Rhineland Gander

The quest for the cheapest fare for Germany required a combination of bus journeys that defied logic. Backtracking West, I start the trip in Galway, where I arrive shortly before midnight amidst the hostel receptionist’s surprise. Outside the sultry dorm, the Bohemian Capital of Ireland seems to blast with life, though I fall asleep almost immediately.
A few hours later, I sip on orange juice, cram around toast with butter and jam and jump on the first bus to the hills of County Mayo.

At Ireland West Airport in Knock, the tale explains the facilities were built by a local entrepreneur without council permission, claiming the Virgin of Knock wanted such facility on top of a hill.
The terminal is small yet cozy. Three gates call for Birmingham, London and Frankfurt. I score extra legroom at the emergency exit row and right on time, we soar over patches of green  only Ireland knows how to present as lively.

Frankfurt Hahn Airport still retains some of its war times charm. Small, basic and unwelcoming, the terminal inexpressively stands in the middle of fields and former bunkers under the scorching thirty seven degrees Celsius. I welcome the heat, for now.

The bus turns at sharp bends and joins a state-of-art autobahn at Koblenz. We are hitting one hundred miles per hour, though there are not really any speed limits on Germany’s motorway system. Two hours later, we cross over a long bridge spanning over the Rhine River and I get off at Cologne.

My friend waves from afar and we run towards each other in a suffocating hug. Colds beers are needed and enjoyed on the steps leading towards the impressive Cathedral, standing proud over a Hauptbanhof -the Central Station- boiling with end of the day commuters.

When it is dark, my friend and I take a tram to her flat in Ehrenfeld, the night blowing a hot breeze over late barbecues and late picnickers unwinding around tea lights and checkered tablecloths. I try German dishes and wash the stuffiness of butter and pork with a pint of refreshing local Kolsch.

My friend cedes me her flat and sleeps at her boyfriend’s some few streets away. I open the windows in a frustrated attempt to grasp some fresh air though I end up having a terribly hot night sweating stuck to the bedsheets.

At Koln Sud in the morning, we stop for mozarella and salami sandwiches before hoping on a train that leaves exactly on the dot, with that efficiency only Germans -and Japanese- can achieve. The four of us, my friend, her boyfriend, myself and the dog, the same dog I saw three years ago as a puppy in Bolivia, travel for twenty four minutes in the heat of a crowded train that meets its terminus at Bonn.

‘A short walk from the station and we arrived at the apartment where my friend parents live and where she grew up. Bonn is different from Cologne as it looks elegant and settled. The houses look more elaborate and the ceilings are high. As the neighbours were preparing for a communal barbecue, we were suggested to walk down the city centre and head to the Rhine River -or Mother Rhine as locally known- for a nice summer dip in its refreshingly murky waters’.
We follow suit and do as told. I take my top off in the tiny sand strand and dip in the warm water. The current moving as fast as the ships heading from Central Europe to the North Sea with a deceitful stillness.
At Bonn University, we explore the counter effects of a summer sunburn with the sugar rush of an ice cream. When the heat seems to finally declare truce, the backyard is turned into a international festival of food, a communal experience of barbecues, cold dishes, Moroccan couscous, freshly cut fruit, bottles of Riesling and candle lights.
Midnight and still at thirty one degrees Celsius. Sleeping once again becomes impossible and I grab the keys for a late night walk around a neighbourhood lined with Turkish food outlets and young students sipping on beers while skating.
My last day in Cologne is reserved for the standard sightseeing. I enter the  1248-built Dom and awe at the time it took to be built more than anything else (in case you are wondering, it was finished in 1880, some 552 years after its construction officially started). The Dom also possesses the biggest church bell in the world and at 157 meters height, it is one of the highest and most impressive cathedrals in the world.
A hike up the observation deck at 100 meters of altitude, no lifts or escalators, provides with the most perfect view of a city as young and vibrant as its own history. A history of rebuilding and reinvention after the war.
The Old Town has preserved some of this history within its walls. Old German restaurants offer overpriced schnitzel and sausages to tourists that pay prime for a meal with a view of the Rhine. It is refreshingly showery by the time I take the tram out of the tourist area and meet my friend for dinner.

We sip on cocktails and have heavily buttered beef before retreating across the river for a final walk over the bridge. I return the keys and say my goodbyes before the night turns in. At four in the morning, I walk through the starkness of a summer night in ‘Little Istanbul’ and catch my bus to Hahn as the sun rises over the hills, over Dusseldorf.

Two flights check in next to each other. I feel tempted to change for Dublin though I already know the answer. A flight for Dublin leaves two minutes before my flight to Knock. My seat mates are tourist heading to Ireland for a hike in the cold, I am heading to the cold where I normally hike.

It is a long thirteen-hour trip from Cologne to Portobello. A bus from Knock to Galway, another bus to Dublin and a walk in the summer evening.I shower and walk to the nearby canal with a can of beer. I sit on the jetty and become jittery. In a few days, I will be backpacking in Africa for a month and will not be returning to Ireland. Instead, I will withdraw Pounds instead of Euros, for I will land in England, ready to start a Masters degree in Coventry.

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