DE to NZ 6 - Back in the Fray

 

Fundățica - Bucharest (Romania)

Uber - 48.8 km (1 hour)

Cost €40

Regional Train - 166 km (2h 45 mins)

Cost €18

Total distance travelled - 2,813 km

When it came time to leave Mama Țica and her seven unkempt dogs to their farm amid the mountains, it was Nico, our friendly Uber driver, who came to pick us up. The trip to the Brasov train station was only 50 km, but for the transformation which took place around us Nico's silver van may as well have been Doc Brown's Delorean. We had hardly departed the forest-muted valley, when we found ourselves crowded by cars in front of Gara Centrală Brașov, the communist era station building spread like a giant concertina before us.

Noting our towering backpacks and air of bewilderment, the ticket vendor asked if we were Ukrainian refugees (as they travel for free). After assuring her our exile was self-imposed, we booked the next train to Bucharest. The tickets for the roughly 3 hour trip cost 90 Lei (€18) for two adults and one child - the younger two, being under 6, would be free loading again. Wending our way through the station's hustle, we found a cafe staffed by two young women with tattoos and rockabilly bangs. The flat white, served in a cardboard cup and complete with fern-like pattern on its surface, confirmed our return to civilisation. Suddenly, we were back in the fray.

We found our carriage almost empty with coach style seating and a first class section concealed behind a faded yellow curtain. Locating our seats, we quickly slipped into our travel routine. For the two older kids, that meant drawing, audio books and snacks (today a bag of Mama Tica's renowned Golgos). Our toddler preferred to totter up and down the aisles collecting smiles, winks and the odd sweet or two. J and I took turns to shuffle along with her, stooped so she could grip our fingers, while bracing against the lurch of the train.

Our route took us south along the Prahova river, through Grimm's Brother forests concealing timeless Transylvanian villages. It felt a shame to leave a place of such beauty for a city whose reputation for ugliness and petty crime was legendary. But an unforeseen dental appointment beckoned, and Bucharest was the next big city down the line. We would be spending three nights in an apartment in the old town. Eventually, we left the shadow of the Carpathians and coasted onto the Romanian plain - the eastern fringe of the vast Eurasian Steppe. The sky opened wide as we travelled through mainly rural countryside, the train gradually filling. As I watched the landscape lose its charm, my trepidation towards the big city deepened. Then, just as the kids were getting scratchy, we plunged into the urbanisation and industry of Bucharest.

The journey from our platform at Bucureşti Gara de Nord to our accommodation was like moving through a time-lapse. In contrast to the previous eight days of mountainous solitude, it was a Dadaist din of lights, limbs and voices roiling around us. On the subway, I felt unkempt. I watched our kids gape at the milieu, grasping their walking staffs like talismans from the forest. Emerging from the underground station at Piata Unirii, we were dazzled by a network of flashing neon fountains. Streams of traffic coursed bafflingly through the sprawling waterworks around us. I turned to my phone for guidance, trusting the line of blue dots to navigate us to safety. Keeping each other within arm's reach, we joined the flow.

Following the directions to our accommodation, it became apparent that the historic centre of Bucharest was not the quaint refuge of cobbled streets and pigeoned plazas we had imagined. Entering the pedestrianised zone, the rush of traffic was replaced by the thump of pop music and the smell of red bull, spilt beer and burnt pizza. Hawkers and schemesters prowled through the excited crowds touting everything from glow in the dark necklaces to budgerigars. Young people flashed menus and promises of happy hour at us, but all we wanted was to find our apartment, unload our backpacks and take a breath. Our son, in an attempt to raise his own spirits, said at one point, "Well, at least we're not staying here..." At that moment, I looked at my phone, pointed at a "Guinness" sign and said, "That's our gate."

Thankfully, the apartment which greeted us past the dank stairwell was clean, tidy and homely. Over the next couple of days, (despite the lack of sleep, induced partly by our restless one year old partly by the crappy music hammering through the walls) we boarded the rattling trams and explored the city.

