Old Masters and Fresh Beer: Das ist München

If you're reading this on the 4th then join me in wishing the United States a Happy 233rd Birthday. I'm off in Heidelberg for the weekend, celebrating with other American students with burgers and Skyline Dip (they all thank you Tim). Enjoy your own time with friends and family and thanks for stopping by.

Here's the link to pictures from Munich and Switzerland. Obviously the Swiss stuff will all make sense over the next couple of days when I spin out those stories. But for now I leave you with further adventures in Deutschland.

When we started planning this trip, Michael made the mistake of asking what I hadn’t seen in Munich that I would want to check out this time around. This was the first time I had been in Munich with clear weather and open biergartens, so that was high on to-do list, but there was also a Massive European Museum (MEM) still awaiting my attention: The Alte Pinakothek.

Bavaria was once its own autonomous kingdom with its own royal family. Like any self-respecting royal family, the Bavarians collected art. The started with the intricate details of the Flemish Primitives (including a trippy Bosch near the entrance to the gallery) and worked their way through history. In the Renaissance they got their paws on work by Dürer and DaVinci, and when the Baroque hit they needed some Rubans to maintain the high profile of the gallery and assert some passionate Catholic theology. Name the master with a paintbrush and they have a sample of his work.

Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus by Rubans. This is Rubans at his most stereotypical with dimply, ample women, bright, primary colors, and everyone in action.

The Neue Pinakothek is across the road featuring 19th century art and the recently opened Pinakotek der Moderne lurks around the corner. In one exhausting day, you could walk through six-hundred years of art history. Tack on the Greek and Roman art of the Glyptotek, and you might need to be hauled out of a museum on a stretcher.

Fortunately for Michael and Tim, we only had one afternoon after seeing Dachau that morning. With the sun shining and the Frisbee zingers going full tilt, I lead them through the ominous iron doors of the forbidding museum for a little High Culture (I wonder if that phrase will attract the wrong kind of Google traffic).

The stairs to the main picture galleries. Would we find the hoards of tour groups lurking behind the columns?

The place was recently renovated with wide windows and red stone. It was also completely empty. I had exalted the value of the collection before we arrived, but it was hard to qualify the significance of Dürer when no one was looking at him. Once I got past the weirdness of being nearly alone in the museum with no one but my two friends and a hoard of antsy guards, I began to revel in the opportunity to scrutinize Raphael and Botticelli without needing to shoulder past a soul.

Dürer, a friend of Luther, showing Saints John, Peter, Paul, and Mark studying their scripture rather than turning to any of that tradition stuff for guidance.

El Greco's The Disrobing of Christ. Check out the perspective over the shoulders of the Marys. Most paintings act like stages, with everyone respecting the edge of the frame. Here there's a kind of ethereal photograph being taken of the rarely painted moment.

We saw Ruban’s Last Judgment, one of the largest canvases ever painted, and learned from our free audioguides that the museum itself was built to house this work in 1836, making it one of the first public art galleries. There’s a superlative for you.

There's no scale, but trust me when I say this painting by Rubans is almost 300 square feet.

The Battle of Issus by Altdorfer. It's not a huge paiting, but he packed in an impossible pair of armies that surge and charge all the way to the horizon, like the clouds swirling overhead. The detail, the incredible detail...

We left as the museum was slowly closing, but had plenty of light left to kill (it wouldn’t be dark until 10). We walked past the University of Munich medical research buildings and a public fish market that was mimicking the Hamburg Market that I got to visit back in March. We bought small fish sandwiches (I can never recommend smoked salmon with cracked pepper highly enough) and debated stopping for a drink. I’m very glad we moved on because there was a massive Munich biergarten on the horizon, but first, like any trio on an epic quest, we had to get through the castle.

Along our path was the Residenz, the downtown seat of the Bavarian monarchy. A palace has been on the site since the 14th century and they kept tacking onto it through the 19th. Unfortunately it was severely damaged by WWII bombs and reconstruction was finished in 1980. We didn’t know much of this information as we strolled by, but we did notice the brickwork was painted onto the fronting plaster and concrete rather than actually laid by masons. It’s still beautiful, even as a reconstruction.

We found a quiet courtyard with a fountain rimmed by weird mythological hybrids. It was the first real sit we’d had since the train from Dachau and it was incredibly relaxing to just listen to the water and distant street noise. But there were gardens to see.

Through the gazebo of the Hof Garden with it’s carefully manicured lawn and bocce ball pitches, past three different girls striking model-like poses on a beautiful day for eager photographers, and out into the English Garden. The English Garden is the Central Park of Munich (it’s actually larger). It was laid out in the late 18th century and features artificial lakes and streams lining copious green spaces that reflect harmony, symmetry, and man’s domination over nature. Kids played in the streams, body surfing over the rocks and rapids. In the wide field people slack-lined, kicked soccer balls around, and worked on their tans. Some of the older Müncheners had decided to work on their full-body tan. There are some things that cannot be unseen. This is the same demographic that always insists on walking around the changing room at the YMCA with everything airing out while they shave, chat, and read the paper. I guess past a certain age you just don’t care anymore.

Past the field was the Chinesischer Turm (Chinese Tower), a wooden pagoda encircled by another massive biergarten serving hefty liters of Hels beer (the slightly sweet specialty of Bavaria) and Wheat beer (also a regional specialty). They required a one euro deposit on the massive stein. The things normally sell for seven euro. Tim and I had the same brain wave and resolved to lug a couple pounds of glass across the continent, just so we can work on our biceps when we party back home.

Other patrons had brought their own picnics to the garden. We liked the idea and dredged up all the snacks we were packing including Golden Grahams, Corn Nuts, and Animal Crackers that would supplement our meals for the rest of the week. It’s probably the most American meal I’ve had in quite a few months.

Shane tracked us down under the pagoda, and lead us to his favorite schnitzel joint in the city. To find four seats together, we had to take a table in the back of the bar near the kitchen. We ended up sweating into our beverages, but it was certainly worth it. The schnitzel was draped over roasted potatoes (something like hash browns) and covered the entire plate, a 10” diameter schnitzel. We wouldn’t be really hungry for another couple of days. Our waiter was a Canadian who tried to play it cool, offering candid advice to American tourists. It didn’t matter that Shane and I knew the drill, he just seemed happy to impart a little knowledge on tipping.

With a final toast to the Bavarian capital, we wound our way back to Shane’s floor. We would only spend a couple of hours there before waking up at 5:15 to catch the train to Luzern, Switzerland. We would have plenty of time to catch up on sleep while rolling south, right?

Tchuss!

The photos.

