Why I was sad, I don’t remember exactly. Maybe it’s because my stomach desperate to the Hot Wings from Kentucky Fried Chicken, perhaps, but also to draw because next to me is a little Boy screamed, had his Hand stuck in the claw machines when you try a stuffed-Emoji by the flap. Earlier, a woman Accidentally was scraping along with the handbag on a Mercedes, the owner called to her loudly “cunt”. A few minutes ago a wasp flew in my Cappuccino and drowned in the milk foam. Probably, it is for a wasp just as cruel, to drown in the milk foam, like for a chicken to be Hot-Wings-shape die-cut.
But the most sad am I, because I have the feeling, sitting here. I lean on the guard rail, drinking a can of Fanta, in front of me, whirring cars on the A3. Lunch is over, but the afternoon has not yet started. The sign of the Autohofs Geiselwind is the car drivers, promises to Burger king and petrol from Shell. Including experience rasthof stands tall:. I think that is a uppercase joke.
roadhouses – places to which they kept no memory
We Germans have, at least since national socialism is a complex relationship to the highway. However, Grid Sites? The are places to which you retained no memory. Well, maybe you know the one with the tower (A5, in the Taunus view), or with the Restaurant-bridge over the roadway (Dammer mountains A1, Frank woods A9). But otherwise, only the stacked Sanifair vouchers in the Desk drawer to remind us that we sometimes spend on grid sites time.
Trapped in Geiselwind: What happens if you stay? Fullscreen
The passenger Bank-Flavour of Geiselwind. On the streets of Slovenia to France, Károly Olajos can get a tan at the down left window on one side only.
©Felix Adler
On the A3 between Würzburg and Nuremberg, exit 76, the Autohof Geiselwind. 100,000 square meters of the tank column, Lawn, pulp, Asphalt, around the fir forest. If you are coming from the South, then the closely parked the Truck driving out to see houses like castle battlements. A Tunnel under the highway leading from the Village of Geiselwind up on the huge Parking lot. McDonald’s, Burger King, KFC, Toni’s Restaurant, a Hotel, a highway, a Church, a Park, a hall for concerts, six Tesla charging stations, and an erotic cinema-the low-rise building, but does not belong to the Autohof. A Million people raced here in a year, drink coffee and want to rest a few minutes before the rest area back on the highway spits. Here I spend two days between truckers and gas station, to see what happens when you can’t back on to the motorway spit. But in a place where all are in motion, you should not stand still. Otherwise, the shadows come.
Toni Strohofer: “king of the truckers”
On the first day, I am euphoric. I walk from one end to the other, which takes 15 minutes if you walk leisurely. 95% of German service stations company Tank & Rast, which formerly belonged to the state and, in the meantime, a consortium of Allianz and the investment Fund of the Emirate of Abu Dhabi. operates
An article from … Sebastian Mowka
… JWD. Joko Winter Scheidts Printed Product. The eighth edition of 15. November on newsstands or here.
The Autohof Geiselwind not belong to a Sheikh, but, until Recently, a king: Toni Strohofer. A few days after my visit to the latching died sites legend at the age of 78 years. He was host Catholic, Franke, former country. As the Federal government extended in the sixties, the A3 from Würzburg to Nürnberg, and Asphalt on the wheat field Strohofer goss, since he is not bitching like all the other farmers, but in addition built a truck stop. Toni’s Restaurant with the red roof stands in the center, advertises on a chalk sign for the truck plate, and the Schnitzel from the butcher shop. Because Toni and the Trucker got on, he was soon the title “king of the truckers” or “rest areas-king”. For a long time flowed in any Shell petrol station in the world as much petrol as it is here. Toni organized Festivals for the Trucker, concerts, motorcycle shows. Felix Jaehn to put in the concert hall, as no one knew him, and Gunter Gabriel played the guitar, as it no longer wanted to know.
motorists who stop at a rest stop, not rest, really
I am standing in front of Toni’s Restaurant, and the sun is shining, as you have no desire to fall. I want to talk to the Grid, perhaps with you to discuss why we owe it to Sanifair toilets that we can sit now without the fear of genital herpes or Shigella on the toilet seat. As a man from the toilet to his Volvo back running to I’ll go to him, wants to have a little Interview: Mr Volvo driver, what you connect with the roadhouse? I say “Good day” with the best of Sonny boy-Smile, but there’s the Volvo-man, and it through me transcends. I can’t say whether he ran to the right or to the left to pass me. He slams the car door, starts the Volvo’s engine and honk the horn, because I light in his Parking camera-red.
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my next Interview Attempts fail. Motorists who stop at a rest stop, not rest, really. You can Park your car at the pump, pay for 1.58 euros for a litre of Unleaded, 3,45 euros for a small Cappuccino. Then you smoke a cigarette, you hold with the thumb and index finger so you can throw away the stub faster, make a Minute long stretching movements, to pull your child back into the car, although the half of the Goldenbahis sausage hanging out of her mouth. So you continue to have not really stopped.
Why do the people at the roadhouse so rushed? Why are you in such a hurry in their cars include? Are you afraid that someone steals you the Lyon-bread from the dashboard? To travel the Central locking system protects against everything Foreign. On the grid site you will need to leave their safe cocoon.
I’m going to buy my third can of Fanta at the Shell gas station, hesitates, the seller and looks at me. A man who spends longer than 30 minutes at a rest stop, makes itself suspicious. The is either homeless, pedophile or Trucker.
