The Romantic Rhine (sans girlfriends)

The first part of this photo album has images from our day on the Rhine. Soon I'll let you in on our adventures in the Netherlands, but first Deutschland!

After a surprisingly restful night’s sleep on our upholstered barber’s chairs, we stepped off the train in Cologne ready to see a huge cathedral and a few castles. We had to hustle, though. It was 6AM, peak time for tourist traffic at the Dom.

But first, we had to stow our luggage. We wandered the Cologne station searching for the standard locker bays, but only found a short row of terminals fronted with mini-garage doors and the “locker” icon. We sized up the contraption, weighing the benefits of dropping our gear against an innate fear of new technology. Eventually we rounded up enough change to stuff our luggage in the garage door. After taking our money, the door closed and mechanized noises rattle from within. Then the door popped open again, ready for the next duffel bag. Apparently there’s a vast Swiss-bank-like network of storage containers under the Cologne train station with a giant claw hovering over your deposited luggage. I briefly considered investigating this novel world of infrastructure by climbing through the door, but decided I would rather see the Romantic Rhine.

The cathedral confronts you as soon as you exit the train station. It’s impressive every time.

We walked around the building and found out it was open for visitors and 7AM mass was about to get underway at the Marian Chapel. So, as the organist performed the opening hymn on a small, piano-sized organ, we squeezed into the pews of the chapel off to the side of the main alter.

The Marian Chapel is so named for the ornate altar that depicts the arrival of the magi (a popular theme in the cathedral that houses their relics) at Mary and Jesus’s feet. An art museum argued the altar was too delicate to remain in the cathedral. The church wanted to keep it to use for worship. The court decided to let the Dom hang onto the precious piece of art as long as the church actually put it to use. So now they are legally required to say Mass in front of it at least once a day.

Apparently they opt to use it for the early mass so only the truly dedicated (read “old”) can appreciate the masterpiece of the Late Medieval Kölner school. We raised a few skeptical eyebrows as we took our places near the front of the chapel. The Sign of Peace was not extended to these youthful intruders.

At 8AM we finished wandering the cathedral and were on our way south. We kept checking our watches to make sure it was really that early. No one can accuse of us wasting a moment on that useless enemy of active tourism: sleep.

We hopped off the train in the small town of Bacharach. On one side of the town is the noble Rhine River. On the other are the steep, slate slopes overgrown with vineyards. The town was first settled in Roman times and earned its name “Bacchus’s Altar” for its prolific wine production. Looming over the vines is the stately Stahleck castle whose foundations go back at least a millennium. I really don’t get tired of typing statements like that.

My ankle was feeling flexible, so we walked through the old Medieval gate in search of a path to the castle. It’s a pretty popular tourist stop, so we figured it would be well marked. As soon as we veered from the quaint fachwerk drag of town, we were rapidly in the burbs. We could still see the castle, but couldn’t figure out how to get up there without crossing through a few yards.

We started to follow a small sidewalk that crossed a stream that once washed all the town’s garbage out to the river and saw signs for a youth hostel that was also uphill. We followed the signs. After a couple switchbacks we had a commanding view of the valley and realized the youth hostel signs were leading us into the castle. We crossed a drawbridge and discovered we could have stayed in a turret for a few euros. I guess no self-respecting older guest would want to slog up a hill for their bed.

A small Medieval fair was underway and people in leather armor were sipping coffee and shooting arrows. Perfect. We explored the castle, including a great hall that was decorated with the coat-of-arms of just about every city on the Rhine. Bonn and Cologne made an appearance along with Bacharach and Boppard.

We crossed through the main gate and up to a defensive wall that gave us these views of the river:

It was worth the hike. Looking down at the river though, I had a desire to get to the shore and onto a boat.

As we climbed down from the castle’s perch we saw Werner’s chapel, a Gothic ruin of a church that was dedicated to St. Werner. According to a Medieval legend, a traveler found the butchered body of young Werner on his way to Bacharach. The body smelled of violets and was undisturbed by wild animals. The butchering was blamed on Jews and the sweet smell was chalked up to God.

The locals built a soaring Gothic church over the spot and interred the body of the boy in its foundations. Eventually a bishop got word of Werner’s beautification and the pilgrims who were visiting his grave. This bishop thought the story of Werner’s “martyrdom” a little weird and stopped the beautification process. No more St. Werner and no more Gothic church. The ruin is picturesque though.

On our way through town we grabbed a bottle of Riesling made from the vineyards immediately behind us. The woman at the register of the small wine shop gave us a knowing nod when we asked her to pop the cork and lend us a few plastic cups. We then hustled to the kebab place across the street to grab some quick take-out food. The Döner is a Turkish/German mash-up that’s essentially a gyro with cabbage: lamb meat from a pole, tomatoes, a yogurt sauce, and slaw. Of course, we picked a place that bakes its own bread for your sandwich. This would normally be a welcome addition to the döner kebab, but we had a boat to catch. We anxiously watched the clock and scrutinized the bizarre pictures of giant grouses fighting in a stream, and a woman lassoing white horse - I can only assume these are idyllic images of Turkey - while our bread baked.

