My first impression of Switzerland is that it must be where the myth about dwarves come from. Not because the people there are short and hairy (they're not), but because the entire country seems to be one long corridor of narrow fields with impossibly large mountains on either side, and a iceblue, snowfed river bisecting what little arable land there is. Because of the abundance of water, everything is green. Really, really green grass being eaten by those Swiss cows you see on cheese packaging everywhere, pockets of huge evergreens spring up from mountain ledges, but the most noticeable is me, being green with envy for not being born here.
While we're driving through the countryside (or extremely long tunnels that go through entire mountains), MJ gives us some background on Switzerland, which was pretty interesting stuff. In Switzerland, every male over the age of 18 is required by law to enlist in the military and serve for a minimum of 2 years. I'm not sure if you have to do it right at 18, but I'd bet it's within a few years. You are also given a submachine gun. This might account for the lack of home invasion style robberies there. Who in the hell is going to rob a house when you know for a fact that there's someone with a military grade gun inside? Once you're out of the military, you still have to go to target practice once a month, and do a month long refresher course every couple of years. Because it's required by law, this doesn't count as your vacation time, and you still get paid. As a result, the Swiss can raise it's military to full readiness in less than 36 hours. Pretty impressive. Due to how ridiculously rich the country is thanks to anonymous banking, apparently many of the mountains have been converted into giant bomb shelters (one of which can hold up to 20000 people for 2 years), weapons reserves, satellite monitoring stations, and so on. Oh, and all buildings are required to have bomb shelters. This might account for why Switzerland is so neutral--woe betide any country that decided to invade, because the entire population is essentially the military (women aren't required to join, but most do anyhow), and if they ever got bombed, you'd really only piss them off.
Now, this means that the cities are clean and that the citizens are for the most part law-abiding, but the large anti-authority part of me sort of worries about any government that has that sort of stranglehold on personal choice. Although on the other hand, the benefits from having an entire country on the same basic page seem worth it, at least on the surface. You could never do this with America though, we have a population that is far too large and too diverse to ever make it feasible.
Anyway, it took us forever to get to Lucerne, a small town in Switzerland, because the rain we had left behind in Germany had found us as soon as we got out of Italy, slowing traffic to a crawl on an already crowded road. The bus riding was becoming near-unbearable at this point, although it was mainly due to my skin being so dry (and thus so itchy I was scratching till I was literally bleeding) because of the nonstop recycled air, and my lack of even remotely clean clothes (read: I smelled awful and there was nothing I could do about it).
Once again, we had only a few short hours to wander around Lucerne, made shorter by the fact that every shop closes at around six o'clock. In retrospect I guess thats not that strange, but the city looked deserted by eight. Even still, there was ample time to peruse the Swiss chocolate shops...and then to go back again and again. I'm not a huge chocolate fan, which I think I've mentioned in an earlier post--not that i'm anti-chocolate, just that I'm not a fan of chocolate in the way the sad, lonely lady who has a cat calendar is. But this...this was something else. This wasn't chocolate. This was angel brains coated in children's dreams. The adorably old Swiss lady explained that the reason it was so different was because the cows ate grass that was watered with pure, mountain spring water, so their milk was correspondingly better, thus producing higher quality dairy products. After tasting about 15 different types of truffles, bon bons, and so on, I was inclined to agree with her.
MJ had neglected to mention that the hotel we'd be staying in that night was a refurbished prison. And it was themed, meaning that it still had bars on the windows, bare walls, and instead of room keys, you had a code you had to put into the door to unlock it. It didn't freak me out too bad, although I made it a point not to wonder about how many people had gotten shanked in my room. Given my impressions of Switzerland, though, I think that the majority of criminals were white collar. I hope.
We only had Paris left on our itinerary, and even though it's marked as 2 days, what that means in Contiki-speak is eight hours in a bus and about four or so in the actual city, minus check in time and dinner and all that. I'm not saying that it's bad, I just want to clarify for anyone who might be thinking of a Contiki tour.
After seeing as many cities as we did on the trip, I have to say that I prefer the northern part of Europe. Maybe its that the cities are slightly newer, but I've had my fill of streets so narrow that they can't accomodate a single person walking and a car driving at the same time. The cities we visited from the north seemed on the whole to be cleaner, safer, and more ascetically pleasing. Then again, maybe that's just my German blood bias talking.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Day 8: The Wheels on the Bus (Make Me Queasy)
Day 8 found us in Florence, which is supposedly an art mecca. However, at this point in the trip, it would be hard to impress me with anything. My legs were sore, I was sunburned, and we had a scant 6 hours to spend here. For lack of anything better to do, a few of us went to a sculpture museum, where it became very apparent that the Italians back in the day were really fond of sculpting male genitalia. Surely there was some cultural reason behind this, but there's only so many life-sized naked dudes you can see before they all look the same. The only thing I really enjoyed about it was guessing the occasional greek myth that the statue was based on. I was right about 90 percent of the time, although no one in the group except me was impressed by this, least of all my little brother.
There was a really amazing looking cathedral in Florence as well, which I would've loved to see the inside of had the line to get in not wrapped all the way around the damn block.
Included in the Contiki tour was a bunch of cool stuff to do (for an extra fee) which ended up being worth it in nearly every case. In Florence, it was a full Tuscan dinner, four courses, with a cool opera singer coming out every so often to do a song. I've never thought of myself as much of an opera fan, but seeing someone up close, singing that beautifully, I could certainly see why it's as popular as it is. Included with the dinner (which was as fantastic as one would have hoped. Italians truly do have the best food in the world, hands down) were two huge jugs of wine, which I indulged in wholeheartedly.
This was a huge mistake.
