Return to Berlin.

For the past day and a half my fingers have been twitching nonstop to compose this post, but so far I've put it off for various reasons, stalling myself until the power, the inspiration to write consumed me to the extent where I could sit and write impassioned brilliant prose for hours without repose. However, in the end, I simply got tired of doing homework and thinking about my time in Berlin to forestall it any longer. So, it may seem a bit disjointed at parts, but here goes:

The plans for a return trip to Berlin were always set: I had planned to follow the Deathly Hallows precedent, but to stay for another day, this time with a better bed than the concrete of the train station and the graveyard shift crew for company. So I began my search for hostels on Tuesday, attempting to coordinate with the others, which I quickly abandoned, remembering that the last time I had coordinated with them, I wound up in a hostel in Munich with inoperable showers that gave me nightmares on the theme of Stanley Kubrick's The Shining. So, Wednesday night, after much deliberation, I booked the Meininger City Hostel, located in southwest Berlin off Martin-Luther Strasse. It was a bit far from the center, but not from the train station, and that was all that mattered to me. Meanwhile, the others quibbled and discoursed much on the hazardous nature of staying in East Berlin for womenfolk, which gradually evolved into a paranoia worthy of having a phobia named after it. Yet if only they weren't so conspicuously American. I saw naught of them the whole weekend, and didn't hesitate a moment to regret it. I was soon to gain a traveling companion better than any I've been sent on my journeys.

I left the dorms early on Friday. I was slightly delayed because I took the liberty of waking my parents up nearly at midnight their time consequent to the capitulation of Skype to bend to my imperious will. (Actually, I have no idea why it started working after refusing to connect for the past two weeks. Most strange.) The bus left at 5:52, which arrived at the Hauptbahnhof barely in time for me to rush in like a madman possessed to discover that the 6:01 train was departing for somewhere I had no intention of going. Sorely vexed at being deceived in whole by the DB Web site, I sulked in the station for another 30 minutes before leaving on the correct IC.

On the way I sat next to a friendly old gentleman, possibly the age of my grandparents, who was traveling with his wife and granddaughter to Berlin, from where they would leave for Naples. (Pronounced "Ne-apple" in German) He and I talked for some time, about Germany, America, our respective plans, my time in Germany so far. He was delighted at my enthusiastic description of my stay so far and my knowledge of German culture, leaning over to his wife and granddaughter (deep into Deathly Hallows) sitting in front of us to tell them about his conversation with me. We parted in good cheer after some few hours of talk both in German and English, and I began my search for the hostel.

Before the grand quest could commence, I needed to secure provisions and transportation. A 2-day ticket on the platform was easily purchased, and I continued to the lower levels for a quick bite at McDonald's. Had my companions known of this high treason, I might have been burned at the stake, or at least excommunicated by some of the calmer spirits. For a group so obviously American in word, deed, and annoying tendencies, they consider eating at American food chains abhorrent. From my experience with McDonald's here, they are a) reasonably priced, and b) much nicer than they are in America. Yet they seem to have developed another irrational presupposition, mainly that if they eat there but once, the entire trip will be tarnished by the stain of American capitalism. "I didn't come to Germany to eat McDonald's" is their rallying cry. "And neither did I," I thought as I scarfed down my food, "but I certainly didn't come to starve."

I emerged from the shadows of the Bayerischer Platz U-Bahn station slightly disoriented and already 30 minutes late. The first test of my knowledge of the Berlin public transportation system had been thrown upon me as soon as I left McDonald's and began my search for the hostel, taking a total of three trains before arriving at my ultimate destination. Once there, I probed about for awhile (military slang for wandering aimlessly in circles) until locating a bus stop with a map on it from which I was able to divine my location and general heading. I hung about tentatively behind the receptionist's desk (clearly an American hostel), as she helped someone check-in, as I was an hour late and not entirely sure they had held my reservation. Yet they had, and soon I was in my room making my bed and other preparations without further incident. I had packed light once more, intending to return to Mannheim Saturday night in order to sleep and catch up on homework, confident that I could see most of the important parts of Berlin in one day without being hindered by 3,784 different conflicting plans, paths, wishes and desires slowing me down. I exited the hostel forthwith and began shopping.

There are those in society who would say that men hate shopping. But this is not the case. Men hate shopping when they shop with women. To women, it's a sport, a bizarre game by which to the victor goes the lowest price. To me, it is an erstwhile necessity, but it is to be undertaken with efficiency as the goal, with a vague image of what is needed already in mind, and no matter taking the time for comparisons. Basically, men view shopping as something that is not worth prolonging unless there is uncertainty over what is needed, whereas women take it at a more leisurely pace, which can be maddening to men at times. Thus the description of my afternoon may be a bit shorter than expected. But I digress.

I hopped aboard one of Berlin's double-decker buses, the likes of which I can't sit in the second floor of without bumping my head on the short ceiling. I flashed the driver my pass and elbowed my way into the throng while he continued to rant at an old lady for getting on at the wrong stop. We quickly came to Wittenberg Platz, where I had been told was a U-Bahn connection to the Ku'damm and KaDeWe. The Ku'damm, short for a word even I will not attempt to spell, is one of Berlin's main shopping avenues, headed by the Kaiser-Wilhem Kirche, a ruin from WWII, and farther on the KaDeWe, Berlin's most famous (not to mention ridiculously expensive) department store.
It was twenty minutes later of wandering about in circles on the Ku'damm before I realized that KaDeWe was on Wittenberg Platz, the place I had just left. It seemed that this was quickly becoming the trend of the day, and it wasn't the last time.

I shopped for the rest of the day, mainly for items which I can't discuss at the moment. Why not, ask you? Because it would ruin the surprise of course! And it would be exceptionally bad taste.

For some reason, the people in Berlin seemed the most accustomed to Americans, and therefore trying to speak German scored me important points, especially at dinner. I ate at a small bistro (the "Bella Stella") on the same street as the hostel, which marked the important advent of my first entirely German conversation, between myself and the waitress. She was quick enough to know that I was staying at the hostel, and asked me various questions in German. Her attitude was friendly enough that I felt no hesitation in my reply, although I did point to the items on the menu, just in case. I returned to the hostel in a chipper mood, whistling as I went.

I bantered jocularly with the pretty receptionist for a moment or two, then requested that Forrest Gump be put in. The day had been long and harsh on my legs, being employed so much after five hours of stiffness and neglect. Therefore, I elected to remain inside for the night, resting up for another effort the following day. Forrest Gump was a prime choice, I thought, because I could let my mind wander during it without anxiety over missing something. Naturally, the movie was missing. For a moment I trembled, going back to scour the list once more. Batman Begins, too much action. Master and Commander, too little. Kill Bill, too many Chinese. No, the only choice could be Forrest Gump. I was relieved when she found it some time later. Little did I know what an impact it would have on my weekend.

