With nearly eight thousand words behind me, I wanted to run through a few items that didn't fit anywhere, and give my overall impression of Bavaria and surrounding nations.
Carnival
Despite New Orleans' plight after Katrina, there is no monopoly on frenzied party prior to Lent.
In a country as Christian as Germany, confetti still peppered space between stones in Munich's altstadt.
As for Wunsiedel, when the carnival season rages, we saw our share of teens dressed for the occasion (they can drink beer at 16, so it's all fare game). Wunsiedel sat in Franconia, a culturally distinct and deeply religious region swallowed up by Bavaria, so when midnight hits and Tuesday rolls into Ash Wednesday, the celebration ceases.
Yet there were no surging drunken mobs or OU Halloween-grade incidents with the police. It was almost placid, minus the parade float with a giant boot kicking the rear end of a Bavarian state minister-president Edmund Stoiber in effigy (this was in the Tuesday morning paper; we only saw the remains of the carnival parades on public squares and altstadts).
Die Hunde waren wunderbar
German dogs are by far the best behaved on the planet. Commands given in that tongue are harsh, and every time one drifted from its owner, a swift verbal reminder brought the dog back on course.
They trotted into bars and restaurants with their owners and rarely walked on leashes.
Sometimes a muzzle will intrude beneath the table, though with a word, it will withdraw just as quickly as the owner warns their pet.
Actually, among the few tethered dogs I saw, one leash stuck further than all others – it was folded up and the shepherd mix carried it in his/her mouth as it followed its owner through Munich's altstadt.
Whenever I get a dog, it will learn commands in German.
How could the once and future hound ignore a curt “Achtung!” after nosing through the garbage for chicken bones?
The German keyboard blues
The programs are all the same, and figuring out how to check English-language web pages from German versions of the search engines was simple.
But the typing took a few minutes to grow familiar.
I typed the key where “y” normally sits and found it missing. The keyboard took a quick primer at Dietmar's house or the Internet cafes where I swept away massive volumes of irrelevant work e-mails.
The @ symbol so vital to e-mail appeared only with a string of simultaneously-tapped keys.
And since the German language includes a few extra alphabet options, they too make their mark - a,o and u with umlauts all have their own keys, as does the long “s” that to Americans looks like a distorted capital B. Control+Alt+E will get you the symbol for the Euro.
I never typed comfortably as to where my falling fingers landed.
Walk on
The big conclusion I've drawn is while my linguistic skills needed improvement, my sensibilities are much more European than I ever imagined.
I like walking everywhere, past churches conceived by kings and bishops who died centuries before Columbus' fleet dropped anchor in the Caribbean. And we walked a lot – I'd estimate we covered 5-7 miles a day, possibly more in Munich. My legs were constantly sore and my feet blistered by the second day in Munich. However, there was a lot of sausage to burn off.
Drivers respect pedestrians, and I would not be alone in biking down congested streets. Many larger Munich boulevard reserve a portion of sidewalk for their bike commuters, and no one cares where you hail from so long as you meet or exceed the pack speed – or stay our of their way.
Germans don't like bullshit and phonies. If that means they come off as cold on the introduction, so be it. At least they're real, and not seething beneath a friendly veneer. Most of the people we encountered couldn't have been friendlier – I could have, by relearning more of their language. At most stops, the Germans did not scoff at the effort; it isn't as if I was in France. They appreciated that I tried to navigate their language, even if my raft was filled with holes.
The social end is similar to the States, yet drastically more comfortable. Strolling into the corner tavern for a few to wind down the night is past-time familiar to many here, but in Germany, it's a rich tradition, with patrons occupying the same tables for bull sessions or card games over decades. There were no frat boy types gulping down shots on their short, rough path to middle age.
The Thalgau Josephs had their fun, but it was not harassment; there was no punishment for failing their German language litmus test but a little mockery. I wouldn't mind brushing up on mein Deutsch and taking another shot; I don't think they'd mind.
After waking up to clanging in the belfries, I want to stop on the town square to chat with neighbors and friends.
That speaks to why I live in an older (chuckle away) area of Columbus, where I can accomplish most business on foot, and almost always run into a familiar face in the grocery or tavern.
So what does all this adds up to? Better odds of an annual trip to the Germanic countries.
(For now, an ending – with the wanderlust for a second round)
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
Crawling through the last day
Apparently I ate breakfast Sunday morning, but had to take someone else's word for it.
I wasn't in the midst of a hangover (I avoided them the entire trip, a record owed entirely to the quality of beer imbibed), but I heard Mitzy and Hannah say they were going, and followed them down.
Just don't ask me what I ate, or why I didn't sit with them; all I remember is being hindered by exhaustion; I could have been walking through water – that I might have remembered.
Back in the room, I alternately watched TV and read Raymond Carver's Cathedral, then slept a little more.
Our final day in Munich was looking abridged compared to the rest of the week, though none of us minded. The breakneck pace finally paralyzed us, though not enough for us to squander the entire day at Hotel Alfa # 244.
We chose the Alte Pinothek, the art museum with the oldest works, and set out in the blustery afternoon, the first time we crossed weather close to what we left behind in Columbus. The FunSavers were used up, so the beautiful Konigplatsz (King's Place) which we passed is resigned to hazy memory.
The museum only cost 1 Euro on Sunday, so we found our first bargain on my last day – if it took more, I was ready. And with what I spent in the museum gift shop, they did well enough.
I saw my first Da Vinci (“Maria und Kinder,” of course) as well as three Raphaels. Nothing rivaled “The School of Athens” or “The Last Supper,” but knowing the great works helps to appreciate the style and technique in the smaller ones.
Among the oldest paintings were the gilded New Testament trilogy from Medieval master Giotto: a Last Supper, Crucifixion and Christ in Hell. They're not the viscerally detailed paintings of the Renaissance and after, but they hold up well for their time of creation.
