Passenger (Copenhagen, Denmark to Hamburg, Germany)

Today, dear reader, we set out for Hamburg. The route we mapped to Copenhagen Central proved a winner, although it was Easter Saturday and early by some standards (Jayne's). Still, we made the station, alive with bags intact, with 20 minutes to spare. Warning. This entire post (almost the entire post) covers the train trip. The photos are totally unrelated to the text. They have been included because I like them. Oh, come on, it's my blog.

As a result of the blog being almost totally about train travel, Passenger, by Powderfinger, one of Australia's best ever bands, is the title.

There were still necessities to purchase for the trip, like chocolate, I mean water. Water first. This needed to be a careful choice because last time I accidentally purchased sparkling mineral water and the bottle, when opened, well, you know, excitement for everyone else except the person holding the bottle. 

What? It's spring. I'm building a nest.

Down the escalator to platform 5, as designated by our German tickets. Track numbers are now platforms. We look at the indicator to see where our carriage is situated and there is a red line and an explanatory note saying "Do not board here". Sometimes I wonder why life can't be simple and work the way it is supposed to. Our ticket says carriage 9. Where carriage 9 should be pictured, the screen says, "Do not board here".

When the going gets tough, as the expression goes, the tough get going. So I did. Back up the escalator to the convenience store to buy chocolate. I mean water. And see if someone can explain the apparent contradiction between our tickets and the sign.

Competitive churching: I have golden domes, but the real Dome casts a shadow.

Have you been to Copenhagen central, dear reader? It is large, cavernous even, and there was no information or help desk I could see. The stores closest to platform 5 all had long queues so I went further afield and found  a 7-11, yes they are everywhere, with lesser patronage. Chocolate sorted, well it was an easier purchase than water, I located water, changed my mind and opted for another brand. Safety first.

With 10 minutes before the train is due to depart, everything is fine, except whether our carriage exists. Maybe it's like track 9 at Stockholm? As I reach the escalator, I'm looking for Harry Potter. Instead I see our train. Panic stations. Warning Will Robinson! Danger! Danger! The previously crowded platform is emptying quickly. I know the train won't leave, it's not scheduled to, yet. But my fear is finding a storage place for our large suitcase. We are, big breaths, travelling second class! The horror.

I have no idea. Divers quarters?

Jayne is waiting for me. That's a relief. You can never really be sure, can you? It's like that Tim Winton novel, sorry, I digress.

Carriage 9 is down there, she points towards the front of the train and we begin wheeling the bags to where one of the DB (Deutsche Bahn) employees is directing people onto the mythical carriage 9. Up the steps I lug the big bag to find the lower compartment of the luggage rack occupied by small bags and backpacks that could be stowed above the seats. Typical. I shoulder the 23kg suitcase and stow it on the second shelf. Our smaller bags go above our seats and we settle in, listening to the whining children a few rows in front. It's only 4 hours and 40 minutes to Hamburg ...

Everything seems fine. The bags are stowed, we are settled, I have chocolate, I mean water (hydration is important) and the children aren't too loud. The DB fast train feels fast. Finally, a train on time. Trust the Germans.

So we have yellow ducks; in Denmark they have purple.

I'm not sure where things started to fray, dear reader. Perhaps with my, ultra careful, opening of my water to discover it was, once again, sparkling mineral water as it sprayed all over my hand and the table. Seriously. What is wrong with these people? Why can't they drink plain bloody water? They have 70 flavours of sparkling rubbish and I choose the only bottle that states "100% original" and it is still sparkling bloody mineral water. That bit was in fine print on the side of the bottle, in German. Thankfully I had a Kit Kat to cheer me up.

Then the announcements and unscheduled stops began. From, "We are 1 minute late," to "The train in front has a medical emergency, we will now be 10-15 minutes late." The next announcement pronounced that our lack of progress against our lateness was due to a signal failure, maybe 20-30 minutes.

Daffodils were everywhere. Potted. The ground was too cold.

During each stop, the air conditioning stopped functioning. The noise of the train decreased in commensurate proportions to the increase in squawking of the children and the propensity to notice those people too ignorant to purchase headphones for their iPads/computers.

Twenty minutes from Hamburg they announced we were back on time. That saw movement throughout the entire carriage. People started donning their coats, shouldering their backpacks and tying their children down. "It must be a long lead in to the station," I remarked.

 Rosenborg castle grounds.

