TravelStream™ news feed for member danschedler on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/danschedler en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Thu, 11 Oct 2007 16:18:28 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1160931600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1160931600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1160931600/tpod.html Thu, 11 Oct 2007 16:18:28 -0400 Corporate Dropout; An Extended Respite from Climbing the Ladder or 1,001 Ways to Live in the Moment

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Beaune, France

October 15-17

The sun had been shining brightly as the train pulled out of Paris that afternoon but, now evening was upon us as we pulled into Beaune. There was no service via the TGV so, the trip had taken nearly 4 hours on the local line. I alighted to a dark platform with very few other passengers following my lead. In fact, as best I could tell, there were very few passengers even left on the train by the time we reached Beaune. Most had made Dijon their final destination. I walked round to the front of the station hoping to find a taxi to take me to my hotel. The night was still and the street-side of the station wasn't very well lit. The lone streetlight partially illuminated the length of a mostly deserted parking lot and, alas, no taxis. I did however spy what appeared to be a city-plan posted on a large board near the edge of the parking lot. I went over to see if I could decipher it.

I had pre-booked my hotel for this, the last stop of the trip. As I tried to locate the address (or at least the street) on the map, a gentleman approached me and inquired, "You are American, yes?" Gee, what gave me away, Jacque? The two huge backpacks strapped to either side of my body? The baseball cap, perhaps? My general quizzical demeanor as I stare blankly at this huge map in the darkness for minutes on end with no apparent termination point to this clearly futile task?

Instead of any of that, I told him that I was looking for a taxi in order to get to my hotel and showed him the address which I had written down in my notebook. "Ah, yes. Usually there are taxis here," he said in a wonderfully upbeat, thick French accent. "But, apparently not just now. No matter. You can walk very easily. It is not more than five minutes." He showed me on the map how to follow the ring road around the old section of town. He told me it would be on the right hand side once I had traversed about half the circumference of town, pointing to the spot on the map. He was very helpful and very friendly. Who says the French hate Americans?

It took a bit longer than five minutes but, I found the place easily enough. And I didn't mind the walk. It was a beautiful, crisp night. I could smell the smoke rising from chimneys all around me. Those leaves that had already fallen from the trees crunched pleasantly underfoot. I saw maybe one or two other pedestrians as I made my way around the old city walls and maybe one or two cars passed me in that same period of time. It was a pleasant walk. The temperature here now was certainly much more agreeable than Spain had been in August. Nevertheless, with two packs strapped on, it's never an entirely perspiration-free event hiking any sort of distance.

Soon I arrived at the spot which had been pointed out to me. I turned and made my way up the short pathway to the four-star hotel I had chosen to end the trip. I had been able to secure two nights of relative luxury for below the normal rate as the harvest was now over and we were entering the early part of the off-season. It was 8:30 when I checked-in. The woman at the front desk told me the restaurant would quit seating at 9:00 but, she could call over to let them know that I was coming if I liked. I thanked her and headed upstairs to quickly drop my bags, splash a little water on my face and change shirts. I was famished and did not want to miss out on this restaurant.

I hurried next door to secure my table, following the stone pathway between the two structures. There was ample outdoor seating tucked into little nooks between substantial shrubbery and a few fountains, all of which was lit beautifully with small lamps hugging the footpath. It was far too cool to seriously entertain the idea of dining alfresco but, it did look tempting. I entered the one-time residence, a grand mansion, and was greeted by the maître d'hôtel. He showed me to my table in one of the back rooms which looked as though it may have functioned as a salon in a bygone era. Each of the three rooms we passed through to get there held no more than five or six tables. There was only one other solitary diner in the salon with me, at a table on the opposite side of the modest sized room. The website through which I had booked my accommodations mentioned the adjoining restaurant was good. I hadn't imagined it was going to turn out to be one of the best places to eat in all of Beaune.

Service began with two amuse bouche, the first a lightly battered and fried single sweet shrimp next to half a cherry tomato and some sautéed garlic. The second consisted of a shot glass filled with sweet red pepper crème brulé. Both were very nice indeed. I'm not really sure what kind of greens those were that accompanied the escargot which followed but, they were perfectly wilted. The toasted sesame seeds and the unidentifiable, sweet, yellowish fruit served alongside, balanced the greens' bitterness nicely. The succulent, butter-drenched escargots, scattered in and around all of this, were magnificent. Burgundy is known for their snails and I can see why.

Inexplicably, the music being softly piped into the dining room abruptly went form the typical sort of classical dinner music you might expect in a pace of this caliber to Barry Manilow's "Copacabana." Never saw that one coming. I guess there are just some things about France that I'll never be able to figure.

Now, while describing to me the specials for the evening, I'm sure my waiter said one of them was, "lamb wrapped in a thin layer of pasta," which I thought intriguing. Turns out, what he really meant was pastry but, it was excellent all the same. The loin was heated to a pink, juicy center and the ragout of morels, porcinis and wood mushrooms with fresh thyme was just heavenly. All of this was paired with, what else, Bourgogne rouge - a 2003 vintage from a domaine with such a long name I didn't even attempt to write it down. It killed though.

Four more amuse bouche were delivered as palate cleansers. The spicy, coriander-covered popcorn (sounds weird, tasted great) was the best. But the pièce de résistance of this meal had to be the dessert. The base of the dish was a mango carpaccio on top of which were perched two chocolate tortellini, flanked by a scoop of Szechwan-pepper ice cream. The whole dinner had been amazing but, this dessert was hands down the best tasting and most inventive I had my entire time in Europe.

After dinner I took a spin around the courtyard out front once again. It was nicely framed by the hotel on one side and the restaurant on another, forming an 'L' shape. It made for an idyllic scene that, I'm sure, would have simply oozed romance in warmer weather. The clock was approaching midnight and everything was still and dark outside that little garden. Smoke from neighbors' hardwood fires lingered in the air and the chill soon drove me indoors. I was happy to retire though since I knew I had a big day of drinking, er, tasting ahead of me. But as I lingered that last moment outside, it struck me that I'd spent most of my time on this trip in larger cities and here I was now in a thoroughly enchanting little village. Don't get me wrong, I was glad to have seen the grand sites of the larger cities. But Beaune had already got me thinking that perhaps I would have to engineer another trip some day just to explore the small, out of the way villages of France. If this first night was any indication of what to expect, I felt certain I could get quite used to these sorts of locales.

I was up early the next morning to meet my guides for the next two days. I was feeling very proud of myself for having made it to the lobby by 8:30. I went outside to see if the red Land Rover that had been described to me via e-mail had arrived yet. It hadn't and as it was rather chilly out, I found a comfy chair in the lobby and settled in. 8:40, nothing. 8:45, uh, uh. 8:50, nope. 9:00, what's going on here? I checked my notes and groaned. Ah crap, you mean I could'a slept for another hour? Such is life.

So, when 9:30 rolled around I went outside again and the Land Rover promptly made its appearance. My guides were named David and Lynne Hammond, a lovely couple from England who had given up their marketing services business a few years back to, instead, lead tours of small, craft wineries here in Burgundy. David instructed me to climb into the front seat as the other couple on the tour was already sitting in the back. I climbed in as directed and as I turned to introduce myself the woman in the backseat slowly lifted her sunglasses, perching them atop her head and slowly announced, "We know you."

I looked at her and then at him and it hit me. It was Jill and Andrew whom I had met at the Riverside bar in Paris just two nights prior (I'm not making this up, really). There was probably an expletive uttered in sheer disbelief and then I offered, "What a small world! How are you guys?"

As David drove off, we thoroughly covered the various angles of the 'small world' principle. Then Jill and Andrew brought me up-to-speed on their trip since we'd last seen each other. I did the same and talk soon turned to the day's adventure ahead. David informed us that we would be visiting three different domaines, touring their cellars and tasting around 20 wines, both red and white, from varying appellations ranging from Grand Cru and Premier Cru to Village and Regional wines. This day we would focus exclusively on the Côte de Beaune, one of the five major sub-regions within Burgundy. It is comprised of roughly 5,000 hectares of vineyards in a relatively compact growing area extending form the village of Ladoix-Serrigny, north of Beaune, to the hill sides of the Marranges, south of Santenay. The variations in soil or "terroir" make for diverse wines full of character and quality from responsive reds to winding whites.

In fact, it was here in Burgundy that this concept of terroir was first developed. The friars who tended their vineyards in and around the area Monasteries noted that some plots of land, often quite small sections within a particular vineyard, would consistently yield better fruit, year after year. Being monks, and not having much else to do, they carefully studied those vines producing the most luscious fruit, along with their surroundings. They discovered that several different factors impact the ultimate taste of the wines including, the growing soil, underlying rock, the altitude, slope of hills or the orientation toward the sun, and microclimate (typical rain, winds, humidity, temperature variations, etc.) No two vineyards, not even in the same general area, have exactly the same conditions or, as the monks termed it, terroir.

This concept was what ultimately led to the French system of classifying wine regions; the aforementioned Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée. Today there are 450 different wine appellations in France. The Burgundian appellations are divided into four main categories. At the low end of the spectrum are the Regional appellations which make up 52% of the production and are usually simply labeled as 'Bourgogne.' Then there are the Communal or "Village" appellations representing roughly 34% of production each year. These wines will be labeled with the name of the village in which the vineyards are situated. Premier Cru (often written as, 1er Cru) appellations account for only 12% of all Burgundy and will bear the village name and the actual vineyard name. Finally Grand Cru, which constitutes just 2% of the total, will always carry the name of the actual vineyard. The two main grape varietals grown here are Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. A limited amount of Gamay and Pinot Blanc is also grown and sometimes used for blending. The total average annual production of wine in Burgundy is 1.5 million hectolitres, representing about 2 million bottles. And we see only a tiny percentage of that shipped to the States. But that, of course, is why I came.

We would begin our day in the town of Meursault. As we made our way toward that picturesque village, we drove past mile after mile of vineyards covering hillside and valley alike. The views were stunning and we pulled over several times to get out of the car, ponder the scene and take a few snaps. Soon we found ourselves leaving the expansive vistas of grape vines and, after a few quick turns, were ensconced in a medieval town. It was all twisty-turny, narrow little roads lined with quaint brick houses and storefronts. We stopped short of an open gate that led into the smallish courtyard surrounded by buildings on three sides that made up Domaine Coche-Bizouard.

David introduced us first to the laziest dog on the Continent, a huge yellow Lab named Pierre - or some such - who could hardly be bothered to lift his head, much less greet us. The owner of the Domaine, Fabien Coche, was only a bit more engaging, owing more to apparent shyness and the obvious language barrier than to laziness. This I am sure of because after descending a few ancient stone stairs and ducking to miss knocking my head on the way into the cave, we began to taste the fruits of his labor.

We sampled nine wines with Fabien leading us from the lighter whites through to the boldest reds. David and Lynne translated expertly for us, explaining what exactly it was we were tasting with each new glass poured. They conveyed information to us regarding the vintage, the location of the appellations and approximately how long Monsieur Coche thought each selection should be cellared before it would reach its full potential.

My only other experience, to this point, with serious, day-long wine tasting had come on a visit to Napa Valley a couple of years earlier. I recalled getting pretty toasty on that excursion and now I wasn't really sure how to pace myself over the course of the day. So, I decided that expectoration was the proper strategy; at least early on. Now, if you haven't much practice spitting out mouthfuls of wine into the pretty receptacles which are invariably provided expressly for this purpose, it can be, how shall we say?, a bit off-putting. Not that it's any more difficult than tying one's shoes or blowing bubbles with chewing gum. It's just that it can be a little awkward at first in the company of strangers. It goes against the grain of all the deep-seeded social graces I have ever been taught. But one thing I learned quickly, once you do decide to spit, you'd better really commit to it. Go to expel those juicy contents and waiver even in the slightest and you run the risk of a bad spit, wine dribbling down your chin or, worse, spotting that nice new cardigan of yours. No, once you lean in over that spittoon, you've got to take dead aim and let fly with authority. In no time it seemed second nature to me and really rather enjoyable as a matter of fact.

As we went along I made copious notes on the sheets that David and Lynne had provided for us. I'd been told that at the end of the day we would have the opportunity to purchase any of the selections we had tasted at Domaine prices. Even though we were drinking these wines young (1 or 2 years in the bottle for most), everything was good but, there were differences. The Aligote was merely fair by comparison as this lower end Regional white tends to be. Several of the Meursault whites were very good and a couple were definite stars-in-the-making. The Pommard Vielles Vignes was outstanding as well.

What I learned as we went along was how to taste these young wines for possibilities rather than their current character. Almost without exception, we were imbibing wines that were meant to be cellared for several years (8-10 in many cases) before they would reach maturity. So, I began to learn how to judge the structure of a wine at this stage. I learned how to anticipate the profiles that were likely to develop in the bottle based upon the clues given in the glass now. For example, fully developed, ripe fruit on the palate means you're dealing with a wine that, in all likelihood, has the potential to transform itself over the ensuing decade, softening and taking on the classic Burgundian traits of flowers and minerality. The Meursault 1er Cru Charmes we tasted was already showing these mineral characteristics along with almonds and a touch of butter. It was one of the best glasses of white wine (of any varietal) I've ever tasted.

After nearly an hour in the cave, we bid adieu to Monsieur Coche and Pierre the sleeping dog, piling into the Rover once again. We were now on our way to Monthelie and our second winery. As we drove through the French countryside I was taken aback by the explosion of color that the vines provided on this sumptuous autumn day. It was like someone had taken a Vermont forest and lowered the tree tops to waist high. The vineyards just seemed to roll on forever. We stopped once or twice out of sheer photographic necessity. I just couldn't pass by that little hamlet in the distance without capturing it on film, or the stone huts standing detached in the clos where field hands seek refuge from the intense summer sun. And speaking of 'clos', I was interested to learn from David that the etymology of this word derives from the stone enclosures originally used by Catholic monks to delineate the various plots of land with the best terroir.

We soon arrived at our second stop for the day, Domaine Bouzerand-Dujardin. Upon our arrival, we were led on a short tour of the facilities by the winemaker, Ulrich Dujardin. That may be overstating things a bit. What we actually did was shuffle into the large shed behind his house which is situated above the ancient cave where the wine rests once in barrel or bottle. Inside the shed was a large, metal, trough-like structure that stood about five feet high and was eight feet or so long. Inside, I believe, was a mechanism for de-stemming and smashing the grapes. The resulting product is then transferred to one of the huge fiberglass tanks at the other end of the shed which are used in the initial fermentation process. We could see the juice, along with the lees, sitting inside the enormous upright cylinders, no doubt working their magic.

And that was it except for a lot of hoses and other miscellaneous odds and ends of the trade. No huge factory, just the shed out back. I couldn't believe it. These guys make wine? Wine we would actually want to drink? I couldn't wait to taste it and see what quality of product such minimalism was able to produce.

We descended into the cave with Ulrich in the lead, directing us between row after row of barrels. David translated again and half way along asked us if we would like to have a barrel tasting of last year's vintage? Gee, no. I think I'll pass on this rather unique experience to go see if I can't find a way to wedge my head between those barrels over there. You carry on without me though. Just shout when we're moving on. A ridiculous question indeed.

The wine from the barrel was much lighter and the acidity more pronounced than what one expects form a more mature version. But even at this early stage, it was very pleasant. I couldn't wait to see what the finished product would taste like with a year or more in the bottle.

We made our way around the corner and found a little tasting station in place there; a small table with 9-10 bottles of white and red arranged in a similar manner to that at the first domaine. Curiously, this was the only domaine where no spittoon was provided. Instead, Ulrich encouraged us to employ the méthode à l'ancienne and spit between the barrels onto the small pebbles that lined the floor. This, we were informed, would just allow the wine to seep into the soil. So, when in Rome... However, there was much less expectoration this time 'round. Especially once we delved into the reds.

I'm not so sure these wines' longevity will exceed those from the previous domaine but, at this early stage the mostly '03 and '04's were much more lively and approachable - very fruity, yet still balanced, fun wines. My favorites were the '02 and '03 Monthelie 1er Cru "Les Champs Fulliots." The '02 was still very delicate but full of potential. I was told it could handle another 10 years in the bottle, easy. The '03 was bigger, more fruit-forward. It was drinkable now or could be cellared for no more than 4-5 years. Much like the first domaine, I made several notes to assist me later at the wine store. We thanked Ulrich profusely for his truly gracious hospitality and for our oenological lessons and piled into the Rover once again.

Even though it marked the end of my trip, I had been looking forward to these two days nearly since the idea for the whole excursion hit me. Wine tasting in one of the most famous regions of the world just seemed the natural way to wrap it all up. So far, things were definitely measuring up to my expectations. The food and, of course, the wine I anticipated would mesmerize. What I hadn't counted on was the beauty of the French countryside. The colors, as I said, were stunning this time of year. But more than that, the rolling hills, interspersed with quaint villages every so often, revealing themselves unexpectedly like Brigadoon as we crested a hill or rounded a bend, seemed to just go on forever. Such a pastoral expanse is to be expected, I suppose, but the sightlines these hills afforded caught me a bit off-guard. Forevermore, it will be those vistas I will recall when anyone utters the words, "wine country."

After a pleasant 30 minute ride through such environs, we arrived at a decent sized outpost with nothing else in the immediate vicinity, seemingly for miles. It was here we were to lunch. As we entered, I was confused. The décor seemed a bit more Boca Raton than Burgundy to me, owing to the abundance Rattan furniture and pastels in the color scheme. However, we were seated at a nice big table near a window with lovely views of that enchanting countryside. David and Lynn assured us the cuisine on offer here was as authentic Bourgogne as one could find in the region. It did not disappoint.

The menu was extensive but, I fairly well ignored it once our server finished explaining the chef's specials for the day. I began my meal with the game-meat terrine in puff pastry, paired with a heavenly glass of white. At first, I wasn't sure the wine would go but, David had ordered a bottle for the table and assured me it would. To my surprise it worked like peanut butter and jelly (a very fancy pb&j). For my main, I ordered the salmon which was served in a grain mustard sauce. By now, David had guided us toward a bottle of red that was even better than the outstanding white. Again, the pairing was divine (for those of you who only drink white wine with your fish, salmon with Pinot Noir is one of the classic pairings and you must try it).

The meal had been sumptuous; deftly prepared and bursting with subtle flavors. I couldn't have asked for a better lunch. I was sated. Didn't need another bite. And then they wheeled out the cheese trolley. There was no use even trying to resist. It was as if Lex Luther himself had emerged from the kitchen clutching an enormous portion of Kryptonite and I was the man of steel (or the stomach of steel, as it were). And so, four lovely selections of artesianal, un-pasteurized cheese made their way from trolley to plate to my gullet. Divine.

We lingered a few minutes more over coffee to, ahem, fortify ourselves against what would doubtlessly be another round of delicious wines to come. Then we were off to our third domaine of the day. As it happened, this last vintner was housed in a little village called Remigny which, is near Santenay and Chassagne Montrachet, as far south in the region as we would go either day.

Domaine Pascal Borgeot is quite an old winery. It was established better than 100 years ago but, has undergone significant modernization in the past 15 years or so. Their vineyards occupy approximately 17 hectares and produce a range of wines; some 17 whites, 10 reds and 2 crémant (what the French call all of their sparkling wine produced outside of the Champagne region), all done in the purest style of Burgundy. Because their facilities are spread across some distance on multiple locations, the modern equipment added in the recent past (including two pneumatic presses, two tractors, their own bottling and labeling line, temperature-controlled stainless steel tanks and the purchase of over 100 new barrels each year) allows them to take full advantage of their vineyards themselves, while retaining the traditional style of wine making.

This place definitely stood out as being a larger operation than the two domaine's we had visited earlier in the day. Even so, the proprietors still took the time to show us around. We were led through a huge cave containing row after row of barrels containing wines in various stages of finish. We passed through to some of the oldest underground rooms which had been, rather oddly I thought, staged with old wine making equipment in the center of the floor. It looked more like a still-life than an actual working vinification sight. And indeed, that's what it was. Next we crossed into a dusty space with a large tasting table, made out of an old barrel, at its center. But we didn't actually taste any wine here, though it looked to me like the perfect location to do so. Just another bit of theater for the tourists. "Oui, Francois. I agree we need somesing else here to hold z'ayre attencion. But what?" "I know, Reneé. What about some dusty old bottles on ze ledge over zere. And we put ze cob webs around zem." "Magnifique Francois! You are true genious."

Admittedly, it was a bit hokey but, I was snapping away with my camera just the same, eating it up. I was thinking, I'm in a wine cave. In France! Does it really get any better than this? Our guides directed us upstairs and into an odd garage of sorts where the tasting flight had been laid out. Why we didn't use the haunting space in the cellar is a mystery to me. Didn't want to disturb the cobwebs, I suppose. In any case, we dug in and began sampling the seven or eight wines they had on offer for us.

We were treated to a very nice selection of Santenay including, the rarely available 1er Cru white, as well as the Puligny-Montrachet and Chassagne Montrachet 1er Cru. The whites exhibited the most minerality of any wine we had tasted so far - very nice. I gave three stars to three of the reds as well. A good showing overall but, as we neared the end, I could tell my palate was starting to grow a bit heavy as my head grew light.

We took our leave from Domaine Pascal Borgeot and headed for the Cave des Vielles Vignes in Mersault - the wine store where we were able to purchase bottles at domaine prices - very near to where we had started out that morning. Once we arrived, I put my tasting notes to god use scooping up two cases in all of assorted reds and whites.

With day one in the books, David and Lynn dropped me at my hotel where I bid adieu to Andrew and Jill. As it turned out, they ended up not continuing the tour the next day as Jill wasn't feeling well. After a brief rest, I set out to see what Beaune looked like in the daylight.

I was able to thoroughly cover the town in less than an hour. Each turn provided charming views of rugged stone buildings lining the quiet avenues. The center square was almost terminally picturesque. There was an old-fashioned band shell and a beautiful carousel set amidst green lawns which were interspersed with a few trees and plenty of park benches. Ringing this old world idyll was all manner of restaurants, cafés, ice cream parlors and various other shops. The square was sparsely inhabited, neither noisy nor crowded. Here, life seemed to just go by like a boat floating downstream on a calm river.

A few streets over I found a wonderful poster shop filled with old originals. I spent nearly an hour in there pouring over these early forms of print advertising. There was a section dedicated to wine & liquor prints, another pertaining to the promotion of travel destinations (mostly throughout France, like Lyon or Marseilles), and yet another for all manner of household goods. The amazing thing about these posters, to me, is that whether for cake flour or cognac, each one is a singular work of art. I mean, show me the last Pampers ad you wanted to frame and hang on your wall. See my point?

After pawing through a couple of thousand posters, I realized how hungry I had become. I made my way back to the square headed for a restaurant I had clocked earlier. I knew what I was going to have for dinner that night before I even saw the place. In fact, I knew what I was going to have for dinner that night before I even arrived in town. There was simply no way I could come to Burgundy and not have Bouef Bourgonion at least once. So, I'd been checking the menus posted outside of the nicer looking establishments as I wandered around, deciding that Restaurant Les Chevaliers looked like a winner. And man, was it ever.