Bucharest thrums with a frenetic energy which I didn't expect to find in the former Eastern Bloc. At times it felt a little unhinged, like a rickety carnival ride straining at the joints, During our visit we ate char grilled trout served whole on mounds of salad; picked through heaving mounds of grapes, and potatoes still blinking in the daylight; we cautiously stepped into churches drenched in incense and paintings of long faced men; all while steering our kids through the maelstrom of erratic drivers, cagey strays, muttering addicts and soiled streets.

We had been toying with the idea of visiting Romania's Black Sea coast, but were promptly put off by a goateed Uber driver who said it would be too windy and cold in October, we should go to Greece or Turkey instead. We could catch the night train straight to Istanbul but that would mean travelling straight through Bulgaria, a country I was looking forward to exploring. After weighing up our options, we decided to take the slow option - it had worked for us so far. We would travel over the border to Ruse, which my guide book called the Bulgarian Vienna. It would mean reconnecting with the Danube, over 1000 kms downstream from where we last crossed it at Budapest. Leaving Romania with plans to return some day (la revedere) we set our sights on our next destination: Bulgaria, an enigmatic country renowned for its mountains, monasteries and mystics.

DE to NZ 5 - Bear Breath

 

Brașov - Fundățica (Romania)

Uber - 48.8 km (1 hour)

Cost €40

Total distance travelled - 2598 km

It was settled, we were going for a walk. Remus wanted to take us further up the valley to his property beyond the woods. We were keen for one more scope of the mountains which had enthralled us over the past week, so with a bread bag packed with Mama Țica’s village-renowned Golgos (deep fried doughnuts) we set off over the sodden paddocks. All seven dogs were accompanying us on this trip, which I took no small comfort in. The chill was still fresh in my bones from two days before when, ten minutes after my son and I came across fresh bear poo, he called excitedly “Look Papa, a baby bear!” In the end, it was only a tree stump, but the hairs didn't rest on my neck until the creak of the pine forest was well behind us.

I was pleased to see the dogs, a scruffy mountain rabble with names like Haiduc and Zamora, combing the countryside around us. I also knew that Remus, a retired police officer with a thick black moustache and a head of tight curls, had a pistol and cattle prod stowed alongside his plastic bottle of Palinka (homemade brandy). Striding forth with the confidence of a born and bred Carpathian, he led us to the opening on the woods edge from which the cattle emerged every afternoon. The dull clang of their bells and the throaty holler of the cow-herd had been one of the events which marked the passage of the day here on the farm.

Since arriving, we had quickly fallen into the rhythm of life in Fundățica, a tiny village in southern Transylvania. We were staying where the road trailed off into forest, in a renovated 150 year old farmhouse with a neck-achingly low ceiling and bright traditional blankets covering the walls. Our host was Mama Țica, a tireless woman with a spark in her eye and calloused hands who supplied most of our meals between tending the farm. A widow (she still wore the traditional headscarf of the married woman), she was aided in her toil by her daughter Carmen and son-in-law Remus. Though we didn't share a language, the warmth in Mama Țica's smile needed no translation. Our kids slipped comfortably into country life - our youngest happy to totter among the chooks and our two oldest each "adopting" a dog for our stay. It was a joy to watch them explore and thrive in this stripped back, slower setting.

As we clambered up the pugged and rocky trail, our youngest decided it was time for a feed, and there was no dissuading her. If the hounds and firearms didn't keep the bears at bay, this hollering, hangry human surely would. Eventually, we emerged into a clearing. Remus proudly swept his arm before him and then placed his open palm to his chest. This was his land. Of the house in which his mother grew up, only stubbled foundations remained. The ubiquitous wooden hay barn stood firm, however. In Transylvania, the grass is scythed by hand, raked into piles and lugged up wooden ladders into the loft to dry. An act which Mama Țica, a woman of 70, performed with an agility that put my clambering attempt to shame.

