[Krakov – Wroclaw] 7th September
Frantic search for my phone. Sad realisation of dependence on said phone. Me on my first train to Wroclaw having left the company of my lovely, albeit concerned, friends. They both took distinctly different tacks anticipating my departure: Oskar doing his best to remind me of my impending doom whilst Gemma, who started out with a vote of confidence on my part, clearly let Oskar get to her, yelling after I had boarded: ‘Oh and buy mace’.
Ticket inspector’s been and gone, making unintelligible murmurs in Polish. It’s now occurred to me that these may have been referring to the rather explicit (but highly recommended) reading material sandwiching my train ticket:
Enough said.
Pleasantly interrupted by a fellow passenger a couple of hours into the journey; he asked for his bag to be watched in exchange for a loo break and unprecedented hour of his unrequested but agreeable company. Not one to enjoy silence, and learning I was en route to Berlin, he took it upon himself to recommend what seemed to be every attraction and building in the city. I’ve consequently resorted to writing here in order to retain some of the names of the places as he reels them off, as well as the impression that I can understand his thick polish accent…
[Wroclaw - Berlin] 8th September
I’m finding the irregularity of hay bale placement in Poland’s fields getting on my nerves. I’m on my second day of inter-railing, my stint of independent travel over embarrassingly fast. And my patience is clearly lacking. Now accompanied (dare I say crashed) by my Dad I’m acclimatising to the bad jokes, running commentary on the cricket, and more enjoyably: the financial assistance.
His sprained Achilles tendon has so far failed to live up to the myth, and has proved to be more of an advantage than a weakness, entitling us to a boat tour of the city of Wroclaw given by one of its staunch patriots. Within minutes Dad and I move from Tumski’s nondescript shores to its riverbank, respectively saving us from his limping and my bluffing of the directions. Our pockets £13 lighter and our experience far richer, the tour guide barks at us to ‘chillax’, booming tinny Italian guitar out over the ripples.
Fuelled by a hearty continental breakfast and possibly the best cheesecake I’ve ever had, we’re off to the Wraclowice Panorama: a 360 degree painted depiction of the Russo-Polish War (1654-67), of whose troops I shamefully can’t distinguish from one another despite the audio guidance...cue my stubborn refusal to admit that my guide is narrating a section of the painting which I most certainly am not in view of. I consequently find myself enjoying my independence too much to join the rest of the group (who are managing to use the audio guide properly). At least I can say I won the unofficial race around the panorama! Dad and I celebrated at what seems like a blasphemous institution within Polish cuisine: a vegan restaurant which provided our third coffee and cake serving of the day. Time for the train to Berlin, where I reflect on how classic it was that Dad didn’t save his nap till on board, and instead had it in a public gallery…
[Berlin] 9-10th September]
I’m almost embarrassed to be inter-railing in such style. My accommodation provided breakfast: goat’s cheese, scrambled eggs, bagels hanging on a string, orange slices waiting to be squeezed (whose vitamin C quantities I imagine vary instinctively, depending on the consumer’s deficiencies).
Continuing in uncharacteristic extravagance Dad and I got a tour guide to take us round Berlin, I guess because there’s definitely a sense that one wants to do Berlin right. (And of course it saved us the passive aggressive directing of google maps as well). Unnerved by the absence of an early morning prerequisite swim, I found out that Dad had it scheduled in for the following morning. Cycling to the outskirts of Berlin, we rode along a Champs Elysees-like avenue whose buildings were of a sufficient height to attain majesty but not enough to obscure the rich blue above - Transition to Berlin’s countryside for complete obscurity in its forests, interrupted by rays of sunlight piercing the canopy married with autumnal leaves. It was a highlight in every sense of the word. A converse low point, however, was having to forcefully remove Dad’s Biarritz beanie from his head after finding its French swim logo to be unnervingly swastika shaped.
Now on the train leaving the city (insert temporary pause whilst I pretend to be subtle, checking out a hip turtleneck wearing Berlinian boy) and I’m trying to record what I hope are pensive thoughts. If I’m honest I don’t know what I think of Berlin exactly. It was certainly an interesting comparison to Poland's Wroclaw in terms of its history: the latter seemed immensely proud of its landmarks, battle victories and architectural recovery post war, whilst it felt slightly uncomfortable that the former country gave rise to the very movement that wreaked its destruction. Yet it feels to me like Berlin unashamedly (and rightly so) acknowledges its exceptional history and moves its visitors to do the same. The stone Holocaust memorial, the statue of a mother mourning her dead son and the empty shelves of Babel Platz are three such examples. Upon encountering them, all I was aware of was the gravity of my own claim to life and that around me, in a way I know needs further reflection.
