Prior post: http://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/30/road-trip-europe-22-12-12-18-tires/

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The first change in weather since I got to Berlin is occurring. It’s raining today and slightly above freezing. To save energy, I’ve had the apartment heat turned off since arrival, relying on thermal underwear and the ubiquitous German featherbed for comfort. Today, I open some windows to air the place out.

Tomorrow is my meeting with the lawyer to start resolving the preliminaries to marketing my Berlin property. However… around noon I receive an email from her husband and law partner that she is ill and won’t be working the rest of the month — and is fully booked through January. Not what I expected since she was eager to go just 4 days earlier, but there’s no point in speculating whether she’s dissembling. I ask the husband for a referral to another lawyer, which he supplies. I send my analysis to this attorney and within hours he responds that my problem is complex, he has upcoming surgery, and is not interested in handling it. My skeptical hope of progress by Christmas is now dashed. Since I’m leaving Berlin soon, any further work will have to wait until my return in several months. I’ve waited 10 years, so this is just a minor additional delay.

Since there’s no hope of further progress — hope may die last, but it does die — it’s time to start socializing. I begin sending out emails to various Berlin Servas hosts asking if they want to get together before I head for Frankfurt during the night of 26 December.

Mid-afternoon, I need to get something out of the car, which is within feet of the door. Leaving my house slippers on, I go outside. Failing to realize how the rain and cold ground have conspired to create a frictionless layer of slick ice, within a couple of steps my feet go out from under me and I free fall 3 feet onto my back. As I lay there cursing, moaning, and evaluating whether my traveling is at an end, I gradually conclude the pain is all superficial and nothing has been broken or displaced. Blaming my smooth soled slippers for the fall, I reach down and pull them off, figuring my wet socks will have a better grip on the ice.

Slowly and painfully, I get back on my feet and work my way to the rear car door to retrieve what I need. Feeling a little less slammed and surer on my feet, I head back to the house. Just as I’m thinking about bending down to pick up my abandoned slippers, it happens again! My stocking feet shoot forward and I again free fall onto my back. This time my elbows and the back of my head make a secondary impact. I can hardly imagine getting through two such falls without a serious injury and my head certainly hurts where it hit. Miraculously, I realize my pain-wracked body is nonetheless functional. I make it through the front door.

My head didn’t hit hard enough to even raise a lump but there is a neurological effect. My thoughts are quite confused. It’s strange, though, because I know I’m confused and am simultaneously monitoring it. I have to suspect concussion, of course, so my first decision is not to lie down and fall asleep. I unlock the doors in case I take a turn for the worse and have to dial for an ambulance. The layout of the small apartment seems unfamiliar to me. I wander from room to room trying to make sense of it. At one point I walk into the adjacent apartment to see if I “belong” there. I’m also staring at the computer trying to remember what I had been working on 20 minutes earlier, to no avail. Very fortunately, my thinking gets steadily better and in 30 minutes I feel perfectly clearheaded.

As a precaution, I stay awake in a chair for several hours. By evening, my concussion concerns dissipate and I stay mostly horizontal for the next 48 hours to let some of the bruising and aching abate. I am a very lucky guy.

It’s a good reminder, though, of something I already know — one’s life can be permanently altered in 5 seconds of carelessness or bad luck.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/01/06/road-trip-europe-22-12-21-german-christmas-singalong/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/19/road-trip-europe-22-12-09-fahren-fahren-fahren-auf-der-autobahn-to-berlin/

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Saturday morning, I wake up in the home of Karl-Heinz and Edelgard on the eastern edge of Berlin, friends I’ve known for over 20 years. They built their large house in the 1970s, in what was then communist East Berlin, under the radar. Official permission was hard to get and they’ve told me stories of bartering for bricks and cement and slowly erecting the structure as they could manage.

Edelgard runs 4 vacation and worker apartments they built into the lower floors and I’m always welcome to one of them. In the old days, we were quite close, spending lots of time together. They’re a bit older than me , though, and in recent times their concerns with health and family matters mean that I still stay here but see them much less. Our relationship has evolved from me being a house guest to non-paying tenant. That makes the time we do spend together even more precious.

As I arrive, Edelgard, 80, has just had successive eye surgeries for clots and a cataract. She’s confined to bed for a few days. self administering a complex regimen of eye drops.

I awake Saturday morning in the vacation apartment and organize my goals. In typically considerate fashion, Edelgard has left me with some staples — coffee, tea, butter, eggs. currant preserves… and milk (she knows me). Saturday morning, Karl-Heinz silently drops off a couple of rolls fresh from the bakery.

My sister and I for many years have owned a mostly vacant lot in Eggersdorf. a modest community about 20 miles east of Berlin. It’s been in my family for about 100 years, having been the weekend retreat (a simple 2 room cottage) of my paternal grandparents. My father told many stories of his adolescent adventures there, including playing piano accompaniment to silent films is the village movie house. During the German Democratic Republic (DDR in German, East Germany to us), the property was lost to the family for about 45 years. Shortly after reunification in 1989, my father and aunt took advantage of a legal window to recover ownership. The long time DDR-era tenant retained rights to the property, however, for many years, while paying s very low rent.

My aunt, angered and frustrated by the lack of access, gave the property to me and my sister in 1995. The lot has since sat largely unused. I once had visions of building a house there for personal use and rental, but those plans never ended up fitting my actual life. For many years, my sister has gently urged me to sell.