With energy to burn, my kids challenged me to a foot race. Knowing that my days of outpacing them were numbered, I thought I would chalk up another victory. Little did we know that as we ran, we awakened something in Remus. “No, no, no!” he marched forth, waving a finger in the air. He then measured out twenty metres, stood at the finish line and declared “Again!” The kids ran, Remus shook his head. A demonstration was in order. He crouched, rose up on fingers and toes, poised, then exploded forth. Chin set determinedly, forehead arteries bulging, legs and arms pumping like pistons, Remus stormed over his paddock, leaving stalks of grass swaying in his palinka-scented wake. As he honed my kids' sprinting skills (shaving a couple of seconds off both of their times, I should add), I had to laugh. This impromptu athletics training session, high in a Transylvanian meadow, conducted in a rickety combination of sign language, German, English, and Romanian, was one of those absurd yet magic moments of travel which at once justify all the stress and uncertainty of setting out into the unknown.

Later, as we crossed lush paddocks studded with clover and dandelion, the craggy Bucegi mountain range holding court before us, we encountered a local farmer. After a swig from Remus' spirits, he told of his close encounter with a mother bear and cub in that very field the previous day. He was just now checking the cows, which had been understandably spooked and had spent the night in the barn. Leaving with our canine convoy, I had to admire his gruff courage as he loped off by himself.

On returning to Mama Țica's, we had time to shed our damp socks and freshen up before the barbecue was lit. We were leaving the following day so this would be our last meal together. The succulent grilled meat was accompanied by cheese, wine and wild berry liquer all of which was home made. When Remus produced his accordion, his hearty renditions of Romanian folk songs were translated to us by his son (a mountain runner which, with his lineage, was practically inevitable).

It was the perfect end to the evening and to an unforgettable week. It had been an inspiring stay, a reminder of how fulfilling a simple life can be. The alpine atmosphere, fresh farm produce and respite from a frantic modern world had recharged our spirits. As awesome as the nature which surrounded us was, my greatest admiration was for the folk who live among it. I will always remember those hardy, happy souls of the Carpathians, who share the crisp mountain air with wolf and bear.

As sad as we were to leave, it was time to continue our journey. Although Fundățica felt a world away from Berlin, our destination in New Zealand was still a long way off. The next day we would be travelling to Bucharest, where we would be yearning for Mama Țica's home cooked meals sooner than expected.

Next Post: Back in the Fray

DE to NZ 4 - On the Brink

 

Budapest, Hungary - Brașov, Romania

Romanian Rail Night Train 473 - 699 km (13 hours)

Cost €180

Total distance travelled - 2549km

We left Budapest under a golden gloaming, a rainbow smeared on the horizon. Our bellies were packed as full as our backpacks thanks to an Asian food court (simply called Asian Street Food Budapest) which J had scouted out on Google maps. The unassuming entrance, directly opposite Keleti main station, led us to a bustling array of restaurants surrounding a central dining area. Undoubtedly our best meal to date, the sushi, hotpot and fried tofu we ordered were accompanied by chortling water features, bonsai trees and a pumping K-pop soundtrack. After wallowing in the Hungarian capital, this unexpected taste of Asia was the perfect kickstart to our adventure East,

To add to our good spirits, we were cheerfully welcomed onto our train by our Romanian conductor, and we found our compartment to be tidy, not as cramped as expected and with fresh bedding provided. The kids, excited to be getting our adventure underway again, quickly chose their beds and set to unpacking their soft toys, pyjamas and books. Our four beds were narrow, comfortable (if a little firm) and sloped slightly to the wall. The two upper bunks could be accessed by a movable metal ladder and there was a cavity above the door large enough for all of our luggage. The window could be opened fully which was just as well as the heat regulator by the door was unresponsive. With little information to go on, we had been planning for the worst - so were happy with our digs for the night. The buoyant mood was soured slightly when a beer (opened prematurely in the excitement) was spilled, meaning that for the rest of the 13-hour trip our compartment smelled like a Dunedin student flat.

