That year, we went from Salzburg to Munich. We spent a few hours at Munich and then went to Berlin. And from Berlin, northward to Amsterdam.
Our night in Amsterdam was another night out, but after so many journeys and so many crazy backpacking experiences, we’d figured out a few things. We had Eurail passes that we kept gushing about – we could use them.
We spent the night on trains. Took a train to Utrecht, then another to Rotterdam, and then one back to Amsterdam. That’s how we spent the night.
We didn’t see tulips or windmills.
We did see Rijksmuseum and Anne Frank’s house.
But honestly, we were exhausted. For a long time, we just sat by a canal and did nothing. We were depressed because we thought we’d lost some money, and we were filled up with all kinds of thoughts and emotions.
Fifteen days of glorious backpacking. After Salzburg, I did not write any more; I was too tired.
But I don’t need our photographs to remind us of what we did, though.
In my head, I see the two towers of Munich, blue and onion-shaped at the top. We got there too late to climb and see the city.
I remember the electric auto-rickshaw outside Berliner Dom.
I remember seeing Checkpoint Charlie, and wishing I felt more when I looked at the non-descript remains of the Berlin Wall.
I remember the joy of paying for a half-ticket at Anne Frank’s house because I was still under 18.
I was never more grateful for the Schengen visa. Backpacking through Europe: it created my wanderlust.