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- Herausgeber: epubli
- Kategorie: Lebensstil
- Sprache: Deutsch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
From Hamburg via Poland, Kaliningrad, Vilnius, Riga and Tallinn to St. Petersburg. Back via Helsinki, Turku, Stockholm and Copenhagen. These are the stages of a cycle tour around the Baltic Sea. The author gives a very personal account of his experiences, his encounters with the landscapes, towns and people of the region. He asks: "What does the Baltic Circuit contain?" Carlo Reltas worked for news agencies for 34 years. Traveling became second nature to him.
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Carlo Reltas
BALTIC CIRCUIT
Diary of a trip around the Baltic Sea
For Fabian and Jolanda,
so that they know where their father moved around.
Carlo Reltas
BALTIC CIRCUIT
-
Diary of a trip around
the Baltic Sea
CARE Publishing
Heppenheim
Cover picture:
The M/S Amorella, ferry between Turku and Stockholm
Photo:
Courtesy of Viking Line
© Copyright by CARE of Sattler 2024ISBN 978-3-758485-40-4First published under the title "Baltischer Zirkel" in German as softcover 2015, as eBook 2019
Publisher:CARE of SattlerVala-Lamberger-Straße 20, 64646 Heppenheim / [email protected]:epubli – a service of the Neopubli GmbH, Berlin,www.epubli.de
Content
Cover
Dedication
Title
Imprint
POLAND
Good morning, Poland!
The good punks of Trzebiatów
The Sunday Vikings
Delicious things in Köslin
On Pomerania's "Elysian Fields"
To Gdansk, please change!
Between Crane and Westerplatte
Which is Europe's most beautiful?
Of water, resistance and the Vistula
Elbing and Recklinghausen Retirees
The new "iron" eastern Border
RUSSIAN ENCLAVE
The Monster of Kaliningrad
LITHUANIA
Across the "Baltic Sahara"
Labas rytas, Vilnius!
Lithuanian morning
Source of Pride: Lithuanian Yesterday
Rural Idylls in the City and by the Lake
Madonna, Zappa, Consumption and KGB
Dramatic Days – Magical Moment
Viso gero, Vilnius – goodbye!
Vicissitudes: Vilnius, Kaunas and Memel
On the Coast with Ami and Api
Annie of Klaipeda
Palanga – Baltic Marbella?
LATVIA
Downpour: Latvian Land Rain
Rescue in Kuldiga
Through Courland to Riga
Capital of the Baltics?
ESTONIA
Rain II, Westphalia and Scandinavia
Between dunes, beach and mud bath
Tallinn – a Time Machine
Narva – Border between two Castles
RUSSIA
Stranded in the Russian Province
Andrey, the Saviour
General, Ex-Intelligence Agent and Bisnesmen
Of Nouveaux Riches, Wolves and Miracles
Pakrishkas, Bisnes in Clinic and Harbour
The City of Peter the Great
Westwards along the Coast
Through Karelia back to the EU
SCANDINAVIA
Scandinavian Arc I: Crossing on the Amorella
Scandinavian Arc II: The Leden - a Circuit
Epilogue
About the Author
By the same Author
POLAND
(Summer 1998)
Good morning, Poland!
"Dzien dobry!" He greets the uniformed man at the entrance to the ferry from Swinoujscie to Swinoujscie clearly and audibly, cool and with as little accent as possible. The "ferryman" waves the backpack-laden cyclist through, and the Baltic Sea circumnavigator is already on the shuttle boat from Swinoujscie town centre to the eastern bank of the Oder estuary and the eastern part of the town. The ferry is for local residents only. But his morning greeting makes him a local. "Dzien dobry, Polska! Good morning, Poland!"
He had reached the destination of the first day's stage of his Baltic tour, the former German Swinemünde on the eastern edge of the island Usedom, the previous evening, after an early morning start in the Hanseatic city of Lübeck, the starting point for German Eastern European merchants. Before that, the cyclist from the Rhineland had spent a half-awake night on the rails.
In a strange contrast to the distant Baltic States, he had practised small talk with the German-Ivorian fashion designer Tina on the night train from Cologne. The black beauty, who only remained his travelling companion until Fashion City Düsseldorf, was a real chatterbox and, apart from her complexion, had absolutely nothing in common with the Black Madonna of Częstochowa, let alone any intention of accompanying him to Poland. And yet, even after saying goodbye at one o'clock in the morning, she didn't leave his mind for the time being. As he slumbered until Hamburg, his thoughts oscillated between the taciturn Polish national saint and the giggling, charming exotic woman.
He only saw the Hanseatic city of Hamburg, where his journey around the Baltic Sea would come full circle after four weeks, when he was half asleep. The "mother of the German Hanseatic League", Lübeck, was not yet fully awake, he realised during a reconnaissance after his arrival at six o'clock in the morning.
