Eastern sunrises, traffic vioaltions and moblie shebeens...

Romania is east of Hungary. The sun rises in the east. I know this because I left at the crack of dawn and the sun was in my eyes. This would not have been a problem, except that my sunglasses were missing. They might be in Prague. It's the last time I remember seeing them, but there was an element of debauchery in Bohemia and it may well be that a painful head left them in the hotel room after checking out. If this is so, Prague is cool and the Ray Bans may well feel right at home there; even they spend there time on the bridge of a house maid's nose. Budapest had been good, the room was alright and, all going well, the road ahead to Romania may be long but there was much to think about and reflect on en route: not least of which is, what else might have been left in Prague; and how much is Hungarian money worth? The thing is, I started with 50 000 of whatever currency it is that the Hungarians use, and after buying McDonalds and other refreshments, the obligatory local ales, and paid for the hotel room; there was still something close to 35 000 left! I figured I would drive as close to the Romanian border before filling up with petrol and unload a lot of it there; the rest, well I was sure to find an supermarket to get supplies. Watching the road signs, the last town with ornaments over it's name was Puspokladany (imagine two dots above the U, two dots above the O and a little dash above the second A, I'm reluctant to try pronounce it, but suspect that if you put an Afrikaans twang on it, it might sound like a very unpleasant disease) and it seemed the ideal place to stop. So we did. Paulo is a conservative drinker and needed less than half a tank - that brought the total down somewhere near 30 000. I need to mention that the previous night I tried to buy a Coke with a 10 000 note, but the cafe owner refused to accept it. So I suppose it's a bit like a 50 pound note which I found awfully difficult to palm off in England and thus had to buy a car and open a bank account. Anyway, with so much left, we found a Tesco's in Puspokalot, and lots and lots and lots of local chocolate and liqueurs later, the money was off loaded. But I still had no idea how much the money was worth. Driving out of that strangely named town I was flashed by an on-coming motorist and chuckled to myself that I had nothing to worry about since Lilith was very good at keeping us within the speed limit. And so it was that we passed the speed trap sans problems. Less than 100 metres later though, there was the local Plod on the side of the road, motioning for me to pull over. You can't believe how my heart sank; but knowing that I hadn't been speeding made me a little more confident. Thoughts of all those beers and newly acquired liqueurs all about the car, made me decidedly nervous. Plod couldn't speak English, but his mate could. Plod-who-couldn't-speak-English made it clear that he wanted to see my documents. I handed him my drivers' licence. He wanted my passport and I didn't need to understand Hungarian to know that. I gave it to him. He marched off. His mate, who could speak a smidgen of English let me know that it is the law in Hungary that you drive with your lights on. I explained that I had had my lights on, it was just that I had put in petrol at Puspok,-whatever-and-Paulo-screams-like-a-stuck-pig-if-I-stop-and-don't-switch-off-my-lights-and-forgot-to-switch-them-back-on-when-I-pulled away.... I tried desperately yo look naive. He didn't go for that. The fine was a thousand-and-something of the local currency. "About 15 Euro," English-speaking plod explained. And thus I learned the value of Hungarian money. Still don't know what it's called though. Hopefully that little indiscretion will not lead to points on my licence. It was sad to leave Hungary with this experience, and really, if I were a plod, I'd let a tourist off the hook for something so silly, but the non-English-speaking one had a bit of an attitude to him, even had a slot in his sleeve, just above the cuff, that he rammed his pen into with on swift, yet abrupt, motion after I'd signed receipt of the multiple paperwork he handed me. That image shall forever be branded on my mind; a lasting memory of Hungary that overwhelms the joys of its capital. Having said that, I'll also remember causing the accident too... With that wretched feeling that accompanies getting a traffic ticket, I headed towards the Romanian border where, for the first time so far, the border crossing was manned... I was overcome with paranoia. What about the booze in the car? Paulo was practically a mobile shebeen. And those guards; they were intimidating all in official dress and everything. I began wondering if Eastern-Europeans hate the British being in their country as much as the British dislike East Europeans being in theirs. I considered using my South African passport; but dismissed that quickly - firstly, there are no visas in it and, secondly, Paulo has British plates. Somehow, without any obvious shakes, I handed over my driver's licence and European Union passport to the guard, which wasn't all easy because I had to hand it through the passenger side window. All I could see was the guard's crotch; he not bothering to duck down to get a look at me. He muttered something like "documenti match-sheen" which I guessed was the vehicle registration and dug it out of the glove-box before handing it to him. This motion ment that at least I saw a bit more of him, about belly button level. It was with great relief that he handed them back and motioned me on. I never saw his face, nor he mine. I drove on, deeply traumatised.... It wasn't a great way to leave Hungary, and it wasn't a great way to arrive in Romania. But heck, this is Transylvania, country steeped in superstition and stuff... This was going to be great!

