Hamburg
I heard that there is some kind of a competition between Berlin and Hamburg - which one is cooler. Berlin is filled with heavy historical buildings, tourists, a fallen wall, and graffiti, while the Elbe River flows through Hamburg, looking more like a sea and home to one of Europe’s largest ports - the Port of Hamburg. The Elbe River comes from the high mountains of northern Czechia, and incidentally, one of its tributaries is the Havel River that flows through the Spandau district of western Berlin. It joins The Elbe and together they flow into the North Sea. The number of cargo ships and the scope of activity at the port, which consists of dozens of islands surrounded by hundreds of thousands of cranes, somehow excite me more than Berlin with all its history and gay neighborhoods.
On the morning of July 3, 2023, with slight sadness, I approach the camper van parking office to settle the payment. It is now nine in the morning, and I need to vacate my parking spot by twelve. I return to the van, prepare breakfast - granola, almond milk, and coffee, make the bed, wash the dishes, pack all the items into drawers and cabinets that close tightly, switch from the power grid to the leisure batteries, fill the fresh water tank, empty the gray water tank, lower and secure the rising roof, roll up the awning, screw the gas tank close, check my "things to check before leaving a camper van parking lot" list for the hundredth time, buckle myself in, and set off.
I don’t remember why but I decide that instead of driving into Berlin I need to take a train. I park the car and enter the Berlin S. Grunbau Train Station.
On its walls, there is an exhibition of photographs from what looks like an opening ceremony sometime in the 1930s.
I move from picture to picture and am impressed by the German people on the eve of World War II. Most of the black-and-white photographs are standard - one shows the city dignitaries, government representatives, and railroad company officials standing on the platform with stern faces, another shows the invited guests standing on the platform with stern faces as well. I wonder what smell lingered in the air with all the smokers in their woolen clothes, which only God knows how, if at all, were ever washed.
Suddenly, a picture catches my eye and pulls me towards it. It’s interesting that here someone edited the photo and added some color highlights to the black and white. At first, all I see is a collection of more grim faces, none of whom are smiling, and some standing with their backs to the camera. But then I notice a couple standing with their backs to the camera on the left side of the picture. Both individuals are wearing uniforms, and for some reason, the man is holding the woman by the neck in a concerning manner. A question races through my mind - why would someone hang such a picture in public? I stare at the photo for a long time.
The train arrives, and in it I travel to say goodbye to Leopold, my cousins, and to Berlin itself.
A few hours later, back in the car, I place my phone in the holder and enter data into my camp4night app. The screen displays the city of Hamburg with parking balloons in different colors. I tap on one balloon that indicates it is an official camper van parking lot. It is already three in the afternoon. The reviews for the place are in German, and I am too lazy to translate and read them properly. I tell Google Maps to take me straight to the parking lot at Pinkenreiter Hauptdeich in the streets of Hamburg.
Between five and six, I arrive at the location. Already at the gate, my heart sinks a few floors down. In most of the parking spots, there are caravans or neglected houses on wheels that are not at all the plush camping vehicles of city dwellers heading out for a weekend vacation. This is a semi-permanent residence of people struggling to get by, who cannot afford permanent housing; in other words, it probably is a troubled population that is often best avoided. The second thing that bothers me is that from a rickety shed, right next to the entrance, I can hear loud male voices, and I immediately recognize the tune of German drunkenness in their voices.
I sit in the van, pondering whether to stay or start looking for another place. While I'm sitting there, from a distance, I hear children's voices, and a few seconds later, a nine-year-old girl appears on a green bicycle cycling fast around the parking lot road. She rides standing up, leaning forward and pedaling as fast as she can. She is dressed in a thin summer dress, sleeveless, billowing behind her. She passes right in front of my van as she heads towards the shouting men's shed, and while tossing the bike aside, she jumps off and runs inside.
I roll my window down. I can hear her clear, high voice mingling with the men's hoarse voices, and then, for a moment, they fall silent. It sounds as if she's asked a question, and now they are thinking about it. The moment of silence passes, and immediately after, a cacophony of those male voices erupts. She comes running out of the shed, jumps onto her bicycle, and zooms past me in the opposite direction. This time I see the bruises imprinted on her arms. Someone has shaken this girl, and I hope her story begins and ends with just that shaking.
I wonder if there is a connection between this girl and the couple in the photo I saw earlier at the Grunau train station. A wave of helplessness and fear washes over me, and before I can do anything, one of the Germans approaches me and says I can park there, pointing to an available parking spot. That's it. I missed my escape window, and obediently, I park my van in its spot. The man walks behind me, and when I exit the car, he says, "Eine Euro fur toilet, eine Euro fur electricitat fur jede stunde..." Somehow, I understand that payment is only in coins. Jesus Christ, where will I get so many coins? He commands "Komm! Komm!" and leads me to another shack where, inside, he gives me change for my 20 Euro bill.
Quickly, I return to the van. With the coins, I connect to the electricity grid and decide to take the risk of leaving the car in the parking lot and going for a walk. I exit the parking lot, turn left, and immediately enter a dark green avenue. The avenue leads to a cemetery. I decide to enter it.
What a difference between German cemeteries and cemeteries in my country. First of all, in most European cemeteries, there are graves that are a hundred, two hundred years old, or even older. Moreover, the spacing is generous. There’s no need to worry about disrespectfully stepping on a grave or stumbling over one. Between the graves, there are trees, large patches of grass and flower beds. In stark contrast to the living habitation my parking lot, here, among the dead, everything is well-kept and spotless.
Silence. I am sure that apart from me, there is no one in the cemetery. Many thoughts are racing through my mind. I decide to record them on my phone. Maybe, later, I’ll post them on Facebook. I take my phone out of my little fanny hugging pouch and, in formal Hebrew, record my stream of consciousness. As I'm talking away, I come across a seating area where benches are placed alongside a stone wall. This is probably a place for remembering the dead and reflecting on life. Suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, I notice that I am not alone. Two women in their thirty's, are staring at me quite amused. I stop recording, clear my throat and say, “Hello,” and they respond, “Hello.” One of them has short blonde hair combed back, and the other has dark hair that is braided into many plaits that cascade down to her shoulders.
The blonde asks, “Welche Sprache sprichst du?” A second passes before I find my voice and explain that I do not speak German. “What language were you talking?” she asks. “Hebrew,” I reply. “Oh? you are from Israel…?” The blonde smiles and sneaks a glance at her friend. I want to sit between them, have each of them hug me from either side, and then quietly die. Somewhere in the back of my soul I feel a fleeting sense of loneliness.
The blonde, who is slightly shorter than the the braided woman, is the less shy of the two, and perhaps she knows English better. But the one with the fine braids is painfully beautiful. A silence ensues, and the blonde gestures for me to come and sit with them. I comply. She asks why am I talking to myself, and I show her the phone and explain that I am recording thoughts related to my travel and my homeland. “Oh, yah-yah,” they both nod, and I say, “Very complicated,” and they continue nodding. As is my habit, I manage to make them laugh and entertain them, proving that I am a worldly woman with a van, and the conversation just flows freely.
I could stay there with them all night, but it starts to get dark, and I do not want to wander into that seedy parking lot in the dark. They give me directions how to get there in the quickest way, I say goodbye to them, and hurry back to my Nadedet, which is waiting for me quietly. Inside the van, I check all the locks and heat water for pasta and a cup of tea. Now I will sit and draw the little girl and her bicycle.
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