anthonyjucha
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Anthony Jucha
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O) Germany v South Korea... from Munich
Someone must have shuffled the streets of Brock while I was out drinking all day because I had great difficulty finding the train station that had introduced me to the town. A town of so few people and yet so many beers. I awaited my overnight journey to Munchen with a drunken smile. I looked forward to a good sleep in a sleeper carriage couchette, but on boarding found that a woman who had earlier obliged with a photograph had now attached herself to me. I sensed that I had become her protector, her non threatening male, at that late hour. The eldest brother to four, the elder cousin to a lot more, an uncoordinated eager sportsman, I am a born protector and defender. It is a role that I relish. I resolved that I would sit in the seated section that night to defend the damsel from distress until it came her time to detrain. I did not make myself comfortable or loosen my shoes, but, concerned first for my duty, sat upright in my seat. Then, of course, I went straight to sleep. When a conductor woke me in the morning, the woman was gone. Possibly dead. Probably maimed. Probably by the same person who had spent the whole night kicking me in the head and draining my body of fluids. But then I remembered my little pub crawl from the day/night before. The woman had probably left to escape my snoring or stinking or the searing heat that radiated from my body. I checked my pack. Firstly, to see if it was still there. Secondly, to make sure I had not vomited in it. A dreadful mistake I once made to my greatest regret. It is the equivalent of not only throwing up in one's bed, but also one's wardrobe, drawers, bathroom, kitchen and bookshelf only to have to carry the whole lot around on one's back. At first, I could not find the thing and, thinking it stolen, I hoped I had puked in it. But then, I realised it was just that I could no longer move my neck properly to look. When I eventually I found it, I was relieved to confirm that it contained no vomit. Save for the remnants of the past episode of course. I was arriving at Munchen Central Station for the fifth and filthiest time since my journey began. It felt like a sort of homecoming. Except that for me there would be no home. And certainly no coming. No shower, no shave and no extra rest. Germany kicked off against South Korea in a few short hours. There was much work to be done. I managed to cash in my tickets for Istanbul, grateful to be in clean and orderly Germany. Die Bahn, its railways, have been my saviour in sanity and salubrious trains and train stations. I, on the other hand, was a beast straight from the depths of a pig stein. It is a marvel the way drinking can so attract dirt. And equally, the way dirt can so repel a German. I suspected they gave me a refund just to get me out of their spotless ticket office and out on to the street with the other drunks and bums. It mattered not. I was well used to trading off pride for results and on the way out dropped a few coins to my brothers of the same shameless creed. I forced my weary legs to force my weary body all around town arriving at what I judged to be the best destination shortly before the start of the match. It was a theatre hall where there was to be a big screen, trestles, beers and thousands of Germans. I arrived at the main gate to a disheartening scene. Many milled around, but it was clear that the security guards were not letting any more people in. Never fear. I had been in the same position before and did not doubt for a moment that I could talk my way in. I tried to pull my usual journalist line waving around an old ABCTales.com business card and hoping they would believe my name was 'Emily Dubberly'. I never even had a chance to find out. They would not listen. The gates were staying shut. I was outraged! They may not care about me or even Emily, but what of the public's right to know? This was bullshit! I had come a long way for this! All the way from Madrid to Bruck and back! With a few minutes until kick off, it was time to resort to more brutal methods. I sprinted around the compound studying it for a weakness. There were guards everywhere. A few with Alsatians, I felt sure. The hall's towers imposed like gun turrets. This was going to be tough. Then, I spied a possibility! I slid some forty feet down a muddy hill and into a depression to keep out of sight. I watched and waited, timing my run by the pace of the guards. Then, I made one final dash and threw my battle worn body over the fence. I was in! Without doubt, the first time that a 'Jucha' has ever scaled a barbed wire fence to get closer to the Germans. I tried to straighten myself up, smearing around the mud and the blood, and then slipped into the safety of the back of the hall. There was no time to waste. The German anthem was groaning, so I went straight for a beer. A 'Halle'. They charged me a deposit for the glass, so I made sure to steal it for a special cousin who is in the habit of collecting such things. I turned to the throng and was lamenting my poor perspective when I spied an opportunity passing by. A camera crew, heavily laden with gear, was cutting a path through the crowd. Keeping my notebook raised high and my beer down low, I joined their caravan trying to look every bit on the job that I was. I followed them all the way to the stage and then up on to it. While my new camera crew set up, I turned around to raise my beer to the crowd. It was horrifying. There were thousands more than the thousands I had thought. Individual faces were hard to make out in the black mass, seething with strange life like the dark depths of the ocean. Only the flags gave colour, emerging from the pit to sail silently above the murky noise of the crowd. I moved about with great care on the stage, not wanting to be, but by nature most likely to be, the one to kick out a cord. If there was a