Arbeit macht frei: Experiencing Dachau

I have a historical confession to make. I have been living in Central Europe for nearly a year and have not taken the time or opportunity to visit a Nazi concentration camp. It's not for lack of education. In sixth grade I read The Diary of Anne Frank and learned about the atrocities committed in the camps at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. It’s impossible to go through the history of the 20th century without reflecting on one of its greatest tragedies and vowing to never forget (while learning ethnic cleansing and mass political executions continue to punctuate history and headlines). But, I had never physically visited a camp.

Tim and Mike had actually suggested the visit, so in the wee hours of the morning we were up and riding the train out to the suburb of Munich that now carries some serious historical baggage with its name: Dachau.

Admittedly, making a visit to Dachau your first side trip in Germany might not make you well disposed towards the country, but Mike and Tim were up for the challenge.

We followed a marked trail from the train station to the camp, weaving through parks and neighborhoods with occasional signs marking the route prisoners took to the camp. The signs also provided some of the historical background necessary for understanding the site we were about to witness.

A section of track once used by a special spur line that brought thousands of prisoners to Dachau, the SS-training ground and concentration camp.

The camp was established in 1933, soon after Hitler was made chancellor. The idea was to keep all political enemies and dissenters in one place. The barracks and the techniques used by the SS guards at Dachau would become the model for all other concentration camps and the word Dachau would generate fear and silence a decade before it was finally closed. Dachau was not strictly a “Death Camp” like Auswitz where prisoners were essentially retained for execution. At Dachau people were theoretically in a labor camp. Of course the prisoners were exposed to harsh punishments, meager rations, medical experiments, and rampant disease. It might as well have been a death camp.

A view from the cramped bunkhouse across the grounds. All of the grey gravel was once the foundation of a bunkhouse.
Another view of the grounds and the dozens of barrack foundations. The guard tower marks the perimeter of the massive complex.

With an audio guide in hand to contextualize the empty bunks and ominous chimney we crossed through the small gate with the ironic and cruel camp motto “Arbeit macht frei” (Work makes one free) and began our tour of the grounds.

The buildings were destroyed decades ago, and empty foundations now mark where thousands of prisoners went through their routine of survival. Near the back of the complex are three chapels to the victims of the camps. One for the Protestants, one for the Catholics (especially for the Polish prisoners who where brought to the site after 1939), and one for the Jews. Michael pointedly asked why they couldn’t share worship space. Why indeed.

The Jewish Chapel.

We followed the path through the barbed wire perimeter fence and found the incinerator. Originally the facility was used to dispose of the bodies of people that died of disease. But, near the end of the war, some of the rooms were fitted with new pipes that would carry Zyklon B, the cyanide gas used to execute prisoners by the millions in Auswitz and in other, smaller camps.

There is some historical debate about the use of these chambers. We know they were never used in a systematic way. The liberation of the camp prevented the implementation of mass execution by this method (though bullets, ropes, malnutrition, disease, and starvation were used from the time of the camp’s opening to kill thousands). But, the pipes had to be tested, and several political prisoners were killed in the chamber. We entered as a noisy German high school group received a lecture about the cramped space. We could only linger for a few moments.

In that time I examined the spigots in the ceiling. Someone designed their grid-like distribution. Someone sat down at a drafting table and thought about how to space the cyanide spray. They thought about how much pipe would be necessary and how to clear the air after the victims had suffocated. Then someone else (or a group of someones) placed the pipes in the ceiling and connected them to a canister of poison. This construction crew was likely composed of prisoners, but they were directed by someone who thought about all of this. Hundreds of hours and people were committed to the meticulous engineering of millions of deaths. There are many words for people who would lay such plans, but none of them quite seem adequate.

It was time to visit the museum.

A memorial and the current museum building.

Dachau is arguably one of the most accessible concentration camps in the former Third Reich. A lot of people stop by Munich to see the beer halls and castles, then take a trip to the earliest camp, so as the museum tells the story of Dachau, it tells the story of all the camps. It starts with the rise of the NASDP and moves on to the stories of the victims. We watched a documentary (in German because we missed the English showing) on the camp and the liberation.

After the Americans discovered the camp and arrested the guards (some of the guards were executed in the controversial “Dachau Massacre”) they forced people from the nearby town to tour the grounds where emaciated corpses still lined the fences. These shocked Germans were then drafted to clean the grounds. The video showed their disbelief and the tortured bodies of the prisoners who were suddenly free. The video was necessary to populate the site that today stands empty and barren. It makes the humanity and horror more tangible, even if I still imagine that time period in stark black and white images with occasional film scratches.

We didn’t discuss the experience very much as we searched for a cheap place to grab lunch and avoid the crowds of bored school groups whose colorful t-shirts and babbling chatter made the site even more difficult to fully process.

I’m glad I finally made it to a camp. I am a person who needs to make history experiential and tactile. That’s part of what has made this last year so fascinating. Staid images in text books and library books have come to life in vivid color and 3-D. That said, I don’t think I need to go back. I don’t need to be reminded that I should never forget. I can’t.

The Buckeyes Arrive

Last year, after learning I would be spending a year in Deutschland, I extended an invitation to visit to just about everyone within ear-shot. Germany really is the perfect base for exploring the rest of European culture and I made sure my listeners knew it.

So, a little more than a year after extending that invite, Michael and Tim, two friends from Ohio State, touched down in Munich for ten days of high-speed wandering across Germany, Switzerland, The Netherlands, Belgium, and England. That’s right. Five countries. Ten days. Would we succeed? Our team consisted of a second year medical student from Harvard with a bag of animal crackers at the ready (Michael), a mechanical engineer with a shiny new degree from Ohio State and a hankering for good salami (Tim), and your favorite paleontologist with a propensity for puns (and alliteration). Only one way to find out…

We opted to start the adventure in Munich since they were able to get cheap flights into the city and we were going to be heading southwest to climb a Swiss Alp. It helps that Munich is home to all the stereotypes Americans carry around in their heads about Germany. While waiting for Tim and Michael to arrive I saw at least two men in lederhosen cross the train station. Perfect. Now I just needed to see a some wurst. Oh, there it is, being dropped on the floor by the hungry four year old who couldn't quite handle his lunch.

On the ride from Bonn to Munich I received a desperate call from Michael that Tim’s flight was arriving at Heathrow Airport behind schedule, and he might not be able to make his connecting flight to Germany. I didn’t hear any more news before arriving at the Munich Station, so I hunkered down with my computer and watched the lederhosen go by thinking I might be obstructing traffic to platform 14 for a couple of hours.

