I was traveling by train from Düsseldorf to Hamburg in August 1991 with my sister and two friends. The four of us had an old-fashioned compartment to ourselves, the kind with six seats, three facing three, like in Agatha Christie or Harry Potter.
We’d come from Heidelberg, where we’d explored the city and stayed at a youth hostel. There we met lots of other travelers, some from Hong Kong, others from the United States and Canada.
I also met a group of boys who mostly kept to themselves in the dormitory. When I finally talked with them, I learned why: they were from the former Yugoslavia; Bosnia, Croatia, and Serbia and war had just broken out. They didn’t want to go home because they feared they’d be drafted and sent to fight. Their visas were valid for another two weeks, they said. I liked them; we were the same age, 19. Thinking back now, knowing what happened afterward, I hope some of them survived. I’m not sure they did.
Anyway, we were relaxing in our compartment when a young couple knocked and asked to join us—they’d spotted two empty seats. We said yes, of course. They told us they’d been married a few years and had sold their apartment and car to fund a trip around the world. “Wow,” we said. “That’s brave.”. They smiled and then asked what we thought about the situation in Moscow, the collapse of the Soviet government two days earlier. “What are you talking about?” we said. They filled us in. We’d been on the road, not watching the news and with no idea what was happening. Two nights before, while history was unfolding in Moscow, we were in a Heidelberg café drinking beer.
A lot can happen when you’re drinking beer.
A.G. Munson