It wasn't that the next morning I was hungover. I hadn't really drank that much wine. But I don't think my tummy was ready for it, and it was killing me, from our six o'clock wake up time onward. I might have been fine if I had had a decent breakfast and a few hours to recuperate, but no. Breakfast (our only daily included meal) in Italy consisted of a hard, nearly hollow roll with about as much caloric value as a roll of cardboard. Oh, and water. That was it. What the fuck? The inconsistencies involved with a culture that enjoys four hour dinners and three second breakfasts are too great to be explored here.
Anyway, it was a wonderful coincidence that I was feeling really sick that day, as we had a 9 hour bus ride ahead of us, all the way to Switzerland. I might have been fine if not for the winding mountain roads, but instead I said goodbye to Italy by vomiting in the bus bathroom. Classy, I know.
There was a really amazing looking cathedral in Florence as well, which I would've loved to see the inside of had the line to get in not wrapped all the way around the damn block.
Included in the Contiki tour was a bunch of cool stuff to do (for an extra fee) which ended up being worth it in nearly every case. In Florence, it was a full Tuscan dinner, four courses, with a cool opera singer coming out every so often to do a song. I've never thought of myself as much of an opera fan, but seeing someone up close, singing that beautifully, I could certainly see why it's as popular as it is. Included with the dinner (which was as fantastic as one would have hoped. Italians truly do have the best food in the world, hands down) were two huge jugs of wine, which I indulged in wholeheartedly.
This was a huge mistake.
It wasn't that the next morning I was hungover. I hadn't really drank that much wine. But I don't think my tummy was ready for it, and it was killing me, from our six o'clock wake up time onward. I might have been fine if I had had a decent breakfast and a few hours to recuperate, but no. Breakfast (our only daily included meal) in Italy consisted of a hard, nearly hollow roll with about as much caloric value as a roll of cardboard. Oh, and water. That was it. What the fuck? The inconsistencies involved with a culture that enjoys four hour dinners and three second breakfasts are too great to be explored here.
Anyway, it was a wonderful coincidence that I was feeling really sick that day, as we had a 9 hour bus ride ahead of us, all the way to Switzerland. I might have been fine if not for the winding mountain roads, but instead I said goodbye to Italy by vomiting in the bus bathroom. Classy, I know.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Day 6-7: Rome- *Blasphemy Alert*
Days 6 and 7 were spent in that place that all the roads lead to, Rome. I made it a point to use the phrase "When in Rome" as many times as I could, either to myself or others, because where the hell else is that phrase nearly as applicable? The first day was mostly spent getting to Rome from Venice, but we had a nice half-day, seeing the Pantheon, which is mindblowing in its scale, not to mention how ancient it is. It's nearly impossible to not gape as you see stone columns several stories high while your brain simultaneously tries to figure out how it in the hell people would build it now, let alone 2000 years ago. I would get used to this sort of feeling during my time in Rome, as it applies for most of the ancient architecture there.
The next day was absolutely exhausting--it was hot, even for me, humid, crowded and filled with nonstop walking. Not that any of that was a surprise, I'm just setting the mood. We started off at St. Peters Cathedral, which I felt I should see simply because I'd never been in a Cathedral before.
The cathedral is big, I'll give it that. It's also gaudy. Really, really, really gaudy. Gold and marble everywhere. The inside has monuments to every pope inside it, and they're running out of room, so it sort of looks like a art museum made love with a marble quarry, found Jesus, and then puked.
"I won't blaspheme, I won't blaspheme..." I told myself, but if you know me at all then you know that that's just impossible. But, let the record show that I only said "goddamn it" only three times while inside, and they were all accidents. I had hoped that the overwhelming spirituality of the place would outweigh my utter hatred of the Catholic church, but sadly, it couldn't. All I could think about as I looked at marble statue after marble statue was how much money this all must've cost, how many cultures were destroyed, how many peoples were turned into little more than slaves in order to feed the beast that built this church. It's supposed to be a monument to god, but it looked more like a monument to cruelty and greed to me.
But the real reason we had gone to St. Peter's rather than the Vatican muesum (other than the fact that I would probably have burst into flames upon crossing the doorway) was for St. Peters dome, which rested on top of the cathedral, way, way, way up. The elevator they have will only take you so far up, and then it's just marble stairway after marble stairway. It was quite an experience, because as the staircase winds up the inside of the dome, the wall on one side begins to curve into the ceiling, and the limited space means that the walkway is such that you have to almost walk sideways up it. The steps seems endless, and their pattern changes seemingly at random, curving along the inside wall, then up some normal flights, then more curved, vertigo inducing stairs, all getting steeper by the step. Finally, you go up a staircase that is so tightly wound that they hung a rope through the middle of it to keep you from falling down it after you get dizzy from turning around. This rope is a sight in itself--imagine how many hands have touched it--it's black, sticky, and throughly disgusting, but if you don't want to die, you've got to hold onto it to get to the top. The view from the dome once you finally get there is worth it though. You can look over the entire city unobstructed by anything except the massive air pollution. It was amazing to me, given how crowded the city is, how much undeveloped land there is, huge tracts of hilly parks. Clearly, the Romans understood something about city design that we have forgotten: people need open spaces.
The roof of the cathedral (lower than the dome, but still way high up) has a gift shop that smells exactly like chicken Mcnuggets. They also sell shot glasses there. If that weren't a disturbing enough image, the likeness of Pope Hitler's Youth the Third glares balefully at you from about a million different postcards, crucifixes, paintings, refrigerator magnets, and so on. He looks like he wants to eat your face.
So: If you find yourself in Rome and you're not deeply religious, skip Vatican city. You're not missing all that much.
