Chapter 4: Germany's Privatized Rail System

Friday, June 15 (continued):

When Rob caught up to me, I said, “We can make the next train." Just inside the station I took a quick turn, pointed down a flight of stairs and said, "It's that way.” 

Rob went down carrying his bike and when I picked mine up the pump fell off and I couldn’t hold both the bike and the pump but a nun picked up my pump and carried it down the stairs for me while I lifted my bike. It was heavy and awkward with two full panniers, a rear rack bag, and a handlebar pack. Once at the bottom I thanked the nun, grabbed my pump and raced after Rob through a tunnel and up another flight of stairs. This one thankfully had a narrow ramp I could wheel my bike up. But to get on the train I had to lift my bike up three high steps. Rob got on first and reached for my bike.

We were among the first to board. We parked our bikes next to each other and settled into a couple seats nearby. My heart was racing at 200 beats per minute. I let out a sigh. “That was a nightmare.”

Rob said, “I never felt so alone.”

“Thank goodness there was another train so soon. And that you knew to get on it.”

While our panicked bodies settled down more bicycles came on board. The porter told us to remove our panniers so that the bikes could squeeze closer together. To do that we had to also take off the stuff on top of the rear racks – tent, sleeping bag, rack bag – not a trivial endeavor. We threw it all into the overhead bin with hopes that when we disembarked we would not forget anything.

Sitting near us was a couple about our age, finishing up their own bike tour and heading home to France. I dug out my limited knowledge of French to try and have a conversation with them. They had an equally limited knowledge of English and none of German. Also nearby was a young man who seemed to know English, French, and German, and was friendly enough to provide the opportunity for some civil discourse between the five of us as the train proceeded along its way.

The ride to Donaueschingen was scheduled to take about two hours with the route running along the course of the Danube. Occasionally I’d look out the window and see bicyclists off in the distance riding through pastures and fields of corn and thought, “That will be us soon.”

After about an hour the train stopped at what must have been a connecting stop. People came on with bicycles, children came on with parents, and a group of noisy young adults took over a section of seats. The doors closed while the new passengers stowed their luggage and settled down, and the train sat, as though trying to catch its breath. Then the engine shut down and the sound of everyone talking was suddenly very loud. Gradually the conversations died out as the talkers became aware of the silence surrounding them. After a few seconds, one person and then another started talking again, softly this time. 

A male voice came on over the loudspeaker. It was all in German so Rob and I were clueless but then people began gathering up their belongings and the doors opened and  and everyone exited the train. So we did, too, but what a pain that was, pulling all our stuff out of the overhead bins, putting it all back on our bikes., lifting them down the stairs of the train, following the crowd down a flight of stairs and up another one to wait for a new train on another track. I was extraordinarily thankful that we had made a conscious effort to travel light this trip and left our front panniers at home.

During all the commotion our young tri-lingual translator told us that the train we’d been on had broken down. After about half an hour a new train pulled up and everyone piled on and we were once again on our way to Donaueschingen. Or so we thought. Several stops later, after another long announcement, everyone once again got off and, once again, like cattle, we followed. Our translator told us that they’d said the train would go all the way to Donaueschingen but somewhere along the way that plan got changed. I looked at our Danube guide book and said to Rob, “It looks like we’re only about 15 kilometers from Donaueschingen. We could just bike it.”

I was eager to start riding. The original schedule had us arriving at our destination at 2:30 in the afternoon, which would have given us plenty of time to get in some miles before dark. All this delay was trashing that plan.

“No, let’s wait.”

I watched the French couple leave the station with their bikes. I wondered where they were going.

When the next train arrived I asked several people if it would stop in Donaueschingen. Even after they said yes I still found a porter to ask. My nightmare now was that we’d get on an express train that would speed on past our stop.

But this would be our last train ride. We finally arrived in Donaueschingen, only an hour behind schedule, around 3:30. 

[Several days later when we had the opportunity to talk with a young German who was fluent in English, we learned that the nation's rail system has been going downhill over the past several years, since it has been privatized.]

