Somebody Schnitzeled On Or Around The Coats! Vienna, Munich, and Prague

Again, you can follow along with the blog on photobucket.com for sexy two pages, one cup action!

{Clears throat}

So, Barbara manages to save my life, again, by ensuring I'm up in time for the early flight. She has a plane to catch that would take her to Rome and it was at about the same time, departure-wise. A quick flight with a complimentary quick bite and I'm touching down in Vienna (Wien), the city of the great composers. I take a shuttle that leads to the rail station and get a nice, albeit brief glimpse of the beautiful Austrian city. One of my favorite views involved the side of a Home Depot-style Do-It-Yourself tool and building supply store. It had a huge mural piece covering the length of it and it depicted various home improvement activities falling into folly. A man in denim suspenders, our hero, is riding a ladder that is falling backward. Then, as luck would have it, he is being electrocuted while attempting to wire a doorbell. And, again, he is having a terrible time as he is drowning under a sink with some botch plumbing action. These scenes managed to convince me that a) I should never try to fix anything myself and b) I should never, under any circumstances, wear denim suspenders. There was no indication offered that this store will save you from such incidents...so they may want to have a meeting with their marketing guys. However, there was something that caught my post-adolescent, caveman-brained eye. It was the inexplicably unrelated naked woman in a shower, depicted near the top (so I know it wasn't graffiti) bearing all for the hard-at-work "handy" man. God bless the German-speaking countries!

After some considerable measure of confusion, I make it inside the train station and discover that my Eurail pass guarantees me free fare on the local trains. Score! The pass is starting to pay for itself. Here's how the rest of the conversation goes with the nice train station lady:

Me: "Golly, that sure is great news! Danke! When does the next train leave, nice lady?"

Lady: "AUFGERNANADASGRATZNEINSHTUCKENGLEISZWEIFELT!" (This translates to, "Sweet, young man, the next train leaves within an hour, from platform 3")

Me: "Oh, hamburgers, that's too soon! I would love to see this wunderbar city before I go on to Munich! What is the next train after that?"

Lady: "NICHTFAHNBAHRNREICHTGERBLITZENDERWELKOMMTYOUDICK!" (Translation: "Glorious American specimen, the next train is not until the following morning. You can enjoy a look around the city and impress us Austrians with your Arnold Schwarzenegger-like physique.")

Me: "Oh, no! I have to be in Munchen tonight! I have reservations!"

Lady: "SCHNELLJAEGERSCHNITZELHAUS!" ("Will you make me a proud woman and marry me right now? I am termite-free and can bare you many strong, capable children for the army with which you wish to conquer the world.")

Me: "Well, I guess I should be going. Danke! Dankeschon!"

Lady: "WEINERHOFBRAUSCHMIDTDUNKEL" ("That is the sound of my heart breaking.")

So, just like that, my Vienna excursion was concluded. The train was interesting. I didn't really know that the pass only guaranteed me passage on the train...and not so much a seat. So, I rode the three-hours to Munich the old-fashioned way: like a hobo. I sat on my bags in the connecting car and sang along to a harmonica player busting out some wicked Bon Jovi. At one point, the stewardess? attendant? drink-cart-lady? I don't know, anyway, an employee sat down on the floor next to me and my comfortable backpack. I did my best to offer her my place, as it seemed ungentlemanly to let a woman sit on the floor when you're hogging up such a comfortable backpack. She didn't sprechen sie English, so I tried my hand at German. It didn't go over well. I was asked to move to a different part of the train.

At any rate, I made it safely to Munich (Munchen) and found that my hostel was literally just outside the station. Beautiful! It was close to nightfall and I was starving so I checked in at Euro Youth Hostel, asking them where I should grab some good food. They had a double-dose of good news. First, they had booked my room to somebody else. This would normally be a bad thing, BUT, that meant they had to find me a different room at the same price. The only one available? A single. So, I would have a room completely to myself. Ich liebe Deutschland! The second bit of good news? The best place to eat nearby was Austiner-Brau, and you received a free shot of schnapps! After all of the comfortable sitting on backpacks I was doing, schnapps would hit the spot! I cleaned up, made my way to Austiner-Brau and had one of the best damn meals I've had in a long time. The Schnitzel was delicious and the size of a medium pizza and the beer was smooth. I wound up getting 7 free shots of schnapps because the owner liked me and because two of the other patrons decided to challenge the American to a shot-for-shot. I had no prayer. I just wanted the free schnapps. I made it back to my hostel and fell asleep listening to the karaoke in the bar on the ground floor of the hostel.

The next day I woke up just in time to miss the free tour and free/included breakfast. No worries, I can be a damn good guide for such wonderful company as myself, so I took to the streets of Munich, in search of leberkassemmel (sausage on a roll) and weisbeer. Yes, I, David Jonathan Thomas Aquinas Danger Choma, fitness and healthy-lifestyle advocate, had beer for breakfast. It was the best breakfast I have ever had. Bob Evan's can take note. I don't need a Homestead. I just need a liter of sweet, refreshing, crisp beer and a hot sausage nestled inside a warm, fresh-baked roll. That's what fraulein said!

I admired the funny hats in the Viktualienmarkt and could feel the sense of a mini-Oktoberfest. It was such a fun, Bavarian atmosphere! Vendors with authentic German souvenirs, pastries, sausages, beers, wines, and funny hats! Funny old people donning funny hats and carrying authentic German beers and sausages! It really was a cool little market area. I didn't take many pictures because I was afraid I might offend somebody and suffer a punchy blitzkrieg. I really liked the area, though. Worn stone underneath, intoxicating aromas of meat and beer all around, laughter and music dancing in your ears, and everywhere within view, there was joy. There was community.

