While Riding on a Train Going West I Fell Asleep for to Take My Rest I Dreamed a Dream That Made Me Sad Concerning Myself and the First Few Friends I Had.”*
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PROLOGUE "While riding on a train going West I fell asleep for to take my rest I dreamed a dream that made me sad concerning myself and the first few friends I had.”* It was my last day at work in the commissary. The last time I was going to pack groceries in brown paper bags for the American military, and the last time I was to pedal furiously by bike among the snow-laden streets in time to get to my second job. It was October 1990 I was in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, high in the Bavarian alps working for the American forces. This was my fourth period of work in that idyllic German ski-resort going back 16 years. I had lost count of the number of different jobs I had had since 1975, the first time I had decided to travel. It was definitely over thirty, but this was the first time that I had two legal jobs at the same time and was not liable for tax on any! My day job was at the Commissary, where the American forces and their dependants purchased their groceries, which were flown over from America and cost much less than similar foodstuff on the German economy. My official title was 'bagger', for this I received no wage, I and my colleague Vince, worked for tips only. This could at times be suprisingly lucrative considering there was no tax to pay. It was also a good laugh, especially with Vince, my Scots colleague, whose off-the-wall sense of humour helped to ameliorate the mundane work. 'Baggi n g', entailed merely putting all the customer's provisions into sturdy brown bags, then into trolleys for the customer to wheel away, and one would think that such a mundane task would not involve much creativity, but we strived to squeeze as much as we could out of it: When trying to outdo each other in order to obtain a neat and square a bag as possible. For example: The ideal package was two large packets of cereal, which fitted exactly in the paper bags, but they were few and far between, and imaginary Pythonesque debates on how best to pack a bag, and our most difficult challenges to obtain 'squareosity' ensued: Vince: "I once packed a grecian urn, two candelabras and a chandelier and still got it square." Me: "That's nothing! I once packed a large star of David; two live octopus; a three pronged cobbler's last, and still got it square." Vince:"I once packed a windmill, a live lobster..... All this lunatic banter was accompanied with guffaws of laughter as the objects got even sillier. The two checkout personnel thought us completely mad. My second job was, as Monty Python would put it, something completely different. It was in the gymnasium, or Fitness Centre as it was now known. I was self employed as masseur for American Forces. I had qualified as Masseur two years earlier, and had my own portable couch delivered from England and set up in the corner of an upstairs room. I had little custom, but allied to my bagging, I earned sufficient to pay my way. I charged the equivalent of £9 an hour, twenty per cent of which, went to the Armed forces. I had also a room in the civilian housing quarters, for which I paid DM80(£28) a month inclusive of heating and light. But with the gradual removal of American forces from Germany, the chances of making a decent living receded, and along with many others who had lived in this idyllic town, I was making plans for the future. On that final day and after administering my final massage, I gazed from the balcony onto the Kramer mountain. I had playing on my tape deck the strains of a track from 'Enya', and knowing that this would probably be the last time I would work in Garmisch, a place that had come to mean so much to me, I began to feel a deep sadness. I looked up again at the peak of the mountain, realising that I may never see it again. I was finishing work in the place I had first started, in the Gymnasium 15 years ago. I thought of all the friends I had made over the years, and of the humorous times I was lucky enough to have been witness to in this most beautiful of towns. As I ruminated on these, my mind drifted back to those first tentative steps to a new life, back in 1975. Footnote: GARMISCH: The district is located in the Bavarian Alps and includes the highest mountain of Germany, the Zugspitze (2962 m). The highest peaks are grouped along the Austrian border, where the mountain ridges of the Wettersteingebirge and the Karwendelgebirge rise. Between them the Isar river runs northwards. North of these ridges there is a valley housing the tourist resort of Garmisch-Partenkirchen. The valley together with the surrounding mountains is called the Werdenfelser Land. Further north the ridges of the Ammergebirge and the Estergebirge rise, which are still over 2000 m high. In the northernmost parts of the district there is alpine uplands (about 600 m high). Here the Staffelsee is located, a lake of 8 km². CHAPTER ONE It was September 1975. I stood for a while at the rail of the boat watching the wind whipping up little soufflés of foam on the tops of the waves, until the cool September air, the fading of the light, and a sense of increasing loneliness all conspired to make me seek the company of fellow passengers. Weaving my way across the wind-blown deck, I headed for the nearest entrance and down to my cabin. I was leaving the port of Hull behind me with little notion of where I was going, although I had the idea at the back of my mind to reach Spain and the 'Nag's Head', a pub I had made my local on my two week package tour earlier that year, but I was open to suggestions, and if events caused me to go in another direction, so be it. I know that making a pub in Spain one's goal isn't exactly reaching for the stars, but what the hell! I was a simple guy. I had also noticed the laid-back atmosphere and the seemingly carefree life enjoyed by the workers there, when on holiday and on returning to my comparatively mundane factory work, my longing to return had increased, with the result that one month later I had quit my job to see what the wide world had to offer. The space between the two sets of bunks allowed a space in which the averag e cat would have had a hard time being swung round in, while the general condition of the cabin indicated that no-one had cleaned it since the previous occupants' departure, a stain on the carpet still exuding a whiff of alcohol, telling of some drink unsteadily poured. I looked around then slumped on the bed, comprehending for the first time the enormity of the ties that I had broken and became suddenly depressed, due no doubt to the first pangs of loneliness and insecurity that attack many a virgin traveller. I had always been one for the 'craic', as the Irish say, but that involved company, and now for the first time in my life I was completely alone. Without friends, without the steady rock of a family and utterly bereft of any plan as to what I wanted to do or be. Then, looking down at the carpet stains, I thought of the two bars on board and was instantly galvanised into action. I found the lounge after consulting a plan of the boat tacked onto a bulkhead. It bore the legend 'Amsterdam Lounge' above the entrance. It was a large room with a blue carpet and matching ceiling, supported at regular intervals by columns painted the same azure shade. This soothing sea and sky was at odds with the furniture: some dumpy, brown, wooden tables with red formica tops, bearing stained beermats and a variety of plastic ash trays of various shapes and colours surrounded by red armchairs. The boat had been at sea some half an hour by now and already I could see a throng of around twenty men, all jockeying for position as the barman prepared to open the metal grille, and all it seemed, attempting to attract the solitary barman's attention at the same time. I positioned myself at the back and while waiting my turn, observed the means employed by the ones at the front to achieve their objective. It was one that I have seen repeated many times at crowded bars before and since: Those at the front would adopt a lean-over-the-counter stance, as if to project themselves into the barman's path, while at the same time waving their banknotes at him and fixing their eyes to his with an intensity that would be frightening were it not in the climate of a public bar. All of these actions would be performed with a half-open mouth, in order that a precious millisecond be saved when the order was finally blurted out, then, when finally the order had been taken, a visible relief could be then seen taking place in the man. Resuming his normal stance, the shoulders would gradually drop from around his neck, the eyes lose their fixed stare, and now relaxed, he dared to look smugly around him.