fire, we would surely all perish. If Germany were to lose, a fire might be only thing to save us all. I shook my head muttering to myself. They really should not be letting any more in. Kick off to a roar. The crowd were over eager. They chanted and cheered for every German possession. This was fortunate really, because they did not have a lot else to cheer for. Ordinary German attacks brought booming applause. South Korea's better efforts, attracted long drawn out boos. It was an aggressive environment. At one stage, someone came up to me and abused me because the camera crew's lights were shining into the eyes of the crowd. I informed them that the lights were not my department and turned back to my notes. In time, the flatness of the game sapped the energy from the room. A few German corner kicks inspired some good hand waggling and a late push towards South Korea's goal was cheered on by the crowd, but ended as it started. Nothing. Half time. The lights did not come up for some time and so I sat in the dark assessing my options. I felt I had none. I had planned to go to another venue for the second half, but could not imagine negotiating my way through the fearsome crowd. Then a camera went striding to the back of the room and I hitched another ride out. I had lost a lot of half time time and bolted out of the gates pleased, but somehow not surprised, to see that someone had called a taxi for me. I piled in. "Muller Street please driver." I had noticed on my previous visits to Munchen that I seemed to attract a lot of attention around town. A certain kind of attention, if you know what I mean. I was off to the 'Forum'. 'Forum' with a flower for an 'o'. That's right... a gay bar. This was more like it. An older, balder, prettier crowd. Sexy, stylish, sculptured boys and girls. Football regalia was well hung from the walls, dangling about with a good number of balls. Large glass windows allowed the sun to stream into the gorgeously clean bar, full of fresh, fine faces. As I studied them and they me, I grew conscious of my appearance. Stinking of yesterday's beer, muddied and bloodied, I wished I had made more of an effort. Still, I guess there is always someone who goes for the scruffy and rugged look. I just hoped that they would not be too scruffy and rugged. I ordered a beer. A 'Hacker Pschorr' that came in a curvaceous glass and with a complimentary pat on the arse. The crowd of a hundred or more cheered as the game resumed. They could certainly manage some noise of their own. They were given good reason to, with an early German attack only just being deflected away. Some injuries soon followed and were greeted with great concern. The sweethearts. As the game developed, so did the concern of the crowd. Hands part covered faces, mouths hung open, eyes winced in waiting. A South Korean penalty made matters worse, but ended with no goal and great sighs of relief. The accidental dacking of a South Korean player gave the room reason the laugh and reposition for views. And not long after they received real reason to relax. Germany managed a goal. Girls cheered and thumped tables. Boys squealed with delight and made fast little hand claps. There was more a sense of relief than celebration. Perhaps Japan's sun would continue to rise for Germany. I watched a little longer, but as the game neared its end I decided to take a chance. Much as I disliked the hall's atmosphere, I wanted to see the reaction there at the final whistle. I judged it to be a kilometre or two away. Maybe if I ran like hell... I sprinted the streets, wheezing and hurting from all the booze still swirling around my head and my gut. I should never have had that last glass of red wine. I very nearly caused a major car accident along the way. If understood German, I surely would have blushed. I arrived at the hall, doubled over in pain, looking up just in time for the final whistle and some Germanic joy. Though, their joy was not all that joyful. The mood was more emphatic than ecstatic. There was no running or dancing. A little jumping on tables and a lot of flag waving, but not much else. There was much talk of the final, but they did not want to jinx it by overreacting. I paced out with the crowd and started heading to Leopold and Ludwig Streets, the traditional celebratory ares of Munchen. I could have caused a dozen accidents on the way there and no one would have cared. People drove around madly, honking their horns, telling everyone what everyone already knew. I knew when I had reached the main arena by the broken glass underfoot. Thousand streamed in to wave their flags. Khaki police gathered to shout orders through loudspeakers and prevent the crowds from marching through town. Heaven forbid they should celebrate in the commercial district and upset the oblivious American tourists. Best to keep the hooligans hemmed in the residential areas. Someone set up some huge speakers and played crap Euro rock and the crowd bounced around awkwardly as one does to music lacking in rhythm or beat. The crowd sang along in the world's scariest language, barely apt for talking let alone singing. They were all so happy and their happiness was infectious. While I did not dare to join in the bottle stomping for fear that it would be my leg that would crush, I did sit in the gutter a very long time drinking a few 'Helles'. I kept trying to leave, but was conscious that this would be my second to last match in my long month of madness. It was an emotional moment for the crowd, but one for me too. I have never much minded which teams ultimately won or lost, but it was nice to be around some winners for a change. I was exhausted and many miles from my hostel, but chose to walk all the way just to savour the mood of Munchen for as long as possible. And the mood? It was good. It really was good. It now seems that for the first time in my venture, I am destined to remain in the one country for two consecutive games. With the final approaching, there can be no other choice. On to Berlin...