I started with another Burgundian classic, Oeufs en Murette which is composed of poached eggs on toast points, slathered with an intensely flavored red wine reduction. It was creamy, tart and sweet all at once. So simple, so balanced, it was the epitome of French country cooking. Next, the Bourgonion arrived looking exactly as I had pictured it. The beef was fork tender from hours of braising in red wine. Throughout, the stew-like dish was studded with fresh white mushrooms, pearl onions and real lardons. It was, in a word, heavenly. To accompany the meal I ordered a ½ bottle of Louis Jadot's '95 Beaune Theurons (this large negocient known for its Beaujolais has a facility near the edge of town). By the end of the meal, the wine had opened up to become quite entrancing, Too bad it hadn't been opened an hour or so beforehand to breathe. Oh well. It was a great meal all the same.

And what's better, I ask you, after a fine meal than to take a stroll among the dark and deserted bi-ways of a town built in the middle ages. For my part, nothing. Except perhaps doing the same in a seaside port but, let's not get greedy. I stalled a few minutes by a large campanile in the middle of town, making photographs of it in the low light and then proceeded to my hotel.

The next day passed much the same as the previous had except that in place of Andrew and Jill a gentleman in his early thirties from New York joined us. Erik, I believe he was called. A nice enough fellow - polite, quiet, fine by me. With a morning chill to brace us early on, we drove north from Beaune to the Côte de Nuits, where we would visit three domaines on a schedule similar to the day before. The first of which was located near Vosne-Romanée.

Before heading to the winery, we took a slight detour to see the clos where the grapes are grown for the famed Romané-Conti. This is perhaps the rarest and most expensive of all the Grand Cru produced in Burgundy. It was fun to see where these grapes are grown and dream about cracking open a bottle of wine that bested my monthly mortgage payment in price but, soon I was ready to stop dreaming and start tasting.

So, we made the short drive down a country road to Domaine Michel Noëllat & Fils. The estate covers some 17 hectares and produces 17 different wines from very prestigous appelations including Morey-Saint-Denis, Chambolle-Musigny, Vosne-Romanée, Echézeaux and Clos de Vougeot. Each is traditionally produced and matured in their patulous cellars.

We entered what would be the grandest of all the tasting rooms I would visit and were seated at a high table with bar stools; one of five or six clustered in the middle of the room. The walls were lined with shelves and upon them rested bottles from various vintages dating back quite some way. I could see that several of the wines we were to taste (all reds at this estate) had already been decanted in preparation for our arrival.

We tasted five wines here, going back for seconds of some varietals from early in the flight to help compare and contrast with later ones. Both the '02 Vosne-Romanée 1er Cru "Les Suchots" and the '03 Clos de Vougoet Grand Cru scored four stars in my book. This was some serious Pinot Noir and I was glad this had been the first stop of the day when our pallets were fresh. We lingered, making the most of the tasting without overdoing it. Eventually we had to go. But not before selecting a case full of various bottles to ship back home.

We back tracked a bit down the road toward Nuits-Saint-Georges, the largest and best know town in the Côte de Nuits. Domaine Bony, our second stop, is a quaint little family run operation, quite a contrast to where we had just come from. Fabienne Bony took over from her father in 2001. He had founded the six hectare winery in the 1960's, producing several appelations in small quantities. The wines they produce are typical of Nuits-Saint-Georges, intense, ruby red in color with a muscular bouquet. The complex flavors tell of cherry, black current, fur, truffles, and various spices. Yet, at the same time, they are all very approachable, unpretentious specimens. Fabienne tends her own vines, harvests, presses, matures and vinifies the wines herself (with a little help, of course). So it wasn't a complete surprise that, after our tour of the wine making facilities, we were ushered into her house and seated at the kitchen table for our tasting experience.

The Bourgogne Pinot Noir was lovely for a regional appelation and a steal at €6 a bottle so, I decided to take a half case home with me. The '02 Nuits-Saint-Georges Village tasted of currents and blackberries; slightly tart at this stage but, with another year or two in the bottle it appeared things would come together nicely. The '04 Vosne-Romanée, on the other hand, was already very fruity but, structured enough to lay down for ten years easy. The real surprise of the tasting, however, had been the first wine poured for us. It was Fabienne's '05 Bourgogne Rosé. This pink elixir changed my mind about what a rosé could be. Everything about it was light from its hint of sweetness to the just detectable berry notes. And at €5 a bottle, I couldn't help but scoop up another half a case of this gem.

We thanked Fabienne for her hospitality and loaded up the Rover one more time. It was now approaching the lunch hour and our over abundance of aperitifs had piqued my appetite. David guided us through the countryside to Savigny-les-Beaune where we found the little restaurant called Le Morgan.

Named after the make of automobiles known for their hand-crafted roadsters, it was a modest looking, chef-owned and run establishment. In fact, the chef came out to greet us as we were the first to have arrived for lunch. Via Lynne's translation, I learned that he was the only one in the kitchen at the moment so, everything we were about to eat, we could be assured, had been prepared by the chef himself.

I began my meal with Escargot Bourgogne, simply done in butter and herbs. This paired wonderfully with the bottle of white David had selected to start us off. I was told that the chef's Bouef Bourgonion was prepared country-style and, even though I'd had the same dish for dinner the previous night, I ordered it to learn about the contrast in styles. This version was a little less saucy and the beef held together more instead of falling apart at the brush of a fork. The flavors were equally intense though. I was in heaven. Of course, our second bottle, red this time, only served to elevate the dish. Soon it was time to push on to the final domaine.

We drove twenty minutes or so north to a lovely village called Fussey which stradles the Hautes Côtes de Beaune and the Hautes Côtes de Nuits. There we found Domaine Marcillet, a ten hectare operation run by the husband and wife team of Rémi and Nadine Marcillet. They established their winery 14 years ago, preferring to use a combination of new and traditional methods in their wine making. The result is a range of exceptionally good value wines for both reds and whites.

With the two wine makers leading us, we poked around the facilities for bit, watching some of their workers empty one of the huge fermentation tanks. We then headed to the cellar for the tasting. This time we weren't among the barrels. Rather, they had created a very nicely appointed little room with a long wooden table easily able to seat a dozen or more for their tastings.

Our first wine was an '05 Bourgogne Aligote that tasted of green apples and had notes reminiscent of a California Chardonnay. Next, we sampled an '05 Savigny-les-Beaune that had very nice structure for a young wine. There was just a hint oak coming on, as well as some butter. Neither was overpowering the equally restrained apple and apricot flavors that rounded out the profile. From there we moved on to the reds, sampling three from the '04 vintage; a Hautes Côtes de Beaune, a Hautes Côtes de Nuits and a Savigny-les-Beaune. Each was nice but, needed a bit more time in the bottle to my taste. The first was the best of the bunch though. It was a light Pinot Noir with a hint of grass on the nose and a tinge of cranberry on the palate. I figured it might open up if decanted in advance of serving so, I bought a bottle to share with my parents upon my return. All the other wine I'd purchased so far was going to be shipped (couldn't really figure a way to carry four cases with me on the plane) so, I wouldn't see any of that for weeks while it was on the slow boat to America. I also decided to get a bottle of their Savigny (the white) for myself to enjoy on the train ride back to Paris.

Suddenly I realized that was it. We were back in the Rover and heading for Beaune and the train station. I stared intently at row after row of the beautifully colored vines as we drove past. I tried to fix in my mind images of the traditional Burgundian black and gold tiled rooftops. It's not the kind of thing one can soon forget but, I was taking no chances.

At the station, I bid a fond adieu to David and Lynne. I thanked them profusely for a wonderful introduction to Burgundy. Then I took a seat on the platform and waited.
Within 30 minutes or so the train to Paris came chugging down the line and rolled to a stop in front of me. I climbed aboard, found an empty compartment and settled into one of the window-side seats. It was early evening and the sun was already beginning to set.

As dusk turned to dark, we rolled past Dijon. I had the iPod in shuffle mode and "Skyway" by the Replacements came on. This particular tune has long been my go-to song whenever I've felt homesick. I found it fitting and curious at the same time that it should present itself now. I watched the landscapes out my window change from the wine country to sprawling, non-descript suburbs. At times it looked as if we could have just as easily been making the trek between Minneapolis and St. Cloud. And then without notice we would breeze past a 400 year old cathedral or a small, distinctly French village and I'd be brought right back to the reality of my location. And I was leaving - going back to the familiar. But what I was leaving, it occurred to me, had become a new sort of familiar to me; the prospect of new discoveries around every corner, each day a unique experience unto itself, being surrounded by fine art, music, food and wine.

And speaking of wine, I decided to pull out my bottle of Savigny and crack it open (that bottle opener I'd procured in Nice was still coming in handy). I had no drinking vessel so, I 'sipped' straight from the bottle. I also jotted notes intermittently about the lessons I'd learned over the past couple of months as I got good and drunk. It was a bittersweet sort of reflection given the context but, I determined a few things as I sat there. I determined that it is better to believe than to hope. That we can not do this alone. That fear is simply a trick of the mind which needs to be overcome.

I had begun this trip attempting to live in the moment - a good exercise, if impractical one hundred percent of the time. It taught me that those discoveries which each day had held anew for me while traveling, didn't need to be left behind. Every day holds that potential if you open yourself to it, no matter where you are. And I decided that I didn't need to have it all figured out right now. The past three months had been a good start to asking myself some very elementary questions about what it is I want going forward. That's farther than some people ever get. Perhaps best of all, I decided that I was a good person. Flawed, but deserving of a resilient faith in my ability to follow the path. I must remember how important it is to un-complicate one's life in order to see - to truly see.

I put away my notebook after a while in lieu of the bottle. Happy and filled with optimism, I made my return to Paris as the train slowly sputtered to a halt. A last leg would take me from here to the airport in Frankfurt. My journey was over, in one sense. And in another very real sense, it had just begun.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1160758800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1160758800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1160758800/tpod.html Tue, 02 Oct 2007 17:25:38 -0400 Corporate Dropout; An Extended Respite from Climbing the Ladder or 1,001 Ways to Live in the Moment

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Paris, France

October 13-15

The train ride from Brussels to Paris was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. When one thinks of food served by transit operators, leastwise in America, one does not generally expect restaurant quality fare. But there it was on my plate. The waitress attending to our car continued to fill my glass with a sumptuous, light, red wine until I'd had my fill. The Belgian countryside melted into that of France seamlessly and provided hours of peaceful entertainment. From what I could tell of my time in the south and now on this leg, the French really have one of the best rail systems on the Continent. It truly felt like traveling in comfort and style. And since it was the morning of Friday the 13th, I was glad the trip passed without incident.

We pulled into Gare du Nord and as I stepped from the train, I was transported. Two years prior my friend Sean (whom you'll remember from the exploits in Munich) and I spent five days in each London and Paris. This had been our arrival point then as well. That trip was a wonderful introduction to Europe and, in part, served to whet my appetite for traipsing all over the place like this. In any case, that first time in the City of Lights I had taken the recommendation of another friend of mine and had stayed in the 6th arrondissement at a place called the Hotel de Danube. It was near St. Germain du Prés and only a few blocks from the Seinne. What a wonderful neighborhood. From there we easily accessed all the major attractions; the Eiffel Tower, Musee d'Orsay, the Louvre and on and on. But I hadn't made it to Monmartre that first time round so, on this, my second occasion in Paris, I booked a hotel in the old artists' quartier.

I wanted to explore the former haunt of the likes of Picasso and Lautrec, wanted to see where they had lived and worked during their most formative years. I could have just as easily, I suppose, stayed elsewhere and taken the Metro up there and walked around for a day. But, given my resolve from Brussels, I figured why not stay on the other end of town and explore new things? Well, after a rather lengthy wait at the ticket counter to secure reservations for the final legs of the journey - to Burgundy and back, then on to the airport in Frankfurt - I discovered some new things all right.

I exited the Metro at the Piagelle stop, climbed the stairs to street level and was immediately greeted by a row of sex shops, strip clubs, peep shows and seedy bars as far down both sides of the street as I could see. What a lovely neighborhood I'd chosen. Part of the reason the hotel fee was so reasonable, I imagine. A quick glance at a street map posted nearby confirmed that I was indeed in the correct spot so, I set off to find the hotel, dreading what might actually lay in store for me.

But to my surprise, after turning off the main thoroughfare and trudging another half block up, I entered the lobby and the hotel appeared exactly as it had seemed on the web site. The place was clean and well appointed. The other guests looked to be normal tourist-types, not the nere-do-well vagrants I'd been imaging for the last six blocks. And the room was perfectly nice with shutters on the windows that opened to afford a lovely view westward as the city sprawled out beyond. It lacked a shower curtain, of course, but by now I'd become somewhat adept at not completely saturating the bathroom. So I gave it a go and emerged refreshed - ready to explore once again.

It was probably around 2:00 or 3:00 by now and I wanted to see Sacre Coeur in the daylight. I retraced my steps past the gauntlet of earthly delights on my way to see what is probably the second most famous church in town after Notre Dame. The irony did not escape me. Once I passed the Piagelle Metro stop again, the neighborhood abruptly changed. As I approached the base of the hill on which the church stands, it was all nice little shops and cozy cafés.

I eschewed the Funicular, opting to ascend the three large sections of stairs on foot. The higher I climbed, the more people there were lounging on the steps all around me. About half way up, there was a 3-piece acoustic group entertaining the crowd. I sat for a few minutes to listen before continuing my ascent. Even though I'd been walking every day now for almost 3 months, I felt this one in my legs. It wasn't like the near-exploding quadriceps episode of Cinque Terre but, it was definitely good exercise. I took my time and at long last stood at the pinnacle looking out over all of Paris which now lay at my feet. Even though the sky was overcast, it was a fantastic sight. After several long minutes of taking in the magnificent vista, I turned and entered the church.

Now, I feel the need to take a minute here to comment on all of my previous comments about churches. It is an inescapable fact that the Catholic church utterly dominated the lands I've been traversing during a period of human history far enough in our rearview mirror to be of interest to us and near enough to our own time to have afforded our ancestors access to the technology that allowed them to build, en masse, the kinds of grand monuments we still see standing today. And the cathedrals of old are the grandest structures we have connecting us to that past. And so, it is not surprising that this architectural form is the most visited on the Continent. And often times the most enchanting. As luck would have it, this, the last grand church I would visit on this trip, turned out to be my favorite. Sure, there were others that were larger, more ornate, more historically or architecturally significant. There were those where miracles were said to have occurred. There were those where Saints, famous artists and heads of State were buried. But as I entered Sacre Coeur a feeling came over me unlike anything else I'd felt in those other locales.

It was faultlessly tranquil. The towering dome encased a dimly lit space but, not cave-like dark as some of the others. It also stood in stark contrast given that the number who were actually worshiping outnumbered the tourists just having a look around. It is a place that seems to coax earnest prayer out of you, if it exists at all. So I took a seat in one of the pews.

I saw prettier churches along the way. And I saw bigger and more richly appointed churches too. But if I had to choose just one to set foot in every Sunday, this would be the one. I sat reflecting on the weeks gone by and all I'd done since my arrival in early August. And honestly, it all got a bit heavy so, I took a spin around the rest of the place and made my exit, glad to have seen it in the daylight to illuminate the stained glass windows.

I knew that the famed artists' quarter of Monmartre was nearby so, I set out in search of those old cafés. It was closer than I expected. Around a couple of bends I found what I was looking for, a bustling district with plenty of places to quaff cheap rouge and even more modern day artists hawking their wares. It was a lively scene and much of the art was (surprisingly) quite good too. From there I made my way over to the Cimetère Monmartre.

I loved strolling around the Parisian cemeteries. They're so artful. I know some people Stateside find it a bit grim but, they really are places of pride in many respects for the locals here. While there I saw the final resting places of Francois Truffaut and Edgar Degas, among others, before the whistling blowing cops came through to kick everyone out. I thought 6:00 was a bit early for closing time but, c'est la vie.

I ambled back in the general direction from which I'd come and soon came upon a nice looking café. I must admit I was a bit parched and so I decided to stop for an aperitif - a nice glass of white wine and some scrumptious little olives as I recall. That's how I spent the cocktail hour, watching Paris stroll by me from my little table out front, sipping my Sancerre.

Soon it was time for dinner so, I made my way to the Metro and headed for the Saint-Germain stop. As you'll recall, I was already familiar with this was the neighborhood from my first trip to Paris. I walked east and a bit north toward the river, recalling all of the amazing looking restaurants within just a few blocks of each other. One couldn't sample them all in three weeks time. I knew I would find just the right place for the evening. I strolled through winding lanes perusing posted menus for some time before finally selecting a place that gave the impression of a classic both in the atmosphere exuded and the cuisine on offer.

I was ushered through the front room which was level with patrons conversing in lively tones. We passed under a low brick archway into an equally convivial back room where I was shown to my table. It was a real challenge that night but, I finally settled on my selections. I would begin with seared foie gras and caramelized onions, followed by a pitch perfect steak au poivre paired with the traditional gratin dauphinois. The Bordeaux I ordered paired brilliantly with both courses, taking the meal to another level. I closed things out with a very simple, yet to-die-for, tarte tatin. It was wonderful from start to finish - a real French classic. Just what I had been looking for from Paris.

Fully sated, I decided to stroll by the river the few blocks to Notre Dame. As I neared, I could see it was lit beautifully. The last time I'd seen this imposing Gothic edifice it had been clad in scaffolding for repair. The restoration was now complete so, I made some photographs, lingering a bit to take in the whole scene around the Île de la Cité. Feeling the need to walk off a bit more of my fantastic intake of calories, I headed toward the Arc de Triomphe. Now, those of you who know Paris are probably thinking, "What?! That's no where near Notre Dame." And you are correct. I somehow remembered it being just a tad closer than the twenty or so kilometers I was about to tread (at least it seemed that far at the end of it). But no matter, I had the Seinne to my left flank and the Eiffel Tower in the distance, twinkling brilliantly with thousands of lights every so often, emulating a fireworks display. The magic of it all was simply palpable.

After traveling throughout the Continent for a couple of months, and having hit many of the highlights, certainly most of the major metropolitan areas, I feel much more confident in asserting that Paris is the great city of Europe. It's a place that I feel sure will never fail to impress. It's a place I know I will return to over and over again throughout my lifetime. I might even learn French in order to live there. Probably not though - hideous, the spelling. I never know in any given word which twelve letters to leave silent and which four to attempt (and of course fail) to pronounce.

In any case, as I said, the place is sheer magic. And to think, when I first put together my itinerary, I was going to leave Paris out simply because I'd already been here once. Foolishness. It was too bad I wasn't going to see my friends Ruchi and Vikram who were now living just the south but, in every cloud a silver lining. A lifetime of visits to this old town probably couldn't reveal all of her mysteries or cause one to tire of wandering her little alleyways. And besides, on my last trip I hadn't found my way out to Versailles. So, that's precisely what I intended to the next morning.

After a quick breakfast at the hotel and a change of trains from the Metro to the local line out of town, I was on my way to the châteaux. It's only a short ride from the city, maybe 20 minutes, but, not everything was destined to move so rapidly. As I approached the gates of the massive complex, I saw a line that stretched a seemingly inordinate distance. I walked half the length up the queue just to be sure I wasn't standing in a line for Gerard Depardieu autographs or something I would be thoroughly disappointed in after an hour's wait. But no, this was the line for entry tickets. And the really amazing part is that I was told while standing in line that this was nothing - that in high season the line stretched all the way back to the gate, around the corner and down the block; a good five or six hundred yards further than the line I was now standing in.

"You're shittin' me?!" I blurted. Luckily none of my French speaking compatriots took offense or likely even understood what I was saying. I couldn't imagine standing in a line that long for anything, much less in the sweltering heat of summer. Luckily it was nearing the end of October so, I endured the (only) forty minute wait. As it turned out, it was worth it.

As one approaches on foot, clearing the tree line, the first sight of the place is beyond almost anything else (man made that is) that I saw on the entire trip, save perhaps the Alhambra. They still call it a châteaux but, only because that's how it all began. The original structure on the site was built as a hunting lodge in 1624 by Louis XIII. Succeeding additions now place it squarely in the realm of grand palace as far as I'm concerned. I mean, the scope of this place makes Schönbrunn look like a starter house on Staten Island.

When the châteaux was built, Versailles was but a small country village. Now it is a suburb of ever-sprawling Paris. From 1682, when King Louis XIV moved his Court from Paris, until the royal family was forced to return, humiliated, in 1789, Versailles was the center of power for the Kingdom. The building itself came to represent the royals' excess and infamous contempt for the plight of their subjects in the face of the severe famine they faced within the squalid city limits. But more than that, the place epitomized the absolutism of the French monarchy instigated by Louis XIV. He began his personal reign, emerging form his minority upon the death of his co-regent in 1661, by declaring he would serve as his own Prime Minister. Twenty years later, he took things a step further by moving out to the countryside.

The real aim of Louis XIV in moving his court and the seat of government to Versailles was twofold; to solidify his powerbase and to distance himself from the wretched masses of Paris. By moving all governmental affairs to the châteaux - ministerial offices and the homes of thousands of courtiers and their attendants - as well as requiring nobles above a certain rank to spend part of each year at Versailles, he ensured an absolute monarchy in France. He understood that those under close watch would find it much more difficult to plot against their King or make any effort to decentralize his authority.

During his reign, Louis XIV embarked on four major building campaigns at Versailles, the last of which ended in 1710. During this span the old hunting lodge was transformed into the massive complex we see today. No further building was done for nearly 20 years until the reign of Louis XV. But this, and even his heir's subsequent changes, was more cosmetic than the substantive building accomplished by Louis XIV.

Once I'd made my way through the lengthy queue, I was faced with a choice of tours. I opted for the guided tour instead of the ubiquitous audio guide. A good choice as it turned out. Those of us with a tour guide were granted access to additional rooms that others did not get to see including the King and Queen's private apartments.

We saw the barely discernable hidden door in the Queen's bedchamber that Marie Antoinette escaped through the night Versailles was overrun by the angry mob. The King's bedchamber featured the most impressive bed I've ever laid eyes on. Set behind a railing not unlike a communion rail was a four poster affair draped with velvet coverings adorned with all manner of gold thread and jewels. This was the scene for one of the more bizarre courtly rituals I've ever heard of, the Lever. Essentially, a lucky few visitors every day were granted the honour of watch the King wake up. It was a very elaborate ceremony instituted by Louis XIV and practiced right on through #16 ('til he lost his head). The whole thing just seems so ridiculous to me. I mean, who wants to watch a guy get out of bed in the morning? That's and honor? And the King didn't even sleep in this grand bedchamber. One of his servants would wake him before the Lever, help him to look presentable and hustle him into the official bedchamber. There he would crawl under the covers once again before his audience was conducted inside. Like I said, bizarre. But of course, soon other courts throughout Europe were imitating it. Fashion, hmph.

