Bye-Bye Bonn

For the last week I've been wandering Ireland. By the end of this one I'll be back on U.S. soil. In case you want the skinny on Guinness versus Murphy's and the delights to be had biking in the rain in the Dingle Peninsula, I'll be uploading those adventures after I get back, along with final reflections/comments/wonderings on Europe, Germany, and the life of a paleontologist abroad. Chat with you then!

After cutting myself lose from every institution tying me to Bonn, I walked along the shaded lane leading from the Poppelsdorfer Schloss (featured in the title bar right now) to the Sauropod research group’s offices to meet Koen. The sky was perfectly clear, older couples were out for walks, and younger couples were out for jogs. I mused that this was probably the last time I would ever get to walk from work with a castle at my back. There are some things that just don’t happen at home.I met my host for the weekend and we rode the tram to his house where I could finally drop my bags and stretch my shoulders. Koen had been contacted earlier that day by Kristian, a post-doc in the department, who invited us out for a night on the town in Bonn. I was pretty excited to hit the Bonner clubs since I really hadn’t had the opportunity yet, and felt I might be missing a key ingredient to the city’s character. Koen assured me I hadn’t missed much.

Our first stop was to the fraternity house where I said good-bye to the crew, drank more Warsteiner and chatted with a history major about theoretical approaches to historical interpretation. I think I need to have a little more alcohol in my system before I attempt such a conversation again.

We met Kristian and his wife, Seiko, at a bar near the Bonn Opera House. Yes, there is an opera house. No, I never made time to see a performance in my own city. Yes, I feel slightly guilty about that. The bar had a bouncer who didn’t have very much to do since the place was pretty much dead. Kristian’s wife was excited to do some dancing on the floor in the bar’s basement. Unfortunately there were only four other people down there, and none of them were making a move to dance. We tried to get something started, but gave up when the Thong Song came on and I had a flashback to junior high. When Post-traumatic stress disorder sets in, I don’t do much dancing. I also tend to avoid the dance floor when there are five guys moving and only two women. This is not because I dance to pick up women. They just tend to be better dancers and I don’t get bored. As it stood, five guys lamely bouncing to the Thong Song was an experience worth missing.

Two of Seiko’s friends met us and we rolled on to Hofbar, a club connected to the Opera House. So I can at least say I’ve entered the building. Well, I entered it for a 5 Euro cover. There was also an age restriction. Only 25 years and up. How I got in, I will never really understand. Maybe the bouncer figured the kid who looked 18 would be able to pep things up a bit, because the Hofbar really needed some pepping. It looked like the perfect place to have a night of classy clubbing and dancing. The bar was smoked glass back-lit with neon green and pink lights. Most of the men were wearing sport coats and the women…well, once again there weren’t a lot of women.

A waiter came by our group as we stood on a narrow balcony overlooking the Rhine. I really wasn’t interested in beer, and ordered a Jack and Coke. This also helped introduce me to the new members of our group as The American. I regretted this decision almost immediately as the waiter asked for 7.50. Fortunately the cover charge got me a 5 Euro token to subsidize the beverage. After paying, the low-key vibe and near empty dance floor made a lot more sense. Germans aren’t want to shake their groove things or tail-feathers if they aren’t properly inebriated, and with beer running at 4 Euro a pop, there weren’t going to be many dancers, but soon Seiko and her friends led us to the floor. We were joining a middle-aged couple, and a lonely, lanky 50 year-old dude in the hopes of getting the party started.

I still don’t understand the German dance floor. There is not touching. There is no twirling. Everyone maintains an arm-length safety circle and glances around the circle of friends giggling slightly at the fact you’re dancing. This goes on for the rest of the evening. I think part of the problem is the music. There’s only so much you can do with electronic dance music that uses the exact same beat for six songs in a row.

Finally I reached a peak of boredom and reached out a hand to one of the Seiko’s friends. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, but eventually figured out she could put her hand in mine and I could spin her around. Then it was back to bored bouncing. If that’s Bonn nightlife, yeah, I didn’t miss much.

The next day Koen and I were invited to see a friend of his off to Mongolia. She was having a massive barbeque in an even more massive park tucked into suburban Bonn. I got my now regular workout of schlepping a crate of beer for about two kilometers. I love drinking out of real glass bottles, but packing thirty of them into a heavy plastic crate flies in the face of the car-less European lifestyle. Without a vehicle, you should probably just plan on partying in the parking lot, or inviting a body builder to help you set up.

At the barbeque I took on the job usually reserved for the slightly shy new-guy. I tended the fire. I was also starving and ready to tear into the potato salad Koen and I had brought along, but no one else seemed ready to eat and I didn’t want to perpetuate any nasty stereotypes about ravenous Americans.

As the meat sizzled, I struck up a conversation with a boyfriend who had been dragged along and didn’t know anyone at the party either. We talked about German soccer, and all the teams I should have seen while I was in country. I’ve been on the lookout for the entire year for someone who could impart such information. Figures I find him my last weekend. His girlfriend will be studying in San Diego for a semester, and I was asked, “what we should see in America.” I was at a loss for what to say. I told her she should see the zoo near where she’ll be living, but then what do I say? See wide open spaces, see skyscrapers, see lines, ice cubes, and bottom-less coffee. See screened windows, excessive air-conditioning, and beef under 7 Euro a pound.

Sunday, my last day in Bonn, I finally visited the home of it’s favorite son. Every visitor who has swung through my city has been treated to the coral façade of the fronting building, but it was time to see the room where little Ludwig von Beethoven came into the world, and the room where his family celebrated his departure for Vienna at age 22.

The house was encrusted with verdant grape vines and filled with artifacts from the composer’s life. They had his first viola, a reproduction of the advertisement for his first performance, and portraits of brooding B’hoven. For his first public performance he played the piano in Cologne at the age of eight, but his father lied on the ad, saying he was six, to get a little extra attention for the next “wunderkind Mozart.”

The most interesting artifacts were a collection of ear horns he used, and the a selection of the notebooks he used for conversations with friends and for jotting ideas during his long walks through the Viennese countryside.

Part of the problem with a museum dedicated to Beethoven, is that his greatest accomplishments can’t be seen. It was cool to see his pianos from Vienna, and the organ he played for the Elector in Bonn, but I really wanted to hear the melodies he was able to draw from them.

I was also fascinated by the paintings adorning the walls of 18th and 19th century Bonn. The University building that now adorns the logo for the University used to be the residence of the Emperor’s Elector in Cologne. The Prince didn’t really like the congestion and grime of larger Cologne, so he retreated to the sleepy university town of Bonn. The pictures showed stately carriages unloading ladies in froofy hoop skirts onto the steps that are populated by aging, drunk punks today.