So, with a full belly and a slight buzz, I made it to the Frauenkirche, The Church of Our Lady. It was a beautiful, sturdy church that had seen a good measure of damage during WWII bombing runs. Pretty much fully restored, it was an awe-inspiring vision to behold. I played with the lego set depiction of it and got yelled at and berated. However, before I was escorted out, I had enough time to learn about legend of the Devil's Footprint. I will tell this story from the point of view of a hamster: …........I'm adorable.......... I want some water. Oop, there it is right over there. Ask and you shall receive. {snipfkt, snipfkt} Better. I think I'll go for a run. {squick, squick, squick} Okay...Hmmmm, I'm adorable.....

Nevermind. The legend tells of how the devil stood at the entrance of the church, challenging God's reign on Earth. He rushed in, intending to destroy the place of worship, but, he stopped suddenly, frozen in fear. At the very spot he now stood, he could see the entirety of the church, in all of its glory. The glory granted to God by the men and women who served their heavenly creator so well by constructing this temple. The devil was defeated by the awesome beauty, the grandeur, the simple elegance of faithful dedication. He never returned again. That's exciting! I looked at the spot on the floor, a tile space, where the devil's footprint still remained. Something struck me, too. The footprint was roughly a size 12 wide. Hm...could it be? Then, like Arthur freeing Excalibur from the stone, like Cinderella having the slipper put on her dainty foot, and like that perfect pair of $250 jeans from Buckle that makes my butt look delicious, I discovered my foot rested perfectly in the footprint! Oh, what a joyous day! I'm the devil!

After my revelation, I ventured toward the Rathaus, which is German for Rat House. They kept a bunch of rats in a cellar here, too, since there was a thing called Ratskellar. Hm. Munich likes rats, I guess. Some tour guide was trying to trick his guidees (is that what you call them?) into believing it was an important government building. He then made a joke relating government officials to rats, thus where the name comes from. He was shot immediately. The guidees were “taken off for questioning.” I narrowly escaped using Indiana Jones tactics, admired Mary's Column, and found my way to the Hofbrauhaus for a drive-by camera shooting. I was still filled from breakfast, so I vowed to return for dinner. While taking a picture, four guys were walking toward me. They were rather barrel-chested and spoke English. One made a comment with a Scottish accent behind it, nodding at me, “That guy better play rugby.” Awesome. Even in Germany, I feel huge. All of Europe was a giant ego-stroke fest for me.

I navigated the beautiful streets of Munich to eventually discover the Residenz, which is the museum, and the Theater. Light was fading fast as clouds had begun to march over the skyscape, so I decided to skip going inside either of them to get as much of the city in as possible. I found beautiful gardens, interesting architecture, and a statue for crazy king Ludwig. Finally, I made it to the area known as the Englischer Gartens. I was interested in learning what exactly made this municipal park Englischer than the rest of them. Then, something caught me by complete surprise! I realized I forgot to change my underwear. But, also, there were surfers. Yes...surfers. In Munich, a land-locked town in the Bavarian south of Germany. Hm. I'm going to examine the thought process here. Man sees sewer. Sewer leads into the Englischer Garten river, that is Englischer than any other garden river. Man sees a bit of a torrent where the sewer and the river meet. Man grabs that surfboard he bought on a trip to Australia three years ago and couldn't sell on CraigenListerich. Man surfs. Other Germans, completely unphased, accept this. Eisbach, or Ice Surfing, is born. Amazing! There is definitely something in the beer here because I was THIS close to joining in with my emergency boogie board and floaties. I opted out and wandered the Gartens. It's a nice, serene piece of Munich. Rolling hills, flat play areas filled with footballers, picnicers, dogs chasing frisbees, and WWII re-enactments. This time, Germany won. The Allies were represented by sixteen-year-old girls. The Germans had Justin Bieber tickets. The Allies didn't stand a chance. There was a strange centerpiece to the main food court/plaza area. It was the Chinese Tower. I can only assume it was there to represent the 10's or 15's of Chinese people I saw in my entire stay in Munich. I'm getting confirmation on this one, but I'm pretty sure it's racist to call a tower Chinese. That's why I don't call the kind of food that comes in a soggy paper box and paper clip on top with a complimentary smashed crunchy sugar cookie with a secret code from Satan inside it Chinese food. Instead, I call it Wang Chung food. Because everybody Wang Chung tonight.

I left a note on Wang Chung Tower and ventured to Leopoldstrasse. I kept forgetting about the bike paths and, on several occasions, heard German swear words that I won't repeat here being exclaimed by cyclists. The street is gorgeous, though. It winds through cookie-cutter buildings and sturdy German arches. All of my anti-racism worked me up a good appetite for sausage and copious amounts of beer, so I found Hofbrauhaus again and sat down in the historic beer hall. I was alone, and perfectly situated to remain that way, perched on a high seat at a short table. The beer wenches were nice and tried to keep me company, until I referred to them as wenches. But, the beer was amazing, the music was polka-ey, and the sausages were German. All in all, it's a good meal and a worthwhile place to visit. Touristy? Absolutely! But, touristy doesn't always have to be a bad thing.

With another full belly and slight buzz, I decided to nap back at my room. Well, I napped too long and missed any bar crawl opportunities. So, I took it upon myself to try to find the Ostbanhouf, or, the “Eastside,” a popular night club area. Imagine taking all of your favorite pubs, bars, and clubs, squishing them all up next to each other, and surrounding the area with carnival-style attractions. That's the Ostbanhouf. I wandered around it, trying to find a place with no cover. The only place I found was really small and packed with Germans in tight leather outfits covering every bit of flesh on their bodies. Except their feet...sometimes. There were a lot of zippers and whips, too. Oh, and how did the Germans dance? Like Dieter and from the SNL Sprockets skit. What kind of music did they listen to? Chainsaws, screaming, and deathno with intermittent baby sea otter cries. I was glad I hadn't changed my underwear...because I needed to after that.