Perhaps it was the stench of alcohol that caused the Hungarian border control to take a second look at my passport. Romania, despite being a member of the EU, is not yet a part of the Schengen visa zone, which meant that, when we crossed the border at about midnight, we had to go through the formalities. I think the confusion was caused by my New Zealand passport which, being new, didn’t have an entry stamp for the Schengen zone. Eventually the two female officials, whose kindness was evident through the cracks in their stern front, became convinced I wasn't on the lam and with a swift strike of their stamp, we were free to continue our journey. Aside from that and a half-hearted scan of our carriage by a bored looking man wielding a mirror on a stick, the border crossing went without a hitch and we were soon rolling through Romanian country side. Best of all, we didn’t even have to wake the kids. Relieved, I climbed the ladder onto my bed, which was just long enough for me to stretch out, and closed my eyes.

There’s something very soothing about sleeping on a train: the rhythmic sway and clackity-clack as you are transported dutifully through the countryside, safe in the knowledge that the track you travel is already laid before you. Not all of us could appreciate the moment though, unlike her siblings who had fallen quickly asleep, our youngest stubbornly refused to settle. J, who was sharing her narrow bed with the writhing little one, was having a rough night. Woken once more by indignant grizzles at about 4am, I swung down and took the protesting bundle in my arms. Staggering up and down the carriage trying to lull her back to sleep, I watched highways teeming with lorries and factories lit up like cruise ships as the hump-backed Carpathians lumbered out of the murk.

We would be staying the next few days in Brașov - one of the Siebenbürger, seven fortified towns settled by ethnic Germans in the first half of last millennium. Our apartment was in the historic kernel, a warren of streets cradled by densely forested mountains. The modern city has since spilled out onto the surrounding plain and now houses a population of around 250,000. At 650 metres above sea level the air was laced with an autumnal chill, and I didn’t have to speak Romanian to understand the mild scolding I received from the elderly women when they saw my youngest daughter’s wispy blonde locks exposed to the elements.

Because of its Saxon heritage, German was often more useful than English when conversing with the locals. This included our Airbnb host, who attended the city's German school and later studied in Freiburg. I'm not sure whether this Teutonic influence is to blame, but to call him a fastidious host would be an understatement. It made for a spotless and perfectly organised apartment, but the long list of rules and feeling of constant surveillance spoiled our stay a little. Nevertheless, his house was in a beautiful location, surrounded by steep cobbled streets and with a view directly onto the brooding Tampa Mountain, complete with Hollywood style "Brașov" sign.

During one of our playground visits, Jenny fell into conversation with a local father while on swing duty. Afterwards, she came to me and breathlessly shared her latest intel. Apparently, brown bears, a threat which we had not taken all that seriously, were increasingly found sauntering into the city searching for food. This was a dangerous issue that the authorities didn’t know how to counter. This came as news to me, and I immediately thought back to the day before when I had gone waltzing into the woods, carrying my youngest daughter in front of me like some kind of pagan offering. Of bear, we saw neither hide nor hair, though we had a few run-ins with the local dogs, some of which seemed similar in size and ferocity.

When it came time to leave Brașov, we found that we weren't quite ready. The city had charmed us with its quaint alleys and time worn churches balanced on the brink of wilderness, and we had the sense that adventure lay just beyond its boundaries. Deciding that it would be a shame not to explore the area further we sought out one more accommodation on Airbnb. Jenny was very excited with the listing she found which boasted: "a 150-year-old farmhouse surrounded by pristine nature". It sounded promising and the reviews were all praise, so we decided to take the gamble and book a week.

What followed would be a once in a lifetime experience, in which we were woken by the rooster and the chime of the cow’s bell, spending our days accompanied by seven unkempt dogs, enjoying hearty home cooked meals while exploring a region unsullied by modernity and mass tourism. It was an opportunity to unplug, turn back time and get close to nature which, in a land where giant bears roamed free, would prove at times to be a little close for comfort.

Next Post: Bear Breath

DE to NZ 3 - Buda-Belly

Munich - Budapest 

ÖBB Railjet RJX 65 - 654 km (7 hours)

Cost: €73.25

Total distance travelled: 1850km

How could so much vomit come from a human so small? That was my first thought. My second was: Scheisse, now what? The night before we were to board our sleeper train to Romania - an epic 13 hour journey which we had been gearing towards for weeks - our youngest daughter began erupting like an Icelandic volcano. She wasn't the only one either. Shortly after it was J's turn and then our son joined in, soon a chorus of heaving and splashing rang through the house.

