On my vacation I enjoyed swimming in a lake...

...and riding a bike.

I don't think I ever mentioned a problem that a rainy summer brought to me and my goaties — the prairie grass grew high up to somewhere near my waist — and the goaties began to fear going out to graze. The waist-high grass is sparse, but beautifully protects the topsoil from wind and thus drying out, and in the stories below grow lower grasses and flowers; still it is a fact that my dwarf goats don't see through the grass and thus are anxious whether a predator hides somewhere. I tried to cut paths through it with a string weed cutter, but it was still not enough. I was somewhat desperate in a situation, where my grass grew high since the goats wouldn't eat it, and they would not eat it because they're afraid of a grass this high. For some weeks, I resortd to dragging them out the the pasture — literally — I put a collar on Twilight and dragged her forcefully behind me, making the other goats follow their alpha. It was frustrating and tiresome, but eventually I managed to convinced the goats to go out and graze. Which was also helped by the fact that during these outings we had in part trodden and in part grazed the grass down (I only trod it and did not graze) — and in part the grass ripened, dried and got more sparse.

I could relax, as for the start of September I began to plan a trip to Europe — with kids at the university and Sid working in Colorado, it was getting urgent that the goaties be self-reliant, able and willing to take care of their feeding without constant care. It was enough that I was anxious about the trip itself — had I kept worrying about the animals, I may not have gone anywhere.

The older I am, the worse I cope with airline travel. I moved to Wyoming to be surrounded by as few people as possible — sitting for many hours together with several hundreds of fellow passengers is a true hell for me. The other infernal dimension is my helplessness — one is reduced to relying on pilot's skills, and if he makes a mistake, one is out of luck. Not that on a train or bus, one would not be dependent on a driver, but in the case of an accident there's still a great chance to walk away. You can always decide to get off, change the route or conveyance, turn back, or just take a break in the trip — you can't simply step off the airplane. What's more, you practically cannot properly move, being squished into a miniature seat, without a liberty to stretch your legs; most of the time you're strapped down in a mandatory harness, trapped by a lowered table blocked by something that pretends to be food suitable for human consumption — or simply by the fact that your neighbor is asleep. You're at mercy and good will of flight attendants who don't always feel in a good will mood. Simply put, I consider travel by plane to be very inhumane and undignified. Especially in the case — my case — of a trans-Atlantic flight, about ten hours long.

Schleißheim Palace isn't round - only huge - panorama stitching created this optical illusion.

So this year I conceived an ingenious plan to exploit the fact that Vicky had moved to Munich, and I would ONLY fly to Munich, sleep over at Vicky's, and only on the following day I'd go to Prague by train. A train, of course, is much slower than an airplane. The flight would take about an hour, an express train travels for five and half hours. But if you include two or three hours waiting for a connecting flight at a claustrophobic, overcrowded airport, then about an hour waiting in lines for checks and luggage — and then a journey from Prague airport to the city, it actually tips over and the train wins the race. Moreover, a train arrives a the Central station, downtown Prague, at the metro station, whereas Prague airport finds itself in the proverbial total logistical armpit, with nonsensical prices for parking, taxicabs, everything. I would like to mention that in this aspect, I consider Prague airport as one of the worst of its kind in the world. Every other place has (for obvious reasons) its airport also located outside the city, but a metro or some other train line connects it, for a reasonable fare, with the city or at least some other traffic node. Consequently, you can reach such airport without having to rely on family and their cars — and people can come see you in or out without planning personnel and cargo movements reminiscent of Normandy Invasion.

A look into the "New Palace".

When I learned that our grandpa would have a cataracts surgery at the start of September, and would need somebody to accompany him on his way out of the clinic, I did not hesitate and reserved a ticket to Munich. And in that moment I realized that despite all my statements about how we don't really need vacations here in Wyoming, I was looking forward to my VACATION. In Wyoming, we don't have to take long stretches of days to reach mountains and nature in general. Still, for some fifteen months now I did not have a vacation in the sense that I had not changed my scene, put my problems and daily worries aside, and spent my time SOMEWHERE ELSE for longer than a weekend. I had been working three or four days a week since June 2022, which would normally give me enough breaks to recover (though I must say that trade of running around a dining hall and carrying heavy plates for, say, tossing a compost, is not very relaxing indeed) — but even with these days off that I have, there's always the weight of tomorrow, at most the day after tomorrow, when I will be "bound again" to go somewhere and perform. Thus I began to look forward to a pause in my duties and the merciless rhythm of my shifts.