As I glanced at the Albrecht Durer pieces, the goofy Monty Python ditty about him stuck in my head. Luckily, the haunting qualities of Durer's “Self Portrait” dislodged its nonsensical verse. Looking almost Christ-like and posed simply, the image does not fade from the mind rapidly. His panels of the Four Apostles are also striking.
The biggest stars were Reubens and Rembrandt, for wholly different reasons. Rembrandt builds power in his painting with the clash between illumination and darkness; a Crucifixion scene jumps away from its frame because of the blackness encroaching on the highlighted image. He only shows the focus and everything else is insignificant.
Reubens is almost gruesome by comparison – from his scenes of crodiles and lions ambushing humans to his massive Last Judgment and an over-the-top Massacre of the Children of Bethlehem, the bloody and sinew stood out in the gallery devoted to him.
Though it was a great excursion for a low-key afternoon, there were way too many “Die Beweinung Christi” and “Madonna und Kinder.”
We took our last march down the main avenue of Munich's altstadt and found the Augustiner Bräustüberl and its attached beer hall, where I sampled its Maximator Doublebock from one of the few major Munich brewers owned by Germans (and impossible to find outside of Bavaria, let alone in the States). I couldn't skip out at one more shot at the freshest doublebock I'd ever sample. It went down smoothly with the skillet dish I ordered, a mound of lentils and ravioli broken up by sausage.
I bought a ceramic half-liter mug from the manager to commemorate my only visit to a bier hall in Munich – even if we stayed on the restaurant side of things.
With that last gut-buster on the books, it was back to the hotel to gather my vacation wares for the morning commute back to the airport, and then home.
(Last look: The random, The reflections)
I wasn't in the midst of a hangover (I avoided them the entire trip, a record owed entirely to the quality of beer imbibed), but I heard Mitzy and Hannah say they were going, and followed them down.
Just don't ask me what I ate, or why I didn't sit with them; all I remember is being hindered by exhaustion; I could have been walking through water – that I might have remembered.
Back in the room, I alternately watched TV and read Raymond Carver's Cathedral, then slept a little more.
Our final day in Munich was looking abridged compared to the rest of the week, though none of us minded. The breakneck pace finally paralyzed us, though not enough for us to squander the entire day at Hotel Alfa # 244.
We chose the Alte Pinothek, the art museum with the oldest works, and set out in the blustery afternoon, the first time we crossed weather close to what we left behind in Columbus. The FunSavers were used up, so the beautiful Konigplatsz (King's Place) which we passed is resigned to hazy memory.
The museum only cost 1 Euro on Sunday, so we found our first bargain on my last day – if it took more, I was ready. And with what I spent in the museum gift shop, they did well enough.
I saw my first Da Vinci (“Maria und Kinder,” of course) as well as three Raphaels. Nothing rivaled “The School of Athens” or “The Last Supper,” but knowing the great works helps to appreciate the style and technique in the smaller ones.
Among the oldest paintings were the gilded New Testament trilogy from Medieval master Giotto: a Last Supper, Crucifixion and Christ in Hell. They're not the viscerally detailed paintings of the Renaissance and after, but they hold up well for their time of creation.
As I glanced at the Albrecht Durer pieces, the goofy Monty Python ditty about him stuck in my head. Luckily, the haunting qualities of Durer's “Self Portrait” dislodged its nonsensical verse. Looking almost Christ-like and posed simply, the image does not fade from the mind rapidly. His panels of the Four Apostles are also striking.
The biggest stars were Reubens and Rembrandt, for wholly different reasons. Rembrandt builds power in his painting with the clash between illumination and darkness; a Crucifixion scene jumps away from its frame because of the blackness encroaching on the highlighted image. He only shows the focus and everything else is insignificant.
Reubens is almost gruesome by comparison – from his scenes of crodiles and lions ambushing humans to his massive Last Judgment and an over-the-top Massacre of the Children of Bethlehem, the bloody and sinew stood out in the gallery devoted to him.
Though it was a great excursion for a low-key afternoon, there were way too many “Die Beweinung Christi” and “Madonna und Kinder.”
We took our last march down the main avenue of Munich's altstadt and found the Augustiner Bräustüberl and its attached beer hall, where I sampled its Maximator Doublebock from one of the few major Munich brewers owned by Germans (and impossible to find outside of Bavaria, let alone in the States). I couldn't skip out at one more shot at the freshest doublebock I'd ever sample. It went down smoothly with the skillet dish I ordered, a mound of lentils and ravioli broken up by sausage.
I bought a ceramic half-liter mug from the manager to commemorate my only visit to a bier hall in Munich – even if we stayed on the restaurant side of things.
With that last gut-buster on the books, it was back to the hotel to gather my vacation wares for the morning commute back to the airport, and then home.
(Last look: The random, The reflections)
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Two wheels and overloaded senses (Saturday in Munich)
Staring up at the Neues Rathaus from the crowded Marienplatz, awaiting the glockenspiel's chimes and story, I basked in the sun and fortune of a 45-degree February day.
Then someone frantically shoved a hand in my back pocket.
Though I wore a money belt beneath my shirt the entire trip, I instinctively sprung toward my assailant - to try to prevent him fleeing with my free bicycle map of Munch, apparently.
Until I saw he wore a Winking Lizard World Tour of Beers T-shirt.
Chris spotted me in the crowd and knew (I thought they departed for soccer, but they decided it could wait for the figures to dance high above Munich). Revenge will wait, but it will come.
I had just tested my bicycle with a quick buzz through the neighborhoods surrounding the old city, and walked it up to the Marienplatz to find a good viewing point for the noon spin.
While waiting for the bike rental guy to give me appropriate wheels, I spoke with an Chicago aerospace engineer taking his last day in Munich to tour the city under this own power. He told me just to go, and to enjoy the Englischer Garten, the largest public park in continental Europe and a cycling paradise with miles of paths.