About an hour into the tale of a simple man sitting on a park bench with a box of chocolates, a girl I had seen earlier while I was checking sat down next to me. She said that she hadn't seen the movie in years, but it was one of her favorites. This is the way I have begun the story to nearly everyone I've told it to so far, and shall continue to do so unless I can think of a better beginning. We continued to talk throughout the movie, eventually forgetting it altogether. Her name was Sharnie, hailing from the land down under, Australia. This alone was enough to hold my attention, as I'd never met an Australian before besides Steve Irwin, and she didn't really think he counted anyway. She was supposed to be on a glorious three-month trip of the world with a friend, but the friend had gotten homesick a week in. Hence, she was in Berlin alone and was trying to find her way around. Naturally, being alone myself, I invited her along with me to the tour the next day.

It was a multinational breakfast the next morning that found me sitting across from a gaggle of Brazilians jabbering away in Portuguese while I tried to compile a German Sprachführer, or phrasebook. An acquaintance from Hawaii from the previous day wished me a good day as I checked out and Sharnie gathered her things. We departed from the hostel just as it began to rain.

The weather that day was horrible for the most part: windy, cloudy, cold, and rainy at the beginning, but it cleared up later on. As it was, we arrived at the Starbucks by the Brandenburg Gate where the tour groups were accumulating without even a windbreaker between the two of us. Fortunately our tour guide, a well-spoken Englishman by the name of Gary offered us an umbrella. It was small and the rain came slantways, but we managed so that my fears of catching my death of pneumonia were abated somewhat.

The tour was superb. For any traveler or wanderer of this world in Berlin, the New Berlin Tour is the best option. The guides work on a tips-only basis, consequently, their performance is excellent. We began at the Brandenburger Tor, where we learned a bit about German history (I was impressed. He knew just as much as I), especially concerning the Brandenburg Gate. At first, it was built in 1791, to with the purpose of commemorating the peace that Germany was enjoying at the moment. However, the didn't enjoy it for long, as Napoleon conquered Berlin in 1806 and took the Quadriga, the chariot with the goddess of peace, to Paris. Naturally, the Germans were a bit annoyed about that, and so when they conquered Paris in 1814, the first thing they did, after queuing up at the Louvre for two hours to see the Mona Lisa, leaving a bit disappointed, our guide told us, was to get their statue back. They brought it back to Berlin (which gets its name from a Slavic word meaning "swamp"), renamed the goddess "Victoria," gave her the eagle and Iron Cross standard, and renamed the square in front of the gate "Parise Platz" with the sole intent of annoying the French. Which they did.

Next were a score of Second World War artifacts: the Holocaust memorial, eerie in the bad weather, Hitler's bunker, remembered today only by a small plaque, and the Air Ministry of the Nazi party, which, incredibly, was never bombed. There are several theories as to why this was: my favorite, however, was that the allied pilots considered it bad luck to bomb the enemy's air organization. The last stop before lunch was a heavily commercialized version of Checkpoint Charlie and the last remaining section of the Wall. A point of interest here: the famous Berlin wall was much more than just a wall, of course, with guard towers, mines, dogs, etc., etc. For the initial wall, of course, they used reinforced steel concrete with barbed wire on top. Seemed like a natural instinct to use barbed wire, but it actually helped people grasp hold of something. So they replaced it with a large tube on top, that, ironically, they imported from West Germany. We ate lunch at a Schlotzsky's Deli, which I recalled as the one place I would never eat at after church on Sundays.

Our tour ended later amidst the rain and the wind, at the Imperial Church that Kaiser Wilhelm built, where Gary told us about the waning days of the DDR, brought about in part by the single-most botched press conference ever, which even I will not attempt to relate. It's better if you see it firsthand. Following our farewell to Gary, we meandered over back towards Unter den Linden by way of a small market by the side of the canal, in search of more gold and an aerial view of the city. I believed we could find both in the vicinity of the Reichstag, which was topped with a glass dome open to the public. Hence when we got there, the line rivaled the night of Deathly Hallows. So we made tracks for Friedrichstrasse Bahnhof, where we found dinner, desert, and a Berlin travel guide for Sharnie. After döners kebaps for dinner (an essential part of a trip to Germany), we sat outside the ice cream shop from the previous week, Sharnie talking while I scribbled notes about the dreadful German language in the back of her book.

The night was rapidly approaching. I had resolved not to bother about the seven o'clock train, opting instead to catch the 5:33 again so as to go to the Laugh Olympics. Sharnie and I went there together after a short side jaunt to a Dutch Bar nearby, where we chatted for a spell with the friendly bartender while watching Bayern München played in the background. The Laugh Olympics, coincidentally, laid upon the same path I traversed the previous week while in search of the cleats, a rare stroke of luck, thought I. After two full hours of laughter from the tumblers, I returned with her to Zoo station, where I tried to see her off whilst being quizzed by a man from Kazakhstan on dead American rock and roll singers.

It was a long night, longer than the last. I made McDonald's my haunt as before, then slept amongst a horde of backpackers for a spell before ascending to the tracks, getting into an unexpected argument with a duo of drunken Poles on the way, who seemed to think it strange that I was taking a picture of my still slumbering fellow travelers. Thus I was granted full license to hate these fools who spoke English with all the tenacity of a Soviet border guard, a pleasure I had not expected.

The first train out of Berlin carried me home.

All Quiet Along the Mannheim Front.

Silence reigns in my dorm in Mannheim as the night slips by unnoticed outside. I'm currently ensuring the solitude continues by playing the best of BNL on my trusty Mac as I type, the better to stifle the complaints issuing from the kitchen and to let the mysterious things that go bump in the night to their rightful realm. For some inexplicable reason, my reliable compy, a lovely shade of "hospital white," was not struck with the widespread scourge that maliciously robbed everyone else of their Internet like a pack of rambunctious Vikings on a village looting spree. (We're in the high middle ages at the moment. Hence the archaic analogy)

But tonight has been a good night in general. Met up with our "interaction leaders" (paid friends, basically), who remind me a lot of the Youthworks counselors in San Francisco, only not as many odd skits, and a better wardrobe. We slurped our ice cream as we sat around the Wasserturm, Mannheim's singular landmark, a water tower of years innumerable. One of the great aspects about Germany: not only is ice cream cheap and easy to come by, they also have more flavors and combinations than I would have thought scientifically possible. I chose "Zimt," the German word for cinnamon. It was incredible. It even had bits of real cinnamon ground into the ice cream.

There is a park at the rear of the tower, replete with fountains, flowers, and bushels of ivy galore. I had been once before, but I came prepared this time: I brought my Frisbee. Although there was well-trimmed grass aplenty, I was slightly hesitant about violating the greenery- even I had heard the tales of irate Germans armed with torch and pitchfork chasing off ignorant tourists who defiled their parks. So we stuck to the gravel path, where our erratic aim quite often came close to dispersing our group from where they sat on the steps. A young German boy joined us, and we spread our operations to the previously sacred lawn. He understood more English than I would've expected for a 5-year old, and was a quick study with the Frisbee. I continued throwing with him although the others eventually tired of it, preferring to sit on the steps and take part in the chatter, the squealing of the women as nocturnal rodents scampered past. It's odd, but I felt more at home throwing a Frisbee with a kid I didn't even know than I did talking with the people I was living with. Perhaps it's because he reminded me so much of my cousins, and the days we would play soccer, Frisbee, or go off on an adventure of that sort. Adventure is a curious thing. For what is adventure, other than a random series of events that you never could've predicted before leaving home? Look then, to the western sky, and follow the way towards the setting sun, by the allure of the open road, and travel.