For a long time I've been convinced that I embody a traveling Calamity Jane — that I simply attract trouble, missed planes, late trains, broken down buses, canceled hotel rooms and lost luggage. Hence I prepared carefully for my trip — lost bags can be pre-empted by not having any checked-in luggage; I stuffed all necessities into a handy suitcase and a backpack, which I declared to be my "handbag". This also allowed me to be ready to run after about-to-depart conveyances, for confusion on the way, and for a commonly occurring situation, when I'm forced to drag all my momentary possessions up and/or down endless staircases.

Schloss Schleißheim: baroque gardens Versailles style.

It was a wise choice. Denver airport is another one from the category "world's worst" — traffic situation is a bit simpler than in Prague, but the overall confusion and absence of information and clear signs, forms the inner circle of this little hell. Sid dropped me off at the curb; after entering the building under the sign "DEPARTURES", I discovered that I was required to propel myself one level lower for a security check. Having stood there in a line, I was informed by a clerk at the entrance that my boarding pass would not work with her machine and that I must go back upstairs and print a different boarding pass. That one went through the machine, but the security personnel was baffled by my food I brought along — I'm on a gluten-free diet and did not intend to submit to a choice of either staying hungry or having a indigestion event. It did not occur to me that a vacuum-sealed cheese, dried fruit and potato chips represent such a security risk. They were also very interested in my suitcase — my grandma would be proud of me — a thorough inspection revealed only clean and good-as-new laundry.

Schloss Schleißheim: baroque gardens Versailles style.

Things went smoothly for some time then — I ordered and ate a soup at the airport, found my gate, boarded the plane; I even ended up sitting in the window seat that I had chosen. My immediate neighbors in the adjoined seats looked harmless — two pre-pubescent girls, traveling without company (i.e. the attendant took care of them). My problem with the girls began when they absolutely could not comprehend that when I needed to get out, pulling their legs from the gap in front of the seat was not enough for me — especially when the row in front was tilted back, so I could not stand upright. I crawled across them several times, but it did not lead to their elucidation. Not even when I spilled beer on me — my table had a little tilt and the beer slowly slid and tipped onto my lap, while I was unwrapping my utensils. I ended up totally soaked by a smelly brew, it spilled into my bag stowed under my feet, and onto the seat. The younglings would not stand up to let me out. An attendant took her sweet five minutes to show up, and while she brought me a replacement can, she only deemed me worthy of three thin paper napkins for the seat. In the end I had to make the girls stand up, forcing my way out, trek to the bathroom, change completely, and bring enough paper towels to clean up the mess.
The next problem with the girls consisted of the one next to me keeping her seat screen on, full of blazing and flashing animated figures, all night (it was an overnight flight and most people tried to nap) — while she played some games on her phone. I managed to filter out the screen flashing by covering my eyes with a shade the airline provided, but I had no way to filter out insistent mild vibrations of the seat, as she kept hitting the phone screen.

Lustheim - original hunting mini-palace, which connects to the "New Palace" by a water channel and fountains.

Still, every coin has two sides — as I passed through the passport check in Munich at a lightning pace, I found myself in the airport hall even before Vicky, who came to meet me there. Vicky claims that they let me through so fast because they concluded that a person smelling strongly of beer must be "local" and belongs to Munich.
Vicky and I then took a few stops aboard an S-bahn train — like everywhere in a civilized world, except Prague — and walked the rest of the way. There, I was given a choice — whether I want a shower and a bed, or whether I want to swim with Vicky in the local lake. I chose the lake, of course. This one is a very luxurious affair, huge, deep and from three sides surrounded by trees and meadows — and a sandy beach, where kids can dig and play. Naturally, a stand with coffee and beer and other refreshments can't be missed. Few people were there, and the only stain on perfection was the water temperature. Vicky has been swimming there all summer, while I shamefully shuffled my feet, knee deep in water and watching as local pensioners fearlessly threw themselves into the playful waves. Vicky remarked that I should be used to a bit of chill from Wyoming — but we in Wyoming don't swim in icy lakes — we have HOT SPRINGS in Wyoming. I won't keep you suspended; I got into the water eventually, I even swam — and then I really enjoyed a warm coffee at the stand, having a feeling of a true beautiful vacation.