Other pictures showed the Poppelsdorfer Palace with its expansive botanical gardens filled with masked party guests at a spring ball. Beethoven became a member of the Elector’s symphony when he was ten and attended these parties as his grandfather and father had before him. A map of the city in 1770, the year Beethoven was born, showed a layout nearly identical to its present footprint.

The final stop on my tour through the house was the “Digital Archive” where you could cue up hundreds of recordings of Ludwig’s compositions and read his scrawling notation as the music played. I holed myself up at a terminal, reading about statues of Beethoven around the world (Bonn’s was the first memorial erected in his honor) until participating in an art installation that pairs the climatic jail scene from Beethoven’s one opera “Fidelio” with high definition abstract, animated figures that could be controlled by audience members. The blobs of color didn’t do very much emoting, and despite being three dimensional (with the requisite Ray-ban-like glasses) weren’t nearly as engaging as watching actual people perform and emote. Maybe it would have been more interesting if more people had hopped up to move the figures, but we all stayed reserved and German.

I met Koen at the office where he announced, “I can’t explain it, but have am craving Mexican food.” So, my final meal in Bonn was a burrito con carne and half-priced margarita. Pavel joined us, “Matchew, if you are leaving Germany, why do you eat Mexican food now?” Koen looked a little sheepish, “Oh, that’s right. It’s my fault, but I know a good German dive we can go to so we can put some final Kölsch in your system.”

At Spleen, a low ceilinged, wood paneled affair with cushy couches and tables polished by elbows and coasters, we raised our glasses and toasted the country that none of us call home.

The next morning I was up before 5AM, throwing my few possessions into my backpack and scampering down the street to catch the first tram of the morning towards the train station. I entered through the neo-classical façade for the last time, and began to roll away from my home.

Leaving Marburg, I mentioned how quickly it had come to feel like home, and wondered if Bonn would have the same hominess. I was leaving a place that was decidedly not my home, but also where I had managed to make a lot of new friends. Would I be able to pull it off in the next town without the extensive support network? Yes, yes I did. The ride along the Rhine past 12th century castle ruins is like my driveway, and I pulled out of it for the last time waving over my shoulder at the people who had helped me settle into two semesters of the good German life.

But, the exploring wasn’t over yet. That train was heading south to Frankfurt where I managed to navigate the massive terminals to the Aer Lingus counter with a German tour group that was headed to the home of Guinness and Gab. They formed what I hope will be the final German blob I participate in, and all checked in with ease. There was much confusion upon landing in Dublin as they tried to remember where they had stashed their passports, and the line of other travelers had to wait for a dozen methodical German grandmothers to recover their identification cards. I was a little antsy. I just wanted to get to the Arrivals gate. A certain someone from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean had hopped the pond to meet me, and the Germans weren’t going to delay the reunion if I could do anything about it. But I couldn’t. I was no match for their blobbing, and had to wait my (possible) turn.

Finally I burst from the baggage claim and there she was. Carolyn was standing next to her pack and I was treated to much more romantic reunion than our harried hug at the Frankfurt gate back in December. Then we turned to set our sights on Dublin…

Tschüss/Cheers

Wiener Wandering

(The Vienna photos. It's hard to take a bad shot in this town.)

You may recall I already visited Vienna once before with the Borths family and Carolyn. So, when I have an entire continent of exploring, why retrace my steps? Reason 1: Marty needed to see the city and we were pretty damn close in Prague. Reason 2: I wanted to visit Nick, a fellow graduate of St. X and Ohio State who’s doing a teaching Fulbright in Vienna. Reason 3 (and most important): Vienna demands a second go-round. It’s just that glorious a city.

The plan was to meet Nick at the Vienna train station or at his house. This would be awkward to time because his parents were also visiting for two weeks and we wanted to give them plenty of time to spend with their son. Nick wasn’t in the station. I couldn’t raise him on the cell phone or by text message. We were on the industrial outskirts of the city, and that just wouldn’t do. If you’re in Vienna, go to the pretty parts, so we did.

We buried ourselves in the pedestrian heart of the Old Town, eating Wiener Schnitzel (Wien is the German name for Vienna) and drinking excellent cocktails at American Bar, a place recommended by Miya back in Hamburg. The bar was designed in 1908 by one of the fathers of modern architecture, Adolf Loos, who believed ornate decoration was a sinful waste of worker’s sweat. The bar specializes in American-style cocktails, so I sipped an Old Fashioned, and Marty enjoyed a Smoky Martini while we tried to figure out how to track down Nick and discussed if our action-hero of a waiter would be able to save us from nuclear apocalypse.

St. Stephan's Cathedral at the center of the old town's pedestrian district.

We poked our heads into St. Stephan’s Cathedral in the center of the old town and discovered the shadowy interior was obstructed by a locked iron gate. Well, the only thing to do when you can’t visit the cathedral is grab some ice cream. With cones in hand we continued down the street and I literally ran into Nick. He, his family, and his girlfriend were just leaving dinner and were discussing how to contact me (apparently none of my text messages and only one voicemail message actually made it to his end of the line). If we had all just trusted to serendipity, much stress could have been avoided.

We walked Nick’s parents home then went to visit a few of Nick’s favorite Viennese bars. The first was a dive that usually features live music. They did this night, but the act was, to put it gently, awful. Two inebriated guitarists, one with a six string and the other with a twelve with only half the strings in tune, sang in unison, belting Dylan, Clapton, and Cash at the tops of their lungs. I’ve come to the conclusion that Rock and Roll is one of America’s great contributions to world culture. But, listening to these two, I wished the Austrians had never abandoned their accordions and Alphorns for the Blues. If they hadn't, my ears might still be functional. We moved on.

Next, discussion around a comfy table in squashy chairs at an English Bar. I wasn’t sure what “English Bar” entailed until I saw the walls were encrusted with dozens of book cases with hundreds of English language paperbacks and classics. In other words, my kind of bar. When we left, a two hour odyssey ensued as we waited for buses that didn’t arrive on time (have I mentioned I don’t like buses?), talked to lonely Indian men who wanted to know about plate tectonics, and ate Viennese sausage (or “Wieners” as we might say. Note on the Wiener: In this town they believe in the bun. Germans tend to just use a hand-sized roll to hold a much larger sausage. Here you are given a kind of baguette. The top is sliced off and a tunnel bored into the bread. The mustard and cheese go in along with the sausage, creating a self-contained, walkable, street food. Brilliance on – or in – a bun.). We finally got home in the wee hours of the morning, and didn’t earn ourselves very much sleep because we wanted to get to the Vienna Ring.

