As a recreational pop psychologist I would suggest that travel is an opportunity to abandon reality. It’s when real time is paused until you return, often begrudgingly, to the routine of life. It’s like pretend calories when devouring chocolate cake with girlfriends.
It’s a feeling of freedom and release when humans become absent-minded Mr Magoos. This is why airlines and hotels are overwhelmed with discarded items in their lost and found departments. I once left my bus ticket on a kitchen counter with no time to make the round trip to retrieve it. This little episode cost me another bus ticket even though my name was still on the passenger list. Tip, beware of shady eastern European ticket sellers.
When you are not thinking entirely rationally you also take chances and make decisions that would appear ridiculous in real life. Language may be alien and geography confusing, so you just “go with the flow”. Like accepting offers of accommodation from people you have just met, because you think it’s wonderful that there is still genuine hospitality in this sometimes scary world.
So when a relative of a friend generously offers their guest room in Lake Constance, Germany, of course, I do not hesitate. This is why I now sleep beneath a canvas of tasty salamis dangling from the ceiling, something like phallic stalagmites. Yes, my cave doubles as the smokehouse and storage room. If it took my fancy, I could reach for a beer and a sausage with little exertion from my bed. However, my vegetarian sensibilities are greatly challenged and my dreams menacing.
You can imagine how grateful I am for the spectacular scenery outside my window. It really is the quintessential picture postcard of Europe. Pristine water surrounded by snowcapped mountains. The vineyards precariously wedged into the hillsides and charming German hamlets abound.
Lake Constance is actually a series of lakes that border Germany, Austria and Switzerland. The nations live quite harmoniously in hunting heaven and duck is the local dinner table fare. These boisterous fowl call in on their autumn migration from Siberia to Asia and apart from their sacrifice to gourmands, they also support a thriving taxidermy industry.
A visit to a souvenir shop and I am perplexed with the choice of stuffed ducks and cookoo clocks. I know this is the genuine “thing” in this part of the world but even here it looks plain kitsch. Then I recall it is all a part of the local flavour as I amble down the winding narrow streets in Landau, with its gingerbread houses, and the beer and wine gardens.
I could prattle on about the abundance of fish in the lakes, the serene alpine forest air and the quaint hunting lodges. My senses are so hypnotised that I am sure I hear Heidi’s grandfather yodelling in the distance.
A spontaneous decision leaves little time for expectations and in retrospect I would have not wanted for more. Well maybe. If only I could have met a real Hansel or Gretel, to complete my storybook experience.