Finally, with only minuets to spare we bolted from the shop with our warm flatbread and wine and clamored aboard the H.M.S. Boppard. Our rail passes covered the ride, and we found a table near the front where we could see both castle-littered banks of the river. We toasted the river and set to our lunch.

In mid-bite I was interrupted by the a scowling waiter. Pointing at the bar on deck he declared. “No eating. This is a restaurant.” I thought about pointing out his obvious contradiction, then decided it probably wouldn't fulfill the Fulbright mission of extending positive impressions of Americans. We packed away our food and wine brought from outside and scurried to the other end of the boat, away from his disapproving glare. We didn’t want any of his overpriced food or beverages. We would wait to enjoy the rest of our lunch on shore. For the moment we would just enjoy the castles.

Periodically a series of timed, recorded announcements in German, French, English, Italian, Spanish, and Japanese would let us know what we were seeing on each bank. The announcement failed to point out the gathering grey clouds. Just as we neared the Lorelei, the narrowest section of the river that was said to be haunted by an alluring river spirit who would coax sailors to their death on the rocks, the heavens opened and we retreated to the sumptuous lower deck. There we watched the towns and castles from the comfort of a dry table. Coffee was deemed a necessary purchase even though the day was still young.

The rain petered out and I got to stand over the noble Rhine with the wind in my hair one more time before we disembarked in Boppard. As soon as our shoes hit shore, the deluge started all over again and we found shelter in a conveniently placed Carmelite church. As in Zurich, we evaluated the interior for exactly as long as the heavy rain lasted. Then it was back into the streets in search of the train station. Dripping red cabbage juice from our döner kebab sandwiches we could finally finish lunch as we waited for the train north. Mike is a fan of Beethoven, and there is one city every Beethoven fan should visit for roughly an hour: Bonn. I would briefly be home.

In the warm comfort of the train we could watch even more castles go by and Mike and Tim got to listen to my running commentary on the un-romantic Rhine that begins north of the city of Koblenz (the confluence of the Mosel and Rhine rivers). When we got to the former capital of Western Germany I lead Mike and Tim directly to the scowling centerpiece of the city: Beethoven’s statue. We also ducked into the Münsterbasilica (Münster means “Head” or “Chief” by the by) to see the ancient, chunky basilica - my home parish - then rolled on to Beethoven’s birthplace. We didn’t have time to actually take a tour though. I have yet to make this Bonner pilgrimage through the home of the Romantic composer. I keep waiting for a visitor who has the interest and time. Next weekend, maybe.

Humming the 9th, we turned and went back to the train station. We were really getting our money’s worth out of the rail passes. Unfortunately there was a stamping error on Mike’s and he had to get the mistake corrected at the customer service desk at the Bonn station. All wrongs were made right with three new stamps. It’s not official in Germany until at least two stamps have been applied, so we knew Mike’s pass was extra official with a third.

In Cologne we plugged in our code and our luggage miraculously appeared behind the garage door. Vowing I would find out more about this system, we turned to the tracks leading north. With a “Tschüss” to Germany, we set our sights on the Dutch. In three hours we would be in the international capital of tulips, pot-heads, and 'dam jokes: Amsterdam.

Until then enjoy the first part of this album!

Rheinisch Roving

The first part of this photo album has images from the Rhineland as described below. The second part is from my visit to the former East to see Kes in her temporary home of Leipzig. More details to go with those pictures will appear tomorrow.

Now for a bit of change of pace, or at least location. It’s time to travel north from the sunny, olive oil soaked landscapes of the Italian Peninsula to the verdant asparagus fields of Germany. After two weeks with my brother, I had to buckle down and work on mammalian diversity at the end of the Jurassic. You are fortunately saved from a discussion of my difficulties with morphometrics by a one Kes S-.

Kes and I met in high school and shared a mutual love of Jim Henson’s Labyrinth, and more recently a mutual love of Carolyn (they’ve been friends since high school as well). In a crazy twist of destiny we also both found a deep and abiding love of dead animals and a way to study them in Germany. She’s interested primarily in human evolution and received a grant to study early human teeth at the Max Plank Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology in Leipzig for a couple of weeks. Naturally plans were made to meet and wander, two of my favorite activities of the moment.

Kes arrived late on a Friday night, but we share a common travel philosophy – Sleep when you’re dead…or on the ride back home – and we were up for a big breakfast and a train to Cologne bright and early the next morning.

Of course the major attraction of the city is the Dom and Kes was duly impressed by the Medieval and Renaissance art inside and the plentiful gargoyles and saints outside. One of the entertainment offerings provided by the Cologne Cathedral is a 509 step climb to the top of the southern the bell tower. I had been delaying this climb until a willing visitor arrived who really wanted to give his or her lower extremities a workout. Kes was onboard for the expedition.

We started in the church’s crypt, but quickly spiraled up several stories. Our progress was made more laborious – and maybe more dangerous – by an opposing flow of traffic as people descended once again. We hugged the right side of the staircase which meant we were dealing with a sliver of stone for a toehold and ladder-like pumping with our legs. Fortunately we could move to the left when traffic cleared. I’m glad I climbed those stairs now. If I had delayed it any longer I would probably need to give up the ascent due to faulty knees or hips.

