THE WONDER VOYAGE

Finally, I have the ticket and all signs indicate that my journey is about to start. One restless moment has to be endured, there is always some late obstacle which prevented any endeavor in the past. However, not this time. Wonder voyage here I come.

First stop has to be and it is Munich. Hidden in Bavarian mountains and forests, it is home for many fine people, wonderful sights and some festivals, especially one in October. As a history fan, I run to see for myself, if not for anybody else's famously notorious pub. I don’t know what I expected, but that isn’t what I found there. Surprisingly modern and not at all, something one could associate with those dreadful, drunken vandals. As I have ordered the beer, like a good tourist, my vivid imagination starts running wild, remembering and seeing all the scenes that might happen here in those dark days. As a Slav, I shiver slightly, since my breed was distant third, along with LBGT population and just in front of some “bad” Germans for annihilation. The first place was reserved for Jews, of course. And the second, when one thinks of it. Considering how blue I have felt, not even a pretty, blonde and busty waitress with the beers in her arms, which only three non-Bavarian girls can carry at once, could avert me from returning back to the fun train. Well, the journey doesn’t start well; things should improve when we reach Krakow.

Many trees and wonderful nature of this lovely forest, which we pass by on our way, doesn’t impress me, as I was still sitting in that pub in 1923, wondering how the hell events from that small basement erupted into world war and the deaths of more than 50 million people. One’s head is to burst up, but he wouldn’t be near the explanation.

Seagull right outside the window of the train! “That is strange”, I thought, so I opened it. There is more than one, together with a distinctive, sea scent. No sea around Bavaria, at least, not to my knowledge. However, my nose, rather large then one could desire it, isn’t mistaken. As we are descending from the mountain, as expected, the plains north of the city steadily make way for the huge body of water, not expected! I am puzzled? That is understatement actually, as I am more than puzzled, I am… I am… without any words. But the air is so nice and fresh, and fresh and nice. I should stop writing the log and enjoy it. I think I have deserved it, and so what if the sea has come to visit Krakow, or Krakow decided to take a little trip, for a fore night like the humans do every summer.

Suddenly, I realized that I missed Prague, my favorite city. It should have been somewhere on the path. Although it’s a setback, one should enjoy in what he has, and not wanting something else, equally good. We often don’t see fine stuff in front of us, as we desire for something out of our reach, that we don’t need, just because we are made to believe that it is essential to us, from friends, relatives, the media or society in general.

As I share these thoughts, I got down from the train to explore this unexpected treasure in the form of a runaway town. Instead of plains there is sea, La Manche as I can clearly see white cliffs of Dover. No world traveler, experienced or not, can replace them for something else. Rainy clouds above them haven’t crossed over. It serves them right, as they intend to leave our beautiful continent now, when it is finally peaceful and in harmony.

I compare Krakow with the Czech capital, and it is losing, since it’s only second in its country. However, Poland is much greater and had an empire of its own in previous centuries, which I am familiar with thanks to many books of their Tolstoy – Henryk Sienkiewicz.

With fabulous open square and many historical buildings around, this city could match any in its beauty and architecture. Also exit to the sea has earned it a bonus point. Different from other places are people. Everywhere you look, there are couples holding hands or entire families enjoying themselves jolly and cheerful. Perhaps since it is in the West and not East anymore, behind the Iron curtain, its inhabitants aren’t full of themselves but rather nice and friendly. Repression is just a word now, but for half a century it was around the city and country never far away, always in the back of the skull or in close vicinity. As the danger has passed, there is a slimmer chance that they take anything for granted anymore, but at the same time, every day is a new opportunity and without symbols of tyranny around and new latitude, life is much brighter and for enjoyment. That is one way to explain lovely Krakow and their citizens enchanted like they have broken some spell of a very bad red sorcerer.

All the benches are filled with lovers. It seems to me that one should only sit at one, and some pretty girl will join him. I want that. After half an hour tracking for solely one, I find it racing off some girl and boy. At first, they didn’t like it, but very quickly they smiled at me and left. Now I am observing a potential mate, smiling like a monkey in a Zoo that awaits bananas.