The epic and Neo-Classical Austrian Parliament building. That's Athena towering over Vienna.

For breakfast we ate massive, chocolate covered cream horns then explored the parliament building and the Natural History Museum. The Vienna NHM is famous as the home of Venus von Willendorf, a somewhat abstract and slightly pudgy limestone carving of a woman roughly 26,000 year old. She’s one of the oldest human forms ever discovered and was one of the first examples of Paleolithic art to be hauled out of the ground. In 1908 she created a sensation despite being faceless and footless.

In December I visited the Kunsthistorisches Museum, the architectural twin of the Naturhistorisches Museum. They sit facing each other across a manicured park, just off the main drag of Vienna. I knew the Kusthistorisches Museum (Historical Art Museum) was a piece of art in itself, a palace built in 1889 for the sole purpose of exalting art. I didn’t know the Natural History Museum had been designed with the same aesthetic. Canvas painting of exotic animals, people, and localities rimmed each artfully plastered gallery. My favorite touch came in the bone hall where casts and actual mounted fossils were surrounded by a chorus of Classical figures (nyads, dryads, and satyrs perhaps?) each bearing an extinct animals. One wrestled with an ancient sea-monster, the next with a pterodactyl, the next with a massive crustacean…I love the American Museum of Natural History, but they don’t have that kind of class.

On the left a figure tries to keep a grip on a Rhamphorhynchus. His buddy has his own prblems holding on to a Ichthyosaurus.

I love the kangaroo-posed Iguanodon, one of the oldest dinosaur names around.

Hopping into the Metro, we traveled out into the Viennese suburbs to explore Schönbrunn Palace with Nick and his family. The plot of land the palace commands was purchased in 1569 but the current royal residence wasn’t set up until 1696. Originally the designer wanted to make it bigger than its model, Versailles, but he had to deal with the budget and dialed things back. Rick Steves claims it’s the second-best palace in Europe behind Versailles, so that designer wasn’t far off his mark. We explored the palace’s parks, climbing behind a massive fountain and up to the Gloriette for a view of the palace and Vienna rolling away to the horizon. We discovered we really didn’t have time to do a full palace tour, or hit the zoo. The zoo is the oldest in existence. This fact was only revealed to me late in our exploration and there just wasn’t time to visit the pandas. That’s what next time is for.

After sitting on the lawn, sipping Easter-market punch, Marty and I waved good-bye to Nick and headed for the Vienna Opera house where we cued up for the best deal in Europe: three Euro tickets to the opera. Our legs were sore from three consecutive days on our feet, but we took standing-room seats at the center of the house for “Die tote Stadt” a 1920 opera by Erich Wolfgang Korngold that revolved around a husband who wouldn't’t allow his dead wife’s memory rest in peace. Heavy, operatic stuff. Note that this was our second opera in three days.

After the performance we met Nick at a Jazzland, a cellar-turned club that’s been around since 1972. The original plan was to meet Nick and his parents, but only Nick felt energetic enough to join us. After jockeying with other patrons to secure a spot with a decent view of the band, we settled in to groove to a great set that featured scat solos and all the trumpet I’ve been missing. Second Jazz club in four nights. Marty and I really are too cool to hang out with ourselves.

When the band wrapped up, so did the bar, so we rolled on to a place on the canal that Nick claimed, “you have to see.” The other patrons ranged from high schoolers trying to have a night on the town, to forty-year-old transvestites. There wasn’t a demographic missing or a character that wouldn’t find a home in a quirky sitcom, including a construction worker who just wanted to dance to the monotonous techno beats. Getting home went smoothly, but again we stayed out late and woke up early.

Our first stop was to the Votivkirche, a neo-Gothic structure built by Emperor Franz Joseph in 1879 in thanks to God for deflecting an assassins knife on the spot the church was erected. It’s huge, neo-Gothic, and once featured a massive stained-glass window that depicted the Emperor’s deliverance. The windows were bombed out during WWII and in ’64 the windows were replaced with less of a divine-right-of-kings kind of theme. There was also a devotional chapel featuring Our Lady of Guadalupe. The sign made it seem like this was the image that was discovered by Juan Diego in 1531. We were in awe, but our awe was misspent on a copy sent by the Mexican government in 1954 (the Empire of Mexico was ruled by an enlightened, but unlucky Hapsburg prince, Maximilian I for three years before he was killed by firing squad in 1867). Oh well.

After a brief detour to recover Marty’s passport from Nick’s apartment (it was so well hidden he had forgotten about it) we were on our way to the Belvedere Palace. The place was set up in 1716 as the residence of Prince Eugene of Savoy, a brilliant general who beat the Ottomans, French, and Italians over the course of a fifty year career. Originally French, Louis XIV ditched Eugene because he wasn’t particularly attractive. Taking his brilliant mind east, he found the Austrians would give him a chance and they reaped the rewards. So did he and thence the palace.

Now the building houses an art collection that ranges from Medieval to 21st century stuff, but focuses on the work of the Vienna Secession, an association of artists who wanted to promote Austrian art at the turn of the 20th century. The first president was Gustav Klimt and the Belvedere has a bunch of his work, including the iconic “Kiss” and “Judith.” Personally, I thought the haunting, expressionist work of Egon Schiele was even more engrossing than Klimt. Marty left to catch his train and I continued to explore the Romantics and Impressionists until the lure of the gardens became too strong.

The flowers all seemed on the verge of leaping to colorful life. The daffodils and tulips were doing their best, but I knew if I walked through in one week, the place would be a gravel-lined riot of color. Again, next time.

Weaving through memorials and churches I said goodbye to one of the most beautiful cities I have ever explored, then set my feet in the direction of the Vienna airport. I had my last cup of Viennese coffee, eavesdropped on a Canadian businessman who was also in awe of the beauty of the city and flew to the Cologne/Bonn airport where Rheinisch rain greeted by arrival.

A church I discovered at the last minute called Karlskirche. Next time I'll go inside. Never act like you won't return to a spot. It stresses you out and might not be true. Witness this trip.

I huddled in the bus stop with my fellow Bonners and mentally listed what I needed to pack up because the next morning I would be catching the train to Paris!

Pretty photos of a pretty city.

Of Ferries and Fish

The photo album of Hamburg shots. Please excuse the perpetual gray background. It was March in Germany. Also tacked to the end.

I didn’t know much about the city of Hamburg before I found myself on a train hurtling across the Danish countryside and sea. I had a vague memory of hearing Hamburg spoken with a Liverpool accent. I also knew it was a big port town. I had a lot to learn.