We emerged from the stairs just below the lattice-work spire, looking out through paneless windows at the man-made peak above. The next flight of stairs was an open set of glorified steel scaffolding that rose to an observation platform at the top. Anyone with even a mild-case of vertigo would need to take a deep breath to climb such soaring stairs that are left open on both sides of the walker.

We topped out 150 meters above the city slightly winded but ready for a view. Really, getting close to the upper reaches of the cathedral was the best part of the climb where we scrutinized the delicate spires and gargoyles that are barely discernable from the ground. From 157 plus meters above the Rhine, I could practically see my dormitory. I could certainly see the Siebengeburg, the range of mountains across the river from Bonn that I run through when I have the time and a clear day. Laying all that geography at my feet gave me a sense of ownership over my home. Giving a tour to Kes helped, too.

I next took her to Früh, a Kölsch brewery near the Cathedral. They serve solid Rhineish cuisine and fresh, cold beer. As we approached the beer garden we could hear raised, angry voices.

FC Köln, the city soccer team whose colors are red and white, had a playoff game against someone who wore blue. A guy in a blue jersey was seated at a table with his girlfriend and about six other people. A guy in a red shirt was yelling at the Blue. His friends grabbed him by the arms and tried to haul him away, but he shook them off and jumped into Blue-shirt’s face. Garbled words were exchanged, collars were grabbed, and Blue-shirt grabbed a glass of beer and flung it into Red-shirt’s face. Red-shirt swore, shook himself, and swept his arms across the table, gathering all the glasses in his reach and flung everything – glass and liquid – at Blue-shirt. Blue-shirt grabbed an empty, rolling glass, and hurled it at red-shirt’s head. Then the waiters stepped in. The only casualty? One of the women at the table was nursing a sore spot on her head. There were no apologies.

There are two aspects of this scene I find important. First, everyone stood around and basically watched it all play out. Even the waiters who lost a couple of glasses in the exchange. There was an implicit understanding that these men from opposing teams had something to work out. This leads me to number two. There’s a common belief that American sport fandom is rabid and bar fights over football teams an immature way to vent frustration. This is true, but it’s not uniquely American. It’s an entrenched part of European football culture. Fights are supposed to happen. It means you’re actually a fan. I’ll let you muse on the maturity of each continent’s fans while I move on to food and castles.

We enjoyed a few glasses of Kölsch – it’s served in 0.2 L glasses to ensure it’s always cold and “a few” really doesn’t amount to much – and our wurst with sauerkraut. Then it was time to move downriver. The Rhine River, between Cologne and Mainz is littered with castles. Local landowners would fight for precious real estate along the river, leaving each other’s homes as Romantic ruins to be rediscovered by tourists centuries later. Near the city of Koblenz, at the confluence of the Mosel River and the Rhine, sits the near perfect fortress abode of Burg Eltz. My parents visited the castle (per Rick Steves’ recommendation) back in April and made me promise I would make the trip.

We got off the train in the tiny town of Moselkern and hiked through the village and into the woods in search of our Fairy Tale destination. The signs ran out right when we reached a fork. We chose not to cross the bridge towards a small restaurant and started slogging up a steep hill. This was supposed to be an easy hike, but we were getting winded. It didn’t help we had climbed 509 steps earlier.

A couple decked out in Germany hiking/battle attire with hiking poles and short-shorts appeared above us on the trail. “Excuse me, is this the way to Burg Eltz?” The man looked like I had grown an extra head. “No, Burg Eltz is over there!” He waved vaguely down slope and to the right. Down we went, needing one more pointer. “It’s behind the restaurant.” Oh, naturally. The Germans would set up a cute café along a hiking trail.

After ducking behind the dumpster, we found an idyllic stream and knew we were on the right path. Through a break in the trees ahead of us the 1,000 year old castle finally appeared. Over the years member of the three families that share the property have tacked on new additions, but not once was the place conquered. Many have tried and on the tour they showed us battered armor to prove it. The castle was the perfect example of what life in a “normal” castle would be like. I’ve taken tours through huge imperial palaces, but here a local lord worked his serfs and political savvy to hang onto a strategic trade route.

The interior was outfitted with ornately painted frescos and fine woodcarving. It wasn’t all opulent. More utilitarian. Castles were fortresses and this one held off catapults and cannon fire through the centuries. We made sure to take plenty of pictures of the ideal mediaeval castle come to life. Sure King Ludwig II built Neuschwanstein as the quintessential Fairy Tale castle, but Burg Eltz wasn’t constructed by a Romantic with too much cash. It’s an authentic, beautiful window into a lifestyle that died off with the dragons and chivalry.


We hiked back into town, hoping to find a quaint winestube somewhere in the village. None was available in one of the most productive wine regions in Germany, so we decided to head out and eat back in Bonn. Of course there was an accident on the rail lines, and we were stranded along with a twenty-person cycling team. They dejectedly walked towards the village in their spandex and riding shoes while pointing us in the direction of a cabbie near the station. She would drive us to Koblenz to catch a train home, and the German Rail system would reimburse the expense for the inconvenience. The check for the cab fare arrived last week as a testament to the blazing efficiency of the Germans when they really put their collective minds behind infrastructure management.