“Pjotr, moj milošć”, some very old lady in a wheelchair said to me, cuddling my cheeks, and wanting to kiss me, to mine astonishment. Soon enough, this commotion attracts many other people, and some smart fellow aids us and starts translating, whilst I throw the meanest look at him. Something about me reminds this poor old lady of her fiancé, who vanished in thin air during the uprising in the 50s. She praises my look, stating how youth and fine appears a person that has lived in the West, much to my shock but approval of the crowd. She continues with the same routine, as I am thinking to myself, beware what you wish next time.

All could end ugly, if some doctor hasn’t arrived to take away my devotee, who puts on a sad face as she is pushed away in a wheelchair. I want to make eye contact with pretty doctoress, but she only holds the hand of an old woman, which returns back to her tragic memories. Pjotr, like many boys of that time, didn’t reach sunshine, which he expected West is or could be made of. His destiny was one of those three – slowly drowning in the Baltic, instant death on electrical barb-wire or killed and buried in some ditch.

Mixed feelings preoccupy my brain, as I glance at the city and its people for one last time. Life is what it is, and we have to take the bad and the good almost in the same way. If anything, history teaches that. As the train is running south, fields and pastures of Normandy, as well as its small manors and abundance of hedges are a sight for sore eyes.

Just as this lovely scenery starts to change my mood, another strange thing. Unexpected capital in this rural and pastoral county, or arrondissements as it is called in these parts. None other, then Stockholm appears and opens to me as the train is approaching. Together with it, part of the Baltic Sea is shown in front of us, as those two are unbreakable, like Scylla and Charybdis, although the parallel isn’t very good, but I am furious right now. I was drugged, this is uncanny. Or all mine atlases back home, are misleading me. I have watched them, from time to time, and Stockholm is placed in Scandinavia, but apparently it is really situated, here south of Normandy. Never mind the fact that I have longed in to visit it for some time now, I decided to throw away all my atlases when I return. It is not right for such things to make fun of me.

Beautiful White Nights, the phenomenon for this and nearby cities, together with such beautiful sights like Stockholm City Wall, The Cathedral, Royal Palace or some palace which I can’t pronounce but it starts with D, light up my spirit as I want to see more, everything valid in this, heaven on Earth.

People here are different then in the south, cold, distant and blonde, both male and female. With my dark hair I stick out like a gorilla in the kindergarten. Again, my parallel is poor, I have to work on it. Some person, darker skin and hair than of me, approaches me, referring to me as we are old comrades, as we shepherded the sheep together as juveniles in the hills of our fatherland. I smell a rat. Others come near us, so I am in defense, going backwards. This is it; I will be stabbed in this lovely city, but in some dark street of it. I should have brought a pack of dogs for my protection. It‘s all apologetic now.

I am already praying to mine God, the thing we all do regardless of our religious beliefs or disbeliefs, as they start arguing among themselves. I am fine meat for torture, so each one wants to give killer blow, but only one is able to. Suddenly, a few men start laughing, so I copy them, without thinking, like a backward monkey which grabs a banana. I should be ashamed of myself. As it turns out, they have mistaken me for their buddy, finally realizing how my proportions couldn’t match him, I am much taller, regardless of the fact that we resemble like two eggs from the same nest. I could explain to them how we, in the Balkans, were ruled by Ottomans for centuries like probably their respective motherlands and that one can’t fool around with genetics. In the true manner of white male European, I have assumed that several Middle Eastern fellows immediately bring trouble or worse – some kind of jihad. I think I have overestimated myself and my importance in the big wide world. It turns out, since Arslan, my Arab twin is unreachable, some warlord back home is very interested in him but not in his artistic, cooking or equestrian skills, I am obliged to replace him tonight. I am about to experience oriental Stockholm, a rare honor for an ordinary white person. Night endeavor has proved too much for me, because I can’t remember most of it. Mainly, the theme was a Turkish bloke in a wigwam smoking huge calumet one after another, with an abundance of sweets like Turkish delights, comfits, baklavas and other. I am fairly sure that I have taken a few chunks too many, as I felt dizzy on the station the next morning. Standing on the open window, watching back to glorious picture of Sun rays shining like gold over the roofs of buildings and churches of Swedish capital, but as well observing to the south beautiful landscape of northern France with its vineyards, castles and many herds of different animals, I return the state of mine stomach to optional and just enjoyed, the breeze, the moving of the train and the life of a traveler, without any petite care, like paying bills, commute problems or many other of living in large city.