Contour lines and causing crashes

Geography is important. Take the Slovak Republic as an example, there isn't a contour line anywhere to be seen. It's flat. From end-to-end, just flat. Flat is boring. It's straight roads. It's bland horizons. It's not at all conducive towards anything remotely creative. And it is, perhaps why Slovakia is so utterly crap. All the buildings, including the little houses in the villages in the countryside and square blocks, have not an angle in them except at the square corners. A splash of paint wouldn't go amiss either and graffiti doesn't count in this regard. In fact, even the graffiti is dull; it's neither creative nor colourful. Just meaningless words (admittedly, they often carried those strange adornments mentioned before), but they all in the same black paint. For heaven's sake, you just wish someone would make an effort. Then there's the main city, Bratislava, which is also crap. Call it the capital of bland if you will. Just tall, square, grey buildings. There's nothing that can remotely be described as architecture - except, of course, the Castle, which can be seen for miles before you enter the city, but just didn't seem worth the effort. Dumplings; that's the staple diet of the country. And they're dull too. Properly dull it was. Then there's the countryside; even the trees look as if they've given up trying. Not that there are many trees; just ones planted next to the road, others to partition fields. The fields appear equally demoralised by their own existence. It's not as if Slovakia is incredibly huge; it's probably about 100 miles across - but that's just too much space for so much blandness. Immediately driving into Hungary, you notice a difference. The first are the hills, right there on the horizon, not that far away at all. Then there's the houses, someone's making an effort - they aren't all the same and there is definitely an attempt at gardening going on. You can see it in there language too, they don't have to dress it up as much as the Slavs (is that what one calls folk from the Slovak Republic?) do. Sure, there's a the odd dot on top of some letters, but there are no obscure v's above every vowel. Then there's the road that heads up into the hills; it gets all curly-wurly. Suddenly there's just forest - because you can't plant fields on slopes like these. There's contours everywhere. Paulo was in his element; all that revving and braking. Lilith, who at the best of times can be described as melancholy, had been positively morose in Slovakia but didn't say much in the early part of Hungary. She might have been upset with the sudden excitement; or, admittedly, it might have been that there were no turns that she is programmed to mention as this was simply, one long - delightfully windy and hilly - road to all the way to Bood-a-Pest, as she likes to pronounce it. But she got her own back; she brought us in through the less-affluent side of town. The nightmares that were Leipzig and Bratislava are still very recent and that part of Budapest is very, very similar. All the joys of the road vanished... but only briefly. Nevertheless, it was nice to know that Lilith hides a sense of humour. She has remained rigidly austere since then, although I suspect she may have chuckled to herself when I left the car to explore the sights. We parked in front of some major landmark - looked government-ish, might have been the town hall for all anyone knows - which is close to the castle that Lilith had directed us to. I left the car after unhooking and hiding all the gadgets around the dashboard - including herself - and headed for the pedestrian-crossing to get to the afore-mentioned castle. It was midday and the traffic was quite busy. I waited for a while, but the drivers here are similar to those in Prague and have scant regard for anyone other than themselves. When a gap opened, I shot across to the middle of the road and stopped because the traffic going the other way was equally busy. That's when everything went into slow-motion; and I remember it vividly: An old man who was driving towards me, noticed me and made to slow down to let me pass - it was a pedestrian-crossing and he was doing the right thing. The bloke behind him, however, was not used to such grandiose displays of common decency and didn't have time to brake. If ever there's a feeling of helplessness, then this was it... And I was the cause! The inevitable