Before getting started, we still needed to find a bike shop to get my front brake adjusted. I knew there were a few in town. At the first one there was only one person, a woman who didn’t speak English and didn’t want to work on my bike. But she sent us to another shop and the fellow fixed my brake with just a turn of one screw.

We easily found the spring that marks the beginning of the Danube, called the Donau in Germany. That's Rob in the red.

Then we were on our way.

They call it the "Blue Danube" but we thought it was green.

Chapter 3: Alone in Ulm

Friday, June 15, 2018

Neu-Ulm is not Ulm. I had a hunch but Rob had to find out the hard way and left me stranded. Or I left him stranded. I suppose you could look at it either way.

We arrived in Munich on Tuesday, June 12, after a long night of traveling by way of Dublin, Ireland.  Still, we hadn't made a solid plan for getting to the start of the Danube. We were staying in a hotel near the train station, which was very convenient for our indecisive selves. We stopped by on Wednesday to get information and, even though we had to wait in a long line to get the information about schedules and fares, we left without making a purchase. We were pretty sure we would take the train but we needed time to let the decision compost a bit.

We returned to the train station on Thursday to buy tickets for the next day, Friday. Train fare to Donaueshingen, for a train leaving at 9:30 in the morning, was 66 euros, including our bikes, for both of us. That was with no reservation, first-come-first-served, and if there wasn’t enough room on the train for our bikes we’d have to wait for the next one, or the one after that. Sure sounded like a lot of built-in uncertainty. But the price was right.

“Could we get a ticket for an earlier time?” I asked the young woman selling us our tickets. She checked. “That would cost twice as much.” A reservation was also much more expensive.

“I’m sure you won’t have a problem,” she said. “It isn’t the summer holiday yet and you’ll be early enough to avoid the weekend travellers.”

We would have to change trains in Ulm.

“Will we have enough time?” I asked. If I couldn't worry about the train having enough room for our bicycles I'd worry about making our connection. 

“You have 45 minutes,” she said. “That’s plenty of time.” 

She explained that we should look for the car with a bicycle on it. And that we should get on the cars at the back of the train because the first cars would stop sooner than Ulm.

We bought our tickets. But even with her assurances I thought about all that could go wrong. We wouldn’t get a place on the train. We’d miss the connection in Ulm.

Nothing I worried could happen did. And what did happen was completely outside my visual field of anxiety.

We arrived at the station before nine o’clock the next morning, with plenty of time to wait for the train. I kept an eye out for other bicyclists who might beat us on board and take over all the available bicycle spots. I really had no idea how the bicycles would be transported. Would they go into a cargo space specially designed for bikes? The ticket seller had told us that we would board with our bikes so maybe not.

The train pulled in and we found a car with a bicycle symbol on it and made sure that the sign said it was going to Ulm.

We were among the first to board. There were a couple of rows of seats that folded up to make room for strollers, wheelchairs, and bicycles. I parked mine behind the restroom and right in front of two seats Rob and I would sit in. Rob parked his along the side of the car, close to the door. The location of our bicycles turned out to be an important detail for what transpired as we approached Ulm. 

Rob's bicycle. He had a straight shot down an aisle (to the right in the picture) and out the door.

My bike. I had to get around the corner to get out.

We’d always heard that the trains in Germany are on time and this one did leave right on schedule. We relaxed, looked out the window, read a little, ate the sandwiches we’d brought along. We couldn’t understand a word of anything that was announced, except that none of the stops were Ulm and it was too early for that anyway.

Note Rob's contented look. That will soon change.

Then, after a few hours, we heard “New Ulm,” and Rob said, “That’s our stop.”

I looked at my watch. We still had some minutes to go. We didn't have our map out, but maybe New Ulm was before Ulm. I said, “Why don’t you check and make sure it looks like a main station.”

I don’t think Rob heard me. He unstrapped his bike and as soon as the train stopped he wheeled it down the aisle and got off. I looked out the window and saw a couple other tracks so I thought, “Okay, we’re here.”