This is the mode and motto for the earnest traveler: do not plan, do not expect, merely let yourself be swept away by circumstances and the unpredictable. My mind is full of thoughts such as these as I plan my return to Berlin. Due to planning complications (me being the only one with Internet), I won't be staying with the others, and might not even see them except for the first day. This doesn't concern me too much though. Traveling with companions is, of course, desirable, when there is proper leadership, some structure for making decisions in a concise manner. Yet in the present situation I am better when left alone.

One night in Berlin.

On Friday, June 21, I undertook a quest: I was to go to Berlin for one night, and return the next morning. To understand my motivation, there are but a few details that need disclosing. At the beginning of the week, once I had adjusted from getting back from Munich, I began to wonder how on earth I was going use up all the days on my Eurail Pass. Everyone else was traveling outside of Germany again, some going to Paris, some back to Amsterdam, and two to Switzerland. I had no desire to repeat the weekend of Freiburg that I spent talking to myself and quietly going mad from the quiet. Yet I couldn't stay in Mannheim, or else forfeit days off my rail pass. Therefore, after some careful thought and planning, I decided I would go to Berlin. The release of the last Harry Potter book was on Friday- and what a lark it would be to be at the largest bookstore in Berlin when it came out. However, there was one catch: I didn't want to spend the night. I was sick and tired of paying too much for hostels and frantically trying to compile a blog post and do homework and avoid the urge to watch "Red vs. Blue" on Youtube on the Monday afterwards. Seemed much more practical to do all of that on Sunday instead. It also seemed that there was no great difficulty in the arrangement- the book was released at one in the morning, synchronized with London time, yet the next available train back to Mannheim left at 5:33 a.m. This may have been a slight oversight in planning as far as my physical and mental health was concerned, but I figured I would burn that bridge when I crossed it. I still had to find the shoes.

That's another thing: Jp's cleats. My dear mother asked me to check for some if I got the chance, and as luck would have it, there was an Adidas store not far from Dussmann, so I jotted down some rough directions from the Google maps application into my Moleskine before I left, feeling like the Wicked Witch of the West, off on a hunt for a prized pair of slippers. Or in this case cleats. This automatically brought a strange image of Elphaba playing mid-right sweeper, blasting opponents out of the way, and I burst into laughter. The old woman knitting across from me in the bus wrinkled her nose vaguely in disgust. Slightly mollified but still giggling, I got off and boarded the IC for Berlin.

There is not much I have to say about the train ride there, as I cannot now remember much of it, it feels so long ago. The journey from Mannheim to Berlin lasts five hours, and the way is, to steal a line from Twain, "profusely decorated with tunnels." I spent much of the time reading or listening to my iPod, folded up as I was in a window seat. My joints were stiff after not much movement in five hours, but it was good that I had had the chance to rest somewhat. I was going to need all the strength I could muster.

It took a minute to orient myself after disembarking the train, but after 20 minutes, I was on the right street and the quest was begun! It would've begun sooner, but I had wasted fifteen minutes wandering around in the cavernous Berlin Hauptbahnhof looking for an ATM. After a thorough and maddeningly frustrating search, I became convinced that there were none whatsoever, and murmuring dark thoughts about Deutsche Bahn administrators who posted misleading signs with the intent of gathering around television screens and making bets on which group of hapless tourists would give up and break down into a frothing rage first. And so I walked out into the day, gazing up upon the wind-swept sky, my first moments in Berlin. I decided to commemorate the occasion by taking pictures like a tourist with an itchy trigger finger gone mad.

So, following the notes I had scribbled, I meandered down the various streets of Berlin, pausing to mark my progress by taking photos of the street signs I passed and interesting looking coffee shops. I had a suspicion that I would need copious amounts of caffeine before the end of this ordeal. Eventually, after no wrong turns whatsoever, I arrived at the adidas store. After looking around briefly, I deduced that the object of my pursuits was not located here: the place was merely a rundown stand with miscellaneous merchandise strewn about the place like beads at a bazaar. Consulting my map, I continued my journey, navigating toward the conspicuous television tower at the end of Unter den Linden, Berlin's most famous street. It runs from East to West, from the Brandenburg Gate to the former Imperial Palace. It was easy enough to find Dussmann's Kultur-Kaufhaus, after stopping for a brief dinner at an Italian bistro near the town hall. (And, just for Joe, who was bugging me about the most insipid details of my trip, I ate a linguine pasta topped off with cilantro with salmon grilled over cedar wood and a frothing Berliner pils, which was quite scrumptious, seeing as I had skipped of a real lunch)

Now for the details concerning Dussmann's. The closest thing I can compare it to is a Borders, only more so. Every major department store in Germany is marked by the distinction of having several different levels- Dussmann has four, plus a basement devoted solely to classical music. They sell books, cds, dvds, as is to be expected, but so much more, from board games to a small corner shop that specializes in writing materials. Basically, excluding food and drink, Dussmann's has everything. Looking back, I think it was a major mistake to arrive six hours before the book release. I wasn't sure I could handle the temptation. So, to alleviate it, I grabbed a Calvin and Hobbes and sat in a corner armchair trying to decipher the German humour.

Later, following my surrender and consequent purchase of Twelfth Night in German and a deck of Casino Royale playing cards, I was feeling a bit groggy, so I set off in the direction of a Coke, returning after caffeine and ice cream. I spent much of the evening sitting in Dussmann's, refreshing my memory by rereading the last few chapters of Half-Blood Prince. But soon the hour approached.

That's when things got interesting.

At the end of the main avenue in Dussmann's, where people had begun to line up by around 10:30, there was a wide antechamber with a bar and chairs, where they would later be releasing the book. Instead of letting the gaudily dressed mob into it, they kept us out by roping it off. My favorite costumes were a trio of men I dubbed "The Deathwatch" in my Facebook photo album. I will not mention the names, seeing as they were somehow right about every single death that occurred in the book, which seems highly improbable without previous knowledge. Look only at your own risk. At first I believed it was for the benefit of the radio and television crews on the other side, then I began to suspect that it was out of malice that they denied us entrance. Then I realized the real purpose: the Germans didn't want to get in. They love standing in line, gaining a feeling of importance and satisfaction every time they manage to shove past someone else. Every few minutes a Dussmann employee would brave their way past the barricade into the crowd with a tray of drinks: water and their impression of butterbeer, which I suspect they gave the crowd in efforts to curb the aggression of some of the rowdier spirits. It tasted like apple juice mixed with rancid sunflower oil and fermented washer fluid. I stood to the side with a crazy Israeli and commented upon the situation. He agreed. I cannot remember how to spell his name, only that I couldn't pronounce it. He made for interesting conversation during the wait though. Yet the hour was soon nigh.

It came three minutes before I had expected. As the crowd began to chant down in German, I quickly stowed everything except my voucher into my small rucksack, and allowed myself to be swept into the swirling mass. Due to several physical advantages: my height, commanding visage, and skillful implementation of the elbows, I was able to plunge in, retrieve my prize, and exit quite swiftly, but it was a struggle nonetheless. The one thing every good German loves besides beer and bread is a lively brouhaha, and this was no exception. I shouldered my way out of the crowd, proudly singing a forgotten tune, for my quest was concluded. Now for the journey back. The night was not over yet.