crash happened and it was loud. One minute, there was this old man smiling at me and making gestures with his hand to motion me to walk on; the next he - must have seen my expression - his face changed and his head was thrown forward. I swear, it'll be a miracle if he doesn't have whiplash. The bloke who did the crashing was the first to react; he was out of his car, making apologetic motions with his hands while heading for the driver he had hit. He, at this stage, was getting out of his car, still stunned but looking okay. I offered him some apologies too, and he seemed to understand my English, because he replied: "Nou Praab-lem". Then he and the other driver got to discussing the damage, which did not seem too bad considering how thundering that crash was. Very surreptitiously, I faded into the park nearby and headed towards the castle; feeling very guilty about doing so, but having no intention of becoming a witness and having to return to Budapest. As far as I'm concerned it's one more city I can cross off my bucket-list. Been there, done that; that kind of thing. Besides, if I never have to drive through a geography-less Slovakia again, then that would be too soon. The rest of the visit was uneventful. Saw the sights, photographed them. Walked many, many miles, but it was pleasant. And I spilled my left-over food at McDonalds and felt very silly cleaning it up. As far as I'm concerned today is done and tomorrow it's off to Transylvania. That's got mountains - which is just about as much geography as anyone could possibly desire.

Discovering contours and causing crashes

Geography is important. Take the Slovak Republic as an example, there isn't a contour line anywhere to be seen. It's flat. From end-to-end, just flat. Flat is boring. It's straight roads. It's bland horizons. It's not at all conducive towards anything remotely creative. And it is, perhaps why Slovakia is so utterly crap. All the buildings, including the little houses in the villages in the countryside and square blocks, have not an angle in them except at the square corners. A splash of paint wouldn't go amiss either and graffiti doesn't count in this regard. In fact, even the graffiti is dull; it's neither creative nor colourful. Just meaningless words (admittedly, they often carried those strange adornments mentioned before), but they all in the same black paint. For heaven's sake, you just wish someone would make an effort. Then there's the main city, Bratislava, which is also crap. Call it the capital of bland if you will. Just tall, square, grey buildings. There's nothing that can remotely be described as architecture - except, of course, the Castle, which can be seen for miles before you enter the city, but just didn't seem worth the effort. Dumplings; that's the staple diet of the country. And they're dull too. Properly dull it was. Then there's the countryside; even the trees look as if they've given up trying. Not that there are many trees; just ones planted next to the road, others to partition fields. The fields appear equally demoralised by their own existence. It's not as if Slovakia is incredibly huge; it's probably about 100 miles across - but that's just too much space for so much blandness. Immediately driving into Hungary, you notice a difference. The first are the hills, right there on the horizon, not that far away at all. Then there's the houses, someone's making an effort - they aren't all the same and there is definitely an attempt at gardening going on. You can see it in there language too, they don't have to dress it up as much as the Slavs (is that what one calls folk from the Slovak Republic?) do. Sure, there's a the odd dot on top of some letters, but there are no obscure v's above every vowel. Then there's the road that heads up into the hills; it gets all curly-wurly. Suddenly there's just forest - because you can't plant fields on slopes like these. There's contours everywhere. Paulo was in his element; all that revving and braking. Lilith, who at the best of times can be described as melancholy, had been positively morose in Slovakia but didn't say much in the early part of Hungary. She might have been upset with the sudden excitement; or, admittedly, it might have been that there were no turns that she is programmed to mention as this was simply, one long - delightfully windy and hilly - road to all the way to Bood-a-Pest, as she likes to pronounce it.