In addition to the massive scope of the place, the sheer opulence contained within was mind-blowing. It seemed at times as if everything inside had been gilded. There were priceless tapestries, paintings and furnishing in every room, each more beautiful than the last. And all this was only what they were able to recover. You see, after the revolution, much of contents of Versailles were either destroyed in a reactionary frenzy or sold at auction to fund the cause of the new people's Republique. Over the succeeding centuries, the French government has bought back many pieces. Yet others have been returned as donations from wealthy patrons so that we might all have a sense of just what kind of inequity drove Robespierre and his cohorts to rise up and dethrone the monarchy they so rightly viewed as despotic.

After leaving our guide, we were free to tour the apartments of the Dauphin and the Mesdames as well as the extensive grounds. Now, I'd seen some pretty nifty gardens to this point of the trip; the Alcazar, the Generalife, the grounds of Schönbrunn. But I'm not sure anything really approaches the grandeur and scale of Versailles' outdoor space. The L'Orangerie, set to the side of the palace, was enough to inspire awe by itself. But that's just one little section. I stood at the top of the stairs looking out at the whole expanse unfurl before me, all manicured hedgerows and flowerbeds, fountains and symmetrical pathways. I could hardly believe it. In the distance was the huge Grand Canal, a man-made lake where people were renting row boats to tool around in what now felt like summertime sunshine. Beyond that, out of sight, was the separate residence that Louis XVI had built for Marie Antoinette.

I'd learned that many of the other grand gardens I'd visited had been patterned after the one I was now standing in. And I could definitely see why there had been so many imitators. In terms of sheer scope, this was the hands down winner of the Miracle-Gro "World's Biggest, Bad-ass Garden Contest." But for the most beautiful and tranquil of those I saw, I've got to go with the Alcazar in Seville. Strolling around the grounds there engendered such a sense of wonder it's hard to describe.

In any case, I covered as much ground as I could but, after a little over an hour in the gardens my resolve gave way (as well as my feet). I decided Marie Antoinette's little cottage would have to wait for another visit and I made my way back to the train and into the city.

Back at the hotel I had another splash-fest in the curtain-less shower and then took a load off for a few minutes. It was very agreeable. It had become somewhat of a guilty pleasure, at moments like this, to catch CNN's broadcast of the international version of the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. A tether to American pop culture I guess. So, after a laugh-out-loud thirty minutes of that, I set out to replicate the previous night's pattern of a glass of wine and nibbles at a café followed by dinner.

This night I had my heart set on seafood and white wine knowing that I would be indulging in some great reds and rich Burgundian cuisine in the days ahead. I had intended to find a café in the Marais but, almost immediately after emerging from the Metro at the Bastille stop, I came upon a place called Brasserie Bofinger. On the sidewalk near the entrance was a long buffet on which were arranged mounds fresh fish, crabs, oysters and langoustines, lounging on crushed ice. Truly the Fruits de Mer, all bidding me to enter. I gazed through the window at a stereotypical scene of a fine French restaurant. There were bright and elegant wall sconces, huge mirrors framed by the dark wood paneling or, alternately, maze colored walls. It was a huge space reaching farther than I could see from that vantage. There was a bustling wait staff and a happy looking clientele.

With that, I determined I had found my spot to dine but, it was bit early so, I found a café around the corner to take my aperitif. I sat sipping a nice glass of Muscadet and scribbling in my journal. When the wine was gone, I determined it was time to venture back to Bofinger. It was still only 8:00 but, I wnet in and requested a table for one. I'd grown oddly accustomed to this, almost defiant in my solitary status. I was told by the captain that it would be approximately a 45 minute wait. I took that as a good sign. There were three large dining areas, as best I could tell, and for al of them to be full at this hour meant this place must be something special. Every plate I saw being spirited from the kitchen did nothing to contradict this notion.

I took a seat at the small bar in the front of the house and ordered a glass of Sancere. I struck up a conversation with the couple next to me. They turned out to be from, of all places, Minneapolis. They had also lived in Chicago for a while so, we had lots to talk about as we waited for tables. Time seemed to fly by and soon, in rapid succession, we were escorted to our respective tables.

As I was being seated, all I could think was, what a joint. This was old-school Parisian dining, including not a word of English on the menu. The few French words and phrases I do know come mostly from my interest in gastronomy. Because of this I am usually able to muddle my way through when presented a mono-lingual menu. Even still, sometimes the offal can be disguised if you're just guessing. So, I went with something I was sure of to start, six Belon oysters of surpassing freshness. The briny liquor, soft flesh and piquant mignonette absolutely sent me. This was followed by the second best onion soupe I've ever had (you're surprised I'm keeping track?). A touch of sherry and two grinds from pepper mill may have put it over the top. For my main course I ordered Charcouterie de Mar. I was unable to decipher all of the intricacies of the preperation but, I knew there would be salmon, langoustines and assorted other fishy bits. It turned out to be a fantastic choice. The other bits consisted of some smoked whitefish, baked whitefish and some type of fish-ball concoction all of which had been lovingly placed atop a gigantic mound of sauerkraut. This was a real Alsation style treat. I stuck with the Sancere throughout the meal and it worked well with everything.

Perhaps by now you've picked up on my penchant for ending a fine meal not with desert but, rather with fromage. Well, that's exactly what I did this fine evening. Three selections were presented - chévre, camembert and a third soft cow's milk (I think) that I could not identify. There was also a nice palate cleansing little salad and some crusty bread accompanying the cheeses. A glass of vintage port rounded things out and I was a very happy boy.

I think perhaps this stands as another candidate for top 5 meals of the trip. From where I was seated, finishing off the final morsels of my cheese plate, I had a front row seat to the still growing line of hopefuls awaiting a table. It was now 10:30 and Bofinger was still packing them in. As I looked around the room I thought to myself, I'd better get a good job when I return home, 'cause I sure do like living this way. My friend Sandy had given me some advice at the beginning of the trip. He said, "Treat yourself once in a while." Although I had begun in a rather Spartan manner, as my time on the road neared its end, I feared that I had taken his advice too much to heart. But it'll all work out I'm sure.

Have you ever seen a guy do a wheelie on a moped? I did. I don't know what this idiot was trying to prove but, there he was as I walked-off my fine meal. I was walking in the direction of a place Sean and I had found called Riverside. It's a club that hosts live music most nights (rock, blues or jazz) near Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The owner is this little Turkish guy named Chet and I wanted to see if he was still running the joint. Sean and I had become pretty well acquainted with Chet the first night we met him. In fact, we stuck around after he closed the place, drinking Jack Daniels with him, his bartender and his waitress until dawn. It was so much fun, in fact, that we went back the next night.

When I arrived, sure enough, there was Chet behind the bar. After jogging his memory about those two nights he remembered us and warmly welcomed me again. There was a great band so, I decided to stick around for a while. Before long I ended up in a conversation with the couple seated next to me at the bar. His name was Andrew and hers was Jill. I soon found out that he was from Chicago. Jill, however, lived in San Francisco. I made some sort of comment about the difficulty of a long distance romance and Andrew told me, "Well it's going to get real interesting now since we just got engaged tonight." Yeah, I guess it is. We toasted their impending nuptials and had a good time together that evening. It turns out that he was the CMO at IRI and she worked for McCann Erickson Advertising so, we had a lot in common. It also turned out that they were planning to head off wine tasting in Burgundy as well the next day. "Small world," I said and wished them luck as the evening came to a close (much earlier than the last time I'd been to Riverside).

The next day was my last in Paris. I had decided to spend it with my friend Pablo so, I dragged all my gear to Gare de Lyon, stowed it in a locker and back-tracked to the Musée Picasso. Without question, there were many terrific pieces there but, I think the show at the Albertina in Vienna had spoiled me. It all felt a bit confusing inside here. Often times it wasn't clear in which direction one should head to keep within the narrative the curators were trying to develop. But these were minor points.

After I'd had my fill there I felt like I had done everything I really wanted to in Paris this time around. In my final hours there, I now wanted to just soak up the vibe of this astounding city a little bit more. So, I sat at one of the typical, small, round tables outside a quintessential café off the Rue Saint-Antoine, not far from the museum. I sat and wrote and watched the Parisians stroll by looking effortlessly chic and filled with an exuberance for life that only comes when one's priorities have been properly sorted out. By now, I knew that look. And I felt ready to count myself among their kind.

It was a sunny but, cool fall day. I made a light lunch at the café of a Leffe Blonde and some pommes frites and then slipped out of town without looking back. I didn't need to because I know that I will return again and again throughout my lifetime.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1160672400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1160672400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1160672400/tpod.html Mon, 30 Jul 2007 20:42:28 -0400 Corporate Dropout; An Extended Respite from Climbing the Ladder or 1,001 Ways to Live in the Moment

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Brussels, Belgium

October 12-13

As I waited on the platform in Berlin for the train to Brussels, I felt drained. A thought crept into my mind - when it's more work than magic, it's time to head home. I'd felt tired along the way before but, this was the first time my thoughts turned to the journey home. Street signs in English, decent hamburgers, people who know how to wait civilly in a queue...wait, wait, wait a minute! What are you saying? Are you nuts?! You've got like five days left of this glorious wandering. Soak it in.

From that moment the thought never returned. At least it didn't manifest itself like that ever again. It's odd though, as much fun as this whole adventure has been, there have been moments where routine, the familiar, called like a siren's song. Strange. All I wanted before embarking was to leave that all behind, to have a new experience every minute of every day. The grass really is always greener - a oddity of human nature I suppose.

We pulled into Brussels around 5:30, the lights of the city twinkling in the pre-dawn hours as the train rolled to a halt. I alighted and sorely hoped that I would be able to secure a taxi at this hour. I needed to get to my hotel and fast. The five or six hours of fitful sleep - the kind that travel on rail cars allows - was unquestionably not enough to get me functioning properly for the day's lusory activities. Luckily there was a car at the ready and I was whisked to my hotel which was in one of the newer sections of town. The area afforded more economical accommodations while was remaining within striking distance of the town center.

After a two hour nap, I was up and feeling like a champ. I was in Brussels! For one whole day! I was ready again to explore and my thoughts of the previous evening were long gone. I quickly got my bearings with help from the front desk and headed for the old town. The morning air was still crisp as I set out and it felt good to breathe it in deeply. It was the kind of signal that one is truly alive which few other simple pleasures can provide so succinctly.

Along the way, I passed by a little café and was compelled to stop. What? Am I going to come to Belgium and not have a waffle? (was thinking of you Bass) My particular gridiron-cake was covered in a perfectly sweet, dark chocolate coating. Paired with some good espresso, it made for an excellent beginning to the day - cheap, fortifying, and uniquely Belgian. Well, except for the fact that today one could decide to scoff any number of different kind of waffles around the globe. There is the American waffle, the Virginia waffle, the potato waffle from the U.K., Hong Kong style waffles, Korean style waffles and Vietnamese style waffles, to name just a few. But rest assured, the leavened version descended from 'wafers' that I was enjoying this morning was indeed, most likely...probably...maybe, invented in Belgium. Oh, who cares? It was delicious.

Properly sustained, I continued wandering through the streets in the general direction I had been before, encouraged as I progressed by their narrowing and the apparent increasing age of the buildings that lined them. I figured I must be heading in the right direction. A few minutes later I rounded a corner and stepped into an orphic scene. The main square of Brussels is lined on four sides with ornate facades absolutely plucked from a fairy tale. Known as La Grand Place, or in Dutch Grote Markt, it originally served as the central market like most other old-world center squares. Tourists flock to the spot to see the Gothic majesty of Town Hall and the Baroque ebullience of the guildhouses dating to the late seventeenth-century.

I walked to the center of the square and did a few pirouettes. It was smaller than Clock Square in Prague but had a similar feeling to it. The ornate styling and individual decoration of each edifice, stacked one next to the other, aided in this. There was an obvious sense of care and attention that had been given to the construction of each of these buildings. I made a survey of the perimeter of the square and while admiring one of the fronts in detail, noticed that it housed The History of Belgium Brewing Museum. Ok, twist my arm.

As it turned out, the "museum" consisted of three rooms. The first played host to a collection of old brewing implements curated nicely to create little scenes of what an old brew house might have looked like. The other two rooms lay on either side.

To the left and through a large brick archway, the scene gave way to a bright somewhat sterile environment all done in white tiles. There were stainless steel tanks and other accoutrements of the modern day brewing technique. What a clever juxtaposition - never even saw it coming. Here, they were showing a film on a loop. It explained, as one might assume in the History of Brewing in Belgium Museum, the history of brewing in Belgium. It was quite educational really exploring the multi-various styles of beers produced within the borders of this little country. I sat watching the film alone for a few minutes until I was joined by about a half dozen middle aged (and I'm being generous with the term here) women who filed in rather chattily and took seats on the benches next to and in front of me. I was intent, you understand, on deciphering the nuances of the Trappist and the Lambic, decoding the difference between a Dubbel and an Enkel. I wanted to understand where the Flemish Red came from and if you mixed a White with a Blonde could you make a Platinum Blond? So I was happy when the ladies settled in and decided to take their education (somewhat) seriously. When the film came around to the point where I had engaged it, I made my way back through the old-time scene's and into my favorite of the three rooms in the museum - the bar.

It was a little early in the morning, admittedly, but I didn't see any harm in having one. I watched the barman pull an ale in traditional style. He set the glass atop the copper catch that had been set beneath the tap, letting the golden nectar flow generously into the glass until it began to foam over and then, with what looks like a thin cake spatula, he quickly wiped the rim of the glass to expel the excess foam into the catch, leaving a perfect inch and a quarter head on my beer. Truly, a thing of beauty. And I have to say, as good as the beer is in Germany (especially München), they know what they're doing in Belgium too.

After finishing my libation, I popped back outside and arbitrarily picked a direction in which to walk. I strolled around the Quartier Saint-Géry for a bit and then around to the other side of Old Town. I walked past the stock exchange (stately), the opera house (imposing), and through the Galleries Saint Hubert. This last bit consists of a long corridor covered by a dramatic glass archway. Along its length were shops and cafés filled with folks dressed to the nines. Impressive stuff.

I exited the Galleries to find a street lined with restaurants. I mean, it was literally jammed with them. I think every single storefront for three blocks was nothing but restaurants. I made a circle, mentally noting contenders for dinner that evening. Most of the sandwich boards posted out front were advertising "the best mussels and frites" in town. And indeed, I saw some black cast iron pots on the tables filled with what looked like the most delectable bivalves I'd ever seen. But my morning waffle was still sustaining me so, instead of lunch, I found a nice spot by a little park square up the road to sit and have a beer and scribble a few notes.

I ordered a Guenze Lindemans which, I had learned about at the museum earlier. It is a combination of aged and young lambics which are general fruit-infused. My particular selection was peachy, with quite a sharp taste to it. A nice change of pace but, not the kind of thing you're likely to kick back with a six pack to watch the old football game.

Rested, I decided it was time to seek out the most famous fountain in town, the Manneken Pis. This, if you are not familiar, is a statue of a little boy with the water flowing from exactly where you'd think based on the title of the penis. I mean piece. Of course, I got lost looking for the most famous thing in town. I did eventually find it and was wholly under whelmed. It was smaller than I had expected and they had dressed the little fella up for some holiday or another.

From there I made my way up toward the Palace. I passed several museums on the way but I just wasn't feeling it. Call it culture overload. And so I made to the Palace which was big, as expected, and had the traditional guards posted out front even though guards at a palace these days are largely ceremonial. I mean, it's not like the Visigoths are about to storm the capital of the EU without someone noticing they're coming and scrambling the armed forces - is it now? It was nice but, again, underwhelming. I feared I was slowing once again.

The sky had clouded over and it was threatening rain but, holding off for the moment. I detoured into a lovely park directly across from the Palace grounds and lost myself in there for a bit. Much better. Though as the skies continued to darken, I grew concerned about my distance from the center and decided to head back to the Grand Place in case I would need to duck indoors.

When I arrived in the square again I found a place on one of the outdoor decks that front several of the restaurants there. I ordered myself a beer - Trappist this time - intending to do some more writing. But soon the rain did finally come. I hurriedly finished by libation and chose a different place down the way. Instantly I knew that I had chosen well. I took a seat at a long wood plank table near the stone hearth in the back, by the bar. As I perused the extensive beer list (they're all extensive in this town I was learning) my waitress suggested I try the tasting flight instead. Well, why didn't I think of that? Sold! And so it was that I passed the rest of the afternoon waiting out a light rain shower, writing and sipping wonderfully diverse styles of hand crafted Bier.

Afternoon passed to evening and at some point I realized I hadn't eaten in quite a while so, I set out to find a suitable restaurant. I walked for quite a while, stopping to look at several of the menus posted outside various establishments. I was looking for a place that served mussels in a wine and cream sauce. I'd had them in this style when in Paris a couple of years earlier and they were to die for. I was convinced then that this was the only way to prepare said mollusks. And since I was only spending one night here, I took extra care to select just the right place to dine. So I walked. And walked. And walked. Finally, I found the spot.

It was a rather elegant establishment with many little tables and booths done in pink damask - a very 19th century feel to it all. I treated myself to a glass of champagne which was followed by a near perfect onion soupe. They don't call it "French" onion soup over there, just like in China they don't call it "Chinese" food. There it's just food.

The mussels were good but, they did not live up to the memory of that perfect bowlful I'd been ruminating on - the ones for which I had asked the waiter to bring more bread to sop up the braising jus. As is almost always the case, trying to recapture a memory had fallen short. I'd stopped living in the moment. I'd missed an opportunity to create a new, unique memory. I decided then and there that I would not seek out the restaurant in Paris where I'd sampled those extraordinary mussels. Rather, on my next stop, I vowed to experience as many new things as possible. And to keep on doing just that for the rest of my life.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1160326800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1160326800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1160326800/tpod.html Thu, 12 Jul 2007 13:31:54 -0400 Corporate Dropout; An Extended Respite from Climbing the Ladder or 1,001 Ways to Live in the Moment

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Berlin, Germany

October 8-11

Before leaving Dresden I'd stopped off at an Internet point to book a hotel in Berlin. I had been on the road for over two months now and I was growing weary in many regards. Don't get me wrong. I was still having a great time but, let's be honest, traveling like this can tucker you out. So I was already predisposed to treat myself a bit when I ran across a deal on the aggregator site I had been using since Italy. On offer was a Jr. Suite at the Palace Hotel for an absolute song. It cost me less per night than the tiny closet with a twin bed that I had in Rome. I couldn't wait to get a look at the place.

As my train pulled into the Hauptbahnhof it was nearly 9:00 on Sunday night. There was little activity in the station. The relative emptiness served to dramatize the massive scale of the place. It is the biggest damn train station I've ever seen. In fact, it is Europe's largest. They had finished earlier in the year and opened it in May to service the hordes that descended on Berlin for the World Cup soccer matches.

The place has no fewer than 47 levels, I'm sure, with trains coming and going on all of them. The platforms extend high into the air and far below the ground. It's really quite a site. What I don't get is how the ramp systems work to bring trains in and out from such varying heights. And it's not just train traffic going on inside this city-within-a-city. There is tons of retail space, bars, restaurants, travel agencies, etc. Throw a cot in one of the tanning salons and you'd never have to leave.

On my way out I scooped-up a little travel guide at a news stand and then found a taxi to take me to the Palace. The few times I had really splurged during this trip, like the Michelin starred restaurant in Venice, I had generally made an effort to dress as best I could given my limited wardrobe situation. But I had just been kicking around Dresden all day and then jumped right on the train to come here. Travel days are always sweaty affairs what with the two backpacks hanging from my shoulders acting just like an Eskimo's parka to retain the significant body heat being generated. Today was no different even with the chill now in the evening air.

I entered the elegantly appointed, modern lobby of the hotel looking decidedly shabby and out of place. Despite my appearance, the young man behind the desk didn't bat an eye. He quickly found my reservation and informed me that the smaller lobby restaurant would be open for another hour if I cared to have a late supper.

I was conducted to my room and, upon entering, knew instantly that I had made a good decision coming here. The Palace is a modern 5-star hotel in the west end of town and this room was exactly what I needed; an infusion of luxury after so much Spartan living. I cleaned up a bit and went down to the restaurant for a light bite of seared ahi tuna and soba noodles or some such thing.

Upon returning to the room I raided the mini-bar for a beer or two and ordered the Da Vinci Code on pay-per-view. Everyone always says this but, the book really was much better in this case. I mean, there's just too much detail to cram into two hours. The nuanced nature of the characters was completely lost in the translation. Kinda like trying to see 26 cities in 10 weeks, I guess. In any case, I called it a night after that.

The next morning I woke early(ish) and headed back to the Hauptbahnhof to secure a couchette on the night train to Brussels three days hence. Even after all this time on the road, I still can't seem to plan it so that I know what my next move will be when I arrive in a new town. Had I done so, I could have just made the reservations the night before. I guess I was just excited to get to the hotel and didn't feel like screwing around with train tickets right then. And it is after all a delight to sit in one's hotel room, perusing the rail maps, and decide only then where one's next destination will be.

Once ticketed, I caught a bus that let me out just in front of the Bundestag (German Parliament building). Good thing too because I really wasn't sure where the thing would take me. I cruised around and thought about going in to see the glass cupola they've installed on the top of the building. It's supposed to be quite something but, the lines to get in were horrendous. And it was only like 9:30.

I pulled out my little pamphlet-cum-guidebook and found that it contained a couple of suggested walking routes. I decided to follow the one that would take me first over to the Brandenburg Gate. This is the only remaining member of a series of gates through which one formerly entered the city. Its twelve Doric columns, arranged in pairs, provide an impressive perch for the Quadriga, a statue of a four-horse chariot being driven by the goddess of peace. It is here where President Regan gave his famous, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!" speech in 1987.

The gate serves as the terminus for Unter den Linden, the renowned boulevard of Lime trees which once led directly to the royal residence. My walking route led me under the Linden trees which make for quite a picturesque stroll in the fall. Leaves were falling from the not-so-long-ago replanted trees at a rapid pace now. It was the second week of October and I'd found myself more and more aware of the calendar the past few days. I had just three stops left on this grand tour and I was keenly aware of it. Admittedly, there was a part of me that was ready to go home, to see family and friends again. But honestly, I could have continued on like this another couple of months easy.

The trials of travel are always quick to melt away when one is confronted with a majestic palace or an arresting painting, when a chance meeting with a fellow traveler turns into an evening's revelry or even just a quiet moment at a café watching a wholly foreign world that you have, by now, taken for your own, go by. Yes, I think I would have liked to stay - at least a bit longer. But there was a wedding to attend.

I picked up my walking route and soon passed by the Guggenheim (how many of these places did these people build?). I noticed a sign announcing free admission on Mondays. Well, hot damn! It just happened to be the first day of the work week - not that that meant much of anything to me these days. But free is free so, I entered.

