{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!
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