Part of the reason Erin had encouraged our Copenhagen/Hamburg itinerary was the train ferry. Apparently the Danish and German transportation authorities have decided the best way to transfer passengers across the chunk of North Sea between Denmark and Germany is to employ a ferry. This makes sense for the passengers, but they also insist on taking the train along for the ride. So, periodically a massive ship bellies up to the Danish dock and takes an entire passenger train aboard, bound for Kiel.

You offload from the train, board the boat, and the train follows you in. You’re reunited when the boat docks again. Why you don’t disembark from the train and meet a new one on the other side of the water, I can’t explain. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to experience the full logistical and technical power of the train ferry. Some kind of maintenance was underway, and we had to switch to coach busses at the dock. These followed us to Kiel and drove us to a waiting train. Erin was disappointed. I was excited to put another mode of transportation on the list for the trip (plane, train, taxi, ferry, bus, and counting). Ashlan took leave of our group in Hamburg and continued south to Mainz.

A shot aboard the train ferry (temporarily the bus ferry).

Our hostel was in Schanzenviertel, a hip neighborhood in a very hip city (anarchists frequently have oxymoronic meetings in the area). The place was austere (they had just renovated our room) with antiseptically white walls and sheets. It was also excitingly affordable.

We went out for a drink at a swank bar on the corner. The lights were dim, the liquor bottles backlit, and the furniture low and woody. We stood at the bar enjoying well-made cocktails and watched as all the singles in Hamburg filed in behind us. At first I thought we had found another La Capain as the Y chromosomes piled up in front of me. Then I looked over my shoulder and saw all the women chatting and glancing past me at the men. Our little coed group formed the intersection of the Venn diagram. After a drink we headed back to our monastic quarters so we could get a very early start on the day. We needed to be up with the sun because there is only one thing you must do in Hamburg on a Sunday morning: hit the fish market.

Every Sunday since 1702, the fishmongers hawk their new wares that have just been hauled up the Elbe river to Hamburg. They start at five in the morning. Restaurant owners and other connoisseurs pile up outside the booths, bidding on packages of eel and herring. Slightly later in the morning, families show up on their way to or from church, hoping to snag fresh fish for Sunday dinner. As the people accumulated, bands started setting up. Now the Fish Market is an institution. Stands line the road selling fish sandwiches, fruits, vegetables, cheap t-shirts, and DVDs. In the main auction hall, a band plays and beer flows. The whole event is supposed to wrap up at 9:30 in the morning.

The swarm that descends on Hamburg between 5 AM and 9:30 AM all for the fresh fish.

At 7 AM we were following a steady stream of people towards the Market, still picking sleepers from our tear ducts. We grabbed fish sandwiches (the smoked, peppered salmon turned out to be a great choice) and a beer and settled in to listen to “Freak Wave” in the Auction Hall while shamelessly people watching.

Check the time. Note that I was not alone in my beverage choice. In fact, coffee was harder to come by at 8:15 AM near the market.

Every demographic was represented. The kids who had stayed out all night clubbing and were on the verge of drunken collapse, the proper house-wives who needed to pick up some eel for…whatever you use eel for, and young families who wanted to enjoy the spectacle. There didn’t seem to be many tourists as the house rocked to “Hier Kommt Alex” by Die Toten Hosen (or “The Dead Pants.” Think of them as the Guns ‘n’ Roses of Germany that never broke up), “99 Luftballoons” by Nena (yeah, now you’ll have it stuck in your head all day) and a terrible cover of “The Final Coutdown” which featured attempts at harmony. Honest, heartfelt attempts.

Freak Wave is rocking on the stage while the beer hall spectators sing along.

After experiencing the Fish Market, Marty took his leave and Erin, Miya, and I wandered through the city, checking out the former dock warehouses that are being converted into swank apartments, and the Gothic city hall. In all honesty, Hamburg is the most American city I’ve visited. It’s clean, but not spotless. The architecture does not strive for the past, but kept up with the times leaving high rises and apartments that document the changing architectural norms of each decade of the 20th century. It feels lived in. Cosmopolitan but industrialized. The public transportation is efficient, but crowded. Most German trams offer enough room for everyone’s personal space. In Hamburg you cram. Maybe it’s important to know one of Hamburg’s sister cities is Chicago.

After lunch at a fantastic Northern-French style crepe place, we went to the Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe. Miya needed to go to see some medieval sculpture. As you may have noticed, I won’t pass on an opportunity to hit a museum and acquire some fun facts. The name of the place translates to “Museum for Arts and Crafts.” Meaning they featured antique musical instruments, and the evolution of the chair with shifting design morays in the 20th century. They also had a special exhibition of Saul Steinberg illustrations. In the heart of the exhibitions was a wide selection of Greek and Roman artifacts. It’s like someone emptied their particularly eclectic basement into a huge building and started selling tickets. It was wonderful.

One of the exhibits at the Museum. This is my kind of art.

Every city in Germany seems to have a beautifully functional, integrated public transportation system. This means passes for the bus also work on the subway and on the local trains. In Hamburg our group pass also worked on the ferry. We hopped on at a dock labeled with the same schedules and numbers you would find at a bus stop. We climbed aboard and hauled ourselves onto the upper deck. The day had been grey and drizzly, so we were prepared for a little water. As the boat motored along the bank, we chopped into the down current waves. The bow dropped through the troughs, kicking up plumes of water that drenched our deck. The wind was in our faces and the spray of the Elbe was beading on our coats.

Eventually our jeans started to pick up some of the damp and we had to retreat to the dry lower cabin to watch the massive tankers and cranes move by the windows from a cozy table. We switched ferries and crossed the river, rolling as we drove lateral to the waves. The boat pitched to a 30 degree angle. It was a blast and it was all for free (or at least included in our ticket).

We trooped back to the hostel to dry off, get some caffeine, and drum up a place to eat. We started at a place called “Herren Simple” but it was too simple. Then we moved to Park Café. The Tai-curry chicken was delicious along with Astor, the Hamburg brew. At this point Miya headed back to the hostel while Erin and I took the drizzle once again to check out the largest red light district in Euope: The Reeperbahn.

The area used to be where sailors went after a long stint at sea. Now it’s an avenue of racy shops and strip clubs. A decade ago the city wanted to class the area up a bit, driving the hard drug dealers out by setting up venues for musical theater and classy restaurants. Apparenty this hasn’t classed things up too much as you can still walk down the street and get tackled by prostitutes (or maybe just extras from the historical epic musicals in town). Unfortunately, Erin and I were walking through the Reeperbahn early on a rainy Sunday. There wasn’t much going on beyond neon lighting and pole dancers warming up so we didn’t get the full effect of the street.

