On Sunday morning I decided to leave for Innsbruck on the Inn River where I actually saw the sun for the third time in four weeks. The train passed through Liechtenstein, but you were hardly aware of it. The contrast of the mountains peaks to the valleys is quite dramatic and almost overwhelming not only in a visual sense; the brightness of the day and snowcapped mountains gave me a terrific migraine.
I remember the train station in Innsbruck: “literally stinks –really filthy” despite what the tourist brochures say about the glamour of European travel. If only their industry found out what McDonald’s found out a half century ago they could make hundreds of millions of dollars more. The same goes with providing hot water for baths - not just in wash basins, but I digress. The University Housing Center was supposed to have a youth hostel, but when I arrived someone said it wouldn’t be open until July. Their tourist office with city maps and good information should have been at the railroad station, the main artery of the city. They could learn from the Swiss.
East of the railroad station there was a below-par youth hostel with cold showers and a urinal pipe above an open drain in the floor. The cost for one night was 18 Schillings which confused me because I thought Schillings were from England. Austria also had a coin called the Groschen, but I guess they're all Euros now. The master of the place was a very rude old man who shortly came in the 32-bed men’s quarters for inspection and promptly kicked my boot off the cot railing and quickly reprimanded me. The only thing wrong with that was my foot was still inside it, but what’s a person to do if he has your passport? Still, I’ve never put my shoes on any youth hostel linen. I counted 30 smelly people in the room. If hostel owners provided backpackers with hot water more often, I believe they would gladly pay extra for it. I met some Swedes who informed me English was compulsory in Swedish schools. They were on their way to Venice where they’d have to catch the #5 boat to the youth hostel. I thought that was funny. I also had a good talk with a middle aged South African man on perpetual wanderlust running away from his wife. He said he'd been around the world twice and had visited Zurich at least ten times.
The next day I went back to the train station for breakfast. At least in northern Europe people eat like Americans. My breakfast consisted of bacon, eggs, rolls, and a pot of tea. Elderly tourists accustomed to escorted tours may yawn at this, but when traveling as I did, food (good food) means a lot. The World Herald Tribune at the station dated June 19, 1972 was full of foreboding news: Czech hijackers, massacre in Tel Aviv Airport, Italian police on strike, and the Red Army Faction bombing at Frankfurt. I went back to the tourist office to find a better room for the night and visited the Tiroler Landesmuseum which was packed with tourists. I quickly found out what the prominently displayed “Montag Raush (sp)Tag” meant on Innsbruck’s restaurants - closed.
That night I stayed in a private house on Prinz-Eugen-Strasse. When I went for a walk at dusk I noticed there were modern high rises located outside the city apparently to ease the housing problem. While down by the Autobahn, I was mistaken for a local by an American tourist: “Ver ist der Autobahn?” I just let him speak in broken German until he was finished and I said, “It’s over there man.” We both had a good laugh. Perhaps my red hair and height made me look like an Austrian or German. The night was full of the sound of mysterious explosions and the ringing of bells in the city.