I got back to my hostel, exhausted from all of the pants-pissing and fell asleep. I woke up with plenty of time to accomplish absolutely nothing before my train left for Praha, or Prague. I did have one mission, though. Find a true-to-form, German-engineered, wooden train for little Preston. I rushed about the city, asking where I could find a toy train. Everybody laughed. I finally found this huge toy store, three floors. Then I figured out why they all laughed. It's a Sunday. Germany shuts down on Sundays. Perfect! Well, no worries, I needed to travel back to Munich after Prague to catch a night train to Rome in a few days. Preston will be avenged!

So, the train to Prague was amazing! All-told, I saw about twenty people on the three-hour ride. The train itself was a relic from the Communist era. In fact, it was so communist that the lady in the aisle next to mine had ridden for several hours with a little socialist present in her purse. I only discovered this after I heard a distinctive squeak when the conductor tripped on the bag. The lady, speaking Czech or Russian, or New Jerseyian for all I knew, frantically gathered up her purse. Then I saw it. Well, them. Rats. Three or four. Amazing! She took one out, and cuddled it like a baby. I expected the conductor to reel and ask her to remove the rats from the train. I was wrong. Instead, the conductor pet the rat lovingly as it nestled in the bosom of the old woman. Kind words were exchanged. I couldn't help but smile to myself.

I arrived in Prague and stepped out of the train station into a dreary, rain-stained night. A slight fog ambled down each road and alleyway. The buildings were dark and foreboding. Dogs barked and howled in the distance and footsteps fell on cobblestones in somber salute. I was in heaven! In fact, I was pretty sure that the rudimentary stake I crafted out of an old chair on the train was going to see its first vampire heart this very night. Loaded down by luggage, I found my way to the Old Prague Hostel, where I would be staying. I had forgotten one important thing, though. I needed Czech currency, Czech Krowns, to pay for my place, food, everything. Very few places here would accept credit cards. I asked where I could do an exchange on a dark Sunday night, and the only option was an Irish pub, 6 blocks away, in the rain. I didn't have a coat. Hm. I pulled of the exchange, toasted a pint with the shady patron on the stool next to mine, and made it back to the hostel just in time to shower and, you guessed it, hit another crawl. There were four highlights to this one. One, the crawl met at the Old Town Square and there were vendors for brothels trying to woo us to their fine establishments of carnal indulgence. While waiting, one Danny Devito-looking gentleman from India accosted me with his tongue out and flapping while intermittently screaming, “Licky, licky, licky, licky! 10! Licky, licky!” I declined. He didn't stop. One of the crawl guides knocked him out., or killed him, for all I know. Two, I had about 10 shots of green absinthe in a 15 minute period and didn't feel a thing. Out of those shots, I built a fort that was destroyed by a couple of American girls with daddy issues, I assume. Three, I finally resolved the age-old dispute of who would win in an arm wrestling competition, Switzerland or America. Chomerica claimed victory over not one, not two, not 23, but four Sergeants in the Swiss army. Drinks and laughs were to be had after the glorious and humble victory. And, four, the Czech-born crawl-leader, Inga, told me that Ace of Base was one of her favorite bands...in a current context. I'm not talking about how sometimes people say, “Led Zeppelin's the greatest,” when you ask them who their favorite bands are. I'm talking about asking, “What kind of music do you listen to now? What's really popular here?” Amazing.

The next day I did a free tour and saw SO much of Prague. This was the first official tour and opportunity to feel like an out-of-towner that I would be a part of. I love it. Katya, our guide, was brazen, yet hilarious. She had family in Columbus, Ohio, so I told her I was sorry. We started out at Old Town Square, which is the sight of the Church of Our Lady Before Tyn, or, Tyn Cathedral. The interesting fact about this church, other than it's Gothic grandeur, is that the southern tower is larger than the northern tower. There are many speculations, but the accepted reason for this obvious architectural blunder is that the southern tower is male and it protects the female northern tower from the elements. I don't know what elements those might be since weather and wind tend to travel easterly...hitting both towers equally, but, it's cute when we make up things to cover our asses. Also, we learned about the Astronomical clock. This bad-boy was once the equivalent of a Vegas topless show hundreds of years ago. On the hour, the clock would strike, the 12 Apostles would parade in the classic coo coo clock style, the four greatest fears, Vanity, Fear, the Infidel, and Death would do a little shake, and then it would be over in the matter of 40 seconds. I threw dollars at it, because I didn't know what else to do.

The architecture around Prague is amazing! It's all Gothic, but not in a, my poor, tortured soul, nobody understands me so I rebel by conforming to a social strata of adolescent hormone-induced angst and violently mediocre methods of getting people's attention which I claim I don't even want, kind of way. No, instead, it's actually nice to look at and there is beautiful expression of creative capacity. We were taken to Wenceslas Square where we were challenged to recite the holiday jingle. Everybody failed. We saw the House of the Black Madonna (Beyonce Knowles), the Museum of Cubism (which isn't cubic, but rounded, huh), the Powder Tower (I “powdered my nose” on the side of it and was yelled at), and a statue of Kafka (crazy, brilliant bastard), all while being entertained with anecdotes and sewage smells.