But, there’s more to the Reeperbahn than seediness. This is where the Beatles got their start. In 1960, the freshly named Beatles (no long The Quarrymen, or Long John and the Beetles) showed up at the Indra Club with Stuart Sutcliffe and Pete Best to play 48 consecutive nights with six-hour sets. Needless to say, they honed their craft. After getting deported for arson, they returned n ’61 and played 92 consecutive nights.

Word spread and the Germans can legitimately take the credit for discovering the Beatles. Now the clubs they played are places of pilgrimage. Last year the city erected the Beatlesplatz to commemorate the birth of group in the seediest part of town. John Lennon once said, “I was born in Liverpool, but I grew up in Hamburg.” Apparently he had a thing for industrial dock towns.

The new Beatles Platz. From right to left: John, George, Pete, Paul, and Stuart.

After paying our respects to music history, Erin and I headed back to the hostel to catch up with Miya and plan the next day.

We did breakfast at Stadt Backerei, a Hamburg intuition (likely because they offer the cheapest coffee in town). It was pouring and Erin and Miya decided it was time to head home after a week away. I wanted to wander a bit more, so I strapped on my backpack and searched for the Baroque masterpiece that is St. Michael’s Church. It was open, but the interior was undergoing the most extensive renovation I’ve seen in a church, and I think every church I visit is decorated with a little scaffolding. You couldn’t enter the main sanctuary. You just troop up to the choir loft and watch the progress of the workers in the middle. At this rate, St. Peter’s will be enclosed in a massive defumigating tent.


Back into the rain. I trudged next to St. Nikolai’s Church. It used to be one of the five main Lutheran churches in the city, but in 1945 it was practically demolished by Allied bombs. The church was constructed in from 1846 to 1874 on the site of earlier churches that had burned down. For two years it was the tallest building in the world. But now it’s reduced to a tower and fragments of wall, reminders of the horrors of war.

I didn’t know that as I walked towards the spire. I was expecting a 13th century Gothic structure that might offer a place to dry off, but it’s open to birds. The Holocaust memorial and statuary was moving, but I was getting really wet. I needed to get inside, so I headed for the Museum of Hamburger History to get some insight into a city that has ruled itself for a thousand years. But I forgot it was a Monday. Every museum in Hamburg shuts down on Mondays. Standing outside the museum in the drizzle, I decided to head for the train station. It was time to get back to Bonn.

I hope the weather has been behaving itself for you this weekend. Stay tuned for more updates as I wander to exciting destinations: Prague! Paris! Zurich! Work!

Tschüss!

Pictures of imposing industry and waves.

The Beautiful and the Gaudí

A link to illustrations. It's the same album from the previous post, but with the following entry, more of the photos might make a little more sense. Also included at the end.

The next morning Rose, Kristen, Shane, and I were out the door and on the subway as the city got rolling. We were headed to the Eixample, a district primarily built up during the end of the 19th century. It’s now a very swanky shopping district and seemed like a good place to start our wandering. As we emerged from the subway, I looked across the street, searching for a street sign to get my bearings and was confronted by a riot of pastel mosaic tiles and rippling, skull-like balconies. The building was nestled between two standard high rises, which made it even more difficult to ignore.

Me: I think that thing’s famous.
Shane: Yeah, we should check it out.
Me: How much do you think a ticket costs?
Shane: Does it matter?
Me: Fair.

And thus began a day spent in adoration of one of the most creative, visionary architects I’ve ever heard of: Antoni Gaudí.

Because the Eixample was built up at the turn of the last century, Art Nouveau was in vogue as a loopy, organic rebellion against the hard angles and steel of the churning Industrial Revolution. Barcelona’s architects took the spirit of the French movement and infused it with a whiff of the Mediterranean and hard-edged Spanish mysticism, and Catalonian Nationalism producing “Modernisme.” The master of Modernisme was Gaudí. Intensely patriotic, and obsessed with natural forms, his buildings evoke wild gardens, and a little Dr. Seuss.

Then entry way to Casa Batllò. Everything, even the pottery, ebbs and flows.

The building confronting Shane and I was Casa Batlló. The apartment building was built in 1870, but Gaudí was asked to renovate it in 1905. Instead of just sprucing up the façade, he decided to move through every room, destroying right angles and infusing the building with light. Shane and I paid the entry fee, armed ourselves with audioguides and dove in – an appropriate metaphor as the interior has a very marine feel with blues, purples, and greens mingling in bubble-like fixtures. A massive ridge of tile fronts the façade with twisting chimneys and a lance-like tower slicing through the gable.

Gaudi was a very patriotic Catalonian and some people see Casa Batllo as a metaphor for Catalonia’s patron saint: St. George. The tower is capped with a cross and “JHS”, the Christian saint’s weapon slaying the pagan dragon. The victims of the beast are symbolized by the skull-like balconies and boney entrance-level. The attic evokes the ribs of the dragon with stark white arches leading to the roof.

The spires are maybe the spikes on the dragon's back, the gable his raised neck, and the cross the tip of St. George's lucky lance.

A less iconic example of Modernisme, to remind you that Gaudi was unique, even within his artistic movement.

After ogling at one of Gaudi’s smaller works, Shane and I were ready to visit everything else the man had constructed. After walking up and down the street to take in some of the less iconic, non-Gaudi Modernisme buildings, we headed for Casa Milà on Passeig de Gràcia. The massive, melting apartment building was built between 1906 and 1912. People live and work in the structure, but the top floor had a museum to Gaudi, explaining some of his biography and techniques. There were bones, leaves, and shells, some of his favorite motifs, and reproductions of the furniture he designed.


He was on the vanguard of ergonomics, making chairs that trace the arch of the back, and handles that perfectly fit the required grip of the hand. It’s a bit of an understatement to say he was ahead of his time. The roof of the apartment is festooned with a rolling, concrete hillside with twisting spires and interlocked arches. The rain should have driven us inside pretty quickly, but we continued to explore, taking in the view of the city, including a view of Sagrada Família (more on that building a little later).

After checking out the roof, we walked through a reconstructed apartment with furniture and fixtures that would have been common in 1910. It was actually a little shocking to be inside such a modern structure and suddenly be confronted with the lacy curtains and antiquated picture frames that would have been installed by the first tenants of the building. Next, we headed down the street for Gaudi’s masterpiece: the Sagrada Familia (The Holy Family).


