Roll over: 8:57.
Shower, shave, take meds.
Out door 9:25. left. Right. Right. Left.
Wait for stoplight. Don't dare cross street without being double sure no one's trying to peel the orange.
Cross street. Two blocks. Be confronted again by billboard showing 11 naked men with their backs to the camera. Make mental note not to go into that shop.
|Chris wakes up, looks out the window, ponders another day.|
Right. Left into train station.
Right on to platform. Me likey train station.
Die Bahn office. No reservations available for train.
Exhale. Grit teeth. Gird loins (whatever that means).
Newsstand. Limit myself to two newspapers that I might get around to reading – Guardian, Independent today, 6 euros.
Wait in line to greet cheerful woman at cash who could build the Taj Mahal with all the money she’s making on the papers.
Market. Buy breakfast: bottle of water, peach.
Train platform. First leg to Cologne.
Check Crackberry. Repeat.
Coffee cart on train.
Off at Cologne. Switch to train to Gelsenkirchen.
Train 10 minutes late. Platform jammed with Mexican and Portuguese fans – edge, Mexico, surprisingly. As usual, everyone’s checking the accreditation badge that hangs around my neck going down to belt level.
A woman in Mexican colours with a slight grin points at the badge. “Yes, yes,” I say, “Canada.”
“No, no,” she says, pointing a little lower.
Look down. Er.
Zip up fly (yes, this really did happen).
Nod to woman.
Train arrives. Platforms jammed. I’m at back of the group and already they’re spilling out of the door. German train official waves to us. Down at the other end, she’s pointing.
Run to other end to – jammed car.
Get on car. Stand with 10 others in little part of train between cars and the seating area.
Off in Gelsenkirchen. Follow signs: “Media Shuttle.”
On media bus. Traffic jam.
Arrive at media entrance: 1:45.
Security guy checks bag. Well, he looks at it.
Into media centre at 1:55 for -- wait, let me check -- yes, it's Portugal vs. Mexico today.