/Songefjord. When they got off the train, they saw a single pier—presumably where they’d catch the ferry through the fjord to Gundhaven. From there, they would catch a train to Voss, the birthplace of Notre Dame’s famed coach, Knute Rockne. Tom was eager to explore Rockne’s roots. Jim, known among his fellow alums for his scandalous indifference to ND football, agreed to the slight detour away from their final Norwegian destination, Bergen.

Several other backpackers disembarked: Lori and Brenda from Minnesota, and Peter from Toronto. They walked together to Flåm’s Visitor Center to rent rooms for the night. It turned out that lodgings were mainly cabins—expensive cabins. Tom and Jim wondered if they had made a budget-busting mistake, after all, by following the Overlander’s advice. But when Lori and Brenda suggested that they save some money by all sharing a single cabin, Tom and Jim’s financial fears instantly dissolved.

Jim (left) and Tom on a cold, misty ride through Songefjord.

After dropping their backpacks in the cabin, the five of them went outside. Night had fallen, and it was getting colder as they sat on the pier and talked. Everyone seemed happy to be meeting fellow travelers, especially travelers of the opposite sex. The stars were out in force, and Jim was awed by the magnitude and clarity of a night sky undiminished by city lights Later, he would experience the same sense of awe brought on by horizon to horizon of stars; once while sleeping under the stars in the Negev desert, the other will atop a bus in the Baluchistan desert. Talk about Moments of Nirvana.

The next morning, the girls invited them to join them on the train trip to Bergen. Tom and Jim declined, countering by inviting them to join them on the ferry ride through the fjords. It was now Lori and Brenda’s turn to decline, as Lori was to meet some family in Bergen. Then Brenda said, “I’ll be on my own while Lori is with her family, so if you change your mind, I’ll be there at [some place and time neither Tom nor Jim’s journal recorded.]”

With that, the girls set out for the train, and the boys the boat. Once aboard and underway, they headed to the top deck, as always. But they saw that someone had beaten them to the prow. A youngish man dressed entirely in black, including a secret-agent type of raincoat, reminded Jim of a character in a noirish film, thinking deep thoughts as the mist rose up around him. They struck up a conversation; his name was Devron Smith, from Florida.  He spoke with a slight accent, although he assured them that he’d been born and raised in Florida. He told them he was in the family business of framing art and was touring the art museums of Europe. His manner was a bit stiff for someone in his early twenties, and his conversational style seemed formal for an American. Tom and Jim weren’t quite sure what to make of him, but they continued talking and even managed to get a laugh out of Devron, whom Jim dubbed the Mystery Man In Black.

Conversation slowed and then stopped entirely as the three of them took in the breathtaking scenery. Waterfalls cascaded down steep, rocky cliffs. The water was glass, and the only sound was the low hum of the ferry’s engine and the distant, muffled sound of waterfalls.

Arriving in Gudvagen to catch the train to Voss, Jim dropped a bombshell: He was going to Bergen and would meet Binks there the next day.

“Really?” Binks asked. “You sure?”

“You’re asking if I would rather spend time with a nice-looking woman than search for a statue of Knute Rockne?”

Tom laughed. They made plans to meet the next day at noon at Bergen’s train station. Tom went off in search of Rockne; Jim in search of Brenda.

When Tom arrived in Bergen as planned. Jim was there to meet him.

“Did you meet the Ghost of Knute?” Jim asked.

“No,” Tom said. “But Voss is beautiful. What about you? Did you find Brenda?”

“Yes,” Jim said. “I don’t think she thought I’d actually show. She was… surprised.”

Despite Tom’s prodding, Jim volunteered no additional details.

“Well, then,” Tom said, grinning, “looks like we both struck out.”

###

That was Then. Now the NOW: Reflections on "The Fjords Will Set You Free"

 

Comments, Observations, Questions? We'd love to hear from you! Please share your thoughts in the comment section below.

Change of Plans: Stockholm to Oslo

The original plan was to head south from Stockholm to Amsterdam. Tom and Jim reasoned that even with a two-month Eurail pass, they wouldn’t have time to see everything before the pass expired and they’d need to head back to the States. So they made the call: Denmark and Stockholm would be the totality of their Scandinavian experience. Norway was taken off the list.