Of headaches and other miseries

Sometimes preplanning is essential when going on a road trip abroad. But the delight of Czech ale has a way of dimming the senses and replacing them with wild euphoria. The next day is always the worst, and a lot more damn worse if you hadn't thought to pack headache pills into your luggage. But ever the intrepid and courageous traveller, one dismisses these things and moves on. And move on we did, destination - Slovakia. In particular; its capital, Bratislava! Sounds all very exotic and all that... but it ain't. But we'll get to that later, first the woeful tale of how everything went so horribly pear-shaped. We set off around 8am after a continental breakfast - the hotel gives the minutest plates to dish up on and mostly it's just cold meats, cheeses and breads on offer - there is also scrambled eggs and what appears to be bacon bits. The eggs are strangely runny and have the appearance of having being nuked in a microwave; the bacon is crispy, but cold and oily. Never mind though, the grub and a glass of orange juice reduces the headache from sledge-hammer painful to a dull throb that settles itself in behind the left eyeball. That aside, we were still in great spirit as we hit the road and Lilith again suggested we avoid the tolls and took us on a scenic route through Prague's suburbs, which was very nice. Prague drivers are lunatics though, but having experienced minibus taxi driving, I was well equipped in dealing with the renegades. Although it took some restraint to hold back the middle-finger, which wanted desperately to physically manifest the thoughts going through the alcohol-mangled brain that controlled it. It was rush hour, but patience prevailed and before nine it was open country roads again. By ten the dull throb was back to a blind ache. Fortunately there was A Tesco supermarket at one of the little villages we passed through and Paulo turned in, much to Lilith's chagrin and she expressed this with the usual "Make a U-turn as soon as possible" rebuke. This Tesco's was less a supermarket than it was a cafe. There were no headache pills in the toiletries aisle but there was a friendly, but extremely ugly, manager-type fellow near the entrance who looked as though he might helpful. "Do you sell headache pills," I asked, pointing to my forehead. He shook his head and said something unintelligible. Strange thing this language of theirs, it's all flowery when written down - the letters have all sorts of little decorations; like little circles, slanted dashes and little inverted 'v's on them, but it doesn't sound very pretty. Very hard on the ear it is. I tried a bit of charades: I pointed to my forehead, said a meek 'ouch' and then I motioned with my hand as if putting something in the my mouth then cupped my hand and made as if to drink. A light seemed to go on, and the man smiled - making him even uglier - and motioned for me to follow. I duly did, but was a little taken aback when we arrived in the liquor aisle. Just looking at those rows of wine and beer made me nauseous all over again. 'No, no,' I said and again pointed to my head, this time I gave a pained expression when I said 'ouch', then I made like I was pouring pills into my hand, which I then threw into my mouth. 'Tablets!' he exclaimed. I almost hugged him in relief, but simply nodded with a stupid grin on my face. He took me back to the toiletries section where he too came to the conclusion that there weren't any in stock. 'Moment...' he said, and scurried off. When he came back he pushed a solitary capsule - still in its plastic packaging - in my hand, making motions that suggested I could have it for free; that obscene smile on his face again. I thanked him and no sooner was I outside when I popped the pill, silently wishing he given me two. It eased the pain, but it would return an hour later. Only worse. It was after 11 when we crossed the border into Slovakia - all the border posts are vacant, this is sad because there's no one to stamp my passport to prove that I've visited all these places. There's pros and cons to have a European passport. I was very impressed with the country. Every little town I passed was beautifully manicured, the houses neat and well maintained - that horrid orange colour still well in prevalence, but there were also pastel shades of blue and yellow ochre. All very pretty indeed. The roads too were excellent. Obviously, I thought, Slovakia is a lot wealthier than the Czech Republic. Certainly, instead of Skodas (mostly a dark green colour) that were so evident on the other side of the border, the folk here seemed to prefer VWs, Mercs and Beamers. In fact, they seemed to have adopted a very German set of values. Even their writing was unadorned, and decidedly Germanic. One frustration though was the number, and close