Munich, Germany

The chuckling landlady was still just as full of relentless serotonin as I lumbered down for breakfast, joining the only other guest, a middle-aged German lady of a greasy yellow appearance whom I shall call Frau Wachs. She was also incredibly friendly and probed me politely about my connections with Germany and my future travel plans. Meanwhile Frau Weber - who, it had dawned on me, was the German equivalent of  Rustie Lee - chipped in now and again as she busied herself in the kitchen, laughing all the while at random things such as cereal, and beamingly encouraging me to pack a carrier bag of stuff from the huge breakfast spread for my lunch later today, which I gratefully did.

It felt a shame to leave such homeliness, which had been a rarity on the road so far, but nevertheless I had to push on. Frau Weber saw me off with a smile, a chuckle, a packed lunch and a yellowing postcard of Lindau that looked as if it had been in her possession since 1979, and I headed down to the train station.

I boarded a familiar Deutsche Bahn train with just the one change required to arrive three hours later into the vibrant Bavarian capital of Munich. I had last visited eight years ago, and although it was a diversion from the general direction in which I was headed, I couldn’t bear to let the opportunity pass to see it again - and perhaps sample some of its legendary beerhalls.
The hostels clustered around the train station had no space for me, let alone for Ron, and so I headed out of the centre a bit to the YHA, at which I took the second to last bed available. I hadn’t expected the city to be so busy; I guess many were drawn by the Christmas markets. I met a couple of my dormmates who turned out to be Germans, yet who were again generally unresponsive to my polite attempts at conversation. I’d found before that YHAs in Germany tend to attract Germans rather than international travellers, and that they tended to be quiet types - often cycle tourers or hikers - that kept themselves to themselves. Still, with the independent hostels full, I had little choice. Looking on the bright side, at least I was pretty much guaranteed a good night’s sleep at the YHA; everyone would be tucked up nice and early, with the only late drunk stumbling in likely to be me.

With Ron safely stowed in the bike cage for the night I set out to walk around Munich, unfortunately bringing neither guidebook nor map with me. My recollection of its streets was hazy and all I managed to do was take a frustrating walk in wide circles finding little of interest. Eventually I chanced upon a multiplex cinema, and feeling a sudden urge to watch a film, I grabbed a ticket for The Golden Compass.

Hollywood films in Germany are dubbed rather than subtitled, and this one - Der Goldene Kompass - was no exception. They are, however, dubbed extremely well, if you can imagine such a concept. You tend to switch off from the disparity with the lip-synching after the first few minutes, and soon after you are completely comfortable with the fact that familiar big-name actors such as Daniel Craig are suddenly speaking German. Also, most Hollywood actors have his or her own German voice actor who is hired to act the lines for all films they appear in, so Nicole Kidman sounds the same in German in all her films, and, strangely enough, uncannily like Nicole Kidman would sound were she to speak perfect German. Bizarrely, even Arnold Schwarzenegger has his own German voice actor, although a fair bit of his character is lost in translation. As with most things in Germany, it’s all done trememously well; it has to be, as it’s big business.

The Golden Compass was a real feast for the eyes and imagination, and having not read the Pullman book I wasn’t disappointed by what I saw. I could follow most of what was going on, but I have a feeling some of the subtext regarding the veiled criticism of organised religion passed me by.

The film had been a late showing, so I decided to conserve my liver and head back to base, leaving the putsch of the Munich beer halls for tomorrow.

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