We didn’t need a map from Munich’s train station. We simply followed the lederhosen. Embroidered dresses, feathered hats, leather shorts. Gingerbread hearts hung from necks.
Dani and I wandered until one of the tents opened its doors. Brass music drifted through its doors.
Inside, thousands of people sat shoulder to shoulder at long wooden tables beneath painted rafters. We squeezed onto the end of a bench.
A waitress appeared and set two huge mugs in front of us.
We hadn’t asked for them., but we accepted them anyway.
Then, somewhere across the tent, a brass band struck up a drinking song. People climbed onto the tables, mugs raised overhead, singing words we didn’t understand.
When hunger finally won, we opened the menu.
Every dish was in German.
A waitress came.
“What do you have?”
“Chicken.”
Dani shook her head.
“What else?”
“Cow.”
Dani looked at the price, then bought a giant pretzel from a vendor weaving between the tables instead.
When my beer emptied, the waitress came by to refill it.
I placed my hand over the mug and shook my head.
She took the empty glass away. As she left, I noticed the lines of people waiting for a space.
Every table was full.
Dani caught my eye then.
“Ready to see Munich?”
~
We walked away from the fairgrounds and into the city.
At Marienplatz, flower stalls and produce vendors crowded the market. Dani bought a small bag of dried lavender.
We found a wooden table nearby and shared another beer.
A woman moved between tables carrying a stack of flyers, speaking briefly with each group of people.
She made eye contact and approached.
“Wissen Sie von der Krise?”
When I shook my head, she transition to English.
“Do you know about the crisis happening right now in Syria?”
She handed me a pamphlet. It was in German.
“Famine. War. Refugees are trying to get to Europe. By boat, by train, on foot. Some countries are welcoming them, but other countries are shutting down trains, setting up checkpoints, trying to stop them.”
“What can we do?” Dani asked.
“People need food and clothes. Money would help.”
I looked through my wallet.
I had a few euros left.
~
The evening air turned cold.
We had left our jackets in the station lockers.
Dani shivered.
Then my alarm rang. It was time to go.
At the station, we waited.
An hour passed.
The sleeper train never came.
Half an hour later, it disappeared from the departures board.
I went to the help desk.
“Canceled.”
The attendant pointed to a train on the other side of the station.
“Salzburg. Leaves in one minute. Go!”
I grabbed Dani, and we ran for it, boarding as it pulled away.
We found two seats and squeezed in beside a man traveling alone.
He wore brown lederhosen and a crisp white shirt. It had come untucked, and his colorful suspenders hung nearly to the floor.
“Budapest?”
“Yeah. You two?”
“Same.”
“I’m only there for a day. Figured I’d see what I can.”
“That’s not very long.”
“No, eh? I’ve got the whole day mapped out.”
He reached for his backpack but missed the zipper.
“Hang on.”
He squinted and tried again.
The train lurched. The beer on his armrest sloshed out a few drops.
“Whoa.”
He reached to steady it.
“How long have you been drinking?”
He thought about it.
“A few days. I’ll be sober tomorrow. Budapest, remember?”
“Yeah.”
Behind us, someone began singing.
A group of men in lederhosen joined in.
Another passenger stumbled into the aisle, caught himself against a seat, and kept walking.
The Canadian watched them and laughed.
“Looks like they’ve been going all week.”
We settled back into our seats.
A man standing in the aisle lifted his beer to his friends.
Then his knees buckled.
He fell forward and hit the floor face-first with a thud.
The conductor came running.
He looked down at the man.
Then at the people around him.
He shook his head, stepped over him, and continued checking tickets.
We watched as the man’s friends eventually hauled him upright and dragged him toward the door.
The Canadian took another drink.
~
Our stop came an hour later.
We pulled into a small station on the outskirts of Salzburg.
The station’s tracks stood empty.
We found the conductor.
“Track closed.”
He pointed across the city.
“Seven miles. No train.”
“Budapest?”
He held up a finger.
“Bus.”
Then he pointed toward the darkness.
“Sleeper train there.”
Rain hammered the corrugated roof above us.
In the parking lot, volunteers filled paper sacks with food beneath portable floodlights.
Travelers drifted past in the darkness beyond them. Each took a bag with a quiet blessing and moved on.
Then the bus arrived.
Dani looked out the window as we drove. Fabric and plastic slid past our view—yellows blues and blacks— damp and dirty from the rain.
“Tents. There are so many.”
At the next station, the doors were locked. We held out our passports. A key clicked. Then the attendant locked them behind us again.
~
The tracks again stood empty, so we waited in the lobby, huddled for warmth against the wind and rain.
An hour later, I went to check the tracks again and saw a three-car train now parked.
The destination display in the window said Budapest, but its doors wouldn’t open, and we couldn’t find a sleeper car anywhere.
As I walked around the train, I noticed our Canadian friend inside.
He found a cracked window and called to us.
“Hey. There are no beds in here. Just chairs.”
“Okay.”
I tried the door.
It didn’t move.
“But how do we get in?”
“I don’t know. They won’t open for me either. I think I’m stuck, yeah?”
We left then, back to our seats in the waiting room.
We waited some more.
Sometime after four, a conductor arrived and unlocked the train.
“No sleeper tonight.”
Then be hurried away.
Dani and I climbed aboard and fell asleep leaning against each other in the dark.
When I opened my eyes again, Hungary was outside the window.