What you shouldn't miss in Rome is the pizza and the gelato. Pizza places there are, obviously, far superior to anything we have in the states. For example, they don't serve it by the slice. Intstead, they have one huge square that they cook all the pizza on, making it essentially one giant pizza with different areas of toppings, you point out which kind you want, sort of measure it with your hands, and they cut if off and hand it to the cashier, who weighs it. That's right, you pay for your pizza by weight! The dough is also this light, flaky amazingness that kind of ruins american pizza forever. The gelato there does the same to ice cream. I don't really go for chocolate, but the chocolate gelato I had was far beyond anything i've ever tasted that was supposed to be chocolate. In retrospect, eating anything that sugary was probably not the best choice when the temperature is in the upper nineties and water is roughly six dollars a bottle, but still, it had to be done.
By midday the heat was intense, amplified by the pollution that had no breeze to carry it away. I really just wanted to find a shady spot and fall asleep, but the overabundance of pickpockets made that option completely ridiculous, and besides, no matter how uncomfortable, I didn't get all the way out to Europe to fall asleep. Instead, my friend Ryan and I went to the Coliseum, which was...underwhelming. Sure, it's big, but not that big. What I found most intriguing were the unmistakable signs of age--stone steps with giant grooves in them, signs of untold numbers of feet climbing them. I suppose I was hoping to get some mystical sense of history, some indescribable feeling that sitting on a stone ledge that had been sat upon by people whose bones were now dust, but instead, I couldn't conjure up anything except some disappointment at it and myself. My inability to be impressed may have been a mixture of MJ telling us that this wasn't the only coliseum built, that they were built all over the Roman empire, but that this one was special because...it was Rome's Coliseum. So basically, it's special because people say it is. Also, the sewer vent's that surround the outside spew a mixture of urine and feces into the air, making stepping over them a mixed blessing, as the smell makes you instantly gag, but cool air from the sewers is a welcome reprieve from heat.
As the day wound down, Ryan and I headed to the last destination--the Cappuchin monks Monastery. The monastery isn't open to the public, so really, it's more like five normal sized rooms side by side. What makes these monks special, however, is their tradition of only being buried on monastery grounds, which presented a problem a few hundred years back when they grounds ran out of room for all the bodies. Instead, those wily monks came up with a solution: who needs to be buried? And for that matter, who needs to be kept together? Thus, the rooms are covered, nearly from top to bottom, in bones. Skulls are stacked in artful columns surrounding a coat of arms made out of femurs and pelvises (pelvisi?) in one room, in another, a withered, still decomposing monk sits on a bench made out of ribcages. Although the signs were in Italian, I found out later that each room represented a stage in man's journey through death. This was probably my favorite sight in Rome. It wasn't creepy, or morbid, it was a frank display of the human condition, a not so subtle reminder that regardless of who you are, you will one day be indistinguishable from anyone else.
Ryan and I headed back to the hotel around nine, after about thirteen hours of being on our feet. My sandals had compressed so much due to the heat and the constant pressure that I could feel every stone I stepped on. Sandals are not recommended for that level of touristing.
With the caveat that by the point in the trip I was pretty travel worn, both mentally and physically, which undoubtedly contributed to my feelings about Rome here's the bottom line: If you simply have to go to Rome, don't do it during the summer. If you aren't really that interested in Rome to begin with, skip it-- you're not missing anything that pictures won't capture.
The next day was absolutely exhausting--it was hot, even for me, humid, crowded and filled with nonstop walking. Not that any of that was a surprise, I'm just setting the mood. We started off at St. Peters Cathedral, which I felt I should see simply because I'd never been in a Cathedral before.
The cathedral is big, I'll give it that. It's also gaudy. Really, really, really gaudy. Gold and marble everywhere. The inside has monuments to every pope inside it, and they're running out of room, so it sort of looks like a art museum made love with a marble quarry, found Jesus, and then puked.
"I won't blaspheme, I won't blaspheme..." I told myself, but if you know me at all then you know that that's just impossible. But, let the record show that I only said "goddamn it" only three times while inside, and they were all accidents. I had hoped that the overwhelming spirituality of the place would outweigh my utter hatred of the Catholic church, but sadly, it couldn't. All I could think about as I looked at marble statue after marble statue was how much money this all must've cost, how many cultures were destroyed, how many peoples were turned into little more than slaves in order to feed the beast that built this church. It's supposed to be a monument to god, but it looked more like a monument to cruelty and greed to me.
But the real reason we had gone to St. Peter's rather than the Vatican muesum (other than the fact that I would probably have burst into flames upon crossing the doorway) was for St. Peters dome, which rested on top of the cathedral, way, way, way up. The elevator they have will only take you so far up, and then it's just marble stairway after marble stairway. It was quite an experience, because as the staircase winds up the inside of the dome, the wall on one side begins to curve into the ceiling, and the limited space means that the walkway is such that you have to almost walk sideways up it. The steps seems endless, and their pattern changes seemingly at random, curving along the inside wall, then up some normal flights, then more curved, vertigo inducing stairs, all getting steeper by the step. Finally, you go up a staircase that is so tightly wound that they hung a rope through the middle of it to keep you from falling down it after you get dizzy from turning around. This rope is a sight in itself--imagine how many hands have touched it--it's black, sticky, and throughly disgusting, but if you don't want to die, you've got to hold onto it to get to the top. The view from the dome once you finally get there is worth it though. You can look over the entire city unobstructed by anything except the massive air pollution. It was amazing to me, given how crowded the city is, how much undeveloped land there is, huge tracts of hilly parks. Clearly, the Romans understood something about city design that we have forgotten: people need open spaces.
