A Brief Tour of Hamburg on the Worst/Best Day of My Life

8:00am—I wake up to some German dude in the next bunk growling at me to turn my alarm off. Apparently, my half-asleep self can understand German better than my half-awake self, because I quickly oblige, then sleep longer. Not a good omen.

10:00am—After showering slowly and eating more cereal than the Trix rabbit sniffs coke, I emerge into the morning heat. This is the first day for several weeks that I’ve hit the town right when it opens its eyes, and I’m triumphant. I ride my rented bike down the cobbled streets as if they were paved, I speed through intersections like a stealthy ambulance, and I ignore the odd crunch and sudden lack of resistance when I pedal. Upon investigation, I realize that the chain has fallen off the gear, so my bike has been rendered an unmounted elliptical. I walk around for 20 minutes looking for a bike place, then find one that would have taken me 2 seconds to find had I initially turned right, rather than left. The owner realigns the chain with a screwdriver, then tells me that this will happen frequently, because the chain is too “locker,” or loose. I am appalled.

11:00am—I arrive at the bike rental place so as to replace my bike with one less locker, and find it to be randomly closed. I call the owner, and realize that I have to leave a message. I hang up immediately, because the prospect of leaving my first voice message in German makes me want to sooner throw myself into any of the thousand Elbe tributaries running throughout Hamburg than wait for the beep and the swallowing silence that follows. Nonetheless, I pump myself up, recite what I need to say over and over again as I stand in the doorway of the rental place (this job is beginning to make me appear more and more insane), and redial the dreaded number. Minus a “der” here and a “die” there, the message runs smoothly, and I ride off on a bike that can become unusable at any moment.

2pm—After some pleasant museum-time (how did anybody ever think art déco pottery was okay?), I’m riding to eat some requisite Hamburg seafood, when suddenly, that unsettling treadmill feeling returns, and I find myself with a bike that’s once again nothing but dead weight. I walk the rest of the long way to lunch, lock up my bike, and decide to leave it there forever.

5pm—About to enter a museum on the other side of town from my shackled steed, I receive a call from the friendly neighborhood bike rental guy, saying he’ll be in the office until 7pm if I want to drop by and replace my wheels. I tell him that he can call me back three hours ago. I don’t tell him this, but rather that I’ll drop by as soon as I can. I jet through two museums so quickly, I have to hide from the ticket-taker so as not to receive a disapproving glance. Too bad Hamburg’s Deichtorhallen are filled with some of the most spectacular contemporary art I’ve ever seen. It even has bears holding their plastic penises.

6pm—I begin the trek back to my bike. I take a train: always a recipe for disaster, but in this case, surprisingly successful. I reach my bike in record time, but just as I’m turning the key, the first paint-ball-sized raindrop strikes my head. As I make the thirty-minute walk/coast down to the bike rental place, that raindrop is joined by all of its friends and co-workers, and every piece of clothing on me becomes several shades darker.

6:55pm—I reach the bike rental place. I find it open. The owner asks me if it rained. Somehow, I don’t think he’s joking.