Nuremberg

Dolores hasn’t flown for a while. I imagine her slowly recalling all the little things that make flying so much fun. Like endless queueing and endless walking. We’re getting plenty of both.

At least we didn’t have to queue to get into the terminal. Like last time with the kids. What a pain in the arse that was. One reason we’re here more than four hours before departure. That and Schiphol advising to turn up at least three hours in advance.

No bags to check. I remember the piles of bags lying around all over the place last time I was here. But I do ask the priority check in agent where we need to go for security.  I show her our boarding cards so she can see our destination. Bad idea.

Seeing Dolores doesn’t have special status, she has to go through standard security. Fuck. They definitely didn’t use to do this.  Though they did in July when I travelled with the kids. What an annoying fucking policy.

“I should complain.” I tell Dolores. I really fucking should.

I ask another KLM person; “Where’s non-priority security? They won’t let my wife go through the priority lane.”

She rolls her eyes and says: “Those stupid people. Take the lift there. There probably won’t be any staff about at the top.”

Which turns out to be perfectly true.  It’s more crowded than usual. But nothing compared to the general side. Based on past bitter experiences, it looks like a 45-60 minute wait. So glad we dodged that one.

Being Schengen-bound, we dodge another queue. Passport control. For the first time, I’m packing only my Dutch one. Which feels a little odd. Never travelled without a UK passport.

An early arrival has a big upside: lots of time in the lounge.

“I wonder where it is? I usually go to the non-Schengen one.”

It’s not that difficult to find. Soon we’re inside and looking for seats. Not that easy, given how busy it is. I let Dolores take the lead. Years of train travel in the DDR honed her skills in elbowing through crowds and grabbing a seat.

“Reviews rate this lower than the other lounge.” I say.

“I can’t see much difference.”

“Me neither. Where’s the bar?”

After bringing back her wine, I tell Dolores: “There’s one big advantage this place has: self-service drinks. None of that “singles only” for me here. It’s trebles all round.”
“Don’t go crazy, Ronald.”

“When have I ever?”

“Hmmpfh” She makes that funny noise which somehow manages to convey contempt, pity, incredulity, scorn and a tiny hint of amusement.

I’m not impressed with the food. None of the hot stuff looks very appetising. On the other hand, I can pour myself as much whisky as I want. I know which lounge is the winner for me.

We lounge around for the hours until our flight. Nibbling at the odd bit of cold food. Quite relaxing. For an airport experience.

Like good little passengers, we troll up to our gate 30 minutes before scheduled departure. Which is still being shown “as scheduled” on the displays. Even though that’s clearly not true. The inbound aircraft hasn’t arrived. No way we’re leaving in half an hour.

It’s an hour. A win, in my book. I’ve had so, so much worse. Like the receding into the distance time, which gets two hours later for every hour that passes. Resembling a weird time disturbance that defies the laws of physics.

The flight is, like all flights, a limbo between two states of being. Outside, yet still filled with, time. A dull period needing to be endured. When I’m on my own. Now, I’ve got Dolores to chat with.

I get a diet cola, rather than a red wine, Dolores has a beer.

No checked in luggage and no passport control has us looking for the U-Bahn station. And it’s right there. Because this is Germany and they locate stations right next to the terminals.

Our hotel is just a couple of hundred metres from the main station. We’re leaving by rail tomorrow. It makes sense to be close to the station.

By the time we’re checked in and sorted out, it’s past seven PM.  Getting around food time. First, however, we pop back to the station. To the Lidl we spotted earlier. For drinks and stuff. I grab a couple of cans of Perlenbacher Strong Lager. Then notice some non-brand bourbon. And it’s under ten euros. I can’t pass that up.

Now it’s time to eat. There’s a brewpub directly opposite called Mautkeller. In this ancient building with a huge roof. I went there years ago. A fairly dull German brewpub, as I recall. Helles, Dunkles, Weizen. That sort of place. Now it’s owned by the large local brewery, Tucher.

The enormous vaulted beerhall basement seems much as I can remember it. Unless I’m just assuming it used to be similar. The structure, at least, much be unchanged. And that’s impressive.

I order an unfiltered Urbräu Helles, brewed on the premises. While Dolores has a Weissbier.

When they arrive, I realise my mistake. I didn’t point at the menu when I ordered. I just said “Urbräu Helles”. Turns out That’s also the name of the standard Tucher Helles. Not exactly exciting, but pleasant enough.

What else could I order but Nürnberger Bratwurst? You can get 6, 9 or 12. I choose the middle option. But contemplate a full dozen.

Half way through, I’m so glad I didn’t. The little buggers are more filling than you think. Nine have me stuffed. So stuffed, we only have the one beer.

We have an early night. Trains to catch tomorrow.



Tucher Mautkeller Nürnberg
Hallpl. 2,
90402 Nürnberg.
https://tucher-mautkeller.de/