Hamburg: Understand

Germany's the first place we encounter where English isn't an option.  To get to Berlin we have to switch trains in Hamburg.  Which sounds easy enough when you're as optimistic as we are, and so foolishly self-gullible.  When the German countryside turns to suburbs, then city, I know it's Hamburg because my finger follows our train on the map while my eyes are glued to the windows.  These cities in Europe are so intriguing.  There's an age and a vintage to them that I still can't get over, something notably lacking in the States I've seen.  But enough about that, we have to change trains here.  So we get off at the first stop that says Hamburg in the title, and like that the train's off again and we're alone on the platform.  A few lazy-faced Germans are meandering around.  This is Hamburg?  We walk towards the station at the end of the platform.  It's rather small and unimpressive, which is strange because I'd always thought Hamburg to be quite a large city.  Inside we find the information desk and behind the counter is an old, jolly pudge of a man with just a couple a' wisps of white hair on his head and a pair of thick spectacles set on the bridge of his nose that made his eyes look googly.  He see's us coming and tilts his head so that he may look down at us, probably thinking to himself, "Look at these young foreign ruffians, going off in their jibber-jabber."  Or however you think that in German.

For we soon find out with a question, "English?" that he speaks not a lick of it.  And he turns to the two old ladies on each side of him and shrugs his inability at them with his best face that says, "I don't know."  But in German.  Unfortunately, neither of them speak any English either.  All we can think to do is say, "Where. To. Berlin?" and point in different directions and look like sad, little puppy dogs that can't find their way.  Who knows if it works, but one of the kind ladies motions us close and points on a map with index finger, sliding her finger between two tiny stops on the line we'd just hopped off.  Saying stuff in German, just real slow for us to understand.  I mean, the last part's useless, but we look at where she's pointing and, oh hey, what'd'ya know, we've gotten off at the wrong stop entirely.  We're not even in Hamburg proper.  It's three more stops to Hamburg Central.  Silly us, standing there laughing at the silliness of it.  Prayer-hands thanks with Asian bows, smiling and shaking our heads at ourselves.  We catch the next train into the main terminal, and it's like, duh, this is what the Hamburg Station should look like.

It's all old glass and black, worn iron shaped like an enormous airplane hanger.  Ten sets of tracks coming in, and a McDonald's - of all things - sitting on top with some other restaurants.  We check the time-board, and there's an hour to kill before the next train to Berlin.  And we're starving.  But, eh, not quite in the mood for golden arches, so we poke around.  I want something super German.  Grant and Max do too because hey, we're in Germany now.  Maybe it'll all be easier to understand after that.  There's a bratwurst place with a bar just inside the station, and when we look at the menu, it tells us that the beer is cheaper than soda, cheaper than juice.  Oh, I understand that just fine, even if it doesn't make any sense.  "Hahaa, well guys, it looks like the best thing to do here, financially anyways, would be to purchase the beer with this meal."  Well if you say so, Germany.  Grant gets a Stella.  The guy behind the bar pours the head perfect.  Max and I each get one with names we've never seen before, and we all order bratwurst and potatoes.  Enormous.  When it comes out, they're on huge plates and the sausage is huge with a small mountain of buttery potatoes on the side.  Now, that's what I'm talking about.  America servings!  It's no light Danish snack, if you know what I mean.  We chomp with all the due vigor of starving travelers, and the beer settles it nicely.  The train to Berlin is a food coma, dreams of green countryside and the train's soft sway to Miike Snow.  Wake-up.  Berlin.