Prague: Czech

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

A view down St. Vitus's nave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, we're hip.

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

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

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

The photos again. Enjoy!

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

What about that project thing?

When I got back to Bonn, I met Mike, a graduate student from the University of Michigan. He has working with some of the sauropod material in the department and weeks ago I had offered my dorm as a free place to crash. He had arrived in town the day I left for Berlin, so he had the place to himself for a week.

When I got back, I inflated the air mattress and had a roommate for the next week. He was furiously collecting data, and inspired me to swing into my own research with new verve. I started analyzing the claws I had picked through, digitizing the outlines of the digits to see if the variability in their structure had anything to do with the way the animal moved through the environment. The looming deadline was April 20th when abstracts for next year’s Society for Vertebrate Paleontology meeting would be due.

Along with exploring the mysteries of the fossils under the microscope and on trays, Mike wanted to explore the Rhineland a bit. In his wanderings he checked out Beethoven’s house, and discovered “James Joyce” an Irish Pub down an alley near the center of town. I had no idea such a thing existed so Mike, Koen – a Belgian graduate student in Bonn who is also studying sauropod dinosaurs – and I set off for James Joyce, looking forward to pints of Guinness. They didn’t serve it. We looked around the pub at the cushy chairs and copious Guinness signage and didn’t quite know what to say. “What about Beamish?” I asked, pointing to a sign hanging over a nearby table. “Sorry.” Finally we had something that tasted like Smithicks. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t Guinness. Mike apologized for finding the one Irish pub on the planet that doesn’t serve stout. We told him not to worry. I need to check out those armchairs at some point in the near future.

He also needed to see the Dom in Cologne. Koen, Mike, and I worked furiously to justify taking half a day to go see my favorite cathedral. Mike was appropriately awed by his first glimpse of the nave. I kept my commentary to myself, leading the small group around the altar to the significant religious and artistic artifacts. When there would be a question about the relics of the three kings or the windows, I would supply the answer, as far as I could. Koen noticed I seemed to know my bible stories and started pointing to random panes, asking me to tell the story. I did. “How do you know all this?” “Well, I guess scriptures class in high school helped…” “Oh, that’s it.” I thought about it a bit, and actually, that’s not quite it.

Windows telling the stories of Noah and Joseph. One of my favorites in the Dom.

After eight months of exploring churches and art museums I can tell you how to tell St. Bartholomew from St. Simon (one has a knife, the other a saw) and the story of Susanna. I feel like this should be part of the standard European student’s knowledge bank since it’s all so physically close. But that proximity means it’s taken for granted. In an increasingly secular Europe, churches and museums that house their artifacts are seen as antiquated and are usually ignored. I’m not asking Europeans to become religious zealots but the apathy towards the vibrant history of this continent is a little hard to deal with for an American who’s dreamed of immersing himself in this history for at least a dozen years.

A mosaic depicting an archbishop with the original church that stood where the current cathedral broods (maybe?).

The shrine holding the relics of the three kings. This thing is one of the largest reliquaries in Christendom. It's huge and it's gorgeous.

Our next stop was the Roman History Museum in Cologne. The German name for the city is Köln, and the Romans called it Colonia, as in, The Colony (short or “Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium”). It was a large port of trade for receiving goods from Northern Europe, and was one of the largest cities in Europe for most of the last two millennia. This means archeologists get pretty busy every time someone builds a new house or parking garage.

Who wants to bust out their Latin skills with me? Koen did.

The museum is filled with coins, lamps, gaming pieces and sandals; the average necessities of Roman life. The museum also features more spectacular artifacts like the Dionysus mosaic, a near perfect mosaic that once lay beneath the feet of a wealthy patrician when he feasted. The mosaic was uncovered in 1941 during construction of an air raid shelter. The museum was built on the spot to protect the delicate artifact.

The mosaic is about forty by twenty. That's a whole lot of little tiles.

We wandered through displays on military religious sects and family life until we were chased out by guards who presumably wanted to be at home spending time with their families.

That weekend, Mike took off for Paris while I furiously photographed and analyzed fossils while orchestrating my next trip: Prague. Czech.

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.

Something awesome in the state of Denmark.

Photos of my wanderings through Copenhagen. Also provided at the end.