You can only get so lost in a German city where the tallest spires are the churches you passed on foot the previous evening; so long as I could orient
So, juiced on the adrenaline rush provided by Chris' fake pick-pocket attempt, I rolled past the Odeonsplatz, a square modeled on those of ancient Rome with the Theatinerkirche, another large church piercing the skyline with its muted gold towers and dome.
In an English-style garden without shade
Quickly falling in with cyclists more seasoned on Munich's streets, it took no time at all to find hit the massive green blob on the map.
I was a rapid student of cycling through crowded European parks, weaving through the swell of people the park produced as I neared its attractions.
The major paths allowed walkers and bikers, with many offshoots marked just for pedestrians. A rare path was marked only for horse riders, and I only saw one user, a man riding a steed flanked by a pack of dogs.
Usually I stuck with the Eisbach, the man-made river that winds through the Englischer Garten and fans out into lake of varying size.
That route covered the main sites – the Monopteros, a small Greek-looking temple atop one of the park's few hills; the Chinesischer Turm, a pagoda with a sprawling beer garden attached; plus the all the nature I could soak up. That last one tapped the imagination frequently, since the warm weather could not hide its true season with the garden's acres of bare trees.
When I finally stopped aside one of the smaller lakes, 15 second elapsed before an Italian greyhound tattooed my pants with his pawprints. He dragged a stick twice as long as him over for me to toss while the woman who owned him smoked under a nearby pavilion. Three tosses, and they both were done, off to parts unknown.
Speaking of parts unknown, I strayed pretty far by 3 p.m., well off the central city map the rental guy gave me, and miles from the hotel, so I rode until the Isar River blocked my path, and turned back.
No ocean, no problem
I just traced the Isar south till familiar street names filled the signs, then headed back toward the central city. I was down the handful of photos on my FunSaver, and too many gorgeous – and anonymous buildings stood along my path.
Along the way, a mass of chattering people crowded against a small bridge; below them, on a standing wave in the Eisbach, a crew of wetsuit-clad Germans took to surfboards and road that surging wave for a few brief seconds before succumbing to the artificial river.
Even in the suits, they must have been cold – clear, sunny day receded into moody clouds drive by cutting, Arctic wind. Maybe the cheers drove them, as the crowd spilled over into the trees and shrubs on the Eisbach's banks.
Without food since breakfast, my meandering had purpose, but only directed me through the heavily-traipsed tourist rows with overpriced restaurants and stores hawking garish steins meant for the mantle, not lager.
I passed the infamous Hofbrauhaus, probably Munich's best known beer hall, which Dietmar remembered a friendly warning from Dietmar, and pedaled on as pain crept up my legs.
The needle finds “E”
I found a courtyard cafe with similar ambiance to the Parisian cafe in Amelie; I wish it's food and lager never found their way to my table, since the skunky golden lager called Schweiger and a ham sandwich were a poor man's lunch at a tourist rate.
But my legs were scorched, my mind exhausted, and a few hours of German television sounded fine.
In my typical masochistic way, I kept walking, going back through the altstadt in late afternoon, when the crowds reached their peak and walking fast required me to almost run when zipping through walls of pedestrians pushing toward the attractions.
On a different route back, I found the old botanical gardens, a little park overwhelmed by a fountain of Neptune surging from the ocean; it was less dramatic in winter, with no water to fill out the sea god's ascent. The garden ground was filled with small purple flower, a welcome contrast to the grays and browns everywhere else.
Night was not for the faint, even if that was the only thing I couldn't do. I was irritable from all the exercise, the lack of sleep and the news that the law closed almost every store in Bavaria on Sundays, killing most of my souvenir shopping. We ate at an American restaurant (the tortellini with sausage was pretty blah) and cramps fired down my calves, quads and hamstrings.
In a hunt for a new place for a nightcap, we crossed the train station and checked out the city blocks opposite from our hotel.
“Wrong side of the tracks” was no cliché, as all manners of tawdry hotels, strip clubs and nude revues greeted naïve tourists, who wasted little time in killing our curiosity.
We tried the streets north of the hotel, found the Spaten Brewery and glass windows displaying its brew kettles, but no bar. Better luck surfaced closer to the train station when we decided on a little bar with decent beer and no bullshit.
As a peace offering, I paid the full tab at our evening bar excursion, where Paulaner hefeweizen half-liters disappeared like water in August.
Next chapter: (A final gasp, a final gulp and a heap of art)
Then someone frantically shoved a hand in my back pocket.
Though I wore a money belt beneath my shirt the entire trip, I instinctively sprung toward my assailant - to try to prevent him fleeing with my free bicycle map of Munch, apparently.
Until I saw he wore a Winking Lizard World Tour of Beers T-shirt.
Chris spotted me in the crowd and knew (I thought they departed for soccer, but they decided it could wait for the figures to dance high above Munich). Revenge will wait, but it will come.
I had just tested my bicycle with a quick buzz through the neighborhoods surrounding the old city, and walked it up to the Marienplatz to find a good viewing point for the noon spin.
While waiting for the bike rental guy to give me appropriate wheels, I spoke with an Chicago aerospace engineer taking his last day in Munich to tour the city under this own power. He told me just to go, and to enjoy the Englischer Garten, the largest public park in continental Europe and a cycling paradise with miles of paths.
You can only get so lost in a German city where the tallest spires are the churches you passed on foot the previous evening; so long as I could orient
So, juiced on the adrenaline rush provided by Chris' fake pick-pocket attempt, I rolled past the Odeonsplatz, a square modeled on those of ancient Rome with the Theatinerkirche, another large church piercing the skyline with its muted gold towers and dome.
In an English-style garden without shade
Quickly falling in with cyclists more seasoned on Munich's streets, it took no time at all to find hit the massive green blob on the map.
