The 100-Acre Wood or My First Hitchhike

I will start with an explanation of why this trip happened in the first place. One of my favorite books in childhood was Winnie the Pooh, the Russian version of it especially, since my dad read that to us regularly before we went to bed. I was never really attached to the movies or the English version because both of these I encountered later in life and by then I had a very set image of what the 100-Acre Wood and all of its inhabitants looked like (and as a result was not fully satisfied by the traditional illustrations or the imagery of the cartoons). I am, however, digressing from my main point which is that for me Winnie the Pooh is a great bright part of childhood.

It is not surprising then, that I was very pleased to find out from Caity, whose dorm I was staying at, that Ashdown Forest, the place that inspired the 100 Acre Wood, was within a two-hour bus ride from us. We decided to visit it during my stay.

On the day that we were planning to set out, Caity had class until 11 am, so we decided to take a bus that left around noon. Then we were going to change buses in a town called Hayward's Heath and ride to somewhere called Wych Cross.

Our troubles started when the first bus was 12 minutes late, making us miss our connection by 5 minutes. At that point we were not too worried about the matter and waited for a little under an hour on the soft lawn of a nearby hospital. We ate the provisions prepared for the day and talked about storytelling.

Our next problem arose on the second bus. As it turned out, Wych Cross was not a bus stop name, but the name of an intersection or a town. We realized this too late and had to get off one stop further away from our destination. We tried hiking our way back, but ended up on some golf course and some private property. It was my first time walking around an actual golf course and I have to say I now understand the appeal of the sport: one gets to wander through neat slightly wooded grasslands without dedicating too much energy or concentration to the sport at hand. This is indeed perfect for business meetings. Caity and I were not there, however, to discuss the faltering economy or a competitor's sudden rise in sales or whether it was worth buying a Ferrari online. We needed Pooh's wood, so we trudged past the golfers onto some seemingly less used path.

Caity Standing in front of
the boyscout camp sign.

This took us to a campsite, where we asked for some directions and Caity posed for a picture with the boyscout signs. The people in the camp office said we were some 6 km or so away from our goal, that we needed to head a bit south-east in order to hit the road that led to Pooh's wood and that we could use their grounds to cut a corner. We thanked them for everything and proceeded to walk, wondering how it happened that we were so far away from our destination.

On the way I noticed that the landscape around us was indeed very similar to what I had imagined of the 100 Acre Wood. The ground we were walking through was mostly sand and as a result the forest consisted primarily of pine trees. Aside from the fact that pine trees are mentioned in several places in Winnie the Pooh, I must mention that pine forests are my favorite kind in general. They usually feature little undergrowth and so one can see further. The pine trees themselves with their long bare trunks and rooflike tops, form a natural collonade and leave one the impression of being in a cathedral.

Another detail that I picked up on was the abundance of ferns. In Winnie the Pooh they (and the fog) were the scenery for the chapter in which Tigger got unbounced. I felt a bit like Rabbit, walking through them and being slightly lost. I mentioned ferns to Caity, who remarked that for her the word was a bit bothersome from a philological standpoint. She pointed out that it can be used as both a countable and an uncountable noun.

After about half an hour we arrived at the Ashdown Forest visitor center (or at least one of them) that was fortunately still open (by then we had been wandering for almost two hours and it was 4 pm). There we confirmed that we were indeed considerably far away from the Pooh Walks (as they were called in the park) and it would take at least an hour to get there. The last bus from Wych Cross left shortly before 7 pm, which meant that we actually had about 15 minutes to spend  on site before we had to head back. We decided, however, that it would be silly to turn back now, after we had spent so much time shaking in buses and trespassing on golf courts and boyscout camps.

The long winding road...

We thanked the lady at the visitors center and set out to Pooh's wood. The road we walked on was a narrow cement country road with cars speeding by at 40 mph all the time. We saw some fields and forests and hills and even a mansion or two in the distance. The sun was getting lower and lower as we walked on and on. Caity was nervous, not without reason, about us getting hit by a passing car. I was getting nervous, also not without reason, about missing the bus.


Finally, after more than an hour and after scaling a considerable hill, we found ourselves at the start of the trail. At this point Caity had the idea that we could walk the trail quickly, then attempt to hitchhike back to the bus stop. This way we would get what we came here for as well as avoid yet another hour of walking.