A few weeks ago Erin noticed there were some cheap flights headed out of Berlin for Copenhagen (or København as they spell it. I love getting to use the ø). Since the Berlin Conference ended in the middle of the week, it seemed like a waste to just turn around and only get a day of work in when we could be exploring a new country. A mass e-mail went out and the Copenhagen crew formed: Miya, an Art History grad student living in Heidelberg, Marty, an aspiring Aeronautical Engineer living in Stuttgart, Erin, an aspiring Chemist living in Aachen, Ashlan, also a Chemist but living in Mainz, and me, some bum who does something with old stuff in the former capital of Western Germany.

We easily found our way to the airport in Berlin then hopped over a chunk of Germany to finally touch down in the former Viking stronghold known as Copenhagen. I had been put in charge of drumming up accommodations and found the lovely Hotel Nebo, an affordable hotel (that “A” word is key in this city) situated near the train station. There I requested a family suite with room for five. We were issued a room with a fold out bed and a full-sized queen. There was just enough space between to the two to slide a cot. This turned the room into an enormous mattress covered with well-starched sheets and duvets.


After enjoying a standard breakfast of bread, cold cuts, and cereal we took to the streets in the direction of the National Museum. Along the way we discovered the first of many canals slicing through the city, fringed with clean homes displaying wide windows. My first impression of the city was of wide clean streets and massive, unshuttered widows. There isn’t a lot of light (especially in the winter) and the city is bent on capturing as many rays as possible when they’re available. There at the end of a sturdy stone bridge arching over the canal, sat one of the royal palaces

Christian IV's palace (now part of the halls of Parliament)

The National Museum is situated nearby and is Denmark’s Smithsonian (complete with free entry). There we went on a grand tour through human history from the first bipedal apes to, well, now. The “Prehistoric” section (the stuff that came before the Middle Ages. The Vikings didn’t to a whole lot of writing before the Christians came around, so they get to be prehistoric). The prehistoric Danes had a habit of pitching significant artifacts into the bogs that blanket the country as sacrifices to the gods. This means modern archeologists have the distinct pleasure of uncovering bog-people (mummies of the muck instead of the desert), precious jewels, and weapons. The early Danes even tilted a long boat into the mire and it’s now on display in a massive glass case in the exhibit hall.

A bog person who was tucked in for a lengthy sleep.

Other fun facts accrued while wandering the displays include the geography of Denmark which is a series of peninsulas and islands. Copenhagen actually sits on the island Zealand. This satiated a long-held quandary: Where is Old Zealand if there’s a New on? Now you know.

One of dozens of historically preserved rooms in the palace turned National Museum.

After cruising through centuries of history, punctuated by discussions of swords, hand axes, and crucifixes, we grabbed lunch at a hot dog stand. It’s the cheapest way to eat in the city, and we’re told it’s very authentic. The traditional Danish hot dog is a bright red, narrow sausage. At a family reunion a decade ago my Uncle Terry and Dad picked up the cheapest dogs they could find at the grocery store (priced per item, of course). The things were neon red and turned the water the color of fruit punch Kool Aid. Now I know they just wanted us to eat like the Danes.

I particularly loved all the toppings. The Germans' aren't fans of putting anything more than mustard on their wieners.

They probably could have taught us to talk like them as well. The language is a weird amalgam of English and German, so I felt like I should be able to understand the conversations around me, but never could.


Next we wandered around the oldest part of the city and stumbled upon the Nyhavn or “New Harbor.” Pastel-colored buildings line a narrow harbor that is stuffed with small sailing vessels. It looked like a postcard. Turns out it is.


We walked across a green and blooming park to the Statens Museum for Kunst or National Gallery. They focus on Dutch artists but have a little of everyone from Gothic through very contemporary stuff (Danish museums like to take you through huge swaths of history).

"Cain" by Julius Paulsen (1891). Impressionist Romanticism? (He's getting his mark by the by. Soon he'll head east to find a wife.)

"Christ in the Realm of the Dead" by Joakim Skovgaard (painted between 1891-1894). This painting was about fifteen feet tall and twenty five feet long. Epic and monumental.