Now, the Guggenheim in Berlin is really just 3 rooms. And one of them is the gift shop. So, I was very glad I didn't have to pay for my short tour, interesting as it was. Upon entering, the wall directly in front of me was almost entirely taken up by what must have been a twenty by forty foot piece that looked like little fires had been lit all over its surface and then extinguished before consuming the canvas outright. On the wall opposite this, they were showing a video. From what I could gather, it was about the artist whose work was on display in both galleries. It focused on his technique of using firecrackers to create images on canvas. Later I would venture around the corner and see another video which documented the making of the first piece I'd seen. Thousands of controlled explosions, covered and weighted down with bricks to trap the fire for an instant and then extinguish it, were meticulously placed to create the image of hundreds of small...wolves?

I went back to look at it again and sure enough, this time knowing what I was looking for there they were, little wolves dancing all over the canvas. This made sense, I guess, considering what the other exhibit consisted of. Beginning on the far side of the first room there were two lines, side by side, of what appeared to be stuffed wolves. The lines led into the next gallery and as they did the number of wolves increased, three abreast, then four and so on. Further, as one progressed into the gallery the pack began to take flight, literally. Like Santa's Reindeer, the wolves were rising up off the floor (suspended by wires of course, come on) until three quarters of the way across the room there was a veritable cloud of stuffed wolves hovering twenty feet above my head.

Now, here's where it gets weird. As the pack thickened, arresting their progress stood a floor to ceiling Plexiglas wall. The wolves appeared to be crashing into it and, one-by-one, tumbling back to earth, piling up at the bottom of the wall in a sea of fur and snarling teeth (see pic.). Pretty trippy.

Thoroughly confused as to the symbolism or potential metaphor contained in the wolves exhibition, I set out in search of more accessible sites. I headed for the biggest church in town which I could see from a distance. Like Dresden, Berlin is Protestant-country. At least it was before the Commies. So here the big churches again belong to the Lutheran denomination. Unlike Dresden, this time I got to see the inside of one of them.

In 1894, on German Emperor Wilhelm II's order, the original domed cathedral on the site was demolished and replaced by the current Berliner Dom. At 114 meters long, 73 meters wide and 116 meters tall, it was much larger than any of the buildings that had previously existed in the same locale. It was intended as the Protestant's answer to St. Peter's Basilica in Vatican City - keeping up with the Jones' as it were. Indeed the interior is worthy of such comparison. It is bright and airy compared to many basilicas and cathedrals. Its white walls framing exquisite paintings of the Saints et. al. and the liberal appliqué of gold leaf give it an uplifting, regal air. I spent a few minutes in one of the pews taking it all in, straining my neck the way one does when much of the best artwork resides several stories above.

In the corner of the nave sat two giant sarcophagi made entirely of gold. They contained the remains of a former German king and his queen - just which I can't remember. They were massive and must be worth an astonishingly large fortune. I followed the assigned pathway through the church which quickly led me to more caskets on permanent display. The basement, it turns out, serves as the final resting place for many royals and prominent figures from German history. I find this practice a wee bit creepy but, who am I to judge how a culture treats their dead. All I know is that when I'm gone, you can burn my shell and remember who I was not what my bones looked like.

After I'd seen the church I sat down on the grass in the Lustgarten out front facing the Old Museum. I was, in fact, on an island, Museum Island to be exact. Within several hundred meters of where I sat was a collection of museums and historical places making up the core of Berlin's cultural attractions. The sun warmed my upturned face as I rested there for a minute. A contented feeling washed over me and I realized, sitting there in the sunshine, it was a feeling that simply can't be replicated in the wintertime or when one is indoors no matter the conditions outside. Soon these kinds of moments would hibernate again. It would nearly be November by the time I returned to Chicago so, I soaked it in.

The Metro pass I had purchased to get around on the S-Bahn and the U-Bahn had come with a little coupon book. I thumbed through it as I sat there and an offer for a guided walking tour caught my eye. I realized that the path I had been following was fine but, I had absolutely no context for what it was that I was seeing. I may as well have been wandering aimlessly. Berlin is too spread out for that kind of meandering so, I decided to join the 2:30 tour. I took a train to the meeting place and grabbed a sausage and beer nearby to fortify myself.

I loitered near the McDonald's specified as the meeting place and eyed a few likely suspects as potential fellow tour members. We struck up a conversation and others joined us one-by-one surmising, as we had, that this was the group waiting around for the walking tour. Soon our guide, Derek, showed up too. As it happens, he was Canadian with short hair and a trim physique. He wore two days growth on his chin and Aviators to shade his eyes. I pegged him in his mid twenties. Derek explained to us that he was a history student doing his graduate work in Berlin and boy, did it show.

Don't get me wrong. I loved the tour. It ranged all over the city from east to west necessitating no less than three train rides. But it was, comprehensive, shall we say. The prelapsarian tutorial lasted four and a half hours! It covered the city's rise from a swamp town in the 13th century to the fall of the Nazi's and beyond to the Cold War. Derek's narrative was extremely dense at times. On several occasions he sat us down for what we came to call, "story time," - essentially mini lectures on topics such as the rise of the Great Elector, fabled escape attempts over the Berlin wall, the genius of the sewage drainage system, why pretzels have that funny, twisty shape, how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. Luckily, I love history. My 11th grade A.P. History lessons came flooding back.

In addition to the exterior of Berliner Dom, Museum Island and a few other spots I'd already passed by on my own that morning, we passed by the site of the Nazi book burning at Humboldt University. Ironically, there was a student book fair taking place across the street. Priceless!

We found our way to Checkpoint Charlie which, I'm sure most of you have at least heard of. You may not, however, know exactly why this is the most famous checkpoint between the former east and west sections. Why not Checkpoint Alpha or Bravo? Well, I'll tell you. Checkpoint Charlie was the only one, of the many crossing points for foreigners, designated for Allied military use. It had been agreed by the four occupying nations (The U.S., U.K., France and the Soviet Union) at the Potsdam Conference that Allied personnel would be allowed to travel between any of the four sectors without interference from German authorities (East or West).

But in late October 1961, shortly after the wall went up, the U.S. Chief of Mission in West Berlin, E. Allen Lightner, was stopped as his car attempted to cross at Checkpoint Charlie. He was on his way to the theater which happened to be in the Soviet sector. The story we got from Derek was that he was finally allowed to continue on his way but, he was so incensed that after the show (and a few cocktails) he proceeded to have his driver take the car back and forth through the checkpoint several times that night to prove his point and show off for his date.

I don't know if this last part is simply colorful embellishment or what but, what we do know is that Army General Lucius D. Clay (Retired), President Kennedy's Special Advisor in West Berlin, was not amused with the initial actions of the East Germans. He decided to make a point of his own. Clay sent a party to sniff things out led by diplomat Albert Hemsing. While in a diplomatic vehicle, Hemsing was also stopped at the checkpoint. Once he had properly identified himself - which should have been the end of the matter according to the Potsdam agreement - East German Transport Police were rushed to the scene and subsequently escorted Hemsing's vehicle throughout his stay in the sector. The next day a British diplomat was forced to hand over his passport. Clay, already hot from the previous day's goings-on, snapped.

He sent Hemsing to the border again but, this time ordered several tanks and an infantry battalion to stage at the nearby Templehof airfield. Thankfully, his crossing went off without incident. The U.S. troops and vehicles returned to West Berlin.

But wait, there's more. Immediately following the U.S. departure from the airfield, 33 Soviet tanks were dispatched to the Brandenburg Gate, which was also not far from Charlie. Ten of them continued on to the checkpoint itself and rolled to a stop a mere 100 yards from the crossing's post. At hearing this, U.S. commanders turned their tanks around to take up a similar position on the western side. An old fashioned stand-off was a brewin' (I'd have called it a Mexican stand-off but, it was between the Russians and Americans inside Germany so that wouldn't make much sense, would it?). From about 5:00 on the evening of October 27th until 11:00 the next morning, the two sets of tanks sat facing each other with orders to fire if fired upon. Alert levels were raised first at the U.S. Garrison in West Berlin, then at NATO and eventually at U.S. Strategic Air Command. This was serious business.

During the time those tanks sat there, teetering on the precipice of World War III for the first time (if not the last), Kennedy and Khrushchev were able to agree to withdraw the tanks, disarming the dangerously high tensions that had been building for the past eighteen hours. But one final sticking point remained. Who would budge first? Of course, in the all important 'who's dick is bigger?' game of international politics, this had to become an issue. In a brilliant move, Kennedy is said to have offered to go easy on Soviet policies regarding the recent construction of the Berlin wall in exchange for the removal of their tanks first. Thinking he had one-upped Kennedy, Khrushchev agreed. In reality, Kennedy was a big fan of the wall - for the short-term solution it presented if nothing else. He was later quoted as saying, "It's not a very nice solution, but a wall is a hell of a lot better than a war."

And so, on the morning of October 28th, a Soviet tank moved backward a total of five yards. An American tank then followed suit moving the same ridiculous distance. After what I can only assume must have been about an hour of this childish behavior, all of the tanks had withdrawn and the politicians went back to playing Monopoly and fleecing their constituents until the next international incident arose over something equally foolish.

We moved on from the checkpoint to see a nearby section of the wall which was still intact. This was a rather famous section for having been the site of numerous escape attempts, some successful and others not so successful. My favorite story was of the family who made a hot air balloon out of old clothes and sheets. After waiting a week for favorable wind conditions, under the cover of night they fired it up on the east side of the wall and floated to freedom on the west side. Needless to say, once word got out about their unorthodox method of escape, more floodlights were immediately installed.

From there we walked to the former site of Hitler's bunker. It was spooky even though we were basically just standing in a parking lot with almost no sign of what had existed underground some 60 years ago. And all the more so because Derek didn't tell us where we were headed until we got there. He just kinda dropped it on us like, "Ok, so you're standing on top of the place where the most evil human being of the last 500 years hid out in his last days and offed himself." Uhhh, pardon me? There is a simple wooden sign there now that announces the place as the bunker site with a rudimentary floor plan sketched out and a few historical details printed in German. But even this is a fairly new development. Until recently, the government was scared to call attention to the plot at all in fear that it might invite graffiti on the nearby apartment buildings or become some sort of pilgrimage site for neo-Nazis. So far, neither fear has been realized.

Nearby was a playground (weird, I know) but, we sat down for another installment of story time and got the lowdown on the end of the war and the early days of Berlin as a split city. Mostly this was repeat information for me but, we'd been walking for hours and it was a well received respite.

Our next stop would prove even more chilling. Not far from the bunker site lies the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. The memorial, dedicated to Jewish victims of the Holocaust, was installed in May of 2005 after two years of construction. The design incorporates 2,711 concrete slabs or "stelae" of varying heights moving from fairly low to the ground on the outskirts to towering pieces nearer the center. They are arranged in a grid pattern covering nearly five acres of ground which undulates beneath ones feet. The intended effect of such a configuration is to produce a confusing and unsettling feeling which mimics (in only the slightest manner it must noted) the fear and confusion that engulfed the victims of this tragedy as they were taken by the S.S. in the middle of the night, never to be seen again by friends and neighbors. The linear nature of the assemblage is also intended to represent the perverse order of a system that had lost touch with human reason. Beneath the memorial itself is a museum that details many facts about the Holocaust including a listing of the names of every known Jewish Holocaust victim.

We took time to explore the memorial on our own and it was unsettling. You could hear people in the distance but, not see them as the stelae rose past eye level. Suddenly someone would round a corner as you approached. Startled is not exactly the word to describe that feeling but, close. As it grew dark near the center I nearly lost my footing a couple of times when I paid too little attention to the dips and rises of the ground. It was the most interactive and poignant memorial I can conceive. We did not have time during our tour for the museum underneath so, I marked that for a return over the next days.

We continued on to the nearby Brandenburg Gate which I'd seen already. But I did learn that the hotel nearby is the one where Michael Jackson infamously dangled his baby out the window. What a jackass.

We then crossed over to the Bundestag, formerly the Reichstag, which I had also already seen, and sat down there for one more installment of story time. This chapter focused on the Reichstag fire and it was a cautionary tale at that.

To set the stage, Hitler had been installed as Chancellor in January, 1933 by Reichspräsident Paul von Hindenburg. Importantly, you'll note, he hadn't been elected to the position. Hindenburg could have, at this point, removed Hitler from office whenever he saw fit. Germany was still a parliamentary system at this time and he was presiding over a coalition government. So, Hitler's first move as Chancellor was to get Hindenburg to dissolve the Reichstag (the institution, not the building) so that he could bed-in more Nazis to the new government. This way he would be able to acquire a majority and secure his position as Chancellor. But his nefarious plan didn't end there.

His real aim was to put an end to democracy in Germany altogether and install himself as supreme leader. His aim was to employ a component outlined in the Weimar constitution known as the Enabling Act. Under Article 48, the President could rule by decree in times of extreme emergency. This had, in fact, been done only once since the framing of the articles, in 1923-24, to battle hyperinflation resulting from the punitive settlement terms of WWI. The new twist here was Hitler's Enabling Act would allow the Chancellor to possess these same powers, bypassing the Reichstag if enacted. Clearly, he needed his cronies in power to vote themselves a potential loss of power such as this. Initially, when he took power, the Nazi party held only 32% of the seats in the Reichstag. A two-thirds majority was needed to pass an Enabling Act.

Once the government had been dissolved by Hindenburg and new elections were called, the Nazi's ran a hard line, anti-communist campaign, insisting that Germany was on the brink of a Communist revolution. Their assertion was that the only way to stop them would be to authorize the Enabling Act for Hitler and his Nazi party. At the time, the Communist Party held 17% of the seats in the Reichstag. Hitler's platform consisted of little more than ardent pleas to increase the Nazi base so that the Enabling Act could be passed. In fact, Hitler already had plans to ban the Kommunistische Partei Deutschlands, before parliament reconvened in order to lessen the number who could vote against the Enabling Act. The Reichstag fire only served to quicken his pace and lessen resistance to the plan.

On the evening of February 27, 1933, the Berlin Fire Department was called to the Reichstag building. By the time they arrived the blaze was already burning nearly out of control. It took an hour and a half to put out the fire, saving the edifice. Much of the interior, however, was gutted. Investigations proved without a doubt that arson was to blame - some twenty bundles of flammable material were found lying about, unburned.

The Nazi's argued that the fire had been set by the Communist's as a signal that their revolution had begun and gave notice to the public that if they did not heed the Nazi's call to oust the Reds, they would suffer an unimaginable fate of doom and despair. The next day, the Preussische Pressedienst (Prussian Press Service) reported, and I quote, "this act of incendiarism is the most monstrous act of terrorism carried out by Bolshevism in Germany". Yup, they used the 'T' word. Now where have I heard similar refrains echoed in the call for action by the citizenry? Something about facing down an axis of evil, I believe? Can't quite put my finger on it... The Vossische Zeitung newspaper counseled readers that "the government is of the opinion that the situation is such that a danger to the state and nation existed and still exists". The government is of the opinion, eh? Well then. Yes, very dangerous. Much as if the Communists possessed, oh I don't know say, weapons of mass destruction. I mean, the government wouldn't lie to us. Would they?

That very same day Hitler requested and received the powers of the Patriot Act, er, I mean the Reichstag Fire Decree from President Hindenburg. Using article 48 (see above) of the Weimar Constitution, Hindenburg suspended the civil rights of the citizens of Germany, outlawed the Communist Party and all but handed the parliamentary elections to the Nazi Party and Hitler, allowing them to secure for themselves the Enabling Act they coveted. How, I ask you, did Hindenburg not see that coming? Or didn't he care? In any case, on 27 March, the decree was passed and the road to war had begun.

The most interesting piece of this story, to me, lies in the epilogue. In his novel The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, William L. Shirer reports an episode from the Nuremburg trials where General Franz Halder stated in an affidavit that Hermann Göring had claimed to be the arsonist responsible for the Reichstag fire:

"On the occasion of a lunch on the Führer's birthday in 1942, the people around the Führer turned the conversation to the Reichstag building and its artistic value. I heard with my own ears how Göring broke into the conversation and shouted: 'The only one who really knows about the Reichstag building is I, for I set fire to it.' And saying this he slapped his thigh."

Of course, he subsequently denied ever having said such a thing. That's what politicians (and sardonic megalomaniacs) do when they're caught in their lies. My point here is not so much to draw a direct link between intentionally setting fires to frame political rivals and, say, sprucing up intelligence reports used to lead a nation into an unnecessary war. Rather, it is to illumine the parallels in the use of fear and lies to coerce the citizenry into giving up their freedom. Joseph Goebbels was once quoted thusly, "If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it. The lie can be maintained only for such time as the State can shield the people from the political, economic and/or military consequences of the lie. It thus becomes vitally important for the State to use all of its powers to repress dissent, for the truth is the mortal enemy of the lie, and thus by extension, the truth is the greatest enemy of the State." A chilling thought.

For those who say this type of thing could never happen in America, ask yourselves, don't you think that's exactly what the people of Germany used to think? When shall we learn from history and cease repeating it?

In any case, Derek finished his hamartiologic lesson and wrapped up the tour by inviting us all to a pub crawl being hosted by the same tour company for which he works. In fact, he informed us that none other than he himself would be the tour leader for this excursion through Berlin's nightlife. How could I pass that up? So it was back to the hotel for a short rest and to clean up, then out the door making my way to the rendezvous point.

I was a bit late arriving but, they had left behind docent for just such stragglers. She pointed me in the right direction and I quickly located the first establishment. Derek was out front chatting with some of his German mates. I said hello and settled up my fee for the evening's revelry, then headed inside. I knew no one but, felt certain it wouldn't be too hard to pick out the travelers from the locals. However, once inside, I realized I had been a bit presumptuous. Given this situation, reflex took over and I made a beeline for the bar which was situated in the back of the smallish but, long room.

The red walls were cluttered with icons from Communist era Berlin, providing the motif for the bar. The hammer and sickle were prominent as were large red stars (on red walls?, how gauche) alongside more humorous pieces poking fun at the formerly dominant ideology which, I'm sure would not have been tolerated were this not just a facsimile of days gone by.

I sat at the bar by myself fairly casing the joint for a few minutes. A pair of couples were playing foosball in the corner near me. I couldn't make out most of what they were saying but, they were colorful and entertaining nonetheless. It made me think of my fraternity days. Foosball had been a near second religion for most of the guys in the house. Strict rules too, no spinning, only the three-man can score, dot-ball on any other inadvertent admittance to the goal - Olympic rules, I believe. I never became as proficient as some of my brothers. One, I think, went pro. Much like every video game ever invented, I became frustrated with the game once it became clear to me, after a half hour or so of play, that I would not dominate the sport on an international level. From there, I was recruited to fill-in only when there appeared to be no else with two functioning arms within shouting distance.

Rapt as I was with the foosball game, I finally tore myself away to see if I couldn't mingle and make out who else was a part of the pub crawl crowd. As I made my way toward the front of the room, I picked up an English conversation in progress and stopped to inquire if they were, in fact, a part of the group I had yet to meet but, was ostensibly a part of. Joyously, bottles were shunted aside, a chair was dragged up and I was entreated to have a seat and join the fun. Wow, a friendly lot. I got to know the folks around the table the way all young travelers do, trading itineraries to that point and answering the obligatory question, "What's been your favorite place so far?"

This really has to be the most difficult question to try to answer on trip like this, especially once you're well into to your travels, as I was. I mean, how do I compare the Via del Amore with the Via Venneto? Was the scene in Barcelona a crazier party than Amsterdam? Was the mountain air better in Garmisch-Partenkirchen or Pogusch? Did you prefer the tapas in Grenada to those in Seville? All of these questions seem so ridiculous to me. Yes, is the only reasonable answer, everything has been wonderful, eye-opening, thrilling, thought provoking, educational, mind-blowing. So, in response, I offered, "The Alhambra was pretty cool."

Oohs and ahhs all around. "Yeah, that was pretty cool." I had chosen wisely, apparently. My street cred. as a seasoned traveler firmly established, we ordered another round before being rounded up ourselves to head to the next location. Just outside the bar, Derek gathered us all into a big apple-pie-circle to detail the evening's ground rules and safety precautions - stay with the group, watch out for each other, know your limits, don't hassle the whores out on the streets or their pimps are likely to beat you - the usual stuff. And he wasn't kidding about that last one.

Along the way to the next bar several ladies of the evening were plying their trade. It was growing chilly out and while they were still showing plenty of leg in their hot pants, it also seemed the height of hooker-fashion for this kind of weather revolved around down jackets squeezed tight by corsets on the exterior. I suppose this provides for the best warmth-to-cleavage ratio possible.

Our second stop of the evening was nothing special, really - another bar that could have been plunked down almost anywhere in the world. I ordered one of the specials on offer for our group along with another guy I had met at the first bar. Before long we got to talking with a couple of girls from Australia, Amanda and Angie. They turned out to be good fun, not so much for the dude whose name I'm not surprised to have forgotten. Somewhere along the way we lost him but, the three of us hung out together for the rest of the night.

Our third stop on the pub crawl proved to be the most interesting of the night. In fact, it may have been the most amazing nightclub (and I use that term loosely here) that I saw in all of Europe - including Middle Earth's top ranked destination. The main entrance was next to a sculptor's studio. The roll-top door was up revealing, as we passed by, the metal-work in various stages of finish. Much of what was being welded, mashed or generally fused into brilliant pieces of artwork, appeared to be found objects. Other bits were clearly fabricated for an express purpose in the futuristic, post-apocalyptic, renderings of abstract-humanoid figures. Gnarly, comes to mind as an apropos adjective to describe the scene.

Upon entering, the bar itself looked like many other low-rent dives that might be frequented by artists - dark but, with an energetic vibe to it. It wasn't particularly large either. That is, until I noticed a door in the back and called the Aussies over. "Let's see where this goes." I opened the door and it was like Dorothy stepping from monochrome to Technicolor. All of a sudden we were in the midst of a funked-out, Bauhaus-Neverland. The huge outdoor space ran the length of the block, with the bar we were just in and the sculptor's studio now behind us. It was littered with old motorcycles protruding from the ground as if possessed and back from the dead. Junker cars had been reconfigured as tables or benches. There was also a VW Microbus now serving as a bar. At the back of the lot someone had erected a gigantic screen onto which some kind of indecipherable art film was being projected. It was a continuing series of images, just flashes really, of the human form (au natural), industrial excess, the decay of nature or, alternatively, tremendous fecundity. Taken together, the whole presented a commentary on...uh, I guess I don't have a rat's ass of a clue on that one. Truly bizarre stuff. It made me wish I had more black in my wardrobe just then. But I knew we'd found a place worthy of some serious exploring.