We then ventured towards the Old Jewish Quarter where we saw the Old New Jewish Synagogue. Yes, the Old New...So, it was new at one point, now it's old new. It's like when somebody tells you that their Moped on Craig's List is a Slightly Used Mint Condition Moped, and you buy it for $200, and they tell you to give it 15 minutes to start while they drive off. You wait 14:59 and, filled with excitement, uncover the tarp to discover it's a watermelon sitting on a crate, not a slightly used mint condition moped. Damn you, EvanzGotzSkillz299! I asked Katya if there was a New New Synagogue and she pulled a gun to my head, covered my mouth, took me into an alley, and, pressing the muzzle deep into my temple, between angry breaths, told me to never mention that EVER again or she wouldn't be held responsible for the terrible, painful death I would receive. She then regaled us with the legend of the Golem that lives in the attic of the Old New Synagogue. Essentially, it was created by a Jewish inventor with peaceful intent. However, as any SyFy viewer can attest, Science screwed up (“What has science done?”) and the Golem went on a killing rampage. It was locked in the attic and never seen again until a few Nazi soldiers “pickled the beast” and were torn limb from limb. The Golem still lives up there, and he's know to throw killer keggers and keep demanding his precious.

Before the tour ended, we saw the Rudolfinum, which is the Czech Philharmonic, and the Charles Bridge, or Karluv Most. Beautiful views along the Vltava river of the Prague Castle could be seen and a riveting tale of the Czech uprising against the occupying Nazis at the end of WWII. I was all hopped up on Bohemian history, so I decided to head straight into another tour, the Prague Castle tour, given by the whitest Wisconsiner I have ever seen. I had to wear sunglasses whenever he existed. He was cool, though, in a creepy, home-schooled albino kind of way. He guided us around the gardens of Wallenstein palace, where I saw an ostrich. Weird. Oh, and you know what else is weird? Making the walls of your palace look like you're in a cave. Apparently, this was the hottest thing back in medieval days, especially if you have a hard on for stalagmites. MTV Cribs better take note! After leaving the egotistical grounds of Wallenstein, we ventured to the Strahov Monestery and Brewery. Yes, monks making brewskies. For the record, Czech pilsner is the only pilsner worth drinking. The American pee-waters of Bud and Michelob have nothing on Czech beer. I'm sorry, but I honor my taste buds before I honor my people. We also had this beautiful panoramic view of Prague from this vantage. A beer with a view!

We made it past the Loreto and sauntered down a seemingly unsuspecting street towards Prazky hrad, the castle. We stopped mid-way down the street to admire a place of murder, torture, and intrigue, the Domecek Gestapo, a former prison during Soviet occupation. It has been turned into a government building of some sort, so I guess that explains the 100 cameras...Or, the option is that there are Spetznaz in there and they must feed their hunger to kill. Either way, I felt uneasy. Soviet occupation wasn't all that long ago. I was born the same year that the Berlin wall was smashed down by Rocky during a music montage by Survivor. Our guide made it clear that many Czech people will not speak about politics, important figures, or anything government-related to even their closest friends and relatives because they never know who is really in charge and who is talking to/working for whom.

Finally, we made it to Prague Castle. It was incredible! President Obama had been staying there about 3 days before I arrived, signing an important document that declared the Cold War had been unaffected by Global Warming. Anyway, I felt I should have received a larger, if not equal, welcoming ceremony. After all, I did battle the Swiss and led America to victory on the wooden battlefields of beer-soaked pub tables. There was no ceremony. No parade. No horns, music, cheers, or confetti. There was only rain. You win, this time, Obama. As to be expected, everything was rather castley and manly. Except for the ridiculous pink buildings that were, oh, everywhere. Damnit, Czech people! You turned a symbol of masculinity and strength into an episode of Will and Grace.

Oh...

Thank God, we saw the St. Vitus Cathedral, the monolith that watches over Prague with ancient, fearless stone. This cathedral took centuries to complete. Entire generations of Czech architects spent their lives constructing this incredible testament to Gothic style. It is absolutely captivating! Even with the cold rain falling in sheets of ice, and wind whipping at my face, stinging my red, cold cheeks, I was inspired by the magnificence of St. Vitus. It has gargoyles, spires, buttresses, carvings of men in suits from the 1930's, everything a Gothic cathedral should have. Wait...men in suits? Yes. The final four horseman of the castleocalypse. The architects that finally finished the centuries-old construction effort, were so proud of themselves that they forever ruined it by having their images engraved in the stone, life-size. Just, wow. The inside was just as awe-inspiring and the rear of the cathedral held detailed murals depicting the end of days. The tour ended because the rain kept coming down and everybody was getting to be anxious, cold, and pneumonia-ey. We caught another great view of Prague on the way out and everybody went their separate ways.

I enjoyed a Goulash dinner with Hunter and Liz from Miami, Florida, two friends I would see again in Paris during the Iceland volcano craziness. Then, after all of that rain and none of that sleep, I went back to the hostel, took a hot shower, and decided to call it an early night. The following day I would take another communist train back to Munich, retrieve a gift for Preston, and get on another train, this time a sleeper, that would head to Rome, where I would continue my journey through Europe at the side of my friend, confidant, and hetero-sexual life mate, Rick. Yes, ladies and gentleman, the conclusion to Dave's solitary trek through Europe fast approaches. Let the bro-mantic man-dates begin!

The Chomconquista: I Begin In Spain

First, an order of business, you can view all of my pictures from the trip pertaining to this week's blog-isode at photobucket.com Madrid y Barcelona Follow along! If you have two computers, I suggest you use them for side-by-side awesomeness! Click on the album, too, the recent uploads is backwards-sauce

Ahem...

Just like every great adventure ever told and passed on, generation to generation, this one starts on a couch.

In a condo situated in a nice community outside of Cleveland.

Erm, not very epic. Would it help if it were known the couch was plush and comfortable? And that our hero slept a gracious few hours rather deeply upon its soft embrace? Probably not. Fine. I'll go on anyway.