As we crawled to a slow stop, the station in sight, the next announcement came: "Sorry, we do not have a platform at the station." OK, I get the issue with planes and slots at airports, but trains? We are on a track. Anyway, we sat and waited and finally made Hamburg station 20 minutes late. So much for German scheduling.

From the station it was the usual trauma. Which exit do we take? Which way do we go? That was after battling up the stairs because the escalator was not working. The down escalator worked fine. Wouldn't you swap it over?

Dans means dance.

Up the stairs, out into the world of daylight and warmth. It was 20°. We haven't experienced temperatures like this since we left Australia. To ensure there were no mistakes this time, I programmed the address into Apple maps and Google. And the winner was ... us. It was a fairly straightforward route from the station to our accommodation, with precious few cobblestones.

Despite my sensible clothing, no thermals, I was still sweating when we reached our destination. It is a beautiful one bedroom apartment in Hafencity with views of the Elbe River. Chrissy, our host was on hand to show us through the apartment and answer any questions. And also to remind us that the next two days are public holidays and if we wanted to shop, it needed to be today.

Seagull, I guess.

Once we were established in the apartment, we walked the few minutes to a choice of stores. Food and wine purchased, we returned to the apartment to stow the food and go wandering. There is a Vietnamese restaurant in the building, dinner is sorted.

What happens if you come home during changing of the guard? You wait.

Transit days are always stressful and eventful. This one was no different. A good Vietnamese meal and a couple of Saigon beers relaxed us. The welcome pack of Kinder Surprise chocolates and a couple of Hamburg specialty ales when we returned home didn't hurt either.

Until next time.

How far have we really come? (Hà Nôi, Vietnam)

A restful night's sleep proved elusive due to the required adjustment to a different time zone and the arctic rated doona that covered the bed. Despite the air con, I defy anyone in the tropics to sleep under a bed cover that belongs in a winter climate. Otherwise, happy days, or nights, as the case may be.

As we are in total control (said in a deep, powerful, thundering voice) until the official tour commences, we felt no need to rush anywhere. A leisurely morning to dress for breakfast, into the lift and down to the foyer/lobby where we were met with chaos. Many, many people and much noise. It was almost as if we has descended in Dante's inferno, level 1.

A quick side step manoeuvered us towards one of the breakfast venues. There are two. We were rejected from the first option. "Sorry, we're full". I thought I was at a white Australia rally in Cronulla. Onward we went to the pool area where we were finally accepted. 

Breakfast is interesting because, as with most major hotels, they attempt to cater to the sensitivities of multiple nationalities. For the Australians, there were mini ham and cheese croissants. Unheated. The French influence ensured croissants (no ham and cheese), pain au chocolat, other pastries and baguettes. There were the usual egg fetishes and bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms et al. And the Vietnamese section, banh mi, dumplings, spring rolls, fresh fruit and many things I was not able to identify. Perhaps many is an exaggeration.

Coffee. Always a sticking point for us. There was choice. They had plunger coffee! WTF! Americans, I reckon. We ordered double shot long blacks. An automated machine gave it life. It was passable.

Over breakfast, we reconnoîtered a map of the old district and located the dress shop where we hoped Jayne would be able to get some dresses made. Quickly. She had brought two dresses that she wanted copied. It looked about 20 minutes walk from the hotel, should we survive Hà Nôi's traffic. Before we departed on our mission, we approached the concierge again to tell her that the sheet we had requested had not arrived, she had passed the message on to housekeeping but clearly something had been lost in the translation. "Room number, madame?" "574." We requested she try again and then left to locate the old city and its lake.

The Opera House and traffic.

It is Sunday and I am uncertain if that is a good thing or bad thing, as far as the traffic is concerned. As it turned out, it was a no thing. It made little difference. It was still anarchy on the roads. And footpaths too. Having grown up in Sydney where the car is king and pedestrians are an annoyance, I was ready for the battle. At least I thought I was. Thankfully the Ao Dai festival was in full swing and many roads had been closed to allow pedestrians to take over the roads.

Food delivery of a different kind.

Ao Dai is the traditional dress for women and there were many examples of women in their Ao Dai. There were, however, more brides. Sunday must be the day to get married. There were, literally, brides on every corner getting photographed with their bridal party. Photographers were wired for sound and there was rarely less than two or three for each party. They waited patiently for traffic to pass to get the right shot. It was a spectacle. 

Ladies in traditional dress.

Most of this occurred around the Hoan Kiem lake area, an expanse of water that contains the Ngoc Son Temple and the turtle tower. Stalls surrounded the lake, selling everything from Ao Dai to fruit to other produce, children's toys and food. There were also presentation/performance and games areas. It was like a school fête spread over a vast area.