By the time we finally got back into town, the restaurants were either packed, or not serving food anymore. We were starving and ended up at “Taco’s” a German/Mexican restaurant. I’m generally leery of the combination, but my burrito was actually really good, if not particularly spicy. I still needed to get some Rheinish wine into Kes before she headed East again. We would have to wait until morning to see if Riesling was in the cards.

At the top of our list the next day was an excursion to the Rheinisches Landesmuseum in Bonn, a small but very modern display of all things found and done in the Rhine Valley over the last couple of millennia. One of their prize objects is the skeleton of the first Neanderthal ever discovered and described. It was yanked out of the Neader Valley near Düsseldorf in 1856, right before Mr. Darwin’s best selling book hit the shelves. When you’re showing an aspiring paleoanthropologist around Bonn, you need to show her the guy that started it all.

The museum also features a collection of art and sculpture and a temporary exhibit on battles and architecture through the last millennium. Scale models of castles and cities were on display, populated by literally thousands of tiny figures, each in the midst of action. I can’t begin to comprehend how many hours were spent sculpting each tiny figure and painting it with historic accuracy, but it certainly held the attention of two bone-focused paleontologists for about an hour.

A tiny shopping district in 13th century Damascus. The figures are roughly two inches tall.

Crusaders setting sail for Jerusalem at a minuscule scale.

After a walk past Beethoven’s scowling statue, and a quick peek into the Münsterbasilica, we finally settled into a café with an extensive Rheinish wine list. With plenty of seasonal greens in our stomachs and wine in our heads, we said good-bye on the platform, promising to try to meet one more time before Kes headed out of town. Fortunately, I had the next weekend free…
The photo album again with plenty of views of the Burg.

Where’s the beach?

One of the reasons I study geology is because you are required to get outside. It’s not enough to sit in a classroom and look at pictures of outcrops and sedimentary structures. A framed image never tells you the full story. You have to stand at the locality and take it all in: the modern topography, the tectonic structures, and the fossils and rocks in their original cozy home. The only way to absorb the full geological context of a site is to go. One of the universal signs of spring is the departure of geology classes for the hills, and earlier this month I got to do exactly that.

For two days I joined a group of twenty German undergraduates and graduate students who followed Dr. Martin to the outcrops of the Mainz Basin, a geological feature near Frankfurt (and Mainz). I’ll admit the prospect of the trip was slightly terrifying. Two full days of German technical speak. I have taken several German geology classes and regularly attend the department seminars in German, but I always get to cheat a little by extrapolating the speaker’s intention from his Powerpoint slides.

On a geology fieldtrip you roll up to a locality, pile out of the bus or vans and the professor starts talking. No visual aid beyond waving hands and the rocks in the background. This could be rough. Fortunately Vincent was along for the ride as well. We have bonded over our wanting German skills. We would continue to do so for the duration of the trip.

When I arrived bright and early to pile onto the department bus, I made the poor decision to sit in the front where I assumed Dr. Martin and Dr. Ruf would be situated so I could ask a few clarifying questions in English if necessary. I accidently sat where the equipment had to be stored, and had to troop to the back corner of the bus, far from sympathetic translators, wedged between two pairs of friends who didn’t seem particularly warm with their companions, let alone a stranger.

I tried introducing myself to these droopy undergraduates with an “Ich bin Matt.” They mumbled their names and faced forward. So much for making new friends on the bus or exercising a little German small talk vocabulary.

In the States when we need to find a way to overlook a valley or outcrop, we stand on a highway overpass or a fire tower. In Germany, you climb a castle.

At our first stop we piled out of the bus in an expansive field overlooking a shallow valley. We climbed up a Napoleonic tower and Dr. Martin launched into a basic introduction to the area’s Miocene geology (roughly 20 million years ago). I followed as long as we were using the images in our packets, but then he started a lecture that involved his hands rapidly rising and falling and many new vocabulary words. Suddenly he stopped with an interrogative tone and looked around expectantly. He had asked a question. No one was responding. I couldn’t fathom what he was quizzing us on.

Normally when a teacher asks a question and there is such a lull, I fill the void. Yeah, I’m that guy, but there are few things I hate more than the anxious atmosphere that follows a question no one wants to answer, but everyone knows will be answered by the sap the professor calls out against his will. I looked around the tower, mentally urging someone to break the silence. Dr. Martin caught my eye. Crap.

“Matthew, where do you think the beach is?” What? We’re talking about beaches? Come to think of it, I really wanted to find one far from that tower at that exact moment. “Uh, near the shore?” (I couldn’t tell you why the ocean is near that though, for that insight I would need a brain). “No, it’s near the bridge.” And he pointed towards a distant highway crossing. Hmm, not quite where I thought the beach was.

In that moment Dr. Martin had outed me as both a native-English speaker and a possible illiterate moron. I felt like I should turn to the rest of the group and explain, “Yeah, I’m American, and I don’t really understand what’s going on, but you guys do, and it would be nice if you would just man up and answer the guy’s question. ‘Kay, thanks, bye.”