I returned to the now-quiet Hauptbahnhof posthaste. The S5 from Friedrichstrasse left me on the lower levels, lonely now in the darkness and silence. The only place still brightened by lights was McDonald's, and I tramped in, collapsing after purchasing food. I was ravenous, not having eaten for seven or eight hours, and also exhausted, having been awake for the past 17 hours, so I was not going to sneer upon fast food. Not that there is any cause to: McDonald's is far superior in Germany anyway, despite my companion's constant retching and complaining whenever I suggest it. I would've gladly stayed there for the next three and a half hours, but they were tired as well, and it was closing time. I took up a position on a bench and recommenced reading where I had left off, already on chapter 3. The next hours passed slowly. I would read, and when reading tired me, I would fiddle with my deck of cards, playing countless games of solitaire as I tried to keep my eyes open.

It took about an hour of fruitless attempts before I realized I was missing the nine of diamonds and the three of hearts. I was joined in the silence by various other travelers, backpackers, gentlemen of fortune, and wanderers who were collapsed around the station. Migration patterns developed eventually, forced by the cleaning crews mounted on miniature Zamboni washing the floor, humming quietly. But then... morning came, and I boarded the train. The InterCity as it came out of the predawn fog was one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen. With relief in my heart, I read. Sleep could wait until I had a proper bed.

I tried to think back to the events of the previous day, yet everything seemed so far away. I decided to concentrate on it later. By the time of my return, I had been awake for the past 25 hours. I vaguely thought that I needed shampoo, and then fell asleep for six hours straight.

A Tale of Two Weekends, Part II.

Due to request, I've split "A tale of two weekends" into two different posts: the first for Freiburg, the second for Munich. I thought I could have them both in the same entry, but then Munich just got too long and rambling for that to be practical. Plus it gives me greater status as a blogger the more posts I have. So there you are.

Part II

By the next weekend, I had determined that traveling by myself was very, very quiet. Not to say boring, but somewhat lacking in conversation since I don't know enough German to talk to myself, and I know I wouldn't want to talk to myself in English, or the natives would assume that I was either speaking in tongues or stark raving mad, neither of which are very favourable. Thus I resigned myself to traveling to Munich with the rest of the whole circus in tow. While I'll be the first to admit that some of our company have much experience in living in Germany, few seem to have much experience traveling, which can be vexing. After 17 years of various trips, journeys, treks, quests, jaunts, outings, and expeditions with different components of the multitude of my extended family, I am very well versed in the art of traveling. While I may sometimes forget things, certain elements key to traveling have held on, like a sense of direction, a keen prowess for finding food, being able to pack in less than 10 minutes, and the superpower to find the best songs on the radio. All but the last were destined to aid me in Munich.

Munich, or München as it is in the original German, literally means something to do about a little monk. The first thing I learned about this place is that they seem to like this guy a lot. You usually see the "monk child" on almost all merchandise or souvenirs related to the capital of Bavaria, ranging from Munich pencils, Munich flags, Munich bedsheets, to Munich beer steins.

That's another thing: the beer. Beer has always been a part of German culture, but in Munich, the capital of Oktoberfest, it is something more like a national pastime/sport/blood feud. The city's beer arteries are filled with the alcohol from six main breweries, Späten, Augustiner, Paulaner, Löwenbräu, Hacker-Pshorr, and Hofbräuhaus, the latter being the most famous. I only drank at one, on the last day, but that comes later. Now then to the beginning:

Planning and booking a hostel was left, as it was last time when everyone went to Amsterdam, to Jakob. He conducted a wise and thorough, albeit severely protracted search on the computer in the girl's room next door far into the hours of the night. Just before he began, I was asked my opinion of the nature of the hostel, and gave this sage advice:

"Cheap. Clean. Convenient."

And then returned to trying to sleep over their infernal racket.

Therefore I was (mostly) spared the agony of the preliminary planning, and merely showed up Friday morning when the train was preparing to depart. Having learned from my experiences with taking only jeans and long-sleeved shirts the previous week, I packed light clothing only. Those tricksy devils wouldn't get me this time. In the tunnel on my way to the platform, a small kid with a face and hair like Jp ran past, almost causing me to drop my camera. Other than that, the trip there was mainly uneventful. I had one of the last seat reservations, which put me away from the rest of the group, mercifully freeing me from the incessant idle chatter which seems to pervade the atmosphere wherever they go.

(N.B. While I already admitted that Freiberg was quiet and boring enough to make me want to take part in more of the group activities for the next excursion, that isn't saying it was paradise in comparison. One of the problems that I have yet to find a solution for is the unnerving tendency they have to quibble over plans. Most of the time in Munich I spent wandering around alone because they were on tours that cost far too much for this simple vagabond, but also because I can't put up with having to argue the validity of every minute change of plan as if it were a sub-referendum in the House. Unfortunately, unlike my other trips where we could look to a common leader or leaders, in this, anyone can do as the see fit. Instead of trying to show the merit of my own plan, I merely make my own path when I happen to not like theirs. But it's true: I miss having the leadership of someone like Ted in New Orleans or half the southern states, the meticulous planning and spontaneous joking of my father and the others in the forests of North Carolina. They say memory is revisionist, but they were much better than the current situation. End of N.B.)

So, after legging it from the Munich Hauptbahnhof to our hostel (the "Pension Flora," which had a eerie resemblance to the Overlook Hotel) a few blocks over, my mind was already made up about what I was doing for the afternoon and evening. It was Friday the 13th, I had stopped to take a picture of a Harry Potter billboard inside the Munich terminal, and our cavalcade passed a German kino that was showing that very film on the way to the hostel. Viewing it was almost mandated by destiny. I watched it later at the nine o'clock showing, in German, with a crowd full of Germans who understood the humour of the pre-show commercials. I tried not to look too confused. Regardless of thee fact that it was in another language, I found the film quite impressive. My favourite parts were the soundtrack, the special effects, and Luna Lovegood. The only way they could've improved upon her character was if they had casted the Frost girl instead. Meanwhile, at the Hofbräuhaus, the others were in the process of getting obscenely drunk, after which Shannon lost her drinking contest with Max, and her purse. Poor devils.

Those were the events of that evening. Directly after arrival and dropping my things, I quickly set off by myself to lose myself in the swirling throngs of Munich. Walked past the old botanical gardens, over to Neuhauserstrasse, the main pedestrian area (and shopping area!) that leads to Marienplatz, Munich's most important square. I did some important souvenir hunting for the numerous patrons back home, and finally completed the quest to find a bag on a smaller tonnage capacity than the backpack, which was fortunate for hauling all the loot. Visited the Hofbräuhaus myself, tipped a kindly statue out front, and gawked in front of the Hard Rock Café, one of the two places I've heard good music so far. After trudging my way to Odeonsplatz and witnessing a magnificent performance of "the Barber of Seville" and a frightening Bocce tournament in the Hofgarten (those old guys are intense!), my legs were worn out, as would frequently be the case that weekend. I had made the mistake of going for a run in Mannheim the Tuesday before I left to avoid having to give my input on the hostel situation without first managing to locate a German translation for "Icy-Hot." I wisely consulted the public transportation maps. Finding that I could take the U-Bahn to a location near the hostel, I rapidly went underground. Little did I know what a ferociously infernal device awaited me there.