proximity, of all the little villages. No sooner had we left one and Paulo had revved up to 55 miles per hour, when we were upon yet another urban area and reduced to 30 miles per hour again. This went on for ages. Soon it became apparent from the sign boards that Wien is a major town en route to Bratislava and I was looking forward to passing it by with a thought of stopping in and taking some photos. About twenty miles from Wien I got to looking at the vehicle registration plates and saw that they all had the letter A on them. I wondered if maybe I had to pass through Albania before getting into Slovakia? If that was the case, then I was rather enjoying the Albanian countryside. Before reaching Wien, I stopped at a filling station and was pleased to note that they use Euros in Albania and I still had a wad of them in my wallet. I purchased a ham and cheese sandwich and a Red Bull. It was only when I was looking at the beers - I've been forced to buy samples from every country by my brother, that the realisation dawned - I was in flippin' Austria! Wien, I realised, is actually Vienna! I cursed Lilith, how could she have gotten us this far wrong Getting back into Paulo, I consulted the atlas and said sorry to Lilith. She didn't care, she just wanted me to make a U-turn again and follow the signs to some place called Bood-ah-Pest. I obliged. Wow, Vienna looks amazing and one wishes we could have stopped, but time was dragging on and we'd already booked ourselves into a hostel in Bratislava and we were expected by two. Amazing, the highway doesn't take you around Vienna, it takes you under it! It's like the Underground, only it's for cars. While being amazed and impressed by the ingeniousness of the tunnel under the city, an aching head could not help but think of the weight of all those high-rise buildings baring down and it all began to feel a bit claustrophobic. Soon enough we were threw it and Lilith said that Bratislava was only 20 miles away. Again the frustration of a vacant border post went past and the reality that is Slovakia came into view. It ain't pretty and it's a lot like East Germany. Bratislava might as well be Leipzig for all it's graffiti, except no one's making an effort to remodel the place. The hostel is in a back street and there's no parking anywhere nearby. Paulo will sleep two blocks away, and I probably won't sleep a wink out of concern for his safety. Lilith will sleep with me tonight; she hasn't made any comments about that because I've switched her off. On the plus side, Edo - who manages the hostel - has given me a map of the city and the best places to visit. There's also laundry facilities and that's good because I'm wearing my last pair of clean underwear. There's also free wi-fi which I've already used to book into proper lodgings in Budapest - it has free, secure parking; so tomorrow should be a better night altogether, if not me, then for poor Paulo. For now though; the sun has set, the clothes are almost finished in the drier and I'm keen to try out 'Halusky' washed down with 'Zlaty Bazant' (these words should come with fascinating adornments on, but I wouldn't know how to put them there, and frankly I couldn't be arsed to find out) at the local restaurant that Edo has pointed out on the map he gave me. I'll take my camera with me, because maybe this city looks better in the dark. We are better prepared for our travels tomorrow, and tonight, well, we won't quite indulge in the local brew regardless of how good it tastes.

Arrgh, let's not go to Prague

Don't trust a weatherman, even if she is pretty... Oh, and don't trust your own instinct either. That's what we were faced with this morning. The previous night, the delightful young lady on BBC World News said that the weather in the Czech Republic would be shite today, well, not quite in those worlds, but she suggested the rain would be severe. Having survived the horrors of Leipzig, and really it was awful, the prospect of going further east was not one that inspire whoops of joy nor wild outbreaks of ecstasy. The option of heading south was enticing, but Switzerland and Austria - to my mind anyway - are best enjoyed in the dead of winter. So booking out, I headed to Paulo, got in and with a heavy heart, asked Lilith to direct us to Prague. She was having none of it... she said she couldn't access her heavenly guides. At a loss, we pulled away and, maybe it was the overhead tramlines that were upsetting her, or it was the act of moving again that got her inspired, but not only did Lilith come up with all sorts of routes to take, but she also said that the most direct one was plagued by tollroads and might she take us around those. Well, there's no arguing with that and thus we had a very rural and scenic tour of East Germany and large tracts of undiscovered Czech