Apparently our rush to make it to the ferry boat had increased the already high fuel consumption and meant that we could in fact not make it to the fuel station that was lying 10 kilometres further down the road. Yes, we were stuck on the autobahn, with no daylight and even less fuel. Travelling on a shoestring also means not spending money on emergency road service, so our only remaining means of transportation was our feet. With the car unsafely parked by the side of the road with the emergency lights on and equipped with an empty fuel cannister and high hopes we started to walk in the direction of the fuel station. After a while there was a small bridge, not an exit, simply a bridge. We climbed up. As we stood on the bridge it was apparent that both sides actually looked an awfully lot like dark forests. We picked the direction that looked least deserted in the moonlight, and started walking. Instead of being on the brink of a nervous break down the spirit had reached an all time high as we walked along the road not knowing whether we would have to march to the end of the world and back to get some fuel. It is difficult to describe, but I guess these weird incidents are what makes the road trips so great; the struggle, the unexpected adventure, the feeling that there is a direct link between cause and effect, something that modern man often lacks in his every day life. Accepting that you do not have a schedule but are entirely at the mercy of destiny is refreshing, that's how vacation should be. The whinnying of horses suddenly put an end to our musings. As we walked in the direction of the sound an odd house surrounded by paddocks appeared in the middle of the forest. A dog started barking vigorously from the house. One window on the top floor was lit, we could be in luck.
After having walked back and forth a few times we started knocking on the door. We knocked on the door for 5 minutes without any response barring the dog's increasingly hysterical barking; if somebody was in the house he would know that visitors were trying to get in contact with him. Had we been accompanied by a person familiar with at least the bare essentials within social convention we would probably have gotten the hint that if there was someone in there he did not want visitors and stopped knocking on the door. Instead stubbornness persevered and we continued until suddenly more windows were lit. We were not entirely sure what to expect. The situation could have been taken out of the quintessential Stephen King novel; two young lads broken down on the highway at night wander into a thick forest, find a house and are tortured to death by an inbred family.
“Guten Abend”. A normal looking but not particularly welcoming person greeted us as the door opened.
“Excuse we, we have out of gasoline in the highway”. While our German was far from perfect, it served the aim everybody seemed to be looking for - to communicate what he should do to make us go away without sticking a gun to our face. He was lost in thoughts for a second, then started walking towards the garage. We politely petted his dog to show our good intentions, dog owners usually like this.
“So, what is the history of this house?”
“It's an old Jagd Schloss (hunting castle), I bought it a year ago and am in the process of renovating it”. My attempt to fill the silence was short lived and hampered by a somewhat rusty German vocabulary. Though I actually did have an interest in buying decaying historical property in the former DDR I guess all thoughts really evolved around petrochemicals this moment. If he could have read our minds as he switched on the light in the garage he would probably have seen Golum from Lord of the Rings dancing around trying to spot “precious”, in this case any sort of fluid capable of combustion in a Ford Sierra 2.0 engine.
The atmosphere got almost electric as he pulled out a cannister. Without much hesitation he started pouring the fuel into our tank, with every gulp our smiles increased until it looked like the gates of heaven had opened before us. As he finished the operation the delicate though until now overlooked issue of payment came to mind. In all but a selected few European countries the euro is the legal tender, just not in Denmark. Unsurprisingly we Danes usually don't habitually carry large sums of euros on us, in fact Kristian and I had expected to do all payments with visa card anticipating that our fuel purchases would be done under more organised conditions. But here we were. I feverishly dug out all the euros I could find in my wallet. It totalled to 7, too little for 5 litres of fuel no matter where you bought it. I humbly handed him the money.
“Is this enough?”
He counted the money.
“Barely”
Had he been in less of a rush to get us out of his property he would probably have poured some fuel out of our tank, but this night he, albeit clearly forced by circumstances, took on the role as the good Samaritan and handed us our full spare tank. We thanked him of a full heart and headed off.
