Going first class

I have happy memories of first class travel.

My previous such journey was enjoyed between London and Edinburgh. Because of a delightful quirk of the train operator’s usually enraging computer, a first class ticket northwards was remarkably cheap.

Upon seating myself in my sofa, my attractive hostess offered me some food.

“No thanks” said I

“It’s free” said she.

“Pile it on” said I.

Later on, she returned from her angelic duties to offer me a drink.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Er…”

“It’s free.”

“Mine’s a gin and tonic.”

Occasionally, her increasingly heavenly form would return to endow me with top-ups, or chocolates, or whatever it was my fluttering heart desired.

By the time I reached Scotland, walking was a serious problem, but the cloud of joy and contentment that I floated upon was ungroundable.

So, when the Deutsche Bahn suffered the same electronic blip, my expectations soared. German trains are the masters of Europe, far superior to any clapped out old chugger the British can produce. First class travel in Germany will be like travelling with Louis XVI.

Oh my brothers, how wrong I was.

Invited on to a 1970s, flea-bitten carriage, I surveyed the grey and red stripped seats with some trepidation. A five hour journey spanned before me, was this décor tolerable for such a length of time? Could any man be expected to survive these conditions?

Never mind, thought I, I would deploy the patented Flying Scotsman technique, and a cheery myopia of delirium tremens would mask the ugliness about me. However, being English, I decided that, given the hour, a tea was an immediate necessity.

A women, led-footed and led by her rolling shoulders, hobbled towards me.

“Yes?” Said she, not the jolly greeting that I expected, but presentation has never been Germany’s strongpoint.

“A tea, please!”

“Yes.” The creature hobbled away to some lair to concoct a brew.

I peered out the window. I was strangely cold. Surely…surely I cannot be feeling a draft. A draft? In Germany? Yes, my brothers, a draft indeed: on the German transport system. My reliable English scarf was recalled from its slumbers, and brought back into duty.

Egor returned with the refreshing, warming potion not a moment too soon. Well, she probably could have returned a little sooner, had her legs been the same length.

“Here. Tea.”

“Why thank you kindly, my dear…woman.”

“That’ll be €3.50.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite hear you. Something ridiculous drowned out your previous remark.”

But it was true. A stingy, lukewarm, rubbishy German tea sat before me, slopping over the rim such was the ancient locomotive’s gait, as my innards numbed themselves, leaving only an ill-prepared shell of skin and shock to absorb the full horror the situation.

No. There was to be no free tea. No free hours of boozing. No leisurely journey. Not only was first class only distinguishable from the other compartments through its rancid livery, but it also inflicted upon its prisoners the most expensive cuppa west of Tokyo.

Alone, frozen, hungry and disturbingly sober, the appalling truth of the next hours discomfort and boredom began to sink in like the cold tea stains into my thin English trousers. Never go anyway in Germany again.

Crossing the road in Berlin

If there’s a single, most terrifying thing that a Berliner will have to do (other than meeting a Frenchman) it’s crossing the road.

This fear is not entirely unfounded.

If you look at an average car, you will observe that it tends to have six gears. Reverse, naturlich, first gear, from there it skips up to fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh gears, whereupon the German feels the trumpets of the Valkyries, calling them to battle.

Germans don’t so much as drive, as mercilessly consume the road as if it were a huge juicy bratwurst. And once the salivating begins, a German wastes no time in quickly dispatching even the longest of sausage.

So, naturally, Berliners treat the road much in the same way that normal human beings view a forty million vault power cable.

Apparently, jay-walking is a crime. Whereas animal bestiality is not. This is the country in which I live.

Being a Londoner, I like to get on. I walk about half a mile an hour faster than everyone else. I run for trains. I am concerned about time. I rush. It came as an unexpected and frankly unwanted shock when I discovered that Germans are cooler than me.

Yet, one of the lingering legacies of these dudes’ heritage is their insistence of following petty regulations. There is nothing a German likes more than to point out a small failing of yours. Helpful words of advice I have heard have ranged from “you shouldn’t stand here” to the “you shouldn’t cross the road until the green man comes up.”

I calculate that I owe at least a thousand euros to the Deutschen Volke after my habitual jay-walking. And the locals certainly don’t appreciate it. Making decisions and judgements for yourself is not approved of.

On a Sunday morning, it is not uncommon to witness a huddled mass of orderly citizens patiently waiting by a silent road. You look left and right and up and down, the nearest moving car is about five miles away.

So, being foreign and therefore right, you cross over without thought or fuss, only to leave behind a rustle of disapproval, shock and occasional verbal insights, such as “you shouldn’t be doing that!”

These people, however, are beginning to infect me. I find myself stationary, gormlessly staring into nothingness, waiting for the state’s permission to cross the road.

Most infuriating, is that the green man is no guarantor of safety. There are no filter lights in Germany, so a BMW is still within his rights to turn left and mow you down like the filthy Englander you are. Apparently, if you get run over, you have to pay a fine.

Worse still, the paranoia is beginning to grow. After walking past two bored policeman, I absent mindedly took my life into my own hands by crossing the road, defying the red man’s wrath. Half way across, I realised I was committing this crime – equivalent to arson of public buildings – in full sight of the law.

The heart rate began to beat a little faster, the shuffle quickened, what would I do? The police will tell me off. What if the neighbours saw? What will happen to me if work finds out? I’ll be ostracised forever. I must fit in. I must obey.

And now, at last, I feel like a true German.