Twenty minutes later, Michael and Tim arrived, right on schedule. Tim had sprinted across two terminals to make the connection and a small package containing his toiletries and three cans of Skyline Chili (guess who those were for) were the only casualty. Minor lost baggage and a run through Heathrow. Two rites of passage for the international traveler to check off the list. Mr. Steves would be so proud.

The reconstructed Medieval gate that welcomes you to the Munich shopping district.

They were jet-lagged, but excited to hit the city after a couple hours in transit. For Tim, this was a kind of homecoming. When buying a pretzel at a bakery in the station, he noticed the woman on the other side of the counter had his very German last name, including the umlaut. And thus he was welcomed back to the land of his ancestors. It’s key a pretzel was involved. As you may recall, my welcome involved being compared to an ass. Some kids have all the luck...

There are few things I know about the place I will live someday, but one thing I know, is that I will have window boxes.

With our bags stashed at the station and a new map of the city in hand, we walked into the Altstadt (Old Town) to witness the beautiful, bustling hive of activity that is the European pedestrian shopping district. We wandered by the beautiful city hall and into Pope Benedict’s former Cardinal roost at the Frauenkirche.

This was taken back in October when I was in Munich for Oktoberfest. Tim and Michael's visit was the first time I'd seen Munich with blue skies. I can confirm that a change of color makes the Neo-Gothic facade a little less sinister.

The whole time I tried to keep my mouth shut, allowing a them to experience the city and buildings on their own terms. This was an utter failure. I can’t help but keep the running commentary going, and these two join my brother, Shane, Marty, Kes, Erin, and especially Carolyn as martyrs to my need to burden my travel companions with obscure factoids.

We met Shane on Marienplatz under the sculpture of the putti getting ready to destroy the Protestant heresy. It’s a local hang-out.
He led us to a classic beirgarten, tucked somewhere in urban Munich. He found it by vague memory, leading us through a wrought-iron gate with the Hofbrau logo proudly festooned overhead. Behind the gate was an expanse of hundreds of tables, all shaded by towering chestnut trees. Every table was crowded with happy Müncheners and their Maß (1 Liter) beer steins. As the light dwindled, twinkling Christmas lights illuminated a cross-section of the city: high school students, tourists, girl’s night out, after work drinks, nuclear families. Everyone was enjoying the opportunity to be outside with a cold beer and friends. There was even a swing set to keep the kids occupied while the neighborhood got caught up with itself. We just needed to find a spot.

We eventually elbowed in next to a friendly couple of women who were a little tipsy (you can tell because they engaged total strangers and got out the backgammon board) and tucked in to our steins and Schwein-Haxe (Pig Knuckle) from the cafeteria style restaurant. Sweet bliss.

We were joined by two of Shane’s friends and spent the rest of the evening wandering the town, eventually winding up around a fountain with bottles of Bavarian wheat beer in hand. The whole open container thing really does make for some wonderful exploratory partying and chatting. Soon it was time to go back to Shane’s apartment to get a full night’s sleep (yeah, right) then start our whirlwind tour.

Tomorrow: Concentration camps, Old Masters, and English Gardens, only the most uplifting and engaging topics on the internet.

Becoming an Alpinist

(Here's a link to the map of the ski area I explore in this post and here's a link to the photos of the adventure. I'll post them at the end, too.)

I’m from this Midwest. This means we don’t have a lot of topography back at home. This also means I am not a very accomplished skier. I first learned to ski when I was eleven-ish at Pine Knob Ski Resort in southern Michigan. With Scouts I would go once a year to Perfect North Slopes in Southeastern Indian. Once in college I went to Mad River Slopes outside Columbus. If you’re having a hard time remembering the mountains of Southern Michigan, Indiana, or Central Ohio, that’s because they literally won’t stick out in your mind.

So, when Shane, a chemist Fulbrighter who’s living in Munich, invited me to join him and a guy from his lab on an excursion into the German Alps for some skiing, I was excited but a little apprehensive. Would I be able to take on real mountains with my Midwestern skills? There was only one way to find out.

By the time February 6th rolled around, the excursion had snowballed (Shane’s appropriate metaphor) into a group of 9 that would be gallivanting along the roof of Germany. The group included Marco, a physical chemist Fulbrighter working in Düsseldorf, Chris, a writer Fulbrigher in Berlin, Marty, an aeronautical engineer Fulbrighter in Stuttgart, Shane, his co-worker Robert and two of Robert’s buddies (Australians). Later we would be joined by Glen, a British friend of Shane’s who grew up in Germany. An eclectic group, to say the least, but that’s how it works over here. I work with a Frenchmen, drink with Germans, share a kitchen with a Kenyan and an Iranian, and hope to work with a scientist from China.

Marco and I met in Cologne and shared a ride with an enthusiastic snowboarder from Cologne. He excitedly talked with Marco about his family and impressions of Germany. I couldn’t really hear much of what they were saying from the back seat, but I did get to enjoy rocketing along the Autobahn at 220 km/hr in the little Audi coupe. I can check “taking full advantage of the absent speed limit” off my German experience check-list.

We met the other Fulbrighers at the Munich train station and went out for dinner at one of the best döner kebab places I’ve visited in Germany. My review of Mama’s Kebab might be colored by the fact they had about twenty little bowls lining the counter, each with a different spice or sauce. Any place that offers that many condiments is an A+ in my book.

Eventually we wound our way back to Shane’s apartment, catching up and sharing stories of life in Deutschland along the way. The next morning we were up at 5:30 so we could catch the train to Garmisch-Partenkirchen at 6:30. Everyone but Glen, who was stopped underground on a delayed subway train, was able to convene on the platform. Glen decided to make the journey later in the day and join us on the slopes on Sunday.

As the train chugged towards the Austrian/German border, the sun rose and illuminated the distant mountains. Once we were in their midst, following tracks through an open glacial valley, I couldn’t keep my butt on the seat. I was up at the window staring up at their peaks, excited to soon be part their craggy, snowy profile.

But first we needed to figure out how to get there. Stepping off the train, there was no obvious next step. Chris wisely consulted her guidebook and found the tourist information office in the middle of town. While finding out where we could rent skis, buy lift-tickets, and actually get to the mountain, the morning swiftly waned and everyone was itchy to actually get on the slopes. We found the bus we needed and settled in with the mild panic that always accompanies bus rides in strange cities and towns, “Are we going the right way? Are we looking at the map correctly? Is this the right number? Where should we get off?” Fortunately, it was pretty obvious we were going in the right direction (the mountains were getting closer) and when we should get off (the ski lift appeared in front of the bus). I had tried to do my research before getting to the slopes, but found a morass of websites, none of which detailed prices, but now know that skiing in the Alps is a surprisingly affordable prospect. For two days on the hill you can have a lift-ticket for 50 Euro and quality skis for 40. Perfect North will set you back $66 for one day, and you’re not exactly paying for the view.