War games for kids. 

Despite the allure of the guessing game, 'What is that they're selling?', we continued to navigate to Royal Silk, the dressmaker's shop. Unsuccessfully. Getting lost in the old city has similarities to wandering the streets of Venice. If you haven't been lost there, you are lying or you didn't leave your accommodation. Anyway, we saw lots of interesting things that we may never find again and eventually zig-zagged our way to the dress maker.

The shop is tiny and it was already crowded with three people and Daisy, the dressmaker. Jayne decided to be polite and stand outside on the footpath. We wait. We wait. The women inside are not looking like they are emerging any time soon. "Go in," I suggest. "It's too crowded," is the response. We wait some more and then two other women walk down the street and straight into the shop. We exchange glances, I roll my eyes and we decide to circumnavigate the lake and return later.

Loved on TripAdvisor and by Jayne.

Back into the festival we go, taking the opportunity to walk on streets that are not filled with cars and motorbikes attempting to take your life. We hadn't been walking long before we were approached by a young woman who said she was an English teacher and asked could we spare a few minutes to speak in English with some of her students? "Of course," we replied. How could we not? Particularly given my last line of work in international education.

Lost in translation, or just a rip-off?

The three Year 6 students had an excellent grasp of English. We chatted for a while as the teacher filmed us and the proud parents looked on. We congratulated the students for the excellent English and the teacher for the great work she had done with her students and continued our journey around the lake.

I was confident I could find our way back to Royal Silk. Too confident perhaps and another wrong turn had us exploring streets we had not intended to visit. And then, we were back on track and we were standing outside the shop. The women who had walked in as we waited previously, were still there but left shortly after Jayne went inside the shop.

Space is at a premium.

Daisy looked at the dresses, spoke with Jayne about options and suggested they travel together to fabric market to select what was required. When Jayne inquired where the market was, Daisy informed her that it was about 1.5 kms away and that she would transport Jayne on the back of her scooter. "Thank you but no thank you." "I am a good driver," said Daisy. "Nothing personal but that is not in my comfort zone and besides my husband is with me," said Jayne. "No problem," said Daisy. "We will go by taxi and your husband can come too." Disappointed with this outcome I climbed into the taxi. I would have paid to see Jayne as a pillion passenger on one of the scooters that buzz around the streets.

Taxi summoned, dresses in hand along with another customer's order, we jumped into the taxi, paid for by Daisy, and left the old city precinct to go to the markets, "a dressmaker's heaven" as Daisy described it. Or a moth's nightmare, so much choice, too much choice.

We wove through the manic traffic and stopped on a non-descript street corner. The only concession the locals seem to make in regard to preserving life and limb on streets is that you must get in and out of the vehicle on the curbside - presumably to avoid unexpected doors opening onto pedestrians, scooters, cars, trucks, buses and whatever else is vying for a piece of the road.

Turtle Tower.

We followed Daisy up two flights of stairs to a landing that suddenly opened out into a mezzanine, around which, as far as you could see, were literally thousands and thousands of bolts and layers of fabrics stacked from floor to ceiling. Each bolt hole (sorry, couldn't resist) on the mezzanine was the province of a different proprietor who happily pulled out as many samples as you wanted to see. Equipped with wooden rulers, they deftly measured off the required amounts of the chosen fabric, depositing them into a bag. Each selection was paid for by Daisy using her phone to scan a QR code. I was so overawed by the never ending stacks of material I neglected to take a photo - even though the camera was in my hand the entire time.

Once one fabric was secured, it was onto another proprietor, edging past ladies who were having their lunch break, sitting on little stools in the middle of their allotted section of the mezzanine. 

Once our business was complete, Daisy said she would have the dresses ready the day after tomorrow - they could be picked up at her shop or she could deliver them to the hotel, whichever was easier. We said we would come to her on Tuesday afternoon and we left her to continue shopping for fabric for her other customer. No money changed hands - this will be sorted when the dresses are ready in a day and a half's time.

Looking toward Son Ngoc Temple.

Still reeling from the experience, we made our way back down the stairs and out into the daylight to walk back to the hotel - a shorter distance than the taxi ride from the old city. Just near the hotel, we met Thi again who had collected us from the airport. After a quick chat about our first day, we headed into the hotel for a well-earned drink at the poolside bar.

I was warned, dear reader, that I would have trouble finding decent wine in Vietnam. This has not proven to be the case. The hotel has a delightful wine cellar and many French wines on offer to slake my thirst.