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N) Jucha v Hungary, Romania and Yugoslavia
My journey to Turkey started swimmingly. Two trains from Madrid to Paris. Sixteen hours overnight. Lovely. A few hours at the station and then a quick train to Munich. Nine hours. No Worries. Again, some hours in Munich and then for the long haul. Forty-eight hours to Istanbul. I was in good spirits and looking forward to Turkey. I was fortunate enough to sit next to a softly spoken Austrian whose name I could never quite get, but anglicised in my mind to be Bruno. In the few hours we shared, we discussed everything from world politics to sport to our dreams and relationships. Bruno alighted in Vienna and we parted with warmness that lulled me as the train worked its way out of Austria. I mused on my travels and started to wonder where the train actually went. I mean, I knew that it went from Munich to Istanbul, but in my haste I had given no thought to the bit in the middle. I reviewed my map and timetable to learn that the train was to traverse Hungary, Romania, Yugoslavia and Bulgaria. Then an awful thought entered my mind... Visas. I knew I was fine for Turkey, but what about the rest? At this point, I must make what I view to be a little confession. I have carried one guidebook with me on my travels: Lonely Planet's Eastern Europe, though I had never had any reason to consult it. Szczecin does not rate a mention and Ljubljana's terrific tourist office rendered it redundant. With my train speeding out of Austria and into Hungary, I needed to consult it now. And fast! I rummaged for the book and started flipping through it madly. I was fine for Bulgaria, but before then came Hungary, Romania and Yugoslavia. Here is what my book said: "Australians still require visas" to enter Hungary and visas "are never issued on trains". "All western visitors require a visa to enter Romania". The same applies to Yugoslavia and it takes "at least six weeks to get a visa... an impossible process." I was toast. I contemplated the border patrols. I felt I could scam my way through one country, maybe even two, but three? Even if I managed it all the way to Istanbul, I would have to do it all again on the way back. Over eighty odd hours of hiding in toilets? I knew I would survive whatever happened, but with my timetable so tight, I could not afford any delays. I might risk missing the Final! Bratwurst on toast. I grabbed my pack and started running through the train. Just to run. It was all I could do. I burst into a compartment full of conductors and in panicked broken English tried to explain my dilemma. I established that I was still in Austria. Just. The train was slowing down for its last stop in the country. I had no other options. I leapt off! Welcome to Brock! A tiny town near the border with a few thousand residents and not a single Internet cafe. With a six hour wait until the next train back to Germany, there was only one thing for it... A pub crawl! My first stop was a nameless little shack on the footpath. I sat on a bench with a world-angry Austrian. I felt I already knew the man well. He was burly, rugged and mulleted. Too smart for the world and too good for me. My half of the bench might as well have been in Australia for the acknowledgement I received. The poor fellow sat smoking, trying to lob his butts in a drain. He missed every time. We sat in silence draining our 'Ottakringers' and then I moved on. An Irish pub next. 'The Crazy Sheep' of all things. How very Irish. I sat in its pleasant beer garden, enjoying pleasant music and drinking a pleasant 'Reininghous'. The place was so damned pleasant that one could drink away all one's dreams there and I guess that was the general idea. I did not want to forget my new dream of drinking my way around the whole town, so I stayed a short while and then left. At the 'Stadthalle', I enjoyed a 'Kaiser Beer' and a remarkable conversation with an old gent about the evils of the Internet. Emailing is not really communicating we agreed, him speaking only Austrian and me only English. It was a marvellous chat and I floated away on the irony all the way to my next venue. In 'Rhodos Bierpub', I met a Hungarian woman who was born in the States, wore Hilfiger jeans and spoke with the attitude and drawl of a true New Yorker. We sat talking at length about her adventures in Las Vegas (though not mine of course). I stopped there for a couple of 'Grossers' and felt that I could have been in anytown USA, until a couple of Austrian soldiers walked in and marked the time for my exit. I ducked in to the 'Western Saloon Steak House' covered in American flags, tack and crap. A jukebox played the lyrics "the world is a sad place, a bad place, but I don't want to die". I did. I downed another 'Grosser' in record time and left wishing that I had never walked in. Things were getting a little blurry by now, but I am quite sure that I next went to the 'Schewchater Bar' where I had a quick 'Zuick'. The bar was run by a cocky young chump who displayed his phone, wallet and keys on his belt like an overly proud tradesman. Perched at the head of a table, he delighted in assuring me that there were no kangaroos around. I sat directly opposite and did my best to command the table's attention in tones that I judged were just low enough to exclude him. A fun little game which I probably lost given that I crashed into some pans on my way out. I could not find any more places to drink and so marked my new mission complete. I staggered somewhere to get something to eat and enjoyed some splendid pasta and a glass of red wine. Hungary, Romania and Yugoslavia the winners, Jucha the loser, having conceded defeat. But I had a ball running amok around Bruck and made the late train to be back in Germany for the first semi final. May it be a great game...