For the rest of the excursion, Dr. Martin would helpfully follow every outcrop lecture with the English phrase, “Do you understand Matthew?” I would often lie saying I did. My pride wouldn’t allow otherwise. I would then ask carefully worded questions for clarification that didn’t belie my ignorance.

A really famous group of rocks that has a bunch of clam and snail fossils. It also has these holes that are produced by rays that move across the sediment and blow puffs of air, hoping to scare up some microscopic meals. Obviously I needed to ask for a translation of this explanation.

A manatee rib exposed in a boulder. The German manatee has all kinds of band name potential.

A picture of the whole manatee skeleton that you can see at a local museum. The plastic sign was transparent so you could more easily imagine the skeletal creature swimming through sandstone.

One of the problems I had to deal with was the German geological vocabulary I had never encountered before. My classes have taught me the German names for dozens of obscure animals, but very little about obscure Geological phenomena. Because Geology as a science developed independently in England, France, and Germany, each country has its own technical vocabulary for describing outcrop that is derived from centuries of mining know-how. Where a chemist or physicist can pick up on technical jargon discussed by a German, a geologist needs to learn the German adjectives for describing the grain sizes of sand, or the texture of clay. This made my translating efforts a little more ponderous.

I would make efforts to chat with other students in German or in English. Thankfully, the graduate students I already knew from the institute would joke with me and also help explain what was going on, but otherwise the Germans I didn’t know remained quiet and distant. How they manage to make new friends, I will never fully understand.

We walked between the vine rows searching for concretions, round chunks of rock that often form around organic remains. You crack them open like Easter eggs and hope for something good. I found a small crab claw, though it didn't break along the fossil in a very pretty way. This was deemed unfortunate.

We collected fossils in vineyards, and shark teeth in mines. In fact, quarries and mines were a popular stop. It’s nice having someone else excavate your rocks, but some of the romance of the field is lost when you need to slap on a yellow hardhat and shelter in the shadow of a track hoe.

In evening we stopped in a small German town on the Mainz River that Vincent proclaimed “Germany. Ziss is what people see when they see Europe.” The quaint town of church spires and winestubes was crowned by a walled castle. This would be our home for the night. Apparently the castle is a kind of family hostel with cheap rooms for everyone. I went on a geological fieldtrip and stayed in a castle. Yes Vincent, this is what I see when I see Europe.
We showered the dust and fossil dust out of our hair and found the hotel restaurant’s patio overlooking the river valley. Dr. Martin and a few graduate students were set up with local wine and they invited Vincent and I to join. I shocked the crowd by ordering Saumagen, a regional specialty that Dr. Martin explained as “pig stomach stuffed with many things. It is very good but sounds very strange.” When it arrived and I proclaimed the sausage-like dish delicious Dr. Martin seemed impressed, “This is not something, I think, normal Americans would say.” I like to think normal Americans would respond well to pork, onions, mashed potatoes and sauerkraut, but I’ll take the compliment.

Our castle for the night. You can't see it from this angle, but there's a round turret that Vincent and I called home for the evening. We did our duty and kept an eye out for advancing siege engines.

After ordering round after round of Rheinish wine, we were all smiling a little more than we normally would, mixing English and German phrases without anyone batting an eye. Vincent and I then descended the hill to track down other students. The town was closing for the night, so our hike became an exhausting post-dinner stroll with a lot of elevation change.

A quarry that houses little mammal pieces. It's being refilled with construction waste, so there are a few last-ditch efforts to figure out if there's anything good that will soon be lost to science.

A reconstruction of the Euopean Miocene (15 million years back).

The next day we visited a quarry that has produced a huge diversity of rodents and horses. Of course I only found a few bone fragments, but any day prospecting for fossils is a good one even if the discoveries aren’t particularly exciting. Our final stop was a sandy quarry where rhinos and elephants occasionally tumble from the hillside.

A rhino lower jawbone or "Nashorn Unterkiefer." Please note the German word for rhinoceros is "Nose-Horn." The logic of this language can be shockingly blunt.

Then we turned the bus towards Bonn. I was exhausted from the combined efforts of searching for fossils and constantly pretending I knew exactly what was going on. My field notebook was filled with new vocabulary, but my mind was moving on. The next day I would be catching a train south to catch my brother in Milan where we would begin the Great Borths Brothers’ Adventure…

A canola field in full bloom near a quarry. A vision of spring (and violent allergies).

Becoming North-men

Sorry about the hiatus. My brother and I were wandering Italy for the last two weeks. I was so close to being caught up, then I went and did some more exploring. I'm not complaining, but I'm sorry to leave my readership (i.e. my mother) waiting. So the catch-up continues...

The Photo Album with more of France illustrating this post.

The next morning we were up and moving towards the train station to catch a ride to Rouen. We knew they had one train every hour and we planned to arrive at the station with some time to get breakfast. Unfortunately, they rearranged the schedule and we had a lot more time to kill than we expected. Loaded with all of our luggage, we went into the quiet streets in search of something to eat. Tiny cafés were plentiful, but they wouldn’t fit our bags, so for our final meal in Paris was eaten at Quick, a sterile fast food chain that seemed to be McDonald’s French cousin.