As the connecting train to Rostock was not due to depart until shortly before seven, he had hopped on his bike at the station and cycled through the Holsten Gate into the heart of the city's brick splendour to the Rathausmarkt (Guildhall Market). This was where the Lübisch law had originated, which the aldermen of Reval, now the Estonian capital Tallinn, followed until well into the last century. Only a few early risers crossed the lone cyclist's path in the pedestrianised zone of the old merchant town. Only the street cleaners saw him there studying the inscription on the Thomas Mann Stone that commemoratesthe Nobel Prize Laureate for Literature of 1929, who was born in this city.
A mild coffee in the town bakery with a view of a market where centuries ago rich patricians rushed about, whose business extended across the entire Baltic region and deep into the Russian Empire, revitalised the exhausted cyclist. He cycled over the pavement one last time, which reminded him of something other than business. Six years earlier, 1992 on their way to Sweden on holiday, he and his family had met a highly musical family from a completely different corner of Europe. The Kellys from Ireland had converted their lorry into a stage and put on an inspiring show of folk and melodic Beatles-style pop. Six years later, they were no longer touring market squares but earning millions. Patricians, pepper sacks and Baltic trade, Kellys and CDs - the times, they are a changing as Bob Dylan sang. Europe's far east and west met in his head in the centre of the Rathausmarkt.
The first Polish sounds reached his ears on the train to Rostock. In the row behind him, a young blonde woman and her dark-haired companion were examining and discussing the souvenirs from the Hanseatic city's department stores. Diagonally in front of him, hikers in rugged footwear, knee breeches and rucksacks were studying their Mecklenburg lake and trail maps. The sunny Saturday morning not only made the hikers look forward to the rest of the weekend with great anticipation.
In Bad Kleinen, where a few years earlier shots had been fired on the railway platform that shook Germany's political scene, nothing could spoil the idyllic atmosphere on Lake Schwerin that morning. Cyclists and hikers bustled about on the platform. On the slow train from Rostock to Stralsund, he finally had to switch to the cycle compartment, his bike within easy reach. After the long train journey, he now felt like the rider next to the snorting horse: nothing could curb his impatience. And so, at the railway destination of Stralsund, he only took a quick look at the brick towers of the old Hanseatic and Swedish city and hurried eastwards on his bike.
In the former land of the Junkers (aristocratic landowners), a new, smoothly tarmaced main road, the B96a, has been built towards Greifswald. Cyclists are banished to the old road that runs parallel to it, where a piece of the landlord's way of life lives on. Countless horses' hooves once clattered and carriages rumbled along here. The shady avenue passages offer a valuable advantage as the heat rises. However, the classic paving spoils the nostalgic pleasure for cyclists. Many a bumpy kilometre becomes torture.
After a good thirty kilometres, the next member of the medieval Hanseatic League is reached, the old episcopal and university town of Greifswald. An Italian ice cream confectioner has also moved into this old town after the fall of the Berlin Wall and is now practising his craft, a refreshment for cyclists addicted to gelato.
With the bay of Dänische Wiek on the left, the route continues towards Wolgast, where a bridge leads over to the island of Usedom. An unexpected challenge awaited him on the side road via Kemnitz. The torn-up road in the village of Katzow resembles a piste. Even the crossing of a Siberian hamlet could not be more despicable. On his entire round trip around the large north-east European pond, such a "Saharan" village crossing should not be repeated. At most, he encountered such misfortune on the open road in deepest Latvia, where he was also forced to do something dishonourable for a hardcore biker, namely dismount. The "Katzow fears", on the other hand (What will it be like in Russia?!), proved to be completely misplaced.
What the people of Katzow only managed to do nine years after German reunification, much to his annoyance, had long since been accomplished on the holiday island of Usedom. The road has been prepared for the invading tourists. And with Bad Zinnowitz, an old seaside resort has been spruced up to new splendor. The hustle and bustle on the long pier is on a par with the West. The hotels need not shy away from comparison with the Schleswig-Holstein resorts. The traditional summer resort has regained a touch of elegance. The Baltic Sea and the fine sandy beach have stood the test of time anyway.
The time of day was too far advanced even for a late lunch. So he continued his sweet Saturday in the sunny front garden of the first café on the square before setting off on the last leg of the journey to the "pig estuary" (literal translation of Swinemünde) in Poland. The journey led along forest paths on the high dune – with the fantastic panorama of the Baltic Sea on the left. Then back onto the main road so that arrival at the destination was not delayed until late in the evening. Here, the view to the right sweeps across the tranquil "Achterwasser" (back water) between Usedom and the mainland, an idyllic fishing paradise.
Logically, the last Baltic seaside resort on the German side before the Polish border is called Heringsdorf (Herring's Village). A few more kilometres between pedestrians with German shopping - only they and two-wheelers are allowed to cross the border here - and he was already standing at the once barely passable Iron Curtain. But now the barrier lifted easily. No visa needed! Good evening, Poland. He orientated himself on a display board with a city map. He cycled into Swinoujscie along a wide cobbled avenue through the town forest and turned right at the first junction onto the ring road.
Since he can't boast a photographic memory, he headed for a van parked a few hundred metres further on in the maze of a suburban crossroads with five converging streets. "Gdje jest / Where is," he asked the driver, speaking the address, and held the fax with the confirmation from the Polish Youth Hostel Association under his nose.