Republic. Except, that is, by many, many truck drivers who drive ruthlessly down the narrow country lanes. Paulo wasn't awfully enamoured with the route and, with fond memories of the freedom of the Autobahn, went about the task of getting to the border sluggishly. Can't say as I blame him; the roads are full of potholes - although nothing as compared to those in the eastern Free State and various parts of Mpumalanga in South Africa. If east Germany was industrial and bland, then large tracts of the Czech countryside are worse. It's obscene really; all those glorious green fields interrupted frequently by large chimney stacks, huge square industrial buildings and more of those dreadful block-type apartment buildings. But then they disappeared... Hills formed and trees grew, the roads became curly-wurly, up and down. This inspired Paulo, who rev around corners and charge up the uphills with gusto. The usually taciturn Lilith was positively vocal in announcing every twist and turn, and the fact that the speed limit changed frequently had her ringing bells too. Then we arrived and since the currency changes (Czech, like the British are a member of the EU, but they're not Eurozone... dunno what that means exactly, but it does mean they have different money) Lilith directed us towards a hole-in-the-wall. Getting there was largely unsuccessful because roads were closed down and each time Paulo drove down another possible access route, Lilith kept screeching: 'Make a U-turn as soon as is possible'. Sure, Lilith doesn't screech, but after hearing that for the umpteenth time, it sounded a lot like it - heck, you'd swear we were married the way she goes on sometimes. Suffice to say that eventually we stopped as close as we could - because parking is impossible to find in this city - and I headed out on foot to find that the bank machine was bust. Resigned to failure, it was back to Paulo to ask Lilith for the nearest Hotel. Up came a 'Golden Tulip - Savoy' and memories of Gouda returned - we spent the evening of the 'Rotten-dam' episode in a Golden Tulip hotel and it wasn't totally dreadful, particularly since the service staff spoke English, even if the television didn't. And the wi-fi was free (or as free as can be considering the price of the room). Paulo drove us, under Lilith's direction, to the hotel and... Wow! The room is 25 metres long, true's Bob; I did giant John Cleese-like steps across it and they definitely come to twenty-five. In between these steps is a desk - at which I am penning this, a double bed that looks king-sized, a television cabinet with a telly in it that shows Sky News (I haven't bothered channel searching any further, it's just good to hear proper English again and can scarcely wait for to wake up to Eamonn and Charlotte for Sunrise), a conference table with eight chairs around it, two wardrobes and two bathrooms (the one has the the bathing facilities in it and the other the toilet-type facilities in it). All of which is very nice. Then it was off to town. It's exactly like Leipzig in the same way that chalk is to a cherub. If Hamburg was romantic, then this place is indubitably hanky-panky, and not just because of the obscure museum to sex machines exists in one of its back alleys. It's because of all of its back alleys. The place is a labyrinth of narrow streets inter-linking larger thoroughfares, and at every turn is another significant feature - invariably a church; because there's lots of them, each with a higher and more ornate steeple than the former. The cherub mention was not for sake of wit, but rather that there are many, many cherubs around this city... truly, they abound. Iconic cities, by my reckoning, can be identified by the number of 'tourist' shops they have - you know, those little places in which teaspoons, plates and saucers with landmarks imprinted upon them, and cuddly-toys stitched in the shape of local icons, are sold. Prague has many of these, more than Edinburgh for sure and almost as many as exist around London's most iconic centres (interestingly, there were none, absolutely zero, that were obvious around Hamburg). But the shops here are a little different; instead of British flags and Union Jack underwear, these shops have marionettes. You've never seen so many marionettes in your life and they take the form of everyone you've ever imagined - here there's Hitler, there there's Charlie Caplin; and here there's whatsitsname who currently runs Russia... I didn't see Boris Johnson though. And yeah, that's it. Prague is gorgeous. You'll love it, make a booking soon. Me, I'm going to hit the sack - in that gloriously-large king-sized bed. Tomorrow it's Serbia. Oh heck, didn't they have a war there recently? I'll have to wait to hear what the weather-girl predicts, lest we find another way to get around and into Romania!