I was a rapid student of cycling through crowded European parks, weaving through the swell of people the park produced as I neared its attractions.
The major paths allowed walkers and bikers, with many offshoots marked just for pedestrians. A rare path was marked only for horse riders, and I only saw one user, a man riding a steed flanked by a pack of dogs.
Usually I stuck with the Eisbach, the man-made river that winds through the Englischer Garten and fans out into lake of varying size.
That route covered the main sites – the Monopteros, a small Greek-looking temple atop one of the park's few hills; the Chinesischer Turm, a pagoda with a sprawling beer garden attached; plus the all the nature I could soak up. That last one tapped the imagination frequently, since the warm weather could not hide its true season with the garden's acres of bare trees.
When I finally stopped aside one of the smaller lakes, 15 second elapsed before an Italian greyhound tattooed my pants with his pawprints. He dragged a stick twice as long as him over for me to toss while the woman who owned him smoked under a nearby pavilion. Three tosses, and they both were done, off to parts unknown.
Speaking of parts unknown, I strayed pretty far by 3 p.m., well off the central city map the rental guy gave me, and miles from the hotel, so I rode until the Isar River blocked my path, and turned back.
No ocean, no problem
I just traced the Isar south till familiar street names filled the signs, then headed back toward the central city. I was down the handful of photos on my FunSaver, and too many gorgeous – and anonymous buildings stood along my path.
Along the way, a mass of chattering people crowded against a small bridge; below them, on a standing wave in the Eisbach, a crew of wetsuit-clad Germans took to surfboards and road that surging wave for a few brief seconds before succumbing to the artificial river.
Even in the suits, they must have been cold – clear, sunny day receded into moody clouds drive by cutting, Arctic wind. Maybe the cheers drove them, as the crowd spilled over into the trees and shrubs on the Eisbach's banks.
Without food since breakfast, my meandering had purpose, but only directed me through the heavily-traipsed tourist rows with overpriced restaurants and stores hawking garish steins meant for the mantle, not lager.
I passed the infamous Hofbrauhaus, probably Munich's best known beer hall, which Dietmar remembered a friendly warning from Dietmar, and pedaled on as pain crept up my legs.
The needle finds “E”
I found a courtyard cafe with similar ambiance to the Parisian cafe in Amelie; I wish it's food and lager never found their way to my table, since the skunky golden lager called Schweiger and a ham sandwich were a poor man's lunch at a tourist rate.
But my legs were scorched, my mind exhausted, and a few hours of German television sounded fine.
In my typical masochistic way, I kept walking, going back through the altstadt in late afternoon, when the crowds reached their peak and walking fast required me to almost run when zipping through walls of pedestrians pushing toward the attractions.
On a different route back, I found the old botanical gardens, a little park overwhelmed by a fountain of Neptune surging from the ocean; it was less dramatic in winter, with no water to fill out the sea god's ascent. The garden ground was filled with small purple flower, a welcome contrast to the grays and browns everywhere else.
Night was not for the faint, even if that was the only thing I couldn't do. I was irritable from all the exercise, the lack of sleep and the news that the law closed almost every store in Bavaria on Sundays, killing most of my souvenir shopping. We ate at an American restaurant (the tortellini with sausage was pretty blah) and cramps fired down my calves, quads and hamstrings.
In a hunt for a new place for a nightcap, we crossed the train station and checked out the city blocks opposite from our hotel.
“Wrong side of the tracks” was no cliché, as all manners of tawdry hotels, strip clubs and nude revues greeted naïve tourists, who wasted little time in killing our curiosity.
We tried the streets north of the hotel, found the Spaten Brewery and glass windows displaying its brew kettles, but no bar. Better luck surfaced closer to the train station when we decided on a little bar with decent beer and no bullshit.
As a peace offering, I paid the full tab at our evening bar excursion, where Paulaner hefeweizen half-liters disappeared like water in August.
Next chapter: (A final gasp, a final gulp and a heap of art)
Friday, March 09, 2007
At the gates of Munich, the endgame began
Munich was only sad for one reason: Our arrival meant the end of the European gallivanting, and only days before my flight to Philly clicked onto the departure board.
But before we could enjoy any of it, we needed lodging for three nights.
On Mitzy's orders, we fanned out into the city blocks around the Hauptbahnhof, Munich's central train stations, asking hotels about available rooms. Everything came in at $200 a night, if the hotel had any rooms open.
On my third stop I hit the Hotel Alfa, finding a room for four at 145 Euro per night; we grabbed, it unloaded the car, then Chris and I took off for Schweig, navigating the 25 miles with relative ease, and taking a larger look at Munich on the way.
The S-Bahn ran from the airport to the secondary train stations, and once we figured out which train to ride (I failed to realize the countdowns on the marquees were for the train's departure, not its arrival), we ended up at the Ostbahnhof (the east train station) with not a clue how to return to the Hauptbahnhof without a healthy wander amid the streetcars, bicycles and taxis swarming outside.Of course, we found it, and exited the train station just a block from Hotel Alfa.
Then, it was time for Munich.
Mitzy and Hannah explored the city while we deposited the car, so they took us through the wide vistas of the altstadt, which at first I had a hard time reconciling with.
Given that rubble populated Munich after World War II and it needed the Olympic games to vault to world-class city status, the old architecture worked unnaturally with vanilla shopping mall decor. A McDonald's awkwardly fills ground floor space at the altstadt's gates.
Just off Marienplatz, with the spiky rathaus (ironically, the German word for city hall) and its two-story glockenspiel waiting for the morning hours, we found a restaurant not too weighed down by tourism. The doublebock was smooth, poured from a high-tech taps, and the ox meat was heavenly. The meal actually started with a communal salad with beans and fresh greens swimming in oily dressing; it never stood a chance, and lasted only minutes.