15 minutes later, I still had yet to divine how the ticket machine worked. For the right ticket, I needed to know which zone I was in. Next to the 5,000 buttons for the different tickets I could choose from, there was a list of the 4700 U-Bahn, S-Bahn, Bus, Strassenbahn, and rickshaw stop in all of Munich. The only two absent from the roster was the one that I needed to go to, and the one whose ticket automat I was currently mildly swearing at under my breath. After five more minutes of imprecations (my favourite word from one of Charles Dickens' classics, and the only bit I remember) and vain supplication to various saints, both real and imagined, I surrendered and simply chose the one for the interior by throwing darts at the otherwise useless map. Somehow, they had divided Munich into almost every shape known to man. Triangle of confusion. Rhombus of terror. Parabola of mystery. It made my head hurt.

I made my way down to the tracks by use of another escalator system. I used to wonder why Thyssen-Krupp went from making artillery shells to escalators. Then I realized almost half of Germany is populated by escalators. I reenacted the Israelite's 40 years of wandering in the wilderness on the U-Bahn platform, looking for a timetable that would show me the correct train. Finally, after deciding which direction was the wrong way to go, I simply chose the other one. Still, I was infinitely relieved when I disembarked at the right stop.

At this point, my legs were about to give up. I had made at least 10 km by my estimations throughout my aimless wanderings encompassing much of the Munich interior. I stopped at Poseidon's fountain once again for a spell to cool my feet and rest my legs, then returned to the hostel 30 minutes early, resigned to reading one of the guide books in the reception until whoever had the keys returned. However, there was one last journey to be made, one last sortie onto the streets. The lady at the desk provided me with the inspiration and directions to The Munich Readery, located some five blocks from my present location. But with tree-lined avenues, and brisk forced marches, I was able to go there and back in short order despite the failing condition of my lower appendages. Remembering my vow to read "The Bear," containing the longest sentence in American literature, I picked up a volume of collected works by Faulkner for a rather reasonable price.

Then everyone else returned, spent around 12-17 minutes bickering over where they wanted to eat, and headed off in the direction of Marienplatz with the idea of finding something there. They walked there, stopping every 50 meters or so to discuss the merit of the venue we were presently passing by, complete with motions to hear the arguments of the representative who held the floor, rules for the proceedings, and a filibuster: me, sitting in a corner muttering ribald jests to myself. Eventually I tired of it, informed them I was going to the movie after all, and swiftly departed. Thus I watched Harry Potter by myself, in a theater surrounded by people who are not of my country. Somehow, I felt just as out of place there. Where then, is there for me?

I managed to sleep that night despite my aching legs and the ferocious mattress which tried to devour me. A shower would've naturally helped, but I didn't trust the shower. By the smell, the unidentifiable sticky substance on the floor, and the fact that the shower head had been yanked out of the wall yet still hung limply in its place, it was clear that a shower here would only be of any benefit if taken while clothed in a Hazmat suit. So I went to bed after soaking my legs for a time in warm rags, which helped somewhat. I awoke the next morning refreshed. All ready, I departed for the fish fountain in Marienplatz.

There were rumors about a free biking tour given by a crazy Australian around the Munich interior that met at this fountain, and after a day of walking around having to continuously on alert for kamikaze style bikers, I was eager to change roles. Unsure about the number of bikes that were available, I arrived one and a half hours early. I spent the interregnum sitting in the shade, reading, practicing card tricks, and watching the crowd around me. One amusing interlude came when the Polizei showed up suddenly to clear out a group of raucous punk Goths who were jostling each other and carrying on in a disturbing fashion. It was "Animal Rights" day in the Marienplatz, and the Polizei were on edge.

As it came time for the bike tour departure, I saw a man in a red shirt that said "Free Tour" on the back. After asking, he replied that the man who usually did the tour was out sick for the day, but that his company gave a free walking tour around Munich, that went to many of the sites I had visited the day before. Great, I thought, I'll have all the excitement of yesterday, only now with commentary and a host of strangers. However, I didn't have anything else to do, so I went. Our guide was Matt, an American college graduate from New York who wore aviator glasses and had a slight resemblance to Silar, the evil villain from NBC's "Heroes." Even so, he was very funny, and a good guide to the historical secrets of Munich. Some excerpts from the tour:

- Munich first came into prominence during the time of Frederick I, Barbarossa (from which we get Hector Barbossa of piratical fame), Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. He gave Munich to Henry the Lion, his cousin, even though he was one of his major political rivals. The first thing the first Duke of Bavaria does when he's installed is to ride over to Freising and blow up their bridge, and then come back to Munich and build his own. The point was so that Henry could control the salt trade, or "white gold." Of course, Otto of Freising was quick to go complain to Barbarossa, who stalled for three years before deciding that Munich was required to pay Freising 1/3 of their salt revenue for the next 150 years. After the term was up, the Munich government had forgotten why they were paying Freising, so they kept on paying it until the year 1934. They kinda overpaid by about 700 years, but Freising wasn't going to complain. So that's why Munich is on the map today: "we went out and blew up Freising's bridge."

- The Frauenkirche, or the Church of our Lady was an architectural marvel that was built in only 20 years. The short time it took to build was partly because of the size of the work crew (over 170 master builders), the building material (mostly red brick- cheap, and easy to work with), and because, according to legend, they had help from the Devil himself. The story goes like this: "Once upon a time the Devil was riding through Bavaria on his chariot of fire. He had just bought some new Birkenstock's, and he was feeling pretty good with himself. He sees this massive structure under construction and decides to take a look. So he gets off the chariot and walks into the partially finished church. Inside: it's dark, dank, kinda damp, has that new paint smell, rats scurrying in the corners, that sort of thing. "Wow, this place is really dismal," the Devil thinks. "But wait," he says, "that's totally my thing." Calls the architect over- puts his arm around, says: "look, I will help you build this church in only 20 years if you don't put another window in." Architect, after a moment of careful reflection, agrees complicity. 20 years later, Devil rides back through Bavaria, stops to take a look at the new chapel. Inside: beautiful, bathed in light, ready for the first service the next day. Naturally, the Devil is furious. Calls over the architect- "You seem to have disregarded our agreement," he says. "Now your soul belongs to me." "Wait just a minute there, Devil," says the architect. "Those windows were there when you came earlier. You couldn't see them was all." It's true. The columns on the inner aisle block the windows from sight. Now the Devil, the mastery of trickery and deceit, has been tricked, and he's incensed. Lifts his foot up, and slams his Birkenstock into the marble. That footprint is still visible today.

