Day 4: Mannheim
The foyer of the Sheraton is chock full of Australians again. Merde (or the German equivalent. Schiten, maybe). What’s the point of me poncing around Germany wearing my Australian shirt and cap when everyone else is doing the same. It feels like Telstra stadium. Get me out of here.
Any worries I had that public transport would be overwhelmingly busy are quickly dispelled. German trains are expensive but you get what you pay for. They are frequent, clean and comfortable. The seats recline, and each has a power point. On the way to Mannheim, we pass through lush green countryside, with many Germans taking in the glorious sunshine in their allotments that run alongside much of the track. These carefully tended gardens of maybe 50 square metres each are a sanctuary for city dwellers who otherwise would not have their own piece of dirt. We pass a small lake where people are sunbathing, as if it’s Bondi Beach.
At Mannheim, there are plenty of Japanese in town for tomorrow’s game. It is Sunday and the rest of the city is relatively quiet as I walk to my hotel. I am given a big room, in a corner overlooking a central square called Friedrichplatz, with a small balcony opening over the front of the building. The square is bordered by lawns with beds of flowers in full bloom, and in the middle, there is a giant stone water tower which is Mannheim’s major landmark. Water fountains play in the sun, and in the middle of the square, there are stalls and bars, and adidas has set up mini pitches and football shooting galleries.
I take a walk around the square. The stall selling World Cup gear has every country covered except Australia. I tell the cashier, “This town is about to be invaded by thousands of Australians, and you’ve got nothing for them.” She doesn’t appear to appreciate my free advice. From behind, a broad Aussie accent says, “G’day, where you from, mate.” It’s a guy from Alice Springs, and he continues to talk in broad strine. He’s staying in Germany for a month, although he hasn’t been able to buy any tickets, despairing that a ticket to the Brazil game sold on ebay for STG1500. He will go around the country following each of the Australian games.
If man cannot live by bread alone, the Germans give it a darn good try. Everywhere are pretzels, rolls, pizzas, pastries, wurst with roll, pizza with roll, wurst on pizza. I dread the weight gain after three weeks of this. I compensate with copious amounts of fruit, especially strawberries, which are sensational. I hope they don’t cause constipation or diarrhoea (sp?) because I’m living on them today. Whatever it is we buy in Sydney are more like small apples than these sweet treats.
The hotel has an excellent pool, and I burn off the pretzels before watching the Netherlands game. A couple of cars adorned in flags and scarves of Iran are doing laps of Friedrichplatz, horns blaring and bodies hanging out of their windows. Iran plays Mexico an hour later, but the game is in Nuremburg, and they are either lost, or they plan a quick trip down the autobahn.
Mozart lived in Mannheim for many years, and I know why he produced so much work. There’s not much else to do.
I head to a local bar for the Iran game. The barmaid spent four months in Tasmania ten years ago, attending school there. What is it with Tasmania in this part of the world: we don’t even go there from Sydney. I order kartoffelsuppen - potato soup – and it is served with (wait for it) wurst and bread. Not bad, I’ve tasted worse wurst. It’s a lively game, 3-1 to Mexico, and as I stroll back towards my hotel, it’s “G’day mate” every 50 paces. I notice people sitting at benches and tables composing music on sheet of paper. Amazing. Do they come here for Mozart’s inspiration?
Back at Friedrichplatz, I chat to an American who’s been working in Germany, with the military, for a dozen years. He tells me that Kaiserslautern is a major US base, with 50,000 troops stationed there, down from 100,000 before the Berlin wall fell. The base is used for missions into the Middle East, and when the US President comes to Europe, he flies in there. The Germans are worried about the gradual withdrawal of troops, as they inject millions into the economy.
It does not go dark until 10pm, and it’s still warm into the evening. Music is blaring across the square and over my balcony, and I settle in to watch Portugal play Angola.
Any worries I had that public transport would be overwhelmingly busy are quickly dispelled. German trains are expensive but you get what you pay for. They are frequent, clean and comfortable. The seats recline, and each has a power point. On the way to Mannheim, we pass through lush green countryside, with many Germans taking in the glorious sunshine in their allotments that run alongside much of the track. These carefully tended gardens of maybe 50 square metres each are a sanctuary for city dwellers who otherwise would not have their own piece of dirt. We pass a small lake where people are sunbathing, as if it’s Bondi Beach.
At Mannheim, there are plenty of Japanese in town for tomorrow’s game. It is Sunday and the rest of the city is relatively quiet as I walk to my hotel. I am given a big room, in a corner overlooking a central square called Friedrichplatz, with a small balcony opening over the front of the building. The square is bordered by lawns with beds of flowers in full bloom, and in the middle, there is a giant stone water tower which is Mannheim’s major landmark. Water fountains play in the sun, and in the middle of the square, there are stalls and bars, and adidas has set up mini pitches and football shooting galleries.
I take a walk around the square. The stall selling World Cup gear has every country covered except Australia. I tell the cashier, “This town is about to be invaded by thousands of Australians, and you’ve got nothing for them.” She doesn’t appear to appreciate my free advice. From behind, a broad Aussie accent says, “G’day, where you from, mate.” It’s a guy from Alice Springs, and he continues to talk in broad strine. He’s staying in Germany for a month, although he hasn’t been able to buy any tickets, despairing that a ticket to the Brazil game sold on ebay for STG1500. He will go around the country following each of the Australian games.
If man cannot live by bread alone, the Germans give it a darn good try. Everywhere are pretzels, rolls, pizzas, pastries, wurst with roll, pizza with roll, wurst on pizza. I dread the weight gain after three weeks of this. I compensate with copious amounts of fruit, especially strawberries, which are sensational. I hope they don’t cause constipation or diarrhoea (sp?) because I’m living on them today. Whatever it is we buy in Sydney are more like small apples than these sweet treats.
The hotel has an excellent pool, and I burn off the pretzels before watching the Netherlands game. A couple of cars adorned in flags and scarves of Iran are doing laps of Friedrichplatz, horns blaring and bodies hanging out of their windows. Iran plays Mexico an hour later, but the game is in Nuremburg, and they are either lost, or they plan a quick trip down the autobahn.
Mozart lived in Mannheim for many years, and I know why he produced so much work. There’s not much else to do.
I head to a local bar for the Iran game. The barmaid spent four months in Tasmania ten years ago, attending school there. What is it with Tasmania in this part of the world: we don’t even go there from Sydney. I order kartoffelsuppen - potato soup – and it is served with (wait for it) wurst and bread. Not bad, I’ve tasted worse wurst. It’s a lively game, 3-1 to Mexico, and as I stroll back towards my hotel, it’s “G’day mate” every 50 paces. I notice people sitting at benches and tables composing music on sheet of paper. Amazing. Do they come here for Mozart’s inspiration?
Back at Friedrichplatz, I chat to an American who’s been working in Germany, with the military, for a dozen years. He tells me that Kaiserslautern is a major US base, with 50,000 troops stationed there, down from 100,000 before the Berlin wall fell. The base is used for missions into the Middle East, and when the US President comes to Europe, he flies in there. The Germans are worried about the gradual withdrawal of troops, as they inject millions into the economy.
It does not go dark until 10pm, and it’s still warm into the evening. Music is blaring across the square and over my balcony, and I settle in to watch Portugal play Angola.
posted by Graham Hand | 1:33 PM
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