Although I speak German, my knowledge of how the German real estate market works is nil – a potentially very costly bit of ignorance. I did list the property with a local agent in 2014 but he came back almost immediately with an offer. I had no confidence that he was actually working in my interest (especially since he told me the buyer pays his fee, not me), so I pulled the listing resolving to first educate myself about the realities.

Well, that’s my primary job now in Berlin. I’ve been inquiring of all my German friends and acquaintances, “How do I get maximum value in selling the lot?” I’ve received a spectrum of helpful advice but one friend in northwest Germany introduced me to his brother and sister in law who are both engineers and homeowners near Berlin. They’ve helped me find online information about the property and we’re going to get together Tuesday to discuss the matter.

My goal is to get everything set up by the time Susan arrives on 27 December so the property can be marketed while we’re road tripping and sell and close without my physical presence. Given that German business and government slow to a crawl during the holidays, this is very ambitious.

Saturday evening, just before closing time, I remember it’s Saturday evening — and I’m in Germany! Almost all German retail business is shut tight on Sundays. It’s considered a worker’s right to spend that day with their families — a very nice philosophy. Gasoline and restaurant meals are about the only things available tomorrow, so I dash over to the nearby Kaufland supermarket to get what I need for the weekend. Kaufland is an enormous store, covering acres. It can take five minutes to transit from one desired department to another. Really, you need map and a motor scooter to find products there. I’m literally running through the aisles, in my slippers, like a maniac, 20 minutes before closing trying to gather produce, meat, spaghetti fixings, bread, juice. and more milk (!) to get me through to Monday morning. Worse, I don’t have a 1 Euro coin so I can’t unlock a shopping cart. Worse yet, I forgot shopping bags and backpack so I’m limited to leaving the store with whatever I can carry loose in my arms. Definitely not a competent foray.

I spend Sunday, working on client matters, researching the property, and kicking back a little. Karl Heinz’s and Edelgard’s younger daughter, Marit, is visiting with her family from elsewhere in Berlin. They’re staying in the other vacation apartment across the hall. Karl-Heinz is cooking a big family dinner and I’m invited to join them. I’ve never met Marit, so introductions are made and we sit down to eat. The centerpiece is a big roast duck — my favorite fowl — and we all dig in.

The conversation is all in German and I’m very pleased that on my 3rd day in Germany I can not only keep up but be a full fledged participant. I was already surprised two days ago when I noticed myself starting to think in German within hours of entering the country. Usually, it takes a week or two. The traditional Christmas meal in Germany is goose and Karl-Heinz is perturbed that it’s unaffordably expensive this year. I’m loving the duck.

The weather is consistently below freezing but the roads are dry. In the next installment, you’ll see why that’s so important.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/30/road-trip-europe-22-12-12-18-tires/

Prior post: http://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/18/road-trip-europe-22-12-06-08-my-new-french-friends/

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Friday morning and it’s time to push onward. Sophie has to go to work so we say our fond goodbyes. The only bad thing about getting to know people through hospex is that some of the contacts are ephemeral. Over the decades, I’ve built up an enormous collection of hosts and travelers and, although most of the initial visits are truly heartwarming, I lose touch with many afterwards. Whether it’s my failings as a correspondent or just the sheer numbers, I stay in communication with some and barely write to many others (and vice versa) — until and unless the opportunity comes much later for a return visit. We’ve had people we visited come see us in New York years down the line. Likewise, we’ve had belated visits at people’s homes 8, 10, and in one case 35 years after our first encounter

I’m pleased to say that, without exception, these renewed friendships and acquaintances pick up right where they left off after years of neglect. Actually, I have the same experience with long time friends from childhood, college, and Alaska — reunions after 10-40 years are joyful and apparently mutually appreciated. Only one old, close Alaska friend has consistently dodged me and he was always pretty self contained. Of course, the fact that I got rather intensely involved, over 40 years ago, with his ex-wife (you should know she and I had been friends for almost 5 years) while he was my Alaska housemate may have remained a factor… Nah, probably not.

During my cross country road trip during the Covid summer of 2020 — pre-vaccine — I visited about 16 households of long lost friends. Taking proper precautions, I stayed over in most their homes — no one got sick and we had great times reminiscing, hiking, boating, cooking, etc. It was one of my greatest trips ever, even when a massive Oregon forest fire was just 24 hours behind me as I drove west.

But, back to the present. I throw my stuff in the car and head for my day’s destination: Berlin, Germany. Today my Berlingo’s name takes on added significance, “Berlin — GO!”

I fuel up in adjacent Mulhouse and it’s only a short hop up the expressway to the Rhine River bridge and the German border. I spoke earlier about the expensive French tollways. Virtually every European country has a network of toll roads that are hard to avoid if you’re in a hurry — except Germany. According to the dearly held doctrine of “Freie Fahrt für freie Bürger” — culturally this translates as “Unrestricted driving for unrestricted citizens” — the German roads, including autobahns, are all toll free for vehicles under about 8 tons GVW and many inter-city stretches still have no speed limits — yes, NO speed limits.

I maintain high speed travel is much safer when drivers can concentrate completely on road and traffic conditions rather than spend valuable attention on arbitrary speed limits and traps. Yes, many sections of the autobahns are speed limited, some with variable speeds based on conditions, but in the rural areas there are long portions of just “drive safely”. There are few serious accidents in these sections (I’ve never personally witnessed a crash scene in, cumulatively, about a year’s worth of German driving) but when they do happen it’s a spectacular mess, typically with fatalities.

