Back on the road again...

Perhaps it is the final step on the road to normality. I am sitting in the Westin Grand Hotel in Bogenhausen, Munich, eight floors up suddenly aware that what I thought were clouds on the distant horizon are actually the Alps. How suddenly they jut out of the otherwise flat land! They are some distance away so their stature is evident in the fact they are visible. Somehow their presence suddenly lends a different complexion to my stay. From being a business trip, I have a sudden tinge of "Holiday" feeling intrude momentarily as this exotic location in the distance becomes part of my landscape.
I have a headache. It's the same headache at the back of the head that I was so familiar with during my stay in hospital in March and in the following month or two. It's a strange back-of-the-head headache which was what grew to a pulsing crescendo on the dance floor that fateful night. I am not happy that it reappears, but when I asked the neurosurgeon about it, he waved away my concerns telling me it is "just a migraine". That may well be so, but it's presence still unnerves me.

But I probably deserve this headache. I did after all consume three half-litres of beer last night. About three pints: Not an amount I would normally associate with a hangover. But these are not normal times. Beer allows the confusion. I expect to be mildly confused after beer. It's a pleasant, familiar confusion that males all other recent experiences of confusion seem comfortable and unthreatening. But I wish it didn't give me that particular headache.

I was concerned about how I would cope on this trip. I am still somewhat vague where information is concerned and I get tired between my temples when two conversations are present in my field of hearing. Usually this requires me to go and have a lie down but I have been sufficing with escaping to somewhere quieter and breathing deeply. It works up to a point.

So, I managed the driving, the chaos of Heathrow and Munich airports. Getting to the hotel was easy and my presentation went quite well to a roomful of attentive people. I heard my own faltering voice explaining things and realised that I am not quite "there" yet, but given how I felt even two months ago, i am astonished to be back in circulation.

It's hard to work out what it all means. Oh, I m not one for undue symbolism, but I feel different. I saunter through the airport terminals feeling that I have had an experience that renders the petty tribulations of everyday travel somehow far less significant. It feels like a freedom to accept (or reject) expectations on my own terms. I feel I can just walk up to people with a smile and say "Hello! I am Pete. Who are you? What's that you are doing? Will you be my friend" because a whole new frontier of existence has been reached and in it, I am innocent and ignorant of convention: Many older conventions seem redundant now.
I said it was hard to explain.

But here I am, back in Germany, doing what I always did and this seems both familiar but new. I don't really know what to make of it all. I am sure it will all fall into place at some point.
But for now, my grumbling tum bids me head down for breakfast.

German beer blog

A bar somewhere in Germany. My weekday resolve weakened, I order a beer. Irena, the lovely barmaid, smiled her probably-professional smile at me and said 'A large beer?' and I was sunk. And why not? I left home at 2 p.m and arrived at 10:35 p.m. Local time. That does not do justice to the inmtervening seven or so hours: seven hours where I insinuated myself into the flow of traffic on the M4, trudged with the shoeless, coatless stream of suspects in the security queue, squeezed myself into the apparent child-seat on an embraer and catapulted a volkswagen sharan off the sliproad into the speeding madness that is the autobahn.

With two hours of A2 and A33 and egged on to outrageous speed by some rousing and potentially fatally encouraging music, I arrive at my destination: "Ziel erreicht!"

The first beer, forbidden fruit on a weekday, is so welcomed by my grateful chops, that it lasts about as long as I took to write thus far.

A sense of expectation from Irena bullies me gently into another beer. She really does have a lovely genuine smile. Of course it is genuine and especially for me.

A large party arrive. They are British. Academics? Not sure. I will listen. Shall I engage them in conversation?
I could. I could find out what their specialisation is and I am sure to know something about it, however obscure. I seem to know something about pretty much everything. Except football. This defeats me. But I am pleased to be confident that most subjects I have touched in the urgings of my unquenchable curiosity. And those I haven't I am happy to venture into and learn about. For now, I am content to write and listen.

A couple sit opposite each other. I guess they are late forties. He seargeant-majorish, clipped grey moustache, bald head, fit looking. She also in seemingly good shape, leather trousers which fit just fine. They sit in silence, looking immensely bored. Not necessarily bored with each other, although the lack of conversation would indicate this, but just that generic boredom that people seem to get. Heads swivel idly occasionally to glance at different points of the room but nothing really seems to catch their interest. I wonder if this works for them. Are they happy in their boredom? Or are they desperately wishing they could think of something to say?

The Brits get louder now, as the beer sinks in, but they are all educated, considerate types so the jollity is muted by politeness, ingrained from birth not to be too intrusive or attract undue attention. They seem released somehow. I like them, they seem friendly and interesting. I wonder about striking up a conversation but they seem fairly occupied so I just watch for a bit and try to work out what line of work they are all in.

Irena looks bored now. In the natural lull between the ordering of rounds that drinking synchronicity produces, in the early stages of a social occasion anyway, no beer needs ordering, all wine glasses are half-full. I catch her eye and, conscience nagging at the litre of beer I have already downed, I order and apfel-schorle, which is apple juice and sparkling water. She expresses surprise but I am not to be swayed.

It lasts a very short time indeed but is immensely refreshing. I remember I have travelled and how dehydrated I unwittingly get on such occasions.

The party continues and feeling tired and a bit of a voyeur, I decide it is time to go to bed. An hours time difference is no great disruption, but I note it is past midnight local time and I have to be up at the equivalent of 6:30 uk time.

So, paying my bill to my room and apologising for having no Euros, I close this rather useful little gadget and head for my bed and the Science of Discworld III. Good night