Oh, and I almost forgot about the lasers. There were brightly colored lights and lasers flashing all over the giant backyard scene filtering onto the film screen at random intervals. And the whole scene was set to a thundering techno (or was it house?) soundtrack. The music emanated from somewhere in the five story complex that contained the bar and sculptor's studio on the ground level. We got a beer from the Microbus and sat down at an old East German car/table to take it all in for a minute. It was then that I noticed the lasers were originating from the fifth floor. If they were shooting lasers from up there, I thought to myself, I wonder what other kind of business they've got going on?

I convinced Angie and Amanda that we needed to check this place out further. Without much trouble, we found a stairwell that led upward. The walls were painted a deep red - or at one point had been. Graffiti covered nearly every inch now. Bare light bulbs hung at each floor's landing revealing the sometimes inspired artwork but, more often mindless scribbles. We climbed the stairs passing some other folks on the way who informed us about the lounge on the top floor. But as we were rounding the corner to assail the last flight, something caught my eye.

Through a doorway I saw what looked to be some very wild paintings. I called to the girls and had them come over as I was now already nearly inside what turned out to be a makeshift gallery. The space took up nearly the entire fourth floor of the building. It was covered from floor to ceiling with the most amazing paintings I've ever seen outside a museum. There was a small group at the entrance chatting so, I asked the gentleman who I presumed to be the artist if we could take a look around. He welcomed us and told us to take our time. I wish that I would have written down his name. He was preparing for a show, we later learned from a banner we saw draped down the side of the building as we left.

I'm not sure I can really describe his work. Psychedelic - to a degree - but, updated with a modern, urban consciousness. Much of it was very detailed. Often there were images contained within larger images. There were strong Indian and Asian overtones to that effect. Each subsequent piece was more incredible than the last. The three of us spent nearly an hour in there converting our pub crawl into a combination gallery tour. It was a heartening diversion. To think that work of that caliber existed in a space like that just made me feel so optimistic about the world. If creativity like that yet thrives in spite of the onslaught of vapid drivel consuming the western world on a daily basis, then we still have a shot as a species.

By the time we made it to the lounge on the fifth floor, we had just enough time to peruse the Bohemian environs, which were furnished with used couches, dilapidated chairs and otherwise re-purposed articles for tables and such, before heading back down. We took in the view of the still showing, confounding film from up there, noticed the origination point for the laser and light show, thought about getting a drink but, then noticed the time and hurried down so as to not get left behind by the rest of the group. There was more of Berlin yet to see.

As we moved to the next destination Angie, Amanda and I were pretty much hanging out to the exclusion of the rest of the group. It was approaching 2:00am and the two of them were dragging a little. They had been out the night before, they explained and I, well I'd been out for the last 2 months, really. So we took it a little easier than some others on the crawl opting to make fun of the drunks rather than become them. We found ourselves in a locals' hangout with some kind of odd, fish decorating motif. We kept to the bar chatting and having a generally very nice time until soon it was time to move again. On the way out one of the female members of our entourage was in need of assistance. As she was being helped out (ok, carried out would be a better description for it) she was suddenly no longer able to retain what she had previously ingested that evening to the dismay of the young man on who's shoulder she was most heavily leaning.

We decided to call it quits after witnessing that. You kids go on. We'll summon the strength to pull ourselves away from the party - somehow. We split a cab back to our respective destinations agreeing to meet again for dinner the next night or, later that night really. In any case, I was soon blissfully nodding in my king sized bed back at the Palace.

I allowed myself to sleep in a little the next day and had a leisurely breakfast at the hotel's expansive buffet before setting off for the day. I was headed to see a long stretch of the Berlin Wall that has been left intact. As it happens, this is the section which they reserved for artists to adorn in 1990 once the Wall had officially "come down." Clearly not all of it though. The intention was to provide a space for the visual arts community to express what it meant to finally have exuviated this symbol of repression from their city, now unified after so many years of partition. After 10 years the work had become a little bit the worse for wear so, to mark the anniversary in 2000 the city invited back those same artists to spruce up their pieces. Six years on from that point, several of the paintings were beginning to show their age again but, it was a moving experience none-the-less. I got some terrific photos and have posted a few here for you to see.

Many of the depictions told of the suffering and separation the Wall had caused. Others were more forward looking and hopeful. Praise of freedom and all its inherent virtues were everywhere. Yet others were purely comical, taking shots at the former Soviet-backed regime. Taken together, they served not only as a reminder literally emblazoned on the hated structure itself but, as a warning for future generations, a call to make the society of their dreams lest an alternate version be thrust upon them. The most emblematic moment of the lengthy stroll came when I happened on a gate. Both doors were flung wide open, utterly defeating the structure's intended purpose. It was a brilliant statement.

I walked about half a mile down I'd say, my iPod playing all the while in shuffle mode. As I made my way back toward the train station, Beethoven's 9th Symphony began to play. It was the 4th movement; the Ode to Joy - my favorite piece of music ever composed. I literally got chills as the song went along. If you're not familiar, the 4th is the choral movement and the lyrics are about freedom and the brotherhood of all mankind, the possibilities for human society. The poignancy of listening to this composition, arguably from Germany's greatest composer, in this setting, as the piece reached its tumultuous crescendo, was not lost on me. All in all, I spent some two hours at the Wall and I came away with a Panglossian sort of optimism about the possibilities for our world in spite of our previous record.

I spent the rest of the afternoon taking care of a little business at an internet café arranging the details for the last stop of the trip, writing some and then went back to the hotel for a nice workout at the hotel fitness center. I cleaned myself up and was off to meet the girls for dinner.

We dined alfresco at a cheap little joint near the S-Bahn station where a large collection of bars and restaurants have sprung up in the past couple of years. The food was mediocre, at best, but the company was nice and we chatted the evening away.

The next day I headed back to the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe intending to tour the museum below. Upon arrival, I encountered a long line so, I queued-up and waited. And waited. And waited. In a half hour's time not a soul was allowed in except for those in the group reservations line so, I bailed.

I walked over to the Bundestag a few blocks away to get some better snaps than I had a few days earlier. I found that the line to ascend to the cupola wasn't nearly as bad as it had been before so, I queued-up for that. The pace of this line was only slightly faster than that of glaciations but, at least it moved. As we approached the security check I learned that the cupola itself was closed for repairs, or cleaning, or some such but, we could still stroll around the terrace surrounding it to take in the 360° views of the city.

And speaking of security, this place is tighter than Ft. Knox. And I should know. I used to go to Ft. Knox a couple of times a month when I was doing work for the Recruiting Command which is headquartered there. I guess it's to be expected though. This is the seat of German Parliament after all. I mean it's not like you get to just stroll into the Capital Building these days.

As one enters the building, a glass wall impedes progress almost immediately. On the other side is an ante chamber about twenty feet in length with another glass wall on the far side. As I approached, I saw that the ante chamber was filled with those patrons who had been directly in front of us in line. Then I saw the far side glass wall slide open to allow those visitors out of their pen to advance toward the huge metal detectors that waited. Only after that same glass wall had returned to its closed position did the one in front of us slide open. We shuffled into the ante chamber, presumably to be scanned by sensors worthy of Star Trek all the while, until it was full and the glass wall closed again behind us. Only once the group ahead had cleared the last hurdle of security and made their way to the elevator leading to the top of the building, were we allowed to proceed.

Once atop the Bundestag I strolled around the crystalline cupola that was off limits for the time being. It was a pretty cool looking structure and would have been fun to walk around inside of but, cést la vie. I made my way to the edge of the terrace. I was able to see the entire city laid out before me and I was glad I had come to Berlin. It's not the most beautiful city in Europe but, the history of the place is enormous and its energy is captivating as well.

I was short on time now as well as pages in my journal so, I decided to go shopping. I picked up a couple of cheap sweaters at H&M to ward off the chill I was now feeling in the air. I also wanted to have something a little nicer to wear for upcoming events. It was much better to pick something up now than having tried to lug them around with me during the sweltering days in Spain. Then, quite by accident, I happened upon the ginormous bastion of consumerism that is KaDeWe, the second largest department store in all of continental Europe. With over 60,000 square meters of floor space and more than 380,000 articles on offer, it attracts approximately 50,000 visitors every day. The sixth and seventh floors are entirely devoted to food boasting two football fields worth. The very top level houses a winter garden that houses a restaurant with a wall of windows affording views of the Wittenbergplatz below. It is a marvel for the shopaholic and a grotesque perversion for those who believe we've become too obsessed with the accumulation of possessions. I found myself somewhat torn between the two poles.

While there, looking for a suitable replacement for my now nearly filled journal, I discovered Moleskin notebooks. Hemingway and Picasso used them exclusively and I instantly fell in love with the utilitarian look of the simply bound, tan cardboard covers and the cream-colored lined pages within. I bought half a dozen in two of the larger sizes and another six pocket sized volumes in order to always have one with me for notes.

I had one last stop to make before returning to the hotel to grab my gear and heading for the train station. Just down the street from my hotel was the remnant of a bombed-out church. The bell tower still stood pretty much intact. All around that were partial walls trailing off until they sunk to ground level. Much like the Frauenkirche in Dresden, before its re-construction, the German's left this church in ruins to remind people of the terrible cost of war. Alongside the old church a new tower has been erected. Made of glass block, it is lighted at night from within and glows in ghostly shades of blue, purple, red and yellow (see pic.). I'd been waiting to shoot it in the right light and now was my chance. It occurred to me then that perhaps we could do with some reminders of a similar ilk in America.

By 9:30 I was at the Hauptbahnhof. After a short wait on the platform, the night train to Brussels arrived. I was leaving Germany and entering the last leg of the trip. I would have one day to see Brussels, then make my way to the city of lights for a couple of nights. Then I would finish things off in grand style with two days of wine tasting in Burgundy. Now, what did I do with that beret?
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1191776400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1191776400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1191776400/tpod.html Mon, 18 Jun 2007 10:41:00 -0400 Corporate Dropout; An Extended Respite from Climbing the Ladder or 1,001 Ways to Live in the Moment

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Dresden, Germany

October 6-7

The train from Prague delivered me to Dresden around 2:00 in the afternoon. It had been an uneventful trip once I got settled-in...for the second time. You see, the rail pass I had purchased for this trip was valid in 13 countries across Europe. The Czech Republic was not one of them. So I knew from the start that I would have to buy a separate ticket for this leg of my journey. The adventure of making it into town on the night train - just finding a seat - ruled out any thoughts of first vs. second class. In truth, I was just happy to be aboard at that point. But leaving Prague was a different story. I'd paid what I considered to be a supplemental fair on top of my first-class Eurail pass for the pleasure of seeing Praha. Ok, fine. Although it does seem a little ridiculous. I mean, aren't they a part of the EU now? Shouldn't they be part of the Eurail system? But, whatever.

So when I climbed aboard I naturally assumed that my pass and the supplemental ticket I'd purchased entitled me to a seat in first class. Remember, I was heading back into Germany. More than half the trip would be executed within that country's borders. The way I saw it, I was owed a seat that reclined and had a nice big picture window.

To be honest though, that's about all the difference there really was between the classes on that particular train. In some countries, like Spain and France for example, there's a big difference. Not so much with the Czechia's. Even still, I was all settled-in there in first class - had my shoes off, was reading my book, had the iPod on - and we were 20 minutes into the journey when this thin-lipped, tight-assed porter comes strolling down the aisle giving me this look from the other end of the car. You know, the look that says, "Just what does HE think he's doing sitting up here?" And I'll admit, I didn't really look the part. I was one of the few backpackers I ever saw in the first class cabins. But I'd paid for that damn pass and I intended to use it everywhere I could.

Well, anyway, he came up to me and asked to see my ticket. I pressed pause on my iPod, removed the ear bud from my left side and handed over the ticket, along with my rail pass, rather nonchalantly indicating my inherent right to occupy that particular seat. The porter glanced at the ticket but, instead of handing it back to me with newfound respect and reverence, as I suspected he might, he all but glowered at me. In excellent, if heavily accented, English he told me, "Zis ticket iz fur zecond class. You vill have to move."

Calmly, I tried to explain. "But you don't understand. You see there, my Eurail pass, it's for first class."

"Yes, but your ticket here," he said waving the supplemental ticket I'd been railroaded (heh heh, get it?) into purchasing, "iz fur second class. I'm sorry but, you vill have to move."

Apparently even though we would be in Germany in less than an hour's time, my precious pass meant nothing on this entire leg of the journey. I slowly collected my things - put my shoes back on, packed-up my iPod and my book - and, in disgrace, trudged past my well healed elders who would remain in their large, comfy seats to enjoy a complementary meal at some point during the trip. Fie! on you Czech Rail. I curse your separatist ways. Get with the program - the EU is giving you all kinds of market advantages. How about a little help here?!

But like I said, there really wasn't that big a difference between first and second class - I guess.

So, where was I? Ah yes, we pulled into Dresden around 2:00, yeah I said that already and...oh, I know. I could immediately tell something different was going here. I mean, both Prague and Dresden had languished under Communist rule for the second half of the 20th century. However, the former East German outpost seemed to be recovering more quickly. It was the rail station that first gave me this impression. Clearly it had been built recently, if unimaginatively. This was a refrain that would repeat itself throughout Dresden but, would also be juxtaposed with some of the most stunning restorative work of old-world architecture anywhere. This was, after all, where the Allies had sent a message to the Third Reich during the closing days of the war.

The fire-bombing of this city and it's near total annihilation was intended to convince the remaining hold-outs that not only was there no hope of turning the tide but, also to make them understand the consequences of pursuing such a fool's errand. Effectively, what one now sees when visiting Dresden comes in three flavors; bland Communist era-designed buildings, the oft daring (but locally controversial) post re-unification stylings or, achingly beautiful baroque masterpieces that are (generally) in some state or another of repair and restoration from the bombing those long years ago. It's taken this long to get at it because the Communist's had their hands full with little things like trying to find enough for everyone to eat and constantly spying on all of their citizens. Priorities, you know. In fact though, before the war, Dresden was considered one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, rivaled only by Paris and perhaps Prague. I can only imagine what that must have looked like.

As I made my way through the rail station, I realized that I had a problem. I had no idea which way to go. I emerged from the sterile halls and couldn't tell which way led into town. I couldn't find a tourism office inside the station either. It was a nice day though, the sun shining brightly, so I guessed and headed toward a corridor of tallish modern buildings not too far away. After maybe 1,000 meters I saw a tourism office in the distance. "All right. We're in business."

I entered and solicited some help in finding a nearby hotel. Problem was, the map this woman showed me was not very well crafted. I thought I was choosing a hotel closer to the city center but, from the moment I left there heading for the hotel I was, in fact, walking away from town. And it took me almost a half hour to get to the hotel on foot, during which time some pretty ominous clouds began to roll in and the temperature dropped precipitously.

Once at the cookie-cutter, budget hotel, I decided to rest for a minute after my long hike. I flipped on the TV. CNN was showing a documentary about Donald Rumsfeld and I easily became engrossed. What an asshole. After a nice hot shower I dressed in anticipation of slogging back the way I'd come an hour or so ago. However, upon investigation out my little hotel room window I saw a most unwelcome sight. A persistent, if light, rain was falling and it had become decidedly chilly as well. There was no way I was going to repeat the walk I'd just done and then walk who knows how much further to the old town itself. Not in this weather. I opted instead to make for the restaurant next door, across the parking lot.

It was a fairly typical establishment mimicking the old world kind of style but, clearly had been built within the last decade or so. They served traditional German fare; hot and hearty, rib-sticking food. Afterward, as the rain continued, I returned to the hotel to read for a few hours before calling it quits for the day. An inauspicious start for Dresden.

I set my alarm for an early wake up intending to get in a workout, figuring the weather would likely continue the washout. But instead I awoke to a complete 180 and I quickly changed my mind. It was a beautiful morning with a pleasant crispness to the air far removed from the previous evening's chill and the sun was shining brightly. I bagged the workout and had a quick Frühstuck in the all too generic breakfast room, then packed up my gear and headed back to the train station.

There, I stowed my larger pack in a locker to be retrieved later that afternoon. I also unloaded all unnecessary items from my day-pack; the things I wouldn't be needing for a day's worth of exploring. I walked past the tourism office where I'd been the day before and on toward town, fairly sure I was heading in the right direction this time. When I came to the outer ring I saw one of those double-decker tour busses advertising stops at all the major sites of Dresden. I inquired as to the price and schedule. Busses ran every 15 minutes and the price included a walking tour of the old town. It sounded like a good way to see lot in the short amount of time I had so, I climbed aboard.

As we began to drive it struck me, it's hard to believe this was once East Germany. You could definitely see remnants of the old order but, there was so much that was new too. I'd come here expressly on Norbert's recommendation. He had told me what a beautiful city it was and insisted that if I was going to be traveling from Prague to Berlin, I must stop off to see it. I was now starting to understand why.

We cruised past Volkswagen's production facility for their Phaeton model. The entire factory is sheathed in glass so you can literally watch them building the cars as they roll down the line. From there, we made our way over to the Blue Wonder Bridge. There I got off the bus for a look around.

This was the first bridge of its size ever built without pilings. It is also the only bridge in Dresden to have survived the war. As the Nazis retreated, they set charges on all the bridges crossing the Elbe to slow the Allies' pursuit. But two townsmen independently cut the wiring saving this one bridge. They must have been big engineering fans, I guess. I walked the length of the bridge and back again, taking some nice snaps of the river and the hillsides along its banks. Soon another bus came along and I continued on the tour.

A few miles down the road we came to a famous dairy shop. While the foodstuffs on offer are supposed to be fantastic, all fresh and homemade, what they are really famous for is the ornate tiling that covers every square inch of the interior. I've never seen such a ridiculously cool place to buy your butter. I got back on the bus again and went a few stops further down the line, disembarking at the Waldschlößen Brauerei.

There I climbed a flight of stairs from street level and found myself in a cozy little beer garden in the courtyard in front of the brewery. It was almost noon so, I grabbed myself a halb Maß and a bretzel mit senf. I took a table near the railing which had a nice view looking back toward the city proper. I was on the opposite side of the river now from the old town and up on the hillside looking down on the valley unfolding below. It had become an absolutely gorgeous fall day, warming slightly, which just magnified the impact of the scenery. It dawned on me that since I'd entered the German speaking countries, a pattern had emerged of rain and cold one day, followed by a brilliant day of sunshine the next. I can live with that.

When I'd finished my snack I went back down the landing and sat on the stoop until another bus came by. It only took 5 or 10 minutes. We proceeded to make our way through the new town (which is really the original section but, had been destroyed in wars and rebuilt so then it was "new" - confusing, I know) then back over the river and into old town again. I had been catching glimpses and admiring the view of the city from afar but, now that I was in the middle of it, I could hardly believe what I was seeing. In the same way Neuschwanstein had epitomized the castle-in-the-hills notion of what I thought Europe would look like, Dresden did the same for the ideal of an old-world city. At least, to the degree that they've been able to put the pieces back together.

I got off the bus and located on my map the meeting point for the walking tour of the old town. The rendezvous was at the entrance to the Zwinger Palace, one of Dresden's landmark sites. It was built atop the site of the old stronghold of the city. The palace was later converted to house the Royal art collections and serve as a place to hold festivals. Its main gate, the Kronentur, features a large golden crown overlooking a moat and is one of the iconic images of the city.

We met our guide inside the large courtyard and made a loop around, getting a general history of Dresden and the Zwinger itself. Then name Dresden comes from Old Sorbian Drezïany, which means people of the riverside forest. It has a storied history as the capital and royal residence for the Kings of Saxony who cultivated the cultural and artistic aspects of the city, making it a world leader for centuries. Today it is the capital city of the German Federal Free State of Saxony.

Starting in 1485, it was the seat of the Dukes of Saxony, and from 1547 the electors as well. The Elector and ruler of Saxony Frederick Augustus I (August the Strong, 1670-1733) gathered many of the best musicians, architects and painters from all over Europe to Dresden. He is the one who ushered in the era of Dresden as a leading European city for technology and art. New town (remember, the old section) suffered heavy destruction in the Seven Years' War during the middle of the 18th century. Of course, that wouldn't be the last time.

Between 1806 and 1918 the city was the capital of the Kingdom of Saxony (which was a part of the German Empire from 1871). During the Napoleonic Wars the French emperor made it his base of operations, winning a decisive battle nearby. Dresden was also the center of the German Revolutions in 1849 with the May Uprising. It was a terribly bloddy affair and many lives were lost and a great deal of damage was done (again) in the historic town center.

During the 19th century the city became a major center of economic growth, including automobile production, food processing, banking, manufacturing of medical equipment and tobacco processing. The city grew quickly during this period, quadrupling the population between 1849 and 1900 as a result of the rapid industrialization.

In the early 20th century Dresden was particularly well-known for its camera works and its cigarette factories. Between 1918 and 1934 Dresden was capital of the first Free State of Saxony. It was also considered the center of European modern art until 1933.

Dresden was both an important garrison as well as a center of military industry during the Second World War. The bombing of Dresden by the Allies between February 13 and February 15, 1945, remains one of the more controversial actions of the war. It was a brutal, punishing attack. The inner city of Dresden was heavily destroyed during what proved to be the final weeks of the war in Europe. If only they could have held off those few more days, perhaps the city's treasures could have been spared. But hindsight is always 20/20, right? And the commanders made the decision, in part, to force surrender so, perhaps it was necessary.

Returning to the palace for a minute, the name derives from the German word Zwinger (outer ward of a concentric castle). It was so named for the cannons that were placed between the outer wall and the major wall. You see, August the Strong had embarked on a grand tour through France and Italy from 1687-89, during which time Louis XIV had moved his court to Versailles. Upon his return, he wanted something similarly spectacular for himself. He felt the fortifications were no longer needed and provided readily available space for his plans so he co-opted that space from the old stronghold.

We exited the Zwinger from the gate opposite the Kronentur where I was greeted by a view of the Saxon State Opera House to my left and the Hofkirche to my right. The latter is the large Catholic Church built by August the Strong. He aspired to become King of Poland, in addition to his title as Elector of Saxony. At the time, Dresden was an exclusively Protestant enclave. However, Poland was a Catholic country. What to do? Build a church that would prove the conviction of his conversion to the Poles, of course. The massive cathedral was built between 1739 and 1755.

Next to the Hofkirche, we passed by the Dresden Castle which, like nearly every other major historical site in town, has been largely reconstructed. It's costing the citizens of Dresden, and for that matter all of Germany, millions of Euro each year for all this reconstruction but, the results are stunning. What is emerging, or rather re-emerging, is a gorgeous city center once again.

Past the Castle we made our way to the Fürstenzug - a long wall with a mural depicting the line of Saxon sovereigns as far back as history records. The mural looks as if it might just be painted directly on the stonework, however, in reality it is made up of thousands of individual tiles. It's impressive to say the least.

