Side Trip to Dresden

The Hauptbahnhof (main train station) in Berlin is a thing of wonder - and much like Berlin itself: clean, well-marked, bustling, and full of shops. We decided against first-class tickets to Dresden, but did spring for the roughly five-dollar a piece uptick for reserved, non-smoking, window seat even though we were assured that there would be plenty of seats available. 

Our reservations were clearly marked: car 257, seats 25 and 26.

What were not clearly marked were the cars themselves.

With no conductors in sight, and figuring it would be easy enough to find the right car once onboard, we crowded on to the train (a through train from Hamburg heading on to Dresden, Prague, and Vienna).

Finding our seats was one little adventure in traveling.

The car that we found ourselves on was packed - and I mean horizontal version of the last helicopter out of Saigon packed - with students. Students lolling. Students reading. Students playing cards. Students sleeping. Students making out. Each student was accompanied by a backpack large enough to contain his or her döppelganger.

The train lurched out of the station, and we tried to make our way through - to where we knew not. By we did know we wanted out of what was clearly a non-reserved car. Or at least what I hoped was a non-reserved car. It did appear to have an occasional seat or two that was reserved.

What little space was available in the aisles was packed with the newly boarded Berlin passengers, moving in both directions, and each carrying their own döppelganger-sized bag. We had shrewdly left our larger bag in Berlin and were traveling with a small roll-on suitcase and my modest little (laptop-only) backpack. (I know that we had decided to go second class rather than first, but it was hard to believe that this wasn't a class in itself. Like steerage. I flashed on Leo DiCaprio step-dancing with the other doomed passengers on the Titanic.)

Our progress through the car from hell - hot and redolent of meaty sandwich and smoke-infused clothing (no one, blessedly, was smoking) - was facilitated by a young, buff German policeman, traveling in uniform, who was able to block his way through the throng.

Progress towards what, however? No one seemed to be able to tell us where car 257 was.

At last we saw a sign on the window of the car from hell. It was 258.

Fingers crossed, we pushed on.

At one point I said to my husband, "So much for German efficiently."

A German woman also making her way through our "line" turned to me and said in clipped English, "The is a Czech train, not German."

After that, I noticed that the signage was in Czech.

Still no sight of 257.

At last we broke through to a less crowded, fully reserved car and, making the assumption that this was the mythic car 257, we took seats 25 and 26.

Relief.

(Only readers who know my husband will fully understand just how relieved I was. I'm sure that Jim was looking for one of those brake-pulls and would have been happy to stop the train and hop off in the middle of nowhere.)

The remainder of the journey to Dresden was uneventful.

Dresden itself is quite interesting, with its combination of stark and dreary Communist era buildings, and 18th century confections straight out of Amadeus. The centerpiece is the recently restored Dom/Frauenkirche, the Protestant cathedral, which was turned to rubble during the 1945 Dresden fire-bombing, and left by the Communists as a reminder of war (and, presumably, as a "reminder" of how terrible the West really is).

Well, the Communists are now gone, and the Dom has been meticulously restored through a combination of brilliant archeology, architectural sleuthing, and craftsmanship. Just beautiful.

The Communist regime did leave its own architectural "gems" behind, including the hideous, moderne philharmonic hall, sporting a Soviet-realism mural picturing (presumably) heroes of the revolution. I didn't really recognize anyone other than Karl Marx, but he actually looked more like Charlie Manson, so who knows?

Unlike Berlin, and despite its supposed 7 million visitors a year, Dresden if far less touristic (read: less English-language oriented). This has largely manifest itself in restaurant menus, which seem to be available in German only. (It is, after all, their country.)

We were able to order a decent enough lunch, avoiding a sandwich that sounded like it combined ham, gouda, and tuna. But we had a more difficult time at dinner.

I could translate the entree as stuffed chicken breast with rice and mushrooms, which we both ordered, but I didn't think to ask the waitress (English-speaking) just what it was stuffed with.

Who'd have thought of liverwurst and spinach?

But we are adults, and were able to soldier through the meal, even though the liverwurst and spinach combo was mighty strong.

Back to our hotel for a nightcap, I was thinking cup of tea when I noticed a small menu for smoothies.

Most of them sounded pretty good.

Until I got half-way down the list.

Could this be right?

Red-beet juice. Sauerkraut juice. Lemon juice. Salt and pepper.

My stomach is still a tad tender. (Vaste-basket, bitte.)

I hate to play the ugly American, but this smoothy surely loses something in the translation.

Anyway, we're back off to Berlin.

At least this time we know the train ropes - at least enough to avoid getting on car 258 to begin with.