What to Do?

October 7

Fatigued after our wonderful day touring Cotswolds villages with Colin, we slumped at the desk at the Lygon Arms dining room. We weren’t hungry, but knew we’d want sustenance a bit later and needed a reservation. Max – garrulous and ever-present – was in attendance with soulful, statuesque Petra, who had been our server at breakfast. Both were perfectly suited to the service industry, for they made us feel like welcome old friends from our first meeting. 

As enchanted as I’d been throughout our tour, my anxiety about the next day’s whirl of train rides and connections had returned, and Max and Petra were kind in their sympathy as I burdened them with our itinerary and my worry. 

"Would it help if I send breakfast to your room? Around 7:00? You wouldn’t have to take the time to come down to the dining hall. Maybe that would relieve a little stress?” said Max.

Touched by his kindness and the thought of such an indulgence, I was incredulous. “Wow. You could do that?”

“Of course! Happy to!”

After we settled on a breakfast hour, Petra said, “so, are you ready for dinner?"

We were not and weren’t sure when we’d be hungry, so Petra said, “You go rest. I’ll reserve a table for you, and you come down when you’re ready.” Oh, to be cared for with such warmth was a gift … as was our dinner of gnocchi with spiced squash and crisped sage and deliciously decadent sticky toffee pudding.

October 8

Dispirited, Dave and I sat on a platform bench encircled by our over-sized luggage and smaller bags. Other travelers marched by, their trim suitcases with surfaces of a smart metallic or business-perfect navy blue rolling easily on four wheels. In comparison, the wheels of my suitcase had been shedding their casings like some long-distance trailer truck dropping its re-treads, making their roll rocky. 

We had left The Lygon Arms at 7:50 am. Petra had rushed out to hug us good-bye and tell me not to stress out. She struck a dramatic pose and blew us a kiss as we climbed into the taxi. 

So began the journey I had dreaded for weeks: taxi to Evesham, Evesham to Paddington, Paddington to St. Pancras International Station, St. Pancras to Brussels, Brussels to Frankfurt, Frankfurt to Wurzburg. Or at least, that was the plan.

We’d made it as far as Brussels and had disembarked with a crowd of passengers rushing to whatever was next. A cheerful young woman bearing a heavy backpack told us she was catching the same connection as us and trotted off. We tried to follow her, but hampered as we were by our massive bags, we lost sight of her in the crush of people. 

Where to go? No signs to other platforms, so we followed the surge. We saw a staircase to the right, but no way could we manage it dragging our bags. A line had formed for two elevators, so the only option was to join the queue. It was a long wait. 

Once attained, the main concourse was awash with people in a hurry. Yes, there were signs, but written in an unintelligible language – maybe Dutch? – and the times indicated were beyond my math skills: 13:05… was that 1:05 or what? I felt frantic, near teary, and my arms were aching from lugging my enemy of a suitcase. Desperately, we scanned the multitudes for anyone who looked official. 

A burly guy in a red vest with badges and a walkie talkie looked promising. He was patient, helpful, and… regretful as he checked his phone for our train’s status. 

“It looks like that train has departed,” he said. He scrolled a bit more, seemingly as hopeful as I was that he was wrong. But no. At my stricken expression, he gestured down the concourse.  “There… there. Go to the international desk. They will help.” He ushered us over to a handsome lad with startling blue eyes who was wearing that same red vest and then disappeared. 

Did I thank the burly guy? I don’t think so. Dave would never fail in that, but he was trailing behind with our heaviest bag. I was so flustered, so upset, and I had mentally moved on, focused on the young guy and finding out what we should do. Still, I hate that I didn’t thank that man.

Blue Eyes was sympathetic but gently accusing. “The train was on time. You…?  What happened? Trouble with your bags? Why…?”

I did not shriek, “Why aren’t there more signs? Where were your red-vested colleagues when we needed them? Two elevators?  Are you serious? You gave us only 17 minutes to figure this out on our own??! ” No. I said none of that. Showing amazing self-control, I said, “Too many people waiting for the lifts.”  

Despite his obvious intent to blame our dilemma on us, he scanned our tickets, transferred them to another train, and directed us to Track 10. There we sat surrounded by our bags to wait another hour and a half. 

Glitches are inevitable while traveling, at least for Sylvestros, but maybe this was meant to be. Once we were seated on the next train to Frankfurt, we shared the coach with Susan, Benjamin, two-year-old Justus, and five-year-old Hemmings. A joy.

Inveterate travelers undaunted by two children, they were returning home to Cologne having spent time in London. “The other day, we were picking up stones along the Thames and throwing them in the water. A boat went by and kicked up a wake. I was not fast enough," said Benjamin, “and Justus fell in.” He gestured the length of his son’s body and said, “He needed new clothes and new shoes.” Justus grinned and looked very pleased about his emerald-green Incredible Hulk tee-shirt.

*

While the Wurzburg train station was neon-bright, disorienting, at 1:30 AM, outside on the street, it was dark, damp, and raw. Disheveled and tired from our frustrating day of travel, we gazed out over ripples of trolley tracks into a city asleep. I had the address of our hotel, and a vague memory of its location as represented on the tiny map on the website I had viewed on my computer at home weeks ago. I prayed it was as close as I thought, but even so, how to find it? It was hard not to cry.

Off to our left was a line of taxis, so we headed over, dragging our bags, hoping someone spoke English. Three drivers leaned against their vehicles chatting and smoking. Would they be honest and not pass up the chance for a fare?

Their English was minimal and even after months of studying on Duolingo, I speak nur ein bisschen Deutsch – only a little German. The five of us huddled close over my now lined and crumpled itinerary as I showed them the address of the Hotel Wurzburgerhof. 

“Is close… I can give a ride?” said one kindly. Perhaps he sensed I was too close to tears to push. I’d made these plans, and they were my responsibility. I didn’t want to drag Dave on a mis-chosen search. I shook my head no, and with a slashing motion of his hand, the man indicated that the hotel was straight ahead, just down the road. 

So, weary, worried, and nervous, we hauled our bags over the trolley tracks and across a thoroughfare that would be a madhouse of cars and motorbikes come daylight. We rattled on, stillness all around us. 

In essence, the men had said, “Soon… a sign.” Two blocks ahead, we could see a vertical neon “HOTEL,” but the facade didn’t look anything like the picture on the website. Whatever. No other choice.  

When we pulled up to the hotel, it was not ours, there were no lights inside, and only a keypad combination lock next to the door. In despair, we scanned our surroundings, seemingly sketchy in the dark. What to do? 

As happened in London, an option was for one of us to stay with the bags while the other went back to the taxi drivers for clarity. “Not gonna happen,“ said Dave. Or, we could return together? Unappealing given our fatigue and weighty bags.   

By now, it was close to 2:00 AM, and there were no signs of life… until a young blond woman carrying a pizza box rounded a corner.

Thank heavens. Literally. I thanked the Heavens, for surely this girl was heaven sent.  

No doubt she was surprised to see two aging travelers surrounded by suitcases standing forlornly in the street. She spoke some English and juggled her pizza box while fumbling for her phone to pull up a map.   

“You are close, “ she said. “See here? Go left, past the bus stop.” Our heads nearly touched as we leaned over her cell… the girl, the map, and the phone, light banishing the darkness. 

Fifteen minutes later, Dave and I were crammed into a tiny lift at the Wurzburgerhof with our cursed bags and a room key in hand.