Once everyone was outfitted, we stepped up to the lift for the first time. The lift was quintessential German chaos. You shouldered your way into a mass of people and surged towards turnstiles that opened when you swiped your lift ticket by the sensor. Mine didn’t work the first time around, so I had to fight my way upstream to exchange my faulty card.

Once I got through the stiles, I joined a mass of humanity clustered around the entrance to the lifts. Each car was egg shaped with a bench lining the perimeter and room enough for maybe eight people. Then there was room in the middle for your gear, or maybe more passengers. The pods slowly traced the boarding platform. Temporary gates were set up, allowing a first group of people to climb aboard. Once the egg passed the gate’s entry, it moved past a secondary entrance. Another dash ensued and the egg was filled with as many passengers as could fit. There was no line, no order to the boarding procedure. It was every man, woman, and child for his or herself. I was able to dive aboard right before the door swung closed and began a two kilometer ride up the mountain called the Kreuzeck. Soon I would be swooshing.

At the top we assembled and decompressed after the crazy exercise of clamoring into our eggs. The skill levels of the group were pretty mixed, tending toward beginner snowboarders and skiers. The first run before us was an intermediate slope, and the only way to get to the beginner stuff. A different lift would have taken us to the easier hills, but we didn’t realize the scale of the place we were dealing with, and originally thought we would all be able to make it down this first run. The only thing to do was use chair lifts and intermediate runs to get to the bunny hills for the beginners.

After everyone strapped in and Chris and I led the way, finally letting our equipment whip us over the snow. Then Marco crested the hill, struggling to keep his feet beneath him. He had a bit less experience, but he eventually pulled up next to me. Chris waited on the slope for everyone else, but no one popped up. Finally the three of us decided to take the chair lift. Maybe we would be able to find each other with a higher perspective. No dice. Everyone had dispersed. So it was Marco, Chris and I exploring the route to the Bunny slopes. I found I was able to control myself surprisingly well. Maybe because I had become a runner since my last ski trip and had more power for controlling my suddenly-five-foot-long feet? Regardless, there is no feeling quite like the icy wind lashing your face as you careen down slope, surrounded by the towering Alps.

Eventually Chris and I got Marco safely to the smaller, easier slopes so he could practice on smoother, wider runs. As we stood discussing where to meet after the hills closed, something we had forgotten to decide before getting separated. Shane miraculously appeared. Then Marty rode up to our group. Robert was nearby and by dumb luck we were able to arrange a meeting time. Lesson learned: It’s hard to keep everyone together on a ski slope and a cell phone is a pretty useful tool for communicating across the Alps. You just need to bring them.

Chris, Marty, and I then began our quest for the summit. We slowly made our way upwards by riding lifts and searching out trails. After a terrifying two way trail with people clumsily moving up the slope on skis and people descending on boards, we found what we thought was the summit. The valley opened wide below us and the town of Garmischer-Paterskirche lay at our feet while the spine of the range guarded our backs. We snapped triumphant pictures and slid up and down the slope. Then Marty and I looked at the map and realized we could still go up! A side trail dove off to the right and we followed it to the base of the Alpspitze. The peak is not the highest in the range, but it cuts a distinctive, severe profile, the twisted carbonate bedrock rising to a peak then snapping off in mid arch.

We rode a gondola the size of a small bus up to 2050 meters, 1300 m above our starting point that morning. The trail we followed was one of the most amazing runs I’ve ever set skis to (Note: I haven’t set my skis to much, but Chris was really excited about the trail and she’s much more qualified to judge such things after 20 years on skis and snowboard.). The 2.5 km run gradually drops 350 meters, diving through a narrow gap in the mountain where you ski along trail through cliffs of imposing rock. You shoot from this gap onto a looping run that traces the edge of an Alpine bowl filled with snow-frosted trees. You then drop a steep slope and slide back to the Gondola.

For the first time I understood skiing isn’t just an excuse to go really fast in the snow. It’s also an opportunity to enjoy the gifts of nature, to travel over a mountain, up peaks and through forests, covering incredible distances while overwhelming myself with the scale of the mountain underfoot. Exhilarating. Unfortunately my camera ran out of batteries as we rode to the summit, leaving indelible images in my memory that I can’t share with you.

At 4 PM, the final gondola rode to the top. We hopped aboard, watching clouds dock against the mountains around us. We proceeded to ski from 2050 meters to the base of the mountain to meet the rest of the group at 700 meters. As soon as we hit the cloud line, an oppressive fog surrounded us, cutting visibility to a couple dozen meters. It was like skiing into an atmospheric horror movie or a Grimm fairy tale.

With skis in tow, we headed back to the train station and began catching up on everyone’s experiences. The novices were a little worn out after searching in vain for simple, approachable slopes, but were reluctantly game to tackle the Zugspitze the next day where conditions might be a little more forgiving.

Exhausted, we picked up our bags from the main train station and rode on to Mittenwald, a small town further up the valley. It isn’t as close to the slopes as Garmische, so we were able to find a cheaper Pension to say in. It also meant there were precious few tourists in town. With hunger bearing down on us, we found a little Bavarian restaurant that could seat 9 people. It was the perfect place to end the day.

They served the local brew – Mittenwalder Bräu – and traditional Bavarian fare, which basically means pork in various forms with different sauces. While we ate and drank, a band played folk tunes while most of the other diners sang along. Everyone seemed to be over 45 and sporting lederhosen or dirndls for a Saturday night out on the town. The band was gathered around a large table, facing each other instead of the house, giving the impression they were playing for their own pleasure, not their audience. The guitarist – displaying a magnificent handlebar mustache - had a 9-string bass neck attached to a classical acoustic guitar for creating a solid “Oom-Pah” without brass. His neighbor – sporting a full white beard – played a dulcimer, and the final member chimed in every now and then with a fierce spoon solo.

Exhausted and full from hearty food, beer, and debate, we called it a night. The next morning breakfast was served at 7, but I was up at 6 trying to take a shower in a bath with a gabled ceiling. This meant I had to squat down to wash my hair or stand perfectly straight with my head poking into the small skylight to rinse. Really it was a solid stretching routine to start the day before punishing my leg muscles for a second full day.