The gallery featured one of the most brilliant museum lay-outs I’ve ever seen. When you picked a wing – we started with the Danish stuff – the first hall displayed a chronological arrangement of work with a few typical examples of eminent artists’ work from each time period. You walked through the room learning names while comparing techniques through time. The Baroque gave way to the Rococo to the Neo-Classical to the Romantic and so on. Then you radiated into ancillary rooms with paintings arranged according to theme. When I walked out, I felt like I could have an intelligent conversation about the approaches and visions of Danish artists who didn’t exist to me two or three hours earlier. The museum also featured a room of paintings displayed the way curators displayed their wares half a century ago, with tightly packed images piled all the way up a monumental wall. I can see why they changed things; people’s necks were getting worn out.

After more wandering around town, we found dinner at a restaurant on the Nyhavn called Cap Horn which featured its own brew and a hyper-attentive wait staff. We might have disappointed them a little by just going with one course, but it was delicious. I had “Cockerel from Bornholm.” At the time I didn’t know what a Cockerel was or where Bornholm is located. Turns out the former is a kind of small fowl and the later is an island of Denmark noted for their delicious birds. It’s good to know where your food hails from.

Dinner was followed by a trip to an ice cream place down the street. It seemed to be the only one around, so we dropped a few Kroner (Denmark’s not in the Euro zone) even though it didn’t seem to have much in the way of atmosphere as the staff, an older proprietor and an alert trainee, scooped our desert from the factory-issue tubs. We took the cones to the street even though a drizzle was getting started. As we walked through the Old Town, we walked by another gelato stand. This one was on the street and displayed beautiful mountains of the stuff, topped with fruit and chocolate. Miya regretted settling for the other stand, then we noticed the scoopers: the exact same employees we had left five minutes earlier. He was still joking with the customer. She was looking at his moves withintensely. We had feelings of de ja vu.

The day was wrapped up in a microbrewery on the main drag of town. Each beer set us back 70 Kroner (around 8 Euro). Needless to say, we didn’t have much. If a friend of mine was an alcoholic, I would send him to Copenhagen where no one can afford to get drunk (though the omnipresent bums by the train station decided to prove me wrong).

The next day we split up. Miya to wander and do some shopping, Erin, Ashlan, and Marty to explore Christiania, a hippie commune you’ll hear about later, and I headed to the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek. The Glyptotek was a private art collection (mostly Greek and Roman statuary) that was rounded up by the guy who founded Carlsberg beer. He later handed it all over to the state and it’s a place I need to go before I die (according to Ms. Schultz). I got there with half and hour until opening. I didn’t want to just stand around while there was a city to explore, so I set off, guidebook in hand, on a solo tour of the city.

The curving ascent to the telescope at Christian's observatory.

I found the Observatory, built by Christian IV, a king who launched an urban renewal project that made Copenhagen the envy of the Renaissance world. The tower features a spiral ramp (unique in Europe) that climbs six stories, offering a calf workout and one of the best views of the city. From there on a clear day, you can see Sweden. Of course, I didn’t have a clear day. I also saw a small art gallery in the observatory that featured images of Christiania. I decided I needed to follow Erin, Marty, and Ashlan into the commune.

A military parade I happened to stumble across as I headed to Christiania. They offered a nice contrast to the hippies.

In 1971, a bunch of hippies took over an abandoned military barracks and proclaimed it the “Freetown Christiania” calling themselves a free state, separate from Denmark. Until 2004, a farmers market filled the main square with most stands hawking their favorite crop: Cannabis. Recently, right-wing leaders have been in charge of city politics in Copenhagen, and they cracked down on the self-proclaimed state that acts as the number one tourist draw in Copenhagen (even after a zero tolerance policy was adopted for soft drugs on Pusher Street, the spot where, you know, pushing happened).


I took a stroll around a small wetland, and dropped into the Freetown from the residential area. There I saw a lot of graffiti, both artful and obnoxious. Shacks were cobbled together, sharing space with the barracks and piles of bikes and junk. It had a vaguely bohemian vibe, but it also felt a little past its prime, like the current residents are trying to force a trip back to the heady ‘70s. Pusher street was decorated with head shops, souvenir stands, and oil drums keeping the residents warm. It wasn’t a particularly chilly morning, and I thought this last touch was a little unnecessary, as if the guys warming their hands were trying to conform to some inner vision of how they should live in a commune rather than how they want to. One of them asked, “You need anything, man?” “Nope. I’m good, thanks.” Apparently the farmers still have a market.