A short walk from there led us to the Neumarkt district which has been heavily reconstructed as well. There we found the unrivaled landmark of Dresden, the Frauenkirche. Unlike August the Strong's Hofkirche, this grand church was originally built by the citizens themselves between 1726 and 1743. It is often cited as the greatest cupola building in central and northern Europe. It also served as one of the rare instances (on my trip anyway) where a Protestant church outsized all of the Catholic structures in town. But this building has seen hard times.

During the firebombing, thousands of Dresden residents took refuge within its walls. The grand dome withstood the initial onslaught and those who had sought shelter there were spared. The fires in and around the church burned for three days before she succumbed to the intense heat and the beautiful cupola came crumbling down. All that was left was a massive pile of rubble that was left largely untouched for the next five decades. It was an uncharacteristic move by the Communists not to clean up the site. They left the one-time icon of the city in ruins to remind everyone who would see it of the cost of war.

Following German re-unification in 1991, a massive fund raising effort was undertaken and slowly the old church began to rise from its ashes. Using sophisticated engineering software and old photographs of the original structure, they were able to replace all of the salvageable stones to their original positions in the new building (amazing!). If you look at the photos I've uploaded here, you can see that the preponderance of the building is made up of light colored, new stone. The dark stone blocks are from the original structure, charred by the fires of war.

The rebuilt church was opened to the public on Reformation Day 2005, a year before Dresden's 800th birthday. I wanted to go inside for a look around. After all, this whole trip I've been touring Catholic churches and I'm a Lutheran. I mean, there's a huge statue of Martin Luther right out front of this place. Here was my chance to see our side can do. Right? Wrong. It was closed for a baptism. Great. I mean, I'm glad and all that some kid was getting baptized but, it did kinda screw up my plans. Whatever.

Despite the almost complete annihilation of the inner city in the war, much of the central area has been restored to its former glory. It's really quite amazing what they've been able to accomplish in the short period of 16 years since Communism fell. There's still more to do but, this is now definitely a city worth visiting. I hadn't initially intended on stopping here when I mapped out my itinerary. But as I said earlier, shortly before I left Munich Norbert implored me to go, "Yes, I'm telling you, you vill love it! It is such a beautiful city!"

As my train pulled out of the station, headed for Berlin, I had to admit, he'd certainly been right about that one.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1155056400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1155056400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1155056400/tpod.html Mon, 23 Apr 2007 12:04:00 -0400 Corporate Dropout; An Extended Respite from Climbing the Ladder or 1,001 Ways to Live in the Moment

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Frankfurt, Germany

August 8

I left the States on the 8th and arrived in Frankfurt the next morning. Nothing hapened here. I got off the plane and got on a train to Amsterdam. But in order to make a nice circle on the map here, we need this official starting point to be recognized. Let the record show that I did start the trip in Germany - kind of.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1159981200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1159981200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1159981200/tpod.html Fri, 13 Apr 2007 15:10:12 -0400 Corporate Dropout; An Extended Respite from Climbing the Ladder or 1,001 Ways to Live in the Moment

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Praha, Czech Republic

October 4-7

The train lurched forward to make its way out of Munich's Hauptbahnhof. I then spent the next nine and a half hours contorting my body into various positions never before attempted, trying in vain to string together a couple of solid hours of sleep. I faced forward with my shins wedged against the seat in front of me. I turned sideways, resting my head against the window with the backs of my knees atop the armrest and my feet in the empty seat next to me. Invariably though, I would awake every few hours to, if I was lucky, shift a bit and then fall back asleep. At one point I awoke to find the train at a standstill. It took me a minute to put together that we were at a station. Augsburg to be exact. I have no idea how long we'd been sitting there and this time it took me a while to fall back asleep. I'd wake up periodically to find the train still in the same position. "Please, move this train Lord."

Eventually we got underway again and I drifted off only to be awakened sharply. As I opened my eyes there were two men standing in front of me, one in a military uniform and the other in official looking, yet more relaxed brown leather bomber jacket and stiff brown trousers. These were some scary looking dudes. They demanded my passport, so I dug quickly through my backpack and furnished it to them with all haste. The one in uniform studied it for what seemed an interminable amount of time while the other one glowered at me. Welcome to the eastern block, eh? Finally, Lenin's great-grand-nephew returned my documents and they went on their way.

By now my knee felt like it was gonna give out and my lower vertebrae were most certainly fused together. Oh well. I saved a day and another night's hotel fee by traveling this way. What's a little paralysis for the bargain? I wished that I had reserved a couchette instead of being stuck in a seat. I knew better by this point and had been at the Hauptbahnhof, what?, four or five times while in Munich to switch trains. Stupid.

It was worth it though. The days were becoming precious few now. As I pulled into Prague, there were exactly two weeks left before I had to head home. Where had the time gone? I pried myself out of the seat, reacquainted my joints with the act of bending and disembarked to find an altogether novel scene. Let's just say the rail station in Prague does not make a real great first impression for the town.

Bare concrete along with chipped black and white linoleum tiles from the Brezhnev era are the main decorating motifs in this hulking shell that encapsulates at least a half dozen competing money changers, several purveyors of questionable looking sausages and assorted other snacks, a couple of hotel booking windows (conveniently not open yet at 9:00am) and hordes of people ranging in countenance from the merely shiftless to the criminally inclined. "We're not in Western Europe anymore, Toto."

I didn't have a place to stay yet and with the booking windows closed I began to inquire, with little hope, if there was an internet point at the station. To my surprise there was one on the lower level. I descended to the basement, past bare wires strung through the hallway, then around a dimly lit corner and through a doorway marked "Video Rental and Internet." I think they also took in laundry. I was shown to a station that looked like it belong in a college rooming house. But the computer worked fine. As I surfed around I remembered that Pippi had told me that there were lots of apartments available for rent in Prague at very reasonable prices. I found a great deal on a one bedroom place with separate living and dining areas and a kitchen to boot. Quite a luxury for me and at €240 for all three nights I would be there, a real bargain. I felt there had to be a catch, but booked it anyway.

I went to the taxi stand and got a ride to the center where the apartment was located. Not knowing the local rates or currency exchange real well, I trusted the amount shown to me on a price list which the cabby produced upon arrival at my destination. After all, it was laminated and everything; very official looking. It wasn't until a day or so later that I learned the extent to which I had just been ripped-off. Whatever.

There was a slight hiccup securing the keys to the apartment since I had just booked it that morning and their systems didn't update that quickly, but it was soon rectified and I stepped into what turned out to be a spacious pad right in the middle of town. My fears had been unfounded it seemed. What a deal! It was maybe 11:00 by now and I was beat from my fitful night's sleep on the train, so I decided to take a nap.

I awoke in the early afternoon and went to have a shower before heading out to explore. I turned on the water and it ran cold. "Aha! I knew it was all too good to be true." But the water soon warmed and everything was fine. The apartment turned out to be the best deal of the trip I think. I did have to switch locations for the third night, but that turned out to be an even bigger two bedroom place at no additional charge.

Now that I had satisfied my need for sleep in an actual bed and cleaned myself up, I required sustenance. I found a little place down the road that looked like it probably served authentic Czech fare, so I went in. I was seated in the corner, near the tiny bar at a wooden table and chairs that looked as though they'd been hewn by hand some 30 or 40 years ago. There were maybe six other tables in the joint, two of which were occupied. I immediately secured a Pilsner Urquell, which is easier to find than water in this town (and often cheaper) and then settled on the goulasch and dumplings for my late lunch. The goulasch turned out to be essentially like fajitas with out the spice or tortillas, but it was serviceable.

I don't know if I was still tired from the overnight train ordeal or what, but I found myself less eager than normal after lunch to begin exploring the city. Nothing I'd seen so far had really impressed me. In fact, the train station had been downright depressing. And the neighborhood I was staying in was alright, but nothing like I expected given the rave reviews of this town from friends who had visited. "It's early," I told myself. "You've hardly seen anything yet." Still, I wondered if my lack of enthusiasm was an indication that I was beginning to tire of traveling, or at least the sight seeing. There is a difference. So I decided to take care of some business instead.

I walked up Wenceslas Square looking for an internet point. There were some nice old-world style buildings lining the broad avenue, but too much neon distended from many of them as well. "This is what everyone was raving about?" I thought to myself.

Finally I found a connection so I could pay bills and make arrangements for my next stop, as well as doing some work on this Travelogue. It's easy to lose touch with the what's going on back home, so I took some time to exchange e-mails and, of course, set my fantasy football line-up for the coming weekend. Once I'd finished all that, I walked back towards the apartment.

I decided that instead of going out for dinner, I'd take advantage of my living quarters and eat in for a change. I stopped off at the little open air market in the courtyard outside the building to gather some fresh vegetables. Then I headed to a butcher shop just around the corner where I did fairly well by just pointing at sausages that looked good to me. Next door there was a wine shop where I procured a bottle of local red at a decent price. And so I spent the night grazing on my sundries and reading. It was a surprisingly nice change of pace. Besides, I had to be up early the next morning as I had decided to participate in a rather grand walking tour, which began at 8:30.

I thought that the apartment should be fairly close to the main square given the little map I had with me. I made a conscious decision the day before not to venture in that direction though, knowing that the walking tour started there. So that morning as I made my way through what turned out to be two and a half blocks of vastly more interesting streets than I'd seen the entire day before, I began to wonder if maybe I'd just been walking around the less exotic parts of town. Just then I turned a corner and found myself confronted with what is perhaps the single most majestic town square in the whole of Europe. Although the omniety of Paris may prove more enchanting, the scale of Rome more awe-inspiring, the anatomy of Venice more beguiling, I can't think of a single place in any of these locales that holds one as rapt in sheer beauty as does the architecture and spirit of this place.

"Wow! This is what everyone was talking about." The meeting place for the tour was underneath the astronomical clock, one of Prague's de-facto symbols. I had definitely strapped on my walking shoes that morning as the tour I was about to embark on was scheduled to last until around 4:30, with a break for a traditional Czech lunch.

We began by circling clock square, as I learned the locals called it, and getting the history of the old town. We then proceeded to St. James Cathedral, which turned out to be the most ridiculously cool Baroque style church I saw on the whole trip. You may recall when I said I was getting a little weary of touring so many churches, but this one certainly bucked the trend. The ornate detail in the statues and relief carvings that covered nearly every inch of the place was simply stunning.

We then made our way up to the Powder Tower, past the Music House, and back through the old town past clock square and the Jewish quarter (more on that later). We arrived at the river where the 20 or so of us boarded a boat for a little cruise. The morning air hadn't been bad for walking around, but on the top deck of the boat with the wind whipping us in the face, it got a little chilly. We were, however, rewarded with great views of the Castle on the hill in the distance and the Charles Bridge as we sailed underneath it and then turned around again to head back to the dock.

It was during this river cruise that I met some of my fellow tour companions. I was seated at a table topside with Heather and Leah who subsequently introduced me to four of their classmates, T.J. Carline, Kelly and Kim. They were all part of a study abroad program located in a small town in the north of Italy - just above Venice I believe. T.J. is from Libertyville, IL and so he noticed my Cubs cap right away and we started chatting about baseball and then Chicago in general. I got the feeling that traveling with a group of girls , as he was, had left him a bit starved for guy-talk. They were all really cool kids and we ended up hanging out together for the rest of the tour.

Once back on dry land, we made our way through the Jewish quarter. Our guide gave us a history of this section of town and showed us several points of interest, including a cemetery that must have been built-up at least 20 feet above the ground. Because of the limited space afforded to the inhabitants, over the years as they ran out of space in the cemetery, they simply added a layer and moved the gravestones from the previous layer to the top. The resulting effect is a jumble of gravestones jammed together, pointing every which way on the uppermost level. They're packed together so tightly, I doubt you could fit one more in there.

On our way to the restaurant for lunch, we passed the birth place of Franz Kafka. I didn't see any giant bugs or anything, although I did have my eyes peeled. Our "traditional Czech lunch" consisted of mediocre beef goulasch and a weird salad, but the Budweiser (the real Budwieser-Budwar, not that stuff from St. Louis) was excellent.

After lunch we ambled over to the famed Charles Bridge, another landmark of Praha. I'm not sure about it's engineering pedigree, but I do know it's one of the most artistic bridges around. It is lined on both sides with beautiful statues and affords magnificent views of the Castle in one direction and of the old town in the other. Up and down it's length there were myriad artists; caricaturists, puppeteers, a jazz band, glass workers, etc. There was a real festival atmosphere as we traversed the bridge.

Once across, we caught a tram and headed up to the Castle. The morning chill had passed and it had become just a remarkable day. So much so, in fact, that like an idiot, I remarked on it. Not ten minutes later if clouded over and began to rain. I'm not makin' this up. Luckily, it cleared relatively quickly. We made our way around the exterior of the Castle and saw the changing of the guard. Except for a quick look at one of the grand reception halls, we didn't see the interior. That was fine with me because although it had been a spectacular and fairly comprehensive tour, I'd had about all I could take. I needed a break.

The study abroad girls wanted to go shopping so, naturally T.J. and I did the sensible thing and went for a drink, promising to meet up with them later. That was our first chance to sit down since lunch and after walking for the better part of the day, it felt good to relax a little.

The same tour company we'd been with all day also offers a nighttime ghost tour. Since we'd been on the "deluxe" tour, or whatever, they gave us tickets to this other extravaganza gratis. T.J., Kim and I were up for it while the others demurred. So after a quick shower, we rendezvoused at the atomic clock. Our guide did her best to make the hokey stories spooky, but even with the aide of planted "ghosts" jumping out from behind corners, dripping fake blood and wielding plastic knives, the tour was decidedly less than scary.

The three of us went back to the hostel where they were all staying to meet the other girls. As expected, they weren't ready, so T.J. and I had a couple of beers in the lounge while we waited for them to finish primping. Finally they came down at about 10:00 and we all headed out. We were on our way to what was billed all over town as, "Middle Europe's largest dance club," or as I preferred to call, "Middle Earth."

The place was huge - 5 levels, each operating like a mini-club unto itself, with it's own theme, featuring a different style of music. We started out on the first floor (imagine that), which featured techno music. Or was it house? I don't know. That crap all sounds the same to me. Oh my God - I've become my father. "Turn down that damn rock n' roll music!" I was told this would happen. Come to think of it, the music was kinda loud in there too. But I digress.

The girls were a couple of drinks behind T.J. and me, so when we had all settled into a corner table above the dance floor I wasn't too concerned that Caroline and Kelly began by ordering shots. I, however, declined to join them. There was no way I was going to try to keep up with a bunch of college kids doing a semester abroad. Uh-uh. Not happenin'. I'm sure they go out five nights a week. Not fallin' for that one. Three shots later (did I mention they were on special too), all the girls felt ready to get their groove on. Being one of the 10 whitest men on the planet (in the under 40 division) I needed a bit more liquid courage before I was going to near a dance floor. So T.J. and I left the ladies downstairs and decided to go exploring.

I think he was glad to make a break with them for a little while. Check that. I know he was glad to. The top levels of the place didn't open, you heard me, didn't open until 1:00am. The fact that I found this so amazing was proof-point 927 that I no longer had any business in a joint like this. I should have told them they weren't so hot - that there was a place in Granada I had refused to wait up for that didn't open until 2:00. That would've...done what? I dunno. Anyway, T.J. and I found ourselves in the rock n' roll room, which was much more my speed. I recall hearing some Tom Petty and perhaps a Bob Seger tune. Not sure. What I do remember is the smokin' hot bartender and T.J.'s little quest.

After acquiring a couple of beers from said wait staff professional and noticing her, um, assets, T.J. dragged me around the side of the bar towards a staircase that led to a landing overlooking the room below. We sat down at one of the half dozen tables that was near the railing and had a good view of the bar. Our friend below wasn't terribly busy, only serving the occasional drink now and then. After all, it was still early. Only 12:30. She mostly spent her time conversing with a scuzy looking busboy or bar-back who appeared to be shirking duties of his own. T.J. leaned over and said to me in a hushed tone, "Look at that."

I peered over the edge and could see our bartendress bending over to fill a cooler with beer bottles. Her tight fitting, low-rise, leather shorts didn't exactly require one to exercise the imagination vigorously.

"I'm gonna get a picture of her ass," he informed me. Ah, youthful exuberance. This'll be a great way to get kicked out of here, I thought. As crass as it sounds here, he really wasn't a bad kid and I couldn't really blame him. Testosterone is a powerful drug.

"Ok, ok. Just let me tell you when the coast is clear," I warned. As silly and juvenile as the whole affair was, something about the conspiratorial nature of it got me a little juiced up too. And after all, it was harmless. I think he tried about 17 times but, given the distance and the darkness and the covert nature of our operation, I don't believe he was ever really successful. In any case, I know I bored with it after a while, so we set out to find Carline, Kelly and Kim.

We stumbled upon them in the Reggae room where we all finally hit the dance floor. We hopped around from there over the next couple of hours checking out all the floors (at least the ones that were open). On one of the upper floors they were playing house music. Or was it techno? Whatever they weren't playing downstairs, I guess. The dance floor was constructed to look like some post-apocalyptic junkyard straight out of The Terminator. The main area was sunken with ledges all around on which people would climb up and show their stuff. Dance-wise, that is. It was also ringed with these spooky bluish-metallic, robot figures and the whole room was bathed in an eerie blue light. When a song would really get going, the robot's eyes would fire red laser lights that crisscrossed the dance floor and flickered in time with the music to create a very trippy effect.

Around 4:00 we ended up back on the first floor (techno/house?) where we had begun the evening. I'd had enough and told them all that I was shoving off. Surprisingly, T.J. said he was tired as well. But the girls wanted to keep on dancin', so we let them.

As we exited the largest club in middle earth we were accosted, ok maybe that's not a good word for it, um...heartily greeted by four tremendous looking Norwegian blondes. They were a bit tipsy and very friendly, so we struck up a conversation, which lasted approximately 47 seconds until the four not-so-friendly Norwegian dudes showed up.

It wasn't a terribly long walk to the apartment and with only one or two wrong turns I managed to make it back in about 15 minutes. I bid adieu to T.J. at clock square where I wished him well and warned him against advertising as a vocation. "Study finance," I think I told him. "You'll make more money." I doubt he'll listen though.

The next morning - or more accurately, later that morning - upon waking I decided that I needed some lounging time. I'd been moving around at a pretty fast clip since Vienna, so it was nice to take advantage of the comforts of my very own apartment. The satellite TV was a bonus. By noon, however, I managed to loose myself from the couch. There was too much to see out there no matter how tired I was.

I set out with the two goals; get some good black and white photos of the Charles Bridge and find a wedding gift for my friends Harold and Earth. Other than that, I had no real goals for the day.

A few years ago my good friend John Buuck came to Prague and returned with the most amazing set of photos. I wanted to see if I could replicate a few of those shots, especially on the bridge. But he studied film in USC's graduate program and has just a fantastic eye. So I'm afraid I fell short. But I did get a few cool snaps which I've posted here.

I made my way across the bridge focusing on the statues and the people. I spent a long time trying to get one particular shot just right. It was composed of the architecture on the bank of the river to my left, a bridge in the distance and the massing clouds above. I was shooting in sepia tone and I think I must have taken 30 or 40 snaps before I felt like I had it.

I moved on, but after crossing the bridge I really had no idea where to go. Off to the right and up the hill was the Castle where I'd been the day before, so instead I went left not knowing what I would find. I figured, if nothing else, I could just follow the bank of the river and shoot the entirety of the bridge from a distance. I had seen all of the major tourist sights the day before, so I was perfectly content to just wander and see what I could find off the beaten path. I soon found there was much more to this city than I'd first thought; more than I would be able to cover in the time I had. In fact, it occurred to me this whole trip was really more of an overview - a scouting trip for future returns.

I headed-off down some decidedly less touristy street. It was quiet away from the throngs of the bridge. I passed an old water wheel that was turning slowly as if it always had and always would. The image lent a timeless quality to a city that already appeared to me to largely exist outside the normal constraints of time and progress. The street I was following led me onto Kampa Island where I stumbled upon a wall covered in graffiti.

The wall ran for nearly a city block and every inch of it was covered in DIY art (see pic.) I'm not sure if it was the designated graffiti wall of the ciyty, or what, but it did strike me then that I had seen very little graffiti elsewhere in town as compared to many of the other urban centers I had visited. Good idea if that's what it was.

Did you know that baseball is only the 2nd most practiced sport in the world? (at 150 million practitioners). Do you know what number one is? Soccer? Nope. Golf? Nope. Shuffleboard? Is that even a sport? Nope (on both counts). Get this, it's volleyball, with 180 million players around the world. "How do you know this?" you might ask. "And why should I care?" Well, if ever you try to make it onto a televised trivia show (you know who you are) this may be the bit that puts you over the top. Just trying to help. I learned this, and many other pieces of otherwise wholly useless knowledge, while passing by, "Earth from Above," an outdoor photography exhibition. Each of the photographs, as you might guess, had been taken aerially or from space and included a sidebar explaining the image. The one that included the tidbit about volleyball was attached to a photo of Derek Jeter about to catch a fly-ball as he ran across the diamond-cut grass in the shallow outfield of Yankee Stadium. It made for a very cool shot from directly above him. There were photos of all kinds of interesting land masses and patterns occurring in nature that could only be discovered from high above.

Suddenly I had a very strange feeling. Just for an instant, I couldn't recall where I was. I had become so totally engrossed with these huge photographs, moving from one to another, that I was just completely in the moment. Everything else dropped away to the point that when I recognized what was happening I couldn't recall how I had come to this place, where I was going, what time it was - nothing but these giant images in front of me that had absorbed me.

I took that as a great sign. I was nearing the end of the trip (just five stops left) and I felt like I had been remaining fully present more and more in the things I was doing. And this really confirmed it for me. I felt like for the first time I really was beginning to understand this business of living in the moment. It was a lot harder to do than I had anticipated, but at the same time, once you start to do it, the effort becomes less and less. I thought about what they call the wu wei in Taoism or, action through in-action. The aim or end result is to obtain an irresistible form of "soft and invisible power" over things (the self, others, a country). Pretty trippy, I know.

As I came to the end of the exhibit I noticed the path I'd been following had taken me back to the river's edge. I got those shots of the bridge I had contemplated earlier in the day and then just followed the path to see where it would lead. A bit further on, the city looked inviting again, so I left the river.

To this point, all I had eaten for the day was an apple that I had stashed in my pack. By now it was well into the afternoon, so I headed toward a café I saw from a distance. It turned out to be a grand old place which reminded me of the elegant coffee houses of Vienna. On my way to a table in the corner I passed the pastry case and ogled the exquisite looking cakes and torts. I ordered a café au lait and a slice of chocolate cake with layers of sweet plums, chocolate mouse and pistachio nuts. I felt very fancy at that moment and sat there soaking in the atmosphere as I did a bit of writing.

I decided to get a move-on after an hour or so in the café. I was mulling over the idea of taking in some music that night and thought I'd go see what they were playing at the grand Music House.