Soccer was the topic of the evening, as Bayern Munich, the biggest and best Bavarian team, was playing the following afternoon and Hannah, Chris and Mitzy were itching to catch a game. I stayed quiet about it, but soccer has never been my thing. I enjoy it live, but not to where I want to squander one of my last afternoons in Germany with 70,000 soccer maniacs.
I gently told them that I was on the fence, though with our Friday on the stones in old Munich, I'd already hopped to the other side.
More than anything, I noticed the bicycles. Everywhere. Gears spun and bells rang; I wouldn't be in the stands watching soccer tomorrow.
(Up next: Behind the handlebars and February surfers)
But before we could enjoy any of it, we needed lodging for three nights.
On Mitzy's orders, we fanned out into the city blocks around the Hauptbahnhof, Munich's central train stations, asking hotels about available rooms. Everything came in at $200 a night, if the hotel had any rooms open.
On my third stop I hit the Hotel Alfa, finding a room for four at 145 Euro per night; we grabbed, it unloaded the car, then Chris and I took off for Schweig, navigating the 25 miles with relative ease, and taking a larger look at Munich on the way.
The S-Bahn ran from the airport to the secondary train stations, and once we figured out which train to ride (I failed to realize the countdowns on the marquees were for the train's departure, not its arrival), we ended up at the Ostbahnhof (the east train station) with not a clue how to return to the Hauptbahnhof without a healthy wander amid the streetcars, bicycles and taxis swarming outside.Of course, we found it, and exited the train station just a block from Hotel Alfa.
Then, it was time for Munich.
Mitzy and Hannah explored the city while we deposited the car, so they took us through the wide vistas of the altstadt, which at first I had a hard time reconciling with.
Given that rubble populated Munich after World War II and it needed the Olympic games to vault to world-class city status, the old architecture worked unnaturally with vanilla shopping mall decor. A McDonald's awkwardly fills ground floor space at the altstadt's gates.
Just off Marienplatz, with the spiky rathaus (ironically, the German word for city hall) and its two-story glockenspiel waiting for the morning hours, we found a restaurant not too weighed down by tourism. The doublebock was smooth, poured from a high-tech taps, and the ox meat was heavenly. The meal actually started with a communal salad with beans and fresh greens swimming in oily dressing; it never stood a chance, and lasted only minutes.
Soccer was the topic of the evening, as Bayern Munich, the biggest and best Bavarian team, was playing the following afternoon and Hannah, Chris and Mitzy were itching to catch a game. I stayed quiet about it, but soccer has never been my thing. I enjoy it live, but not to where I want to squander one of my last afternoons in Germany with 70,000 soccer maniacs.
I gently told them that I was on the fence, though with our Friday on the stones in old Munich, I'd already hopped to the other side.
More than anything, I noticed the bicycles. Everywhere. Gears spun and bells rang; I wouldn't be in the stands watching soccer tomorrow.
(Up next: Behind the handlebars and February surfers)
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Mozart, Mozart everywhere, not a Salieri in sight
Despite my reference to the atrociously inaccurate film about the composing genius, his hometown of Salzburg was noticeably different from our earlier German stops.
What I remember most are the crosswalks --- constantly bleeping when the “Don't Walk” figure shown, then doubling their speed when it glowed green. They should have just exclaimed, “Move your ass before this turns red.” It was hard not to run with that tribal soundtrack beating all around us.
Once we crossed the river into the altstadt, Salzburg turned pleasant yet touristy, with its boutiques and attractions geared to snaring newcomers out on the cobblestones. Cycling commuters grew frequent on the main streets.
If Passau is Pittsburgh, then Salzburg is the Denver of Austria, with its blunted foothills topped by castles just before the terrain soars into snow-dusted Alps.
Winding through Salzburg's old city were the narrowest streets yet, with some just wide enough to let a horse cart pass. And there were carriages aplenty; dozens lined up in the public square next to the cathedral (don't ask the name or style; I was weary of cathedrals and saving my last bit of architectural awe for Munich).
We walked beneath Mozart's birthplace into passage that produced sidewalk cafes and souvenir shops. Chris stopped for coffee, the girls window-shopped, and I stepped back into the brightness, only a square bustling with a public market. It was sensory overload again, this time with all the fresh produce, meats and flowers. I had to circle a few times to absorb all those wonderfully mingled smells.
Behind the market, I hit the University of Salzburg, where almost everyone was in class or on holiday; the outdoor vistas unavoidable for college students were empty save a deeply stained statue of Friedrich Schiller.
As 11 chimed from church to church, we moved toward the newer city, passing the other Mozart homestead and public park replete with spiny trees and classical statues that I believe appeared in the Sound of Music. Confirming that would require watching the movie for the first time, a plunge I'm not prepared to take.
Our rapid tour covered the basics of Salzburg, but it could have easily encompassed a fully day instead of 90 minutes.
On the way back to the car, we moved quickly; our parking receipt only gave us ninety minutes, and 4 p.m. loomed over all our actions that day. We'd have to pay for another day of car rental if pulled into Schweig (a town just east of the airport) any later.
(Up next: The last mad dash for lodging)
What I remember most are the crosswalks --- constantly bleeping when the “Don't Walk” figure shown, then doubling their speed when it glowed green. They should have just exclaimed, “Move your ass before this turns red.” It was hard not to run with that tribal soundtrack beating all around us.
Once we crossed the river into the altstadt, Salzburg turned pleasant yet touristy, with its boutiques and attractions geared to snaring newcomers out on the cobblestones. Cycling commuters grew frequent on the main streets.
If Passau is Pittsburgh, then Salzburg is the Denver of Austria, with its blunted foothills topped by castles just before the terrain soars into snow-dusted Alps.
Winding through Salzburg's old city were the narrowest streets yet, with some just wide enough to let a horse cart pass. And there were carriages aplenty; dozens lined up in the public square next to the cathedral (don't ask the name or style; I was weary of cathedrals and saving my last bit of architectural awe for Munich).