Slowly everyone gathered for bread and spread (German Breakfast) then we made for the door. The clock was ticking and we had a precise schedule to keep. If we missed the train from Mittenwald, we would have to wait a full hour before getting to Garmisch-Partenkirchen. If the Mittenwald train was running late, we would miss the train to the slopes. We made both connections, but were a little warm from the hustling exertion despite the fresh layer of snow accumulating around us.

The second train we caught is called the Zugspitzbahn. You get free admission to the train with a lift pass. The cog-railway system then runs to each slope near Garmisch-Partenkrchen, terminating at the Zugspitze, the highest point in Germany at around 3000 meters. It’s not the highest Alp by a long shot (Mont Blanc is 4,810 meters), but it’s still a more imposing mountain then I have ever skied before.

The train actually cuts into the mountain, traveling a 4.5 km tunnel up a steep slope, finally expelling you onto the Zugspitzplatte, a small glacier sitting in front of the Zugspitze peak. At the peak, the snow was falling thickly, layering the glacier with several inches of light powder. Visibility was reduced to a couple dozen meters, blending air, horizon, and mountain into a blank white sheet. Marco and Shane found their way to the beginner slopes near the peak while Chris showed me how to revel in freshly fallen powder.

Chris demonstrating the depth of the snow. It could get as high as our thighs as we plowed ahead.

As the day wore on, the fluffy layer accumulated. I was fearless. Why should I worry about falling when the soft snow will absorb the impact? I couldn’t stop laughing, zipping through the stuff, my skis, boots, and legs disappearing into the light surficial layer. I felt like a torpedo cutting just below the surface, spraying a wake of flurries behind me. Red markers lined the trail, guiding us to the next tow or lift. The only drawback was the effort of moving under all that snow sapped a lot of power and we knew by the end of the day we probably wouldn’t walk, but it was worth it.

One of the clearest moments on the Zugspitzplatt. On a clear day you can see Austria to the left and Germany to the right. Us? We could only see a blank sheet of white.

At 1:30, Chris and I caught the Zugspitzbahn back to the Kreuzeck, the area we had skied the previous day, to meet Glen. I also wanted the thrill of sliding down an entire mountain one more time. The ride was about 1.25 hours, so it was also our only break in the day. As we rolled through (cogged through?) the tunnel, Chris examined the map.

At the first stop after the tunnel, a place called Riffelriß, a ski trail seemed to start. It then looped down to the Eibsee, the next station on the railway. According to the schedule, it took 20 minutes for the train to go down the slope. The trail was 5 km long and dropped 650 meters. Could we really ski to the next train station? It would be a race. If we lost, the next train wouldn’t come for another hour, killing the rest of the day. Chris wanted me to commit, I wanted her to commit. Finally I squinted and said, “We’re gonna do it.” We grabbed our equipment and got ready to bolt out the door. While we came to a halt, I tied my shoes together and slung them around my neck. The doors slid wide and we ran. The slope didn’t begin immediately. We had to awkwardly jog/hop a couple of dozen meters to the beginning of the gradient. We threw on our gear, I snapped a picture of Chris taking off, and the race was on.

Tick…tick…tick

Chris is a little left of center, shooting down the hill ready to beat technology.

Snow continued to fall, but visibility was the best it had been all day. The wide path plunged into the pine forest with smaller game trails leading from the main run. As I whipped by I noticed deer and boar tracks wandering into the tree line. Adrenaline surged through me as my speed increased and I created a new track on the near-virgin snow. I was closing on Chris as I tucked in to put on more speed. The trail narrowed then began a lazy bend to the right. As I leaned into the turn, the back edge of my left ski caught a drift and I exploded into a spectacular cartwheel of snow.

Tick…tick…tick

When I stopped tumbling, I almost felt I had the momentum to roll back onto my feet to keep plunging down slope. Then I noticed I was missing a ski. I organized my limbs and stretched for the missing piece of equipment. I then noticed my boot had been overextended and somehow the ankle guard was outside the main foot straps. I had to wrestle with the plastic as the seconds and minutes ticked away. Finally, the boot was correctly on my foot. I cleared the binding and tried to slam my boot in to lock it on. It bounced out. I tried again and the effort caused the ski to slide away. I grabbed it and slammed my heel in. Finally locked down, I pushed off and the dash continued.

Tick…tick…tick

A few kilometers on, a sign pointed to the right with a train station symbol. We followed and suddenly found ourselves on an upwardly sloping hiking trail. Chris popped her foot out of her board’s binding. Impulsively I popped off my skis, flung them on my shoulder and tried to run up the slope. In hindsight, this was a poor plan. In heavy ski boots and fresh snow, you can try to run as fast as the wind, but you won’t move faster than a comfortable stroll. When the trail sloped away again, I popped on my skis and slid to the next trail.

Tick…tick…tick…

Up the trail went again, and off went my skis. At the crest, a steep hill opened before me with kids sled riding down the slope. I knew I was really close. I dropped by skis and tried to pop them on. Running through the snow had caked snow onto the soles and toes of my boots, making them slippery and difficult to lock. My skis wouldn’t stay upright in the snow and I cussed trying to juggle my poles, skis, and shoes which swung into my face and spewed puffs of snow up my nose.

Tick…tick…tick

As I struggled a small boy and his dad climbed the hill with their sled.

“What’s he trying to do, Dad?” the kid asked in German
“It looks like he’s trying to ski.” Dad helpfully replied.

They stood and watched, waiting for me to get my act together so they could slide down without me overtaking them. I waved them on. In a final act of frustration, I slammed by boot down as if I was trying to smash a cockroach to China. Click.

I was off.

Tick…tick…tick.

Not sure where to go next: “Where’s the train station?”(“Wo ist die Bahnhof?”) I was in such a rush I forgot “Bahnhof” is masculine and I should have said “der Bahnhof.” The helpful sledder pointed up a steep slope. Off came the skis one more time just as my phone started to ring. There was only one reason that would happen. Chris was at the station and the train had arrived. I dug deep and climbed the hill, then started awkwardly speed-walking/ski-boot running through the parking lot. There was the train. There was Chris hanging out of the door. “Chris!” I yelled to let her know I was close. She saw and started jumping with encouragment and worry.

Tick…tick…tick…

I made it to the closest platform entrance and tried to plow through the gate. It was locked. I ran back down the ramp. “Here, here!” Chris yelled, pointing at a turnstile 25 feet further on. I busted through, flung my skis onto the floor of the train and hauled myself aboard.

Boom.

We put our equipment in the racks by the door laughing with adrenaline sunk into the same seats we had before we left. Three snowboarders who rode with us from the Zugspitze looked confused, having seen us get off one stop earlier. They didn’t ask what could make us so giddy or why I was shaking snowballs out of the shoes around my neck. Mission accomplished. I can officially ski faster than a speeding locomotive, especially if I can keep my skis under me.

