A version of this article in German was originally published in the TAZ.
It is a cold Sunday in February, and I’m on foot and on my way from the Thuringian Forest to Chemnitz. I am undertaking this one-week solo hike through Thuringia and Saxony for the Climate Walk project during which a group of people collectively hiked through Europe to listen to people and their experiences of climate change in their everyday lives.
I have left the forest behind me and the small town of Königsee is spreading out in front of me. The snow is glittering in the sunlight. My hike ends here today. However, I did not find accommodation in Königsee which is why I plan to take the bus to a place in the town of Rudolstadt and return tomorrow to continue the hike. I had checked beforehand when the last bus leaves on Sundays: it leaves at 6 PM. Right now it is only 2 PM.
I walk through the town in the hope of finding a warm place and something to eat but the guesthouses are either not yet open or already closed. I find the bus stop and check when the next bus is leaving just to learn that the 6 PM bus is not only the last but the only one of the day. And now? It is minus degrees, and despite the sun I quickly begin to freeze as soon as I stop moving. I decide to continue walking along the road towards Rudolstadt to keep moving.
My salvation appears at the town exit where the unmistakable sign of an open gas station is glowing. I associate gas stations with the smell of gasoline, expensive snacks, and draughty air; a place where I usually spend only a short time and try to move on quickly. But today it is better than nothing. I enter and look around. A woman stands behind the counter. I order some hot chocolate and ask her if I can wait here for a longer while for the bus.
“No problem at all,” she says.
I go to one of the bar tables, observe the coming and going of people, and take sips of my hot chocolate. I hear cars passing by, the noise from the coffee machine, the many conversations of people. For the first time, I fully realize that gas stations here in the countryside have a completely different function than in my home, a bigger city.
A lot of people are visiting. A man with his children buys some bread rolls for the evening. A group of young men meets up for a beer. An older man talks about his dog's recovery. People come and go: a few to get gas, but most of them for something to eat, cigarettes, or to talk. There is not much going on in the town—the hot spot seems to be here at the gas station. And the saleswoman is conversing with all of them.
She is talking to me as well. I told her about the project that brought me here today. She says that she believes in anthropogenic climate change but is still skeptical about climate policies and media reports on climate change. She says that her grandmother sat outside in a bikini in February. She says that climate change is also a big business for some. Thanks to her work at the gas station she knows that the oil company Shell is promising to finance reforestation projects if people pay 1.1 cents more per liter. That way people can continue to drive cars and still feel good, says the saleswoman.
I ask her where in her everyday life she notices climate change. She replies that people here have different worries than those in the city who talk about reducing car usage. An example: Her shift today finishes at nine o’clock in the evening. As I found out earlier there is no bus leaving from here anymore at that time. She needs her car to the nearby village where she lives. I had read about this perspective previously but now I understand it better; now that I had to wait for several hours for the bus and could observe the life of people here. By ending up at a gas station of all places, a symbol of the Fossil Age, I had an engaging conversation about the climate crisis. This is exactly what this hike is about: To meet different people and listen to their experience of climate change—even if it does not play a role for them as in the view of the woman from today.
We are frequently interrupted by customers but as soon as it is just the two of us again, the woman continues our conversation. It makes me feel less like a stranger. It makes me feel welcome. Our everyday lives, the places where we live and our living situations are quite different. I am a student, she is working. I live in a city, she lives in a small town/village. But our differences do not divide us. It is such a seemingly unimportant encounter but to me it is special. I often find gas stations to be desolate places, and the gastronomic service in the Thuringian Forest can be dismissive and unwelcoming. But here I only encountered friendliness and warmth—physical as well as emotional warmth.
In the meantime, time has passed so quickly that it is almost 6 PM. I do not want to leave this warm place but neither do I want to miss my bus. I say goodbye and walk into the dark cold and to the bus stop. During my wait, I gained a glimpse of the things that determine everyday life in a small town in Germany: Long commutes, empty houses, worries, and simmering anger. But at the same time, there is community and the creativity necessary to work with what is available.
Written by Nina Kolarzik.
Illustration by Nina Kolarzik.