F) Germany v Cameroon... from Cologne

I departed Belgium with a head feeling full of left over beer,
leaving from the very same station that had caused me much anguish just
two days before. Again, being a unilingual ignoramus proved to be a
great problem as I skipped between platforms, just making my
train.

I hope to make all my remaining journeys by train and it is at this
juncture that I should be extending gratitude and platitudes to Rail
Europe for sponsoring me. Except that they didn't sponsor me. A
short-sited Marketing Manager rejected my pleas and I was forced to
purchase an Inter-Rail ticket for the month. So, while I could rave
about the efficiency, cleanliness and comfort of trains and Rail
Europe's professional, helpful and well-informed staff, I will not.
Instead, I have mastered their uninspired brochures, all gloss, and
will wager that never will another Inter-Railer screw so many journeys
out of a month. And, in order to make up for the added cost to my
venture, I will implement the oft-used traveller's strategy of simply
not eating. Should I wither and die, may it be on Rail Europe's head
and my body found rotting somewhere on a train.

After passing from the gorgeous greenery of Belgium into that which is
Germany, my train pulled into Koln where I would wait again for a
train. The station was crowded. Almost too crowded I felt. Then, I
noticed one spot where hundreds stood staring up at a screen. Could it
be? Surely not. It was!

Germany v Cameroon! The match had just begun and my wait at the station
allowed me to watch! If I ever had any doubts, they were now completely
dispelled.... I am the luckiest man alive.

The score was nil all with only twenty minutes passed. The locals'
faces were focussed. Serious. Germanic? Those sitting at the front
fidgeted and sprawled. Those at the back stood upright and tall. Tins
and bottles of beer were being drained all around. The sun streamed
into the great hall revealing smoke filling the place to its ceiling,
some thirty feet tall. There was a sort of festivity, yet solemnity, in
the crowd full of frowns.

I was not yet in touch with the game, but Germany seemed to be doing
quite well. A near miss at goal inspired some burley youths, wearing
'German Pit Bull' jackets, to stand and lead the throng in an abrupt
German chant. A great many joined in.

Leathers and black dominated the dress and the same sense of darkness
was fired up at the screen. The crowd barked at the injured to get up
or stay down, depending, of course, on who lay on the ground.

There was some international blood present to give the crowd a little
colour. A few Corats, an Italian, some Japanese happy snapping and the
bravest of all, a woman who removed her jacket to reveal a union jacked
bosom. I admired her gall.

A weak Cameroon corner brought a round of applause and the first half
to a close. The group reshuffled. The media swooped in. The Pit Bulls
played to the camera like the thugs that they were.

Half time and I needed every minute. I had business to deal with. I
needed to change money, find some food and tend to a newfound priority.
I wanted a beer.

I chose to stretch my luck a little further and left the station for a
quick look around. There had to be a pub nearby. I walked into 'Alt
Koln' where there was no football being shown. I hit 'The Post' and was
pointed to a screen in the corner where sat one lonely old gent. 'The
Ice Bar', I was tempted, but was scared off by the nuts on the bar.
Surely, an indicator of prohibitive pricing which I judged the nearby
'Bier Bar' to share.

I decided I had started in the very best place and headed back to the
station in a clumsy, loping, backpackered jog. I was thinking that I
would kick myself if I missed any goals and just as I rounded the
corner there was an earth shattering roar. I fought my way through the
great wall of sound to rejoin the now rejoicing crowd. A German goal
had been scored! The Pit Bullshitheads stood before the screen so proud
of their country (would it be so of them?) waving their flags. Fists in
the air and smiles all around. Possibly the first I had seen in my hour
in Germany, save for one from the coy corn girl who had just sold me my
lunch.

The celebrations dissipated and normality returned. The mood had not
really lightened and again all were transfixed and playing their part
in the group solemn stare. Something was missing. Of course, silly me.
I left for a moment, making a move for my beer.

My whistle now whetted, I returned to the crowd. I wanted to see them
win, but after some quick calculations, I was worried whether my luck
would stretch quite that far. I bring it all on myself, there can be
little doubt, but I wear a time-pressure-albatross. One I am never
without. My train was leaving in about twenty two minutes. About the
same amount of time that remained in the half. To miss the end result
and reaction would give a slight bitter end to this moment of, thus
far, most miraculous luck.

'Let's keep the game clean', I implored the big screen as I nervously
swigged away at 'Dom Kolsch'.

I decided to move a little closer to my platform where I had noticed a
smaller screen stood. It was surrounded by punters. I joined some hefty
security in craning for a view. It eluded us all, so I bought and ate a
banana and moved back to the big screen. It took me back a little
further away from my platform and potentially a whole lot further way
from Munich and my connecting train to Slovenia. One more risk, just to
spice up the game.

It was getting terribly late in the match. I held such hope for the end
that it seemed impossible, but, suddenly, there was another German
goal! Another round of cheers. Emphatic this time. Not as fever pitched
as the last. The game seemed to be dead. Germany, winning, two goals
ahead.

I stood watching, fidgeting, checking and rechecking my tickets, the
departure board and my planned path for exit. There were six minutes to
go. Until my train departed, that is. Finish! Damned game!
Finish!

The sentiment was shared. There were no more nerves in the crowd.
Rather, all were hungrily awaiting the end, the great moment of
celebration, though none in more desperation than me.

Then, with not even two minutes to spare, it finally came...

Whistle! Cheer! Run like hell!

As I stood on the platform (for just a minute mind you), I heard the
shouts from below. Overwhelmed and exhausted, I boarded my train. I was
soaking with sweat, but had a broad smile all the same. As we pulled
away from the station, the driver announced the result to the delighted
passengers who, until then, had all remained ignorant. All, of course,
but one.

Now, back on my way to Slovenia...