We started out on the trail but soon disovered that the hilltop where it started, was covered in little paths leading here and there. Because nothing on the spot was marked and we only had a map from the visitor's center as a guide, we soon found ourselves walking on a horse path seemingly leading in the right direction, but in no way resembling a trail. This path led us to the "Enchanted Place", where we saw the Milne Memorial and confirmed that we had not been on the trail till that point and as a result had missed the Heffalump Trap and the Lone Pine. We retraced our steps towards these attractions and came across a very cozy and unique place. The Lone Pine was a shorter-than-usual tree, whose branches for some unknown reason all split at the very top of the tree and formed a wide cover, very much like a roof. This canopy stretched over a small sand pit in the side of the hill, creating a protected look-out point over the valley below. "This was worth it" - I thought to myself at the time.

The horse path that we mistook for the Pooh Trail

Lone Pine and Heffalump Trap at last!

This we thought were Roo's Sandpits.
They were not marked, so I guess we will never know for sure...

We then tried to find the Sand Pits, and seemed to have succeeded in this, though, because nothing was marked, we could never be sure. At that moment I noted that the environment we were in had significantly changed compared to that of our starting point. The sky was now cloudier, the sun much lower and the wind much stronger than over by the golf course. There were still pine trees around, but now they grew scarce and the ground was primarily covered in thistle bushes. This was the first time that I saw Eeyore's food up close and I must confirm that it is as pringly and inedible as described by Milne.

From the hilltop we looked over the hillside that was the inspiration for Eeyore's Sad and Lonely Place. It didn't look that cheerful: lone pine trees here and there with grass and thistles as undergrowth. Especially in the occasional light of the setting sun this did indeed seem quite depressing. It is also possible that our impressions of the place reflected our own worries about the journey home. In any case, we didn't linger there long and headed to the road that would take us back to Wych Cross.

One final glance at the setting sun from the 100-Acre Wood.

This was the first attempt at hitchhiking for both of us, so we were slightly on edge as we strode down the steep hill and waved down cars. The first 6 vehicles passes us by: a woman with a polite smile in a van, an old lady in an old car, a man driving a Smart car that would not have fit us all, a volvo driver who even signaled with his blinker that he didn't want to stop, and a couple of others who I have forgotten now.

Just as I had given up hope and Caity started describing the type of driver that would in fact pick up two young people on an evening road, a white ford pulled over and a round-faced glasses-wearing gentleman said he would give us a lift. This was an unexpected turn of events for me (I had given up hope) and I struggled to find a suitable topic for conversation as we whizzed along the streets past hedges and oncoming traffic at what I thought were impressive speeds. I told the man about our bad luck that day, he asked where I was from. He was incredulous when I named the USA.

-  You don't sound it - he responded.
 - What do I sound like? - I asked.
 - I would place you somewhere in Mid-Germany - he said.
 -  Really?
-  Yes. I work at a school, you see. We have German exchange students teaching there every year and you sound exactly like them.

We continued to talk about this and that. Caity put in a couple of words and our driver said she definitely sounded American. He himself, as it turned out, worked in a school several towns over managing their budget and was staying at a hotel in Wych Cross, hence could give us the ride. We were at our bus stop in no time (as was mentioned earlier, he drove fast), thus ended our first hitchhike. Not a bad experience overall: we saved lots of time and energy, I was told to my face that I have an accent, we "drove" a car through Britain (as opposed to a bus or train). I have to say that I'm a fan of this style of driving, where only commited people actually get a license and a car (both harder to attain in Europe than in the US) and these commited people speed like maniacs down small streets in small maneuverable vehicles. I have yet to see an accident during my stay and at the same time this kind of driving seems way more fun to me.

The rest of the journey home was uneventfiul: all the busses were on time and empty (on time because they were empty), we got home around 10, consumed some frozen pizza (it's surprising how unfilling it is on both sides of the ocean) and went to bed.

By jove, what a day!

P.S.
All pictures in this (and all other posts about the UK) are courtesy of Caity Gebhard. I am very grateful for her having a camera around and not being shy to use it.