Everyone reconvened for lunch at Zoo Bar, a small, trendy spot with delicious hamburgers, but I don’t care to tell you how much they set us back. Just know they were delicious. Erin, Marty, Ashlan, and I compared notes on Christiania. They had walked in through the main gate (“You are now leaving the EU, Welcome to Christiania!”) and immediately saw the fires. The shady guys standing around the drums didn’t look like happy hippies, so they decided not to investigate much further.

Then I had a brainwave. We still hadn’t seen the Little Mermaid statue, the symbol of Copenhagen and tribute to one of the city’s favorite sons: Hans Christian Anderson. The small statue sits in far out in the harbor, searching the ships for her prince. We had an hour before we needed to catch out train for Hamburg. I thought we could make it.

Ashlan and Miya decided to hit the shops instead leaving Erin, Marty, and I. Now, I’m a pretty fast walker. I have the nerd shuffle-run down pat. Erin and I became friends in Marburg because we inevitably drifted to the front of large groups. Marty can normally keep a healthy pace, but had an unfortunate run in with a tree while sledding the previous week, leaving him with a bit of limp. We didn’t think that would be a problem. The statue wasn’t that far out of town. Turns out she was.

I should also qualify that my watch battery had died the week before and I hadn’t found a place to fix it before leaving, so I was relying on my phone to act as a pocket watch. I’m not used to checking my pocket for the time.

We strode towards the harbor with purpose, stopping to take pictures at the palace and cathedral. As we walked through the streets, I kept the map in front of me to keep an eye on our route. When we finally reached the park on the edge of town, Erin asked a key question, “What time is it?” It was too late. We only had 20 minutes to cover more ground than we had walked in 30. I waffled. We were close. I was sure she was over the hill. Erin’s look reminded me we couldn’t mess around. We abandoned the cause and power walked back over our path. For the record, there is no public transportation to or from the Little Mermaid. There are also no cabs in the Old Town of Copenhagen.

Again I was in the lead with the map, studying non-existent bus routs. Erin came next, fuming at my stupidity. Marty brought up the rear, gamely hauling his reluctant leg. Time slipped through our fingers as we ducked and wove through a packed crowd. People kept shooting us, “What’s their problem?” looks. Clearly we wouldn’t normally choose to scamper through Copenhagen. We had someplace to be and soon. If we missed our train, who knew when the next one ran? Next time you’re passed by a pedestrian in a hurry, cut them some slack.

We reached the edge of the old part of town. Erin had sent a text message to Ashlan, asking her and Miya to grab our stuff from the hotel. We were finally able to flag a taxi. We told him, “Main Train Station, please.” He looked confused. “But it is right there.” He pointed past the square to a point four blocks away. “We know, we need to get there quickly.” “But it is right there.” I resisted the temptation to just scream, “Go!” We finally rolled into traffic with the most reluctant and pokey cabbie I’ve ever encountered. He took his time circling the building, finally dumping us in the parking lot. “Thanks!” and I flung my remaining Kroner in his direction.

We ran to the platform with five minutes to go. Our train was already waiting on the track. Up and down the platform. No Miya. No Ashlan. Erin and I ran back, leaving Marty to wait for them. As we hauled ourselves up the stairs, Ashland and Miya swung into view. “There you are. Did you guys know Marty’s bag is still at the hotel?” “Yeah, yeah we do,” and we were sprinting through the station. The hotel is a block and a half from the station. We plowed through the front door and dove into the luggage check. I threw my bag over one shoulder and Marty’s over the other. As I barreled towards the door, a pedestrian poked his head around the corner, looking through the glass. I thought he saw me coming. He didn’t.

As Marty’s bag slammed into him, he yelled something (presumably rude) after me, “Sorry Man!” Erin heard my angry, frustrated tone and thought I had somehow acquired a few Danish curses over the previous two days. We ran on, our thighs starting to rebel against all that work. We didn’t listen. Leaping down the stairs, the train was still on the track. Miya and Marty were leaning out the door, blocking it from closing. We dove in, flinging luggage and sweat. We were Hamburg bound.

Photo documentation of the wanderings.

The Emperor's New Throne

It just occurred to me that I left the most notable, potentially horrifically embarassing example of German design encountered in Berlin, the capital of Prussian functional design: the Park Inn Hotel.

Okay, the hotel itself is actually very nice with multiple stars to its name and a prime location near the center of town. The morning continental breakfasts were lavish (we are on The Continent you know), dinners filling, and the facilities Prussian-ly clean.