I spent my last hours in America on my brother's couch because his place is closer to the airport and I figured my benevolent chauffeur/confidant, John, would appreciate the proximity. Of course, I thank him for helping to get me going on the trip. Also, I have to thank Kevin, Molly, and little Preston, of course, for putting me up and putting up with me for the night..and for the 24 years I've been on this planet. Most would agree that the latter is a hardship not wished upon even the most wicked. After all, I'm kind of a big deal. It can be embarrassing. I also throw tantrums and pudding and anything throwable. This doesn't exclude kittens with sharp claws, late sixteenth-century-vases, and fax machines. In my Jason Bourne-fueled-fantasy world, everything is a weapon.

Sorry, back to point. I went through the usual security measures and was soon boarded on the plane to Dallas. I then waited around Dallas International a while, counted 58 "yee-haw's," and exchanged some cash. The exchange rate was stupid. I lost about $40. I recommend you change out through your banks, because banks never, ever, ever, EVER, like to screw you...or the world economy. Soon after that, and my last burger in America (it still moo'd), I was on another plane. Destination? HELL.

No, sorry, that just sounds cool. It was actually quite the opposite. Instead, it was the very beautiful, very captivating, very Spanish, Madrid. And, that, ladies, gentlemen, and French people, is where this adventure truly begins...

Bienvenidas a Espana! I touch down in Spain and it's 10 AM. The flight was scheduled for 9.5 hours, but it managed to squeeze it all into 11 magical hours instead. Pre-flight and holding pattern shananigans ensured that. I was able to catch a little bit of sleep on the plane, but my knees, after years of abuse at the expense of heavy leg presses, decided to scream louder than the baby 6 rows back. It's cool, I'm a male, I can sleep through the wailing of a baby. Am I right, ladies? Oh, no he didn't! I did. I very much did. {Man card officially revoked}

Customs was negligible. I didn't have anything to declare, except, of course, HOLY EFFING AWESOME TAP-DANCING BEARS IN BIKINIS! I'M IN MADRID!! Nobody found that declaration very appealing and Spanish prison is very nice, too. Right, moving along.

With my wits barely about me, I had to immediately navigate the subway system in an effort to make it to my hostel before the next year. There is one very important thing that needs mentioning. I live in Ohio. The only subways we have are Subway Restaurants, fine purveyors of affordable, 100% processed, and unnatural deli meats. The only time I hear about the kind of subways that move you around are when it involves murder and drugs and homeless people engaging in the timeless "freak out the normal people" game of public masturbation. So, I was prepared for all of those things, if not more. Instead, I was let down. I found only general safety, general cleanliness, and easy navigation (even if it were in my non-native language). Oh well, missed out, then.

I stepped off of the Metro at Tirso de Molina, where Calle Magdalena runs along. The scene that welcomed me was an explosion of conflict between what I expected and what was real. Real Madrid. Old men, with thick accents, "rrrr's" that dripped from their mouths and spattered in your ears, young women, with innumerable piercings and dark hair, darker clothes, and darkest eyes, old women, with painted faces like clowns at circus, complaining and obstinate, and young men, with vibrant colors, popped collars, and GQ stylists. Everything, and everybody, just seems to have such a unique style. I feel like we all kind of fall into one of maybe 4 styles in America: Preppy, Alternative, Boring, or Lady Gaga. In Spain, and in many countries in Europe, everybody has their own flair.

So, I looped around a couple of times with my 40-pound backback/duffel combo and found Calle Relatores. I stood in front of #17, Way Hostel, walked in, pushed a button and let out a sigh as the door opened. I had found my Way.

The room wasn't ready so I stored my stuff and took my day pack out to begin exploring. First things first, lunch. I went up and down a few streets and chose Maestro Churrero, I'm still not sure what it means. Whale's vagina sounds right. It wasn't really exceptional, unfortunately, but it was protein and carbohydrates, pollo con ensalada, chicken with salad. I made it back to Way and learned that my room was officially ready. It was pretty nice! The lockers were weird so I had to rent a padlock for storage since mine were too big...that's what she said! I locked it all up, loosened up my day pack a bit, and set out for Madrid.

I started by attempting to find Plaza Mayor, only a few blocks northwest of my hostel. The streets were so alive! I was able to soak in the sing-song lather of the Spanish language as passers-by conversed with one another in person or on what I assume were fake cell phones, since mine didn't work at all in Spain. The Spaniards have wild imaginations! But,they also have generous hearts. One thing struck me as I maneuvered the capital's calles. It was a truck. I feel bad for the truck.

No, actually, what struck me was the regular occurrence of coin being given to the destitute along the small streets. It was done without remark (like, “Use it to get a job, not booze” or, “There you go, you poor dear”), as it often occurs in the States, and instead, it was done with honor. As coin fell into a hat, or a box, a hand, or a dish, a cup, or a piece of fabric, there was a silent exchange of compassion and gratitude. It was very nice. On the other hand, we tend to treat our homeless as scabs. Something unsightly that bothers and itches, and you just want it to go away. But, human beings aren't scabs. There is something to be learned there. I ignored that something and told the homeless Spaniards to get away from me, the disgusting lot!

I made it to Plaza Mayor, a people-watching Mecca. At one time, it had been a market, drenched in the Spanish sunlight. Now, Spider-man, Mickey Mouse, a matador with a paper mache toro, accordion players, tourists, cafes, and young people taking siestas in the sun all fill the square. The uniform architecture is beautiful; warm, red brick, and soft, cream-colored stone. It was like I was inside a layer cake, a weird simile, yes, but I'm the one writing here. Maybe I'm hungry.