We met Glen after grabbing an apple strudel at the top of the Kreuzeck (we wanted dampfnudel, the traditional skiing desert, but they were out). He was beat and feeling a little queasy after all the Dunkel Mittenwalder the night before. We skied with him to the bottom of the mountain. Here visibility was a bit better, but the snow conditions a little more challenging. Drifts of powder sat on smooth ice faces causing you to slow and suddenly skitter forward over the ice. This was like skiing at home.

Glen called it a day, but Chris and I wanted to make a drive for the peak of the mountain before the lifts closed at four. It would be tight since it was 3:45, but we could do it. The egg lift dropped us and we confidently headed for the two-way slope and the first chair lift. Skiing down the slope to the lift I saw a word that has come to be my German tourist mantra: Geschlossen. It was exactly 4 and they already had the gate up and multiple red poles over the decking. The chairs were still running, but they clearly didn’t want anyone else to go up. Maybe the operator had to go home to be with his family.

Bummed, we hiked up the slope and skied to the foot of the mountain in a final burst of speed and swooshing. We found Marco, Robert, and Shane and traded stories as we made our way into Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Marco and Shane had found the perfect beginner slopes near the top of the Zugspitzplatt and had spent the day gaining confidence and fewer bruises than the day before. Over Haxe (Baked Pork Knuckle, a symbol of Bavaria) and Paulainer Hefeweissen (another symbol of Bavaria) we declared the day exhausting but yet another wonderful romp through Germany.

Some of our Ski Crew on the Zugspitzbahn (Left to Right): Shane, Robert, Chris, and Marco.

I took an overnight train from Munich to Bonn, spending the night in the fetal position over two seats. It didn’t exactly help my aching muscles, but I was able to hobble into the lab the next day with stories to tell about an exciting weekend becoming an Alpinist.

I hope you’ve taken advantage of the gifts of winter, even if they don’t necessarily involve racing trains.

Tschüss (or “Pfüat Di” in Bavaria)

P.S. Photos of the swooshing adventures.

Carolyn and Matt in World's Largest Science Museum: Proceed with Caution

In 1903 Prince Ludwig, the Regent of Baveria who ruled after Ludwig II's death, was approached by Oskar von Miller to act as patron of a science and technology museum. Oskar was an engineer who wanted to showcase all the amazing advances in science that had been made over the previous century. Ludwig liked the idea and gave v. Miller an island in the middle of the Isar River to make the dream come true.

Today, the museum is the world’s largest science and technology museum. Rick Steves is neither a scientist nor a museum fan and thought this was worth at least a morning or afternoon, a healthy chunk of time by his reckoning. Carolyn and I knew this insight translated into roughly a week at our interest level and museum pace. Unfortunately, we only had a day, so we decided to get there at opening and didn’t plan to leave until closing.

It was a brisk Sunday morning. Walking through the shopping district on a Sunday in Germany is like strolling through a ghost town after the Ghostbusters got to work. Fortunately there is plenty of public art on display to add flavor to your quiet stroll.

For some reason this fountain wasn’t shut down. I wonder if it pumps salt water? Regardless, Dionysus really needs to take care of that cold, or at least use a tissue.

The Deutsches Museum in the middle of the Isar. There are multiple branches of the already massive place, including one in Bonn that I have yet to explore.

The only other people on the street were also headed towards the museum. We really didn’t need to worry about competing with the crowds because the building is absolutely massive. We bellied up to the ticket counter and only had to lay down 3 Euro each as students. An entire day of science for 3 Euro? There is no better deal in Europe (except maybe 3 Euro for the Viennese State Opera).

When I looked at the map, I was slightly disappointed. The museum put a lot of emphasis on technology. Exhibits were labeled “Ceramics,” “Mining,” “Photo and Film,” “Shipping.” I’m more of a Natural Sciences person and wasn’t immediately drawn to many of the titles. We decided to start at the back of the museum and work our way forward, entering a reproduction of Altamira Cave, a cave famous for its Paleolithic cave paintings of bison, horses and handprints. This was right up my alley.

After leaving the cave we wandered into the next exhibit entitled “Textile Production.” Normally I would dismiss a room filled with looms, but as Carolyn and I moved from placard to object, we quickly discovered how little we actually knew about how our clothing is made. Dying, synthetic fibers, printing…we were engrossed by the interactive (though slightly worn) exhibits and suddenly realized we had dumped about an hour of our precious time into textiles. I had a sneaking suspicion this would become a trend.

Carolyn looming over a loom. I think this was the moment she figured out how to use the pedals to make a dowel-rod quilt.

The next room was on photography and film where I learned how autofocus actually works and saw one of the first films ever shot in Germany. It was produced in the 1888s on the streets of Frankfurt. Confused Germans walk by the camera wearing bustles and top hats. I was engrossed. I think of films as beginning with Charlie Chaplain, but this material was thirty years older, showing characters I normally think of as frozen in old photographs, or reproduced in historic movies and plays. These were real people, normal people. History blew my mind for a second, then I moved on. There was a lot more to see.

A carrier pigeon who was trained to fly with a camera strapped to his chest. The photo in the foreground show one of the images this camera took (though maybe not this pigeon). It shows Neuschwanstein Castle and the surrounding country side. On the left and right of the image are the bird's beating wings.

By the time we left we had strolled through the section on “Bridges” (How did medieval engineers build across the Rhein?), “Rockets” (How do you produce rocket fuel in 1900?), “Music” (How does an organ work?), “Agriculture” (How do you improve the mill?) and “Boats.” The final exhibit is the centerpiece of the museum with an actual sloop in the center of the hall. The experience was something like walking into the book “The Way Things Work.” We didn’t see the Astronomy section, we blazed through Chemistry where you could push a button at a window and a chemical reaction would take place before your eyes. Automatically measured quantities of chemicals were combined, reacted and drained at your command. Carolyn was interested in the automated waste disposal system the displays must require.…I need to go back. That place was incredible. Carolyn agrees.

A soaring modern bridge that curves over the bridge exhibit.

I would have played trombone in grade school if I knew I could trick out my horn like this.

Not completely sure what this is or how it works, though that crank seems like a good place to start. I think I saw Sting play one of these once. If there's a current musician with such a skill, its Sting.

I take a photograph of myself in front of every linotype machine I encounter. My mom's family were printers before an invention called the computer made their skills obsolete. If it wasn't for IBM, I would probably be a linotype operator.