To stay in an establishment far beyond my Fulbright stipend's price range, the Fulbright Commission put us up with roommates. Several months ago Keith and I decided to room together. Keith is studying vocal performance in Mannheim (I forgot to ask about the steamrollers). Keith is the kind of person it’s difficult not to get along with. Easy going, clean, rumbling baritone laugh; ideal roommate. But regardless of our flexible or otherwise accommodating natures, nothing prepared us for our encounter with the room itself.

Here I have presented a schematic of the room: As is the case in nearly every double room I’ve encountered in this country, there are two beds slid next to each other. Each bed is allocated a duvet and a prime viewing position for watching the TV bolted to the wall. Out the window offered a spectacular view of Berlin that stretched to the horizon, punctuated by towers, domes, and urban sprawl. The sink was located next to the beds so either party could use it while the other was occupying the shower or toilet space. You were assured knowledge of the other person’s activities in these other facilities by the glass walls.

Yes, glass walls around both the shower and toilet. This wouldn’t immediately seem like a terrible problem as the glass was fogged, but only on the lower two thirds of the wall, and even fogged glass offers outlines. This would have been awkward on its own until you notice the door for each facility. Or rather, the door for the facilities (Door B). It operates on a single 180 degree hinge. If someone has shut themselves into the toilet, the other person cannot simultaneously use the shower without asking permission to open the door on the guy sitting on the pot. Not that this would be a difficult operation as the door is completely clear, as in you-can-see-every-detail-of-the-person-on-the-other-side clear.

Like I said, Keith is a great guy, but I really don’t need to know a single detail about his life on the other side of the bathroom door. The bathroom’s designer apparently thought otherwise. To be perfectly honest, I don’t want to know any more details about my own activity on the commode than Keith, but again, the designers thought otherwise and placed a mirror directly opposite the toilet so you can watch yourself in all your vulnerable glory. If you really have an exhibitionist streak you're sure to get a kick out of Door A which opens to the hall. At the right angle, you could share a coy wink and wad of toilet paper with anyone walking down the hall.

Needless to say, Keith and I worked out a system of boldly announcing our intentions in the glass-enclosed portion of the room, suggesting the other person turn on (and up) the TV every time the clear door became necessary.

Then, beyond the embarrassing scenes that the door might induce, the arrangement isn’t even Germanically functional. The floor is flush to the lower edge of the double-duty door with a kind of squeegee liner, theoretically rendering a bathtub unnecessary for the shower. Instead, the shower has an unsunken drain on the floor and you step directly from the tile of the foyer to the tile in the shower. As you clean yourself up, the walls steam up and the water is contained by the sealed door and fogged walls. But then you open it. All the accumulated condensation on the door slides to the floor and the entry way quickly sprouts a puddle.

What were they thinking? Well Ben, another fellow Fulbrighter, tracked down this article from the New York Times .

To summarize, glass bathrooms are becoming luxury items in hotels. Theoretically I could have gazed out across the city of Berlin if I kept the water a little chillier and I wanted to make Keith feel particularly awkward. The clear shower or bath walls are seen as sexy lures for couples who can’t enjoy designer facilities and a little more insight into their partner’s hygienic life at home. I can see the appeal, but Keith and I don’t fit this description. Neither would any other business associates or coworkers who might be attending a conference and want to split the cost of sharing a room.

Regardless of the potential awkwardness surrounding the shower's arrangement - call me naïve or prudish (I am from the Midwest you know) - I don’t think couples would want glass around the toilet. Somehow the sexiness of that room seems reserved for a very limited percentage of the population.

Keith and I, along with all the other Fulbrighters, managed to make it through the week without any traumatizingly embarrassing moments, but the potential for them was lurking around every corner and behind ever closed (but clear) door.

Arm aber sexy (Poor but Sexy)

(A winning description of Berlin and your favorite blogger, right?)

(The Berlin photo album, also attached to the end)

Every year the German Fulbright Commission convenes a conference of all the German Fulbright awardees. They also invite Fulbrighters from each of the other European commissions. The goal of the conference is to foster inter-Fulbright relationships and to learn a little bit about the wider mission of the Fulbright as we act as ambassadors to our home countries. I was mostly excited to visit Berlin again and reconnect with many of friends I haven’t seen since leaving Marburg at the end of September.