I’m not ready to sprout highway wings yet, though, because I have a civic obligation to resolve first. Many European urban areas have “green zones”, where only low pollution vehicles are allowed. The criteria for these get stricter over time but so far my 2018 diesel vehicle qualifies for entry. The rub is that each country has its own green zone permit. My Berlingo came with a Spanish C-class sticker but that means nothing in Germany. So I head for the first city hall on my route, in Freiburg im Breisgau to buy my German emissions sticker, the Feinstaubplakete.

Outside city hall, I need to pay the parking fee but, as I’ve seen elsewhere as well, the parking meter display is so worn that, without knowing how the system works, it’s impossible to follow the payment instructions. Not wanting to get an expensive violation, I reluctantly leave the lot and find the nearest street parking which turns out to be almost a mile away. Worse, Freiburg is itself a green zone, so while I’m at city hall there’s a significant chance my stickerless car will be emission ticketed. I hoof it as quickly as possible from car to city hall, where I find a typically German efficient and formal service system. Without an appointment, I tell a clerk what I want, she issues me a ticket (with an apparently random number so I can’t tell where I am in the queue), and told to sit in a waiting area and watch the monitor.

After 20 minutes my number comes up and I head for the designated window. To my surprise (I’m always surprised when any governmental or corporate interaction goes smoothly), the purchase process is simple. The clerk looks up my Spanish license plate number which tells him the car qualifies, and for about US$5 I get my permanent German sticker.

Rushing back to the car, I apply the sticker next to my Spanish one and by noon I’m legal in all the German green zones.

Now I can tackle the remaining 500 miles to my friends in Berlin, doing some low flying up the autobahn. Yes, much of the way I’m not subject to any statutory speed limit but I’ve long set my personal max to about 90 miles per hour (144 kph). Except for maybe short stretches downhill with a tailwind, that’s about as fast as I ever drive. Beyond that velocity, an old Alaska pilot joke invades my brain, “An aircraft is just a bunch of spare parts flying in close formation.” Above my limit, I can vividly imagine one or more of my wheels or ball joints saying, “The hell with taking orders. I’m going where I want to.” and abruptly separating from the car with disastrous result.

Even at 90 mph, I’m far from the fastest vehicle on the autobahn, with other cars – usually expensive, luxury brands – routinely passing me at 100, 125, even 150 mph. I learned decades ago that before pulling out into the passing lane to overtake someone I have to carefully check for fast traffic about a kilometer back because a high speed vehicle that’s barely visible could be right on my ass in seconds while I’m in the left lane. This is all part of autobahn driving and I love it. There is nowhere else in Europe with no speed limit. The maximum I’ve ever seen in other countries is an occasional 130 kph, almost invariably a privilege offered only on an expensive toll road.

I’m now traveling through Baden-Württemberg state, one of my favorite parts of Germany, not least because I have a number of friends living here. Unfortunately, as I’ll explain later, I have business in Berlin to take care of before Susan arrives on 27 December and I can’t tarry along the way. Reluctantly, I speed through towns where I can almost see my friends’ houses from the highway.

About 2 PM, I stop at a highway rest area for a quick lunch special, $9 for a hearty bowl of pea soup with carrots and frankfurter and a large coffee to get me the last 7 hours to Berlin. I can’t get there too late in the evening as my friends will already be asleep. I fuel up the car again in Würzburg and plow on to Berlin with only one more short stop for pastry, coffee, and a few minutes phone charge.

I’ve forgotten one thing about German rest areas — you have to pay over a dollar even to pee. Seeing the bathroom turnstile, I turn around and walk out to a dark portion of the rest area and relieve myself outdoors, in the company of truck and car drivers who, like me, refuse to pay.

I roll into Berlin-Biesdorf shortly after 9 PM, the long day’s journey over. My old friends welcome me as they always do and within minutes I’m downstairs in the vacation apartment they’ve offered me. It doesn’t take long to sack out.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/21/road-trip-europe-22-12-10-11-settling-in-in-berlin/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/16/road-trip-europe-22-12-05-the-car/

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From here in Girona to Berlin is almost a 1,200 mile drive, which even for a driving enthusiast like me is too much for one day. I’ve contacted a Servas host in Riedisheim, France. Sounds German, doesn’t it? It is, because this is the part of France that has historically seesawed back and forth to Germany. Sophie is expecting me about 6 PM Wednesday. This means I can laze around the apartment Tuesday and gradually pack up for a 3 AM Wednesday departure that will get me through the 600 mile trip over 15 hours, including some potential roadside nap time.

Setting off in the Berlingo for my first extended drive is pretty exciting but driving expressways at night is pretty mundane. You almost never see road kill in Europe because the constant traffic sweeps the lanes clear every 30 seconds or so. Besides, any animal likely to enter the busy roadway was probably never born, because its ancestor was probably run over years ago. Europe is not my primary destination for wildlife and wilderness.

I tank up before the French border, assuming (without any real basis) that French fuel prices are likely higher than Spain’s, and continue through the night.

I’m avoiding toll roads since I’m not in a rush. I often do this just for the fun and challenge even if the extra time and distance don’t make economic sense but in France that’s not the situation. If I took toll roads all the way today I would end up paying about US$86, a significant sum. Thus, I’m bypassing the tolls and driving on some attractive secondary roads.

In most of Europe, one rarely sees police hiding along the road, US style, lurking for speeders and other vehicle law violators. Instead, the roads are peppered with radar cameras and threats of the same. As much as I hate not matching wits with the police, I’ve got to say the policy is effective. For a cheapskate like me, paying careful attention to speed limits is mandatory.