The drizzle continued, so we grabbed lunch at a cafeteria-like restaurant recommended by a guy at a coffee stand. We sat by the window so we could try to take in the soaring spires of the structure while enjoying an unlimited supply of coffee (a rare thing on The Continent).

The full title of the building is “Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família” or Expiatory Temple of the Holy Family. Gaudi broke ground in 1882 and worked on it for the next 40 years. In 1926 Gaudi died after being hit by a tram at the age of 73, but construction has continued (with a brief respite in 1936 due to the Spanish Civil War). Estimates for the date of completion range from 2026 to 2080, though advances in design tools and materials have made the earlier dates more feasible. Construction is completely funded through private donations and ticket sales from visiting tourists like us. I’m glad I shelled out a couple of Euros to help make Gaudi’s greatest project a reality.

Now there are eight spires twisting towards the sky. Eventually there will be 18 representing the 12 apostles, the four evangelists, Mary, and Christ. The spire devoted to Christ will stand over the center of the building with a massive crystal cross acting as a kind of lighthouse for the ships steaming into Barcelona harbor. The Eastern façade was completed during Gaudi’s lifetime. It depicts the nativity and the tree of life. The opposite façade tells the story of the Passion. This section was designed by a Josep Maria Subirachs, who ignored Gaudi’s plans and infused the scenes with his own angular style.



Modern designers and artists have been given a little more license to develop their own visions of the project since many of Gaudi’s plans and models were destroyed in a fire set by Catalonian Anarchists in 1936.

In 2000, much of the interior vault was completed. The columns are like massive twisting tree trunks that branch near the ceiling. Skylights are surrounded by sunbursts or leaf designs, creating the impression of walking through a forest clearing lit by radiant stained glass. Construction is heavily underway as cranes swing overhead, and workers climb through the scaffolding.


Really the most incredible aspect of the Sagrada Familia, or really anything Gaudi built, is that it is truly one man’s vision. He conceived of a spiritually infused naturalistic world in concrete and steel, and people bought into his vision. To see the Sagrada Familia built is to see one man’s dream become a reality. Other artists – painters, photographers, sculptors, writers etc. – often work alone, or with small groups of people who share their vision, presenting their individualized vision as a completed whole for others to adorate or dismiss. An architect must convince hundreds of people – financiers, city officials, and construction foremen – to participate in his concept of the world. Gaudi’s was distinctive and people went with it. How often does that really happen?

As the temple closed behind us, Shane and I resolved to return in the mid-21st century to see the structure completed. If it’s not done by then, then we’ll take up masonry, and help speed the process along.

From there, Rose, Kristen, and James went shopping in the trendy department stores of Barcelona, and Shane and I went to immerse ourselves in a museum dedicated to another Spanish artist with a singular, distinctive vision: Pablo Picasso.

A (Self) Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. (after this I was told there was to be no photography in the museum. I thought it was just no flash. Whoops.)

The Picasso Museum was established in 1963 in the city Picasso flourished in (before going to Paris, that is). The collection begins with the young Picasso’s first artistic forays. From a very young age he showed an incredible eye for realistic portraits. When he was 16 he created his first prize-winning piece “The First Communion” followed by “Science and Charity.” The museum then moves through each phase of the artist’s career. You can watch him experiment with Impressionism, Pointillism, and Expressionism, then, after the Red Period, there’s a massive gap in the record. Enter Cubism.

Shane and I had to hustle through the exhibits, but had plenty of time to watch the mature master study “Las Meninas” by Velazquez, deconstructing then rebuilding the piece in Cubist strokes. In a few days we would see the original “Las Meninas” in Madrid, approaching the piece through Picasso’s eyes before using our own.

Again, the door was closed and locked behind us as we departed exactly at closing time. We know how to get the most out of our time, and really tick off museum guards (sorry, Grandpa).

The Barcelona Cathedral which was, you guessed it, closed for renovations.

From Picasso we headed to the theater. James had the brilliant idea to pick up tickets for a string quartet performance at the Palau de la Música Catalana. The Palau was finished in 1909 by Lluís Domènech i Montaner, another Modernisme master (Gaudi didn’t have the whole city to himself). The concert hall is a riot of green, blue, and purple glass. The proscenium is decorated with charging, mounted Valkyries and a bust of Beethoven. The opposite side of the proscenium has a bust of a famous Catalonian composer who drew on traditional folk tunes. Over his head, arches a stately tree. The folk symbols and classical symbols meet to support the artists below.

The facade of the "Palace of Catalonian Music," a mix of brick, steel, classical columns and dancing color. Modern music made tangible.

As students, we had the cheap seats for a performance that appropriately featured a German quartet tracing music’s growth from the Baroque to the Romantic (the Romantic is when folk stuff started to mingle with the more theoretical Classical). It was easy to zone during the early parts of the program, but the concert hall offered plenty of decoration to occupy my eyes. Once Beethoven rolled around, my ears became just as engaged.

No photos allowed here, but I wanted you to see the pegasus I got to stare at for the entire concert. Follow the link for more interior views.

The problem with the concert was its timing. It started at 8 and dropped us on the street at 10:00. We were about to have food problems again, since we were trailing the edge of the brief dinnertime window. As we hustled across town, headed for a restaurant our guidebook recommended, we ran into another pair of tourists looking for food. We confessed we didn’t know where we were going, or if it would still be open. Where’s a knowledgeable Barcelonan when you need one?

With a wrong turn, we found ourselves outside the closed farmer’s market. As we power-walked by, we noticed a very trendy restaurant with open tables. A glance at the menu told us we had a lot of cool options, so we strode in, unsure if they would turn the lights off before we finished dining. Shane and I split the Lobster Paella, Rose ordered a traditional Catalonian sausage, Kristen had a baked Catalonian cheese dish, and James enjoyed his curry. The ingredients all came from the neighboring farmers market, including the Spanish wine. We had plenty of time to eat and chat. The nights never flicked off, and the bar was still going as we took to the streets again.

A crustacean making a second appearence in two entries. Do I see a theme brewing?

We were a fair piece from the hotel, and the subway had stopped running an hour earlier. Thus we found ourselves contemplating a cryptic bus schedule on an empty street in Barcelona. I got frustrated with the sign and suggested we walk. I didn’t think it would take that long to cross town. I had forgotten I was in European mode, and was prepared to walk anywhere. The three visitors weren’t necessarily conditioned for trans-urban trips, and after walking for about twenty minutes, I could feel mutiny brewing. Next time, I’ll take the hint earlier and look into hailing a cab (this would be hammered home in Copenhagen, but stay tuned for that episode).