The backpackers aboard the Af Chapman—the 19^th Century, full-rigged steel Swedish ship-turned-youth-hostel—were aghast. Some even appeared offended. What? You’re not going to Norway? The fjords? The most spectacular scenery in Europe… in the world? Are you crazy?

Most were just trying to be helpful, offering some valuable don’t-miss advice. Others seemed to relish the opportunity to show off—in slightly condescending tones—their travel chops. But enough of them had made it clear to Tom and Jim that skipping Norway might be a serious mistake.

Norway went back on the list.

They hopped on a day train for Oslo, hoping for clearer skies to frame the beauty the more experienced backpackers had so confidently promised. The rain clouds kept pace with the train, and it wasn’t until they reached Oslo that the elusive Scandinavian sun finally broke through.

Stepping off at Oslo Central Station, Jim was struck, once again, by the elegance of the European train stations they’d experienced so far. Like London, Copenhagen, and Stockholm, Oslo’s station featured tall windows, spotless floors, and lots of shops, restaurants, and cafes where you could sit as long as you like, sipping a cappuccino while doing serious people-watching. Often located in the heart of the city, these stations served as both transportation hubs and public spaces for both travelers and locals. With the massive, constantly flipping and clattering (pre-digital) departure boards, people bustling about, and announcements in half a dozen languages, it felt less like a train station and more like the setting of an espionage film.

That’s Bond. James Bond.

Venturing out of the station, they found cheap (for Norway) accommodations nearby at the Cochs Pensione, a quaint old hotel in central Oslo.

From Tom’s journal: Despite the long train ride across Sweden, we arrived in Oslo with thoughts of not doing a number (tourist jargon meaning to really visit and analyze a city). So we spent a night and half a day walking up and down Karl Johans Gate, from the train station to the Royal Palace or the Slottet, casing the Norwegian capital city. 

They meandered through narrow side streets, past shops selling heavy, hand-knit sweaters and overpriced smoked salmon. They walked past the National Theatre under what Jim thought was the disapproving glare from the towering statue of Henrik Ibsen. They also felt compelled to visit the Viking Ship Museum, imagining how those experienced backpackers from the Af Chapman might react (“You went to Oslo and DIDN’T go to the Viking Ship Museum?”). The visit was worth it, though. How often do you get to see thousand-year-old longships?

 From Jim’s journal: While I want to see more of the countryside, I wouldn’t mind spending more time in Oslo. Seems very livable, if expensive. We met and had a beer with a woman named Lo, ten years older, been traveling for a year! Stories of abuse back in the States, places she’s been since she left him, and way too much info on the men she’d met here and there. How much true, how much exaggeration? I asked if she enjoyed traveling for so long. Response: “I’m not really traveling, anymore. I’m just wandering.”  

###

That was Then. Now for NOW: Reflections on "A Change of Plans"

Comments, Observations, Questions? We'd love to hear from you! Please share your thoughts in the comment section below.

Stockholm: Dreary Weather, Bright Advice

After their first of many overnight train rides to follow, Tom and Jim arrived in Stockholm at 9 a.m., tired and hungry after trying—and mostly failing—to sleep sitting up. This may explain why their first impressions of the Swedish capital were less glowing than when they first glimpsed London and Copenhagen. The cold, dreary weather that greeted them when they disembarked didn’t help.

Finding an inexpensive place to eat in famously expensive Sweden was difficult—even Let’s Go! seemed at a loss. But they hit the jackpot with their accommodations. Docked just across the water (Stockholm is situated on 14 islands connected by more than 50 bridges) from the Gamla stan, Stockholm’s medieval “Old Town,” is the Af Chapman—a full-rigged steel ship built in the 1800s that sailed all over the world, later served as a training vessel for Swedish naval officers, and later still became a youth hostel.

The ship has undergone several major renovations, most recently in 2022. Today, the “hostel” looks more like a standard Hilton or Marriott hotel room. But in 1977 the accommodations were basic: double bunk beds, a small writing table, and three (not four, for some reason) chairs. After tossing their backpack on their assigned bunks, Tom and Jim joined a rather large group of people—young backpackers, as far as they could tell—gathered under the gray skies. A bedraggled man was playing the guitar and doing an excellent Gordon Lightfoot’s, “If You Could Read My Mind.”