On secondary roads, speed limits change constantly. 110 (kph) to 80 to 50 to 90… You can be monitored anywhere, never know how much leeway a particular jurisdiction allows, and 2 weeks later, presto, an expensive violation appears in your mailbox — well, in my case it will be in Eric’s Spanish mailbox. These cameras aren’t coordinated. A careless day on the road could result in 5 or 10 violations. There’s some respite in that most radar cameras are announced by a sign a kilometer or so ahead, but there’s never a guarantee. But wait, there’s more! France deploys 3 other radar types along the roads including the worst of all: unmarked cars driven by civilian employees whose automated radar collects speeds and license plates all day long.

On this, my first long distance drive, with the first portion in the dark of night, I’m exceedingly careful to note all posted speed limits and camera warnings. I think I’m sliding through each one without garnering a ticket, but I just won’t know until Eric’s mailbox stays clear. The only time I exceed the limits by more than a few percent is when the surrounding traffic is speeding. I assume local drivers know the system, so when they suddenly slow up, so do I.

Much as I bridle at being subject to them, I think the US would be better off with traffic cameras, with the police confined to callouts and doughnut shops. In gun drenched America, fewer face-to-face police stops mean fewer innocent lives cut short by police bullets. In that regard, automated citations are well worth it — but I still hate them!

Sunrise comes at about 8 AM and my first reward is a beautiful view into the Tarn Valley as I descend to Millau, France.

The next couple of hours are up and down through the Massif Central, an ancient volcanic area, with elevations to 1120 m (3700 ft) and temperatures down to -12 C (10 F). There’s quite a lot of snow cover in places but the roads are dry all the way.

Being in a French-speaking area is always a challenge for me because I’ve never been able to make any headway in the French language. I can deal with signs and such because many words are similar to English, Spanish, or Portuguese but my aural skills — always my weakest point in any language — totally fail me in French. I understand spoken language mainly by picturing the words in print in my head. That step is what keeps me from ever attaining true fluency in any language, but French is the worst. When French words are spoken, I simply can’t figure out how they would be written. My primitive attempts to ask a question often result in a frustrated, semi-polite, nasal, “Quoi?” (“What?”) Even if I get the question communicated, there’s almost no chance I’m going to understand the answer. It’s humiliating, so I’m happy to work my way north as wordlessly as possible. I’m hoping my host, Sophie, speaks adequate English. Thanks to online translation, you can never be sure whether someone actually speaks your language. With Google’s help, I can probably write a pretty fluent message in Kurdish.

I make steady progress, stopping once more for fuel. Midday, I’m looking for a working class (US$10) lunch menu but, unlike Spain, that doesn’t seem to exist in France. The best I can find is about US$28 so I settle for pastries. You can’t swing a dead cat in France without hitting a good patisserie.

The Berlingo’s USB port is apparently made for accessing music rather than charging and my phone has been slowly losing charge even while plugged in. I’ll have to buy a cigarette lighter charger but for now I make a 30-minute stop at McDonalds to plug in to the wall. It would be quite inconvenient for my phone to go dead while I’m trying to find my host’s address this evening, in the dark. While I’m waiting, I order a large coffee from the menu but it doesn’t appear in the usual assembly line fashion. After a couple of wordless inquiries pointing to my receipt, I see a quick staff conference taking place. Then, a teenager with some school English conveys to me that they have no large coffee cups. Europeans almost always drink little expresso coffees and my order has messed up the system. The kid manages to say they’ll give me 2 medium coffees, which is fine with me.

I continue ambling northeast toward Riedisheim but I’m a little behind the needed pace for arrival as promised, so I hop on the toll road for the last 100 miles and zip along at over 80 mph to roll in on time at 6:15 PM. Sophie’s address is on a dark, dead end street. I see house numbers on the block, but not her #7. I ring the bell at #9 and the guy who eventually responds says he doesn’t know where #7 is. I text Sophie and she comes out to find me. It turns out #7 is right next door where it should be but, unlike all the private homes on the block, this is a large (unnumbered) multi-unit building.

I’m welcomed in by Sophie and Arnaud. It doesn’t take very long to find out they’re a new couple, only together about a month. Neither of them speaks fluent English. Arnaud’s is slightly better but anything I say has to be spoken slowly and simply. Within an hour, our conversation has gotten more involved, complex and intense, with frequent references to Google Translate when any of us can’t convey an idea. Eventually, all three of us are enthusiastically mis-speaking words in the other’s language.

The French seem to eat well almost effortlessly and Sophie and Arnaud serve up plenty of beer, wine, juice (for me), bread and cheese, and a delicious cheese and potato dish in the vein of baked brie or raclette — followed of course by more wine. Our conversation picks up speed as we trade histories, personal lives, family, my car buying adventure, etc. Sophie and Arnaud both smoke, so there are periodic breaks where they bundle up and we all go out on their back patio so they can light up homemade cigs in the freezing weather.

Sophie, 41, works for the city building permit department, leading to repeating jokes about her spending all day at work saying “No.” Despite (or, perhaps, indicated by) the presence of the younger boyfriend, she is pretty clearly a determined woman who plots her own destiny. She tells me she’s never been married and it’s her condo or rental (I don’t remember which). Sophie is definitely no shrinking violet — which is as it should be.

After a few hours of this, we break for the night. I’ve been on the road since 3 AM so I’m definitely bushed.

Sophie has to work in the morning but declares she will only stay a half day (how French!) so we can spend the remainder together. This leads to a jokey discussion about how the French aspire to a 4-hour work week. I get up pretty early but Arnaud doesn’t emerge until after 11 AM — NOT a morning person. I spend quite a lot of time enticing Sophie’s very playful black cat.