Stark contrasts

You'd think that with a marijuana cafe next door, writing this blog would be easy. You'd be wrong though, it's closed, presumably Rastafarians also need a day off. Oh, and it is Sunday, so most of Germany is closed too. Which was a blessing on the road. Driving the Autobahn is a cathartic experience; there's no worry about being caught speeding because there are no speed limits. Why this brilliant idea hasn't caught on anywhere else in the world is mind-boggling. Paulo was in his element, Lilith was her usual dower self (but I'm warming to her), the music was on loud (although listening to the songs for a second time might not have been too bad, there is fear that those lovely tunes will soon become tiresome) and the miles simply peeled away. There were some suggestions that a tour of Germany should include the Black Forest. Which holds a problem - there's no 'Black Forest' on any of my maps and what's all the fuss about anyway? It seems to me that Germany is just one big forest with little blobs of civilisation in-between. I suppose I could have asked Lilith to find it, but it was nice to hear her being silent for a change. Which brings to mind something that everyone in South Africa used to say: "Speak Afrikaans when you're over there," they said knowledgeably, "It's almost like Dutch and German, and you'll be liked a lot more by the locals because they hate the English". Well bull to all of that. After speaking Afrikaans in Belgium, Holland and in Germany, I can honestly say no one had a clue as to what I was talking about. Speak English and everyone understands you. And you don't get those stupid stares either... But we digress... Leipzig was the destination for the day, and it seemed there would be more than enough time, so a way-point expedition was a distinct possibility. This was simply a matter of closing the eyes and plopping a finger down on the map somewhere between Hamburg and Leipzig. Gottingen was the result, and despite it being a Sunday and almost completely devoid of human life, it was beautiful; perfect even... Much like everything else in this country (This perfection is becoming a bit of an irritation really, just one upturned dustbin or something would be a welcome change to the norm.) In fact it is an example of what every medium sized-town should look like. And that's about as much as anyone can say for it. (It's a lot easier to write about stuff when it doesn't work than when it does; the journalists in Germany must be amongst the most bored and frustrated people in the world - which also, perhaps, explains the local population's penchant for media of the soft-porn variety). The real story begins where West Germany ends. It's almost as if there's a straight line drawn between East and West. Well actually there was, and there are sign posts depicting barb-wire fences and sentry towers to show where it was. But visibly the difference in the landscape is obvious... the forests, black of otherwise, disappeared and to be replaced by wind-farms in open fields. Miles and miles of them. The villages are visibly different too: those in the west are all very similar; there's a large church steeple in the middle with a bunch of houses placed snuggly and concentrically around it. These villages are always neatly tucked down in a valley - all dainty-like. The ones in the east are different; there's a huge chimney stack in the middle and you can't quite see what's under the stack because surrounding it are huge concrete blocks that, one assumes, are apartment buildings. They look a lot like prisons. Admittedly, I only saw one village that looked like this, but that was the only village I saw before getting to Leipzig. Other things I saw included a large power generating facility that looked decidedly nuclear and what might have been an oil-refinery. Whatever, it is all very depressing: One minute you're in a scene from a Christmas postcard and the next you're in the middle of a Dickens novel. George Orwell even. And then you arrive in Leipzig. Which somehow explains everything but leaves you clueless nonetheless. It gives you a headache. Truly it does. But someone has tried to make this miserable place look all perky and modern and vibrant and naff stuff like that. Coming into the town you cross two bridges; the first painted pink with yellow cross bars, the second painted purple with yellower-than-yellow crossbars. Then there's the road signs... Everywhere else the road signs are blue and white; here they're all black and yellow. It's glaring; like everything is a warning. But whatever the warning it doesn't prepare you for the city itself. It's weird. Decidedly weird. Initially it's so modern and lovely. All the way in, the roads are beautiful, the verges manicured, the traffic signals bright and new. Then you enter town and it's all these old buildings, but brand new. And there's something odd about them. Initially you don't see it, but your mind registers something wrong. But yeah, there it is... Everything has graffiti over it; they've tried to scrub some of it off the newer buildings but you can still the marks where it was. In some places they seem to have just given up trying to scrub it off, mostly around the train-station area. Walking around it gets even more strange. Here there's this magnificently refurbished building, bold and impressive; and next to it there something that might have been a building once, but now it's little more than a pile of rubble. Next to this there's a building in the throws of refurbishment. The new facade going up serving only as a new canvas for graffiti artists. It's like a major struggle between construction and destruction. The west is moving in and making everything new, but there's an anarchic east that is fighting relentlessly against progress. It's odd. Mind you, one can see why the German economy is so strong, they're building, and building, and building; all at a furious rate out here in the east. You see it in the new highways and the new buildings. Somehow everything feels plastic though. A city shouldn't be this new and try to look old. It just feels fake. Maybe that's the graffiti artists' point, maybe that's why they're protesting. But who knows, who can judge... I'm only here for a day; glad to have experienced it, but awfully glad to leave tomorrow too. Oh my, if this is what East Germany is like, what joys does the Czech Republic hold? Tomorrow... Prague... Gulp! And to think that the dagga joint next door is closed!

