A tram ride in Munich

[My friend Margit has been handicapped from birth. She describes herself as handicapped not disabled because she says that she has a handicap but it does not mean that she is disabled from doing things.]

“Made it” I say to Margit as we move under a tram stop shelter. We’ve had to negotiate our way across a wide road, around a big hole and over two sets of tram lines to get here. The tram stop is in the middle of a traffic island. The scene is busy with cars, cyclists, lorries and every other type of vehicle you can imagine rolling past us. Margit is sitting in her wheel chair and smiling.
“It’s not so bad, but what makes it more difficult is the road works, she has moved the stop to a new place” she says.
Margit’s grammar is always a bit baffling but I’ve worked out that gender and plurals are fairly inter-changeable in her English. This time she’s calling ‘they’ - ‘she’ it’s quite an easy one to understand.
The road looks like one of the main arteries in Munich. It’s full of noise, activity and the smell of exhaust fumes. It’s hemmed in by tenements. They all have balconies and most have a table and chairs on them. From there the owners of the flats can look down on the rows of shops and cafes that string out along the roadside. Some people are sitting outside the café opposite, drinking their morning coffee in the early sun.
We don’t wait too long for a tram and as soon as it stops I move up to the front entrance where the drop down step is located. The tram is quite modern. As far as I can remember this is my first trip on a tram and I had expected it to be an antique. Maybe that’s because my only sighting of trams has been on old films. The step that we had been expecting does not appear and after a few moments wait I start pulling the wheelchair onto the tram. I later find out that tram drivers avoid putting down the hydraulic step whenever they can. This may be because they are too lazy or because it takes such a long time and they can’t be bothered. Either way this means work for me. The best way is to pull the wheelchair in backwards, then I won’t ruin my back, at least not so quickly. It also means that Margit will not catapult face down in the walkway as I bump the wheelchair onto the bus.
‘Shit this is heavy’, I think as I grip the handles tightly and feel the combined weight of the wheelchair and Margit pull through my arms and into my shoulders. I pull the big wheel up over the tram entrance and we move into the space reserved for handicapped people next to the driver’s cabin. We shoogle the wheelchair a bit to make sure that it just takes up one space. There will be room for buggies or more wheelchairs to get into the other space. I sit down heavily opposite Margit relieved to have made it onto the tram. The seat is marked as reserved for old or handicapped people. There are advantages of escorting handicapped people in Munich. You get a good seat and you don’t have to pay either.
Margit is relaxed and smiling, her body language is friendly and she’s always willing to chat to people.
“They do not let the step down because the driver is not a nice man” she says.
“Do you have to go through this hassle every time you get on a tram?” I ask.
“Yes but if I am on my own the driver has to help me. Sometimes they are nice.”
Margit takes all this in her stride. She’s used to the daily challenges of travelling around on public transport in a wheelchair. Wish I could feel the same way about it.
I look through the window at the crowds of people. The tram bell clangs and cars move out of the way. I can feel the buzz of this foreign city coming in through the tram windows. It’s bursting with life and energy; the sort of energy that created such an amazing array of churches and palaces. The place is crawling with statues to past kings and electors and other worthies. This modern city with its history woven into the structure is impressive. It screams self confidence.
We make a stop, the tram doors open. Standing there waiting to get on is an ancient man. He has a stick and he moves very slowly. I can’t help but feel a bit anxious; will he make it onto the tram? Although he’s painfully slow he grips the rail strongly and gets onto the tram with his helper behind him. The old man is wearing a brown trilby, a light coloured overcoat and jumper under it even though it’s an unseasonably hot day. Watching him move is like seeing a film that has been slowed down. He takes an age to move up the gang way and sit down. His helper directs him to sit next to me.
The first thing that I notice is that he doesn’t smell like an old man. He’s not fusty or smelling of old clothes or anything worse. He smells quite pleasant. It could be talcum powder. The tram judders to a start with the old man and I looking straight ahead.
“How far do we have to go?” I ask Margit. She does not hear me above the noise of the tram but to my surprise the old man turns towards me and says “Ah American”
He is slightly bent over and holding his stick with two hands resting on top of it. I notice that he has slender artistic fingers and that his hands are like a detailed road map. Blue veins run over prominent bones and meet at junctions leading northwards up the arm. They are fully visible through his paper thin skin. Here and there brown age patches form islands and hairs spring out of them.
“No I’m Scottish I say.
”Oh yes Scotland, I have been to Edinburgh. There was a Queen of Scotland, what was her name? Margaret… no not that”
“It could have been Mary Queen of Scots” I say.
“Yes that’s it. I visited Edinburgh in 1984 with my wife. We loved the history and the mountains.”
I look at the old man with new eyes. Here is someone who can speak English and he is interested in Scotland and he’s happy to talk to me. This old man who looked like he had escaped from a geriatric ward is really a delightful person. I imagine that a puff of wind would blow him away. His voice is a little shaky and not very strong but he wants to talk and he leans over to me to make sure that I can hear him. He’s quite tall and slightly bent over. He gives an impression of being hollow. I could swear that he’s empty inside. I look at him closely and try to guess his age. It’s difficult to tell exactly how old he is but I think he’s well into his eighties. I’m very curious to know his exact age but I can’t ask directly; that would feel patronising. As I look at his eyes I can see that they are misty and not focused. He has thick lenses in his glasses and I realise that he must be nearly blind.
“My father lives in Scotland, quite near to where I live. He is 86 years old” I say.
“I have lived in Munich since the war ended. I didn’t want to go back to the communists. I come from the Ukraine… I am 92 years old” he says.
A quick calculation would put him at about 30 at the end of the war. So this is a man who lived through the war and ended up in Germany. I wonder what stories he has to tell about that time. Pity it’s only a short tram ride. I can imagine having an interesting conversation with him over a cup of coffee.
“92 is a good age” I say.
The old man does not respond straight away. He tilts his head considering his reply.
“19 would be better” he says and he has a crooked smile on his lips as he says it.
Suddenly Margit points out of the window.
“That’s the Nymphenburg Palace, so this is our stop” she says.
I look over the canals to the white Baroque buildings of the summer palace stretching across the entire square. Before I rise to leave the tram and visit the residences of the eighteenth century Bavarian Princes, I lean over to the old man and say,
“You’ve made my day.”

The end

1491 words
Revised 10 March 2008