First I had to put a couple things in my pannier. I wasn’t that far behind Rob but before I could get off the train, a very large man with a white cane who was talking loudly and had a middle-aged man and woman accompanying him, blocked my way. At first I thought, they’ll see me and let me off, I don’t want to be rude to this man who obviously has a disability. But when I said, “Excuse me,” the male companion said, “Can’t you see this man is blind? You need to wait.” I waited and watched as the large man ambled into the aisle waving his cane back and forth, pulled down one of the collapsible seats and sat down, completely blocking my exit.

And then the doors closed and the train started to move, and every nerve in my body fired a note of panic. “My husband got off the train and you wouldn’t let me off!” and the woman said, “Look, your man is off the train.” And the man said, “It’s no problem. You just get on your bicycle. It’s only one or two kilometers.”

Right. Like it was that easy. Like I would know the way and Rob would know I was coming. I said, “I told you I needed to get off the train. You wouldn’t let me get off!”

The man said, “You should have been at the door.”

The woman said, “You can call him.”

“His phone doesn’t work,” I said. Even though our phone carrier had assured us that Rob’s phone would work, it didn’t, and we hadn't figured we'd need it. We'd obviously figured wrong.

I thought, these people should offer to help me in some way. But they didn’t. When the train stopped at the next station - which was Ulm - just a few minutes later, the woman said, “Get on the next train and meet your man.”

I had no idea what I was going to do. Should I get on the train and go back to Neu-Ulm? Should I leave my bicycle or bring it with me? Would Rob know to wait for me? What should I do? Should I bicycle to Neu-Ulm? Or should I wait right where I was? And how would we ever make our connection to Donaueschingen? I had no idea what to do. I was angry and worried and upset and before I started crying I wanted someone who could speak English to come and help me sort this out. But I was all alone. I needed my husband.

I pushed my bicycle into the station, thankfully not as big as the one we’d left in Munich. Still, plenty of people were milling around in front of the information booth that was just inside the door. I went up to it, and tried to look very much like someone in distress so I could cut the line without anyone getting too upset with me. I must have succeeded because no one yelled at me when I went right up to the first woman who was free. “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”

She pointed to the woman sitting next to her. I pulled my bicycle over and said, panic in my voice, “My husband got off at the wrong station. He’s in Neu-Ulm. Is there any way you can call there?”

“There are no phones there. He could take the next train. It will be here at 12:04.” Our connecting train left at 12:15. We might still make it, if Rob knew to get on that train.

I looked at my watch. Fifteen minutes. I was too restless to sit down. I checked the board and noticed that the train to Donaueschingen left from a different track. We’d have to carry our bikes down a flight of stairs. While I waited hundreds of scenarios ran through my head. Would Rob figure out that he was at the wrong station and get on the next train? Or would he try to bicycle here? Would he stay there thinking that I would come to him? No matter what, I was going to stay exactly where I was, in front of the information booth. Because I was in the right place. But did Rob know that?

I pictured our situation as a scene in a movie, the train station emptying out at the end of the day and me waiting for Rob in front of the information booth as darkness settled around me. And Rob, in New-Ulm, waiting for me, both of us convinced we were in the right place, waiting for the other, neither of us wanting to make a move. What a nightmare.

I was loaded with adrenaline and needed to do something but there was nothing I could do. Except wait for the next train from Neu-Ulm. And not think about what I would do if Rob wasn't on it. I kept checking the clock as if my watching it would make the time go by faster. I sat down and then stood up. I walked out to the train platform and then came back inside.

I went back to the information booth, back to the woman who spoke English. “Are you sure there is no one in Neu-Ulm with a phone?” I wanted a different answer this time. But I didn’t get one.

“There is no one at that station,” she assured me. Great.

I walked back onto the platform where the train had dropped me off, then realized I didn’t even know if the next train from Neu-Ulm would be coming on that track. I went back inside the station and sat down in one of the chairs. I checked the time. It was a few minutes after noon.  I got up and went back out to the train track.

A train pulled in and people began disembarking. I saw someone come from down the track pushing a bicycle. But it wasn’t Rob. More people got off. And the heavy flow of people disembarking slowed to a trickle and no one was my husband. Dejected, and worrying about what to do now, I began walking back inside with my bicycle. Then, I heard, “Connie!”