[Copenhagen] 11-12th September]
First complaint – everyone my age is impossibly good looking in this city. Actually am I complaining? Cue people watching Fleur de la Coeur lookalikes and a George Clooneyesque figure being incredibly and publicly affectionate toward his son in a way that Grayson Perry would be proud of ie.
Midday arrives with the revelation that our air bnb is uninhabitable...cue Dad’s transformation into angry lawyer mode whilst I creep around the flat taking pictures of dog hair clumps to build our case. Neither of us are entirely sure what the plan is now, but I find myself briefly enjoying the idea of spontaneous, unbound travel as we discuss moving on to Sweden.
There’s no other way to describe it: Copenhagen is goddamn effortless. Men walking their dogs and babies, and women, casually decked out in sage green cord and silk, mustard socks and ankle boots striding across roads with more bikes on than cars, glimpses of white, blond, platinum heads complementing the golden turmeric milk steaming in front of me. Dad and I are perched on a pavement cushioned for people watching: coffee beans in vintage hessian sacks form the skirting board of the street, the scene before us like a walking advert for Vogue. Unlike London this city has managed to modernise and still retain its old style charm. It’s like their Danish language: goddamn sexy I might add, and completely unintelligible to me. Like a secret code exclusive to cool and beautiful people with a better quality of life tag attached to their &OtherStories clothing. And yet they remain entirely unpretentious, more impressively un self-conscious, and most definitely unattainable. Noticed I’ve said goddamn twice – that’s either me getting really frustrated with the perfection of this place, or needing to stay here longer till I’m absorbed into its bubble.
[Malmo, Stockholm,] 11th September
The city looked like a construction site for Black Mirror: enviably well dressed university students entering dystopian buildings and almost no one else in sight. Our lack of accommodation in Denmark has taken Dad and I over to Sweden, on a mission: arrive, locate nearest point of access to water (the colder the better), enter said point (in this case the Baltic Straits). This was coincidentally the best place on this earth as explored by me so far: ‘Ribbersborg Bathouse’, an unexpectedly nudist paradise. And one I don’t feel I can do justice to in writing. Yet in feeling, it was the absolute absence of self judgement, you grinning and nude amongst a literal sea of shameless bodies. The feeling as hard hitting, blissfully shocking as the cold water. There’s nothing of convention in that place, of pressure, doubt, competition and all the resulting insecurities. There’s only everything else: you in a different skin, different mindset, different country. You as you were born, as you are, as you want to leave.
[Kolding] 14th September
Unnerving arrival at what seems to be a hostel prototype for the robot decade: automated self check in, self key card activation, self authentication and all that shiz. No idea what Kolding’s about but can’t judge much after the pit stop at 7/11 (a supermarket in which I genuinely and shamefully asked the cashier what time it closed...)
Bizarre episode of heartburn and leg cramp throughout the night, both annoying situations where the source of pain isn’t visible and thus never taken as seriously as a dramatist and slight hypochondriac like myself would wish. As my Dad, completely unsympathetic to my plight, snores loudly, I find myself fantasising about the possibility that my heartburn was instead a mild heart attack, endured with considerable heroism on my part. Sleep is definitely necessary at this point.
[Kolding - London] 15th September
00:01 is our first train home...cue feeling underlying stress for the next 16 hours (induced by multiple and stressful train changes and reservations and an irritatingly relaxed father).
At Fredericia now for a hideously cold, hour long changeover on a bench that I swear was designed for the sole purpose of persuading its occupants to stand (being the superior option to sitting on it). I’m now questioning whether 1am is a suitable hour for the breakfast I’m craving – now wondering whether the digestive system ever sleeps – now certain that my digestive system is not asleep.
My travelling entries end there; meanwhile the journey came to its end 14 hours and one rude awakening (from another passenger whose seat I had taken) later.
And whilst I hate to give my Dad the satisfaction or ego boost of being described as pretty epic company over the trip, he did surprise me in that respect. Though I should mention that this reflection was added after hearing him admit: ‘I want to hear a bit more about me’, upon reading my entries…
when your dad crashes your interrailing trip
What flavour was the cheesecake ?? (Aggie)
Love it Phoebs!