The roof of the cathedral (lower than the dome, but still way high up) has a gift shop that smells exactly like chicken Mcnuggets. They also sell shot glasses there. If that weren't a disturbing enough image, the likeness of Pope Hitler's Youth the Third glares balefully at you from about a million different postcards, crucifixes, paintings, refrigerator magnets, and so on. He looks like he wants to eat your face.
So: If you find yourself in Rome and you're not deeply religious, skip Vatican city. You're not missing all that much.
What you shouldn't miss in Rome is the pizza and the gelato. Pizza places there are, obviously, far superior to anything we have in the states. For example, they don't serve it by the slice. Intstead, they have one huge square that they cook all the pizza on, making it essentially one giant pizza with different areas of toppings, you point out which kind you want, sort of measure it with your hands, and they cut if off and hand it to the cashier, who weighs it. That's right, you pay for your pizza by weight! The dough is also this light, flaky amazingness that kind of ruins american pizza forever. The gelato there does the same to ice cream. I don't really go for chocolate, but the chocolate gelato I had was far beyond anything i've ever tasted that was supposed to be chocolate. In retrospect, eating anything that sugary was probably not the best choice when the temperature is in the upper nineties and water is roughly six dollars a bottle, but still, it had to be done.
By midday the heat was intense, amplified by the pollution that had no breeze to carry it away. I really just wanted to find a shady spot and fall asleep, but the overabundance of pickpockets made that option completely ridiculous, and besides, no matter how uncomfortable, I didn't get all the way out to Europe to fall asleep. Instead, my friend Ryan and I went to the Coliseum, which was...underwhelming. Sure, it's big, but not that big. What I found most intriguing were the unmistakable signs of age--stone steps with giant grooves in them, signs of untold numbers of feet climbing them. I suppose I was hoping to get some mystical sense of history, some indescribable feeling that sitting on a stone ledge that had been sat upon by people whose bones were now dust, but instead, I couldn't conjure up anything except some disappointment at it and myself. My inability to be impressed may have been a mixture of MJ telling us that this wasn't the only coliseum built, that they were built all over the Roman empire, but that this one was special because...it was Rome's Coliseum. So basically, it's special because people say it is. Also, the sewer vent's that surround the outside spew a mixture of urine and feces into the air, making stepping over them a mixed blessing, as the smell makes you instantly gag, but cool air from the sewers is a welcome reprieve from heat.
As the day wound down, Ryan and I headed to the last destination--the Cappuchin monks Monastery. The monastery isn't open to the public, so really, it's more like five normal sized rooms side by side. What makes these monks special, however, is their tradition of only being buried on monastery grounds, which presented a problem a few hundred years back when they grounds ran out of room for all the bodies. Instead, those wily monks came up with a solution: who needs to be buried? And for that matter, who needs to be kept together? Thus, the rooms are covered, nearly from top to bottom, in bones. Skulls are stacked in artful columns surrounding a coat of arms made out of femurs and pelvises (pelvisi?) in one room, in another, a withered, still decomposing monk sits on a bench made out of ribcages. Although the signs were in Italian, I found out later that each room represented a stage in man's journey through death. This was probably my favorite sight in Rome. It wasn't creepy, or morbid, it was a frank display of the human condition, a not so subtle reminder that regardless of who you are, you will one day be indistinguishable from anyone else.
Ryan and I headed back to the hotel around nine, after about thirteen hours of being on our feet. My sandals had compressed so much due to the heat and the constant pressure that I could feel every stone I stepped on. Sandals are not recommended for that level of touristing.
With the caveat that by the point in the trip I was pretty travel worn, both mentally and physically, which undoubtedly contributed to my feelings about Rome here's the bottom line: If you simply have to go to Rome, don't do it during the summer. If you aren't really that interested in Rome to begin with, skip it-- you're not missing anything that pictures won't capture.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Day 5: Canals and Chianti
From Munich, we traveled south, out of the Alps and the rain and into Italy, where the weather reminded me of SoCal: Hot, without a cloud in the sky. Ahhh...I had been missing sunshine and was sick of wet sandals. I would've worn shoes, but I fucking HATE shoes. It took us most of the day to get to Venice, but the scenery was goregous, vineyards as far as the eye could see.
Before I left for Europe, I was most excited for Venice. The idea of a city built on water has always intrigued me. And all in all, it's an amazing sight. This was clearly a city that was the center of the world at one point. The place reeks of age, although to be fair, it may have been really dirty water from the canals. It's interesting being in a place where the city itself is the main attraction. Had I been alone, I would've been content wandering around the narrow streets for hours, but were were only there for an evening, and I really didn't want to get so lost that I couldn't find my way back, which would've undoubtedly happened. Instead, a bunch of us tread the beaten path, seeing a few sights and eating copious amounts of gelato. On one of the main bridges that overlooks the Grand Canal, some clever soul had scrawled "ASSFACE" onto an old brick building.
We all reconvened for a evening gondola ride, most of us bearing bottles of wine, myself included. It is my belief that there are some things in life that one must do, and drinking wine on a gondola in Venice is certainly one of them. As romantic as the city is, it was kind of a bummer to be drinking the wine without the company of a lovely woman, but after the bottle was finished, I wasn't too worried about it. The windows of crumbling buildings stared out at us as we floated by, vacant and abandoned, as if imploring us to remember what they looked like in better days. Our gondolier was dressed in the classic striped shirt, but the magic was a little spoilt by his being on a cell phone for the entire time. Venice is eroding, in all senses of the word.
