If there exists a certain finesse to catching trains, Winda and I have not mastered it. Fuck no. Catching trains borders on the familiar processes of me going, “We’re not going to make it,” Winda saying, “We have to make it,” a scramble for appropriate train accoutrements (snacks), the preeminent mad dash (it is so not cute to run with a giant backpack, let alone with two), and a lot of panting.
We finally get on our train (arms laden with sandwiches and currywurst.) Being from Canadia and all, we rarely use trains to travel, and so the idea of reserving a train seat is beyond us. That is, until we get on the actual train and notice just how fucking packed it is.
After a lot of, “Is this seat taken?” we finally settle into a cabin with a nice Taiwanese boy who studies mechanical engineering in Frankfurt, and adult twins from somewhere in Bavaria. An older German dude joins us later, but that’s later.
Allergies? This Is New Information.
We’re slowly getting comfy in our seats, nestling deep into our nap positions, when it starts. I’m suddenly overcome with a case of the sniffles. My eyes begin to burn–it literally feels like someone smeared Tiger Balm on my eyelids. I rub them until my eyes water. My eyes hurt to open because they’re basically swollen shut now. Winda panics and says, “Are you okay?!?! Kaylynn, I think you’re having an allergic reaction!!!” Fuck me.
The rest of the train ride is spent with our cabin window closed because we figure I’m allergic to pollen. Our new Taiwanese Friend and the Adult Twins are so incredibly understanding about the whole ordeal, despite the fact that we basically spend the next 5 hours and a half in a makeshift sauna. I kid you not, it’s 23 degrees+ outside, and so our cabin is now refuge to sweaty international bodies.
Obviously, I feel like a complete fucking asshole the entire time. Old German Dude joins us for a little while, sweats his ass off for some time, and then nopes the fuck out as soon as the train starts emptying. For the rest of the train ride, Winda and I change into denim shorts, and I have aviators on to mask the hideousness that is my eye situation right now. Crisis under control.
I Buy Chocolate From A Giant Dick
Train rides are kind of like roadtrips, because you are literally stuck with a certain amount of people for a certain amount of time. In addition to Adult Twins from Bavaria, Old German Dude in khaki shorts who definitely hates me, and every Asian mom’s dream come to life (did I mention that our Taiwanese Friend is trilingual?)–there is a delightful youth marching band aboard, whom squeeze out a cheerful song every now and then; a group of Italian teens that repeatedly burst into the chorus of Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You, and abruptly stop after “I need you baby, to warm the lonely night,” because they don’t know any more of the song; and our personal fav, the Bavarian Bachelor Party.
It all starts with a group of guys in their mid-20s knocking on all cabin doors–box of condoms and candy in tow–asking if we’d like to purchase anything for a euro. I give them my best Fuck off, now glare through my sunglasses, as they badger our Taiwanese Friend about getting a condom–since he’s so appropriately seated with Winda and I. One of them is donning a giant penis costume. His friend explains that they’re collecting money because Giant Penis is getting married soon, and this is his bachelor party. Everything makes sense now. The penis. The condoms. The shameless solicitation of spare cash.
We learn that Prague is the Las Vegas of Europe, and that publicly humiliating the groom via forcing him to wear unflattering costumes for the entirety of the trip is the norm. Taiwanese Friend is a gentleman (like I said, poster child for Asian moms everywhere), and agrees to give them a euro in exchange for a photograph. Winda and I buy chocolate, and the throng of chanting Bavarians disappear for the time being.
The Bavarian Invasion
The Bavarians come back–three of them to be exact. They reek of beer and the faint smell of day-old cigarettes. Two of them start talking to us–asking us if we’re sisters (we’ve gotten that a lot), where we’re going and where we’re from, and the likes. The third Bavarian is clearly very drunk and hyper. He begins to parkour in the train. I’m dead serious. I ask his friends, “What the fuck is he doing?” and he pops his head into the cabin, “Parkour!”