Fortunately we had kept our trip open ended for just such occasions. There would be no need for us to get up close and personal with the toilets on a Romanian long-distance train. The journey had to be postponed (seeyaw €180) and another apartment in Budapest sought out for the meantime. It was a shame we couldn't stay put. Our current abode was one of those rare finds on Airbnb which exceeds expectations. It was advertised as "minimalist", which I cynically took to be a fancy word for "barren". With three kids though, the fewer objects they could smash, smear or smite themselves on, the better. On arrival - after navigating the bus network from the glass roofed leviathan that is the Keleti train station, walking a couple of blocks through the laid-back bustle of a European city winding down in the evening and then following our self check-in instructions - we found the apartment to be clean, stylish and simple, yet well equipped.

We were well situated too, in the district of Újlipótváros, a trendy neighbourhood on the Pest side of Margaret Bridge (Budapest is split by the Danube into two halves - Buda and Pest). Sheltered from the tourist thralls, the "shabby chic" vibe of the cafes, bookshops, and bars here still has a genuine feel. It is perhaps similar to what our neighborhood in Berlin, Prenzlauer Berg, was like before gentrification scrubbed it clean. The towering buildings, with their flaking, exhaust-stained facades built in Bauhaus and Modernist style, tell the tale of a progressive, intellectual neighbourhood regaining itself after being gutted by holocaust, war and communist dictatorship.

Our second apartment was more expensive, smaller and, though only a couple of blocks away, not so nicely situated. Turns out we would be living opposite the Hungarian Ministry of Defense - building, surreptitious despite its size, patrolled by bored young soldiers sporting maroon berets and automatic rifles. One positive was that we were handy to the "Olimpia park" playground, which had plenty of space for the kids to run around. They struggled with the language barrier, however (their response to being asked something in Hungarian was to back slowly away), and it was a little heart breaking to see them watching the raucous play of the school groups from the shelter of a nearby oak tree.

With stomachs fortified by Zwieback and Fennel tea, everyone was soon fighting fit, so we were able to take advantage of the couple of extra days we had. Having spent most of our time so far exploring our neighbourhood, it was now time to go full tourist. We decided to take a trip via the Funicular to Buda Castle. After reaching the base we forked out the 5,800 forint (about €14) for two adults and two kids. Pretty steep (no pun intended) for a one and a half minute trip up a hill. We would probably have passed on the whole thing, had we not already spent the morning selling the kids on the idea.

We did learn a valuable lesson in the subtleties of the Hungarian language however. After receiving our tickets, Jenny asked exactly how to pronounce the word Siklo (funicular) as she wanted to get it right for her podcast. In response, the vendor opened her window, looked Jenny in the eye and very deliberately pronounced the word. A little over the top, we thought, sharing a look. Her colleague then approached with smartphone in hand, gesturing for us to look at the screen. Turns out sikló (pronounced with a sh) has a very different meaning to csikló (with a hard s). I'll let you Google it for yourself; suffice to say that asking strangers to help you locate the csikló may land you in hot water.

Speaking of hot water, another draw card in Budapest is the natural thermal baths - some of which have been wrinkling toes since Roman times. I was keen to take the kids, but after some research found they were places better suited to wallowing as opposed to splashing and screaming which kids are prone to do when they so much as see a puddle. There are outdoor baths which have kids' pools and slides, but in mid-September, the weather was a bit bracing for that. In the end I was able to find a more suitable, if less historic alternative - the Aquaworld Aqua Park. The website promised "unforgettable entertainment" and an "ocean of adventure". As one of Europe's largest indoor water parks, I figured we would find some thing to suit us, so we hatched a plan. I would take the two older kids and Jenny would go with our youngest to explore the bohemian Jewish quarter.