And there he was, coming from a ways down the track, pushing his bicycle. I yelled, “Quick! We can still catch our train!”

Chapter 2: Planning Paralysis

When our daughter Kylee asked me to send her our itinerary for our trip to Germany, I said, "We don't have one."

We knew this much. We were leaving for Munich on June 11, to arrive on the 12th, and staying three nights at the  Hotef Creatif Elephant. We would  bicycle along the German part of the Danube from its beginning in Donaueschingen to Passau on the Austrian border. Then we'd stay in Munich again at the Hotel Creatif Elephant for two nights before returning home on June 28.

We couldn't decide how to get to the Danube from Munich or back to Munich when we were done. Should we bicycle or take the train?

The German section of the Danube is only 600 kilometers, 360 miles, and mostly flat, a meager bike ride for the veteran bicyclists that we call ourselves. We'd purchased a bicycling guide that assured us the route is well-marked and well-maintained, on bicycle paths or country roads with light traffic, and paved, packed gravel or dirt. With 12 days set aside for the bicycling portion of our trip we worried we’d fly through the miles, and then what?

We could bicycle from Munich to Donaueschingen, the official start of the river. That would add 278 km, or 160 miles, according to googlemaps. But we’d never bicycled in Germany before and had no idea what the roads were like for cyclists or how truck and automobile drivers treated cyclists. How would we know the best route? Our map of Germany didn’t give us enough detail. I looked online but couldn’t find any way to get more detailed maps. I tried googlemaps and clicked for a bicycle route and it had me going on a gazillion different roads. I googled “bicycling in Germany” and found links for other bicycling routes but nothing going directly from Munich to Donaueschingen. Could we find a good road map once we got to Munich? Could we find a bike shop that would give us advice? 

We worried about how hilly it would be outside the Danube Valley. Given the New Hampshire spring rains and our busy schedules, we’d had no time to train for this trip. What if we used up too many days just getting to the Danube and then had to rush, not being able to savor the part of the ride that was our main goal for the trip?

Or we could take a train to Donaueschingen. I tried looking that up online and found that, yes, we could bring our bikes on the train, but so many different websites with train information came up in my search that I didn’t even know where to begin.

Then there was the question of getting from Passau back to Munich, approximately 179 kilometers. That seemed more doable, but what if we ran into problems and didn’t make it back to Munich in time for our flight home? Or we could take the train back to Munich.

We were paralyzed by too much information that wasn’t the information we wanted. We couldn’t decide.

I felt incredibly nervous about this trip, our first long ride in Europe, in a country where English is not the native language. We’d ridden in Italy in 2013, but that was only for three days and we had planned it carefully, knowing exactly where we would be staying both nights on the road. Last year we cycled through Quebec, where the native language is French, but my mastery of French far exceeds the three words of German I have at my command. Besides, Canada isn’t really a foreign country, even if you are required to have a passport to cross the border. (Remember when all you needed was a driver’s license?)

Everyone I talked to said that not knowing any German wouldn’t be a problem. And everyone I talked to said that if we went in June we’d have no problem finding places to spend the night, no need to book ahead. We’ve talked to plenty of people who have toured in Europe and had no problem camping.

Still, I felt an incredible amount of anxiety every time I spent brain cycles thinking about this trip. Besides stressing about how to get to and from the Danube, we’d never flown with our bikes before. How was that going to work?

I don’t know where I picked this saying up: Find your comfort zone. Then leave it.

I left my comfort zone as soon as we paid for our plane tickets.

I didn’t talk to Rob about my anxiety. I could say, “I’m feeling anxious about this trip.” And he’d say, “Me, too.” Well, that would be reassuring.

Or else he’d say, “Everything will be fine.” And I’d think, “How do you know?”

Rob isn't big on planning but he is big on being easy-going. I'll say, "How would you like to do such-and-such?" And he'll say, "Sure." Which works great if there's something I really want to do. Not so great if I'm having an indecision crisis.

When we boarded the plane to Munich we still hadn't decided how we’d get to and from the Danube.