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M) Spain v South Korea... from Madrid
My record leading up to Spain was abysmal. From thirteen games I had three wins, four draws and five miserable losses. If I were a team that I managed and coached, I would have gone on strike, resigned and sacked myself by now. I yearned to see some dancing in the streets. With a strong team and a country full of Spaniards, I believed that Spain might provide the remedy. I dearly hoped they would reach at least the quarter finals for which I hoped to make Madrid. They did and I did. Just. Italy's railways conspired to make me miss all the best trains. A final flick under the chin in my direction on my departure. I had to get creative and concocted a path from Milano to Madrid via Paris where I deposited Deb. "Goodbye, I love you" I said. "Love you too. Pick me up something nice. Remember its my birthday soon!" "Of course I remember!" Of course I did not. "The thirtieth of June" she said reading my mind. "2002?" "Well, yes... its the same every year." "Um... okay, sure!" The thirtieth of June 2002! The same day as the World Cup Final! Never mind. I smiled and waved. Surely, by then I will have mastered being in two places at once. After all, I have been practicing so hard all of my life. I tried and tried to get a ticket to Madrid, but all of Spain had been shut down by strikes. I could only get a ticket to Irun, a little nowhere town just over the border, but Madrid may have well been on the moon. I decided to go to Irun and take my chances after that with a bus, hitching, walking... anything. I had a little time to spare before my train to Irun, which I found quite unsettling. My habit of running for transport is so well ingrained that I find myself running for buses even when I am not running late, just in case I just miss one. When I die, I am sure my personal heaven or hell will entail forever running to catch something, the only difference being whether I always arrive just in time to make it or to watch it pull away. I decided to line up at the information desk once more to see if anything had changed with Spain's strike situation. With about fifteen minutes left before my train to Irun departed, I discovered that they had managed to arrange for one direct train to Madrid that night. If I could get a ticket on that train, I could forget about Irun. If I could not get a ticket, but also missed my train to Irun, I could forget about Madrid. Game on. Running time! I ran to and talked my way through a queue only to find that it was the wrong one! Five minutes squandered, less than ten minutes left. Still enough time to risk break for make. I repeated the process, but this time my sweating was begging was in the right place and with only two or three minutes to spare I secured my prize! The train to Irun pulled away with one more empty seat, one less so on the train to Madrid that night. I boarded the train and was locked down in a cell with three other gents for what was to be a twelve hour journey, but which grew to twenty four. Unapologetic conductors advised us that two trains had crashed on the track and we should be very grateful that ours did not make a third. It could be arranged. Our cell grew tense. The guy from Sierra Leone took exception to the American. The Asian guy, whose only words were a request to use my phone (politely declined), took exception to me. I took exception to all the taking of exception by everyone except for the American guy who just talked and talked to everyone without exception. When we were finally released, I found a room in a 'hostal' near the Palace Mayor. This was where I expected the locals to gather to celebrate if they were to win. I then searched the city for hours for the best place to watch the game, ending my search exactly where it began: at a little taberna called La Maja, almost right next door to my hostal. La Maja advertised 'Espana v Corea' on a chalkboard and the barman, Cristo, wore Spain's colours in anticipation of the big game. The walls carried regalia of bullfights, the bar was busy with bottles and tapas and there were no tourists about. There were barely any customers at all in fact despite, or I suspected because of, the pushy pressed and pleated owner grabbing at all passers by and getting stuck into his workers. He stood obnoxiously adding to, rather than helping to clean up, the generous pile of cigarette butts that lay heaped on the floor. He was well tolerated by Cristo who seemed to me to have quite a sense of humour, or at least so his short blonde dyed hair and lamp chops indicated. I drained a couple of 'San Miguels' and then, feeling inspired by Cristo, went home to shave. Shaving is no small exercise for me. Its an all over job. I have adopted the common bald man's technique of shaving off all of the little hair I have left. A kind of reverse psychology, a bluff if you like. When I did have hair, I knew it to be thick. One day the stupid stuff will think I do not really want it and will return to my head. And when it does, I will wear it in such ridiculous styles it will rue the day it ever left me. The last laugh will be mine! After a long time of shaving and slicing my head (from throwing it back when evil laughter overcame me), I retired to blot my cuts on my pillow and mess up my bed. I rose early and discovered plenty of bars and cafeterias open early. It was not so much a case of deciding where to watch the game as choosing where not to watch it. Of course I already knew where I would not be not watching it. La Maja of course. The drums beat loudly outside La Maja, but on my arrival I found the place to be empty. Across the way, one of Madrid's many Irish bars had set up a big screen and was drawing in the youngsters by the hundreds. It was for La Fontana de Oro that the drums beat that morning. Cristo sat alone, ever so proudly wearing the same shirt from the night before. He recognised me and beckoned me over. Call me a softie, a pushover, all heart if you will, but I walked straight past the