After filling up on people watching, I became fairly disoriented while trying to navigate to Paseo de Prado, the street where many of Madrid's Museums are located. I found the street, discovering a bustling strip split down the middle by a park. All the while, people were handing out fliers, stopping for quick bites with tapas, and chatting passionately. I found long lines at the Museo del Prado, so I decided to save it for the next day and continued north towards the Fuente de Neptune and Fuente de Cibeles. Both fountains were classic examples of the serenity, the aesthetic pleasure, of seeing water move through art. Art as transportation, art as fluid as life. La Fuente de Cibeles is one of the most famous fountains in all of Europe. It's well-protected by a six, sometimes eight-car roundabout. It was difficult to get near. I only hurt a few of the tiny Spanish cars.

I next headed to Calle Alcala, where I was met with one of the most striking architectural pieces that I have ever laid eyes upon, La Puerta de Alcala. I love this arch! Angels perch atop it with one side adorned in war helmets, wielding swords, and faceless, while the other side is represented with cherubs, weaponless, but with expression. I thought a lot about this duality. The side depicting war was rigid, frozen (statue puns!), and with lifeless wings. The other side, perhaps depicting peace, was full of life, with wings stretched and airy, flexible and free. A statement about the nature of man, perhaps? That in aggression, we are grounded in base humanity and we lose that heavenly gift of freedom, of flight, while in peace, when our arms are laid down, we are free to live, to laugh, to smile, to be soldiers of light? War, peace, both aspects are depicted in this door to a beautiful city. We have both powers within us, they share a common vessel, a common soul, the door to a beautiful human being. I don't know. I was malnourished by this point. All I do know is that angels in war attire and clad with weapons are awesome! You can take that fact to your art history classes. Write it down.

Literally, right next to this monument lies the entrance to the equally captivating park, Parque del Retiro. It was tremendous! It must be much, much bigger than Central Park in New York City, because I truly believe I could have spent an entire day just exploring it (whereas, nobody really knows the size of Central Park, for they are inevitably stabbed in the first seven minutes). The entrance is haltingly modest, for the treasure that lies beyond its gates is priceless. Gravel paths, worn to dust, take you up green avenues, lined with trimmed topiaries and trees. Dogs and children run and play, some people jog or walk, couples enjoy picnics and kisses, the elderly sit, with canes like crosses in front of them, and watch life at play. The main avenue, Avenida de Mejico, leads to a huge pond with paddle boats and ducks vying for liquid real estate. On one side, street performers, like Mickey Mouse AGAIN, and even Midget Darth Vader, do their best to earn coin while passers-by enjoy ice cream and cotton candy. On the other side the Monumento Alfonso XII stands incredibly tall, watching over the pond, the people, and Midget Darth Vader. Dozens of steps ascend directly from the water to the monument. Visitors and locals laze around and teens joke and make out in front of the statue with three of its sides depicting Justice, Prudence, and Temperance, respectively.

The remainder of the park is filled with more paths, trimmed arrangements, unique horticulture, classic fountains, more Mickey Mouses, artistic pieces, beautiful flowers, singing Spanish wildlife, and some Egyptian stuff...for some reason. I felt as though I had discovered a secret treasure, no, a Secret Garden, only without the compulsory book report. It was a world unknown, belonging to me, if only for a short time. It was an incredible accident, I fell in love with Madrid.

The sun was setting, and dinner needed to be had. So, I headed back and ate along the way to Way. I get back in time to shower and hear about the bar crawl going out for the night. So, after hours of travel overseas with little sleep, walking around a city I didn't know and yet felt so at home in, and trying my best to speak Junior-Level Spanish, I decided to go on my first ever bar crawl.

And I wasn't heard from again for 10 days.

No, actually, it was a lot of fun! I met great people, as bar crawls tend to provide, and drank a lot of alcohol, again, as bar crawls tend to provide. A good many of the crawlers were American students on spring break at international universities, or, they were Canadian, yegh. Either way, it was pretty cool. There is this internal struggle that occurs whenever anybody asks me if it was a let down meeting Americans in that setting. Part of me says, “No, it's great! I get to speak English and share things in common.” The other part of me says, “Yes, it's weird! I get to speak English and share things in common.” Regardless, it doesn't ruin a trip or anything, it just provides a different experience than you may expect to have. Still, I had a great time, had drinks that had Speed in them, and kept running into these little stop-poles that are about a foot tall (so, short Spaniards can see them but tall Dave's cannot). No joke, I was bleeding down my shins. Espana es diferente! Well, Senor Gaone didn't warn me about that!

The next day, I bought my train ticket headed for Barcelona. I put my Eurail Pass to the test and made it a first-class affair. It only cost me 20 Euros. Amazing! Anyway, I still had some Madrid to take my fill of. Again, the Museo del Prado had long lines, so I skipped it, hoping to come back later. Instead, I headed towards Palacio Real. It was gorgeous! And huge! That's what she said! I'm serious, I felt like an ant. 2800 rooms are housed inside this palace and the 26 years it took to complete it were worth it. But, I would have done it in 22, just saying. Again, long lines plagued me as I rounded to find the entrance. So, I decided to skip going inside the palace, assuming there would be an inevitably embarrassing affair after they learned who I was and the fact that I had waited in line. Again, I'm kind of a big deal. I didn't want to see people hurt or lose their jobs.

So, I walked nearby to La Catedral de la Almudena. Hmm, there were no lines to get into a church, but there was an extensive line for the palace. Go figure. The cathedral was incredibly beautiful! Complementary color and gold, the aged scent of incense, strong wooden pews, and acoustics that explode in echo provide instant gratification for your senses. It was all at once open, cavernous, yet comfortable, like home. I said my usual prayer involving Arnold Schwarzenegger and the American Presidency, and lit a candle for mom and dad. Then, after having the religious batteries charged, I walked out and headed to San Francisco el Grande, just a couple blocks down Calle Bailen. Unfortunately, it was closed at the moment, but I was able to get a few pictures. I'm kind of bummed I didn't make it inside. However, my catholic-school friends and readers will be able to tell you that St. Francis is the hippy saint. He loved nature and animals and was known to plant a garden or two on this wonderful earth. So, conveniently, right next to the cathedral bearing his name is this wonderful garden with steps leading up to a beautiful view of the western side of Madrid. My camera didn't take the best of pictures for this moment, so you'll have to take my word on it.