The GPS device, part of the luggage, has shown the good assessment of its proprietor, Paris is next in line. But how one could be certain, after nearly a week on this road, an unexpected and highly uncommon path. Our locomotive could enter Damascus or Union Station. I desperately wanted to visit the capital of France, like any of you. I can’t remember Last Time I Saw Paris was on TV. Such and many other movies were rushing through my head, as I was getting anxious by the mile of this voyage. The speed of the train hasn’t been to my liking, at that point I wished I was in the plane. Suddenly I saw the tip of some metal construction. I was happy like the third monkey who steals bananas whilst the front row pair is squabbling. I leaped into the air and nearly fell off the wagon. Pretty scared, I looked up only to be more frightened than moment ago. Only thing around was some stupid telecommunication tower and large quantity of cows. Maybe Paris is a cow-city now. Destroyed and mad, like child who lost its favorite toy, I dropped into my seat.

At that exact minute, other passengers start screaming and yelling some French phrases. Apparently, we were on the outskirts of our target, but I was still in the mood of that child, now hating it badly. It takes several minutes to realize what a baby I am and forget everything. Nobody is perfect not even Paris, a line from another movie.

There is always some twist in life, so I sense some here. The Seine is too wide, I have finally grasped it. Actually, it is the Danube, the river of mine childhood in the city of my resting years. I really hope that could be the case, as this beautiful city is perfect for the autumn of our human existence. Walking hand by hand, with your lover through great boulevards, slowly going up the Montmartre or under the Eiffel Tower. Climbing up at our age could only end in tear.

Together with the Danube, entwined with it, come the waltzes. Instead of harmonica sounds, or street musicians like Zaz, broad parks and banks of river are filled with orchestras and couples dancing, dressed Habsburg fashionable. However, each participant has a touch of French couture somewhere on them, a scarf, unusual hat or just plain green leafs. Germanic uniformity tangled with Celtic spirit and love for nature. Instead of wagging wars, those two create garments for all seasons.

How brilliant local architects are shown in the bridges. Wider river needs a longer overpass that is the law of nature, but here many islands are exploited so only small bridges are made connecting the banks in zigzag formation. The journey is very pleasant and you can observe the city from various angles. For those practical individuals, who don’t want to lose their precious time, local officials put in the train array of contents both for pleasure and business. Although I prefer the classic type of city, one must acknowledge the needs of the population and modernize communities to make it practical and comfortable.

The timetable waits for no one, so I have to pack my souvenirs and memories. One day in this fabulous city isn’t nearly enough, but one shouldn’t get too greedy. It is always better than nothing. Now, again we are racing through lovely fields with vineyards everywhere you look. I am puzzled by the Danube. Our track is following the river, or is it the other way around. Finally, the blue river, at least in the melody, takes its natural course to the east, so we have to be separated.

I sit back in my seat, playing a tune in the head. As I opened mine eyes it was time to observe other passengers in the compartment. Opposite to me, a strangely dressed gentleman is reading the book with red covers, whilst his eyes are shut. Upon closer examination, I realize that it is actually my book, which I have put on the nightstand just off my bed. Etiquette on Cyrillic, from the local library where I have borrowed it, is unmistakable. “Babylon Pit”, collection of dreams and short stories by Kafka. Suddenly he opens his eyes, grabs a pen and the notebook and starts writing compulsively. I try to interrupt him, but other than a few remarks in German, I can’t reach him. He is in his own world. Slowly, but surely I comprehend that’s really him sitting right in front of me. I wish that my mother is here with me, she is German, but immediately I erase that thought from mine brain – nobody brings their mother to vacation, especially if it is wonderful voyage like this.

I turn to other travelers. It is a family, but very peculiar. Mother, ballerina with a bunch of children. At first, I am supposing that these aren’t hers, but the smallest one addresses her “Mama”, I have to think again. Something isn’t right, because with all the rehearsal, the plays and non-stop on the road, it is very difficult to bring up a single child, and five – impossible. However, she is a devoted parent, although I could see some longing in the corner of her eyes. Every child gets equal attention, as I have watched it, following her gracious moves from one’s head to another’s shoelace or some button hard to manage for a three-year-old, but instantly put in the right spot by mama’s fingers.