Irish bar and into La Maja, sat down and ordered a beer to enjoy kick off with old Cristo. He had become my new friend, but was always my barman first. He still made me pay. We watched in complete silence. Cristo, the game and I, him. He rested his meaty elbows on the counter, lightly tugging on one lamp chop, smoking and ashing onto the floor, still filthy from the night, or perhaps week or even month before. It started a most passionate game, one to be fought hard by both sides. The attacks were courageous, the defence inspired. A leaping kick by a Spanish player that would have made for a spectacular goal brought a huge roar from La Fontana de Oro. I knew I could not just ignore the place the whole game. It had the biggest gathering of people in the area, even if it was in an Irish pub. What an odd and misplaced celebration must have occurred there when Spain so recently brought about Ireland's demise. I took my leave from La Maja when another customer wondered in. La Fontana de Oro was bursting with a crowd, quite young and excited, dressed up and face painted. They were a disorganised rabble and could not keep together a chant, some taking to body painting each other or even sleeping instead of watching the match. Cristo would not have stood for such nonsense. There was a game to be watched and so I bought an overpriced Guinness and settled in for some watching. An indiscretion by Spain gave South Korea an early penalty. The room held a collective breath of bar fumes, released in a gust when the penalty brought naught. Another South Korean attack followed, but it was defended too well in what seemed to me to be a great goalkeeper's game. For me, the highlight of the match was when South Korea's goalie leapt with a stretch to catch the ball, stopping what seemed to be a sure goal, just landing on the safe side of the line. Defence ruled supreme throughout the first half and it ended with the scores tied at nil-all. I went for my usual half time wander. I checked out 'Bar Cadiz', basically a butcher with beer, the television competing for space with what were once something's legs. I was in 'Nueva Galicia Cafeteria' when the second half started. A group of old men played cards while watching the game, but when Spain had a goal disallowed, no one moved or flinched or so much as muttered. This was no good. Quiet character I could handle, hell I just watched kick off with Cristo, but I sought some sort of reaction. I moved on, leaving them to what must have been one hell of a card game. Like so many others, I found myself drawn back to La Fontana de Oro, perhaps beckoned by the drums that beat from within. I tried to settle back into the match, but was distracted for a moment when a chest painted fellow thrust me a set of keys. I took them bemused only to slowly deduce now held the keys to his hostal room and it seemed to his heart. The offer was touching, but I fancied no more and after I returned him his keys and he my hand, it was back to the game. A magnificent match of back and forth was playing out. Great corner kicks followed great defence followed great attacks again and again. Spain's goalkeeper continued to give the crowd reason to keep breathing and cheering and even inspired them to a rare shared set of "Ole's". The two sides closed out the half with the bravery of two bullfighters brave enough to fight each other instead of an unwilling animal. And like any bullfight neither side looked the winner. The scores were still tied at nil-all. I felt it best that I watch the rest of the game in a Spanish bar instead of an Irish one that just happened to be in Spain. I soaked up the peace of the quiet crowd in 'El Club 3 Bar' and admired the decor in 'Restaurant Cerveceria' with a bull's head on every wall. I knew where I wanted to be and made my way back to La Maja and back to old Cristo. Extra time commenced and Cristo looked ill. There was energy, rough play and frustration and one mighty close Spanish shot at goal, bouncing off the post in a manner hauntingly similar to Sweden's late miss in their recent big match. After two full halves of extra time played out there was still no score. People rushed in from La Fontana de Oro to use the toilet. Cristo did not care. The boss strutted in, also wearing exactly the same outfit from the night before. (These men made me feel positively hygenic!) Again, Cristo did not flinch, but sat slumped and stared at the screen. It was penalty time and we watched undivided. For me, it was my first time. I knew the general idea. Five shots at goal. Five shots at losing it all. South Korea went first and drilled it into the back of the net. I was surprised and disappointed, but this was clearly the norm as the teams went one for one to make it three all. South Korea's turn again and sure enough in the net. Then came Spain's final moment for this great World Cup... a miss. South Korea made sure of their last. There was nothing. Silent agony. I twirled to take one last photo of Cristo, but I just caught myself in the face of his despair. I lowered my camera and left, head down, stomach turning with shame. I felt like I had just eaten a tub of popcorn at a funeral and then thrown up in the grave. I respectfully observed a sad procession exit the Irish pub and enter the streets. Some sat and wept. Most just disappeared. I took a long lonely walk around the Palace Royal. It was empty save for a few tourists and together we longed for the Spaniards and the celebrations we needed to fill the emptiness within. I left Madrid at about siesta o'clock, a quiet time, though I had no doubt it was quieter than usual. I faced a long train ride out of Madrid and it was made no easier in the face of bitter defeat. Four in a row now. Four times watching a nation crash out of the Cup. No good. The next journey will be to a nation that I have been watching from afar, but which has well earned my closer inspection and inspired me to make my longest journey yet. May it also bring my biggest reward. Perhaps in Turkey they will dance in the streets...