About one hundred load Park this Sunday the car at the highest point of the rest stop with a view over the motorway and the forest. It is a day of rest, none of them is allowed to drive. Hang in here as I have. A couple of Bulgarians, cooking over a gas Burner pasta or something that looks to the noodles, and drink a can of beer from Aldi. In addition, a small man stands alone in front of his orange Mercedes Truck. Thins rest of the hair, 1.70 tall, he rolls a black Van Nelle tobacco to a cigarette. His nicotine-yellow teeth and nails, I can see that he smokes the Van Nelle tobacco, probably for 30 years.
all My life I had a fear of Truck drivers,
I don’t know why, but somehow I imagine that all of the Truck smell it driver bad, the AfD select and the “sports show” only the games of Schalke 04 watch. I’ve even heard that the highway patrol is filming, sometimes from high campers in the Truck cabins, to see if the man behind the steering Wheel while driving, watching a movie, cigarette rolls, or masturbated.
Maybe I have but so afraid of the truckers because they sit all day in a cab. A narrow room can only be bad for the Psyche.
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I put a Marlboro Light in the mouth and question the Trucker to fire. “And where’s it going?”, he asks me. “I’ve arrived,” I say, pointing to the Asphalt. “I’ll stay here for two days, to write something about rest stops.” The sounds even more idiotic than I thought. The Trucker nods. “Two days is still,” he says. “Once I spent three days here over Easter,” he says. My Experiment is for a Truck driver everyday.
The man’s name is Johann, is 56 years old, comes from lower Bavaria, and not to do because we are surrounded both by so much A3 a lot, we will wander through the Parking lot. Johann is funny. His humour consists of “dirty workers” and “Best-of-Dad-Jokes”. Unpleasant to hear when people stand next to it. For example, when he describes how in the Trucker’s shower, the pubic hair from the previous clogged the drain, so what he thought was pubic hair. Or if he calls the chicken fast food chain “Kentucky yells fuck” and then, according to his own joke with a laugh. But otherwise you could call Johann a upright guy to his 19. Birthday, his first Truck load went and since then has not ceased to hum the motorway, up and down. He says: “I am determined, driven two hundred Times around the world, but I’ve seen nothing of her.”
“Some people have their ordinary Italians, I have my master rasthof”
Johann knows every lunch menu on the Autohof Geiselwind. He stops here for 20 years, once he even spent new year’s eve at a diner-the Hotel and drank in front of the TV with two six-makers of beer in the new year. That was after his divorce. “Marriage and the Truck works Drive only very rarely,” he says. We put ourselves in Toni’s Restaurant on the wooden table. On the ceiling flower hanging-painted lamps, the room smells good after frying fat. The waitress brings us a wheat beer. Johann says: “Some people have their ordinary Italians, I have my trunk diner.” He waves to the waitress, which is without a back wave to return to the counter.
We order more wheat beer, and Johann won’t stop talking. He dictated to me his biography. Interrupted by insertions that start with the word “Sooner”. “In the past, as we sat here with 30 man in the pub. Dumped wheat and made fun of. The only rule was Not to talk: about work. We truckers don’t earn a bit over minimum wage, enough to talk to after work about work.”
He told a Trucker-married buddy of his here in the highway Church and then the wedding with pulp, Toni celebrated Restaurant. “The bride and groom were both fat as the Otter, who had their wedding night on the bunk in the Truck,” he says, and go snorts again. Also, this marriage did not, of course, he says, and don’t know if he should laugh.
“all read in the morning newspaper and rush against refugees,”
At once one of the Bulgarians comes in Adidas Jogging pants in the bar-parlour and begins with the waitress to discuss about the price for a Turkey salad. Johann leans over the table. He says that he driver have nothing against the whole Eastern district, and only annoys him that he can’t talk to them. The speak no English. He also is not.
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But his German colleagues, he may just as little, he says. “The read all in the morning, the Bild-Zeitung and rush against refugees,” he says. “Why should I envy poor Hans, even poorer people anything?” And I think to myself: John, the calls are so fond of “Kentucky screams” fuck, has a reflektierteres understanding of solidarity and the welfare state, as the German Minister of the interior.
Fourth wheat and one last question on this wise, and kinky Trucker: “Johann, why do I feel so terrible, so useless, so purposeless, since I’ve been to the roadhouse?” – “Hm,” he grunts, considered, ordered from the waitress a fifth of wheat. Then he leans his head back against the wooden bench and closes his eyes.
An hour later, I was sitting on a stone next to the Parking lot and watch the sun go down. The grapefruit red clouds hang low over the diner, the cross of the highway Church of the flickering rays of the last sun. Next to me a Boy takes a photo of the sunset with the iPhone. Then he runs back to the VW Passat of his parents.
Actually, that sunsets surprise nice to us, people still. We want a photograph of you and other people, although to us the nature demonstrates daily that Show. And how no matter, the sunset here is whether it illuminates the Mediterranean beaches in Italy, or the Autohof Geiselwind on the A3.
“you look like you would get out of here. Should I bring you a piece?”
Suddenly, lasts for a coach next to me. The window of the bus driver buzzes, and a man with white hair and a green-and-black-checkered tie, looks at me kindly. “You come away here?” the bus driver asks. “Excuse me?” “You look like you would get out of here. Should I bring you a piece?” “Where are you going?” “Hamburg,” he says. I look in the Bus. At least 40 old ladies with reading glasses and a Perm sit in a purple-colored fabric seats, behind the driver and look at me.
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That would be it, back to Hamburg in a luxury coach, cared for by 40 pensioners, the push me alternately Bee sting and herbal candies in the mouth and ask me what I want to, even if I have already explained ten times, that I already have a job. But at least I would then have a target. The whole point of the cartrain is to arrive somewhere. Who wants to anywhere, the ceiling falls on the head. Or the hostage winder late summer sky. The bus driver looks at me. “Thank you,” I say. “I’ll stay for a while.”
This story comes from the eighth issue of JWD – Joko winter scheidts printed product. You can buy here.