Outside the weather starts to shift, as heavy but rainless clouds are upon us and wind is picking up speed. Huge frozen water appears on the horizon, where I assume I would see the azure color of the Mediterranean Sea. Opposite to my wishes it gets chilly, so I look at a GPS device, which indicates the city of Lyon. This water is, in fact, a lake, as I could see the city in the distance. It seems like a ghost-town, since it is shrouded in mist. Some crying behind, make me turn around. The mother is gone. Horror in the eyes of small ones scared me, so I looked through the window. There she is. Despite cold winds and snow that start snowing, she is there, in her element, doing what is in her nature – dancing.

In spite of louder and louder cries just inches off me, I couldn’t avert my eyes from the spectacle on the ice. Her career desire has beaten the strongest force in the world, in the universe – motherly love. I am amazed. Actually, that is an understatement. I am astonished, like never before or I could imagine it is possible one person can be. At the same time, I am appalled, destroyed and shaken in the core of humanity. How could this be? It is one of the mysteries of our existence – a devoted and caring mother suddenly turning back off her offspring to pursue happiness elsewhere. Last glance to lonely, frantic ballerina as inexorably the wheels are turning and life goes on.

Sitting back down, I couldn’t look at poor orphans. Their destiny is bleak from now on. There is always someone to look after them, but they will probably be separated and many adults on their path will try to use better of them, then to give them what is required – warm, healthy and carefree childhood.

The city is gloomy, like the sky, gray and metal, like my soul, still recuperating from the events from the road. Few sunshine rays decorate the buildings, much to my delight, bringing color to my cheeks and steadily making me realize where I am. Leningrad is the site, with a lot of awkward monuments and huge red stars here and there. The remainder that Big brother never sleeps. There is even a tank on some square, not made of stone but real one. Another reminder that in the event that Big brother is in the land of nightmares, this huge, iron beast is like Cerberus on guard. But from time to time, when the Sun penetrates those dark clouds, I feel like I am in St. Petersburg standing in front of Hermitage, or walking around Nevsky Prospect.

Struggle above us turns into wild combat. However, the strongest force, at least in the sky, is our Sun, bringer of life, but also demise if you take large quantities, without any shield, or you approach it too closely. It likes to be distant. It values its solitude and is watchful over us all. Here, the Sun brings freedom, shaming modern Cerberus, painting it in pink, much to the jubilation of locals, craving for some humor, even if it isn’t hilarious. Everyone is in the streets, celebrating with fireworks just in front of Peterhof Palace.

Following morning I am at the station, ready to continue this voyage. Epic night is behind me, but I desperately want to get aboard for more adventures. In my head, I can see oranges and Spain, as it is the perfect thing after Russian winter. Who knows what is next in line on this wonder voyage. It would be nice to visit some small English town at Iberian Peninsula. Perhaps Stratford-on- Ebro. Don Quixote and Sancho Pansa meet William Shakespeare.

But I am roughly grounded. Some silly clerk acquired a ticket from me. Or, at least, I have to drink the same beverage I took at the beginning of it. I am trying to remember what ingredients I have put in my tea. Let me think. Mint and sage, as I have a sore throat often, maybe some hibiscus and briar. Before that I had a glass of ginger ale. I scream to the clerk to wait for me, as I go back to the city to purchase those things. Most of the stores are closed, obviously one couldn’t expect for people to party all night and then work early in the morning. Others haven’t heard of sage and they thought I was messing with them when I mentioned ginger.

“Vodka is the cure for everything”, one woman explained to me. With a little Russian I know, I try for the last time, to get what I need so desperately. I could hear the locomotive’s horn announcing its impatience. I am now like the fourth monkey which never reached the Zoo and it was captured by poachers and has two possibilities – quick death and a dish in some underground Belgian restaurant or many years behind the bars when he is sold at black-market. With all hopes lost, I decide to buy this Russian recipe for everything. Maybe it’s a trick and that clerk just wants to make fun of me. Full of new hope, I grab a bottle, ready to pay for it. However, I have to choose from three kinds – Finlandia, which I couldn’t afford, Red Star, which I hate or home-made, very cheap but causing certain blindness, insomnia and impotency. Not understanding what I am buying, but without any second to spare, as another shriek from the station can be heard, I take a third bottle, without proper label, but who cares if I could continue my journey.

It was too good to be true for such a long time – a week. The train is leaving without me, and I have to stay here all alone and cold with only the content of this spirit to warm me up. Maybe you could take mine place on this wonder voyage. Be sure to write to me about places and countries you visit. Mine address would soon probably be, unnamed grave next to Rasputin’s one.