Today we started our journey home. Already in Italy I said goodbye to some participants of the work camp, who departed separately. I was looking forward to the trip, because here I was able to calmly work on many things on the laptop that had been left undone in the past few weeks. My back was the only thing that bothered me. The mattress in the hotel, the bumping on the tractor and now the long sitting on the bus didn't do my back any good. We push our way through the slow-moving traffic and the traffic jam caused by a rear-end collision and later by the Brenner Pass.
From our lunch yesterday at the restaurant on the Futa Pass, I took two half slices of bread with sausage with me. Very appetizing, but when I take the sandwich wrapped in a napkin out of my backpack in the late afternoon, the smell of Cucina Italiana has changed to the smell of a not quite housebroken dog. I must not make the mistake of giving in to hunger tomorrow and eating my sausage sandwich on the bus while driving. That would smell disgusting and, at the end, once again draw the displeasure of my fellow passengers.
In the afternoon after four o'clock we return to the Hotel zum Goldenen Löwen in Kufstein. After moving into my room, I walk to the parking garage and look for my motorbike. After two weeks and only with the vague memory of a parking space number with 6 or 7, I still find it in less than ten minutes. I start the engine for a moment. That works smoothly. I take the two side cases with me straight up to the hotel room. I'll load them there, then tomorrow I'll get the motorbike right in front of the door and hang them up there. This time, by the way, I stored my motorcycle at a particularly reasonable price. I can get an exit ticket from the hotel reception for twelve euros. On the last trip to Lithuania, during which I parked my motorbike in a rental garage for two weeks, it cost me eight euros – per day!
At 6 p.m. the open-air organ at Kufstein Fortress begins its concert again. I don't recognize the first two pieces, then Offenbach's Barcarole follows, then Zorba's Sirtaki. That's really courageous and shows that this musical tradition is by no means outdated here.