Another one bites... my leg! (updated)

I was originally planning to write a post about my September course and the marvelously eccentric teacher administering it, but it seems that some local stinging fauna took a fancy to my legs and now I will have to write about that.

On Friday afternoon along with a bunch of international students I played some soccer. As is to be expected from someone who is out of shape (which I am at the moment), I woke up a bit sore the next morning, my legs covered with minuscule cuts, scrapes and insect bites. I went about the business of the day, took part in a tour of the center of town with other students from my language orientation course, napped on a grassy bank of the Rhine and then helped my roommates set up for a party that we were throwing.

The party was a blast, thanks to all who came. Unfortunately, midway through it my left leg started hurting right above the ankle in a way similar to how a pulled muscle would. At first we speculated that this was indeed the reason for the pain and that some soccer injury was to blame. This theory, however, had a couple of flaws. I could not come up with any recollection of a collision or movement that would have caused such a trauma. Usually one remembers such moments, even if the pain recedes temporarily afterwards during play. I, however, did not recall any particular pain in that muscle until Saturday evening. This in itself was also strange because, from what I know, athletic traumas manifest themselves normally within hours of occurring, usually when one is done with the sport and the adrenalin level drops. What kind of pulled muscle decides to start hurting more than 24 hours after it has been pulled?

Despite these doubts that night I put some ice on the leg before I went to bed, still thinking that perhaps this will help. In the morning on Sunday I saw that this didn't help and also noticed that there was something that looked like a big insect bite, red, itchy and slightly disgusting-looking. "This looks less and less like a pulled muscle and more like an infection/allergy caused by a bite" - I thought to myself and, after doing some superficial post-party cleaning followed by breakfast, headed over to the hospital around 1 pm.

To be honest, I was not expecting to have to have dealings with German doctors this early on in the year and was feeling a bit nervous trekking over to the Krankenhaus and trying to explain my problem to its personnel. Most likely because of this (and a lack of signs) it took me some time to find the actual emergency section. The waiting room was a mildly lit lobby at the corner of two converging corridors with one ceiling tile missing and some inconsequential decorations on its walls. I remember only noticing a child's drawing on one of the cabinets that showed a brown horse with a red cross on its side. I suspect this must have been the child's idea of an ancient ambulance (red cross included). I sat in this room for about 10 minutes before realizing that in fact I should come into the office and let someone know I needed help. My only excuse for this forgetfulness is that I was listening to some Andrew Bird and, not having to stand on my leg, was fairly content with my situation.

Fortunately for me, the lady at the reception desk was good at following my slow-paced somewhat awkward mixture of languages. She explained that the doctor was currently out on lunch break and that I would have to register for an appointment later in the day. I'm guessing this was because my problem did not require an immediate remedy of some sort. I signed up for a slot at 16:00, went back home and tried to understand my finances. After epicly failing at that for a couple of hours, I came back to the hospital, was taken to a room and told to wait for the doctor there.

Shortly a tall man in his late forties hurried in. He had nothing in his hands, no stethoscope or clipboard, and he was not wearing a white coat. He patiently listened to my staggering attempt at describing my problem in German, quickly decided that it would be more expedient to speak in English and for the remainder of our fairly short conversation stuck to that language. He passed his hand over the swollen areas a couple of times, observed the bite and pointed out that I had a very similar one on my other leg which for some reason was only itchy. Then he quickly said something about an oil bandage to the nurse, who proceeded to put some yellow liquid on the swollen leg and then a bandage over it. I was amazed to discover that the pain disappeared almost right away and I could walk with only a minor discomfort. As the nurse was bandaging my leg, the doctor scribbled some barely legible names of dermatologists as a prescription and handed me over the sheet with their names, saying I should contact one of them asap for further treatment. This being done, the doctor said he had work to do and left.

I chuckled to myself, because in the US it would unthinkable for a doctor to tell his patients he had to leave an appointment due to ongoing work. "I am your work!" - an american patient would claim, I think. I didn't claim so, however, and proceeded to leave the premises. The whole transaction took less than 20 minutes and my second trip to the hospital overall lasted exactly one hour. German efficiency for the win!

My next stop on this road of illness is the office of one of the dermatologists in town. At this point, I'm almost looking forward to it.