Our time to head out towards Rouen was imminent so we walked back to the station where I had to wrestle with the validation machine before we could board. I’m gaining an increasing appreciation for the ease of German transport and the inefficiency of other national high-speed systems.

Rouen is an industrial town with a rich history that goes back to the Hundred Years War (War of the Roses) as France and England raged back and forth over who could claim the crown and Northern France. As we rolled through the city in a cab, we glimpsed a half-dozen towers of churches in different styles that spoke to the antiquity of our new surroundings. We arrived at the car rental place while they were on lunch break. One of the more annoying aspects of traveling through Europe is the unpredictability of lunch time. In France people seem particularly dedicated to their two-hour break in the day.

So we had some time to kill. We dropped our luggage in an accommodating hotel and went to see the Rouen Cathedral, made famous by Monet’s brush as he painted the façade at different times of day, setting up multiple canvases so he could move to the next one as the light changed. The interior was high-flying gothic constructed of light stone that made the whole worship space brighter than most Gothic churches I’ve visited.


We wandered through the quaint shopping district where you could buy fine cheese, wine, chocolate, and duck pate. In case you forgot, we were in France. Joan of Arc was burned in Rouen, and now the city center features a very modern church dedicated to the patron of France. The warped beams of the interior evoke the Viking longboats that gave the region its name (Normandy = North Men) and frame medieval stained glass windows that survived World War II. The church they once decorated did not.

With lunchtime over we grabbed our car, resurrected Brigitte and started North to Bayeux. Our destination was a Norman manor house in the middle of the French countryside. The place was owned and operated by two British sisters and their husbands who decided to quit their jobs in England and open a rustic bed and breakfast in France. Really, who wouldn’t.

The manor and farm houses were reminiscent of a Jane Austen setting with dignified shutters lining every window, and stately chickens wandering the grounds. Our room was a massive piece of the attic with skylights flooding the interior with light. As we were given the tour of our temporary residence, one of the proprietors mentioned the beams over our heads were four hundred years old. At some point I may not find such a statement shocking, but that time hasn’t arrived quite yet.

There was a large common area around a fireplace and bookshelves stuffed with paperbacks and classic novels. A cozy home that we quickly left so we could check off another place we should see before we die: Mont St. Michel.

At some point in the 12th century, a group of monks decided they needed to move to the coast. They built their abbey on a spit of land that was cut off from the mainland every day at high tide. As the abbey expanded, they moved further upslope until they had constructed an entire town ringing their secluded outcrop, crowning the town with a Gothic spire and a gigantic figure of St. Michael getting ready to lop Satan’s head from his shoulders.

Mont St. Michel first becomes visible on the horizon as you drive in on the highway. The flat coastline is suddenly punctured by the fantastical walled castle, the inspiration for hundreds of fantasy pop artists. The peninsula/island has been a destination for pilgrims for centuries. These proto-tourists forged the way for the modern restaurants and antique shops that line the road to the Mont. Finally we arrived on the coast, parked the car and took in the view of the walled city from the mainland (along with dozens of Japanese tourists). Breathtaking.

We stopped for dinner at one of the many restaurants that billed themselves as classic Norman establishments. The place was cavernous with dining area after dining area. Dozens of waiters and waitresses shot from the kitchen hauling oysters and fish fillets. The interior was reminiscent of Bill Knaps or Red Lobster and it was incredibly entertaining to watch the efficient marshaling of the staff by supervisors and managers, a distinctly American practice.

We finally arrived back at the manor house. Dad was exhausted from a day of driving, but stayed up long enough to sit by the fire and chat with one of the husbands who maintained the grounds. He wore a green vest and a jovial expression, and I knew I was in the cozy company of hobbits. Really, Tolkien's hobbits are idealized Brits, and the owners of our bed and breakfast were pretty close to ideal. Then it was time for bed before we made our assault on the beaches of Normandy.



The photos again.

Prague: Czech

(The requisite photo album. You can also linger over the images when you're done reading, or after the next installment which will elucidate some of the images.)

The number of possible puns for this post title are truly mind boggling. Czechpoint. Czech it out. Czech yourself. Czech-ered. Getting Praguers. A Prague in the right direction. Prague-rock. Prague-ressive. Prague-gress….the list goes on. If you have any doozies, please leave them in the comments. Moving on…

An alternative perspective on this trip to Prague can be found on Marty’s blog.

Back in February I went for a little skiing jaunt with my fellow Fulbrighters. Around a cozy table in Mittelwald we discussed places we needed to see before real life begins next August. Nearly everyone I’ve talked to has said, “Prague. You have to go to Prague.” After the Iron Curtain took a bow, Prague became the “it” city to visit in all its unbombed-out glory. Unfortunately, this means everyone has been to Prague and most people have new places on their dance card. During the conversation I discovered Marty wanted to hit the Czech Republic and couldn’t find anyone who wanted to head East. Over dunkel beer we swore to make the trip.

The rumored beautiful Prague, seen through a fog of imagination or maybe just morning smog.

