Wow... just... Wow. Where to start? I suppose the beginning is as good a place as any, and so our hero here rocks into Köln city thinking he'll spend a quiet few days taking in the sights. I'd heard the cathedral (the Dom, it's called. I don't think Dom means cathedral though...?) was an impressive piece of work, and it really does take your breath away the moment you turn the corner. The photo up there really can't do it any justice, it's huge, and hugely imposing. Quite unlike the nice, clean, pale monuments in France, it's dark and gothic, and it's quite easy to imagine a dark robed priest roaming through it, ready to sacrifice virginal maidens at the drop of a hat. Mad cackling optional. Tower-dwelling Monster provided for a nominal fee.
And unlike other places that you get used to after passing once or twice, this one continues to smack you in the face every time. Maybe it's the contrast with the dull, grey, post-war buildings around it. More likely, it's just *that* ass-blastingly huge. Either way, it blows me away all week whenever I see it.
But away from all this pious culture, I have a chocolate museum to see! I stay in the bland hostel by the station the first night, but it's cold, and there's building works, so I up and leave first thing in the morning for a hostel near the student quarters. I wander in and ask for three nights stay, and the friendly girl behind the counter chirpily informs me that the price will be €12, € 15 and €70 for Wednesday, Thursday and Friday respectively.
"Uh, sorry, did you say €17? I swore I heard €70, my hearing is terrible..."
"No, it's €70 on Friday."
My voice went up several octaves as I asked why, what, huh, and what?! I'm given a quizzical look, and told that it's carnival, and there'll be a lot of people coming to Cologne, and parties in the street and people dressing up and... didn't I know any of this? Why am I here otherwise?
"I'm wandering aimlessly and this place was the easiest way into Germany from Amsterdam." seemed like a bit of a silly answer, so I settled for a comment on how bloody good the carnival better be, before paying for the first two nights. I'd be damned if I'm parting with €70 for a crowded dorm, I'd sleep in the cathedral with the monster if I had to.
I spend the rest of Weds wandering the city alone, and the crisp, clear weather make it seem much prettier than it really is. There's a lot of activity, and the people are very friendly and helpful. The Christmas markets are starting to set up, and it looks like everything everyone wished Christmas looked like, and they're not even finished.
Back in the hostel, I curled up in the lounge with one the towns trademarks... A pale yummy beer called Kölsch. I thought I'd be in for an early night, when what ho, I hear the silver tones of the native tongue from the three people at the next table. Ok, the silver tones were being hammered out by a turncoat and petty criminal respectively (read; American and Australian), but one must make do. On the upside, the wee blonde one was definitely from the motherland, and from Surrey too if I wasn't mistaken. (Ok, turns out she was from Wimbledon, but that's just Surrey with a London postcode, right?) Overjoyed at the complete lack of any Liverpudlian accents, I muscled into the conversation, which was, surprisingly, about carnival, and what the hell all the fuss was about. After surmising that it was probably just three floats and some middle-aged people half-heartedly dressing up, there were beers, and then a bar, and then an early night had turned into an early morning.
Thursday was a routine day of sight-seeing, the cathedral, the old town, the markets, and the set-up for Fridays festivities. Usual brochure stuff. I found my comrades, Elly, Hayley and Dylan (listed in ascending order by the number of venomous creatures from their homelands), and we picked up two more stragglers, Bristol, from the remote wilds of Alaska, and Graham, from the even more remote wasteland of Leicester. Planning the weekend over beers in the bar, I suggested that since the rest of my weekend was likely to be spent watching these whippersnappers canoodling and frolicking, we hit a gay bar. It was complete, happy coincidence that our hostel was smack bang in the middle of Köln's holding pen for the gay-o's. Add to that my full and unabashed intention to use Dylan as bait (sorry!) and Thursday night was decided.
(I should point out here that there's a German boy at the bar with us. He's very, very cute, and is also sharing my room. He's here for work, and so declines to go out with us, but his presence does lead to a funny little moment the next morning...)
So, looking good and smelling sweet, we skip into the darkness, for what we hope is going to be a night of debauchery. It isn't. Sure, every bar is full, but everyone seems to be holding back somewhat. And there are too many slightly orange tans. And muscles. Lots of them. I don't like men with too many... muscles. (I guess they didn't make them for me!) Dylan is also much too effective as bait. What happened to the art of talking to the hot ones slightly more homely friend, huh? Cursed, cunning Germans. A senior citizen hitting on me at the bar (Kill it! Kill it with FIRE!!!), led to the final abortion of the mission, and a retreat to a quieter, altogether more Irish, pub. They had cider. It was good.
4am creeps up again and we sneak back to our rooms, and I fall into bed, opposite the Cute German Boy, and fervently hope that I don't snore too loudly. Blissful sleep, which I've had minimal amounts of, comes quickly... For two whole hours. At 6am, the two gentleman of indeterminate origin at the other end of the room deem it an appropriate time to wake up and have an argument. CGB, as he shall now be known, and I both sit up at the same time and tell them to pipe down in our own languages. We lie back down, muttering what I can only assume are obscenities. The gentlemen, now in stony silence, proceed to pack and dress as LOUDLY as possible. And then, they take it turns to go into the attached bathroom, which is apparently walled with crepe paper for all the sound it holds in, and vacate their bowels in the most explosive manner. They then follow this delightful event by hawking up their lungs into the sink.
Ten minutes into the first pebble-dashing of our poor en-suite (I believe it was my dear cousin Dean who introduced me to the phrase "s***ting out a flock of starlings". God luv him.), CGB and I open a bleary eye each. We look across at each other, murderous light in our eyes. And we start to giggle like schoolboys hearing a fart joke, if schoolboys were men in their twenties on the very edge of insanity. Only one word will make this horrendous situation any better, and I decide that it's my duty to utter it.
"Coffee?"
Que a sweet moment stealing coffee from downstairs with someone I can barely communicate two words with, and returning to our room to make little farty noises whenever the two men pass. It's all in the little things. ( I bet you all thought that story would be smutty, didn't you? SHAME ON YOU.)
I think this is long enough for part one. Return next time, as we head out to see if Köln's Karnival has more in common with the ones in Rio De Janeiro, or the one on Canvey Island.
Love and monkey-wrestling Bananas,
Pip