I spent some quiet time in the garden, soaking in sunlight and drowning in thought, then realized I had a train to catch to Barcelona! I found my way back to Way, gathered my stuff, and headed to the Renfe station. There is still so, so much of Madrid to be seen. Next time, then.

The train to Barcelona was nice and pretty damn fast. I was in first class so I was served tapas and I went about writing in my journal. By the way, that was the last time I wrote anything about my trip in my journal. It's not even a journal, technically. It's like a rough draft for this blog post and this post alone. In fact, the last paragraph was the last pertinent thing I wrote in that notebook. Anyway, I arrived in Barcelona just in time to get completely lost during a cold drizzle while trying to find my hostel, Sant Jordi Alberg. I walked around with all that weight on my back for about an hour. Their directions were fairly inadequate and my phone was still deciding not to work. Anyway, all part of the adventure! I made it to the hostel, threw my stuff down and showered, getting out just in time to learn about another crawl. Of course, I crawled.

This crawl was one of the best I had in all of the European countries. I met great people, again, including a young man from Israel. He had been born in the States and moved to Israel when he was very young. I finally decided to step out on a limb and ask the burning question, “I know you are not saying this about me, so you can be completely honest, but what do you think about Americans, in general? Or, what does your country think?” Without so much as a flinch, he responded, “Naive, innocent, in a bubble, isolated, I'm sorry, I could go on...” I laughed and thanked him for his honesty. Generally, that sentiment was shared by other travelers from around the world when I asked that very same question. Their answers humbled me entirely. Here, a 200-pound American with a passion to learn, to grow, to become a better human being, asks a question of nearly 30 completely different individuals from completely different countries and cultures, and the same response is generated. Essentially, “you're naïve, little one. You're cute when you try, but generally, you don't.” I'm glad I didn't hear that we were stupid, I guess, or all like Paris Hilton and Burt Reynolds. Only once was I called a cowboy, though, a bit of a let-down. But, I'm not offended by this general regard. It spun me into such an interesting mindset, a new perspective cracking through the shadows of the old. I realized just how much growing up our country has to do. In every way. For two hundred years, we were naturally isolated, but with a global economy, a global threat/war, global resource abuse, and global GUTS (do you have it?), there is so much at stake if the following generations of children grow up thinking “We're number one, everybody loves us, or they're jealous, and we're better than anybody else.” We aren't. We're all human beings. We all need to eat, need to breathe, need to love, and be loved. And, even if we did father the likes of Chuck Norris, hero of the millennium, and George Clooney, the sexiest man in the Universe, and Oprah Winfrey, future pope, we're not yet finished in striving for greatness.

Another point about this, then I'll get off my 100% recycled paper, bio-degradable soap box. I asked every one of those brilliant individuals another question after they had fully answered the first. It was, “Now, having said that, would you drop everything to live in America?” The response was again universal. Yes. So, quite an interesting dynamic. We are in a bubble, but it's an appealing bubble. I met more individuals from European countries that had every line to every Friends episode memorized. I heard American music in every club. American movies were at the top of the box office, even in Paris. Our culture bleeds into the stream of most of the world's conscience. We have the Hills in the west and Jersey Shore in the east. We're a country where a slut can be rich and famous just for slutting around, and where an idiot with a giant clock for jewelry can have a dozen opportunities at picking a mate, a one-true-love, out of over a dozen wanna-be rich and famous sluts. There is something rather appealing about that, isn't there? First impressions are forever. Hm.

Okay, all that aside. I had an incredible night! I met some fellow Ohioans, and we shared in our inevitable, heart-breaking shame for being from Ohio. I also learned that I have some dancing ability because I had somehow reconnected with my hips after a ten-year break-up that occurred naturally at the onset of puberty. The music was incredible, the people were incredible, and I met one of the most impressive individuals I have ever had the good fortune with which to cross paths. Unforgettable!

The next day, I set about exploring the metropolis of two faces, the old and the new. First things first, I had to arrange for my train to get to Munich. Now, batten down the hatches, folks, because this is the first official snag I encounter on the trip! The French! Oui, the French are at it again with their devilish striking ability. They institute a nationwide rail strike that excludes any and all train transportation through and within the country. So, no night train that eventually terminates in Munich! Great! Fantastic! I'll only lose out on a cool 40 Euro if I don't make it to my hostel the following night. So, I was set into problem-solving mode and ran back to my hostel where I had internet access, albeit on a 56k modem, I'm pretty sure. I had to find a way to Munich. First, I looked up buses, assuming they would be cheaper than a plane. All of them were booked, or left two days later. No dice. So, with a trepid heart and wallet, I looked up some flights. I had no luck finding anything under 250 Euro. Then, as an angel, Barbara, from New York, struggling with Skype in an effort to reach her boyfriend from Holland, told me about skyscanner.com. Instantly, prices for airlines were dropping. I finally settled on a plane from Barcelona to Vienna, traveling with Niki Air. The cost was only about 75 Euro for a flight that was taking off the following morning! Amazing. Barbara saved my life.