All day I had been keeping an eye out for the wedding gift too. Each shop I passed by was considered and rejected for one reason or another. I had seen a very unique crystal decanter the day before in the window of a shop that I thought was near where I'd been walking today. The piece was low and wide at the bottom with a tall thin neck. In addition, it had a bulbous protrusion on the underside which meant when one set it down, it would invariably lean to one side or the other - kind of like a Weeble-Wobble. Very unusual. Very cool. I was sure they would love it. If only I could find it again.

Problem was, there are only about 15,000 crystal shops in Prague. As I neared the main tourist thoroughfare leading back to the bridge, I stopped at several shops looking for the piece. Just before I turned to go back over the bridge, a shop caught my eye and I decided to backtrack and give it a shot. As I approached I could see it sitting there in the window. The exact piece I had been looking for. I looked around and, sure enough, this was the road we had walked to get to the Castle the day before. I was excited to have found it, but now I had to cart around a delicate piece of glassware for the rest of the trip and try to avoid breaking it. Should be interesting.

It took me a half hour to walk over to the Music House. When I arrived I learned the evening's program was Vivaldi's Four Season's. It's a fine piece, but at that point I just wasn't in the mood. I'd been on my feet for most of the day and was feeling a little tired. I remembered a jazz club I had seen over by the apartment and thought maybe I'd just catch a late set there.

So I went home and flopped on the couch for a while, enjoying a glass of wine and some of the cheese I had left over from earlier in the week. The BBC News Hour proved itself difficult to pull away from. More difficult than I had anticipated. But finally I got up and headed out again to find a place to dine. I was definitely slowing down now, but I didn't mind all that much. I was feeling more relaxed and at peace with myself than ever before. I looked at my watch and hurried off.

I was trying to catch the "show" at the astronomical clock. Every hour as the bells chime, little figurines appear from within the clock and do a little dance or some such thing. It's one of those things you're supposed to see when in Prague, but I missed it again. The third time I had tried. I never did see it. Oh well, I'm not too broken up about it.

The local cuisine had failed to impress so, on this my last night in Prague, I opted for an Italian restaurant. It was a good meal, but I think I induced a food coma and so decided to skip the music altogether and headed home to turn in for the night.

The next morning I walked over to the apartment rental office to drop off the keys and settle up my bill. Well, it turns out that Citibank had decided to put a hold on my MasterCard as "unusual activity" had tripped the security parameters that issuers set-up to prevent fraudulent charges. Bang-up job boys! I've only been over here for, what?, two months now? Way to be on top of things. I asked the rental agent if they would accept American Express. No such luck. He then told me there was an ATM just down the way where I could secure some cash. Sure. Sure thing. Just let me put on my backpacks here and I'll be riiiii-ght back. He told me I could leave my things. It would be ok. But I demurred and told him again that I'd be right back.

Whatever. They've got the MasterCard number on file. They can run it again once I get the crack team in Sioux Falls to straighten things out (no offense Becky - not your division though, right?). I'll call them later. Right now, I've got a train to catch.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1159894800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1159894800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1159894800/tpod.html Mon, 12 Mar 2007 18:22:07 -0400 Corporate Dropout; An Extended Respite from Climbing the Ladder or 1,001 Ways to Live in the Moment

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Füssen, Germany

October 3, 2007

It was a beautiful Tuesday morning when I arrived at the Munich Hauptbahnhof, intending to secure a reservation on a night train to Prague before heading to Füssen for the day to see Neuschwanstein. By now you can probably guess what's coming. I probably don't even need to write this next paragraph. In fact, go ahead and get a piece of paper. Now write down your guess. Go on. Write it down. Ok, for those of you who wrote, "No reservations left on overnight train," or some such rough approximation thereof, you win. Once again, my fault for waiting until the morning of, especially since I'd been in the Hauptbahnhof no less than 5 times since my arrival in Munich. But this is what makes travel so interesting. No?

"Aso, wie kann man nach Praha fahren?" I said to the man behind the ticket counter. He didn't visibly cringe at my poor German sentence construction, as I'm sure of you who are fluent may have just then. Instead he just chose to reply in English. He told me there was no availability on the overnight but, with my Eurail pass I could travel on the 4:44pm without a reservation. He then told me where to find the train to Füssen and informed me that it was leaving in exactly 2 minutes.

Now, there's one thing I've learned about trains in Germany. Actually, about Germany in general. When they say 2 minutes, they mean 2 minutes. None of this stuff like in Italy where two minutes means, yeah in two minutes, if everyone showed up for work today, and if Gianni is finished with his cigarette and... No. I knew I had to hoof it. And, in fact, I ended up sprinting the last 500 yards, yelling at the conductor who was just stepping into the last car as I rounded the corner and caught sight of the platform.

I thanked her profusely once I was aboard. If I had missed that train it would have cost me an hour or more and I had to be back for that 4:44. So if I wanted to see the castle, I needed to get out there ASAP. It was now 9:00am. Thing is, in all my hurry to catch this train, I missed a bit of direction from the guy at the ticket counter.

After an hour and a half (time enough to have made to Füssen I thought) I asked one of the conductors when she expected we would arrive. She understood my pidgin-German, and explained to me that I had missed a connection if I was trying to get to Füssen. It vaguely hit me then, the ticket counter guy saying something about a change of trains in Buchloe. So for all my efforts to make it onto the first train of the day bound for Füssen, I still ended up being screwed. I got off at the next stop and back-tracked to Buchloe, where I switched to the proper train to get me to Füssen. Ah well, more time to enjoy the lush, green fields of Bavaria rolling by outside my window.

They really are stunning - the fields - and backed by towering forests of pines that lead right up the Alps, which come skyrocketing out of the horizon in every direction. I'd seen the Alps passing through Switzerland and in Northern Italy near Lake Como and in Austria and Garmisch, of course. And this was just as good as all that. The Alps, I think, in all their incarnations, probably provided the prettiest natural scenery of the trip. When considering the quaint towns along with the coastal scenery of Cinque Terre I might say that made for a more stunning view. But for pure, unspoiled nature, this was hard to beat.

Once in Füssen, I boarded a bus that took me through the little town to the base of the hill where tickets are sold to tour Schloß Neuschwanstein. For those who don't know, or don't think you know, what that is Neuschwanstein is perhaps the most famous 19th century neo-romantic castle in the world. It's the structure that served as inspiration to Walt Disney when he built his iconic castle for the Magic Kingdom. It is the most photographed castle in Europe (so you've probably seen it), which has helped solidify it in many Americans' minds as the prototypical castle-form with its soaring spires and turreted portico.

It was commissioned by Ludwig II, King of Bavaria, as a retreat and as an homage to Richard Wagner, the King's inspiring muse. One of several Royal residences, this was to be his most grand, to the chagrin of many other powerful men in the government who felt the drain on the treasury was unwarranted. After only six months in residence at Neuschwanstein, and with much of the castle still unfinished, Crazy King Ludwig was taken to Berlin and summarily declared insane. Thus the moniker. A short time later he was found drown in a lake along with the psychiatrist who certified him under suspicious circumstances. Whether or not foul play was involved has never been established, mostly because no one cared to investigate too diligently. As a result, much of the grand castle were never finished. But the fourteen rooms that were are on display to the public today.

The idea for the castle was outlined by Ludwig in a letter to Wagner, written in May of 1868; "It is my intention to rebuild the old castle ruin at Hohenschwangau near the Pollat Gorge in the authentic style of the old German knights' castles...the location is the most beautiful one could find, holy and unapproachable, a worthy temple for the divine friend who has brought salvation and true blessing to the world." The foundation stone of the building was laid September 5, 1869. Neuschwanstein was primarily designed by Christian Jank who was not an architect or even an engineer, but rather a theatrical set designer. This says a lot about what Ludwig intended for this site. The whole place is an amalgamation of fantastic devices from the setting itself to the little rooms such as the Grotto - straight out of Wagnerian myth. The architectural know-how was provided by the Munich court architect, Eduard Riedel first, and then by Georg Dollman and Leo Von Klenze.

The castle was originally called "New Hohenschwangau Castle" until the king's untimely death. It was then re-named Neuschwanstein, the castle of the Swan Knight, Lohengrin, of Wagner's opera of the same name.

One has a choice as to how they wish to ascend to the castle; on foot or by bus. Much like at the Alhambra in Granada, my tour ticket granted me entrance at a specific time. I really wanted to do the hike, but wasn't sure I had enough time to make it. It would be cutting it close for sure. Also, by taking the bus I could ensure I had time to walk over to the bridge behind the castle, which affords the best opportunity to photograph the entire structure. It sits directly above the gorge with an arresting view of a waterfall behind it - quite a sight. I was able to take some really nice snaps up there (see attached).

The bridge was terribly crowded though. At times I couldn't pass there were so many onlookers trying to get a photo of their loved one with the castle in the background. And 60% of them were Asian; Japanese I think, must have been a tour group. I'd hate to see it at the height of the summer season. That would be unbearable, I'm sure.

After exhausting the photographic possibilities on the bridge, I hoofed it down the path towards the castle. Along the way I stopped at a scenic overlook with a great view facing away from Neuschwanstein. From there one could see a gorgeous mountain lake nestled between the peaks and another palace (Schloß Hohenschwangau, the one built by Ludwig's father) overlooking the placid waters. Unreal.

I milled about for a little while near the entrance of the castle before my tour started. It was another fantastic early fall day, crisp, but not too cool with the sun shining brightly overhead. It reminded me of one of those perfect Saturday afternoons when, as a nine year old, we would take the field with our over-sized helmets flopping from side-to-side as we played flag-football. There's something about that kind of weather that always reminds me of innocence.

The tour lasted maybe forty minutes or so. We saw servants quarters and the throne room and the King's bedchambers. Pretty nice digs, but I'd hate to pay the heating bill. By the time it was over the clock read nearly 4:00. Clearly, the 4:44 train to Prague was not in my future, so I stopped at the bottom of the hillside for a brat and a beer and then sauntered over to the rail station for my return trip.

Once back in Munich, I decided to ask the ticket agents about the overnight train again. Who knows, maybe they had a cancellation. Besides, I had no idea what else to do. My last resort would have been to call Pia and Norbert and explain the situation to them and spend another night there. Well, the guy behind the ticket window told me it was too late to reserve anything. Instead he rather casually suggested I just jump on the train and find an open seat. I was a bit confused at first. I mean, the guy from earlier in the day had made it sound like a reservation would be required. But I figured, what the hell? Nothing to lose. Right?

So I went across the street looking for a way to kill some time as the train wasn't due into the station until almost mid-night. I found a place with fairly decent slices of pizza and then went into a bar, hunkering down to do a little writing. There were still several hours to go. Around 11:00 I made my way to the platform, needing to stretch my legs and having over-stayed my welcome in the bar unless I wanted to order another beer, which I didn't.

Soon the train arrived and I did as my friend at the ticket booth had suggested. I found the first non-sleeper car and took a seat near the door as I entered. I was glad to be making a try to get to Prague that night. But with every new patron that stepped into the car, I felt certain that some surly Czech dude was about to approach me and inform me that I was in his seat. Then I heard someone further down the aisle explaining to his travel companion that the seats with little paper tags hanging from the luggage rack above them were the reserved seats. All the others were free for the taking. I quickly popped into the aisle and glanced above the seat I was occupying. It was free and so was the one next to me. So I heaved my day-pack onto the seat next to mine and finally felt confident that I would actually be proceeding to Prague that night.

This had been the day I was supposed to have had before arriving in Munich. However, after the wash-out my first day in Garmisch and then the beautiful weather the next day I had decided to put off Neuschwanstein, hoping I would get to see it later. So everything worked out in the end. Just like it has this whole trip. Just like it always does. Just like it always will.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1159462800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1159462800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1159462800/tpod.html Sun, 25 Feb 2007 17:20:34 -0500 Corporate Dropout; An Extended Respite from Climbing the Ladder or 1,001 Ways to Live in the Moment

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München, Germany

September 28-October 2

I pulled into Munich a little later than I had expected after mistakenly alighting one stop prior to arrival at the Hauptbahnhof. I saw "München" on the platform sign and, not considering that a city of this size might have more than one stop on the Deutsche Bahn lines, got off only to then sit and wait twenty minutes for the next train to happen by.

Once there, however, I immediately tried to call Pia and Norbert - my friend Amanda's aunt and uncle with whom we were to stay for the next few days. Amanda works with one of my oldest and dearest friends, Sean (whom I've known since I was 12 years old) at GE Healthcare. They had both been able to engineer meetings in Europe, Sean in Paris and Amanda in Finland, on either side of a long weekend in Munich coinciding with the town's annual celebration, Oktoberfest.

In any case, I couldn't raise Pia and Norbert on the phone my first try. Who knows, given my ineptitude displayed thus far with European telecommunications, I may have very well been doing something wrong, but after ten minutes of trying I decided to put my bags in a locker and go have a beer.

I met a couple of very friendly chaps in one of the 27 bars that occupy the train station. They spoke very little English, though between my broken Deutsche and the magic of beer, we were able to communicate fairly well. I noticed that there were far more people walking around in traditional dress (Lederhosen & Dirndls) than I had anticipated.

Hans und Ulrich explained to me that Munich is a very modern city indeed, but when the festival is going on the town's center is inundated with folks from the countryside and even the city residents bust out their old fashioned duds. It was nice, actually, to see tradition carried on in this way.

After a couple of beers I figured I should try to ring Pia and Norbert again. This time I got through and Norbert gave me directions on how to make my way to their place via the U-bahn, where he would then pick me up and make the last mile to their place by car.

After briefly showing me around their lovely apartment and explaining where we would be sleeping (I was the first of the three of us to arrive by a day) we sat down to a light supper; Wurst und Käse, Brot und Gemüse and, of course, Bier. Norbert brought out a couple of bottles from the refrigerator and asked if I'd ever heard of the Augustiner brewery. I told him I hadn't. He went on to explain that this was a very special beer. In a high pitched, emphatic intonation I would come to know well, he assured me, "Yes, I'm telling you.." I thought, "Uh, ok. I believe you." It was actually rather endearing though and I came to think of it as his catch phrase. "Yes, I'm telling you it's possible for a Komodo Dragon to swallow whole a child who stands a meter and a half high." I'd come to believe just about anything that followed those words. He was so passionate and convincing.

He told me that this Oktoberfest brew was only available this time of year and only here in München. And boy, was it good. Somewhere between an amber and a pils, it might be the best beer I've ever had; full of caramel and hoppy-flavor, but not heavy. It was perfect.

We sat and talked, the three of us, for quite a while shifting between English and German. I was surprised at how well I was able to keep up when listening to them speak auf Deutsch. Sentence construction was more difficult for me, so I could only speak in rudimentary clips, but it was great fun all the same.

As we were winding down with dinner I remembered the ice wine I had brought for them and went to retrieve it. We sampled a bit of the desert wine as we continued our chat and it was really quite good, very sweet and they appreciated the gesture. Both Pia and Norbert were extremely welcoming and fun people. I enjoyed the evening very much.

The next day Norbert left for a conference in Hamburg or Stuttgart or someplace like that. He's a professor of veterinary science, I believe, and was off to save the animals. Or at least teach others how to. That same morning, Sean was scheduled to arrive from Paris. Pia, who is a teacher, had gone to work by the time I got up, but she had kindly laid out some Brötchen, butter and marmalade and some coffee for me. Soon Sean called to let me know he had landed, but that he needed to do some work at the airport where he had an internet connection before making his way across town. I explained to him how to get to Pia & Norbert's place via the U-bahn and told him I would see him later. That gave me a chance to hop online in Norbert's office to do some typing of travelogue's and uploading photos.

Sean arrived about noon all smiles and happy thoughts, as usual (heavy sarcasm implied for that last bit). Don't get me wrong. I mean, I love the guy like a brother, but he's been known to be a touch moody now and again, as was apparently the case now. For some reason the Munich train system hadn't been to his liking. He was muttering something about how long it took to get from the airport to the apartment. It is on the exact opposite side of the city, so I would guess it's to be expected. Anyway, bitchin' about it (especially to me) doesn't make the trains go any faster.

We dumped his gear and headed for downtown on the U-bahn. We emerged in the main square to a fantastic 360° view composed of the old Rathaus and the new one and several other grand, old world styled buildings. We stood there for a minute trying to decide which way to go. Finally we just headed down one of the lanes, saw it didn't look promising, turned around and decided to just grab a table outside one of the many restaurants that lined the street.

We ordered a couple of beers and perused the menu. I told Sean about how much I had been enjoying the food throughout Austria and Germany, but he was a bit trepidatious opting to just get a pretzel (or Bretzen as they say in Munich) with some mustard. He said he'd grab a sausage or something at a stand later. I had Jägerschnitzel with dumplings and tried to convince him what he was missing out on to no avail.

We wandered around the square a bit, not really knowing where we were or having any special destination in mind. We asked a bicycle-rickshaw pilot where would be a good place to hang out for the afternoon as neither of us was feeling especially energetic or ambitious. He pointed us in the direction of an area just off the main square and we soon came across a big open air market. I remembered Pia telling me about the place the night before. It was the Viktualienmarkt, Munich's most popular market for fresh food and delicatessen. It's a very old market and featured site during Munich's Fasching (carnival) for this is where they hold the dance of the Marktfrauen (market women) of the Viktualienmarkt in comical costumes. We strolled a little way down and found several small beer gardens set up in and around the market. They were all packed and, once again, lots of traditional dress was on display.

We squeezed into one of them and sidled up to the bar. I noticed a sign offering Sturm and explained it to Sean. They had both red and white and since I hadn't tried the white version yet, we went for that. It was a bit disappointing compared to the stuff I'd had in Austria, but the bartender was funny and it was a real trip this place - lots of oldsters getting toasty in the afternoon. It was also very crowded, so we left after the Sturm and headed next door to a huge establishment. I think it was the Hacker-Pschorr place. All the big breweries run their own beer halls all over town. Pretty wild.

They had tons of tables outside, so we settled in to one in a nice sunny spot and ordered a couple of beers. It was a beautiful day and it was good to be sitting outside just sipping our beers and catching up on what had been going on back home for the past couple of months. I got to hear the stories about another friend's bachelor party in Las Vegas, which I had missed. And about the fellas back in Chicago and what was going on with each of them. And that's pretty much how we passed the afternoon. Soon it was time to head back to the 'burbs.

We'd received a call from Amanda to let us know that she was at the Hauptbahnhof, so we stopped there to pick her up and then continued on to Pia & Norbert's. Pia had prepared dinner for us of Käsespäetzle mit Speck (like the German version of mac & cheese with some bacon thrown in - awesome!). Amanda had just come from a couple of days in Berlin, which had apparently been fun, but exhausting for her. We all went to bed fairly early.

The next morning we each slept in a bit to varying degrees. I think Sean and Amanda were more tired than I was from some lingering jet lag, but after a bit of screwing around that morning, Pia took the three of us to the Oktoberfest.

First off, I should mention, I wasn't quite prepared for the size of this event. I thought it might be like the MN State fair or something. Ahh, no. In addition to the, what was it 14 main beer tents, there was a full-on carnival midway, amusement park rides, festival halls and showrooms displaying God knows what. I mean, this thing was big! And the people... I don't know if I've ever seen crowds like this. Not at the Taste of Chicago, not even at Bonnaroo. It was massive. On average, 6 million people visit the festival grounds each year during the 16 days leading up to the first Sunday in October. There were 5 million people there the day we showed up (or it seemed like it anyway) and 92% of them were in some varied stage of inebriation (except for the kids under the age of 11 and I'm not sure about all of them either).

The schedule was changed following German reunification in 1990 so that if the first Sunday in October is on the 1st or 2nd then the festival will go on until the October 3rd (German Unity Day). Thus, the festival is now 17 days when the first Sunday is on October 2nd and 18 days when it is on October 1st. And wouldn't you know it, this year October 1st happened to fall on a Sunday. We would have ample opportunity to sample the goings-on.

The first "Oktoberfest" took place on October 12, 1810 in commemoration of the marriage of Crown Prince Ludwig (later King Ludwig I) and Princess Therese of Saxe-Hildburghausen. The marriage took place on October 12th, the horse race on October 17th, therefore there are different dates named as being the first Oktoberfest.

The festival is held on an area named the Theresienwiese (field [or meadow] of Therese). A lot of people call it "d' Wiesn" for short. They serve beer at this event, if you hadn't heard and each year the festival begins with a keg of beer being tapped by the Mayor of Munich who declares "O'zapft is!" (the Sud Deutsch way of saying "It's tapped!"). A special Oktoberfest beer is brewed just for this time of year, which is a bit darker in color, has a stronger flavor and higher alcohol content. At the festival it is served in one-liter-mugs called Maß (pronounced mahss). Only local Munich breweries are allowed to serve this beer in the Bierzelt, beer tents which are large enough to hold thousands of people each. The six Oktoberfest breweries, (Spaten, Augustiner, Paulaner, Hacker-Pschorr, Hofbräu, Löwenbräu) sold 6.1 million mugs of beer in 2006. 30% of the year's production of beer by Munich breweries will be consumed in the two weeks of Oktoberfest.

As we entered the fairgrounds we passed vendors hawking pretzels the size of your head and giant gingerbread-type cookies (Lebküchen) inscribed with "Ich liebe dich" in colored icing. As we turned the corner I caught my first glimpse of the holy land - the Paulaner tent. This was the Munich brewery I was most familiar with before coming to Germany. We pressed on through thickening crowds until we were still about 50 yards from the entrance and it became painfully clear (literally) that we weren't getting inside. None of us really knew what to do, so we made our way around the side to an outdoor garden specializing in Weiß Bier. Not my favorite, but Amanda scored some seats at a picnic table there. It was just immensely crowded everywhere we looked. We ordered the smaller size (1/2 liter) beers and sat down in an attempt to plan our next move.

As we sat there, I noticed this little kid crawling beneath the table. He was obviously with the four chaps we were sitting next to. I know this because the little tyke was amusing himself by alternately punching each one of them in the nuts as he scrambled around down there. I'm not kidding. And he obviously found it quite entertaining. Needless to say, I spent the next 20 minutes in a very nervous state, legs firmly crossed, as I was sitting next to these guys and wasn't at all sure this kid would know one set of legs from the next.

Aside from this, the Weiß garden was nice enough, but we'd come to see the action inside the tents. So we decided to press on in hopes of finding one with vacancy. But it was not to be. By now the crowd had swelled to 8 million people with more coming all the while. We found our way to the entrance of the Augustiner tent - the same brew that Norbert had served me - only to find the same story; no room in the inn.

As Sean and I alternately bitched to each other about the situation and tried to figure out a new plan, Pia came over and informed us that if we gave this here bar maid (she pointed to her left and a hefty woman in a Dirndl smiled weakly for about a second and a half before returning to a dour countenance) 20-euro, she would provide us with safe passage into the tent. "You bribed her?" I said incredulously. "My God, I can't believe I didn't think of that! Pia, you're a genius." So I slipped her a twenty and we were spirited to the front of the line and then ushered inside to a table where our guide spoke to four young men. They took up a little less than half the length of the table and were already obviously over-served. Our waitress veritably screamed at them, "Raus!" With a little grumbling, they cleared out and we had our seats in the tent.

