Free The World According to Clarkson by Jeremy Clarkson

many Americans spend vacation time in the Fatherland, including, just last week, a retired couple from Michigan called Wilbur and Myrtle. They packed their warm-weather gear into a selection of those suitcases that appear to be made from old office carpets, got their daughter Donna to drive them from the gated community they call home to Detroit airport, where they flew for their holiday to Cologne.
    Myrtle had packed some powdered milk because she’d caught a report about foot-and-mouth disease inEurope and figured she’d better stay safe. Wilbur was worried about catching KGB from beef that had been infected with BSM and vowed on the plane he’d stick to chicken. Both wondered if you could get chicken in Europe.
    I know this because I know the man who lent them a car. They liked him very much, not simply because he spoke such good English but also because, contrary to what they’d heard, he could stand on his hind legs. Myrtle asked whether they should go to Munich because an antiques fair was in town or if it was better to visit Frankfurt which, she’d heard, was the Venice of Germany. ‘Well,’ explained my friend, ‘there is a river in Frankfurt but it’s probably stretching things a little to think of it in the same terms as Venice.’
    Still undecided, they set off, and that should have been that. But just two hours later they were on the phone. It seems that they’d become a little confused and strayed into Holland, where they’d found a charming little cafe´ that did chicken.
    Unfortunately, however, while they were inside someone had broken the back window of their car and helped themselves to all their belongings: not only the Huguenot felt-tile suitcases but also their passports, driving licences and Wilbur’s wallet.
    Maybe the thief was a drug addict after his next fix. Or maybe he’d mistaken them for Germans and had taken everything in exchange for the theft of his father’s bicycle. Or perhaps he’d taken umbrage at their registration plate. All Cologne-registered cars this year beginwith KUT, which is Dutch for the worst word in the world.
    Either way, poor old Wilbur and Myrtle were not having much luck with the police, either in Holland or Germany, to which they’d returned. They decided after just six hours in Europe that they’d had enough and were going to fly home. So they did.
    The problem is, of course, that while Germany may superficially have some things in common with America, it is not even remotely similar once you go beneath the surface. There’s no ‘have a nice day’ culture in Germany. The German does not care if you have a nice day because he is a European.
    I’m writing this now in a town called Zittau on the Polish border. I feel at home here.
    Sunday 24 June 2001

Cornered by a German Mob Bent on Revenge
    So there I was, cruising into town with the top down when, with the crackle of freshly lit kindling, my map hoisted itself out of the passenger side footwell and, having spent a moment wrapped round my face, blew away.
    Ordinarily this would not be a problem. I had the name of a bar where I could watch the Grand Prix and I even had its address. So I would simply pull over and ask someone for directions.
    Unfortunately, I was in Germany where, if someone doesn’t know exactly what you are looking for, they won’t tell you at all. To make matters worse, I was in the eastern part of the country where there are no people to ask anyway.
    I first noticed the problem in the achingly beautiful Saxony town of Zittau which, at 8.30 on a Friday night, was deserted. It was like a scene from
On the Beach
. Further up the autobahn in the city of Zwickow,
Aida
was playing at the opera house but there were no queues. The shops were full of expensive cutlery sets but there were no shoppers. There were car parks but no cars.
    The latest figures suggest that since the Berlin Wall came down, some towns have seen 65 per cent of the population migrate to the west in search of work. I