With towels and togs packed, as well as a few snacks for the journey, we boarded a tram and travelled about an hour north. Passing through the communist era housing projects, we watched the locals board and alight toting shopping bags, briefcases or with reluctant kids in tow. Some of the older passengers would smile and gush at the kids, who (with nowhere to escape to this time) would look pleadingly to me for help. All I could do was wave my hands awkwardly and say "Sorry, we don't speak Hungarian". That didn't stop one woman sat opposite us, who continued to coo at the kids for about ten stops.

Eventually we arrived, paying the 11,000 forint (26 Euro) entry fee for the three of us for three hours. There were half a dozen pools of various depths and temperatures, with a selection of slides (most of which the kids were too short for). They were happy enough though, just splashing around, clambering over me and generally flailing about. My daughter even learned how to swim underwater - which was a family milestone to add to my son losing his first tooth a couple of days later, and my youngest daughter taking her first steps, all of which happened in Budapest.

Returning home red eyed and wrung out, we met J who was non-plussed about the Jewish quarter. She found it too commercialized, swarming with pouting tourists determined to enhance their social media profiles. Weirdly, it seems like we had a more genuine experience at Aquaworld (even if our photos weren't as good).

With more boxes ticked than we had ever planned, we were now ready to continue our journey east, the mystery of Transylvania awaited. That was until that evening, when my stomach began to gurgle like a defunct dishwasher. It seems it was my turn to be struck by the Buda-belly. As I lay bedridden, Jenny desperately searched once more for a new apartment. At least we hadn't booked our train tickets this time.

The next day saw another move, another two blocks, another step down in the accommodation ladder. Mercifully, the illness again passed quickly so after a couple more days of sightseeing, audiobooks, playgrounds and average sushi we were well and truly ready to go. Our destination was Brasov, one of the Siebenbürger - fortified Transylvanian towns settled by ethnic Germans in the first half of last millennium. For us it would be a chance to get a taste of the Carpathian wilderness, an untamed land where brown bears roam. An opportunity to stretch our legs and fill our lungs with fresh alpine air which, after a week of stomach bugs and apartment hopping in Budapest, would be just what the doctor ordered.

Next Post: On the Brink

DE to NZ 2 - Next Stop: Mermaid kingdom

 

Neu Karin - Fürth - Munich

Deutsche Bahn - 844 km

Total distance travelled - 1199 km

The first stop on our journey south was Fürth: a 1000 year old town close enough to Nuremberg to be considered an extension of it (don't let them hear you say that though). We stayed with J's best friend and her family, in a 140 year old house which they are all but finished restoring. It's a former gold beater's workshop in the historic Jewish quarter which they have transformed from a dark tattered ruin into a warm and inviting home with creaking stairs, exposed sandstone walls, sunflowers in the garden and beehives on the balcony. With much effort, money and inspiration, they have created a unique and charming home which is a refreshing change from the built-to-rent apartments being assembled in cities around the world.

Their house is a stone's throw from the old Jewish cemetery, a relic of what was once the second largest Jewish community in Germany. Some say it was this Jewish history that spared the area from the Allied bombers during World War Two, though this is disputed. Whatever the case, if it wasn't for the BMWs and Audis, the streets would look much like they did a century ago. On my evening walk, trying to coax my youngest daughter to sleep, I felt like I was moving through a 1920s film set.

Aside from catching up with friends, we were here to fulfill a flippant promise made to our children one evening at our dinner table in Berlin: to visit the PlayMobil theme park. Not exactly how I pictured the beginning of our intrepid world tour, but when two of your travel crew are 5 and 7 years old, allowances have to be made. Ah well, how bad can it be, right? Crossing the draw bridge under the blank smiles of the crossbow wielding knights, I couldn't help but feel a little creeped out.

As if to confirm my suspicions, the first thing we saw as we entered was a young girl screaming in pain after toppling from one of the grinning life-size figures. Looking around, I noticed many highly strung parents who, like me, were wondering just what they had gotten themselves into. After handing over our daughter's pocket knife at security - I'm not sure exactly what she had planned - we wrote our names and phone numbers onto labels which we strapped around our kids' wrists and wished them godspeed. Just as well as within five minutes we had lost them. They were soon relocated, however, and the tour could begin.