-Of course, there were many tales and accounts about Hitler and the Nazi era. My favorite story was about Dodger's Alley. During the Beer Hall Putsch, Hitler's attempt in 1923 to seize power, there were two locations of importance: Marienplatz, where the main city center was and Odeonsplatz, location of the War Ministry in Munich. Hitler's paramilitary group, the SA seized control of the War Ministry early on, but in their negligence to search all the rooms (especially the telegraph room), a message got out and the military was alerted. Therefore, when Hitler and the other half of the SA began their march from Marienplatz to Odeonsplatz, the police were waiting. Now, there are two main roads leading from Marienplatz and Odeonsplatz. As the throng makes their way down one street, they see at the end of it the police and army have set up a roadblock: barbed wire, railroad ties, and machine guns, all waiting for them. So, Hitler yells out to everyone, "HANG A RIGHT!" and everyone marches through Dodger's Alley to the other street. But at the end of that street they see another roadblock. At this point, Hitler tries to get everyone to stop, but there's 2,500 of them- not really possible to stop at once. The police come out from behind their barricades, start jostling the SA, a scuffle breaks out, and someone fires a shot. In the ensuing gun battle, 4 policeman and 15 Nazis are killed, including Hitler's bodyguard, who was shot 11 times. A waiter and a nearby cafe was also caught in the crossfire. Hitler ran to the other end of the street, commandeered an ambulance, and fled. They caught him four days afterwards. Later on, after the Nazis came to power, they erected a monument to the 16 fallen party members (they counted the waiter- they had a bit of a mania about symmetry), and passerby were required to give the Nazi salute. However, those who wanted to passively resist walked down what came to be known in German as "Dodger's Alley," now lined in gold bricks to commemorate those who did. The Nazis eventually caught on and installed a spy on the corner to inform them on who was using the alley.

There were, of course, other highlights from our tour, but I've already exhausted you with nearly a page of reminiscing over it. I'll recount the rest of my tales once I return.

After the tour, I was walking back to the pension in order to rest while waiting for the others when I ran into a group of them who were going to a pizzeria, which, aside from the Augustiner brewery (more of which anon) had the best American music I've heard since coming here. We retraced my steps, all the way to the Englischer Garten, the borders of which I had skirted the day before while watching the bocce tourney and drinking the worst alcoholic beverage I've had the misfortune to come across. There the highlight was surfing. Surfing, you ask? In the middle of a (mostly) land-locked country hundreds of miles away? Indeed. The canal as it passes under a bridge, flows over the rocks on the riverbed so as to create a rapid which features a perpetual wave. Easiest thing to surf on, only the water flows in the opposite direction than usual.

The next day, after attempting to see everything the vaunted Deutsches Museum, in which we were slightly hampered by the fact that everything was written in German, (although there was a rather impressive experiment where the blew up a piece of wood. More details to come when I return) it was nearly time to go, and the group wanted to search for souvenirs and postcards. I had bought souvenirs and postcards on Friday, so I told the group they could do whatever they very well pleased, and that if they needed to find me I'd be in the Augustiner Brauhaus, one of the main breweries of Munich. I sat down in the largely deserted beer hall, told the waiter "helles," and he promptly brought me the white beer. I paid the man, and quickly set into my drink. Drinking alone can be good for reflection, but the conversation topics aren't usually that many. So I quietly sat there, drinking and thinking. In the distance I could hear the sounds from the street, people walking by, talking amongst themselves. About halfway through my beverage, the song on the speakers changed. After a second or two, I realized what they were playing, was forcibly reminded of Monica, and burst out laughing. The decrepit old woman drinking nearby clearly thought I was mad, but I didn't care. Walking out in the sun later, I laughed about how, in a German beer hall, 3,000 miles from home, "Summer Nights" could remind me of home.

I returned to Mannheim that night, sitting backwards in an IC, with the most diffident sunset I've ever known outside. The blasted star couldn't decide which side it wanted to blind me from: one moment on our left, five minutes later on our right. Next time, I swore, I'll take the night train. Or bring sunglasses for once.

A Tale of Two Weekends.

Entry IX
Day 20- 13:12
In the dorm

Ah, to steal a line from Dickens, there is no classier beginning for a post. Morale is high here: the heat has abated for the next millennium, I have the afternoon and evening off, and this morning I bought a blue pen, which improved spirits immensely. It's very shiny. In addition to updating this periodically, you can view various photos from my journeys on the Facebook account. Cheerio.

Now that the introduction is concluded, we now take a short jaunt to roughly two weeks ago. That Friday, the I got on a train for the Schwarzwald, the rail lines of the IC leading me farther south, past Baden-Baden, almost to the borders of Switzerland. I disembarked in the Freiburg am Breisgau Hauptbahnhof. There’s something the mass opinions are fond of saying about first impressions; that they’re almost always right most of the time, I think it was. I didn’t bother to muse over whether it applied to Freiburg, but I did find it odd that they permitted the sale of dentist’s torture devices in the middle of the train station. More continental levity here, I presumed.

Exiting the station, I quickly legged it up to the tram stop, the frigid wind snapping at my light anorak. I noticed later on my way to the hostel that the tall buildings that lined most of the streets shielded me for the most part, but that I would need a heavier jacket than my present one if this ghastly weather were to continue.

I found my lodgings, the Black Forest Hostel, shortly after exiting the Strassenbahn, and checked in. The hostel is situated at the base of the Schlossberg, the mountain that formed their alpine backyard. It was quiet and still inside for the most part: either the guests were still asleep or gone out for the day. After stashing my possessions in an empty locker, I set out to wander around, and also to search for a new jacket.

This has been the standard procedure that I have followed since arriving in Germany: first time you're visiting somewhere, walk around until you familiarize yourself with the surroundings. It doesn't really matter whether you get lost or not, and this was especially true for Freiburg. The town's growth has been constricted over the centuries, first by the mountains that surround it, then as the rail lines began to define where the city center was, so it remains on even a smaller scale than Mannheim today.

Now then, to the jacket. As I have mentioned to almost everyone in our group, the Germans know how to make better jackets than the Americans. If you study their clothing, it has overt similarities to military dress and style, one of the things I liked about it. Therefore, it comes as no surprise that I spent nearly the entire afternoon looking for a jacket: there was a wide selection, and it was raining. I suppose, bondless from any rendezvous, free from any group with me, I might have been a little absorbed in my search. Everyone else had gone to Amsterdam for the weekend, for obvious carnal reasons which I naturally eschewed. Regardless, I emerged from the ESPIRIT store in Freiburg, clad in new threads, and with the sun shining brightly down upon me. It didn't get below 80 for the rest of the weekend. Blasted ruffians.

However, only slightly disinhearted by this unfavorable change of the weather, I returned to the hostel and claimed my camera from its steely cell, and set out once again just as quickly, this time on a quest for photos. I've also adopted the practice of not taking the camera with me on the first run while I get my bearings. It's too distracting, plus I'd rather look like an idiot tourist who knows his way around the place instead of an idiot tourist who's lost.

Since the weather had improved, it gave me an opportunity to attempt to scale the Schlossberg, the mountain which was behind my lodgings. To gain access to it, I crossed the main road and ascended the steps astride the Scwabentor, a clock-tower that was adorned by a spirited depiction of St. George. After reaching the summit some 15-20 minutes later, I gazed upon the vast landscape before me and reflected on the German mania for building crazy things on the sides of mountains. You would presume, naturally, that the alpine conditions: rugged terrain, uneven footing, rocks, indigenous beasts possessing a strong penchant for devouring trespassers, would discourage such endeavors, but nay. On the side of this one mountain alone, there had been constructed: a cable car lift, about 7200 km of hiking paths of various conditions and origins, scattered memorials to God alone knows what, seeing as all the plaques are in German, a vineyard, and (my personal favorite) a miniature golf course.