Afterwards, a group of about 5 of us found a affordable restaurant that wasn't too crowded and had a proper Italian dinner while the evening settled around us, taking our time, and enjoying more wine. Kirk had mentioned something during dinner about wanting to buy a suit of armor, and on our way back from dinner we passed by a shop that appeared to sell things of that ilk, so I tried with all the big-brother persuasiveness I could muster to get him to at least buy a sweet medieval helmet, even though it was over 350 dollars. I assured him that he would get plenty of use out of it in college, but his stubbornness (read: cheap) won out in the end. MJ the tourguide had assured us that the boat back to shore would not wait for late people, so we made our way back to the meeting point with plenty of time, although we were slowed down considerably by people hawking fake designer purses. They're everywhere, with their shitty merchandise clogging an already crowded walkway, and although I knew it was the wine, I was severely tempted to kick a couple faux-gucci handbags into the sea.
Looking back, I wouldn't say that Venice lives up to the hype. This isn't to say it's a crappy city, or that I didn't like it, because I did, but I guess I just bought into the overly romanticized reputation it has a little too much. Maybe I'm just hard to please.
Before I left for Europe, I was most excited for Venice. The idea of a city built on water has always intrigued me. And all in all, it's an amazing sight. This was clearly a city that was the center of the world at one point. The place reeks of age, although to be fair, it may have been really dirty water from the canals. It's interesting being in a place where the city itself is the main attraction. Had I been alone, I would've been content wandering around the narrow streets for hours, but were were only there for an evening, and I really didn't want to get so lost that I couldn't find my way back, which would've undoubtedly happened. Instead, a bunch of us tread the beaten path, seeing a few sights and eating copious amounts of gelato. On one of the main bridges that overlooks the Grand Canal, some clever soul had scrawled "ASSFACE" onto an old brick building.
We all reconvened for a evening gondola ride, most of us bearing bottles of wine, myself included. It is my belief that there are some things in life that one must do, and drinking wine on a gondola in Venice is certainly one of them. As romantic as the city is, it was kind of a bummer to be drinking the wine without the company of a lovely woman, but after the bottle was finished, I wasn't too worried about it. The windows of crumbling buildings stared out at us as we floated by, vacant and abandoned, as if imploring us to remember what they looked like in better days. Our gondolier was dressed in the classic striped shirt, but the magic was a little spoilt by his being on a cell phone for the entire time. Venice is eroding, in all senses of the word.
Afterwards, a group of about 5 of us found a affordable restaurant that wasn't too crowded and had a proper Italian dinner while the evening settled around us, taking our time, and enjoying more wine. Kirk had mentioned something during dinner about wanting to buy a suit of armor, and on our way back from dinner we passed by a shop that appeared to sell things of that ilk, so I tried with all the big-brother persuasiveness I could muster to get him to at least buy a sweet medieval helmet, even though it was over 350 dollars. I assured him that he would get plenty of use out of it in college, but his stubbornness (read: cheap) won out in the end. MJ the tourguide had assured us that the boat back to shore would not wait for late people, so we made our way back to the meeting point with plenty of time, although we were slowed down considerably by people hawking fake designer purses. They're everywhere, with their shitty merchandise clogging an already crowded walkway, and although I knew it was the wine, I was severely tempted to kick a couple faux-gucci handbags into the sea.
Looking back, I wouldn't say that Venice lives up to the hype. This isn't to say it's a crappy city, or that I didn't like it, because I did, but I guess I just bought into the overly romanticized reputation it has a little too much. Maybe I'm just hard to please.
Day 4: Prost!
While traveling to Munich, we stopped at one of the side-shop-eatery places that spring up every few hundred miles all through Europe. They're usually fairly big places, made to accommodate large batches of bus travelers during high travel season. There aren't tons of fast food places everywhere like in the states, so instead, all the tourist money goes straight to one place that offers decent food, high prices, long bathroom lines (for the ladies) and tons of souvenirs. This isn't really of any note, but I spent so much time in them over the course of the trip that I felt it deserved mentioning.
Anyway, on our way to Munich, we stopped at one such place, which in addition to the cafeteria had a Burger King. Normally, I wouldn't have even noticed, except that they had a large sign urging everyone to upgrade their meal to a large...which was translated to "MAKE IT MAXI!" for some reason. This, of course, made me laugh, and so as we were leaving to get back on the bus, I snapped a picture. I had made it a few steps out of the place when the Burger King manager ran out and started pointing at me, looking pretty pissed off, saying "You take picture?" I told him yes, and he told me "No, not legal, delete!!" I generally try to avoid being a typical arrogant american, so I immediately complied. However, as I was walking away, I heard the guy mutter "I should have him arrested." It was a beautiful lesson in human nature: no matter your race, color, nationality or creed, if you're a low-level manager at a fast food chain, you're a douchebag.
We arrived in Munich around 6 in the evening, pretty much leaving us enough time to have dinner and then go drink at the HofBrau House, which is apparently the most famous beer hall in Germany. We tried to get a table in HofBrau immediately so as to maximize our drinking time, but it was incredibly full. We were all hungry, and given that HofBrau serves their beer in ONE LITER mugs, I felt it prudent to put something in my stomach to absorb all the beer I was . Instead, I had Wiener Schnitzel, which I ordered simply because I couldn't believe that it was an actual dish, and also because I was kinda hoping that it was a hot dog. It's not. Instead, it's breaded/fried pork, a heart-stopping delight. Full and ready to drink, we went over to HB and, with a little luck, scored a table.
Hofbrauhaus is exactly what you'd think an old German beer hall is-- long, wooden tables, hot women selling large pretzels, and that great German drinking music that makes you feel more inebriated than you actually are. There are only three types of beer there: Lager, Dark, and another concoction that's half beer-half lemonade, which I guess is the German equivalent of a chick drink. I don't often feel a part of any ethnicity, but here I felt more like I was coming home than visiting for the first time.