While visiting Munich, one must no leave out Biergarten.

After a shower we jumped into a car and drove to the Palace Gardens. There's complex of palaces in Oberschleissheim, sporting a water channel and Versailles-style system of decorative gardens. Subsequently ensuing into a dinner at a true Munich Biergarten, this day was without a fault, though it had begun with the hated airplane and spilled beer.

I had spent the second day morning again with my guide Vicky, on a tour through the Olympic park. We reached the train station on bikes this time — I mention it because this an aspect of life I really admire. Everybody rides bikes — ladies with fancy hairdos and dresses, plumbers, kids, grannies, everybody. They ride bikes because it's the simplest and fastest kind of travel — bikers ride along a paved path, which is a part of a wide sidewalk — always in one direction, right from the road traffic and left from pedestrians. Train stations sport racks for tens, maybe hundreds of bicycles — and if you take a bike lock along, you can secure your conveyance there — and continue on a train. Naturally, much is influenced by the nature of landscape around Munich, which is flat, and thus favors city bikes — you don't have to own a tuned sporty machine.
I particularly like the combination of a mild athletic effort alternated with a view from a tower (the only downside there was smog — the tower promised a view to the Alps, but one could barely see the outskirts of Munich). Olympic park impressed my by being functional even after fifty years of existence. Athletic dormitories were typically converted into students' dorms, park is obviously open for recreation, while arenas and courtyards serve local sports teams, schools and the university. Everything is maintained, functional, and in use; no crumbling ghost town — all this despite tragic history of Munich Olympic Games in 1972.

Evening at Schleißheim.

After lunch (Biergarten again) it was time to take another shower, repack my bags — and set out to the next leg of my journey — a train from Munich to Prague. We found as most suitable a connection from Vicky's to Freising, changing there to an express that started in Munich Central (saving myself the trip to Munich proper and then returning along the same route through Freising and onward to Czechia). I assured Vicky that I should manage to get off at the S-bahn terminus in Freising and find a platform with the express, and submitted myself to the tender mercies of Fate Deutsche Bahn.

A nervous-looking crowd gathered on the platform in Freising, making me nervous as well. Signs kept promising Prague over Schwandorf, Cham and Pilsen — but then mentioned something like Zugteil, which, I was afraid, meant that the train would split. Vicky pointed it already out about S-bahn on our way from the airport — some trains get split over time, some cars going in one direction, others somewhere else. Unfortunately, the Germans feel absolutely no compulsion to translate announcements into any other languages — not even English; not even on international express trains. Thus I decided to ask the train dispatcher, which car should I take when I want to go to Prague. She told me with a manic grin that I can sit wherever I want, as this train would end in Schwandorf anyway, and we would be bussed onward from there. I was taken aback; I had spent previous evening making specially sure the train was a direct connection, for I wanted to avoid layovers and figuring out where to find my next train. Deutsche Bahn website did not mention any deviations, nor did any sign in Freising station.

Olympiaturm.

While entering the train I noticed a Czech speaking couple. I found my seat and went to meet my colleagues and find out whether they know anything more — assuming naively that they may know German and understand various announcements. They did not; however, during the next half hour they made friends with a German bus driver, who traveled along in a service compartment and claimed that he was to take us from Schwandorf by bus. Deutsche Bahn, over time, not only turned off our wi-fi, but also air conditioning, hence we traveled truly in the wild. Most German passengers got off in Regensburg, only about twenty five of us stayed, generally confused, all of us wishing to reach Prague. Our group included two Germans, who spoke enough English to be able to translate — then us three Czechs who spoke English, but not German; a lady going to Domažlice, who spoke only Czech — and then about twenty Americans, who were completely at mercy of whoever was willing to interpret for them. Besides the bus driver, who stuck to his version about his bus, proving it by his very presence, there was the conductor, who's version had us switch in Schwandorf to a train on the third platform, which would take us onward.