With the sun unexpectedly beating down and hyper active children darting in every direction, I was resigned to plodding through the day behind a buggy piled high with excess clothing. That was until we made it to Mermaid Kingdom - thank Poseidon for Mermaid Kingdom. Lilting music, chuckling water features, mist spraying from giant, um, mer-mushrooms? If I closed my eyes and tuned out the shrieks, I could almost imagine I was in a boutique hotel in Bali... until "Chris, where are the kids?!"

We found them feverishly sifting gold nuggets from a Wild West sand pit.

All things considered the day went pretty smoothly, with our highlights being punting around Pirate's cove on a raft and enjoying the company of the dinosaurs at the tree house. The park is well thought out with plenty of opportunities for burnt out parents to sit and wave at their kids as they live out their sugar heightened fantasies. At the end of the day, it was not half as bad as I expected and while picking up my daughter's contraband, we were even able to avoid the exit through the gift shop.

The next morning saw us back in the real world, fully laden and trudging through the drizzle to board another regional train to continue our route south to Munich. It was a return to old haunts for us, J having lived there for 13 years, three of them with me. As my first home in Germany, Bavaria's rosy-cheeked capital was where I became acquainted with the peculiarities, joys and frustrations of German life. It also held a special place in our hearts as the birthplace of our oldest daughter.

We soon realized that our to-do list for Munich was way too long. As the days progressed ever more things were struck from it. This was partly due to the weather, which was fairly horrid. Our plans of picnicking at the Viktualienmarkt Biergarten and strolling along the Isar came to naught. Although we did see the surfers riding the standing wave, the Eisbach, at the Englischer Garten; as well as spend a lovely evening with a couple of J's good friends. Listening to their wistful reminiscences of past New Zealand trips was reassuring for me. After fretting about the isolation, ridiculous house prices and high cost of living which awaited us, not to mention the lack of public transport, cheap beer and Kindergeld (yes they pay you to have kids in Germany), it was nice to be reminded that despite all that, Aotearoa is a pretty special place and we are lucky to call it our second home.

The next morning, after briefly catching up for a coffee with a good friend and his daughter, who I had not yet met, it was back to the Hauptbahnhof to finally get our trip underway. Locating our train, our carriage, and then our seats, we settled in for the approximately 7 hour ride to Budapest. We were in the "family area", which was fortunate as our kids were in a particularly raucous mood. There was that familiar mix of relief and concern when the train finally pulled away: we were on board and accounted for, yet bound to have left something behind. It turned out to be our daughter's favourite hoodie. In a sense, we were leaving much more behind than that, though the excitement of beginning our journey in earnest, as well as the infant screaming vigorously in my ear, drowned out any trepidation I had at that moment.

If I had the chance, I may have appreciated the tying of the bow which leaving from Munich represented. I had arrived to this city a bedraggled backpacker in a brown woollen jumper and tramping boots, unsure about what the future had in store. A decade later I was leaving a little wiser, a lot greyer and with three German kids in tow. I wonder what my younger self would have said, had we passed on the platform. Knowing me, probably not a lot.

So, that's Deutschland done and dusted for the meantime (we will be back). From Munich we are travelling with a high speed Austrain train: skimming past the Alps via Salzburg, then Vienna to Budapest - the shabbily glorious Hungarian capital, scarred by war and dictatorships on the shores of the mighty Danube. Our first step on what has the makings to be a once in a lifetime family adventure, even if it does include the odd detour to Mermaid Kingdom.

Next Post: Buda-Belly

DE to NZ 1 - One more round to say good bye.

Berlin - Stolzenburg - Neu Karin

Opel Corsa 1994 - 355km

Five days overdue, crammed into a two door Opel Corsa loaded to the roof, we finally left Berlin. My eagerness to get our trip underway meant I couldn't appreciate the moment for what it was. It had been a frenetic few weeks: prizing ourselves from the clasp of German bureaucracy; sorting our possessions into what we would store, send, sell or pack; preparing our apartment for sub-letting; organising a farewell celebration... Difficult enough at the best of times, with a newly mobile ten month old spreading slobbery destruction wherever her chubby fingers could pry, it felt like trying to coax a monkey into a match box. Somehow though, we had done it. Now we sat, surrounded by a concerning amount of stuff, strapped in and ready to go. Our destination: New Zealand.

