Yvonne and the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day.

I came to Innsbruck because I wanted to see the Alps, and I read in Lonely Planet that this was a city surrounded by the mountains. Coming out of the train station, there I saw them, and I couldn't help but snap a picture right there.

This is the picture.

The directions to the hostel were sketchy. They told me arrive between 5 and 7 pm, take the bus and walk uphill for a few houses (when actually it was walk uphill, then turn right and then turn left.) A nice local man helped me find my way, and he was utterly perplexed by my visit to Innsbruck.

"What are you here for?" he asked.

"I just want to see the mountains."

"But these aren't good mountains," he sighed. "And I don't know how you will see them in weather like this." He fretted some more. "I just don't know what you are going to do." He contemplated different places I could go to get a better view, places he could take me. I told him his help in finding me the hostel was good enough, he needn't orchestrate my entire trip. And so we left it at that. I said thanks and good-bye and he scratched his head and pondered my trip some more. I just wanted to hug him and tell him it would be all right.

That was before I saw my hostel room. The lady at the front desk told me I would be in a different building, which was in the back of the nice place where I paid my bill. The girls dorm was on the top floor. It had log cabin walls, wooden bunk beds, threadbare sheets, and bare bulbs providing light. It looked like the perfect setting for a horror film.

The bathroom door knob hung limply on the door. When I finally managed to get the door to close, I wasn't sure if I would ever be able to come out again. In the other bathroom was a sink and a bath tub big enough for a baby or perhaps a very miniature person.

Sink and the mini-tub.

This place frightened me. So I went into town. It was already dark. You couldn't see the mountains anymore, except for the snow on top which omitted an eerie glow. The air was fresh and cold on my cheeks. I walked by the river, black fast flowing water, and I imagined this water had trickled its way down the mountains. Runners and bikers passed me by. The town itself was quaint, all the shops displaying ski clothes and equipment in the windows. Perhaps every mountain town is like this, but since I am not a skier, I found it charming. I was smitten.

One of the shop windows.

At the pizza shop where I ate dinner, I met two American women, Lori and Tanya, who worked at Swarovski and were here on business. They invited me out with their co-worker, Dave, to a bar near their hotel. The bar was called 360 and it had a beautiful view of the city. You could see lights from all the houses along the mountainside.

"Does everyone smoke in Austria?" Dave asked. If the bar was any representation of the country, then yes, they do. I especially liked the two Euro men slouched in their seats at the table next to us, wearing slim suits and smoking cigarettes, not talking to each other but just looking cool.

Tanya, Dave and Lori.

Lori and Tanya had us laughing about the mishaps of their trip so far. They were staying in one of the best hotels in town, and they commented on the small beds and even smaller comforters. I didn't have the heart to tell them that my bed back at the hostel was probably infested with bed bugs and looked like it would fall apart if you sat on it.

This morning I woke up (bed remained intact) and contemplated whether I should bathe. I felt dirty, so I went for it, finding myself crouched in that little tub. I couldn't stand because the ceiling, being the roof of the building, was slanted. When I raised the shower hose to my hair, I hit the ceiling. I was waiting for someone to barge in the bathroom and point and laugh and say, "What are you doing? You actually thought we would shower in that Barbie tub?" No such person came by.

I wanted to blow-dry my hair when I realized with great sadness that I lost my beloved converter/adapter. I got the adapter with my cell phone, and it was a really good one. Sometimes when I dried my hair, I would leave it in the bathroom and would have to run back and get it. This time I forgot to run back, and I could imagine the way it looked in the bathroom in the Salzburg hostel.

It was snowing outside, and so with damp hair and no hat, I ventured outside to look for an adapter. The snow created such a fog that there was not a mountain to be seen. I was thankful for taking that one picture by the bus station.

If I thought finding contact solution was hard, finding an adapter is another issue. No one really knew what I was talking about until I showed them my computer plug. The woman at the information office directed me to an electronics store where they had adapters, but not one that fit my computer plug.