As we returned to the car Kristian poured the gas in, we spun the starter engine a few times and zoomed away. It was nothing short of a miracle and if I pass by his house one day I will give him a bottle of wine. Though had I known we could buy 5 litres of fuel for 7 Euro I would have brought two tanks.
After having walked back and forth a few times we started knocking on the door. We knocked on the door for 5 minutes without any response barring the dog's increasingly hysterical barking; if somebody was in the house he would know that visitors were trying to get in contact with him. Had we been accompanied by a person familiar with at least the bare essentials within social convention we would probably have gotten the hint that if there was someone in there he did not want visitors and stopped knocking on the door. Instead stubbornness persevered and we continued until suddenly more windows were lit. We were not entirely sure what to expect. The situation could have been taken out of the quintessential Stephen King novel; two young lads broken down on the highway at night wander into a thick forest, find a house and are tortured to death by an inbred family.
“Guten Abend”. A normal looking but not particularly welcoming person greeted us as the door opened.
“Excuse we, we have out of gasoline in the highway”. While our German was far from perfect, it served the aim everybody seemed to be looking for - to communicate what he should do to make us go away without sticking a gun to our face. He was lost in thoughts for a second, then started walking towards the garage. We politely petted his dog to show our good intentions, dog owners usually like this.
“So, what is the history of this house?”
“It's an old Jagd Schloss (hunting castle), I bought it a year ago and am in the process of renovating it”. My attempt to fill the silence was short lived and hampered by a somewhat rusty German vocabulary. Though I actually did have an interest in buying decaying historical property in the former DDR I guess all thoughts really evolved around petrochemicals this moment. If he could have read our minds as he switched on the light in the garage he would probably have seen Golum from Lord of the Rings dancing around trying to spot “precious”, in this case any sort of fluid capable of combustion in a Ford Sierra 2.0 engine.
The atmosphere got almost electric as he pulled out a cannister. Without much hesitation he started pouring the fuel into our tank, with every gulp our smiles increased until it looked like the gates of heaven had opened before us. As he finished the operation the delicate though until now overlooked issue of payment came to mind. In all but a selected few European countries the euro is the legal tender, just not in Denmark. Unsurprisingly we Danes usually don't habitually carry large sums of euros on us, in fact Kristian and I had expected to do all payments with visa card anticipating that our fuel purchases would be done under more organised conditions. But here we were. I feverishly dug out all the euros I could find in my wallet. It totalled to 7, too little for 5 litres of fuel no matter where you bought it. I humbly handed him the money.
“Is this enough?”
He counted the money.
“Barely”
Had he been in less of a rush to get us out of his property he would probably have poured some fuel out of our tank, but this night he, albeit clearly forced by circumstances, took on the role as the good Samaritan and handed us our full spare tank. We thanked him of a full heart and headed off.
As we returned to the car Kristian poured the gas in, we spun the starter engine a few times and zoomed away. It was nothing short of a miracle and if I pass by his house one day I will give him a bottle of wine. Though had I known we could buy 5 litres of fuel for 7 Euro I would have brought two tanks.
Unauthorised pit stop on zee Autobahn
It was relieving to be back in the car. We had drinks, could put on music, drive or stop as we pleased, we were sheltered from the elements and could lock the doors at will. Control had been regained and we were out of the darkness and uncertainty that since the beginning of times has been a premise of human life. It is however noteworthy that the feeling of risk and uncertainty is what makes control something relieving rather than the ultimate representation of boredom.
Soon we cruised on the Berliner Autobahnring bathed in its cold projector lights deeply emerged in philosophical discussions and Depeche Mode.
As we drove through Poland the hours got longer and longer and due to the smaller roads our progress slowed down.
We grabbed breakfast at McDonald's on a rainy grey Lublin morning while checking out on the map how to get into Ukraine. We quickly moved on, through big forests and rolling hills. And suddenly, there she was, the Ukraine! Despite delays our plans to meet one of my colleagues in Kiev for some partying that same night were still intact. But then we saw the queue to cross the border. “Shit” even the most patient of men would agree with Kristian's verdict, this could take while.
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