There are a few rules for drinking at the Hofbrauhaus, and none of them are posted, so just in case, here's what you never do: Yell or sing loudly. MJ the tourguide informed us of this, which made it really fun to watch as a bunch of Aussies broke into some Australian song, only to have a very large, very scary looking German man who was dressed like a Secret Service agent walk over to their table, put a catchers mitt sized paw on the loudest, drunkest one, forcing him to sit down. Mr. Beer Security then put one finger to his lips and walked away. Germans are fucking serious about their beer. So much so that they have stringent laws regarding brewing, which include the outlawing of preservatives. This is great, because that's what causes hangovers. To toast, simply raise your glass (which can be difficult--a liter of beer is heavy) say "Prost!" and then maintain eye contact as you drink. Breaking eye contract or not toasting back is very rude. I could only put down 2 mugs worth of beer (schnitzel is very, very filling) which, by the way, was absolutely delicious, probably the best lager i've ever had.
Anyway, on our way to Munich, we stopped at one such place, which in addition to the cafeteria had a Burger King. Normally, I wouldn't have even noticed, except that they had a large sign urging everyone to upgrade their meal to a large...which was translated to "MAKE IT MAXI!" for some reason. This, of course, made me laugh, and so as we were leaving to get back on the bus, I snapped a picture. I had made it a few steps out of the place when the Burger King manager ran out and started pointing at me, looking pretty pissed off, saying "You take picture?" I told him yes, and he told me "No, not legal, delete!!" I generally try to avoid being a typical arrogant american, so I immediately complied. However, as I was walking away, I heard the guy mutter "I should have him arrested." It was a beautiful lesson in human nature: no matter your race, color, nationality or creed, if you're a low-level manager at a fast food chain, you're a douchebag.
We arrived in Munich around 6 in the evening, pretty much leaving us enough time to have dinner and then go drink at the HofBrau House, which is apparently the most famous beer hall in Germany. We tried to get a table in HofBrau immediately so as to maximize our drinking time, but it was incredibly full. We were all hungry, and given that HofBrau serves their beer in ONE LITER mugs, I felt it prudent to put something in my stomach to absorb all the beer I was . Instead, I had Wiener Schnitzel, which I ordered simply because I couldn't believe that it was an actual dish, and also because I was kinda hoping that it was a hot dog. It's not. Instead, it's breaded/fried pork, a heart-stopping delight. Full and ready to drink, we went over to HB and, with a little luck, scored a table.
Hofbrauhaus is exactly what you'd think an old German beer hall is-- long, wooden tables, hot women selling large pretzels, and that great German drinking music that makes you feel more inebriated than you actually are. There are only three types of beer there: Lager, Dark, and another concoction that's half beer-half lemonade, which I guess is the German equivalent of a chick drink. I don't often feel a part of any ethnicity, but here I felt more like I was coming home than visiting for the first time.
There are a few rules for drinking at the Hofbrauhaus, and none of them are posted, so just in case, here's what you never do: Yell or sing loudly. MJ the tourguide informed us of this, which made it really fun to watch as a bunch of Aussies broke into some Australian song, only to have a very large, very scary looking German man who was dressed like a Secret Service agent walk over to their table, put a catchers mitt sized paw on the loudest, drunkest one, forcing him to sit down. Mr. Beer Security then put one finger to his lips and walked away. Germans are fucking serious about their beer. So much so that they have stringent laws regarding brewing, which include the outlawing of preservatives. This is great, because that's what causes hangovers. To toast, simply raise your glass (which can be difficult--a liter of beer is heavy) say "Prost!" and then maintain eye contact as you drink. Breaking eye contract or not toasting back is very rude. I could only put down 2 mugs worth of beer (schnitzel is very, very filling) which, by the way, was absolutely delicious, probably the best lager i've ever had.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Day 3: Steins and Wine on the Rhine
The Rhine Valley is absolutely gorgeous. Populated by pine trees and grapevines heavily terraced into the hillsides, lined by castles. I highly suggest driving into the Rhine Valley when the sun is just barely setting over a rainy day. The light turns bright yellow, reflecting the snowy peaks of the Alps off the broad Rhine river...it's quite nice. We stayed in a family hotel which had about 3 staircases too many for a 3 story building. I assume it had something to do with the river flooding every so often. Outside, it was beautifully quiet. We ate dinner and then headed off to a wine tasting, which took place in a straight up 17th century wine cellar. It was cold, the tables were wooden, and it was awesome. I could see a bunch of bearded germans wearing those awesome felt caps and big jackets toasting "High Prossit" (which I think means "to your health"). There were 5 wines in all, i think--mostly of the Riesling variety which is specially suited to the region, but also an icewine, which sounds rad, and it is: its wine made out of grapes that have been frozen solid for 2 weeks on the vine. Its a desert wine, very sweet, almost honeylike in flavor.
Afterwards, we all drank in the hotel bar, where the beer was cheap. I ducked out early to sit on a bench underneath a willow tree and watch the river. From my vantage point I could see three well lit castles, and just sat quietly, the air smelling in that way that only cold, clean air can, very happy that I was here.
I went to bed a little earlier, feeling a little sleepy from all that tasty German wine. In the morning, we walked to a small store that was lined wall to wall with Steins. It was here that I believed that yes, there clearly was German blood running through me--i was entranced with the work that went into crafting these ornate mugs. I was intent on getting one for me and my Dad. Kirk picked out a couple great shot glasses for Mom, and then we proceeded to debate over the perfect fireman themed stein, which I'm happy to report was a big hit back home. I settled on a classic blue painted stein with a crest of some kind on it.
And that was it for St. Goar, the sleepy riverside town. We were onto Munich, where I narrowly escaped getting arrested by a Burger King manager. But more on that next time.