When we got to the hotel, James checked in for the evening. The Floridians had to check out at 5:30 AM the next morning. It was already going on 1 AM. The rest of us decided to just stay up through the night, but we needed a place to do so. Unfortunately, the streets around the hotel were dark and very closed. We asked the hotel desk for a bar recommendation. He pointed at a small restaurant across the road, saying it was one of his favorites.

We crossed and found a fluorescently lit restaurant with a row of surprised locals bellied up to the bar. We were shown a place to sit around a corner, out of sight of the regulars. Our waiter was an enthusiastic Korean man who was clearly eager to practice his English. We obliged, but only stayed for one drink, before taking to the street again in search of a place that had a little more…atmosphere. A club a few blocks away seemed promising until we discovered it was 10 Euro a head and wouldn’t offer much opportunity for chit-chat. Back to the street. Finally, glancing into every storefront, we started to lose hope and considered buying a can of beer from one of the hundreds of guys wandering the streets with six packs, ready to sell their wares for a Euro. This army of vendors had been confronting us for the previous night as well, a kind of zombie army of booze, and maybe something a little harder.

Just then we chanced by a Turkish fast-food joint run by Indian dudes. They still had the lights on and a table of Spanish hipsters gathered around a table in the back. This seemed like a place to stay for a bit. As we chatted, the staff enthusiastically offered us more rounds while also lowering their protective garage door partially over the entrance, indicating they were closing up shop. As we packed up, they protested, but we decided the door was a good indicator that it was time to get back to the hotel to pack up, get showers and begin a new day….

Stay tuned for a good-bye to Barcelona and hello to Madrid with a short tangle with the Spanish transport authority!

Tschüss!

The photo album again.

The hills are alive with the sound of fireworks

Because we left our trusty Volkswagon in Vienna, the Borths family (and Carolyn) struck out for Salzburg by rail. I have a minor debate going with a friend over the merits of the train versus ride sharing. Both systems are very easy to use. A well-known website connects drivers and passengers who want to share a tank of gas to just about anywhere in Germany, or even Europe. This service takes some planning on the passenger’s part. You need to call the driver, arrange a pick-up time, and it’s usually a bit slower than the train, but it’s cheaper.

I admit there are advantages to ride sharing, but you can do this on the train:


My mom reserved a cabin for us, so we could take the three-hour trip together. We stretched our legs, got out books and journals, and looked out the window as we rolled through the Austrian highlands. An older Austrian shared our cabin and offered running commentary on all the cities and geography we were passing. He didn’t speak English, so I translated some of his commentary and got to practice my German skillz (an advantage of ride-sharing, according to my friend).

The train may be expensive, but nothing beats those massive picture windows and your own tray table to work on. But that’s just me. I’m glad the family got to share my point of view.

As soon as we landed on the Salzburg platform, mom tracked down the tourism office and got the number for “Bob’s Special Tours,” a tour company that specializes in showing giddy Sound of Music buffs the sights made famous by the 1965 classic.

Before we left the station, we had five places reserved in a minibus that would pick us up from the hotel we hadn’t seen yet. Mom was excited. But before we could see if the hills were really alive we had to check-in to the Hotel Golden Ente (The Golden Duck). We hauled everything up the first flight of stairs and were greeted by The Frau. The Frau is one of those people who takes her job very seriously. As you watch such a person throw themselves to their duty, you believe that if they stopped, the universe itself might cease its expansion and the Earth freeze in its orbit. Frau is a commanding woman, blond, and ready to put you on the right path physically, economically, and morally if you need it. You are not her guest. You are her wayward child.

She packed me into the elevator with all the baggage and led everyone else up the stairs to our suite, though suite is an inadequate word. She lead us to our apartment, or maybe our home. The place had a full kitchen, one and a half baths, two bedrooms, a fold out, cable TV and a spiral stair case that climbed to a locked window. Someday The Frau hopes to put a deck or porch up there. For the time being the stairs could serve as Austrian home gym equipment. Elisabeth would know how to use them.

After we dropped everything off and The Frau bustled off, we went outside to wait for Bob’s tour guide, who eventually arrived, though not with the normal German punctuality. Maybe they play time a little looser in Austria. Her name was Rosa Maria. She spoke with a thick, authentic German accent and knew her script by heart. We were the only people going for a tour on New Year’s Eve, so we had plenty of room in the van to slide around and look out all the windows as we passed the tree line the von Trapp kids climb, meadows that beg for Julie Andrews in an apron, and the church where they solve a problem like Maria.

As we went by the Abbey used for exterior shots and the actual von Trapp home, mom would offer some personal insights, such as my great-grandmother’s actual encounter with Maria von Trapp. Rosa Maria would stop, briefly stare, then continue with her script.

Part of the problem with never getting much chit-chat in was we never really defined our family dynamic to her. In case you haven’t noticed yet, my family has a relatively restricted gene pool. Cheeks, blond hair, short statures, and dimples are in. Carolyn doesn’t look like a Borths. She doesn’t exude the hobbit vibe my family shares, but she does have the fair features and most people probably assume we’re a five person family unit (unless Carolyn and I are holding hands). Because Rosa Maria was focused on the script, she didn’t notice this gesture, so she was a little shocked when we arrived at the gazebo where Rolf and Liesle sing “You are 16 going on 17” and Carolyn and I struck this pose. Josh was quick to observe, “Oh, it’s so cute, they met when she was 16 going on 17” to clarify things.



My parents met at the St. Xavier/LaSalle football game when they were 16 going on 17 and 17 going on 18, so this picture was also taken:


The tour also stopped at the lake-side mansion where the movie’s von Trapp’s live. Instead of having a boat tipping into the water, we were treated to hockey players enjoying the weather on the last day of 2008.
Then we struck out into the mountains. I really do love The Sound of Music, but I’ve discovered I love seeing the Alps even more. We stopped in a tiny restaurant overlooking a glacial lake and Alpine town for authentic apple strudel and coffee.

This is the mountain the family crosses at the end of the movie to get to Switzerland. Unfortunately, this would be a poor choice of escape route since Germany is on the other side of this mountain. In fact, The Eagle's Nest, Hitlers personal Alpine mansion is on the other side, an easy day trip from Salzburg.

Someone's home. They just live there. They go to work every day, go grocery shopping, and pick up the kids. And call this home. Karma will bite them in the butt someday.

Our view from a strudel cafe. Rosa Maria says its a popular place for visitors. I can't imagine why.

