Little Zwiesel goes a long way

With more stars than artificial lights to guide us through the swerving mountain roads, we carried on past the occasional castle, towns with a bar and a few businesses while bright Mars glowed to our north the whole way.

If the constant shifts up hills we could not see beyond the pale of the wagon's headlight got to Chris, he didn't show it too much.

The German tones in the Czech language grow more pronounced as we neared the checkpoint. At a gas station stop, the clerk spoke clearly with that influence. Some little differences a la Pulp Fiction: they only poured coffee ceramic cups - not a To-Go styrofoam to be found - so we had to sit while Chris got his fuel for the last stretch of the night; some local travelers drank Czech lager and smoke cigarettes at a little counter, so I polished off a half-liter of Gambrinus lager as we sat. I didn't even have to hide it in a brown paper bottle bag.

We debated calling it a night under the bright lights of a little town just inside the Czech Republic, but pressed ahead. A longer-than-expected stop at the border, where the guards took delighted interested in Mitzy and Hannah's German surname, put us in Zwiesel, 10,000 strong in the Bavarian forest, a little after nine.

From there, the clock raced, as one guesthouse after another told us they were full for the night, and closing time neared. Hannah ably served as our voice as we hit upon rejection after rejection. Despite Chris' comment that one we hadn't checked looked pricey, we discovered it wasn't in the same range as the others; more importantly, they had a room for four.

The little town was unlike any I'd seen before, with its brick sidewalks, little shrine to Christ on the main drag and loud confluence of two rivers
Stopping long enough to drop our luggage off, the only tavern still serving was a sports bar with an American theme; fortunately, all their beerly wares were solidly local. We talked with relief running deep in our voices, clanged glasses with every round, snapping the group photos we'd not had time for in Prague.

It was all great, but my need to explore our stop for the night was mountain, so my story departs here slightly: The town was shockingly dead outside, with one car cruising the main drag every five minutes at maximum, so with a little alcoholic warmth in me, I was set to wander. I followed the rivers past their meeting point for a while, amazed that I only heard the water.

For a short eternity, I just watched a flock of ducks drill their beaks into muddy, shallow water, hunting for dinner. I didn't need the big city to sate my fascination with big empty spaces and scenes no one else stops to see.

My fellow travelers emerged from the sports bar after a short time, and the hour for sleep arrived.

Or so we thought

A trio of locals left the same tavern shortly after, and proceeded to follow us all the way back to the guest house. I was too overjoyed with my fleeting time to wander a small town and soak in its overlooked intricacies.

As we moved to turn up the stairs and retire, the newcomers followed us through the locked door and struck- The guesthouse chef and manager wanted us to join them for an after-hours drink.

An older, third man, who identified himself as a guesthouse owner from a nearby town in for a visit, chatted with Hannah as the other disappeared then returned with beers. We toasted and they were gone again, though the sizzle of oil on a cooking service became a backdrop for the talking. I refused a beer at first, but soon remembered I was on vacation ... in a foreign country ... with gracious hosts.
The chef emerged again with a plate of sausage, cheese and a tomato relish. He would disappear and rejoin with fresh delectables several times, all the while killing any future urge I might have to taste American-made sausage.

We talked and toasted, though I preferred to listen rather than give our generous hosts a rope of pidgin German from which to hang me. The conversation is somewhat lost in the fog of sensory overload; while it wasn't one of those “meaning of life” types, it was exactly the sort of moment I wanted to rise from the breakneck pace of our German trip.

Though they only offered one beer each, we paid them for more to where we lost track of how many rounds went down (that holds trues for plates of sausages and cheese). The visiting guesthouse owner shuffled off before too long, and we (well, Hannah) continued with chef and manager.

I translated in my head and absorbed as much as possible, nearly euphoric that a moment that almost slipped away. Was it worth the loss of sleep? The value of that little gathering of Americans and Germans in a quiet breakfast room is not a number I dare estimate – nor ever fear forgetting.

(Up next: Just try to Passau)

Prague in all its foggy, ornate glory

We started poorly – in fact, we entered the Czech Republic and returned to Dietmar's house before 8 a.m.

Upon arriving at the border and hastily digging around Chris' bag, we discovered the rental car contract preferred to wait out the vacation in Wunsiedel. The customs agent let us in as she said, “I hope you come back with the same car,” but after buying our Czech highway sticker, we headed back to Wunsiedel for that essential paper.

When we pulled up, she gave us a bewildered look then merely waved as we displayed the contract, the middle-aged passport control officer at the next window mutter behind the glass as he waved us through a second time.