We never get their names so, I’ll just have to name them based on their personalities: Tall Glass of Water, What-Are-You-Like-40?, and David Guetta. David Guetta is the one parkouring, by the way. While Tall Glass of Water and What-Are-You-Like-40? try to lay the mack down, David Guetta continuously cockblocks his friends by brazenly and repeatedly sliding the cabin door close. This goes on for a long period of time: David Guetta slide the door close on his friends as they are mid-sentence, TGW and 40 slide it back open in exasperation.
They tell us about their plans in Prague: strip clubs and big asses. TGW literally says they’re going to find strippers with a big ass. Being very interested in European languages, Winda and I ask the guys to sing us their national anthem. Please start picturing two grown ass men with guttural German voices, slightly inebriated and swaying, and occasionally–but pridefully–slurring the words to the Bavarian Anthem. We are laughing at this point. Such a marvellous spectacle is upon us.
In the brief moments between trying to crawl to the ceiling and do backflips off the walls, I tell David Guetta that he looks like David Guetta. He abruptly stops his acrobatics and stares at me dead on, “I am much better looking than David Guetta.”
He trudges between TGW and 40 (as they’ve been standing on either side of our cabin door), and gets to eye-level with Winda and I. Very seriously and mildly drunkenly, he wants to clarify, “I’d like to think that I am in between looking homeless and looking like David Guetta. But I think I look more homeless than I do David Guetta!”
And he goes on. He tries to say, “How dare you!” but it comes out, “How you dare!!!!!” with excess saliva, and some wobbling. He says some crude things about David Guetta that I won’t repeat. We are laughing. Offended David Guetta is hilarious. We love Offended David Guetta.
“Hey Winda, Didn’t You Say You Wanted A Pretzel?”
TGW, 40, and David Guetta eventually leave. Winda and I discuss food (one of our greatest passions.) I say I wish we had gotten more currywurst, and she says, “I really wanted to try a German pretzel.”
Lo and behold, a new face comes knocking on our door.
This guy–definitely an active member of the bachelor party–stumbles towards us, drunk eyes all wild and ablazin’, wafting in the scent of expired beer, and wielding a half-eaten pretzel. “I’ve come to offer you a pretzel!” he boldly announces, and then very nearly falls over. Winda politely declines. I look at Winda and tilt my head, “Hey Winda, didn’t you just say you wanted a pretzel?” She gives me the death glare, “No.”
Our guest introduces himself as the brother of the groom. In response to our refusal, he offers–in broken English and struggling to find the right word for chive–to butter the pretzel and serve it to us with minced chives (schnittlauchbutterbreze.) How sweet is that???? I smile at Winda and say again, “But you said you really wanted to try a German pretzel just now!” She’s about to cut off all my hair in my sleep.
Spoiler: we never take the pretzel. Because, really, where has that pretzel been? What is its life story? Do we even know about that pretzel’s life? Instead, we have a nice chat about the brother of the groom’s new piece of real estate situated on a farm. Him and his girlfriend bought it together. Very, very sweet.
And then we arrive in Prague.
Tour des chambres is quite literally a tour of rooms. It is the best kind of dorm party–where people in your dorm decorate their rooms a certain theme, you have a theme-related game, and you are served a welcome drink. You go room to room, and you end up drunk as shit. It is très amusante.
I share a kitchen with 17 people, and 15 of us were participating this year, so we split up into pairs and had 7 themed rooms, and one game/welcome drink in the kitchen. The themes were:
0) Beer memory game in the kitchen
1) Wine-tasting in France
2) Nude sketch/croquis class in France
3) Life of Pi directing and reenactment
4) Camping under the stars (le mine)
5) Drinking in the dark
6) Danish New Years Eve
7) Music and hookah lounge
Learnt a lot of random shit about wine/realized how unsophisticated I am when it comes to wine; did not expect to see penis but did. Plus I won best nude sketch and that’s saying a lot about my hidden talents; made my flatmate eat cat food and gnaw on my other’s flatmate’s neck (the game was rewriting scenes from Life of Pi, and my team did it justly); watched my flatmates play the North American gem that is Chubby Bunny. One of my flatmates had to spit out her mouthful of marshmallows, and that mouthful floated in my toilet for about a week after; drank in the dark because it soo unheard of; Danish New Years Eve is the cutest thing ever, and you get to eat cake with adorable Danish flags everywhere; by the time we go to the music and hookah lounge, I was so drunk that I knocked over my flatmate’s hookah, and there was ash everywhere… Thank God my flatmates are Danish, and are very calm about these sorts of things.