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L) Italy v South Korea... from Verona to Milan
It is quite a journey from Stockholm to Rome, but I felt confident that I could cover it in the forty-eight hours available. I felt happy and with good reason. I had arranged to meet up with my partner, Deb, in Berlin. Deb is a seasoned traveller and had agreed to join me for some of my madness. I looked forward to her sweet smile and some much needed sympathy. I have developed sciatica. I know it as something Deb once had, common to overworked bodies made to sit for too long, say in trains, for example. It is an affliction of the nervous system, not especially dangerous, but extremely hard to shake and with an armoury designed for one thing: the infliction of pain. Sciatica garrisons in the back, which is where it likes to launch its most frequent attacks. However, the garrison is extremely mobile and moves effortlessly to the hip, thigh and calves and, in the culmination of creativity, under the foot. The pain is sudden and sharp, like being stuck with a knife. Mediterranean muggers, do your worst. I have found myself growling and muttering in the manner of a madman as I fight my way from the latest A to the new B (which always so soon and so cruelly becomes an A in itself). Fortunately, I am equipped with an unusually high pain threshold, an evolutionary necessity for the hopelessly clumsy, especially the slightly manic and bald headed kind. I am the king dope of dopamine, even finding the dentist chair quite relaxing, a perverted result of my folks teaching me to meditate to handle my extractions (which now number eleven). Still, even a masochist requires a little affection, even if just to sharpen the rediscovery of pain, and it was with excited anticipation that I cleaned myself up to meet Deb. "You look like shit!" "That's not even the half of it! Here, take a whiff!" We boarded our train from Berlin to Munich, a service so popular one has to fight for their seats. Deb was forced to sit next to me. "C'mon, its really not that bad." "For once, I'm just glad to be sitting in the smoking section. That's all I'm saying." Yes, things were going well until we hit a little place called Bemberg. We heard announcements in German and half of the carriage gathered up their things and left. Deb and I, still intoxicated with each others' presence and scents, ambled about in asking for help and fell for the trap of taking "Yes" to mean "Yes" instead of "I'm sorry I don't understand English, would you please piss off". It took quite some time before we discovered that our train had broken down and we had to run for another if we were to make our connection in Munich. Shoes in our hands, backpacks smacking innocent heads, we bolted out of the train and into another, itself due to leave. Puffing and sweating, we took our seats and recounted our luck as I studied my timetable to check our connections. Then, I shocked even myself. "We need to get off this train! NOW!" We forced our way back the through the isle laden with old ladies and made the door just in time to hear the conductor's whistle. "Are you sure??!" I was not! I stood fumbling through my thick book of timetables, all in font six. I felt the train rumbling to life. I needed more time. More time! Then, in a master stroke of idiotic genius, I stood, one foot on the platform (where my sciatica took refuge) and one foot on the train, the door shutting through my chest, the conductor screaming and running towards me. Deb stood behind me aghast until I made my call, grabbed her hand and threw us both to the platform. The train pulled away and we both sat in stunned silence for quite a long time. Shaking, near crying. It was the most frightening moment of our lives together. "See, isn't this fun?" I said trying to make light. "Are you hurt?" "A little." "Good." We would never have made it to Italy on that train. As it turned out, we struggled on the one that followed. Rome was now out of the question. We set a new target: Verona, the city of lovers. Deb could be Juliet and I her Romeo, though more likely to kill each other instead of ourselves. Saint Christopher must have taken some leave, as more trouble started as soon as we crossed the border. We wore endless abuse from Italian train conductors, for what we never really found out. Perhaps our tickets, from Germany, were a little too clear or accurate or perfectly printed, but we received bouts of sarcasm so practiced we grew to feel every part of the 'stupido Americanos' we had become. We became the bane of the train and were doubtlessly held to blame for all of the stops and delays that saw us in Verona a mere half an hour away from the game. Normally, half an hour would be fine, but our schedule demanded that we book onward tickets before watching the football. I was determined not to screw up Italy again, but we needed those tickets. We went at it with fire and with more than twenty minutes to go we were looking very good. Deb had checked our bags, located a local bus to the main Piazza and secured open train tickets. All that remained was for me to check the scheduled departure time. A simple question requiring a 'yes' or 'no' answer. But a simple answer to a simple question was just too much to ask. I sat at 'Informazioni' pleading for some. I queued again and again, dealt with English speakers and non, watched a database I had seen all over the continent sit idle while half photocopied pieces of paper were thrust at me in anger. I prayed to God for help, but he was probably settling in for the football, not watching me pointing to a train in the timetable, begging to know whether it would appear on the tracks later that day. I watched the minutes tick past to herald in my worst nightmare. My plans foiled and a game to be watched in a station. My bitterness seethed and there passed but a moment at kick off when I hoped South Korea would win. A complete loss of perspective to wish that a whole nation should suffer for the petty inconveniences of one little man. I sat outside the fishbowl of a waiting room observing the group within. The glass contained all the sound, but I had the crowd's generous gesticulations to keep me alive to the game. There was some early aggression and the room's extra silent silence marked a South Korean penalty, missed to the quiet delight of those near the screen. This was crap! I swore things could not get worse, but one must never tempt such a fate. I still did not know whether our train was to leave and so moved away from the game to start quizzing again. This time I blew it! My desperation showed as frustration and, to the muffled sound of a goal being celebrated in the distance, I was thrown out of the office, deprived of the 'informazioni' that was not really there. This left only one choice. Deb and I had to ditch the game and the station to connect with another train which we knew to exist. We left at half time with Italy leading one-nil. I admit it sounds pretty hopeless, but there is always an option and I had prepared one for such an instance as this. A radio. I stood at the platform trying to tune in to a commentary in a language I could not understand. I could only judge the game by others' reactions and slowly they gathered around this fool with a radio wasted on his ears, but not in his hands. We boarded in first class. I felt like the Pied Piper and revelled in taking the game through the carriages back to where we lower classes sit. As we moved down the train, along came a goal. South Korea had scored, or so I reasoned watching an old gentleman slamming his head on a door. We sat down and a small group of locals huddled around, hanging off every scratchy word and sound. Others pretended to read or just stare out the window, squirming all the while with the play of the game. Conductors lingered with faces of fear as if awaiting a train they thought may never appear. Full time, or primo time, came with the scores still tied, or so I was informed. Perspiration abounded. People shuffled in seats. The smokers smoked double time. Those trying to look cool most certainly did not. I desperately tried to keep a decent reception as we moved along on our train. Extra time started and by the look of things, things were not sounding good. There were annoyed bursts of 'pssssssst!' and sharp waving of hands. All of a sudden, I did not like being the messenger of what was looking to be bad news. And it was such very bad news. I knew South Korea had scored by all the sounds of disgust and storming away. Everyone was in shock. No World Cup for Italy. No more chances at Italy for me. It ended for us all in that hot airless place. We were caged in like animals on such a rarely moving train with far too much time to pace the isles and contemplate what did not lie ahead. The incessant delays ensured that Deb and I never made our next train or the one after that, if it ever existed. But I will tell you something amazing... the day of 'disasters' meant we were able to share a night in a bed and side step a train strike which we later learned would have most certainly frustrated my journey to my next destination: Spain...
