There Is No Bus To Torremolinos - Journeys Through Life, Wine And Our World

A PERFECT DAY

THE SETUP

Peter O’Connor was a horny dog. He was a Trinity lad, Dublin born and bred. He grew up in a time when birth control was officially proscribed in the Irish Republic and all the pretty girls said no. He surveyed the gratuitous copulation enjoyed by his peers in other countries and resolved to get even as soon as possible.

Peter developed a plan. He would learn to speak German and move to Germany in order to exercise his considerable sexual prowess. In the process, he joined Our Organization and landed an internship with Chase-Manhattan in Frankfurt. That’s how we met.

In addition to finding work for us, Our Organization arranged for lodging. Peter and I became flatmates. He had arrived a few weeks before and was already working his voodoo with the ladies when I got there. Peter’s German was excellent, and he spoke it with a light Irish accent. He was charming in a way only the Irish can be. Whether it was his roguey brogueishness or his broguey roguishness, it was having the desired effect.

The Frankfurt chapter of Our Organization was robust, and at least a dozen interns were there from all over the world. It was a co-ed group, so Peter was in his element. Frequent parties and field trips were arranged for us, and members from other chapters in Germany would visit from time to time.

That’s how Peter met Johanna. She was studying in Trier and dropped in one weekend for a party. Peter was smitten, although it didn’t keep him from continually hitting on every other woman who came within arm’s reach. Johanna invited Peter to come to Trier for a weekend but made it clear she had a friend so he would need to bring a friend, too.

Peter accepted the invitation and started looking for an accomplice. He put the hard sell on me, emphasizing Johanna’s great beauty and the fact that beautiful women tend to have beautiful friends. He insinuated we could both enjoy a weekend of wild-monkey sex in Trier. I was in.

AND THEN

Please don’t take this the wrong way. There’s nothing wrong with playing the amiable sidekick. Certain benefits can accrue. I’ve had some fun over the years surfing the wakes of serious players like Peter, Arby, and Mr. Molecule.

But Peter was a novice in those days and had a tendency to run his mouth, especially with members of Our Organization. He talked up our trip to Trier like it was the greatest thing since sliced bread. In fact, he couldn’t stop talking about it.

As you can imagine, the theme was generally taken up and became a topic for conversation at our frequent parties. A typical conversation would go like this:

German: Und so, Russellein, to Trier you go?(1)

DRS: Yep.

German: Und bis Johanna you fisit?

DRS: Yep.

German (concerned): Und Johanna a friend has?

DRS (smiling broadly): Yep!

If there was anyone in the Frankfurt metropolitan area who didn’t know about our trip to Trier, it certainly wasn’t Peter’s fault. The fact that people weren’t stopping me on the street to talk about it I put down to your average German’s natural reticence and respect for privacy. Nevertheless, I observed a number of knowing smiles and conspiratorial winks from occasional passersby.

Eventually, a date was set.

DER BUNDESBAHN

The appointed Saturday arrived, and we were at the train station before daybreak. Peter didn’t want to lose any time. In those days the trains were operated by the government. Arrivals and departures were punctual to the minute. The trains were clean. Everything was well organized. Every essential service was provided. There was no fooling around.

Particular attention was paid to first- and second-class tickets. I had a Eurail pass which was automatically first class. A couple of times I was extracted from a second-class compartment and the company of friends by the conductor. It was inconvenient, but I had the feeling of being taken care of. There was no fooling around.

One time I was traveling in a first-class compartment when this Little Old Guy came in carrying a dachshund and dragging a suitcase. I helped him put his thirty-kilo suitcase on the luggage rack. I didn’t know if he was smuggling bullion or what. He spoke a little English so we were able to visit, after a fashion.

The conductor came in to check our tickets. I handed over the Eurail pass and the LOG handed over two tickets. The conductor handed the pass back to me but continued looking at the LOG’s tickets. Then the following:

Conductor: One of these tickets is second class.

LOG: That’s the dog’s ticket.

Conductor: If your dog wanted to travel first class, then why did he buy a second-class ticket?

LOG: It’s the ticket agent’s fault. The dog mumbles.

You can guess what happened next. I almost threw my back out hauling down the suitcase. The dog and the LOG were unceremoniously escorted to a second-class compartment.

ON THE WAY

The dawn broke as pure and fresh and full of promise as a bottle of Bernkasteler Doctor. The train ran along the rivers most of the way. It was an early fall so there was color in the trees. The vineyards were beginning to change, too.

We had coffee and pastry. We watched castles and forests and mountains go by, the rivers curling lazily below. The train stopped in a few small, pristine, ancient towns. We slightly opened the window in order to catch the invigorating scent of autumn. It was enchanting.

SHE HAS A FRIEND

The trip took about four hours, so we arrived late morning. Waiting on the platform for us were:

1. Johanna: She was everything advertised. Petite with naturally curly, natural blonde hair down past her shoulders. Piercingly blue eyes and a radiant smile. Perfectly proportioned. She had a laugh that could only be described as musical, and she used it often. A sweet and gentle personality.
2. Brunhilda: Hildie was what my Kansas relatives used to call “pioneer stock”. She was the kind of woman they liked to have around to pull the plow when the mule went lame. Her manner was a little standoffish, but she had a pleasant face and a cute smile she pulled out very occasionally.

It’s always been my policy to avoid romantic entanglements with women who outweigh me by more than forty pounds. Hildie was crowding the legal limit. It’s never been so much a matter of personal taste as it is of personal safety. I decided to take a wait-and-see approach.

AROUND TRIER AND THE MOSEL

The ladies had an itinerary planned and we set off at once. They had borrowed a car. I became the designated driver for reasons that are still unclear.

Our first stop was the Roman ruins in Trier. I had no idea Trier was a Roman town, and this was the first Roman stuff I’d ever seen. Trier was once an imperial capital, and the ruins have been well preserved and restored. It’s difficult to convey the feeling of connection I had when looking at and touching those old walls. It was like seeing an old friend and a new love at the same time. And the marvel that those walls had somehow managed to stand the test of time and, even worse, the ravages of man.

Having at that point spent most of my life in the suburban wasteland of Houston, the permanence of those walls contrasted with the shamelessly disposable buildings with which I was familiar. I had a feeling of true reverence. We walked around the town for a while and had a light lunch. The weather was perfect: cloudless sky and just a hint of warmth.

During our ramble about town, I got to know the ladies a little better. It turned out that Johanna grew up in Chile. Her Dad was a mining engineer. The family spoke German at home so she was as German as lederhosen.

Hildie was a local girl. As we rambled about, she began to thaw a little. The four of us would walk arm in arm occasionally. In Europe, it’s not unusual to see men walking arm in arm or women doing the same. It’s not a sexual thing. They just have a different sense of personal space and public affection.

Germans are famous walkers and they have little walking games. It’s something like line dancing but in a forward direction; kind of like the Cotton-eyed Joe. The ladies liked one they called ein hut, ein stock, ein regenschirm. I never could figure it out, which amused them greatly.

As you can imagine, Peter was stuck to Johanna like the tar baby. Hildie and I had time to visit. She spoke very little English. However, we were able to determine she had a sister and brother and parents nearby. We were able to determine she was studying communications. Despite the language barrier, I determined she was what we call a big ol’, good ol’ girl. That’s good and you can’t ask for more.

Apparently, Peter had told Hildie and Johanna about my enthusiasm for German wine. They had some friends in the Mosel Valley who made wine. We drove out into the country, and I had another quasi-religious experience. The steep hillsides were completely covered with grapevines running right down to the river. Stunning!

And the...