The first 30 km are pretty easy. Traveling along a semi-motorway, the distraction born from wondering if a Polish driver is going to kill me or not takes my mind away from the distance I'm covering. I stop for a cigarette and meet a man called Mariusz. We speak in German. He is a legend. He gives me 10 schlotti and buys me a lunch at KFC. We talk for a while, he shows me pictures of his family, he invites me to go on holiday with him, but I tell him I'm on a mission.
I give him a big hug before I leave. The hugs I have with all these people who talk with me or help me along this journey are unlike any other. They are firm, there is no awkwardness. They are a true reflection of the love that we are capable of showing complete strangers. (sorry for getting a little soppy here, but I find it really touching)
The next 100km are cycled through heavy pouring rain. I dare not stop as I'll realise how soaked I am, how cold I am, I'll realise how completely fucked I am. The sun begins setting and the fear kicks in. I am drenched and the night looks like it will be cold. I see a Polish lady outside her home. I try and explain in sign language that I'd like to use her drier. She blanks me and walks inside. I'm starting to get a little worried.
10 km later and I see two men entering another house. They can speak German. I explain what I'm doing, that I need a drier. They tell me they have no drying machine so I turn round to leave, but he grabs my shoulder and beckons me inside the house. They tell me I can put my stuff on the radiator. I do this and when I turn round there is a huge plate of sandwich materials with a cup of coffee waiting for me. We sit and chat, we get out a map and I show them what I've done and will be doing. The grandpa of the family asks me if I play any instruments. He grabs two guitars and we sit playing the blues, while drinking whiskey and smoking. We play for an hour or so until Richard Dawkins decides he wants a piece of the action. The family find him very amusing. The jam was good, no doubt about it.
It's just me and grandpa left awake. He is a little drunk. He stumbles over to a counter. He pulls out a massive rifle from behind it and the sudden sight of a gun scares the shit out of me. I am reminded of my grandpa, how he always used to threaten to chase me out of the house with a gun when I was 8. I think he could probably kill someone now if he had a gun. This grandpa seems more sane though, he just laughs and puts it back. I go to bed on the sofa feeling overall warm and safe, albeit with a half expectancy to wake up at some point in the night with a rifle pointed at my head and a drunk old man at the trigger.
I am awoken with a cup of coffee and am invited to the table for a huge and diverse European breakfast, the kind that makes you realise the English have no idea what they are doing when it comes to food. They try and make me eat all of it, but I can't. The grandma fixes me up the largest packed lunch I've ever seen and I pack it into my bag even though the idea of any more food makes me sick.
I've never experienced such generosity. These people are beautiful. The weather outside is beautiful. My clothes are drying. Life is treating me well. I look forward to the next 150km.
I give him a big hug before I leave. The hugs I have with all these people who talk with me or help me along this journey are unlike any other. They are firm, there is no awkwardness. They are a true reflection of the love that we are capable of showing complete strangers. (sorry for getting a little soppy here, but I find it really touching)
The next 100km are cycled through heavy pouring rain. I dare not stop as I'll realise how soaked I am, how cold I am, I'll realise how completely fucked I am. The sun begins setting and the fear kicks in. I am drenched and the night looks like it will be cold. I see a Polish lady outside her home. I try and explain in sign language that I'd like to use her drier. She blanks me and walks inside. I'm starting to get a little worried.
10 km later and I see two men entering another house. They can speak German. I explain what I'm doing, that I need a drier. They tell me they have no drying machine so I turn round to leave, but he grabs my shoulder and beckons me inside the house. They tell me I can put my stuff on the radiator. I do this and when I turn round there is a huge plate of sandwich materials with a cup of coffee waiting for me. We sit and chat, we get out a map and I show them what I've done and will be doing. The grandpa of the family asks me if I play any instruments. He grabs two guitars and we sit playing the blues, while drinking whiskey and smoking. We play for an hour or so until Richard Dawkins decides he wants a piece of the action. The family find him very amusing. The jam was good, no doubt about it.
It's just me and grandpa left awake. He is a little drunk. He stumbles over to a counter. He pulls out a massive rifle from behind it and the sudden sight of a gun scares the shit out of me. I am reminded of my grandpa, how he always used to threaten to chase me out of the house with a gun when I was 8. I think he could probably kill someone now if he had a gun. This grandpa seems more sane though, he just laughs and puts it back. I go to bed on the sofa feeling overall warm and safe, albeit with a half expectancy to wake up at some point in the night with a rifle pointed at my head and a drunk old man at the trigger.
I am awoken with a cup of coffee and am invited to the table for a huge and diverse European breakfast, the kind that makes you realise the English have no idea what they are doing when it comes to food. They try and make me eat all of it, but I can't. The grandma fixes me up the largest packed lunch I've ever seen and I pack it into my bag even though the idea of any more food makes me sick.
I've never experienced such generosity. These people are beautiful. The weather outside is beautiful. My clothes are drying. Life is treating me well. I look forward to the next 150km.
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