Hamburg, Germany

For a man who puts a lot of stock in rational thought, I had spectacularly failed to show any evidence of it during my burst of retail therapy a couple of days ago which landed me with a bulky framed picture as well as sore hands and bruised knees from the carrying ever since. My bargaineous prize was hampering my progress, and I needed a place to store it. The answer lay just forty-five minutes northwards by train.

Ever since I had returned from my first round the world trip, Noesha and I had been operating an Anglo-Dutch free trade agreement that largely consisted of her sending me money with which I would order Top Shop clothes she had requested on an accompanying list and posting them on to her in the Netherlands, because Top Shop would not deliver there directly. It was now my turn to call in a favour.

We met up again at the social hub of Tilburg, the cafe at the train station. I’d like to recount a tale involving dark glasses, raincoats and discussions about the weather in Moscow as I passed over The Package, but alas no – we just had a tostie each like last time. Noesha very kindly agreed to look after my picture until I came this way again to pick it up (in, er, a year’s time).

After our impromptu meet-up we said our farewells once more. It was “wave a pin over the map” time for me, as I hadn’t decided yet what my next destination would be, apart from that it would be somewhere inside Germany. Hannover seemed the most geographically-suited stop for the route I wanted to take over the next few weeks, but I was hesitant about spending any time there that didn’t involve me passing through without stopping. Far and away Hannover’s main claim-to-fame was its hosting of trade fairs, which says everything you need to know about the place in my book.

Instead I decided to go out of my way north to the port of Hamburg, Germany’s second largest city after Berlin, as I’d never visited the place and was curious as to how it compared with the other main German cities.

The train journey was six hours of the mind-numbing flat scenery of the Netherlands and northern Germany, and we pulled into Hamburg late at night. The accommodation I’d picked out was still open, though, seeing as it was a rock’n'roll pub. Bedecked with posters and pumping out the tunes from the stereo, it was my kind of place. The prioprietor sorted me out with the key to my room – like the hostel in Rotterdam, they each reflected an aspect of the city, with mine being an homage to the local football team FC St. Pauli – and I hit the hay, pausing only to scoop my earplugs from my bag to drown out most, if not all, of the thumping bass from the bar next door.