“Where in Canada are you from?” Jim asked, sure the singer would be impressed with his ability to discern accents.

“No Canada,” he said, smiling and revealing a prodigious set of choppers. “No English.”

Though he couldn’t speak it, he sure could sing it. Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” came next, followed by Donovan’s “Catch the Wind.” All were excellent. Different languages mingled in the air, but English predominated and Tom and Jim enjoyed listening to the more experienced travelers share their tales of the road.

“If you go to Amsterdam, do the Heineken tour. It’s cheap, and you can get a buzz on by noon.”

“Skip the light show on the Acropolis. It’s a rip-off.”

“Cairo is full of ****ing pickpockets.”

What struck them was that there was very little discussion of the experience of visiting these places versus how to stretch a buck. But they were budget travelers and some of the tips came in handy. One, in particular, caught their ears.

“Make sure you stop into the Pudding Shop in Istanbul. Everyone goes there and you can get some good tips on the overland to India.”

That may have been the first time they’d heard the word “overland.” Some of the people had traveled across Europe and through the Middle East to Asia. No planes. The idea was almost too exotic for Tom and Jim. And then Jim struck up a conversation with a young Austrian couple. They had worked for three years—he as a microbiologist, she as a teacher—before quitting their jobs to see the world. They had been traveling for nearly a year. Jim felt like a complete rookie and made a mental note to toss his backpack in the dirt somewhere so he looked more like a seasoned world traveler. He looked over to Tom, who was listening, wide-eyed. Jim had a feeling that Tom’s next out-of-budget purchase would be a copy of Let’s Go—Asia!

The weather report for the next few days forecasted rainy skies and chilly temps, so Tom and Jim decided to see as much of Stockholm as they could during the rest of the day and the following morning. The plan was to head north to Bergen, Norway, then back down the Scandinavian coast to Amsterdam.

They set out together for the Old City, Gamla Stan, Stockholm’s original city center. Tom loved wandering the maze of narrow lanes (seemingly narrow enough to stretch your arms and touch the buildings on opposite sides), lined with 300-year-old buildings. He was again struck by the limits on automobiles in the city in favor of pedestrians, and awed by the way people of all ages wandered the Gamla Stan and central Stockholm's numerous parks without fear. Remember: This was the 70s, when most American city centers shut down after the workday, and walking through parks in the dark could be hazardous to your health.

Tom wanted to take in more of the Gamla Stan and its nearby sites, such as the imposing Royal Palace. Jim wanted to simply wander, so they agreed to meet later back at the Af Chapman. Once Jim was out of the Old City, he found himself roaming the streets and bridges of a beautiful, modern city. Somewhere along the line, he found himself at some sort of flower-arranging competition. He didn’t understand a word of what was going on, but got a kick out of watching the contestants working furiously at something out of sight, then revealing their work with a victorious flourish to the accompaniment of lusty cheers and applause. Jim was mesmerized.

Back at the Af Chapman, he found Tom deep in conversation with another backpacker who, in the slightly condescending way that some of the more experienced backpackers talk to rookies, told Tom that it was crazy to go straight to Bergen.

“Take the train to Oslo first,” he said, which sounded more like an order than a suggestion. “From there to Bergen is one of the most beautiful train trips you’ll ever take.”

And so Tom and Jim amended their plans. They would do so again in Oslo, onto a path that a certain famous poet would say made all the difference.

***

That was Then. Now for the NOW: Reflections 50 Years Later on
"Stockholm: Dreary Weather, Bright Advice"

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Copenhagen: City of Spires

Tom and Jim had an inexpensive dinner after their time at the Lion’s Club and finalized their strategy for traveling together without driving each other crazy. They would skip the expensive guided tours, which were major budget busters. Instead, each would consult his own travel guide to pick the sites they wanted to see. If their choices meshed, great. If not, they would separate for the day and meet together at dinner—or later—to share their experiences.

With that settled, they decided to check out Copenhagen at night. They came to a discotheque with a line of people about their age waiting to get in. Half an hour and twelve kroner later, they found themselves in a whirlwind of strobe lights and thumping music. They pushed their way to the bar, a highly polished affair that stretched the entire width of the venue. Tom struck up a conversation with two guys from Great Britain, but how they conversed with Donna Summer and “Love to Love You Baby” blasting out over the speakers was beyond Jim.