Despite a jam-packed day, we were not done yet as we had booked in to participate in a guests-only tour of the hotel which included hearing about its history since 1901 and a tour of a wartime bunker that was built during the American War only discovered under the hotel in the 2011 when they excavated to build a new bar and the pool.

The history tour was quite brief but we are welcome to go by ourselves to read some of the information on the walls of the "History Path". After the walk along the path, we were led to a flight of stairs near the pool area that is kept locked but leads underground to a series of cement rooms that were used to keep guests safe when the city was under bombardment during the war. The air was quite stifling and the feeling was oppressive and claustrophobic, despite there only being about a dozen guests and the guide. We spent only about 10 minutes in these confines in which guests had had to spend hours, waiting for the all clear. The lack of oxygen was palpable and I wondered how they ventilated these spaces particularly as there were up to 50 people sheltering from the American bombs, sometimes for whole days.

Cosy. And without a lot of oxygen.

After we were mercifully above ground, we finished the tour in the bar with a cold drink. No, it was non-alcoholic, dear reader, but delightfully refreshing. At this point the half of the group that was American, all checked out which part of the States they were from and one lady quizzed the guide on her thoughts around the relative merits of capitalism, communism and socialism, declaring that the States were becoming socialist. She said it like it was a bad thing. This vastly amused the guide who vividly remembered the war as a ten year old child. She declared the time for an "us and them" approach was over and that globalism was the credo now. I disagree, I think the current form of globalism is nearing its end and will need to be reborn in a different style.

Water constantly ran down these stairs.

The American woman who had made the socialist comment intrigued me. I desperately wanted to ask why she thought America becoming more socialist would be a bad thing (after all American capitalism has been such a stunning excess, sorry I mean success). In an out of character moment I stayed silent. Then she declared why she is in Vietnam ... she's involved in a group that raises funds to construct a Ronald McDonald House in areas where they are needed. Now that is socialism at work I thought and again I wanted to point this out, but I could feel Jayne's eyes burning into the side of my head. No comment. 

The Americans moved on leaving the Aussies behind. We are all part of the APT tour and chatted for a while about the forthcoming journey and other places we've been, before it was time to be elsewhere.

We re-appeared at Le Club some hours later for dinner, opting for French fare, a croque monsieur and a bottle of French Chardonnay. A most civilised way to conclude a long day that included over over 10 km of walking. What's more, the elusive sheet had been installed while we were at dinner so sleep without suffocation was a distinct possibility!

Ok then, you've made it to the end dear reader. Well done. I will have more to say about the American War as it is referred to here. I was going to title this post Where are you now my son? a song written by Joan Baez after she witnessed the aftermath of a bombing in Hà Nôi. She was staying at the Metropole, but at 21 minutes it tested my endurance more than completing this post. It is relevant and poignant but also depressing given the current climate. So, I opted for Powderfinger's How far have we really come? Their 2003 classic is still as relevant today, twenty years after it was written, as it would have been in 1973. Sad really.

Until tomorrow.

Hindley Street (Adelaide)

Who doesn't love Powderfinger? Hindley Street was from their 1998 album Internationalist and it is today's title because that's where we had breakfast at Café Bang Bang. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The night was long and noisy. The city of churches also appears to masquerade as party central during the Fringe. The last of the doors slammed closed around 4am, but prior to that there was arguing, banging on doors and the usual sleep disruptions. The people, drinking late or swimming early, finally fell quiet about 5:30am. Did my door slam as we left for breakfast at 9am? Damn straight. And again when we returned because the 'do not disturb' sign was still on the door to the room next door. That'd be where the incessant 1:00am door knocking occurred. 

The bustling Rundle Mall

Not surprisingly Adelaide was very quiet on Sunday morning. Either everyone was sleeping off the excesses from the night before or they were all in church. Rundle Mall was bereft of life and nothing was open. We had ventured this way because that's where we thought we would find a café for breakfast. A mistake it appeared, although not my only one of the morning.

Hindley Street proved to be a tad more alive and we settled into breakfast with another comedian, Dave Thornton. When I say we had  breakfast with him, he was seated at the next table. No we didn't speak, nor did I acknowledge him - that would be unAustralian. My second mistake for the day was ordering the smoked ham and swiss cheese toasty. I have no excuse; I even put my glasses on to read the menu but still missed the first few crucial words "creamy scrambled egg". Yes dear reader, you know of my complete dislike of eggs and my breakfast was totally dominated by it; a bit like Labor dominating the Liberals in yesterday's state election. I'm not complaining, about the eggs that is - it was my own fault.

