Off to Munich!

Monika and I slept in Wednesday morning, she on the futon in her living room where she says she always sleeps, me in the bedroom. By the time I'd performed my ablutions, Monika had gone to the bakery for fresh sweet rolls, and had coffee ready. Strong coffee! Then Monika shuffled some cats around so Boyo could go into the "attic" room off the living room and get acquainted with Monika's cats through the mesh door. Boyo was his usual exuberant self, leaping on the cat tree to look out the dormer window, delighted with his new surroundings- and the view, outside over red-tiled roofs to the busy suburban street below, buzzing with cars and motorbikes; and darting to the door, where he could see and sniff his potential "brides." Monika's lovely tortie Burm introduced herself first. Nobody hissed or spit, which was a good sign for the future!

The garden below Monika's deep-set wire-screened cat-proof windows is lushly green, spiked with lavender remnants of tulips, promising perennials now in bud. Branches of blue-purple wisteria in full bloom that Monika planted ten years ago drape on wire across the side of the house, supported by its thick, twisted brown trunk. More evidence of Monika's green thumb.

We walk around to the guest parking area, and exchange a European farewell: three air kisses, one side, the other, and back again; and I belt myself into the Renault. Monika shows me how to set up the Garmin, typing in the name and address of my Munich hotel. We'll keep in touch via e-mail. And off I go!

The navigator is startling at first, as the narrator guides me out of Buchs and towards the Autobahn. It takes me awhile to realize I can watch it channel my route, while the disembodied female discourse tells me exactly where to go. At the first wrong turn, she says "Recalculating!" then determines where I went wrong, adjusts for the discrepancy, and sends me in the right direction. I'm gobsmacked!

It doesn't take long to get onto the Autobahn. The voice says go straight, then bear left, then right, then straight, etcetera, for the four hour trip. Every now and then the monitor beeps and a strange symbol pops up on the screen. I haven't yet figured out yet that this means there's radar ahead, but it doesn't really matter: I'm maintaining my speed in the right lane with other cars, monster eighteen wheelers and their double-length haulers, horse trailers and small box trucks. Until I get a feel for the traffic, the fast cars can have the outside lane to themselves, except when I have to pass a heavy duty tour bus or a cement truck that's straining up an incline. I don't yet know the capability of the Renault, though I'm happy to discover it has a quick overdrive, for passing. I'm fascinated by the trucks, their billboard sides blandished with languages from multiple countries, touting manufacturers and brands in German, Italian, Bulgarian, Romanian, some in Cyrillic text meaningless to me, but as natural as breathing to the people who live in those countries.

Between the road construction, the tunnels, and the everlasting drizzle, I'm perservering with a stiff neck and sore spine. This is a short trip, so it's a good test run. Nobody is paying attention to the red-circled speed limit signs but me- at first- not even when the lanes narrow, swerve, and dip through the "men working" zones. Except for the eternal, infernal tunnels bored through the mountainsides like dark gullets, the road and the flow of traffic are much like the interstate highways at home. The views across the valleys are stupendous. I want to take pictures of the snow-streaked mountaintops, wreathed in black and white churning roils of windswept vapor, but there's no place to pull over except at designated pinched parking areas that are there and gone before I can reduce my speed, with one exception, when I shoot across the highway to snag a shot of the Bodensee; or gas and restaurant areas that are walled with high solid fences or newly leafed-out deciduous trees and tenacious conifers blocking the eye and the lens. There is only one stop that provides an overlook where there's a bird's eye view of a silvery-blue lake and a towering granite cliffside hovering above like a standing stone that no man put there. Otherwise, big yellow phones signify emergency cutouts,the only other places to pull over. One may stop on the shoulder at risk of a major fine. I'm not chancing it. The vista from the legitimate overlook will have to do.

The navigator puts me on the ring around Munich, then the offramp- the "ausfahrt"- and winds me through narrow "strasses" to my hotel. But the Belle Blue (the hotel I chose because my Mom's name was Belle) wasn't there. I circled endlessly, trying to catch a glimpse of my invisible destination, finally pulling over to use my cell. The receptionist told me the Belle Blue was attached to the Italia, which I'd driven by several times going around and around the block. Once I had my bearings, it was simple to locate. The navigator had it on the right: it was on the left, a discreet door identified in small blueprint blue letters on the side of the building. I parked briefly in an illegal space while the receptionist came down to open the garage door, then squeezed the car into a tiny two-vehicle parking area. The receptionist greeted me in perfect, if accented English, grabbed my suitcase, escorted me through the side door, and I checked in.

From the front, one would never guess a hotel was hidden behind a locked door and up a flight of stairs. A miniscule elevator later lofted me up and down. My aptly appointed single room was on the "first" - our second- floor, my window above the parking area. The inevitable white duvet covered a comfortable bed, a desk appropriated one wall, and the bathroom was big enough to turn around in. A password connected me to the internet, and I headed out to see what I could see.