Afterwards, we all drank in the hotel bar, where the beer was cheap. I ducked out early to sit on a bench underneath a willow tree and watch the river. From my vantage point I could see three well lit castles, and just sat quietly, the air smelling in that way that only cold, clean air can, very happy that I was here.
I went to bed a little earlier, feeling a little sleepy from all that tasty German wine. In the morning, we walked to a small store that was lined wall to wall with Steins. It was here that I believed that yes, there clearly was German blood running through me--i was entranced with the work that went into crafting these ornate mugs. I was intent on getting one for me and my Dad. Kirk picked out a couple great shot glasses for Mom, and then we proceeded to debate over the perfect fireman themed stein, which I'm happy to report was a big hit back home. I settled on a classic blue painted stein with a crest of some kind on it.
And that was it for St. Goar, the sleepy riverside town. We were onto Munich, where I narrowly escaped getting arrested by a Burger King manager. But more on that next time.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Harry Potter Is Wordcrack
I enjoy reading a lot, maybe not as much as the Word Baron, but still. One of my favorite authors from my childhood is Roald Dahl, who wrote "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" and a bunch of other rad stuff. One of my personal favorites is "The BFG." In it, a giant eared giant acts as a sort of Sandman, collecting dreams and distributing them to kids at night. One of the bottled dreams is about an author who writes a book so good that anyone who begins it cannot put it down until they have finished it. Society effectively grinds to a halt as everyone tries to spend all day reading and driving/teaching/playing football at the same time. I always felt that this was, out of all the dreams that appear in the book, probably the best.
I think J.K. Rowlings got that dream. Because I could not do anything until I finished Book 7. I even (for a second) tried to read while driving. Haha, only kidding...Perhaps it's just the cumulative effect of delayed gratification for an ending over a decade long in the making, or maybe it's a terrifying clue into the true power of marketing, but frankly, Harry Potter was the only thing I really cared about from when I opened it till I closed it with a sigh.
And it was worth it. Really, really, worth it. It's a great book, and I think a fitting ending to a series that will likely be read hundreds of years from now, long after everyone has forgotten who Harold Bloom is (he's a dick). So congrads to Ms. Rowlings--she's inspired a lot of writing, which is something to be proud of, and brought a wonderful story into a world that is far better off for it.
That being said, that's mostly why i'm behind on the travelogues. Sorry, Mike!
Also: I think Transformers is eyecrack.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
It's a Pun-off!!
Shar, of Shar Blarg! and I occasionally get into Pun-off's, and they're the best. This is one from some who knows when o'clock is Hulk themed and pretty great. I'm the blue text.
SharBlarg:
we should over-dup a documentary about penguins
it'd be a smash hit
a HULK SMASH hit
Steinblogger:
it would make a lot of GREEN I bet
SharBlarg:
it would be a MARVEL
Steinblogger:
It'd probably BREAK lots of records
SharBlarg:
even my grandpa and GAMMA would enjoy it
Steinblogger:
yeah it can be even enjoyed by those of the WORLD WAR generation
SharBlarg:
we would have to ERICt a BANA proclaiming its awesome
Steinblogger:
If everyone CONNOLLY understand that the hulk is just very angry!
SharBlarg:
i'm [purple] SHORTS just a matter of time
Steinblogger:
I wonder if his shorts give him ARRAAAAAAAAASSSSHHH?
SharBlarg:
hahahaha
damn
you win
Steinblogger:
WOOOT
i may have post that
SharBlarg:
pretty frickin awesome
everyone would be jealous
they'd turn GREEN with envy!!!
ahem
Steinblogger:
i'm sure some would ROAR with delight
SharBlarg:
it would be INCREDIBLE
hulk
he he he
incredible hulk
mike says that he's sorry he forgot to give you the decembies thing
he hopes you forgive him. if not, tho, it's your [betty] ROSS
Steinblogger:
hahahahahhah
ITS A TIE
SharBlarg:
we should over-dup a documentary about penguins
it'd be a smash hit
a HULK SMASH hit
Steinblogger:
it would make a lot of GREEN I bet
SharBlarg:
it would be a MARVEL
Steinblogger:
It'd probably BREAK lots of records
SharBlarg:
even my grandpa and GAMMA would enjoy it
Steinblogger:
yeah it can be even enjoyed by those of the WORLD WAR generation
SharBlarg:
we would have to ERICt a BANA proclaiming its awesome
Steinblogger:
If everyone CONNOLLY understand that the hulk is just very angry!
SharBlarg:
i'm [purple] SHORTS just a matter of time
Steinblogger:
I wonder if his shorts give him ARRAAAAAAAAASSSSHHH?
SharBlarg:
hahahaha
damn
you win
Steinblogger:
WOOOT
i may have post that
SharBlarg:
pretty frickin awesome
everyone would be jealous
they'd turn GREEN with envy!!!
ahem
Steinblogger:
i'm sure some would ROAR with delight
SharBlarg:
it would be INCREDIBLE
hulk
he he he
incredible hulk
mike says that he's sorry he forgot to give you the decembies thing
he hopes you forgive him. if not, tho, it's your [betty] ROSS
Steinblogger:
hahahahahhah
ITS A TIE
Day 2: What...Is This Place?