Sophie arrives home and we make a substantial lunch, with more beer and wine, naturally. After that, the conversation gradually turns to music. Arnaud is a musician and they are both fans of rock music. We end up spending hours of me finding lyrics in French to my favorite songs (so they’ll understand what is being sung) and then playing audio of them. Most of these were issued before they were born and I’m able to dredge up many which they really like but aren’t yet familiar with. One prime example is Bad Case of Lovin’ You, clearly one of the best rock & roll songs ever produced and one that MUST be played at full volume (although I’m not enamored of anything else Robert Palmer ever did). The evening gets pretty raucous with all of us belting out off key lyrics over the music.

As darkness falls, we bundle up and take a long walk around town in the evening fog. Sophie lives right at the end of a residential area so our walk encompasses farm land, weekend cabins and then downtown Riedisheim.

On return, we scrounge up some dinner, more wine, more beer. For dessert, Sophie pours tiny shot glasses of rum. In 24 hours, I consume about a year’s ration of alcohol, although that’s still not very much. Sophie and Arnaud are very amused when I tell them my son Eric says I “drink like a girl.”

As a new couple, Sophie and Arnaud tend to be all over each other, leading me to mirthfully teach them two new American phrases, “PDA” (public displays of affection) and “Hey, get a room!”

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We finally call it a night, exhausted from all the laughing and translating. This kind of experience, where travelers are hosted by strangers without any exchange of money goes by the name hospitality exchange, or “hospex”. I’ve been doing this for over 40 years and, really, it’s the best part of travel — even though perhaps 98% of people will never even consider it. “Are you nuts? Have strangers stay in my house with me?” “Go to some strange town and sleep in a house belonging to someone I just met? They could be axe murderers!” For people who can’t or don’t want to travel, hosting hospex visitors brings the world into your living room.

These considerations keep wonderful person-to-person interactions a quiet privilege of a select few. The more both parties are willing to give and share, the more they get out of it. Many’s the time I’ve dived into someone’s kitchen, rattling among their pots and pans and spices to whip up a taco dinner for people who may never have had one. I could have zipped across France in my car, stayed in some roadside inn, never met Sophie and Arnaud, and left the country no less ignorant or more enriched than I entered it. All three of us would be the poorer for it. Instead, we’ve contributed in a small way to building one more peaceful bridge between dissimilar cultures.

As well, Servas visits and the like can make connections between generations that are all too rare outside of families. When do people in their 30s, 40s, and 70s share time together, get to know each other in a way that the large age differences melt away in a matter of hours?

The hurdle for most people is that hospitality between strangers means purposely making yourself vulnerable. That can lead to amazing experiences. Incidents of assault or theft are extremely rare. If they weren’t, networks like Servas, BeWelcome, CouchSurfing, and WamShowers would have fallen apart decades ago. Peaceful encounters and insights among strangers are desperately needed in our seriously troubled world.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/19/road-trip-europe-22-12-09-fahren-fahren-fahren-auf-der-autobahn-to-berlin/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/14/road-trip-europe-22-12-02-04-learning-a-little-about-catalonia/

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Monday morning — Gemma goes off to work in Barcelona, Eric has finished packing for their vacation. I’m waiting to hear from the car dealer that the money is there and paperwork finalized. At 9 AM Eric and I set off on foot for one of the notarios I had located Friday. In the US, notaries public do very little — they look over the document to make sure there are no blanks, you sign it in front of them, they add their seal, collect a couple of dollars, and it’s done. I have little hope it will be that simple in Spain.

Indeed, when we sit down with a staffer, she makes it immediately clear that they will prepare the document from my draft, they will not include the English version and, in a few weeks, Eric can come in and sign it. The cost will be about $65. Not what I hoped but not out of line with what I expected. Also, not a crisis since I want the power of attorney just as additional authority. Having it mailed to me later is no big deal.

By then, we’ve gotten the all clear from the dealer and drive over there. Once all the paperwork is signed, the three of us head over to the adjacent lot, give the car a mutual inspection, and it’s mine (well, legally, it’s Eric’s, as he has no hesitation pointing out to me with a wicked, teasing grin). I’m extremely grateful for all his help and the use of his Spanish residence status. I’ve gone from car-less to totally mobile in just 7 days, fortunate since Eric only had 7 days for his vital role to play out.

It turns out the second car key is at a distant dealership so Eric will include that with the power of attorney and the permanent registration papers once he has everything in hand.

I hop behind the wheel and head home to find parking, gassing (well, dieseling) up along the way.

Ah, parking. All week, I’ve been with Eric through the troublesome parking process. There is little unpaid parking in downtown Girona. The nearest area is about a 10 minute walk from Eric’s apartment, and the spaces are always in demand. At certain times of day it can be impossible so Eric’s backup lot is a larger one about 30 minutes out by foot.

Looking to park, you evaluate how many drivers are already lurking ahead of you, watch for someone walking toward their parked car, and take their spot as soon as they pull out. It’s a civilized but open ended process. I’ve seen Eric wait 2 minutes or 15 minutes or give up and drive further out of town. It’s always an annoyance.

When I get there, I’m first in the lurking line and within 5 minutes I have a spot. This is my first chance to be alone with the car, so I look it over thoroughly, figure out some of the instrumentation features, and take some initial photos.