We walked beneath Mozart's birthplace into passage that produced sidewalk cafes and souvenir shops. Chris stopped for coffee, the girls window-shopped, and I stepped back into the brightness, only a square bustling with a public market. It was sensory overload again, this time with all the fresh produce, meats and flowers. I had to circle a few times to absorb all those wonderfully mingled smells.
Behind the market, I hit the University of Salzburg, where almost everyone was in class or on holiday; the outdoor vistas unavoidable for college students were empty save a deeply stained statue of Friedrich Schiller.
As 11 chimed from church to church, we moved toward the newer city, passing the other Mozart homestead and public park replete with spiny trees and classical statues that I believe appeared in the Sound of Music. Confirming that would require watching the movie for the first time, a plunge I'm not prepared to take.
Our rapid tour covered the basics of Salzburg, but it could have easily encompassed a fully day instead of 90 minutes.
On the way back to the car, we moved quickly; our parking receipt only gave us ninety minutes, and 4 p.m. loomed over all our actions that day. We'd have to pay for another day of car rental if pulled into Schweig (a town just east of the airport) any later.
(Up next: The last mad dash for lodging)
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Taunted in Tantalizing Thalgau
Editor's note: I didn't take this photo of Thalgau (it was 40 degrees with no sign of snow when we were there), but our guest house is the building next to the church; you can see our room on the second level closest to the bell tower.
From Passau, the roads turned against us.
Austria, while mostly beautiful with Alps punching up through its geography, is not friendly to the driver to strays from the Autobahn. The German and even Czech roads spoiled us with their relative ease to navigate (they didn't overdo it with the traffic circles).
It's a land of major non-highway routes turning at traffic circles and tiny, indecipherable road signs. Tempers were rising as we left Passau, and for the first time I entered the fray between man and wife in the front seat: We were lost, so another voice couldn't hurt. Much.
After attempting to follow the mountain roads through to Salzburg - the highway was not a direct route - we looped back around to the same highway we left an hour before. Road signs with tiny script and traffic circles led us around by the nose. Bickering was our language without borders for many a kilometer.
The sun was gone and the question became whether to press onto Salzburg for lodging or stop just shy and wait until morning. Our able and exhausted driver and his wife picked an exit just short of Salzburg; he got caught in a round-about at the bottom of the ramp and ended up back on the highway headed away from Salzburg.
We fared better at the next exit, which brought us into Thalgau, a little town with a soaring church and three guesthouses right on the main square. We found our spot on the third try and quickly settled in.
After we planned our morning in Salzburg, Mitzy chose to take the night off and relax, Hannah went down to the bar for an apple juice while Chris and I took a brief walk through Thalgau I don't think there was any other type, but it was a nice gasp of fresh air along the canal feeding water to the town).
We passed Hannah using her German language skills with the villagers, and grabbed a booth, where I repeatedly assured Chris I had one beer in me before I adjourned upstairs for a shower.
First asking for light (hell) lager, but I switched up to see if the bartender could recommend something good and local. Calling it the “best beer,” he handed us two old-style capped bottles which just said, “Weisse Bier.”
If it were a bad beer, one could have sufficed.
Unfortunately, the Salzburger Weisse Bier was the single-best wheat beer I tasted, or may ever taste. Sorry Celis White and American imitators requiring an orange or lemon slice to be palatable, the Salzburger was the champ.
We had no choice but to clear away three more half-liter bottles.
Die Katze aus Thalgau
I must mention the third weary face at our booth. When we inquired about rooms earlier, a furry Siamese with floor-scraping belly walked up to us, fell on its side and purred as we scratched him heartily.
As Chris and I worked our way through those glorious wheat beers, he hopped up next to me, demanding another round of knuckle rubs between his ears. He purred again, unleashed a few hoarse meows then curled next to me tightly to purr him/herself to sleep. Chris had to grab the next few beers, since I wasn't about to move and disturb my new friend.
The entire time we sat, the cat nestled up against me and moved only to stretch then curl into a new pose.
Try finding that at an American hotel.
Thalgau Revelers
Across from us, at the largest table in the tavern, I watched an unusual collection of local men – from their 20s to their 70s, it was a diversely aged crew with one member in a wheelchair. They smoked, shouted “Prost” to glass after glass and chatted away in a German dialect far thicker than anything we encountered yet.
The group began breaking up around the time we decided to join Hannah at the beer and finish off the night with a Stiegl, the Austrian lager on the guesthouse sign. The remnants of the party made their way to the bar and tried conversing with us. I got out our names, one of the three men their Joseph (we'll call him Handlebar because of his mustache) rattled off a string of questions that I had no chance of translating in my head, and we were lost forever.
His face reeled in disappointment when I told him I couldn't understand, that I only spoke the most basic German. Next to Hannah, we were a huge letdown. I couldn't blame him; in Zwiesel, I understood almost everything said, but in Thalgau, I was out of ammo.
One of Josephs (Pale Blue, we'll call him, for his eyes) told us in 1974, he took a motorcycle across U.S. 66 to the Grand Canyon – I wasn't sure how he got there until he added some sound effects. Even that was awkward.
Aside from snapping a picture, the third Joseph said the least, occasionally looking over to my quiet companion who spoke not a phrase of German and asking, “Was ist los, Kristoff?” (What's the matter?).
Gradually they all left, and the cute-in-a-German-way bartender looked shocked when I left a one Euro tip on the bar.
When we retired for the evening and cracked a window, we heard some of the bar crowd walking home laughing. Chris said he though he heard our names in that conversation. I confirmed that: Willy and Kristoff were definitely still on their minds.
But the funnier thing was I had too good a time in the tavern to care about the impression we left on the regulars.