After getting the requisite caffeine and sugar rush, we headed to the church where the captain and Maria get married. As Rosa Maria explained we could go in, but she would wait by the van, a dude in a ski cap rapped on the window. I was in the back of the vehicle and couldn’t hear everything he said, but his tone seemed to say, “Ya’ll need to get the heck out.” Then he gestured at four guys near a fountain and grinned. I caught the word “Gewehr” which means gun. What was going…BOOM!

Four black powder muskets pumped the air full of sound and smoke. Before we could ask why this was happening, Ski Cap’s four buddies reloaded, swung the ancient weapons up to their hips again and fired. Happy New Year! Ski Cap ginned. We applauded and started to get out, hopping there weren’t any cannons getting loaded nearby for a grand finale.

The residual smoke from the New Year's muskets. Happy 2009!

Carolyn walking down the aisle Julie Andrews strolls down. The anti-nun gate was installed for the movie. In the back, Josh is Gretel the flower girl. I've been made fun of for posing in pictures. Know that this is a Borths brother tradition. Even my girlfriend gets in on it.

Josh and I have confidence in spring time. We have confidence in rain. We have confidence that SPRING will come again!

By the end of the ride, Rosa Maria had loosened up a bit. She turned on the soundtrack to the movie that she probably loathes now and was pleasantly surprised when we (especially Josh) started to sing. I’m sure a lot of people have taken Bob’s Tour who are both enthusiastic and tone deaf. Thankfully we could only claim the former. As the sun dipped behind the mountains, we rolled back into the hotel with “I Have Confidence” stuck in our heads, but now it was time for an even higher art form: Classical chamber music.

Mirabell Palace was the venue for the evening’s performance. Built in 1730 for the prince-archbishop it is so Baroque that you’d never be able to put it together again. The title Prince-Archbishop doesn’t get used very often, but it was the title bestowed on the rulers of Salzburg after they broke away from the Bavarians and was independent until the Austro-Hungarian empire took over in 1815. Combining the secular and religious rule of a city is always dicey and palaces for the archbishops dot the landscape, including one built in a month to store a particularly un-celibate Prince’s mistresses. This same character had his larger palace tricked out with a sprinkler system so he could drench his guests whenever he flipped a switch. He even had hoses hooked up to their dinner chairs so he could soak while they ate. They weren’t allowed to leave until he did, so I’m sure they would spend the rest of the meal contemplating the consequences of flipping off a Prince-Archbishop.

The string ensemble performed in an ornate, gold trimmed hall with plenty of putti and plaster (see Carolyn’s comment on the “Beware” post for more on putti in art). The group consisted of youngish women and one 60 year-old man who founded the group before most of the girls were born. They had a wonderful sound as they lead us through Wagner, Mozart, Chopin, and Bach. It was the first time I have watched a small classical ensemble perform, and by the end of it I assigned each of them a personality based solely on their expressions and body language as they played. After the final round of applause, Carolyn, Josh and I compared notes. We agreed the second violin would probably make a great friend. The bass player would probably ignore you if you were the only two people on a tiny desert island.

We left the palace as snow was starting to fall and wound our way to a hotel restaurant on the river to celebrate the New Year. They knew we were coming from the concert, but our waiter was still agitated. We needed to get through a couple of courses if we hoped to get to desert by midnight. We started with champagne (Sekt here in the German speaking world) and an appetizer pictured here:

The pink is beet foam. Each little appetizer is some kind of fish with the caviar in closest to the camera. Carolyn is responsible for documenting this meal. Then came the salad course, and more wine, then the main course, fish or beef, and more wine (Austria is known for their wine. I expected to hop the Atlantic and come back a beer snob, but I have sampled a surprising array of Germanic wine. Bless the Romans for stubbornly sowing vineyards wherever they went.)


Our plates were quickly cleared; midnight was close at hand. Our waiter quickly poured us a second round of champagne and showed us the exit to the river. All of Salzburg clustered itself around the Salzach River watching fireworks sporadically fly over the water. The Salzburg fortress contributed to the effort, but mostly the display was put together by eager pyromaniacs. There wasn’t an organized time to start, and there was no climactic finale. Instead, explosions blossomed overhead, ash rained down and we squinted at our watches to see if it was midnight yet because you can’t hear church bells over fireworks.

By consensus we declared it midnight. The family toasted a wonderful new year, then we turned and toasted our waiter, the cook staff, the hostess, and our dining neighbors who were also enjoying the sporadic pyrotechnics. After things petered out and only the occasional firecracker could be heard going off by the bridge, we returned to the restaurant for coffee and desert.

Desert was a mango sorbet in a fried pastry shell, topped by pulled sugar. The sugar needed to move to get to the mango, so we ate through. The texture was somewhere between fiberglass insulation and Brillo pad, but it sure tasted sweet. A fantastic meal to kick off 2009, but the night couldn’t be over yet. Carolyn and I had taken dance lessons in Vienna so we would be ready waltz on New Years and we had been told there was a dance floor in the hotel connected to the restaurant.

We had seen the dance party when we walked through the building after the concert, and weren’t sure if it was the place to waltz. It was a mix between a tiny wedding reception and a corporate Christmas party with an average age of 50 and an average skin tone of tanning-bed sienna. We retraced our steps with mixed thoughts. If they were playing “The Banana Boat Song” (Day-O, me say Daaay-O!) again, we were going to keep searching for a place to dance, but we weren’t sure where exactly to look. Fortunately the decision was made for us when the doorman told us only hotel guests were allowed at the party. Slightly relieved, we walked on.

Mom and dad decided to call it a night, but Carolyn, Josh, and I followed the sounds of thumping bass to a New Years Block Party set up in the old town square by our hotel. Beer bottles were skittering around below our feet, kicked by drunken revelers who were all coming to hear “Street (something)” rock out thier favorite covers with particular focus on the late 80s and early 90s (especially love ballads).

As we found a spot in the crowd, they started the classic opening riff of “Sweet Home Alabama.” I sang along, carrying some Austrians who might not have known all the lyrics (“Now Muscle Shoals has got the Swampers…” doesn’t really mean anything in either language). The band also played some German tunes that everyone seemed to know the words to. We were able to sing along to the chorus, but I’ve since forgotten the words and melody, so that popular non-English tune with have to remain an elusive memory.

We watched an older, and very inebriated couple waltz to an early 90s ballad. Their neighbors cleared a large space for them, allowing their stumbling steps to carry them across the cobblestones. Fortunately they were never carried into the cobble stones. No one wants a New Years face plant.

Finally Street (something) said their goodbyes, played their encore and called it a night. We turned with the rest of the crowd, thinking of bed and the Salzburg adventures we would find the next day…