For the first minute I just tried to take it all in. There were easily a million people inside this thing. There were pine boughs with green and gold ribbons hung from the rafters and along the side walls. There was almost no end in sight. I had to squint to see the far side of the place. It was filled with row after row of the same picnic tables like the one at which we were seated. In the center was a raised band stand, though no musicians occupied it upon our arrival. Regardless, the noise level in there registered at about 10 decibels shy of a KISS concert.

We ordered our Maß - one each for Sean and I and one for Pia and Amanda to split - and settled in. This was it. The Olympic Games of beer drinking, what I'd been training for the past six weeks. As I began to make a dent in my first liter, Pia's maternal instincts kicked-in and she insisted I eat something. "Gee," I wondered, "will that even be possible? I mean, millions of Germans gathered together consuming mass quantities of beer - do you think they serve food too?" Sarcasm aside, these people eat like they've never heard of cholesterol and they're under the assumption that the world's supply of ground pork may be exhausted at any moment. What they have on offer is mostly traditional, hearty-fare like wurst (sausages), hendl (chicken), käsespätzle (cheese noodles), bretzen (pretzels) and sauerkraut, along with more exotic Bavarian delicacies like roast ox tails. Here are a few more interesting numbers for you - roasted oxen consumed: 102, sausages devoured: 219,443 pairs, roast chickens inhaled: 459,279 (that's whole chickens, mind you). There are 12,000 people employed at the festival. Of these, 1,600 are waitresses. There is available seating for 100,000 people. This is not like any State Fair in the U.S. This is a serious celebration.

A woman walked by with the aforementioned pretzels the size of my head, so I grabbed one, but this wasn't enough to satisfy Pia. I was ordered to eat more, so I asked for some of the Nuremburger wurst and sauerkraut. Man, were those little sausages good too.

By now, Sean and I were on our second liter and we had struck up a conversation with our tablemates. They were 5 guys and one woman, all extremely friendly. I mean, how could they not be, right? They'd arrived at 9:00 that morning to secure their seats in this tent. Yikes! That made our little bribery scheme seem all the more worthwhile. We had a good time just shooting the bull with them for a while, but pretty soon the band took the stage and it was on.

Things started to get a little cagey with the addition of music. Oh boy, do the Krauts like to sing. The drinking songs just started rolling and I found myself standing on the benches more than I sat on them. Third liter. I thought for sure we were gonna break one of those big glass mugs the way we were slamming them together to toast this and toast that. Then for some reason (fourth liter) I remember singing the national anthem (U.S. not Germany). Why was that again? Hmm. Fifth liter. There were a ton of characters in the joint, so Sean and I started passing my camera back and forth shooting some of the more colorful dudes and pretty girls. Sixth liter.

You hear a lot of stories from Oktoberfest. People seem to lose a lot of stuff. They recover 1,000's of lost cel. phones each year (German's call then handy's - wonder if that's because they're so convenient or 'cause they fit in one hand?), they find hundreds of sets of keys, a few children and, once, a prosthetic leg. I ask you, how do you get that drunk? "I say old chap, I do believe my leg's gone missing. Well, no matter. Another beer over here, what?" Seventh liter. The worst story I heard though happened this year.

During the first weekend of the festival some guy got so drunk that on his way home he felt sick, so he leaned over the edge of the rail platform to evacuate and as he did a train came along. He apparently never heard it for the locomotive took his head off. The dark side of this kind of party, I guess.

And there have been other dark incidents as well. September 26, 1980 at 10:19 PM, a pipe bomb was set off in a trash can at the showers near the main entrance. The bomb consisted of an empty fire extinguisher filled with 1.39 kilograms of TNT and mortar shells. Thirteen people were killed, over 200 were injured, 68 seriously. This was the worst terrorist attack in the history of Germany. The official inquiries found that a right-wing extremist Gundolf Köhler from Donaueschingen, a social outcast was the lone bomber. Apparently he wasn't a very good bomb maker though as he failed to get away in time and killed himself in the explosion. September 30, 1996 26 people were injured in a collision on the Eurostar roller coaster. October 2, 2001 85 people were injured in a riot by a group of intoxicated Austrians. Not so shocking that last one. I mean, the Austrians are like the hillbilly's of the German speaking world (no offense Pip). But they're fun to party with. At least until the riots start.

Well, at this point things start to get a little hazy. My recollection of events no longer exactly runs a straight line. Sean told me he was pretty sure he drank 5 liters that afternoon and pegged me at 7 or 8, so I'm going with 8. In any case, by this time the two of us were all smiles. Pia and Amanda had had enough of us though, so they went home to chat and knit and have tea or whatever it is girls do after Oktoberfest. Sean and I on the other hand did the sensible thing and headed downtown to find a bar. Looking back on it, I wish we had stayed to check out some of the other tents, but it was just so crowded we couldn't deal with it.

Now remember, I'm all duded-up in traditional German regalia, hat, knickers, the whole bit. And while this is perfectly acceptable and I fit right in at the festival, downtown...ah, not so much. I don't really remember the U-bahn ride too well. I recall emerging in the central square and an elevator ride to a lounge that overlooked the square. There was a table of cute German girls there who wanted nothing to do with us (shockingly). We left after one drink. This was followed, I believe, by some aimless walking for an indeterminate period of time until we came across another establishment that Sean deemed acceptable.

Once inside, we ordered cocktails and soon struck up a conversation with a pair of German fellas. They were nice enough guys (I think) and they spoke good English. All of a sudden - and what possessed him to do this I'll never know - Sean starts handing out shots of whiskey or tequilla or God-knows-what. "Where did these come from?" I managed to quip. "I ordered them," Sean replied. "Well, ok. I guess." But being the hospitable type, our new friends Wolfgang und Herman, or whatever, decided they needed to reciprocate. "Oh jeez. I don't know if I can..." Too late. They'd all raised their glasses and had begun to quaff. After that I remember very little. Brief snippets of a cab ride back to the suburbs. Was I just in a McDonald's? Oh yeah, must have been because now I'm wolfing down a quarter pounder with cheese. I mean a Royale with cheese.

I learned the next morning about some other fun stuff that had gone on and it (well, some of it) started to come back to me. There had been an attempt to gain access to an after party at the Hippodrome (or some such bar), which we were denied access to for unspecified, but wholly estimable reasons. Also, I had apparently taken a little tumble in the entryway of Pia & Norbert's condo, rousing at least one set of neighbors. "Ah, so that's how that bruise got there." Not my finest moment, per se, but Norbert kindly pretended he hadn't heard a thing. Amanda then told me that when we were eating our McDonald's in the kitchen, at one point, I laughed so hard that French fries came out my nose and I fell off my chair. Now that I definitely don't recall. C'est la vie.

The weird thing was that I was up and functioning then next morning hours before either Sean or Amanda and felt almost no ill effects from the previous night's festivities. In fact, Pia and I sat having coffee for almost an hour before rousing them so we could start breakfast. To be fair, they were both still jet lagged and I'd been 'training' for this for several weeks, so...

That day, Pia and Norbert gave us a guided tour of München. We began by driving down to the Deutsche Museum, a massive structure that looks like it could hold the history and technical records of the Germanic states form the time of Attila to the present day. Indeed it is so large that Norbert told us it would take days to see it all, so we just strolled through the courtyard instead on our way to the river Isar and then up to the old city bath house (see pic.). It was a beautiful old building with stunning details inside and out. And it's still in use today. Next we drove past the old Parliament building (magnificently grand) into the city center. We parked near the National Theatre and saw the former Royal Residenze next door, taking a minute to admire the interior courtyard.

We then made our way to the Odeonsplatz, a regal square housing a monument to...what? I can't remember. Some victory over some other state I think. Norbert really was a terrific guide for us. He knew all this stuff, but there was just so much information. From where we stood there was also a great view down a long avenue which exemplified the Italianate style of architecture that Müncheners adopted as their own. To the right of the monument and dominating the Odeonsplatz is the Theatinerkirche. It was built between 1663 and 1690, by Elector Ferdinand Maria and his wife, Henriette Adelaide of Savoy, as a gesture of thanks for the birth of the long-awaited heir to the Bavarian crown, Prince Max Emanuel, in 1662.
The church was built in Italian high-baroque style after San Andrea del Valle in Rome and designed by the Italian architect Agostino Barelli. Succeeding him was Enrico Zuccalli who added two towers that had not been included in the original design. He also finished the 71 meter high center dome in 1690. The facade is in the rococo style and was finished later, in 1768 by François de Cuvilles. The Mediterranean exterior with its pale yellow coloring belies the serenity within.

The entirety of the interior is near monochromatic. There is rich white stucco decoration everywhere which exudes a remarkably placid consciousness. Norbert explained to us how the Italian artisans were hired to remain in residence for years to complete this masterpiece. It was just the most unique church I think I saw on the entire trip.
We decided it was time to grab a cup of coffee, so we found a little café with a nice courtyard and sat down to enjoy a short break. We then pressed on to the east to see a small Orthodox church. It was dark and ancient feeling, but cozy too. And then we came to the big daddy (or mama, I guess) the Frauenkirche.

Literally translated this means Church of our Lady. Its domed, twin towers dominate the city's skyline. While impressive in stature, I didn't find it nearly as appealing inside as the other smaller structures we had just seen. There was something very impersonal about it.
I should mention that between church visits we had been passing through small lanes and large avenues alike containing gorgeous old buildings of all shapes and sizes. Munich really is a remarkable town. We passed by the top hotel in the city where Presidents and Popes stay. In fact, the Pope had just been in town and Norbert showed us the security markings on the manhole covers. They really leave no stone unturned when it comes to his security these days. We went by a small art gallery with some very cool statues out front that looked like people made of corrugated cardboard (see pic.). We strolled impressive shopping lanes. It was a very nice walk indeed.

By now, we were all feeling a bit peckish, so we decided to go for lunch. Norbert steered us to Augustiner's first-rate restaurant cum beer hall a few blocks from the Marienplatz. This is the same local brewer whose tent we camped out in for Oktoberfest the day before, which was fine by me as I'd become a big fan of their wares. Norbert suggested that Sean and I try the Weißwürste mit süß Senf (white sausages with sweet mustard). He told us they were a Munich specialty and we really must sample them. And as usual, he was right. They were great.

I think we may have seen a few more points of cultural interest around the Marienplatz after lunch, but what I remember most was our stop later that afternoon at the famous Hofbräuhaus. The place is huge with table after table reaching back through three or four rooms at least 200 yards deep. Plus, there's an outdoor Biergarten in the courtyard. We settled in at one of the rough wooden tables with benches to match. The dark wood surfaces have all been scratched to a lighter shade with engravings of names, dates and, indubitably, very witty German phrases. Sean and I each ordered a liter of the Dunkels Bier as we hadn't really had much, if any, dark beer in the past couple of days. It was very tasty - one of our favorites I think.

It takes a while to drink a liter of beer, or at least it should, which we had learned the day before, so we sat and had a nice chat the five of us. Pia explained to us the general history of the place and the concept of the Stamtisch. There are special tables at the Hofbräu which on certain nights of the week are reserved for locals hailing from various neighborhoods and surrounding areas of Munich. So each Stamtisch is a mini gathering place for your 'hood. Pretty cool concept. After not too long the place started to feel like home. "I could get used to hanging out here."

As we drove back to their place, Norbert called to our attention several more points of interest including, the BMW headquarters building and the Olympic Stadium, both quite arresting sights.

After a little R&R we cleaned ourselves up and went out for dinner. They took us to the Paulaner restaurant/brew house which was not too far from their place. It was another typical affair much like the Hofbräuhaus, very warm and inviting with a convivial atmosphere and lots of people in high spirits. Sean and I split some Leberkäse to start and I ordered the Spanferkal (baby roast boar) with Blaukraut und Kartofelknödeln (red cabbage and potato dumplings). Mmmm. Sean had his first experience with Schweinshaxe (the same pork knuckles I wrote about when I was in Garmisch). I don't think he was quite sure about it when his plate first arrived, but once he dug in he really enjoyed it. Even if he did skip the best part, the crispy outer skin. Oh well, he got a real taste of Germany that night.

The next day Amanda had to catch a flight up to Finland for her meetings, so we screwed around downtown a bit and then bid her farewell. Sean and I went in search of the only fitting souvenir we could think of to help us recall our time in Munich - beer steins. It was not an easy choice either, let me tell you. There were stores with walls full of the things. Some of them, hand made and hand painted, ranged into the hundreds of dollars. We each finally selected one after nearly an hour of perusing. Our good friend Rick, back in Chicago, had just moved into a new condo, so we (along with Amanda chipping in) decided we'd pick one up for him as well as a house warming gift. Sean was good enough to cart them all back to the States along with 10 or 12 collectible glasses he'd purchased for his team at work. What a good boss!

We really didn't do a whole lot else after that. We had some nice time to relax and chat with Pia and Norbert that evening. He and I bonded over our mutual admiration of Bob Dylan and we shared a last bottle (or two) of that wonderful Augustiner Oktoberfest brew which I had, by now, fallen in love with. I wish I could get my hands on that stuff Stateside, but they don't ship a drop over here.

The next morning Norbert drove Sean and me to the S-bahn. We bid him adieu and thanked him heartily for all of their hospitality. Pia and Norbert were two of the best human beings I met throughout my travels and I enjoyed spending time with both of them. As we walked toward the entrance to the rail station the sun was coming up in the east. Its rays were exploding out of a bank of clouds lying low on the horizon in the most brilliant hues of magenta, orange and yellow. The sky literally looked like it was on fire and I knew it was going to be a good day.

I was on my way to the Hauptbahnhof where I would catch a train to Füssen for the day to see the castle Neuschwanstein and then return to Munich to catch an overnighter to Prague. Sean was on his way to catch a plane to Paris and then back to Milwaukee. We each stood on a platform on either side of the tracks and yelled across our final goodbyes as my train pulled in first. It had been great to spend some time with friends. After all, this is what I had been pining for in Valencia, to share this trip with people I care about. But oddly enough, as that train pulled out, I was just as excited to get back to exploring on my own.

It was then that I realized I had really made the transition, that I had really become comfortable with myself in a way I never had been before. It wasn't hard to transition back to spending time with Sean and Amanda. Like I said, I really enjoyed seeing them. By the same token though, I did not have any trouble moving on to my next destination alone.

In 2010 it will be the 200th anniversary of the Oktoberfest. Mark your calendars boys for September 18th thru October 3rd.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1190998800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1190998800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danschedler/europe-2006/1190998800/tpod.html Sat, 24 Feb 2007 17:48:53 -0500 Corporate Dropout; An Extended Respite from Climbing the Ladder or 1,001 Ways to Live in the Moment

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Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany

September 27-28

I said good-bye to Austria when my train crossed over into Germany on the way to Garmisch-Partenkirchen. The rain, although light, followed me the whole way - about an hour's trip, maybe two but certainly not more. It was only a short walk to my hotel from the train station, so the rain didn't bother me too much. When I arrived, I learned that my room was not yet ready, so I stowed my bags at the desk, grabbed my umbrella and went to go look around in the rain. I decided to not even take my camera. "What's the use with this weather?"

My sole intention in coming here was to see the Zugspitze, Germany's highest Alpine peak. However, as I walked from the hotel toward the main streets of Partenkirchen, there was no way to even tell I was surrounded by soaring mountain peaks. I couldn't see more than 300 or 400 meters in front of me, much less what might lay past the outskirts of town.

The next evening I was scheduled to meet the people I would be staying with in München and I wanted make it to Füssen in the morning to visit the famous castle Neuschwanstein, so I just resigned myself to the fact that I would have to come back some other time to see what this part of the world was really like.

Garmisch and Partenkirchen are actually two towns next to each other which, these days, are almost always referred to together in a hyphenated fashion. Kinda like Minneapolis/St. Paul, but on a slightly different scale. So, I was heading toward the Partenkirchen side, which had some really quaint little streets with traditional half-timber buildings set at the foothills of the unseen mountains. I scoped-out a restaurant to return to that night and then spied a sidewalk sale at a traditional German clothier.

A plan began to formulate. In just a couple of days I would be with my friends Sean and Amanda in Munich for Oktoberfest. What better way to fit in than to wear what the locals wear. The two of them would certainly be surprised and I'm sure they'd get a kick out of it. I tried on a pair of Lederhosen, but the leather shorts and suspenders combos are surprisingly expensive; even when on sale. Instead, I found a pair of the traditional knee length shorts made of corduroy, some long Strumpf (socks) and a Hemd (shirt) in a traditional, festival style (see pic.). The shirt even had a couple of little embroidered beer mugs on the breast pockets. I tried on the outfit and took a look in the mirror. "They're gonna howl."

I'd pretty much exhausted my options in Partenkirchen by this point, so I headed back toward the hotel and found an internet point to finish off a travelogue. Technical setbacks kept me there way longer than I'd planned, but finally I got everything uploaded. When I went back to the hotel to check-in, I got a nice surprise.

The very reasonable rate that I had secured online for this, one of the best hotels in town I later learned, got even better when I was informed that I was being upgraded to a Jr. Suite. I had no idea why and I wasn't arguing. The room was massive compared to most of the joints I'd been staying at. There was a separate bedroom and sitting area with a dining table and love seat next to the mini-bar and beyond that, French doors that opened out onto a courtyard. I think it spoiled me into booking better accommodations the rest of the way, but I had been pretty frugal to this point, so why not?

As I walked to dinner that night I came upon a stoplight and the "Don't Walk" sign was illuminated. Now, Garmisch is the kind of place where people will always wait to cross the street because that's what the sign says to do. No matter that no cars have driven by in the past fifteen minutes, nor that one can plainly see, for three or four miles in either direction, that there are no cars on the horizon. The chances of being run down by a speeding motorist were exactly zero. But the sign said "Don't Walk" or "Gehen Sie nicht" or whatever, so they didn't. I think they were ready to brand me a heretic and take me to the Inquisitors when I stepped to the edge and, after a quick glance, proceeded on my way across the intersection. Luckily, by rule, they couldn't follow to haul me in. I was two blocks away by the time the light changed.

That night I had one of the best traditional German-cuisine dinners of my life. I started with Lebersknödlesuppe, followed by Schweinshaxe mit Sauerkraut und Spätzle. If you don't know what any of that stuff is, then you probably don't want to know, but to me it was pure heaven. It was made even better by the accompaniment of a deep amber Paulaner Oktoberfest bier (or two). I had really enjoyed the food in Austria and this meal turned out to be a great start for Germany as well.

It occurred to me that when this trip ended I should look back and try to rank my top meals, but this one surely qualified for top 10 consideration. And at a ridiculous 17-euro, all-in, it was probably the best value of the bunch too. I think I'll have to change the subtitle of this travelogue to, "1,001 Ways to EAT Your Way Across Europe."

The next morning I literally leapt out of bed when I opened my eyes and saw the sun shining brightly through the French doors. I could hardly believe it. I dressed quickly and stepped outside, still in bare feet. It was perfect; crisp morning air and hardly a cloud in the sky - the antithesis of the day before. The mountains encircled me and they were spectacular, rugged and snow peaked as I'd seen in countless photos and as I'd imagined them the day before when hidden from view.

I immediately formulated a new plan. I didn't have to be in Munich until that evening and I could always try to visit Füssen later. Maybe Sean and Amanda would even want to spend one day trekking out there to see the castle and we could all go together. So that gave me all day to explore the mountains here in this glorious sunshine. After a quick breakfast at the hotel, I stowed my gear with the desk like I had done the previous day except this time I made sure to keep my camera with me. I got directions to a hiking trail that would lead me to the Wankbahn (the ski lift-like cable cars that ascend the peak opposite the Zugspitze).

It was a pretty walk with great views of mountainside churches tucked into the forest and the towns unfolding below as I climbed higher. The birds were singing and the smell of the pine trees all around was life affirming. If you've spent any amount of time in the woods while growing-up, you know what I mean.

The cable ride took me up to 1780 meters and some of the most breathtaking scenery I've encountered since I trekked through the Andes. There's something about mountains that is awe inspiring in a way nothing else in nature can really compare to (for me). It's the size, I think. They're so majestic. Particularly so with the Alps. Actually, the ride took longer than I thought it would. At the halfway point there was a relay station and I almost got out of the car before realizing I wasn't at the top yet.

When I did get off the tram, I immediately noticed how low the clouds were hanging (or I guess how high up we were). Seemingly just over the hill in front of me there was a bank of them, so I set off chasing clouds. As I went, I passed this cute little old couple sitting on a bench reading (see pic.). Not a bad place to enjoy your morning newspaper, I thought. They were atop the crown of a hill with nothing around but the light clouds welling up behind them.

There were families coming and going along the pathways and lots of serious Alpine walkers with the ski poles and the whole bit. I sat on a bench for a bit under a little wooden A-frame shelter and just took in the view of the Zugspitze which was on the opposite side of the valley from me with Garmisch-Partenkirchen between us. The peak I was gazing at soars to over 2,900 meters and is rivaled on every side by bergs nearly that tall. As I sat there I was reassured of the Creator's existence. There's just no way beauty of this magnitude happens by accident. I also started to think about some of the changes I could see taking place within me.

Before, a situation like the rain-out in Innsbruck and the first day here in Garmisch would have engendered a real bitch-fest, even if only in muttering forms under my breath and to myself. "Why does this have to happen to ME?" But I hadn't felt any of that. I just made another plan and moved on. After all, I could always come back to any of these places someday if I want to, right? It may sound pedantic to others, I don't know, but it felt like growth to me.

Anyway, I took up the hike again and as I rounded a bend I caught the clouds I had been chasing. I walked through the dense fog a little ways and decided to head back around to the other side of the hill from where I had come. I preferred the sunshine. Very curious how a matter of a couple hundred yards made the difference between dark and light. Curious, but not coincidental I don't think.

I made my way up to the hilltop restaurant that had fabulous 360° views and ordered some wieners with kraut and a Löwenbrau (yeah, that stuff still exists over there and it's really good too). By now the place was starting to get crowded with a mixture of families, middle age tour groups and a surprising number of apparent students, some of whom it looked like had actually hiked up to this point. The Wankbahn had been a good fifteen minute ride easy, up a serious incline the whole way. Wonder how long it would take to walk it?

I headed back to town and walked toward the station where the train departs for the Zugspitze. Unfortunately, I missed the last one for the day by about ten minutes. Oh well, a reason to come back here come day. I kicked around in Garmisch a little longer admiring the half timber architecture and beautiful mountains framing the background until it was time to collect my gear from the hotel and make for the train to Munich.

What had started as a washout visit had turned into one of the most beautiful serene and reflective days of the entire trip. Which just goes to show you, the storms in our lives always pass and the sun shines that much more brightly afterwards because of them.
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