(Tomorrow: 90 minutes in Salzburg)
You can't possibly Passau it
How do I describe the air within St. Stephan's Cathedral in Passau's altstadt (old city)?
Just a few minutes of it was intoxicating - cold, crisp and ancient as if a breeze ferried it through Christ's tomb early on Easter Sunday. Any tired muscles driving on purely from habit awoke anew beneath the magnificent columns and ceiling paneled in Biblical images.
I had to start with the rare, rich air, though our day started with a last shuffle through Zwiesel and the winding path to Passau, the town of 50,000 where the Danube meets the rivers Inn and Ilz, making it the Pittsburgh of Bavaria (similarities end with the river gathering, of course).
Home to a university 10,000 students strong, Passau follows history back 2,000 years when the Romans under Marcus Aurelius laid out a city there, hardly a surprise give the strategic importance of three rivers running into each other.
Few sites along our journey stood out like the cathedral (Der Passauer Stephansdom), home of what for centuries ranked as the world's largest pipe organ. Since surpassed by some megachurch's showpiece in California, 17,774 pipes are still nothing to sneer at.
Close to the altar, a column support an ornate gold staircase which ended at a single seat, as if engineer only for an emperor or bishop.
The architecture of the altstadt combined with the public plazas and streets often too narrow for cars turned the little burg into a can't-miss stop. Sidewalk cafes blossomed everywhere in the city's older sections and the crowds filled out the space between.
Stepping away from them, it's difficult to walk anywhere without running up against a river; much of the city sits at or just above water level.
Searching for an Internet cafe so Mitzy could solve the riddle of her rejected credit card, we wandered through a good portion of it, including some less picturesque stops like the bus depot, where we finally received directions to one such cafe from a student who apparently bathed in cologne (I almost gagged when the wind picked up, but then again, not showering that morning didn't give me the right to complain).
Solving the card crisis, we found nice cafe on the main stretch of the altstadt and happily went on hiatus from the heavy meats that occupied every meal thus far.
After dinner, I ducked into one of the many alcoves which ran into open-air courtyards surrounded by businesses and found a weather-streaked statue of a crusader or pope (he appeared to wear chain mail or armor, but carried a cross and no weapons) at a fountain's edge. Aside from a few sunset cityscape shots, this Medieval mystery was my last touch of Passau's flourishes.
Until after we departed, I had no inkling about one nugget from the city's past: Hitler's family lived here when he was just a toddler.
A laundry list of wrong turns later, and we crossed into Austria as easily as state lines come and go at home.
(Next time: Thalgau after dark)
Just a few minutes of it was intoxicating - cold, crisp and ancient as if a breeze ferried it through Christ's tomb early on Easter Sunday. Any tired muscles driving on purely from habit awoke anew beneath the magnificent columns and ceiling paneled in Biblical images.
I had to start with the rare, rich air, though our day started with a last shuffle through Zwiesel and the winding path to Passau, the town of 50,000 where the Danube meets the rivers Inn and Ilz, making it the Pittsburgh of Bavaria (similarities end with the river gathering, of course).
Home to a university 10,000 students strong, Passau follows history back 2,000 years when the Romans under Marcus Aurelius laid out a city there, hardly a surprise give the strategic importance of three rivers running into each other.
Few sites along our journey stood out like the cathedral (Der Passauer Stephansdom), home of what for centuries ranked as the world's largest pipe organ. Since surpassed by some megachurch's showpiece in California, 17,774 pipes are still nothing to sneer at.
Close to the altar, a column support an ornate gold staircase which ended at a single seat, as if engineer only for an emperor or bishop.
The architecture of the altstadt combined with the public plazas and streets often too narrow for cars turned the little burg into a can't-miss stop. Sidewalk cafes blossomed everywhere in the city's older sections and the crowds filled out the space between.
Stepping away from them, it's difficult to walk anywhere without running up against a river; much of the city sits at or just above water level.
Searching for an Internet cafe so Mitzy could solve the riddle of her rejected credit card, we wandered through a good portion of it, including some less picturesque stops like the bus depot, where we finally received directions to one such cafe from a student who apparently bathed in cologne (I almost gagged when the wind picked up, but then again, not showering that morning didn't give me the right to complain).
Solving the card crisis, we found nice cafe on the main stretch of the altstadt and happily went on hiatus from the heavy meats that occupied every meal thus far.
After dinner, I ducked into one of the many alcoves which ran into open-air courtyards surrounded by businesses and found a weather-streaked statue of a crusader or pope (he appeared to wear chain mail or armor, but carried a cross and no weapons) at a fountain's edge. Aside from a few sunset cityscape shots, this Medieval mystery was my last touch of Passau's flourishes.
Until after we departed, I had no inkling about one nugget from the city's past: Hitler's family lived here when he was just a toddler.
A laundry list of wrong turns later, and we crossed into Austria as easily as state lines come and go at home.
(Next time: Thalgau after dark)
Monday, March 05, 2007
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)
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)
Friday, March 02, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Peaking early (Wunsiedel Part1)
Three kilometers outside the village best known as the burial site of Nazi Rudolph Hess - and as a result, a rallying spot for black-clad Neo Nazis - we started up a mountainside bearded in pine and freckled in ancient rock.
Wunsiedel has fought back against fascist visitors rallying around Hitler's personal assistant, launching diversity initiatives, banning the rallies and holding counter-rallies promoting democracy and emphasizing that "Wunsiedel ist bunt, nicht braun" or "Wunsiedel is colourful, not brown" (all according to Wikipedia's entry on the village).
All those thoughts quickly dissipated on our journey up the hill.
Though parched, the long path of German beers golden, brown and wheat strewn across Monday night left no feeling of hangover (Thank you, beer without chemicals or preservatives - I'll save that tale for a future installment).
We scooped mouthfuls of pure chilled water from a drizzling mountainside fountain at the park's entrance, then proceeded up through past the hillside theater sealed for the winter.