The centerpiece of the "Boat" exhibit. This sailing vessel was used for fishing in the North Sea until the early 20th century when it was brought to the museum for display. You can go underneath it to see how the crew lived and learn about navigation.

An American commercial vessel built a little after the Revolutionary War carved a Ben Franklin figurehead for their ship. As he is my favorite founding father, I wanted to make sure Ben and I shared a picture together. I tried to replicate his lopsided expression and sagely demeanour.

The place is so massive, that there’s no way to keep all the exhibits up to date, so each display was a kind of time capsule of how educational trends changed over the last century with varying amounts of text, interaction, models and artifacts. The building itself is careworn with little ornament. Really, it’s a very German perspective. You’re here to learn about engines, what are you doing looking at the pretty murals on the walls?

Outside the Deutsches Museum at closing time. The moon was reminding us we had left before exploring the astronomy section.

After the guards shepherded us towards the coat check repeating “Wir sind geschlossen!” we headed towards Frauenkirche for evening mass. A church cannot fully be appreciated until the choir and organ lend their art to the building. Unfortunately, Frauenkirche was practically destroyed by World War II and has a modern, whitewashed interior, making it a less interesting place to sit and stare at the artwork if you don’t understand the language, so Carolyn was especially appreciative of the music, which she could sing, if not understand. In hind sight, maybe mass at one of the ornate baroque churches would have been more visually interesting.

A view of Old Munich from the museum. By city law, no building is allowed to exceed the height of the church spires and bell towers. This is the case in most German - and even European - cities. There's an obvious theological message being broadcast (Nothing is higher than the Church etc.) but there's also a practical function for the edict. The tolling of the bells and publicly displayed clocks were audible and visible from all over the city. If you had buildings blocking the sound, you wouldn't know what time it was and you might suffer the indignity of being late.

With only a light lunch at the museum cafeteria in our systems, we were desperate for dinner. We both felt a little overstuffed with traditional German cuisine, and found an Argentinean restaurant that seemed popular with the locals called Moredo. It’s actually a chain of restaurants, and I’ve seen other locations in just about every city I’ve visited, but it’s a German chain, so it still offers a bit of cultural insight such as a beer list that varies by city, and options you wouldn’t find at home.

Desert was at Häagen-Dazs. I know, I know, it’s an American chain that’s gone international, but the day before I saw a poster for “Ice Cream Fondue” and got a little excited. It looked pretty big and pretty delicious with balls of ice cream and sliced fruit coupled with melted dark chocolate. It’s a date night ensemble, and this was the last date I would have until next August. Carolyn was game to try it.

Really, the fondue should be thought of as a double-date night option. With a couple dozen slices of fruit including bananas, pineapples, and strawberries, and a half-dozen different flavors of ice cream, it took some determination for the two of us to make it through the decadent desert. But it was a great choice on our part. And nothing leaves me as satisfied as a good choice.


After one more night with Esmerelda watching over us, we checked out of Hotel Daheim and caught an early train to the Frankfurt airport. With some time to kill we found a bakery in the airport for breakfast. It was actually a little awkward. What do you discuss before saying good-bye? Personally, I had grow accustomed to having Carolyn by my side and it was only just sinking in that this would change in about an hour.

I’m a wuss with hot coffee, a trait I picked up from my father. I need to let it sit and cool down. As I was nursing my mug, waiting of it to drop to a tolerable temperature while summarizing the trip with Carolyn, an announcement came over the intercom, “All passengers departing for Washington D.C. are asked to proceed to the gate.” Carolyn had to go an hour before she was supposed to board! I tried to down my coffee in one gulp, but burned my throat and danced around the table like an antsy five-year-old. Really, the best final image I could hope to leave with my girlfriend who I won’t see (except on Skype) for another seven months.

We stood outside the security gate and shared a final kiss. She disappeared past the x-ray scanners and I turned to the escalator, feeling very alone for the first time in two weeks.

I bought my train ticket, confidently rolling my bag through an airport that terrified me in August when I first dropped into this wonderful country. The end of 2008 was about getting my bearings in a place that, only a year before, I had no idea I would be visiting. 2009 is about becoming a part of the culture, delving into the language and projects with new confidence and direction. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Stay tuned to see how well I keep my resolution.

Tschüss

Madly Romantic

Two hours outside Munich near the eastern border of Germany nestle the little Bavarian towns of Füssen and Schwangau. Back during the Middle Ages, the area surrounding the town featured a series of impressive castles; homes to knights, lords, and ladies, including the Knights of Schwangau who sported a swan (Schwan = swan) on their coat of arms.

In the 19th century, Maximillian II of Baveria, one of the last kings of independent Baveria, decided to build an elaborate hunting lodge on the site of a ruined medieval castle. Building a mix of Romantic and Medieval styles, he constructed a massive yellow fortress for the royal family on the shores of the Alpsee (Alp Lake).


The king had a son named Ludwig II. Ludwig was an imaginative kid who preferred the quiet of dad’s country castle to the noise of the city. Running around the forests, he discovered another castle ruin overlooking the lake and Max’s hunting residence. He dreamed of building an elaborate castle on that spot, a tribute to his divine right to rule. The site also offered a convenient spring to feed the future castle’s flushing toilets.

Ludwig became king when he was 18, but never really showed interest in ruling or getting married. He did show an incredible interest in Richard Wagner (raising eyebrows) and building projects (raising hackles).

Ludwig's dedicated pen-pal was his half-cousin once removed, Elisabeth the Emo Empress of Austria. The two would exchange moody poetry and angsty letters. He filled his correspondence with Romantic ideals and vented his frustration with the Prussians' moves to unite Germany. In 1870 Otto von Bismarck created the German Empire. Bavaria lost her independence and became a state of Germany. If the king ever had an interest in the world outside his imagination, he lost it completely when the first Kaiser was proclaimed. The neutered king turned to his personal affairs, namely, blowing all his cash on the castle of his dreams.


In 1886 the king was declared insane by a psychiatrist who was under pressure from the rest of the royal family. They had watched the family fortune liquidate to fund Ludwig’s construction projects. The king was outraged, accusing the deposition commission of high treason. After a brief struggle against the commission’s agents, the king gave up and was escorted to Castle Berg in southern Munich on July 12. His brother Otto, who was actually mentally ill, was crowned king and his uncle Luitpold was made regent. The next day, July 13th, the deposed king and his psychiatrist were found floating in Lake Starnberg, a lake near Castle Berg. The circumstances of “Mad King” Ludwig’s death remain a mystery.