Now that I had seen the most of Freiburg from the vista, I descended upon the city proper and threaded my way through some of the lesser trafficked streets and alleys. One of the unique features of Freiburg are the small brooks, called Bächle, that line most of the cities streets. They are always flowing, never calm, never still, always in motion, much like the country of Germany itself. They were first introduced in the 12th century to keep the city cool in the summer sun, and to help fight fires. According to local folklore, if you step in a Bächle, you will marry a person from Freiburg. I took a picture of one that flowed down several steps in the rock, near a plaza where many of the students from the university hang out on the weekends. As I walked away down the narrow street, I could hear a barroom piano coming from the square I had just left. Unless my ears were deceiving me, I could've sworn he was playing "As Time Goes By."

So.. hot... no.. air.. conditioning....

97 degrees. The kind of heat only felt in Florida and Devil's Valley was discovered here in Mannheim today after it somehow remembered what the sun was up there for. After 19 days of nothing but cold, damp, overcast, wonderful weather, the clouds finally clear and we bake for an entire day. It's difficult in the dorms, where the only cooling apparatus I was able to devise was to open a window. I used to wonder how people could die from the heat here in Europe. That was before I realized that here, air conditioning is still largely considered a myth by the superstitious population, or at best unnecessary. Why would you bother to have something installed that you're might use for only two weeks every year?

Thus I have split my time between being languid and wandering aimlessly around in the corridor of my dorm, hoping that the inspiration to do something will strike me. So far, the only thing to strike me have been consecutively worse headaches as I try to find something to worry about. Once I have something to worry about, one part of me thinks, I can do something to alleviate this feeling of anxiety and thereby feel all warm and glowly inside at the thought of having accomplished something. The other part thinks that I've finally lost it.

Yet I have managed to at least update the world upon my deteriorating mental state, although no news of the past weekend in Munich or the week before in Freiburg has been divulged. I suppose I'm just not worried enough about it yet, but soon. I need to do laundry.

In Which a Meal is Attempted

It was Sunday night, and I was beginning to run out of these to fret about. The homework had been completed, my room was neat, for the most part, and my pack was ready for the classes tomorrow. Just as I began to think that I had nothing left to agonize over, I checked my account balance on Wachovia and nearly fell out of my chair.

It was clear that by the way my funds were rapidly diminishing that more ingenuity was required in meal planning other than to simply go out to eat every night. This conclusion came to me, as most of my more brilliant conclusions often do, while I was in the shower. Thus as I toweled myself off, I made a mental note to write an e-mail of desperation to my parents for meal advice, my mother for the recipes, my father for some somber dinner music, namely selected episodes of “This American Life.” I got this by the way of reply:

“Chicken, season with salt, pepper sauté in skillet with a little olive oil; meanwhile boil some pasta drain when tender (about 10 minutes) toss cooked chicken with pasta when finished cooking and squeeze lemon over. You can boil some broccoli and toss that in also. You could also add some butter and Parmesan if available,” was my mother’s sensible reply.

My father, on the other hand, advised me that the grubs and other insects indigenous to Germany contain more “protein pound-for-pound than the choicest steak in all the land.” I suspect the dashing rogue has been getting most of his meal ideas lately from Man vs. Wild, one of the two television shows he’ll watch. Note to any of those foolish enough to watch it with him: thought-provoking commentary as to the plight of the camera crew is not permitted. However, he did have the decency to provide me with the link to the TAL episodes.

Therefore I quickly compiled a list of the necessary ingredients to buy and readied the expedition to set forth after classes ended Monday. We would’ve gotten out sooner, but our projector is suspected to be possessed by evil spirits, and promptly shuts itself off every fifteen minutes. I announced my intentions to my companions while during the five-minute break, two of whom choked on their drinks when they heard, despite still being slightly groggy from the train ride back from Amsterdam. (The last man didn’t get back until 7 am, an hour and a half before class. His odyssey, which consisted of much frustration, swearing, and missed trains, took 13 hours)

I was steadfast in my purpose despite their doubts, just as Twain was steadfast in his attempt to ascend the Riffelberg. He and his company of 154 men accomplished that very feat after seven harrowing days in the Swiss wilderness. For a full account, consult A Tramp Abroad, chapter 38.

Yet I was alone (I had forgotten my list) when I set out for the Galeria Kaufhof, a major department store chain that usually has a full-stocked grocery on the bottom floor. I figured that, regardless of the fact that all the labels are in German, I could still manage to find the supplies I needed, which were:

Chicken-Hähnchen
Black pepper-Schwarz Pfeffer
Table salt-Tisch Salz
Olive oil-Oliveöl
Lemons-Zitrone
Butter-Butter
Broccoli-Brokkoli

All of these, I presumed were easily recognizable and would not be difficult to locate whatsoever, with my background as a legendary bagger. The chicken and the lemons were quickly discovered, although German lemons have about the same shape and consistency of spoiled potatoes. Broccoli and butter proved trivial. Next I set about the pasta, which was also easily found, and then I set about the salt and pepper.

It was at about this point that I realized there is no real table salt in Germany, nor is there pepper. There are seasonings and spices and boxes upon boxes of all the different kinds of salt you could ever imagine, but not the kind we are accustomed to. I must have trekked around the small seasonings pavilion enough to log 47 sea miles. There was pasta salt, salt for French fries, salt for pizza, salt especially for Italian peoples, and even the highly coveted Australian Lake Salt, but no salt that looked generic enough to be safe for consumption.

The same went for the pepper. There was green pepper, there was white pepper, and then there was the type of black pepper that hasn’t been ground at all, that comes in little balls the size of grape shot, designed to punish the consumer for buying the accursed product by having him meet an unfortunate end by choking to death. Again I went through the same ritual as with the salt, walking around and around again, my own personal Jericho. Finally I managed to locate a small flask of black pepper hiding behind the white that looked like it might be what I needed. Having obtained my prize, I quickly abandoned the field to the enemy, picking up two liters of Coca-cola on my way out the door.

After a narrow confrontation with some overzealous Mormon missionaries from Utah on the streetcar platform, which I cleverly evaded by claiming to be Bulgarian, I legged it homewards and stashed my hard-fought provisions in the pantry. The first stage done, I settled down to write and do homework that afternoon while a violent windstorm raged outside. The wind whistling around the cracks in our windows nearly drove me mad, but I managed to stave off insanity by stifling it with The Best of the Chieftains.

Around 6:45 preliminary preparations were primed. All cooking utensils were washed twice for further safety: two pots, one skillet, one sharp knife for the chicken (the cutting of which Katy preferred to leave the room for. Apparently I don’t look particularly in command of the situation while handling pointy objects), one serrated for the broccoli, bread, and potato-esque lemons. (It should be mentioned here, as it was during the preparation time, that, unbeknownst to many people, Stonewall Jackson used to suck on that particular variety of citrus.)