By the following weekend, we had our tickets booked. Thus, at the beginning of April I was cruising towards the abandoned-air-force-base-now-Ryan-Air-hub of Frankfurt/Hahn Airport (which is nowhere near Frankfurt). The bus was slowed up by a wreaked Audi that was hauling a horse trailer. The trailer rolled into view, and I wasn’t sure if I should avert my eyes or stare in agonized horror at what I expected to be inside. With a little more progress I saw the horse calmly standing on the highway. His owner was holding his reins and the animal glanced at the car as if to say, “Ya know, I know of a way to get around that wouldn’t involve engines and mangled steel.”

The rest of the ride I tried to take in the spectacular rolling scenery without making eye contact with the girl across the aisle who seemed mildly creeped out by my frequent glances in her direction (really past her direction and out the window). We arrived with plenty of time until take off with only a minor meander through the parking lot. Note: never follow someone who walks with purpose without first checking the signs. Chances are they have less of an idea where they’re going than you do.

Ryan Air is notorious for charging cheap fares but wringing you for every penny. I had to pay a couple of Euros for not having an EU passport. Then my bag was barely over weight and I had to check it and pay again. They’re even talking about charging to use the toilet on the plane to which I say, “Empty plastic bottles don’t cost a dime.” Side note: Actually in Germany they do cost roughly a dime. Every beverage purchase you make includes a deposit on the container which you can return to the cashier when you’re finished or take to your local grocery store’s recycling center.

An hour after boarding we were touching down in Eastern Europe getting ready to explore one of the jewels in the Hapsburg crown. But first we needed a bus ticket and cash. One of the pleasures of traveling is discovering the coinage in a new country (one of the minor tragedies of traveling so much in the Euro Zone), then trying to constantly remember the exchange rate, eventually giving up the cause and treating it all like Monopoly money.

After a long bus ride and subway connection with fellow Americans, Italians, and Mexicans, we emerged near the heart of Prague at Wenceslas square, but we didn’t have time to explore. We needed our hostel. The streets of the city are narrow and wind like an exchange student who drank too much Pilsner (the most famous export of the Czech Republic). Somehow we arrived at the Prague Square Hostel without event, dropped our bags and went for a wander into the ciy’s night.

Tyr Church, a crazy Gothic edifice that looms over Prague Square.

We were both told Prague can be a deal. You just need to wander off the tourist beaten track. Once the buildings ceased to be reminiscent of movie set, we decided we could start looking at menus. We found a restaurant that sported a witch’s theme, and had great prices. We stepped inside and found one other table of two people with beer in hand. I asked if they were still serving dinner (it was around 10 PM. I’m used to things getting ready to geschlossen around then). The waitress looked like she would resign herself to foreigner stupidity for one more table and said, “Yes.”

Traditional Czech spread (according to the guidebook. Know that I know nothing about tradition that Lonely Planet doesn't tell me.)

We feasted on roast pork, beef, cabbage, and dumplings as you only can in Prague. Washed down with Pilsner Urquell and finished off with a tiny bill. It all went down that much smoother. Another drink then bed. We had a castle to explore. Unfortunately our roommates were still up and about and the light was on. I rolled over and drifted into oblivion. Marty wasn’t able to shut out the light and only got a few hours of interrupted sleep. This would be a theme.

A view down Charles Bridge. Unclear what the concrete barriers are for. If it's to keep cars from barreling through, I feel like the organ grinder could take care of any vehicles. It's not like he does anything but spin a crank all day.

We started with the landmarks of Prague, crossing the Charles Bridge to the massive staircase that ascends to the castle. The bridge has been around since the 14th century and was built in the spot of an even older bridge that united the two sides of the river (Prague means “Ford”). It was spruced up by Baroque artists who wanted saintly statuary and watch towers to loom over the proceedings. Now the bridge is only open to pedestrian traffic and features sketch artists, kitschy baubles, and small music acts. It also features hundreds of tourists posing with the saints and even more taking their pictures.

The view of Prague Castle from Charles Bridge. The high steeples are St. Vitus Cathedral, the smaller white spires are St. George's Basilica. The rest of the surrounding building is where the Executive branch is set up along with a couple thousand tourists.

A view over our shoulders as we climbed up to the castle.

The weather warmed as we climbed the steps to the castle, finally dropping layers at the top. We queued for tickets in a tiny room with that dead-ended into the desk causing every member of the line to do an awkward waltz every time someone walked away with their admission. We also rented “the best and ONLY audioguide for Prague Castle!” available in both British and American English as indicated by the Union Jack and Stars and Stripes on the poster (I have a sneaking suspicion our flag, the last one on the poster, was required after one to many American tourists railed at the hapless vendors, “I don’t speak British! I speak English!”).


The castle complex is the largest in the world when you factor in the Cathedral, monastery, museums, ministerial residences, shopping district, and dungeons. Most royal families relocate a couple of times but the Bohemians deemed their hill suitable for 1700 years of development. Now you have a tourist magnet that actually has plenty of room to let everyone wander without fighting for elbowroom.