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K) Sweden v Senegal... from Stockholm
My train dragged me into Stockholm well after midnight, the witching hour, the hour which it was supposed to get me there. I was content, but terribly tired and struggling not to fall asleep on the train. I did not know where the train went after Stockholm, but as the crow flies it would have just gone plowing straight into the ocean. I did not see any crows flying about, so that was probably what happened to them too. And if there was one place I did not want to wake up, it was in an ocean full of crows. For once, I had done a little research and located a hostel to stay at. It was the biggest and most central in Stockholm. I looked forward to a good night's sleep, maybe even sleeping in, and getting out to watch the game in the afternoon. I felt hungry and fatigued, but my spirits were high. I studied the map at the train station and set off giggling to myself at street names the likes of Kungsholms Hamnplan, Oxtrogsg and Slojdg. I decided I liked Stockholm already. I found the hostel and buzzed getting ready to give my best Australian 'G'day!'. No response for a while and then a recorded message: 'all beds taken for the night'. I had not even considered the possibility! I had no back up plan and it was just not one of those times that I could implement the excellent strategy of staying up all night. I was in trouble. Suddenly, Stockholm did not seem like such a great place. I thought about just trying to catch a train to somewhere, anywhere, but then I remembered all those crows and (confirming the sky to be clear) decided I would be better off on the streets. I started wandering around looking for hostels or hotels, but all had no vacancies and gave no response. I had yearned for sleep a lot over the past week or so, but had always been in control of it at least in some measure. It was me who set my timetable. I booked my tickets and I picked my games. I knew my limits and I had pushed myself to them, leaving very little room for this kind of error. I felt very, very vulnerable. I was a walking victim, but at least I was still walking. If that was to continue, my body needed propping up fast. I felt weak from lack of food. I had been living off cheese salad baguettes, vegetarianism precluding most real European food. I knew I was low on protein and was ever on the search for nuts and legumes. I had taken to guzzling warm soy milk by the carton, oh what a treat, but the opportunity so rarely arose. Eating had become a purely pragmatic pursuit, the great joys of eating thus excreting and of course having sex had long been stripped from me. I half hoped that something would drop dead around me so I could snaffle it up, but had a sneaking suspicion any such things were viewing me in the same grizzly light. I started on my emergency rations. A box of dry cereal handed to me in a promotion. It was like pouring down a full bag of sugar. Though, artificial stimulants were definitely called for and I sought out some caffeine from a late night snack bar. Then, another fatal moment in poor preparation. I realised I had no local currency, the Swedes sharing the Brit's fear of the Euro and still wanting to play with their own little notes. How very quaint. The snack bar yielded no coffee, but proved to be a minor boon as I secured directions to another hostel. I hiked there and buzzed. "Sorry, no more beds" said the voice, but at least a real person and a chance to talk my way in. "I'm desperate, I'll take anything, I'll sleep on the floor!" There. That should about double the price. "Come on up, I'll see what I can do." Upstairs, we played a funny little game of ambiguity as to whether there was a free bed or not. The overweight, sack scratching, man sat at the counter smoking, ashing without aim, enjoying his little dick and his little power game. It was there that his job satisfaction lay. Surprise, surprise, he found me a bed and not one to be shared with him, which was nice. He had satisfied himself at his job on that day. I groped around in the dark dorm room trying to find my bed, assuming the role of the arsehole who comes in at two in the morning and makes far too much noise. Coughs rose up to say "Yes, I'm here and you've woken me up". Little did they know what I was just about to find out... I would be doing it all again very soon. The game was first thing in the morning! My schedule showed that I had things mixed up and, once again, eight hours sleep became four. A cold rain drizzled down from a dark crowless sky on that summer morning in Stockholm, the day of the game. I had made my way to the teeheely named 'Anders Limp Bar', near the nasty hostel from the night before, and was heartened to see a great number of Swedes forming an orderly queue. They looked exquisite. A beautiful people even at that cruel hour and every one of them proudly sporting the most stunning colours of the international football rainbow. I had solved my financial crisis by finding a 'Bankomat' and, not yet having come to terms with the Swedish Crown, withdrew a ridiculous amount of money. I was loaded and could have bought the bastard hostel next door. A little too loaded in fact and feeling vulnerable once more. I need not have worried because by the time I left Sweden it was all but gone. Little power games proved popular during my visit to Stockholm, the bouncers leaving us queuing until about ten minutes before kick off. I mingled with the crowd, scoring a Sweden hat and some 'snooze' off a funny little fellow who was rolling around holding his belly and saying that he wanted to puke. I soon found out why. 