You may remember that I visited Berlin last December, but it’s such a vast city with so much going on that I knew I would need to check it out again, and the conference was the perfect opportunity.

One of the icons of Berlin, the Fernsehenturm (TV tower), that was set up right outside our hotel. Location, location, location.

The conference itself offered interesting insights into German history and culture. We were celebrating the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall and the 60th anniversary of the German constitution so there was a panel of experts (including the former head of the Green Party) who discussed how a united Germany has been getting along for the last two decades. The consensus is it’s doing pretty well, but isn’t perfect (what else is new).

A window at the Humbolt University. It was built up in the East. What was your first clue?

We also had smaller discussions about academic differences between the U.S. and Germany and how the city of Berlin is going to dig itself out of bankruptcy. The plan is to market it to companies and investors as a poor but very cool place to live. We’ll see how that pans out. I’ll admit my skepticism. I was curious what the other non-German Fulbrighters gained from these programs. I have a pretty solid working knowledge of modern German history and politics, but I suspect that isn’t the case for someone studying in Budapest or Madrid.

Some of the Fulbright musicians were able to perform for the rest of us. Everyone groaned when they found out it might be three hours, but the time flew by in the hands of these incredibly talented folks.

My favorite part of the conference was getting all the Marburgers back together again so we could compare experiences gained in our respective new homes. We also shared a few travel tips, German terminology, and German alcohol (both beer and wine), much of it provided through the conference (this Fulbright scholar thing has its perks). The experience was capped off with a Fulbright sponsored good bye party at the Kulturbraurei (Culture Brewery) where it was confirmed that German DJ could maybe learn a thing or two from their American counterparts such as 1) 90s pop is a lot of fun, but it won’t crowd the dance floor, 2) if you’re going to play techno, make sure it moves and if it doesn’t, two songs in a row will do it, not six, and 3) listen to requests when they’re suggested, not three hours later.

Happy to be back together.

I also had a chance to explore more of the city including a second, less harried visit to the Pergamon Museum where I spent some quality time with fellow Fulbrighters and epic friezes of Greek gods and the entry to Babylon. Keith, Shane and I also swung by the Berliner Dom, a massive Protestant church in the center of town. The soaring dome is reminiscent of St. Paul’s in London. The interior doesn’t share St. Paul’s restrained Renaissance austerity. It’s an orgy of Neo-Baroque. Everything that can be covered in marble or gold is. Around the nave, supporting the soaring dome mural are statues of the great reformers including Luther, Calvin, and Zwingli. They’re all angrily scowling in disapproval either at the congregation or the ornate trappings they are ensconced in, or both.

Luther on a pedestal he probably wouldn't want.

I also visited the Gemäldegalerie which features art from the 13th to 18th centuries (the “Old Masters” though calling stuff from the 19th century “New” seems a little odd). The museum is divided into three long halls that are subdivided into smaller galleries. One hall contains “Southern” European art from the French and Italians. The opposite hall contains “Northern” European art including Flemish masters and Germans. If you like pastels and warm light, check out the Italians. If you like shadows and moralistic images, head north (exceptions made for Rubens).

Ruben's and St. Sebastian. The martyr really doesn't look that upset about the whole arrow thing.

This is why I love to travel with these people.

The final day of the conference, after a trip to the Brandenburg Gate and Reichstag, we flashed forward to the 20th century at the Neue Nationalgalerie. Somehow I always manage to miss the Impressionists (this would be remedied with a trip to Paris). The museum itself is famous, let alone the art it houses. The architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe designed a glass and steel entry hall. He’s considered one of the fathers of modern architecture, emphasizing function over style, and he gave birth to the Chicago style. Think of the IBM Plaza in Chicago, think of the CN tower in Toronto, think of any blocky glass and steel structure. You’re thinking of Mies. Personally, I’m over the functionalism and glass thing, but maybe you aren’t.

Modern.

Back at the museum, you then descend a stairway from the bare entrance to the art of Picasso, Munch, and Miro. It wasn’t a terribly large gallery and we soon found ourselves lost in the Berlin Metro system on our way to meet Miya for coffee. There, at the one coffee shop in Berlin that offers free wireless internet, the Copenhagen Crew convened - Erin, Marty, Miya, Ashlan and I – to discuss our adventure in the frozen North...

until then, Tchüss!

The photos again