And then the usual shock set in at the first real encounter with a foreign language that you have just "learnt" from a travel guide. The friendly young plumber started parleying away, and the German cyclist struggled to identify the words for "second" and "left" in his flow of speech. Gesticulating to indicate the direction, he recapitulated, and his signpost in blue overalls nodded in confirmation. With doubt nagging at the back of his neck, he drove on. But lo and behold, when he turned left at the second corner, this was at least the right street.
At the house number given, he found only a locked three-storey school centre. But after some confusion, he discovered the entrance to the back entrance in the side street through a gate in the wire mesh fence. A mob of girls and boys besieged the glass pane in the vestibule. Dzien dobry! The receptionist Elzbieta speaks - thank God - German. He had Polish language chunks to offer, but not a single groszy, let alone zloty.
Where to exchange money on Saturday evening - this question made her ponder at first. A teacher from the school group helped her out. "Oh yes, there's an ATM in the city centre on Monte Cassino Street. But will it give out zloty on your card?" So off he went on the last bike ride of the first day. He memorised Elzbieta's explanations on the city map and, as instructed, cycled to the city banking district near the Oder ferry.
The nice blonde was surprised herself when he stood in front of her again half an hour later with almost freshly printed notes. The foreign guest was given the privilege of a group leader's room on the ground floor. The three-bed room also offered enough space for the bicycle, which he took into the house on Elzbieta's recommendation. Safely locked up as it was, he finally parted with his vehicle and only companion and, after cleaning off the dirt and beard growth of twenty hours in the communal washroom, set off again on foot to the centre of Swinemünde.
Of the old German harbour and fishing town at the mouth of the Oder, at least a few town houses remain in the two central squares. On the way there, residential silos from the socialist era line the way. In the small banking and shopping district in the city centre, the new capitalism is already spreading some glamour in glass and concrete.
Together with other Saturday evening strollers, he watched the small ferry traffic on the quay wall across to the island of Wollin, which together with Usedom forms a barrier off the Szczecin Lagoon, leaving a narrow passage to the Baltic Sea, the Swina. Lorries, small Polish cars, mopeds and pedestrians use the wide Swina commuter. He looked in vain for a ticket sales counter. But that would be found on Sunday morning.
There were plenty of guests sitting in the evening sun in the street restaurant on the edge of the harbour. As inviting as it looked, he still couldn't decide to stop for a bite to eat. The supermarket next to the school centre had caught his eye. "Open until 9 p.m. on Saturdays" he read as he left his hostel. Not spoilt by German shop closing times, he didn't want to miss out on this consumer convenience in neo-capitalist Poland.
And so he ate the groceries he had bought shortly before nine o'clock only in the presence of his iron companion - instead of in a cosy group opposite the ferry. He left the hostel room again for a final evening stroll. He followed the tracks of two hydrogen-blonde ladies in colourful plastic tracksuits walking their poodles between six-storey prefabricated buildings. He was surprised to note the favourable DM/zloty exchange rate in the bureau de change. The prices of the other shops in the row of shops on the ground floor of the prefabricated building were probably also tempting for day tourists from the German Baltic resorts on Usedom.
He crossed the football pitch between the supermarket, blocks of flats and school centre just in time for the hostel gates to close at 10.30 pm. He entered the house with the last of the tireless ten to twelve-year-old footballers. "Dobranoc, Elzbieta." "Good night, Karl! Sorry, the hot water has failed." Despite a cold shower, he soon fell into a deep sleep.
Early start on Sunday! Another toothbrushing session with Polish schoolchildren chattering merrily. There seems to be no shortage of toothpaste in the new Poland. The previous evening, he had fallen for the white glue of some unknown assassins by unsuspectingly sitting on the white edge of the toilet seat - apparently prepared with paste - in the poorly lit toilet. That didn't happen again in the bright morning sun.
After a meagre breakfast with the remains of the previous evening's shopping, he pushed his fully packed bike ticking through the hostel corridor. "Do widzenia, Elzbieta, goodbye." And the good spirit of the house replied in her best German: "Have a good journey and see you next time!" "Dziekuje, thank you," he replied and thought: "Well!"
He cycled back to the harbour in the beautiful morning light, once again wondering why the bilingual red signs for the prom/ferry were pointing in the opposite direction. As he cycled into the lane for the Swina commuter in the city centre, he finally came to the realisation. Alongside some Polish, it read "For local residents only".
But he took his chances now. After all, a glance at the map suggests a huge detour to the south if he decides to take the second ferry - a completely unnecessary diversions on the journey along the Baltic coastline.
"Dzien dobry!" He greets the uniformed man at the entrance to the city ferry clearly and audibly, cool and with as little accent as possible. The "ferryman" waves the backpack-laden and apparently unsuspicious cyclist through, and the Baltic Sea traveller is already on the boat from Swinoujscie town centre to the eastern bank of the Swina crossing, which - like the good Swinoujscians - also transports him free of charge. He apologises inwardly to the Polish taxpayer for his "parasitic" behaviour and adds cheerfully and gratefully: "Dzien dobry, Polska! Good morning, Poland!"