A chaos ensued in Schwandorf — we all got off, but people started getting on board of the train who DID NOT KNOW that the train ended there, therefore the conductor and dispatcher were chasing more confused passengers off the train. Meanwhile they argued between each other and called on their phones in all directions, demanding to know what they were supposed to do with us. The bus driver eventually shrugged and said that he apparently would not be driving us, and that we should catch that train on the third platform. There was no train on the third platform, but a train appeared to be about to leave from the fifth platform — we had to run for it. When I beheld our little herd how they all wrestled with baggage going down into the subway and up again, I renewed my smug feeling about my single small suitcase and a backpack.

An Oberpfalzbahn train, into which we all rushed, consisted of one motorized car and contained — besides a few locals (and — I presume — a driver) — one totally consternated conductor — who had visibly no idea why his little train got swarmed by a bunch of people squabbling in English, in addition toting a larger volume of suitcases and bags, waving tickets by Deutsche Bahn (he gave up checking tickets with marooned person number ten). He, too, spent most of the ride on his phone — although I don't understand German, I gathered that he was trying to figure out in fear, what to do with this gang of confused and aggravated people on his local line. In the end he proved to be the right man in the right place — though he could not speak and understand English, at the terminus he led us out like a pied piper leading rodents in front of the station, handing us into the care of a bus driver — one equally lacking English.

Museum of BMW.

I have a feeling that I was the only one who kept a humorous attitude in our situation — I was certainly the only one who (slightly hysterically) laughed, when our bus's engine died at the second intersection. Fortunately our driver was able to start it up again right away and we kept going. I could not help myself — the whole situation returned me into my wild young years, when I traveled the world with international camps or friends from these camps — when we traveled in strange, low budget ways — and sometimes found ourselves in places where none of us could communicate — and still we had always worked things out. I simply and suddenly felt like a person who's young and has potential.

The bus dropped us off at a station in Furth im Wald (whose name, if interpreted through the prism of Vienna dialect, sounds to us, Czechs, like "still [lost] in the woods"), where the first serious trouble appeared. The whole station was out of order and thus its bathrooms closed. Our train was due in ninety minutes. Still, I managed to strike a chat with a German, who sported a functional phone with data, about any open grocery stores, and I bought myself something to eat and drink. Vicky had equipped me with a small snack, some veggies and a chunk of cheese, expecting that I would not need to eat much, since I would be home for dinner. Yet the dinner time was upon me and I still found myself inside the Bundesrepublik. I also learned from my fellow traveler that we were actually quite lucky for being already on our way, though complicated and delayed. His mother had called him with frightful news, as the TV showed thousands of passengers stuck at the Munich Central Station due to interrupted traffic on this mainline. His mom declared that the station did not look this way since the time when Eastern Germans fled to West Germany in 1989 — thousands of displaced people with their luggage. I personally think that the Eastern Germans had a language advantage — in the current situation with Germans refusing to provide any information in any other language than German, it had to be an exceptional chaos.

A view from the tower onto the Olympic park and BMW.

So I felt happy that I was after all traveling and it still looked as if I would be able to go on Friday morning with grandpa as an escort to his cataracts surgery. When we then boarded the train and I could go the bathroom, my feeling of happiness was almost perfect — the lack of toilet paper was a breath of the old homeland, indeed I had to keep in mind to always carry a pack of paper napkins along. Even the attendant distributing refreshments was a pleasant surprise; this way I could order tea for fifteen crowns (67 cents - by the way, it was the cheapest tea that I had in Czechia during my whole stay). I settled in my seat, read a book and looked forward to reach Prague's Central station by 22:17 — mere two hours behind schedule.

An attentive reader already suspects where I'm going with this. Near Dobřichovice our express train stopped expressly. First for about ten minutes of "track issue". Then we moved a bit and stopped again. Eventually we languished for about half hour in Řevnice, allegedly because a broken car was blocking the tracks, and the only one remaining pair of rails had to accommodate trains in both directions. This built up to additional hour of delay. Fortunately, we still had wi-fi, and I was able to call off the welcome committee; shortly after eleven I saw my mother again, after five years. We even caught the last bus from Kačerov, thus the next phase of my vacation could proceed according to plan — after five hours of sleep, I was to get up and arrive with grandpa to an eye clinic.