Isn’t that a crazy story? Ludwig seems more like a work of elaborate Romantic fiction than an actual human being, but he lived, and his legacy lives on in the form of his castle, the model for Disney’s Sleeping Beauty’s castle and every fairy tale castle you’ve ever seen illustrated. It is also one of Bavaria’s - maybe even Germany’s – biggest tourist attractions.

Carolyn and I weren’t sure if we should go. The castle seemed more like a little girl’s fantasy than an important historic site, but multiple guide books urged us on, saying this monument to Romanticism was not to be missed. Thus we found ourselves on the train to Füssen surrounded by tourists from around the globe, though most hailed from Italy and Japan. The fields and forests were frosted with a fluffy blanket of snow, and the sky was clear and blue. The perfect day to walk into a fairy tale.

Once we got to town, we piled out with our fellow tourists and aimlessly milled around by the station, searching for the bus that would take us the 5 km out of Füssen to Schwangau and Ludwig’s baby. A bus finally pulled into the lot, but Carolyn and I found ourselves at the back of the line. We weren’t sure if there would be room to climb aboard and we didn’t want to be held up in the ticket line, so we caved and leaped into a cab. We managed to beat the crowds and get our tickets to the castles. Your entry is timed and you are escorted through Hohenschwangau Castle (Max’s) and Neuschwanstein (Ludwig’s) by guides who keep everything moving while preventing you from taking pictures of the castle’s interior. They also provide scripted jokes about the gaudy royal gifts on display and imply more than mutual friendship every time they mention everyone's favorite controversial composer: Richar Wagner.

As we waited for our time slot we took a walk through town, heading toward the lake. Once we stepped past the brush and trees, this view opened before us:


Even if the castles turned out to be a complete waste of time, this moment was worth the trip. The still lake, the happy ducks, the mountains and forests rising to nip the horizon…these pictures are illustrative, but cannot communicate the tranquil beauty of the lake. I had an inkling why Ludwig wanted his castle here.

Notice how the wake of the ducks reflects the profile of the mountains. This is a place to spend some time doing some good thinking.

After admiring the Schwangau swans with a Japanese family and a German woman who was trying to feed them, we started our walk up the path to Hoheschwangau. The hunting lodge is still owned by the royal family of Baveria, providing their main source of income. The interior is decorated with murals depicting Romanticized medieval scenes. All have a soft focus and pastel palate and none of the battles show any blood, creating the slightly goofy image of men keeling over for no particular reason. The ornate lighting fixtures and woodwork aren’t very appealing to modern Crate and Barrel tastes, but little Prince Ludwig ate this stuff up.

After our whirlwind tour through the first castle, we began our slow ascent of the mountain to Neuschwanstein. We walked on the muddy road with other tourists, snapping pictures while horse-drawn wagons of still more tourists rolled by. The snow, gravel, and dirt were churned into a sloppy mess, but the view was breathtaking. At the summit we stood on a rocky pinnacle with valleys dropping off on both sides. Again, Ludwig knew what he was doing when he constructed the world’s most expensive piece of Romantic art.


Note: I should probably clarify Romanticism, real quick. We tend to think of romantics as people that have a particularly doey-eyed view of the world. The phrase “hopeless Romantic” comes to mind. These romantics have unrealistic expectations of love and life in general. I’ve been accused of being such a romantic. Romanticism as an artistic movement was about a kind of rebellion against the order of the Industrial Revolution. People in the late 19th century wanted to go back to the good ol’ days before soot covered every city and factories made automatons of its workers. They also wanted to give in to their emotions with lusty abandon. Enter the Brother’s Grimm, who were Romantics hoping to capture the stories of the Rheinland before they were forgotten. Enter Wagner, who adapted epic German legends into his epic German operas. Enter Mark Twain, an American Romantic who described an America before the Civil War made things awkward. Enter a slew of musicians, writers, painters, and architects. Enter Ludwig.

As we looked up at the castle with its soaring Neo-Romanesque arches and towers, a rainbow glimmered into view. Even the sky was getting in to the fairy tale vibe. We snapped pictures and helped other people get their family portraits in front of the castle’s gates. Our number finally popped up and we entered the partially completed castle with our tour group.

The entrance to Neuschwanstein. So far I've managed to present pictures that seem devoid of tourists. Of course this is far from an accurate reflection of the our surroundings. You can see a small fraction of our traveling companions below the portcullis.

The castle wasn’t actually finished before Ludwig’s death. He had visions of gold, jewels, frescos, and mosaics, but he didn’t have a vision of his budget. The rooms he did manage to complete are beautifully ornate. The murals are more skillfully executed than the pictures in Hohenschwangau. Each room illustrates a different German legend that had been adapted by Wagner. In fact the whole castle was dedicated to the composer. The only room missing Wagner is the throne room, which is decorated with massive images of Biblical kings and stoic saints, the source of the king’s right to rule. In perfect historical irony, the throne was never completed, so the throne room eternally stands incomplete, missing the seat of the deposed king’s power.

A road sign I wish I saw more often. Füssen thatta way. Gorgeous castle thatta way.

On a steel bridge overlooking the castle. We had to delicately climb over a snow covered rock wall to get to the trail which was blocked due to ice and snow. There was a well worn path made by other tenacious tourists who wanted the classic view of the castle.

The castle was actually designed by a theatrical set designer (one of Wagner's) instead of an architect. The designer started with a canvas, drafting the castle as it would appear surrounded by the mountains and forest. Ludwig would offer his input. He wanted the castle to be in harmony with the landscape, the walls organically rising from the rock and the spires echoing the trees. I think it played out pretty well.

After our tour and lunch at a café that once served the massive construction crews that worked on the castle – and now serves harried American families on vacation with too many kids and not enough patience – we headed for the bus. While the snow was lovely, it also meant things were pretty cold and our toes needed to recover somewhere. Unfortunately, about a hundred other people took our idea. We crammed onto the bus with people standing on the steps and between the seats, but we all made the train in time to arrive in Munich for dinner.

Parting views of the valley as the sun began to set and the moon rose over the leafless treetops.

Carolyn and I ate at Riva Bar Pizzaria, just off the Marienplatz. It was very trendy with low lighting and a host with a faux-hawk who was able to seat us without a reservation. The brick oven pizza was fantastic and the waiter was amused at our attempts at German, but never reverted to English. As I’ve said before, I love when German’s let me skewer their language.

The night was complete after we climbed to the Glockenspeil Café overlooking City Hall and the Marienplatz. I should qualify that statement. The restaurant overlooks the plaza. We sat in a dark bar without windows, shamelessly people-watching as awkward first dates tried to get the conversation rolling and lonely people found each other at the bar. We had each other for one more full day, so we went back to the hotel to get a full night’s sleep before Carolyn exited Germany…