The Beginning Of My Demise
Fast forward to the after party, and I’ve fallen and twisted my ankle. It wasn’t as though I was running, doing anything remotely athletic, or even wearing heels for that matter. I was simply trying to sit down next to my flatmate, and I just toppled over and rolled my ankle like a complete loser.
After having to be carried, then lots of complaining in bed while three of my flatmates are drunkenly laughing and trying to soothe me… I wake up the next morning, and the pain is ridiculous. My foot looks ridiculous. It’s ballooned to about 3x the size of my right foot, and it’s in the sickliest shades of purple and blue. Groce. I’m contemplating whether or not to post a photo here because it might really offend some viewers. I spend the rest of the day in the fort–drinking tea, listening to acoustic One Direction covers, and reading Pride and Prejudice.
Everyone’s telling me to go to hospital, and I’m just shrugging it off like, “Don’t be silly.” Because, as I said, I’m always in the mindset that everything’s going to be okay. Plus I fucking hate hospitals. There’s something about the colour of their walls that’s so… sterile. Like a starchy yellow colour that forever needs to be starchy and yellowed. And the smell of it all. I hate it. I’m starting to think that I hate institutions.
To The Hospital We Go
I finally cave. I plan to call my doctor on Monday, but things work differently in Denmark. Family doctors don’t have x-rays on hand, no real medical equipment or anything. My Danish girlfriend and my Danish flatmates tell me that I need to go the ER. The E-fucking-R. Fuck me.
In Denmark, you have to call before you go to the ER. Yeah. Yeeeeeah. Because of free healthcare, people had previously been showing up at the ER with paper cuts (this is a dramatization) and so, they developed a system where you have to call in before making a visit to your local emergency room. You have to call in, explain to the dispatcher what your emergency is, and if the dispatcher supposes your emergency worthy, then you may go to the ER.
My flatmate calls in Danish for me, and by the end of the call, the dispatcher goes, “She twisted it on Friday night? As long as she doesn’t come in smelling like Bacardi.”
Blah blah blah. 2 hours of waiting, 2 doctors, more questions regarding my level of sobriety on Friday night, and an x-ray later… I find out that I have no broken bones. Thank the Lord Holy Jesus, because my foot looked it had been dipped in ink for the two days, the swelling had not gone down whatsoever, and I could barely walk. It’s just badly sprained.
My medical file reads: “Friday, twisted ankle, drunk.”
And my first visit to a foreign hospital has been completed. Woooohoooo, motherfucker!
Lost Luggage… Mayhem Ensues A Few Hours Later
Touchdown in Munich, and we find out the airline lost our luggage. Winda is freaking out–I’m alright. I’m laughing, and she’s grabbing and shaking me erratically, “How are you not freaking out right now????” I have faith that our luggage will be restored to us by this evening. The lady who got mad at us at the front desk said so. All will work out. We have free café au lait from the Lost Luggage department. I am happy.
In pursuit of our recent upheaval at the airport, we end up getting yelled at a total of three times upon arrival–but we still have free café au lait. I’m still happy. Welcome to Germany.
This thought process is indicative to the kind of attitude I’ve had for the entirety of the trip. I’m always sure things will be okay–if I could sum it up in one gesture, it would be a shrug and a small smile. My friends say it’s because I have no regard for the rules of life–both written and inherent.
We make our way to our hostel. Our first order of business is finding food, obviously.
Not the biggest fan of German food, but I do loooove me some curry wurst; train station sandwiches are not too bad, and HB beer is probably my favourite beer thus far.
One of my favourite things about Germany is how you can simply join somebody’s table if there’s no more available space in a restaurant. We get seated next to this dude who was drinking alone, end up talking, find out he’s a lawyer, and he ends up taking us to our first German beer hall. And this is where we committed our first European crime:
I’ll have you know we were encouraged by the German lawyer. He tells us he stole one when he was 16–it’s practically a rite of passage. And we fucking did it.