After a few excellent beers, they decided to call it a night. But on their way out, a young woman sharing a table with another woman called out, “Do you speak American?” Soon, she and her friend were sharing drinks and peppering Tom and Jim with questions: “How do you like Copenhagen?” and “Where in the U.S. do you live?” “How long will you visit in Copenhagen?”

The women were friendly and attractive, and Tom and Jim were starting to wonder just what might be in store for the rest of the evening—until one of them asked, “How old are you?”

Tom answered and returned the question. 

“Fifteen,” she replied.

Tom and Jim glanced at each other. The unspoken thought: “Between this and the Lion’s Club, we definitely need to up our bar game.” After a few polite farewells,  they headed back to Hotel Absolom.

The next morning, Tom decided to return to the Strøget, a part of the city that had caught his eye on the bus tour the previous day. When he entered the area, a pedestrianized zone consisting of five winding streets in the heart of the city center, he felt that he had finally stepped into the essence of a true European city—where people mattered more than cars.

As he meandered through the area, he was struck by the apparent high quality of city life for people of all ages, a stark contrast to many cities in the United States. Bike paths were an integral part of the urban landscape, allowing people of all ages to pedal safely through the streets. The streets and sidewalks were impeccably clean, and the cars—smaller than the American-style gas guzzlers—were well-maintained. Lovely parks, gardens, canals, and lakes encircled the downtown area. His wanderings also led him to Christiania, a former industrial area now transformed into a community of adults seeking personal freedom to pursue life's pleasures and interests. Artists, free spirits, and hippies enjoyed life on their own terms. The culture seemed years ahead of the USA in accepting alternative expressions of life. And the city felt safe: People of all ages walked around the town at all hours. Tom felt that Copenhagen's urban life was balanced, people-oriented, and allowed its citizens to truly enjoy life. This first impression became the benchmark against which Tom would compare the many other European and Asian cities they would eventually visit.

Tom was also struck by the openness of Danish society. Pornography shops were as common as coffee shops on Strøget, and sex and its promotion seemed normalized. Marijuana was sold openly in stores and little cafes, offering a wide variety of options. This was unheard of in the States back in 1977.

As for Jim, he had left the Hotel Absolom with no particular destination in mind. He wandered the streets, stopping now and then to sit and people-watch and scribble in his journal. He also visited the Strøget, but more by happy accident than a planned destination. Like Tom, he found himself a bit wide-eyed at all the adult bookstores, explicit posters, and theaters advertising live sex shows. This was a far cry from the theater in downtown Cleveland, the “Roxy,” which—as Jim had heard but could not verify from personal experience, of course--featured rather tame burlesque-type strip shows.

Jim spent most of the day in Frederiksberg Garden, Copenhagen’s largest park, where he met more Americans than Danes. A guitar-wielding young woman with a dazzling smile introduced herself as a “Child of God” and asked if Jim could spare some money to help her bring others “closer to the source.”

“What’s the source?” Jim asked.

“You’ll know it when you get there.”

Jim begged traveler’s poverty. Later, a couple with the U.S. flag sewn to their backpacks apparently mistook him for a native and asked for directions to the palace. Jim told them that he had only arrived in the city the night before. He expected a friendly greeting and perhaps some tales of the road, but the couple merely thanked him and continued on their way.

The only Dane Jim spoke with that day was one outside the train station--Kobenhavns Hovedbanegard—where he waiting for Tom so they could catch the overnight train to Stockholm. She was short, blond, and wore an extremely mini miniskirt.

“American?” she asked.

Jim smiled and nodded. It would be nice to chat while waiting, he thought. Maybe learn a little bit more about life in Copenhagen from an actual citizen. And wouldn’t Tom be impressed to find him chatting with a pretty young local.

“Want sex?” she asked.

Jim decided to wait for Tom inside the station.

***

That was Then. Now for the NOW:
Reflections 50 Years Later on
"Copenhagen:City of Spires

We'd love to hear from you. Share your comments, questions, or any reactions to this post in the comments section below. And thanks for reading/watching!