From there, the sailing turned smooth, though the fog would dampen the colors until mid-afternoon. We rolled through the countryside, where the metal harnesses stood skeletally above the fields which would nurture hops once winter ended.

The fog did nothing to dissuade us that Soviet domination over the Eastern Bloc ended nearly 2 decades ago; villages of tiny cottages and the rusted hulks of cargo trains crawling down tracks provided more evidence. I had no idea what Prague held in store when the only city of any measurable size we crossed was Karlovy Vary (aka Carlsbad), and the overcast morning drowned any visible charm in gray shades.

After a few hours of little more than villages and the Ceskovice Brewery, the countryside caved into subtle suburbs, then a bridge across the Vltava into the Medieval core of Prague. We circled the business district and several neighborhoods before finding a guarded lot beneath the expressway where it only cost us 150 krona to park all day (the krona will soon become obsolete, like the border stations, are set to vanish into the Euro with the next few years).

If you don't pick a point to start in Prague, you won't go more than a block; it's that beautiful. We wandered the streets from the Nation Museum, St. Wenceslas Square and down through the street markets where no cars could fit. Every restaurant wore a Budweiser (not that one, not here) or Pilsner Urquell awning at its entrances, and where should I even start with the building design? Everything was rich in history and style, without a flawed touch from modern blandness interrupting it (all the Soviet-style apartment towers stood far from the old city).

Just in wandering, we found our path to the Town Hall 10 minutes before the famous astronomical clock marked 1 p.m. with the effigy of Death ringing a bell and the 12 Apostles speeding past a pair of windows above the ornate timepiece.

That hour marked the start of the sensory overload – moving across the square of churches and castles, we found the Vltava again, following its bank up to the renown Charles Bridge. The bridge gates were alone worth the walk, with their white statues contrasting sharply with the brownish-black stone. The statues lining both sides of the bridge with depictions of saints, popes, kings and emperors were nearly beyond description.

While somewhat crowded (warmest winter in 50 years strikes again), it was nothing compared to summer crowds, when the saying goes, "The quickest way off the Charles Bridge is to jump." As we crossed, the sun gained the right angle to punch through the interminable fog for the first time; it would remain bright until we left Prague behind us.

The only good thing about lunch at the worst Tourist Trap Cafe in Prague was it stood at the base of the hill we needed to climb to enter Prague Castle. It was probably the steepest street we walked the entire time, and without any signs to guide us, we reached the broad, winding staircase that led to the gates of the Czech government.

As with the bridge, words fail to bring the castle justice. It is centered around the soaring spires of St. Vitus Cathedral, finished in the last century but started 600 years earlier. Little known fact: St. Vitus is the patron saint of epileptics, so in the small row of pews open to the public, I dropped to my knees and said a few words for God about my brother Joe, who suffers from it. My first glimpse at the Gothic cathedral will not soon leave my memory.

Squads of Czech soldiers maneuver through the crowds gawking skyward – among such old buildings, it's easy to forget the country's government operates within the same walls.
After a long wander through many of the buildings, we descended down the rear stair, passing “Ami go home” spray-painted on the wall (“Ami” is a Germano-Czech slur for Americans, we were told).

From here it turned rapid fire - more bridges, more churches, more heavenly statues plus a grisly trip through the Museum of Medieval Torture devices (I really wish impalement meant sticking someone through the abdomen with a sharp spear, but it's that much worse).

Despite the old city's gorgeous look, a wrong turn on the path back to the car showed us how quickly the neighborhood decline; it rapidly became poor, and we retraced our steps past some of the most questionable hostels in the city.
A few confusing roads later, we found the highway to Pilsen, then onto Germany as darkness clenched on the capital.

Close to Pilsen, the time to gasoline finally arrived. Priced by the liter and exorbitant compared with prices called excessive in America, we stopped to smoke and stretch legs before decided where our night would end - at this point, it was too early to stop in Pilsen, and not knowing a word of Czech would hinder us further.

At the station, we tried to warn Chris that he can't pump gas at the truck pump he chose. He goes for it anyway; the day of nerve-wracking driving had taken its toll and he was fending off sleep, the burden of being the sole driver weighing more heavily on him by the second.

Inside, the clerk swore and cursed at me while I stood with my credit card and watched him realize the truck nozzle wouldn't fit in our Corolla wagon before pulled the wagon to another pump. Every curt word from the burly, mustachioed clerk grunted in his native tongue was soaked in venom.

At least I'm guessing so – it's hard to tell with a language in which harshness rings through every word, even the nice ones.

Up next: Last of the Czech land and Zwiesel.