Kirk and I woke up around four, mostly by accident. We stopped by a 24 hour 7-11 type place for food. The British really like a sandwich. There's about 40 different kinds all premade and packaged, cheap and mildly filling. Now, if you know anything about me, you know how happy I was made by this. I also made another interesting discovery: Cordial is not the brit way to say "juice," but is instead the bri way of saying "very thick syrup juice concentrate". I discovered this after taking a large swig of my Rasberry Cordial. It didn't mix with the falafel sandwich very well. Kirk passed out as soon as we got on the bus, so I busied myself with more Beatles and watched London go by. Our tour guide, MJ, introduced herself and talked for a bit while I stared at the countryside. I still don't understand how a tiny little island like that can have so many people and still have miles of rolling fields. We made it to the cliffs of Dover, which we would take the ferry over to France. I immediately put on The Decemberists "We Both Go Down Together" and gazed at the Cliffs of Dover, which are indeed so high you can't see over. After we arrived at the hotel outside Amsterdam, unpacked, and ate, then got back on the bus for a 20 minute ride into the city. Most of the group went on a canal cruise while Kirk and I wandered the streets. It is a beautiful city, clean and ornate, 17th century architecture and tall narrow buildings make it feel like San Franciso's cool older cousin. Kirk headed home, still jetlagged, while Bharvin, a indian South African student and I proceeded to indulge in a coffeeshop called The Grasshopper, which would have been fun had I known how to better roll a joint. Regardless, the White Widow, which is a Holland indoor I believe, was so strong that one joint later Bharvin and I were fast friends, marveling at just how otherworldly the Redlight district can be. Especially when you're really, really stoned. Bharvin, not I, wanted to peruse the women of the night, and although I would have been just as happy having another joint at another shop, I'm glad we did. The redlight district and coffee shops are a smoker's paradise--food from every corner of the globe, sex shops, head shops, graffiti, and beautiful women who will have sex with you (for fifty euros). Also, if we hadn't, it's likely we would have had no idea how to take the metro station to the free shuttle to the hotel, because we followed some other people from the tour (who had just got out of a live sex show) back to the hotel, where we fell fitfully asleep for about 4 hours before we had to wake up for breakfast.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
How To Be Invisible
It is easier than you think. Live alone. Shun tv, hot water, your stove. Graduate. Become lost, angry at and tired with the world. Keep irregular sleep patterns. Watch the circles under your eyes darken. Drink wine out of the bottle. Nap constantly. Lose your wallet several times in quick succession, creating a paper trail layers thick.
This part is important: There will be moments, no matter how hard you try to avoid them, of human connection. A lady who smiles genuinely at you, an old man who says hello on the street, children. You must be vigilant, and resist the need to reciprocate. They’ll be hurt, but the alternative is far worse. The more you reject these moments the more you sever the things which truly make you who you are.
Pay in cash. Get a cellphone. Never answer it, and let the voicemail box get full. Drop and break it. Have your email account frozen for violating homeland security codes. Let the electricity go off in your apartment. Eat at the Cambodian deli and get sick. Avoid eye contact. If you must converse with others, stick to scripted responses. The attached scripts are for reference. Meditate on becoming an optical illusion. Try to position yourself in people’s peripheral vision.
You may also feel the need to understand what you are doing. Wrong.
Doing so means you think about yourself as existing, and this is a clear violation of the whole process. While you still labor under the illusion of your own tangibility, you will never achieve it. Ignore your neighbors. Stop dreaming. Curl up into a ball, slowly. Let yourself slowly rot from the inside. Take all mirrors out of your apartment; try to forget what you look like. If your hand becomes translucent, if your feet are suddenly see-through, it is working.
Keep friends at a distance, become horribly undependable. Fall in love, end it abruptly. Get a puppy, give her up for adoption. You must become numb to all emotions, to forget they are even there. If you cannot see them they cannot see you. Alienate your parents, old friends. Project such a terrible energy that strangers become visibly uncomfortable near you. Soon, all phone calls will cease. This is good.
You are becoming invisible because you are a poison, radioactive and deadly. It is not your fault, but you secrete it from your pores. Medical science can’t detect this creeping blackness that seeps from you, but nevertheless, it is lethal in high doses. The courteous thing to do is to quarantine yourself as you begin to fade away, as you cannibalize your own lymph nodes, cells, and organs. If you wish to save those you love, you must never ever let them see what you are now.
This part is important: There will be moments, no matter how hard you try to avoid them, of human connection. A lady who smiles genuinely at you, an old man who says hello on the street, children. You must be vigilant, and resist the need to reciprocate. They’ll be hurt, but the alternative is far worse. The more you reject these moments the more you sever the things which truly make you who you are.
Pay in cash. Get a cellphone. Never answer it, and let the voicemail box get full. Drop and break it. Have your email account frozen for violating homeland security codes. Let the electricity go off in your apartment. Eat at the Cambodian deli and get sick. Avoid eye contact. If you must converse with others, stick to scripted responses. The attached scripts are for reference. Meditate on becoming an optical illusion. Try to position yourself in people’s peripheral vision.
You may also feel the need to understand what you are doing. Wrong.
Doing so means you think about yourself as existing, and this is a clear violation of the whole process. While you still labor under the illusion of your own tangibility, you will never achieve it. Ignore your neighbors. Stop dreaming. Curl up into a ball, slowly. Let yourself slowly rot from the inside. Take all mirrors out of your apartment; try to forget what you look like. If your hand becomes translucent, if your feet are suddenly see-through, it is working.
Keep friends at a distance, become horribly undependable. Fall in love, end it abruptly. Get a puppy, give her up for adoption. You must become numb to all emotions, to forget they are even there. If you cannot see them they cannot see you. Alienate your parents, old friends. Project such a terrible energy that strangers become visibly uncomfortable near you. Soon, all phone calls will cease. This is good.
You are becoming invisible because you are a poison, radioactive and deadly. It is not your fault, but you secrete it from your pores. Medical science can’t detect this creeping blackness that seeps from you, but nevertheless, it is lethal in high doses. The courteous thing to do is to quarantine yourself as you begin to fade away, as you cannibalize your own lymph nodes, cells, and organs. If you wish to save those you love, you must never ever let them see what you are now.
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