'Snooze' is a type of tobacco in a small sort of tea bag. One puts it under one's lip and then does one's best not to throw up. After a good dose of 'snooze' and a pull on a dubious smoke doing the rounds, my empty belly burned of tobacco. There was only one thing for it and once inside I immediately rushed for an ice cold 'Pripps Bla'. It was like trying to put out a fire with gasoline. My stomach nearly exploded. I had no time for the petty objections it wanted to bring up. Sweden's anthem was playing, the game set to begin. "Stand up! Take off your hat! That's the Swedish national anthem!" I complied, trying to look dignified, holding my hat to my palpitating heart. "Now sit down! Put it back on! That's Senegal's." The Swedes are a madly patriotic bunch and had had a bad sporting year. Bjorn Borg got married, but that was about it. All their dreams now lay in the hands of their fine football team. The match began and I joined the locals sitting in silence staring at TVs scattered around the little front room. Sweden went out on attack early and a near goal inspired a great round of Scandinavian 'oooooooohs'. Senegal hit back. It started out one hell of a rough game, something that continued throughout. Having been brought up on a diet of Aussie Rules Football, I was suitably impressed. Someone might actually get hurt. For real! It was about time, I thought to myself smiling and sipping my beer. The locals did not seem to be enjoying the match so much as abiding it like a disagreeable operation to remove a troubling Senegal. Then, ten minutes in, their team produced a goal! The room cheered and relaxed. Unintelligible chants rose up. They were happy now. I judged by the numbers that there was more to the place and found a section outside where the real action was. Hundreds sat at trestles, golden and blue, watching a lovely big screen. It was like a beer-fest, but with prettier colours (and faces). And then I saw it! My heart skipped a beat and went down to my stomach to say what it saw. A table full of food! I approached and cowering with uncharacteristic hesitation checked whether it was alright for me to eat. It was, the food was included in the ticket price and I shoveled with glee. Bread, cheese, hash browns and baked beans. Baked beans! Oh God, precious protein. I could not help but feel embarrassed by the way I ate like a deprived animal, but I could not help that either. It was a revealing sensation to be so miserably hungry and then at once to finally have food. It was really quite humbling and struck me as something I should consider more often as I watched Senegal doing Africa so proud. And they did. Towards the end of the half, they scored a goal of their own. The scores were now tied. The half ended with the Swedes feeling flat and disappointed. Baked beaned with renewed vigour, I decided to go for a run to another bar. I was hustling towards it when I happened across a large group of people standing outside smoking and toeing the gutter. I knew at once what it was. Unmistakably a cinema and what else but a radio station promotion. 'Rock Klassiker' presenting the game to its most valued of listeners. I slipped in quietly, the way anyone can during the half time break of most any show. Finding a free seat, that is always the hard part and I spent quite a long time slinking about the cinema until I could settle down with my 'extra mammoth bigger than Abba' sized coke to watch the show. The second half started and the thousand odd punters displayed the sort of vocal enthusiasm of any crowd feeling safe in the dark. They laughed and clapped at a Senegalese taking a blow to the groin like the mostly teenaged crowd that they were watching some bad Hollywood flick. It really was an exciting game, fantastically rough with some of the most tantalising play, the adolescent crowd prematurely ejaculating again and again. Full time came with the scores still tied. I was secretly pleased because - and this really demonstrates what a fool's errand I am on - I honestly expected penalties. I moved to the front of the screen to soak up the reactions. I felt like a schmuck when the players ran on. Oh, of course, extra time. The mood was unspeakably tense. The players twisted and turned, weaving a saga so gripping one could not bare to look and yet never looked away. There was a moment when but a taste of victory swept across everyone's tongues escaping just in time for them all to scream out in pain. A near Sweden goal which bounced off the post. The crowd was in agony, some cast themselves on the floor, begging for mercy from the torture on the screen. And, soon enough, they were put out of their misery. Senegal scored. Senegal won. Stunned silence. Some sat. Others left. Just watching them all made me feel sick. It was the saddest thing I had seen on my tour to date, the gloriously painted Swedes filing out in dismay. Their hearts had been stolen, or rather won, from them. I joined the shuffle out, looking no one in the eye. I felt grossly voyeuristic in the face of such pain. It was a sad day for Sweden and I was not altogether unhappy to leave. After seven countries in seven days, my schedule showed a free day. And what better way to spend it than travelling all the way down to Italy again to watch their next big game...
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