The first stretch involved a labyrinth, though not of the underground, mythological Cretan type. Huge slabs fell in a domino pattern that allowed us to cut between them. Its tenders cut steps where necessary, and the blue arrows kept wanderers onto the path. A few too many narrow passages and crouched walks threatened to turn me claustrophobic, but then labyrinth fanned into open rolling ground.
Little inspiration verses were carved into the rock below several lookouts, with "Live well, wanderers" the one I still can't shake - We are all wanderers no matter how little we stray, after all.
Only weeks after a massive wind storm struck much of Central Europe, the mountain face was pockmarked by pines uprooted in the gales. In some places they toppled in rows, while elsewhere trees sat on their sides with their root systems evicted from the ground.
We continued, even though Dietmar, our guide and host, wryly quipped that we wouldn't survive the night on the mountain if we became trapped.
The labyrinth behind us, we had only to hike a few more kilometers to reach the hidden restaurant. There wasn't an easy kilometer among them, as the terrain urged us ever upward.
Despite a hazy afternoon, the lookout points gave splendid views onto Wunsiedel, the circle of small mountains that opened to the Czech Republic in the east. A derelict American listening station from the Cold War still sat atop one of the last peaks inside the border; in those pre-satellite days, the post scrutinized Soviet troop movements across the Eastern Bloc (according Dietmar, the mountains flatten out quickly to the north, so this part of Franconia is among the last decent spots for such a structure).
The warmest European winter in 50 years was not without some snowfall - above a certain elevation. Climbing grew more difficult as we neared the top, with steep grade made more slippery by the water streaming from the ice snow during the last quarter mile uphill.
From necessity I moved quickly up the final rise; my running shoes barely gripped the sheer surface.
And then we found a pile of plowed snow, a road, and the mystery restaurant accessible only by walking (a road allows for supplies as well as tours of elderly and handicapped to reach it).
With a glance from the highest lookout yet, we adjourned to our mountaintop snack (in my case, German sulze, a peculiarly delicious pork served cold and wrapped in a gelatinous coat then topped with spiced pickles and carrots).
Need I say it all tasted great, having been earned by the twitching calves and quadriceps resting up for the descent (luckily, we followed the road around the mountain and skipped the slippery incline).
Wunsiedel has fought back against fascist visitors rallying around Hitler's personal assistant, launching diversity initiatives, banning the rallies and holding counter-rallies promoting democracy and emphasizing that "Wunsiedel ist bunt, nicht braun" or "Wunsiedel is colourful, not brown" (all according to Wikipedia's entry on the village).
All those thoughts quickly dissipated on our journey up the hill.
Though parched, the long path of German beers golden, brown and wheat strewn across Monday night left no feeling of hangover (Thank you, beer without chemicals or preservatives - I'll save that tale for a future installment).
We scooped mouthfuls of pure chilled water from a drizzling mountainside fountain at the park's entrance, then proceeded up through past the hillside theater sealed for the winter.
The first stretch involved a labyrinth, though not of the underground, mythological Cretan type. Huge slabs fell in a domino pattern that allowed us to cut between them. Its tenders cut steps where necessary, and the blue arrows kept wanderers onto the path. A few too many narrow passages and crouched walks threatened to turn me claustrophobic, but then labyrinth fanned into open rolling ground.
Little inspiration verses were carved into the rock below several lookouts, with "Live well, wanderers" the one I still can't shake - We are all wanderers no matter how little we stray, after all.
Only weeks after a massive wind storm struck much of Central Europe, the mountain face was pockmarked by pines uprooted in the gales. In some places they toppled in rows, while elsewhere trees sat on their sides with their root systems evicted from the ground.
We continued, even though Dietmar, our guide and host, wryly quipped that we wouldn't survive the night on the mountain if we became trapped.
The labyrinth behind us, we had only to hike a few more kilometers to reach the hidden restaurant. There wasn't an easy kilometer among them, as the terrain urged us ever upward.
Despite a hazy afternoon, the lookout points gave splendid views onto Wunsiedel, the circle of small mountains that opened to the Czech Republic in the east. A derelict American listening station from the Cold War still sat atop one of the last peaks inside the border; in those pre-satellite days, the post scrutinized Soviet troop movements across the Eastern Bloc (according Dietmar, the mountains flatten out quickly to the north, so this part of Franconia is among the last decent spots for such a structure).
The warmest European winter in 50 years was not without some snowfall - above a certain elevation. Climbing grew more difficult as we neared the top, with steep grade made more slippery by the water streaming from the ice snow during the last quarter mile uphill.
From necessity I moved quickly up the final rise; my running shoes barely gripped the sheer surface.
And then we found a pile of plowed snow, a road, and the mystery restaurant accessible only by walking (a road allows for supplies as well as tours of elderly and handicapped to reach it).
With a glance from the highest lookout yet, we adjourned to our mountaintop snack (in my case, German sulze, a peculiarly delicious pork served cold and wrapped in a gelatinous coat then topped with spiced pickles and carrots).
Need I say it all tasted great, having been earned by the twitching calves and quadriceps resting up for the descent (luckily, we followed the road around the mountain and skipped the slippery incline).
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Jetlag uber alles
While I contend with resuming a normal schedule after a 29-hour Monday, the updates about Germany must wait. I'm close to finished with consciousness right now, and can't pound anything out.
But over at our sister site - http://hoistthemainales.blogspot.com/ - read all about beer end of Bavaria, the Czech Republic and northeast Austria.
It's a 1,200 travelogue through a beer-topia. Enjoy, because I already did.
But over at our sister site - http://hoistthemainales.blogspot.com/ - read all about beer end of Bavaria, the Czech Republic and northeast Austria.
It's a 1,200 travelogue through a beer-topia. Enjoy, because I already did.
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