The traveller's autumn
Fall falls on the countryside and on me
Two days after autumn equinox; twelve hours between sunrise and sunset; fourteen hours of daylight, and dwindling. Temperatures around 15º C. The season has arrived with on time showers — though today it is sunny. Location: Kostrzyn, a town on the Oder river’s east shore, border with Germany. Behind me, Gorzów Wielkopolski with its antisocial dwellers; ahead, the monotonous German perfection. But I must confess that for the first time, and after the Lithuanian devil on wheeels and the Polish heart of darkness recient experiences, I feel relieved and happy to come out of the Eastern Block into a more civilized Europe.
On the border I fill up Rosaura's tank to the last of my groszy (cents), which is the best way I've figured out for using all of the remaining foreign currency without undergoing new loses for exchange commissions or unussable coins: refueling does the trick. Which reminds me of a woman I met yesterday in Gorzów, a couchsurfer who set forth one of the most outlandish ideas I’ve ever heard: according to her, liquid fuel is used on police and military vehicles instead of the cheaper LPG (gas) because otherwise, since this one can't so easily be stolen, the dishonest policemen or military wouldn't be able to take the people’s fuel for their private vehicles. Sublime. This is where indoctrination, learnt opinions and lack of judgement take us. For me, however, a heavier tank always means a lighter wallet, thanks to which I can easily climb on Rosaura's seat and carry on, heading for the German land. Helmet, gloves, ignition, 1st gear and... let's ride! By the way, I've just realized that for the past two or three weeks I haven't come across any other motorcycler on the road. I must be one of the very few remaining riders this side of Europe, this time of the year.
A note for the curious reader: on the region I'm now crossing, the new season seems to be delayed compared with what I've left behind. I don't think it's just a matter of a lower latitude, but mainly because I'm travelling along the maximum gradient direction of average monthly temperatures, cutting perpendicular across the isotherms.
No isolines, though, when it comes to Polish drivers, of which these roads are full and whom I can easily tell in the distance because of their moronish driving habits, always overspeeding and dangerously overtaking. Then, once I can see their plates, my guess is confirmed: more often than not, they turn out to be Polish cars.
Along this day's journey, I've left behind a few fine-looking hotels located on nice environments; but then, when I need accommodation and begin looking for it, I find nothing suitable. It took me one extra hundred kilometres and two hours, checking every town and village, looking at the map, changing roads, until I found a place to stay: an ugly hotel by a busy crossroads, on the outskirts of Herzberg, a village that —on a closer look— turns out to be very pretty: small, quiet, well preserved and with a local ‘colour’. Right in the centre there is a lovely guesthouse, which unfortunately I've seen too late.
Out of laziness, I haven't put my tennis shoes on for my daily walk, and I'm on my boots; but methinks I'm not up to this sort of footwear any more. I am resenting age a lot; getting older. In my days, when I went hiking with friends, marching up and down along God-forsaken hills and laden with huge rucksacks, our regular shoes were heavy military boots we always bought at the nearby Marines’ HQ. With them on, every day we hiked twenty kilometres barely noticing their weight. In those getaways of yore, the only real burden for us were the rucksacks, but the boots never deserved a thought: we wore them with the sole strength of our youth. But at my fifties, one hour walking on boots makes me feel them as iron-loaded gyves. It's called autumn: not only to the Polish countryside, but also to my life it has come.