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When I get to the apartment, Eric has loaded his car and is leaving to pick up Gemma from work to start their one week road trip. We say our goodbyes and thank yous and I, amazed that everything has gone so smoothly and quickly, start planning my own exit from Girona. I was thinking about heading toward Berlin, my next destination, early Tuesday morning, but I decide to just hang around the empty apartment for a day rather than immediately start packing up my stuff.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/18/road-trip-europe-22-12-06-08-my-new-french-friends/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/11/road-trip-europe-22-11-28-31-the-spanish-car-buying-experience/

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I haven’t spoken yet about being in Catalonia, a portion of Spain that, despite already being an autonomous region, has its own succinct culture and wants to be its own nation. The language of Catalonia is Catalan, not an offshoot of Spanish, but its own separate Romance language dating back to the original divergence of Latin into dozens of new languages including Italian, French, Spanish, and Portuguese. Almost all commercial and, among Catalonians, social speech in the region is in Catalan. Typically, the only non-bilingual Spanish you see written is by Federal agencies. It’s similar to the attitude toward English in Quebec, Canada.

The desire for independence has long smoldered here but picked up speed in 2009 when communities held the first of three symbolic referenda on nationhood. In 2012, the first ever pro-independence majority took control of the Catalonian parliament. They held a protest-filled, binding independence referendum in 2017 which the Spanish vigorously blocked as illegal, including with violent police action before and during the vote. When the regional government voted to declare a Catalonian republic, the federal government treated it as treason, suspending Catalonian autonomy and moving against political leaders, some of whom fled into exile to avoid imprisonment.

Bottom line: many Catalonians are mighty pissed off and not inclined favorably to residents, like my son Eric, who can’t speak the language.

Once I have the car, which will be titled and insured in Eric’s name, not mine, I want to carry a power of attorney from him that lets me treat the Berlingo as my own if anyone questions me. I print out a reasonable power in both English and Spanish and set off Friday on foot to find a Notario to authenticate Eric’s signature. Well, that’s a bust. With the help of Google Maps, I ferret out 5 offices all of which either tell me they can’t do it today or are closed early for the weekend. I really want that document but I’m not sure there will be time on Monday morning to get it along with picking up the car and Eric’s noon departure on vacation. No point in fretting since it definitely isn’t going to happen now.

Saturday morning, Eric — who historically has disdained my cooking and in particular my buckwheat-sourdough pancakes — surprises me by saying he’s purchased buckwheat flour (in Spain it’s called Saracen flour) and invites me to cook pancake breakfast for him and Gemma. I gladly launch into the task, although I haven’t been off the plane long enough to get a new sourdough starter established. They seem to enjoy the resulting buckwheat/wheat flour pancakes, judging at least by both of them taking second helpings. Eric even has a small jar of maple syrup on hand.

After breakfast, we pile into Gemma’s car and head about an hour up toward the Pyrenees, the rugged tectonic mountain range that divides Spain and France. For our outing, we’re only going to the “pre-Pyrenees” for a short but steep hike to Mare de Déu del Mont (Catalan for “Mother of God of the Mountain”).

It’s an old, mountaintop church, now more productively re-purposed as a restaurant, hotel, and the inevitable monument and cell tower. I learned long ago Europeans won’t climb anything unless you can at least get a beer at the top.

We buy refreshments while sitting on the terrace soaking in the magnificent view and the sunshine and then walk back down to the car in the increasing chill. We’re at about the same latitude here as the Catskills, so as we approach the winter solstice the days are currently quite short.

On arrival home, Eric prepares Catalonian paella, very tasty and noticeably different from the more widely experienced Spanish version. The three of us polish off every bit of it. There isn’t much energy left after that.

Sunday is a rest day. Mid-morning Eric and Gemma and I head out to a nearby cafe for Catalonian “brunch” which seems to entail sitting at an outdoor table drinking vermouth and eating olives.

They tell me it’s very popular but in today’s cold weather we are definitely not in a crowd. As we leave, Eric tells me his criteria for re-patronizing restaurants require 2 out of 3: good food, good service, good price. He says El Pessic is now on his blacklist. After, we walk through Girona’s old quarter (Barri Vell in Catalan, compare with Barrio Viejo in Spanish) and eventually back to the 5th floor apartment. Going up and down the steep stairs a few times a day doesn’t bother me but it’s definitely more work whenever I return from Aldi supermarket hauling a backpack of groceries. If I lived in his apartment, I would never own a bicycle. Eric has 6, all of which are invariably carried back up the stairs after each use.

Tomorrow, I must pick up the car and all associated paperwork. If for some reason it doesn’t happen, I’ll be delayed for weeks.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/16/road-trip-europe-22-12-05-the-car/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/10/road-trip-europe-22-11-26-27-bicycling-across-the-atlantic/

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This morning, Eric and I set out to look for possible used cars. The first one we check out is a private ad for a 2005 camper van. It looks like a serious possibility: suitable for sleeping, mileage high but not absurdly so, 4×4. I take it on a long test drive. It has the power to pull hills, the owner seems straightforward, and the price is very reasonable. It’s big and heavy, though, almost certainly a fuel hog, and has a couple of symptoms that might indicate needed repairs but there’s no time to get them evaluated. I express interest but say I’ll continue to look.

The external constraint I have is that in 7 days, Eric is driving off on vacation. Since he has to register and insure the car in his name, all paperwork must be complete by noon this coming Monday — no ifs, ands, or buts. Talking it over on the drive back to Girona, we come to the conclusion that it would be wiser to shop used car dealers despite likely paying a premium over the private market. The advantages are substantial: a one year warranty, more efficient shopping than traveling to individual private owners, and experts to handle all the paperwork.