There to see us off were our neighbours, people who over the past seven years had become our beloved community and our kids' best friends. We had met in our communal Hinterhof or backyard, striking up small talk over the rush of the passing S-Bahn and the sodden sand "ice creams" which our children thrust into our hands. Over the years - with barbecues, poker nights, sleepovers and birthday parties - we created many happy memories and lifelong friendships with our "Backyard Gang". This wonderful, eclectic crew, as well as the many other friends I made in Berlin, were what made it so hard to leave.

After a final round of farewells in at least six different languages, we waved through the gaps in our luggage and set off, tooting as we lurched around the corner. We were off - albeit in the wrong direction. We had a final round of farewells to make which, especially for J, would be the hardest of all. We were headed north to Stolzenburg, an 800 year old village ringed by corn fields and sunflowers close to the Polish border, for one last visit to J's beloved Grandparents. 

The night before we were to leave, I sat as I had so many times in Oma's living room, sweating on the couch in front of the blaring radiator. Between shots of ice cold vodka and gulps of wheat beer, I listened once more to stories of their life in the GDR."It wasn't a perfect system, but it was our system." Oma said with a jut of her chin.

"Ah Chris my boy," said Opa shakily pouring me another Schnaps "so jung wie Heut kommen wir nicht mehr zusammen." (we'll never meet again as young as we are today). Even though I had heard the saying countless times before, this time it caused a lump to form in my throat.

After a hard farewell the following morning, we made the familiar drive along the roaring A20 to J's parents house in Neu Karin. This rural village with a population of around 60 inhabitants had often been our refuge from city life. Most notably during the Covid lockdown, which we spent in one of the holiday apartments, next to a cherry tree in the garden. The stout thatch-roofed house, which J's father designed himself, is where I spent my first German Weihnachten and many thereafter. It was a warm welcome to Germany (literally thanks to the large crackling oven, underfloor heating and triple glazed windows), a comforting feeling which never really wore off. Juicy roast rabbit, bubbling polish soups ,a basket of fresh Brötchen every morning: the large wooden table in the Wintergarten is the centre of orbit in this house.

Over the many visits, I have grown to appreciate the surrounding area - the stern yet charming villages centred around a reed-ringed pond or centuries old church; the groomed rolling fields home to fox, hare, deer and hawk; the lofty cathedrals of Beech forest; the splashes of wildflowers and tangled black berry which fray the edges. I always found a welcome familiarity in the stillness here, despite the ever present *whoom whoom whoom* of the wind turbines.

With access to wi-fi once more, the next couple of days were spent crossing the t's and dotting the ö's before our departure. It was also where we would hand back the keys to the cramped yet convenient Corsa, which we had borrowed for the past couple of months. From now on we would be travelling by train, carrying everything we need (and more besides) in our backpacks. Fortunately, we did have time for one last trip to the Ostsee - specifically to Rerik, a strip of white sand and tussock just a 15 minute drive from the in-laws house - and one last dinner of fish and fried potatoes.

Not people for overt displays of sentimentality, the farewell from J's parents was mercifully undramatic. Standing in front of the rundown station building in Neubukow, there were half made promises to visit us in New Zealand. Unlike her step-mother, J's father, perhaps concerned about rising gas and fuel prices, was reticent. Right on time, our red Deutsche Bahn glided into the station.

As we departed, our kids waved to their Oma and Opa through the smeared window. I felt suddenly guilty removing them from the world they knew and loved. What lay in store for them between here and the waiting arms of their grandparents in New Zealand? We had four months and 18,000 kms to cover before that moment arrived. As our train gathered speed, I took comfort in the knowledge that, no matter what happened, when we return to Neu Karin, we would find the thatch-roofed house surrounded by fruit trees exactly as we left it.

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