50 Shades of Grey

It was just after seven-thirty in the morning, but for all the dark wetness, it might as well have been as early as five. It had rained all night and it was still pissing down - sunrise was a non-event. The prospect of travelling to Amsterdam and closer the North Sea was not appealing. So eastwards we went with less-than-trustworthy Sat Nav leading the way; her voice as drab and monotonous as the unforgiving deluge that poured from the heavens. It was like this all the way to the German border; rain changing from intermittent to relentless, and back to intermittent again. Everything ahead; just grey... sometimes darker, sometimes lighter, but always shades of grey... About 50 shades if I was to hazard a guess. Certainly, a lot more than anyone would care to shake a windscreen-wiper at. The trip to Hamburg, Sat Nav had carefully calculated, would be 389 miles. Since we were reduced to less than 40 miles an hour in places, this was going to be an awfully long trip and it seemed that the 87 songs on the iPod would run out before the miles did. Strangely, the trip through the Netherlands passed relatively quickly - about two hours - and it was onto the Autobahn... The little Polo, who has been baptised Paulo-the-Polo, was thrilled to be in the country of his origin and quickly revved himself up to over 100 miles and hour. For all of about two miles, then we hit traffic and Sat Nav, bright lass that she is, informed us of this fact after we'd been crawling along at 15 miles an hour for the past 20 minutes. This was followed by construction on the road. On-and-on the construction went, providing plenty of opportunity to take in the surrounds. Germans drive German cars, and most drive VWs. There are more makes of VW in Germany than anywhere else and they have makes that no one outside of Germany has probably ever heard of. None of the Germans drive a VW Go! or Lupo though; one suspects the Germans sell these to the British as some sort of joke. Golfs alone come in all sorts, there's a station wagon type and a peculiar Golf Plus that looks like a people-carrier. Others drive BMWs and Mercs; but whatever they drive, they only come in two colours: Black and grey - but admittedly, there's a lot of shades of grey. About 50 if I was to hazard a guess. Certainly more than you could rev your engine at. There is a lot of white too though. Frankly, there's way too much white. These take the form of motor-homes and caravans and it seems there's almost as many of them as there are normal passenger cars. And they slow the traffic. If there's any colour in this part of the world, then it is at the many roadside petrol stops, and it can be found in the uppermost shelves of the magazine racks. Truly, the folk in this part of the world have quite a thing for porn - there's rows and rows of it. I've always thought that if I bought Playboy then it would be for the insightful articles, sadly here, I don't know the language and would be reduced to looking at the pictures which aren't at all grey. I leave these little pit-stops with cups of caffeine-sans-Jameson's-because-we're-driving and wistful thoughts of warmer climes where clothing is less a necessity than it is a fashion option. We left Gouda at a cheesy seven-thirty; we pulled into Hamburg - the rain eventually dissipating - a little after three in the afternoon. Seven-and-a-half hours in all, and all there was to see along the way was 50 shades of grey and the odd seductive hint of colour. But the joy of arriving! The sun and blue sky burst out in welcome and Paulo purred in delight. Well, not really purred as such, but rather made generally happy engine sounds. Sat Nav, who really does need a name, struggled to get her tongue around the street names but got us to the motel without too much fuss. After checking in, it was out again and Sat Nav found us an actual shopping mall, which had actual automatic bank tellers. So, with brass in pocket, it was off to find the centre of town. And what a centre it was... To describe it here would be folly... View the photos and make your own judgment (although the Rough Guide To Europe On A Budget describes Hamburg as such: 'Germany's second city is infamous for the sleaze and hectic nightlife of the Reeperbahn strip...' - It's the primary reason I chose to visit it!). Save to say that I was impressed even if I didn't make it to the strip. It was the people who impressed me the most though. Like their cars they all wear black... and grey. Many shades of grey, perhaps as many as 50. Certainly more than you could shake a knitting needle (or soft-porn magazine) at. Oh, and I've concluded that Sat Nav's name is Lilith (those who have watched Frasier will understand), it just seems appropriate and, to be fair, grey (in any shade) suits her.