Unfortunately, as we drive from dealer to dealer, we’re finding slim pickings for what I want. We do, however, find one very appealing prospect on the used car lot of the upscale BMW franchise.

It’s a Citroën Berlingo, a very common small van sold all over Europe. In fact, the same car is sold under about 5 different brand and model names, so it should be easy to service or repair wherever we go. A long test drive is flawless and I’m very tempted to commit to this despite the disturbing thought that it’s the only suitable one I’ve seen.

This car has amazingly low mileage, almost flawless cosmetics, is only 4 years old, and is – unusually – equipped with 4 wheel drive. Many European vehicles have 4WD added by Dangel, a third party authorized by the manufacturers. The modification is made between leaving the factory and arriving at the dealer, so it’s in no sense a kluge or juryrig. Curiously, this Berlingo costs no more than a similar one without 4WD. Apparently, the market doesn’t value this feature very much, although I do.

After looking further, on Thursday we go back and commit to buying the Berlingo. The price is quite a bit higher than the camper I drove, but still pretty reasonable. Now the time crunch is palpable. Our salesperson isn’t working Friday, nothing happens in Europe on the weekend, Eric is leaving Monday at noon, and Tuesday and Thursday are Spanish holidays which means the rest of the week is shot for business purposes.

Eric signs the contract, while the dealer finds an “all risks” insurance policy that covers the car in all countries, not just those in the European Union. This policy costs more and protects less, but it’s essential for my travel plans. I pay a down payment on my credit card and then we run home so I can arrange to wire the substantial balance to the dealer from my US account. Because of the time difference the wired funds won’t arrive in the dealership’s bank until tomorrow, Friday, and there’s no guarantee the dealer will confirm receipt by Monday — the drop dead date.

I’m on pins and needles because it’s absolutely essential that all the remaining paperwork be resolved by then or I’m screwed. But, it’s now out of my control, so there’s no point in fretting until then. Eric and I drive home. The three of us celebrate by eating out at a local pizzeria. As usual outside of New York City, it’s good but a big variation on what I grew up eating.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/14/road-trip-europe-22-12-02-04-learning-a-little-about-catalonia/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/10/road-trip-europe-21-11-25-twenty-year-voyage-on-the-german-bureaucra-sea/

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Once I had my German passport in hand (see prior post), my plan has been to buy a car in Europe and do extensive road trips as we did so successfully in South America from 2017-2020.

Well, Covid got in the way a bit so here we are in 2022 resuming the plan. My son, Eric, also a German citizen by virtue of my status, in a happy coincidence, is now living in and has established residence, in Catalonia, Spain.

I say a happy coincidence because his experience and my research brought to light that just being a citizen of a European Union nation, by itself, doesn’t get you too far. Yes, I, my children, and grandchild can all stay in the EU for as long as we wish (US citizens are limited to 90 days out of each 180).

However, for commonly useful activities such as owning and registering a vehicle, opening a European bank account, getting a driver’s license, or buying property, citizenship isn’t enough. To do any of the foregoing you also have to establish residence in Europe and get a tax ID.

In my case, I have no current desire to be a European resident, although years ago I considered that a strong possibility. Eric, however has become a resident of Spain– just in time for my desire to own a car there. I’m not allowed to, but he is!

So today I’m flying to Barcelona to start shopping for a European car. I’ll buy it and drive it but Eric will be the legal owner and insurer. I’m off to JFK tonight.

Through his work as a bicycle tour guide, Eric has purchased an absurdly expensive, high tech bike at a still (to me) absurd but massively discounted price. Shipping this bike to Europe would be very costly but airlines will transport it, properly packaged, as checked baggage. In my case, that means without charge, so it’s my job to bring the bike with me on my flight.

We load the bike and me and Susan and her sister, Erelene, in the van and drive to the city where they drop me off at the American Airlines terminal. I’m dragging my own luggage and shoving this enormous, but not heavy, boxed bicycle to the ticket counter. Although I know it should work, I’m still pleasantly surprised that the box is checked without problems. Thus, in retrospect, I didn’t have to arrive four frigging hours before my flight left.

11/27/22
Since I [gross alert] tend to snore and drool when I sleep, on long flights I try to put myself into a semi-waking “trance”, where I’m not quite asleep but only minimally conscious of my surroundings. This probably doesn’t help my seatmates much but at least I feel like I’m trying to spare them. After 7 and a half hours in my torture chamber of an airline seat, we land in Barcelona. I’m entering Europe for the first time on my German passport, standing in the “EU citizens only” line.

Irrationally, I’m imagining the Spanish immigration officer looking at my document and saying, “We’re not letting you in with this, you stupid American.” Of course, this isn’t the case and I’m passed through as a German with little more than a glance.

The bicycle beats me to the baggage claim and the box, thankfully, looks intact. For what that thing costs, any transit damage would be an expensive problem, probably far exceeding the airline’s liability limits. I claim the bicycle and load the 60″ wide awkward box on a totally inadequate 15″ wide luggage cart, balancing my remaining gear precariously on the 10″ wide box top. I could really use 4 arms to push the cart and simultaneously hold everything in place.

The Barcelona Airport is curiously awkward piece of architecture. I want to go directly across to the attached parking garage but the signage doesn’t tell me how to do that.