"Can I get one somewhere else?" I asked the boy who worked there. "Is there another electronics store in Innsbruck?"

The boy looked at me with disdain. "No," he said to me, as if this was the only electronics store in all of Austria.

I walked out of the store, and I burst into tears. Suddenly it all seemed doomed. My beloved adapter alone in the bathroom in Salzburg, waiting for me to come back, probably not realizing yet that I never will. For the rest of the trip, I would forever have wet hair. I wouldn't be able to charge my cell phone and worst of all, Polish Ham would be history once my computer battery died.

I pulled myself together and walked into a hotel and asked the receptionist if there was somewhere else I could go, and she pointed me to a hardware store. The place was filled with old ladies creeping around and an old man talking loudly to the owner. I found an adapter--not really a converter--but it fit my computer plug and so I bought it, wiping my tears on my sleeve as I paid. I hoped it would work.

Next step was finding a café with a wireless connection. I found this to be an impossible task. There was a place that looked like the Austrian version of Starbucks. It had all these internet company names of the door, so it looked promising. I ordered my food and then I found out that I couldn't use my computer in there. Turns out the place sold phones, so while I had a coffee and cold muffin, there were people buying cell phones behind me. It was like having breakfast in a Cingular Wireless store. My hair was finally dry, flat against my head. This suddenly felt like the worst day ever.

Me and my bad hair in the cell phone coffee shop.

It went downhill from there. I stepped outside and all of a sudden my toes on my left foot starting hurting. How did this happen? How can your toes hurt? But they did, and I limped along and felt sorry for myself for having no health insurance. And then I imagined how I could explain this toe-hurting situation to a German-speaking doctor. I didn't want to.

I wandered into a mall, where I found a computer to use in a bookstore. The browser was probably from the days of the first computer because it could barely support any of the internet pages. I checked my email and found out from Katrin, who I am visiting on Saturday, that all the German train workers were going on strike from Thursday to Saturday. I was supposed to go to Munich on Thursday.

I walked around and contemplated. I even walked by the train station and considered asking about it. I looked for some signs and then these twelve-year-old girls pushed me out of the way and started laughing and making fun of me in German. I couldn't believe that I was being harassed by pre-teens. Could it get any worse?

So I walked some more. My toes feeling a little better, and I went into the tourist information office where I asked them about the strike.

"Oh yes, I have heard of this," the girl said. She called the train information and they told her that only select trains would run tomorrow, and I should go to the train station for more information. So I went back to the train station.

"I am planning to go to Munich tomorrow, and I heard there is going to be a strike," I told the man behind the counter.

"I know nothing about a strike," he answered me. "Come tomorrow and you will find out."

"So," I stuttered, "you suggest I come back tomorrow and then I will know? What if there are no trains?"

He shrugged.

"If there is a strike, will there be any trains or buses to Munich?"

"No," he answered.

I left the desk and burst into tears for the second time today. I felt like maybe if I had spoken German he would have been more helpful, but I didn't want to be the ugly American and be mean to him, so instead of yelling at him, I just cried.

I walked outside the train station and could barely make out the mountain through the fog. I decided I did not want to be stuck in Innsbruck until Saturday.

I went to the hostel. I packed. I checked out.

"Yes, if you are traveling to Germany, you should go today," said the woman at the hostel. She didn't give me a refund for the second night. At that point, I didn't care.

Took the bus back to the train station. Waited in the cold for my delayed train. Sat in cold train car for two hours, my hands taking an hour to warm up. Arrived to a snowy and blistery Munich in one piece, and the hostel even had a bed for me. Things were looking on the up and up.

But then I checked my email, and Dan is having a bad day, too. Not only did he lose his metro card, but our landlords are raising our rent $200 a month starting in December! Don't these people understand I am unemployed?

There are no tears left. I am getting a drink.