The highlight of our excursion to the castle was St. Vitus Cathedral. They broke ground in the 1300’s and didn’t finish until the 1920’s. Six-hundred years of construction (not constant of course) meant the design could be tweaked by each builder creating a living textbook of Czech history and art. In the cathedral we met the patron saints of Prague and the Czech republic who cropped up on street signs, town squares, Charles Bridge, the Opera house, royal clothing and so on. King Wenceslaus, a good guy who lead the Bohemians to Christianity. He was assassinated by his brother (who, ironically, ended up a pretty decent ruler) and had a Christmas carol written about him that dogged Marty and I until we made a break for Vienna. St. Ludmila, his grandmother who introduced King W. to Christianity. She was later strangled. St. Adalbert, who went north to convert the Poles and was thrown off a cliff by the Prussian. St. John of Nepomuk who wouldn’t break the oath of the confessional and was hurled from Charles Bridge (hurled from heights happened quite a bit in Prauge including the Defenestration of Prague which tipped off the Thirty Years War). And finally St. Sigismund, an early king who strangled his son for maybe plotting to take the throne (strangling apparently isn’t rare either) but felt just awful about it and became a saint. There are some hermits and martyrs as well, but these guys were the biggies and the Cathedral and St. George’s Basilica nearby had remnants of all of them.

The final resting place of St. John of Nepomuk's remains. He was dredged up from the river with his tongue still intact. This was considered a miracle since he was killed for either speaking out against the king or for not revealing the queen's confession (this is an ambiguous point). The tongue was later revealed to be a piece of his brain. It all looks the same after a couple years in the river.

Mucha's window in St. Vitus. He was an Art Nouveu master and brought it all to bear on Czech history in this window and The Slave Epic.

A view down St. Vitus's nave.

A close-up view of the spectacular St. Vitus windows.

Other highlights of the castle include foundations from the dark ages, armored corpses from the fourth century, and Czech art by artists whose names I won’t defile with pronunciation. Part of the royal gallery was on display, but most of the collection was looted by the Swedes during the Thirty Years War. Never trust the Swedes.

František Ženíšek's "Oldrich and Bozena" (1884). It tells the story of Oldrich, a Czech prince, discovering a simple Czech peasent to fall in love with rather than wasting his time with those stuffy German princesses. It probably helps that Bozena has forgotten some...support.

We ate expensive (but delicious) Goulash, and walked through one of the oldest shopping districts in town that included a flat once inhabited by Kafka (a more recent favorite son).

We also learned there is a fraternity of royal guards. It includes the guys who guard Prague Castle, Buckingham Palace, the Royal Palace in Copenhagen and so on. I don’t really know what they chat about, or what language they would do it in. Maybe they just vent their frustration at all the obnoxious tourists who try to get them to flinch.

He didn't move, though his eyes were covered, so it's hard to say if he gets distracted. At the fraternity meetings these guys get to claim the most wearable uniforms (the Brits come in last with those crazy, fuzzy poo-bah hats).

Our exploration continued around Castle Hill where we saw Baroque convents and the houses of Parliament. Doubling back to the castle to descend the hill we saw scaffolding being assembled and a guy getting his picture taken with a shabby cardboard sign. Our curiosity piqued we investigated the sign. “April 5. President Barack Obama. Usembassey.cz.” Really? The president was coming here? We scurried back to the hostel and free internet via the U.S. Embassy which was closed “As we prepare for the arrival of the President of the United States.” Great for us, bummer for a tourist who lost his passport to the Vltava river.

A sunset shot of St. Nicholas Church. We'll see the interior tomorrow.

After hopping a fence to investigate a mysterious building flying the Stars and Stripes over Prague (turns out we own several acres of Prague’s city park) we finally confirmed the president’s arrival the following Sunday. Gates opened at 7 AM. We spent the rest of the night in a state of giddy anticipation by first visiting Restaurant Mozart (creepily quite restaurant again, but cheap food) then on to Reduta Jazz Club, a venue Clinton played when he showed up in Prague a decade ago.

Yeah, we're hip.

We felt pretty hip, offering our cover and settling in to listen to a five-man combo led by an Alto sax. Marty had heard about my foray into Absinthe in Barcelona and was game to try it once. I went to the bar and ordered two absinthes. I was given a minty looking fluid with no other accessories. Being inexperienced, I supposed this was diluted or already had the sugar thrown in. Turns out you’re supposed to order the water and sugar separately.

The first sip was biting into a handful of black jelly beans set alight after a week-long soak in gasoline. Marty smacked his lips and brushed away a tear. I apologized and offered to get the water. “No, we need to finish what we began.” By the end of the set our mouths were numb and our esophaguses refusing to cooperate. We decided to call it a night.

Next: We meet the president along with 20,000 of my closest friends (in the most literal sense of “closest”)!

The photos again. Enjoy!

P.S. If you want a different perspective on Prague, here's a trailer for a movie that's coming out in a few months called "The Brother's Bloom." The cast got me pretty excited (Mark Ruffalo, Rachel Weiz, Adrian Brody etc.) along with the writer/director and mixed styles, but mostly I was just excited to recognize a few key locations (even if the say "St. Petersburg." I think that was the trailer's editor's error.