So, after all that mess was figured out, I finally had enough time to go around Barcelona. Oh, wait. That whole mess took up over half the day! You could imagine my joy when I realized I had roughly three hours of daylight to soak up Barcelona. No worries, I humped it. My first destination was Las Ramblas, one of the most famous streets in all of Europe. It was sprawling with tourists (and their complementary pick-pockets), performers, market carts, cafes, and pigeons. The only word that comes to mind is vivacious! The street moved, pulsed like an artery, the heart of a city beating, sending wave after wave of rhythm, of life. A bunch of vendors were selling these bird-call-chirpy-whistle things that one puts in their mouth to do just that, make a bird-call-chirpy-whistle sound. Interesting, sure, but I had a mission. I then saw gargoyles and went about trying to eradicate them, using my specially-designed sun-torch that I brought on the trip for just such an occasion. The police confiscated it and let me loose again. To the two young men in gargoyle outfits, “Lo siento.”

Then, sun-torchless, yet while on Las Ramblas, I decided it was time to try some genuine paella.

Erm, then I decided that I needed a drink to go along with it. It was very good, but didn't have quite the oomph I was hoping for. Still, protein and carbohydrates, always good to me. I then looped around the southern tip of Las Ramblas, where the Mirador de Colom stands as a monument to Christopher Columbus. Thanks again for the whole “discovering” the land that would become my country, Chrissy Poo! I did my best to remember the whole grade-school song about the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria and recite it there...but the traffic was too loud and people were still eying me funny after the gargoyle thing. So, I took my leave and headed towards Barri Gotic, the old Gothic neighborhood. The architecture here was totally cool. I loved the juxtaposition of a modern metropolis, a fairly recent host of Olympic games, butting up against a labyrinthine assembly of small, quiet streets and tall medieval buildings. It was so unique. I'm pretty sure I saw a knight on a horse at one point. Also, there were all of these interesting boutiques and clothing shoppes that sold ancient-sounding garb like Abercrombie & Fitch and Diesel. Those dark-ages folk sure had some interesting names for things!

On the western edge of Barri Gotic is the Placa Reial. It was a quaint little plaza with a ton of children and pigeons running wild. Neither the children or the pigeons were supervised...it was basically like stepping into Neverland, only without Peter Pan as the rambunctious, good-hearted guide I needed. Instead, I got pigeon poop. Anyway, at this point, the sun was starting to set, I was completely lost in the maze of the small streets, and my camera decided that its battery was dead. After making my way towards modern civilization again, using the smell of McDonald's french fries as my compass, I found the subway and headed back towards Sant Jordi. And, this is the part of the story where I get jumped.

Or, sorry, let's get into this. See, Barcelona is much like New York with its incredible diversity. So many different cultures intertwine in the bustling city on the Mediterranean Sea. And, just like New York, or any other city/town/village/mole people civilization, there is the international experience of crime. I will admit, I didn't always feel safe in Barcelona. Nearly everywhere else, I felt completely fine. No worries, I was alert, but I also just felt safe. Except for Paris. But, in Barcelona, I noticed I walked a little bit faster and had my head on a swivel. Well, sure enough, I stepped off of the subway at the very same moment that about six young, short, Spanish men stepped off. The entire ride, we had exchanged those awkward glances that only two people who are attracted to each other or two people who want to eat each other tend to share. Well, I had six pairs of eyes to share that magic moment with. So, I puffed my chest up a bit, tried to find the phrase, “You want to step outside, friend?” in my Spanish phrasebook, and tightened my back pack about me. It was game time. I was actually excited! I knew I would get my ass kicked or worse, but, something inside me was saying, “Time to go America all over somebody's ass!” while “Desperado” played in my head.

Sure enough, they stepped off at the same stop and headed towards the only exit. I hung back a second, hoping other passengers were getting off, too. Nope. Just Dave and the six dwarves, Sleepy, or, sorry, Siesta-y must have stayed home. I made my way up the steps and down a few tunnels. There was a guitarist playing a Spanish-sounding tune. I'm serious, I felt like it was the old west, a newspaper was blowing, rolling, and floating down the tunnel. Sure enough, I see the six ne'er-do-wells, and they're eying me up like the hyenas in the Lion King. I search out the leader, the guy in front and I match his stare. My heart started pounding, the musician picked up his strumming, and a pigeon flew by John Woo style. Then, I let him have it! Like a gunslinger at high noon, I cracked a smile so friendly it could break your heart. Instantly, he started to smile back, a bit shocked, as it were. His friends looked confused. And, still, with a smile on my face I came within three steps of the group and said, “Brazos, mi amigos, brazos.” I then held up my flexed arms (brazos), patted the leader on the back, and excused myself through them and up the stairs. They didn't follow. They didn't laugh. They didn't yell. Best yet, nobody got their ass kicked, or worse.

I think it's important you know at this point that I have a Fight or Flex response to most intimidating stimuli. The parasympathetic system in most living organisms is that of the Fight or Flight. Mine is just more conducive to my liking. So, the flex saved the day and so did my well-trained smile. I know it's a completely ridiculous thing to say, “Arms, my friends, arms,” but, confusion can be a weapon, too. Just ask Airhedra, or Michael Moore.

After all that excitement, it was time for tapas. I found a place close to my hostel and snacked on about six different tapas. Oh, for those of you who don't know, tapas are cut pieces of bread with a topping of choice. They're like mini open-face sandwiches...kind of. Only, squid tend to be involved, not meat loaf. There are many rumors to their origins, but the story I like basically said they were used as a way to cover the beer glasses from getting dust in them. Taint the food, don't mess with the beer. You have got to love priorities!

I got back to Sant Jordi, found my bed, and tried to fall asleep as a dude from Taiwan listened to techno without headphones. Perfect. The next morning, I would wake up at 5 to get on a plane that would take me to Vienna. One chapter of the trip was soon to be ending. One country would be concluded. In 3 days, I had already lived a lifetime. Hell, if I were a mayfly, that would be three lifetimes. They only live one day. You should write that down.

Next post?

Somebody Schnitzeled On Or Around The Coats! Vienna, Munich, and Prague