Several times, I have to maneuver the cart with the five foot wide bicycle box through 3 foot wide doors, only to struggle back through when I realize I’m not on track for the garage. Eventually, I do connect with Eric. He manages to cram the bike into his tiny car (after discarding parts of the box) but that leaves no room for passengers. Girlfriend, Gemma, drives off with the bike and Eric gets me on a bus and two trains for the 75 mile trip to their apartment in Girona. The apartment is a 5th floor walkup. In a masterpiece of Spanish residential misdirection, his floor is labeled “Second”. Dragging my luggage up five flights is the last overtly physical act of my 22 hour day.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/11/road-trip-europe-22-11-28-31-the-spanish-car-buying-experience/

NOTE: The following history is all a preface to what I’m doing right now but feel free to skip ahead when your eyelids start to droop. All of my travel writing is primarily to preserve my own memories for myself and my children. While I’m gratified if others find it interesting (hello, you 3 people), I am in no way insulted if you do not.

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22 years ago, knowledgeable German friends, the Göldners, suggested I could obtain dual US/German citizenship by virtue of my father’s German birth in 1913.

In what would seem a procrastination record, but embarrassingly is not even a personal worst, it took 19 years for me to attain that goal.

It’s not all my fault — really. Since I first started visiting Germany again as an adult in 1979 (I had spent months there as a 5-year old with my mother), one of my joke lines has been, “The German bureaucracy grinds very slowly but it grinds extremely fine.” Getting anything official accomplished can get you thinking about resorting to hostages even faster than trying to understand your 4-page electricity bill. In the old days, everything had to be done in person. First, you had to find the correct bureau in the correct town. Appointments had to be made during the few hours of each work week that were designated for public contact. Required documents were often frustratingly hard to produce. Having been the joint owner, with my sister, of a property outside Berlin since 1990 — a weekend retreat owned for decades by my paternal grandparents but lost for 45 years to the East German government — I’m well acquainted with slamming into German brick walls.

It turns out German law allows dual citizenship in only one circumstance, when one parent is German at the time of your birth and the other is not. Luckily, this applies to me as I was born to my American mother in 1950 while my father was still German. It did not apply to my sister because he had become a US citizen (and thus was no longer considered a German by Germany) by the time she was born in 1956.

I long ago located the complicated form required to prove my German rights and filled it out, but the list of required, authenticated, and officially translated documents was daunting. These included birth, marriage, and passport documents dating back to the 1800s. Some of these were kept locally in churches and city halls — if they weren’t destroyed during World War II. It required a ton of research, letter writing, and phone calls in German, which I pursued very sporadically since I didn’t plan on visiting Europe for more than tourist purposes, anyway.

Then came 2016, when America culminated it’s 26 year descent into right wing insanity by doing the absurdly impossible — electing Donald Trump!

I was in London the night in 1980 when Ronald Reagan was elected. I spent a couple of hours in my frigid, cheap, closet sized, classically British hotel room debating whether I should abandon the US right there and then. I didn’t, but Reagan’s election left internal scars that were brutally reopened when nutcase American voters put the joke that was the Orange Tornado into the presidency.

An interesting aspect of the German dual nationality law is that people like me are citizens from birth, even though that has no practical effect until they document their status. So now, with Trump the president-elect, I’m suddenly looking for a possible place to jump if the US as we know it comes to an end. More important, once I prove my citizenship, it means my two children can show they were also born German citizens. When asked, they made it clear this was of great interest to them. German passports would give them the right to live, work, or study in the EU without having to ask for permission.

So then in 2017, I seriously got to work. I started collecting documents. With great help from my genealogy-expert sister, I figured out what towns and churches might be holding long forgotten records. I ordered some from Germany, others from the US, sent fees in Euros, and painstakingly built up the collection (most of the pain came as I sent money over and over) . The ones regarding my grandparents were particularly hard to get and remained an issue.

I had begun emailing a staff member of the German consulate in NY about various details: did he have a list of certified translators I could contact, did the back side of documents need to be translated, etc. After a long set of exchanges, he abruptly said, “Here at the consulate, we have the authority to issue German passports. Your case is straightforward, so we can issue one for you with only proof of your father’s German-ness and an interview in Manhattan. We don’t need certifications or translations, If you follow the other procedure, which is processed in Berlin, it can take years. A passport is proof of citizenship and we can issue it in weeks.”

I was stunned. I politely thanked him while muttering under my breath, “Shit, man. Couldn’t you have told me that 6 months ago and saved me a ton of effort and money?”

Since I had everything I needed, I made my appointment and was approved. I was at the consulate on the same day in 2019 I flew to South America for one of our long road trips in our Chile Subaru. Although the consulate website stated the interview had to be conducted in German, while I was there I saw others speaking English. This was important for Eric and Helene since neither of them speak German.

I had the passport sent to my son in Denver, who used it to apply for his own passport. This went smoothly and when his was eventually issued, he sent mine on to my daughter in California for her to use.

She likewise applied to the San Francisco consulate and encountered only one hitch. A cranky official with the personality of a thorn bush who apparently didn’t like the idea of Americans getting German citizenship objected that my 2019 passport proved I was a citizen but not that I was one when Helene was born. This had not been an issue in Eric’s process, so she suggested that the SF consulate could verify my lifelong status with the NY staff. The official tartly answered, “We don’t do that. You have to supply proof.” That position was apparently overruled because some months later that third passport was issued. The icing on the cake is that Helene finished the process by getting my 2-year old grandson a passport as well.

Unless German law is changed, all of my direct descendants will also be born as German citizens. Pretty cool.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2022/12/10/road-trip-europe-22-11-26-27-bicycling-across-the-atlantic/