Eventually everyone woke up and Flore returned home. We serenaded her with bad George Thorogood blues improvs and “Unchained Melody” en Espanol. We said farewell in a parking lot and our hearts bled tiny French tears.
The Black Forest of Germany has provided a wealth of inspiration, from Hansel & Gretel to Rick Steves. The Bitter Tears decided to see what all the spooky fuss was about. Since it was still constantly cold and no one brought a tent, camping was ruled out. Perhaps a hotel or a motel along the way would give us a nice night’s rest. We encountered a few buildings that said “hotel” but turned out to be residential condos or hillbilly hideouts. I peeked through a dust-crusted lobby door only to see a scattered assortment of tools.
“Maybe ‘hotel’ means ‘tool shed,” Alan speculated.
Mike drove us up the breath-taking spine of the forest, reaching elevations of over a gazillion kiloliters. Ready for a break, Reid and I walked into a giant Shining-esque lodge and inquired about rooms. An annoyed woman trudged out, greeting us with a frown. We used words like “euros” and “how many” and numbers like “for” and “four”, but she would not understand us. I used the noun word “room” and she seemed very surprised to learn that we had come to the hotel looking for a room.
“Ohhhhh! Rooooom.”
She frowned some more and shook her head “no”, then waved us away. As we retreated, I overheard her screaming at her husband, a poor wood cutter, and then locking away her two step children overnight with only bread and water.
Every enormous hotel we came across seemed deserted. Greg pointed out how easily these abandoned barns could be squatted for the night. It became apparent that the Black Forest is just one huge ski resort. Of course! Why would anyone ever want to come here in the warm months when you can hike through its gloriously green trails? That would be fucken stoopid, right?
Thankfully, a wonderful lodge on a crest overlooking the endless hues of the forest was open and had vacancies. But! The rooms were only 86 Euros per person, and we would never stay at a hotel that seemed so cheap and desperate. The walls probably crawled with roaches made of rubies, and I’ll bet you couldn’t drink the water because the faucets only gushed caviar. No thanks, fleabags.
It got dark as Mike navigated us frustratingly through the tiny farm roads and Sunday ghost towns of rural Germany. We arrived in Zurich around midnight and found a hostel. In its lobby some English blokes debated music, trying to educate a bird in the process.
“Oh, I thought The Clash was a type of music.”
Two Arian kids were poring over their recently purchased KISS merchandise, marveling as they unrolled posters and smoothed T-shirts. I paid five Swiss Franks for instant ramen in a bucket. For lunch I had eaten something called a doner box, which is a doner kebob sans pita served in a box. I was going to sleep in a splintered wooden crate, but decided to bunk it up Boy Scout style with the boys in the hostel. Greg spent the night in the van, pretending it was a spacious Black Forest squathaus.
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