***Update***

This comes somewhat late as I will describe here events that happened this past Monday.
As per the advice of the doctor in the Emergency Room of the hospital, I called up one of the dermatologists on Monday before my classes started. I was planning to schedule an appointment, but the lady on the other end of the line said: "Come on over now, there is almost no line." I realized that my German was not good enough to argue for an appointment. I tried it in English, but the connection was too bad for the lady to understand anything, so I gave up and decided to ask my teacher if I could leave class for a couple of hours.

Because my teacher is a cool guy, he let me go, albeit after giving a lecture to all of us on healthcare in Germany that took almost an hour. My desire to learn new words and laugh at some cheesy jokes overpowered my reason and when I finally left the University on a bus headed for the center of town, I was sure that I would have to spend hours in line. Waiting was not that big of a problem, I then thought, because I happened to have a book (in German) with me that I had been trying to finish for an embarrassingly long time and a big line would mean an opportunity to further that goal. It also meant I could stay out of class for longer, but I think some people that know me will argue that I do not treat that as necessarily a good thing.

The dermatologist I was to see had his office in one of the very fancy old buildings on the north waterfront exactly where the lake becomes the Rhine (very reasonably called Seestraße). I found his house without a problem, climbed a flight or two of wide stone stairs, walked on a floor paved with simple mosaic patterns and entered a waiting room. I do not remember now what the exact color of the walls was (either salad green or orange), but it reflected the morning sunlight very well that day and the room was neither overpoweringly bright, nor gloomy.

To match the atmosphere in the room, the lady at the front desk was cheerful and understanding. She recognized me as someone who called earlier when I was only half-way done with the description of my problem, added me to the list of patients, told me where to go. As expected, the line was indeed considerable at that time: 6 or 7 people of all ages needed to have their skin looked at for one reason or another. I took out my book and consumed a chapter before being called into the doctor's office. While I waited for the doctor to come I observed that the room was not much different from doctor's offices in the US: bandages, pills and obscure utensils filled the cabinets on one wall, various informational and space-filling posters lined the other.

After about five minutes, a tall thin lady walked in briskly, shook my hand and introduced herself (I forgot the name, I'm afraid, I'm bad with names). I gave her a description of my problem, then, on her request, took off the bandage I was given the day before in the ER. She quickly glanced over the bite and the leg (which, by the way, had become bright yellow as a result of the ointment used by the emergency staff), passed her fingers over it just like the hospital doctor had done the day before. Her conclusion, however, was a bit different.

"It's not an allergy" - she said - "because if it was, you would be having reactions and itching all over your body, not just the area of the bite."
She then proceeded to say that in fact, the problem was due to a peculiarity of circulation in the legs. Blood there has a harder time (because of gravity) moving up into the body than coming down into the leg itself. A regular bite always causes some blood to accumulate around it. In a leg, however, this blood doesn't always get a chance to disperse and keeps accumulating further. This leads to swelling and that in turn - to pain and decreased muscle elasticity. The doctor said this was exactly what happened to me and that the restrictive bandage originally helped by containing the swelling.

She recommended that I keep the leg up while sitting for a couple of days and avoid standing for prolonged periods of time. When I asked about sports and dancing, she said: "You are young, play football, go to clubs and enjoy yourself! All will be fine."
I was very pleased to hear such a prescription and left the doctor's office in good spirits. As with the hospital visit the day before, the whole interaction took less than fifteen minutes. Overall, I have to say I'm impressed so far by the way doctors operate in Germany. Compared to the ones in the US, they are fast, efficient, and to the point. In the US, most of the doctor's I've been to tend to introduce small talk, jokes etc into the conversation and try to give the impression that they do not have any other appointments. A German doctor, on the other hand, broadcasts the message: "I am here to help as many people as possible. Tell me what's wrong, I will do my best to provide you a remedy. As soon as we are done, however, I must leave, I have 50 more patients waiting to be helped." This message, while it might seem a bit dehumanizing, is, I think, a very practical and useful one. I'd rather be treated this way. This is, of course, just an impression and one based on only two experiences.

P.S.
It is now Saturday as I write this and the leg is fine. Thank you all who inquired about it this week :)