Don't argue with the big pigeon

Post breakfast we gathered our things and Jayne, in an attempt to provide Dave Thornton with more more material, tried to put on her magnetic sunglasses directly on to her face. Without having her other glasses on for them to connect to, she was unsuccessful. I asked if she'd had implants to allow the glasses to magnetise to her head. Apparently not. 

Time to wander around the wilds of Adelaide and we headed down the other end of Rundle Mall where we found the foodie area we probably should have explored for a breakfast venue. Curiously, at varying spots along our walk there are coins fixed into the pavement. What sort of perverse black humour is this? Are the good people of Adelaide laughing at the homeless who traverse this area. Very strange.

At one spot someone had freed some coin.

Street art

Not far from the hotel, the foodie area also boasts random street art. We walked down there to have a look around because we were meeting friends there later in the day for afternoon drinks and a bite to eat. East End Cellars was just setting up this morning, but I approve whole heartedly of the wines on display.

And they did not disappoint. We met Cath and Noel at 3pm after they travelled down from north of Adelaide, I worked with Cath almost 20 years ago. Since then she and Noel have moved here to South Australia and we've moved into Sydney. As with many people today, we keep up on FaceBook. It was a great afternoon, the venue is fantastic. A great selection of cheeses and meats as well as other small plates all matched with an amazing selection of wines from around the world. They also have a some very interesting local wines. It was a great way to spend the afternoon and the crowd outside obviously agreed too. The road was closed and there were not many tables unoccupied as we left.

Enjoying a charcuterie plate and a McLaren Vale shiraz

We won't be in Adelaide long enough to discover whether the road closures and the bars and restaurants spilling onto the streets are a Fringe thing or just something to encourage people out on the weekend post lockdown life. It is certainly effective. Aside from the extra table space, many venues also have live music tonight and we passed two jazz bands on our 5 minute walk back to the hotel.

A side street with seating and jazz band

Dinner tonight was at Osteria Oggi, a mere 15 minute stroll from the hotel. The walk to and from the restaurant was most interesting. There were DJs, jazz bands and musicians, but the most fascinating of all appeared to be a street tour that involved the participants, all wearing green neon earphones, singing Bohemian Rhapsody. At top volume. It attracted the attention of anyone in the vicinity, including Angry Anderson. Yes dear reader, it appears that everyone is in Adelaide this weekend.

Back to dinner. It was loud, but in a happy Italian restaurant kind of way. Not the, 'I'm yelling at you across the table' of yesterday. We were 5 minutes early and the waiter informed us that we were lucky because our 'table' was ready, which was apparently highly unusual. Our 'table' was a space across from each other on a very long bench - covid style spacing. There was no table linen or any other place setting aside from a couple of glasses and two plates. And there was plenty of space at the other 'table' on the other side of the room. So lucky. What a wanker.

Thankfully he was not serving us and Olivia soon arrived to save the day. We ordered a funky little viognier that was so different to last evening's wine. Skin contact changed the colour and it was fresh and spritzig, the perfect accompaniment to dinner. We shared a starter of char grilled zucchini with cauliflower puree, mint and almonds. Seriously good. So good in fact I could become a vegetarian.

The entrée

We were in the best pasta restaurant in Adelaide so what did we order? Fish. Joking - we ordered pasta. Jayne went for a traditional Carbonara and I had campanelle with smoked eel.

Oh, look, an egg ☹️

I win. No egg.

Dessert? You enquire dear reader. Well yes, we shared. It was a tough choice but the gelato, sponge and pistachio sandwich with blackberry jam proved difficult to pass by. An excellent finish to a great meal. 

As good as it looks.

And that, my patient reader, is the end of Day 2. Radelaide is well worth a visit for the food scene alone. The Fringe Festival just makes it that much more interesting, because you never know what, or who, is around the corner, literally.

Tomorrow is a travel day, we are heading for Paringa and The Frames. Therefore, the chances of a post are slim, but fear not, we shall return.

As an aside, much has changed in the world since I last blogged. There has been famine, plague, pandemic, floods and war. Not to mention the way photos are uploaded to blogger. Cheers Google for altering a perfectly serviceable, functional app and changing it for no reason, to make it impossible to load photos unless you load them into Google photos first. I spent two hours of my day working through this problem. You owe me.

And just as we were about to publish this post Adelaide had one more surprise in store. Fireworks. Comfortably viewed from our room. Nice. Cheers Adelaide.

Until next time.