“We. Have. NOTHING!!!!!!!”
We get back to our hostel–all proud of our recent feat–and we ask the front desk whether our bags have arrived. No, no they haven’t. And it starts to dawn on us that we have no pj’s, no clean underwear, and no things to shower with. We are dirty as fuck. We. Have. NOTHING. Those minerals from the Blue Lagoon in Iceland? Still attached to, what really felt like, every single fibre of hair on my body.
We are bordering on hysterical at this point. We ask if they have any hostel merch to give us. The receptionist dude pulls out two tiny tank-tops with “Fully Booked” emblazoned on the front, and says, “I have these. But I really have, like, zero idea where they came from.” We take them in sheer desparation.
Our hostel gives out these drink vouchers for their bar upon arrival–except you only get one. We turn to our receptionist after crying pretty loudly in misery, “Can you give us another drink voucher?” Winda asks. I say, “Can you give us, like, five?”
And he does. And so, here are the beginnings of my demise.
Waking Up Next To My Hofbräuhaus Mug
I felt like I was pretty well-versed in the art of drinking until I blacked out for the first time ever in Germany.
Had a dream I was yelling, then got yelled at in return, had pizza, and tried throwing up. Only to awaken next to my Hofbräuhaus mug, in the same clothes as last night. My initial thought is, Aw… Winda put me to bed with my mug because that’s all we have right now. Then I notice I’m in the same clothes as last night. Ew, ew, EW.
The familiar words, What the fuck happened? surface in my mind, and I’m rolling out of our hostel bunk bed with an intolerable ringing in my ears.
Where The Fuck Is MY Towel?!??!!?
Turns out, upon receiving those 5 vouchers, we went a little crazy at the bar. I remember the personalities of the evening–Marcus #2 (Marcus #1 was the lawyer who encouraged us to steal), Marcus #2’s horny bald friend, and a French surfing nomad named Pierre. I remember spewing out bits of French (as I have done embarrassingly throughout this entire fucking trip), and telling Winda that Marcus #2 was really boring and kind of dumb.
Skipping forward (because I’ve lost track of this part of the evening,) I’m told that we enjoy consecutive glasses of wine and beer–numbers that far outstretched the longevity of our existing 5 drink vouchers. We get pizza–I wanted potato pizza, and Winda asks me very firmly, “Are you sure you want potato pizza?” (She hates potatoes.)
We proceed to our hostel lobby. Same dude that gave us 5 vouchers is there (I think his name’s Jon From Australia.) Winda wants a towel to sleep in, as we have no pjs. Jon From Australia hands her 2. I start screaming hysterically, “WHERE’S MY TOWEL?!?!?!?”
Jon From Australia’s colleague is quick to intervene. “Screaming isn’t going to get you anything!” She apparently snaps at me. Jon From Australia removes himself from the situation. I’m not even ashamed at this point, instead I’m really fucking sad, and really fucking drunk. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m just so sad. We. Have. NOTHING!!!!”
We leave the lobby area (I’m sure everyone was happy about that.) Winda is taking a shower, when I throw open the door (as she’s taking a shower), and frantically (and drunkenly) explain myself, “I need to throw up. I’m going to throw up. I need to throw up!” I try throwing up. I don’t end up throwing up.
I get put to bed. And that’s how I end waking up next to my Hofbräuhaus mug.
We Lived Happily Ever After…
There’s a happy ending to this story. Upon waking up disheveled and disoriented, our luggage has been delivered to our hostel that morning. I go downstairs to retrieve what’s rightfully mine, and the boys at reception are all, “Why aren’t you jumping up and down like your friend?” I whisper-inhale (because I’m so fucking hungover/overcome with emotion and fatigue), “I just can’t.”
Answer: I’m going to say… 1 pint of beer, followed by 2 litres of beer, then another beer, then 2 glasses of wine, another glass of wine, a bit of Long Island Iced Tea, and that’s all I can really remember.