Sunday--Ferrari

Your kidding me, right? I said. "You only wrote down the directions there. Where's the directions back?! Brad gave me a sheepish grin. We're just going have to do everything in reverse order, that's all. Fucking great, I thought. We'll be lucky as shit to get out of this alive. I hadn't done any research before this whole trip had started. I didn't look at a map, didn't look up anything about Munich, nothing. The reason for this lack of preparation had been simple: Brad had already been to Oktoberfest two weeks previously. He knows his way around, I had thought. A weekend free from worry and solely dedicated to consuming beer. The plan was to leave Saturday night and have a day of recovery back at Brad's place. But when I had arrived in Maastricht to meet him, he unveiled a major overhaul to the entire journey. Somewhere in the nearby region of Germany, I was told, there is an extremely famous race track. Nurburger or something like that. And by sheer coincidence Sunday was the day they would host their annual Ferrari Day, when every Ferrari in existence congregated to show off how cool they were. But we don't have to go, Brad added. It's totally up to you. I was fully aware that one of Brad's greatest loves was cars. Anytime we've been anywhere so far, he points out every damn car that he likes. OOOHH look at that Porshe X739er over there! See how its body kit swoops up and out like that?! Telling him No to this convention would be like telling a four-year-old that Santa's not coming this year. I sighed and agreed to it, provided that he take care of all the necessary arrangements.

On the night train back from Munich, two Americans in their thirties shared our compartment. They were from LA, involved with the record business. Our conversation floated from celebrities to pit bulls, weather to medical marijuana. They offered us hash and described their European adventures. My body ached after only a day of travel, and I tried to imagine life on the road for a solid month. Instead, I curled up in a ball and dropped into a coma, and was only awoken by one of the Californians loudly whispering, Hey guys! this is your stop!

We stumbled off the train and took stock of our surroundings. Back in Koln at five in the morning, with about four hours to kill before the next one. Both of us were running on exhaust fumes still and starting to lose our battles with vicious head colds. We gave into the sweet calls of a nearby McDonald's breakfast and rejuventated ourselves. A few trains and one bus later, we stood outside the entrance of the track, already blasting with the rumblings of mean-sounding cars.But nothing could dampen young Bradley's spirits. He was the most excited I have ever seen, despite the constant drizzle and bonechilling winds. We came around a bend and there before us, stretching down hundreds of yards, were red Ferraris of every possible kind perfectly lined up at angles. Brad nearly had a meltdown. He half walked, half sprinted from car to car, taking pictures from seemingly every possible angle. The cars were all sorted according to their model, and we must have surveyed every kind. Brad darted into one of the big tents along the side of the parking lot and disappeared into the crowd. Inside were older, even more valuable, Ferraris as well as an F1 racing car. The racer had about fifty people around it, and when the crew started it, everyone immediately protected their ears. The sound of something close to a jet engine roaring next to you is not something you fuck around with.Keeping up with Brad was actually something of a challenge. I'm sure his shutter finger must have been sore the next day because I never saw him without his camera, cocked and loaded. And the rows of cars never ended. There were more red Ferraris just around a corner. In another parking lot were over a hundred more, these ones of all the other colors besides red. I wanted to go sit down and watch some of the races. But Brad had found what he had been looking for. Even I was blown away by the six Ferrari Enzos (each costs over a million according to Brad) parked just outside an exclusive lunch club, apparently only for Enzo owners. Each one was perfectly covered in mist, as if someone had brought them out of the refrigerator and let them condensate for a while. We spent a large amount of time there, along with other car fanatics who practically knelt in front of the holy shrine of these six automobiles.After touring almost all of pit road and the cars inside, as well as watching cars fly by on the wet track for nearly two hours, I was about at the end of my patience. Sure we had seen Michael Schumacher, the most famous F1 driver of all time, and had witnessed a huge collection of ridiculously expensive cars, but I was beyond cold, hungry, thirsty, and ready for a place to lay down. Brad's enthusiasm was still very high, however. I needed some leverage with him. At Oktoberfest he had stolen a huge one-liter glass mug and since I had the only backpack (he had been wearing the same clothes for two days now) I was the lucky guy who got to carry around that bulky goddamn thing around. So I threatened to break that glass right here, right now if we didn't head home NOW. Ok, ok, he said. Let's go.Once we left the stadium, I suddenly recalled our previous conversation. This entire thing was up to Brad--I had absolutely no responsiblity of getting us home and at that moment that thought terrified me. We starting walking aimlessly into the small town that hosts this ginormous thing (the track can be made to be about 24 miles long!). According to Brad, all we had to do is find the bus that would take us back to a train station and civilization. We came upon what looked to be a bus stop. Neither of us could make any sense of the German timetable, though, so we waited. And waited. It was getting colder as evening grew closer. Jesus fuck! It is such a hopeless feeling waiting for a bus that might not even come. My stomach gurgled, praying for a meal soon. After forty minutes of waiting, a woman came walking down the street. When Brad asked her, she told us that the buses stopped running on Sunday afternoons. FUCK! We're stuck in the middle of fucking Germany on a miserably cold and rainy day and I left everything up to Brad. What was I thinking...The situation was getting nastier by the second. Macias called a cab and 40 euro later we were there. Of course the delay had caused us to miss our train, which of course then caused us to miss every train after that. Delays and waiting plagued us the whole way back, and we finally dragged our way into Maastricht around 11:30. Brad's place is a forty-five minute walk away, and the thought of going one more step was intolerable. Brad directed us onto a nearby bus. Finally, I thought. I can pass out and never wake up again. But, unknown to me, we were riding on the wrong bus. This was the closest I have ever come to straight murder. The mistake was eventually corrected and I slept the night on Brad's loveseat, which is the size of a postage stamp. Three hours the next day back to Middelburg and I resolved never to travel again. Until I looked at the calendar and realized that in three days I was leaving on my fall break trip with Brad to Spain. Oh dear Lord...