So I fired up the boilers and the endeavor was underway, the two pots simmering in the back, the skillet sizzling in the fore. The broccoli water was ready first, so I quickly threw them in without hesitation. It was smaller than the other pot, and I had some difficulty cramming them in all the way, but with the clever application of a paring knife and a plunger used in the facility of a crude rammer, the feat was achieved.

Next came the pasta. It was the only group I was intimately acquainted with, so I left it to it’s own devices with the confidence that they wouldn’t get into too much mischief. Meanwhile the olive oil on the skillet was in the process of mutinying. The addition of the chicken speedily quelled this rebellion, and soon all was nearing completion. My cohorts looked on in trepidation, yet manned the fire alarm with such calm composure that it brought tears to my eyes. To have friends who stand by you in such times of fierce adversity, now that is something worth living for.

Unfortunately I had forgotten that unless in the cases of broth, soup, or goulash, broccoli is not to be boiled for more than two minutes. I glanced desperately towards the clock, then bellowed out for someone to remove the steaming pot forthwith, and my henchfolk carried out the command with alacrity. At this point there were fires and catastrophes breaking out fore and aft, the pasta boiling over, mates falling left and right from the yellow jack, the chicken refusing the seasonings without the proper tariff forms, and the butter just melting away from sheer lack of composure. Yet I steered us straight and true through all vile tribulations, warping our way narrowly through the stays, clapping the granite-like baguette the bosun contributed in the microwave with heaps of butter so as to drown the wretch, and tossed the ingredients together while masterfully adding lemon, squeezed afresh, to the amalgamation.

And thus, although the cruel winds beset us at times, and it often felt as though all were lost, we fought hard and won through to claim the prize: the first home-cooked meal in a foreign land. I slept well that night despite a near-fatal attack of the hiccups.

Field Trip Day.

It was on Wednesday last that I embarked upon my first field trip since the eighth grade. We were traveling to Trier, “the Rome of the North” in the Holy Roman Empire days. Our tickets that were applicable to most of the public transportation systems in and around Mannheim didn’t have the range to get us there, so Professor Hasty had engaged a bus to take us there.

The dapper mustachioed driver stepped out of our vehicle, mopping his brow with properly moistened handkerchief. It was hot from the German perspective, about 68 degrees. Upon boarding, I immediately suspected that we had shanghaied the Mannheim football team’s bus. For one, the gaudily colored upholstery smelled faintly of sod and Gatorade, and all they had for the movie feature was soccer training footage. It also said “Mannheim Vfr” in large red letters on the exterior. But myself, being a rare gentleman of fortune, would take what comes.

Not so was the case later while I tried to finish reading the Nibelungenlied, a medieval epic tale of thousands of men being slaughtered over the blood feud of a widowed queen and her husband’s murderer, whilst some knave in for’ard decks blasted the auditory nerves to smithereens with the sweet strains of “Hips don’t lie.” Incidentally, as I plotted an evil revenge for them and their entire household, it occurred to me that the fierce bloodletting of the aforementioned poem might affect my habits in a negatory fashion. I had best guard myself against that likelihood.

The trip proceeded without incident as we left the Rhine river valley and headed north. North by northwest, that is, (Couldn’t resist. As shameless as that is) high up into the surrounding mountains, their visages crowned in clouds as we passed the countryside, our vehicle in the shadow of the giant windmill power plants that would’ve made even Quixote think twice. Edelweiss never had such strange companions.

After awhile we began our descent from this lofty cruising altitude, gliding gently down into the Mosel River Valley, driving over viaducts and bridges of such monumental scale so as to lay entire dales into the panorama. I recall it very vividly: it was green and fogged-in for the most part. I cursed myself silently for not bringing my rain slicker.

We disembarked and quickly debauched at a public toilet, where an old crone was collecting tolls. Our horde was soon joined by a similar German; only she held the distinction of wearing a toga and holding several pictures of things from Roman Antiquity. She was our guide, and proceeded to impart much wisdom and knowledge concerning Trier upon us.

The procession began with the Porta Nigra, which translates from some dead language as “the Black Gate.” Naturally I was fascinated by an object with such a formidable name, and made a special study of taking several photographs of it, and was joined in this communion by nearly everyone else in that square. The shutters sounded like the mechanical clicking of androids chattering in some unknown tongue.

We were lead down the main boulevard that in ancient times had lead to the Gate of Mars, which was comprised of many buildings and shops, one of which was the former house of Karl Marx himself (an imperative sight for all visitors from the People’s Republic of China). The Christians tore down the white gate, but left the Black to hold the distinction of being converted into a church. They have yet to do anything about Karl Marx.

The guide continued to stop us in the middle of the avenue to tell us many enlightening and important and thought-provoking things, while other tourists passed around us with envious looks at the turnout of our guide, and other Germans gawked merely out of habit.

Next our multitude converged upon The Basilica of Constantine the Great, which served as the Emperor’s throne room in days of ancient glory past. It was largely dissimilated from the grand structure that it had been so many years ago. The ceiling was completely reconstructed after the Second World War. Allied bombers had destroyed the cedar pressed wood construction, which was somehow built without the use of any nails whatsoever. Nowadays you often cannot count how many important relics of time have been shattered by wars innumerable in this country. Truly the have suffered much.

But they had started dismantling the Basilica almost the day after old Charlemagne moved out. It was as if somebody draped a huge banner over the wall that said in man-high letters “FREE LOOT.” They carried out the marble flooring, the marble walls, the marble fountains, the marble slipcovers (marble was popular in those days), and the other adornments, like the gold statues of the Imperial household.

After showing us where the Imperial Baths, the Imperial Cafeteria, and the Imperial Casino used to be, the professor set us loose while he sallied forth to go lose himself in a museum.

I gallivanted about Trier for quite some time, taking shelter from the weather in various sanctuaries, none of which, however, were, in actuality, a church. The weather in Trier was quite tempestuous, causing some of our company to question whether the humble burg had somehow managed to earn the wrath of the terrible weather gods back in the good old days when invoking evil spirits without a license was more commonplace.

However, I did buy the selected sketches of Monty Python’s Flying Circus in a rather small bookshop in the main square, which I used to plot my revenge on the unnamed villain during the return journey, who was now listening to some horrid mixture of the country and salsa genres. However, I couldn’t make up my mind whether to drop a 15-ton weight on them, send them to an argument clinic, or somehow contrive to have them shut up with a man who speaks in anagrams for the rest of their days. I suspect that either would be equally horrid, and made a note of it in the log.

Feeling the rays of the dying sun on me, I lifted my hat as we descended once more into the now-familiar Rhine river valley. I was eager to be home.

Redemption!

Last week I was writing in the bitter, dark fashion of Kurt Vonnegut, whom I have never read but that everyone says is very dark and bitter indeed. But now after several restoring draughts and other ritualistic remedies, such as reading "A Tramp Abroad" I am back to the sharp wittiness of Twain in all his mountain-climbing fervor. More posts to come Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, if I haven't collapsed from carpal-tunnel syndrome or some other ghastly disease by then.

Fairy tales and Geography lessons.

Entry IV- Day 6
18:11
Waiting around.

The first morning of classes dawned cold and wet. Stephanie fortunately remembered to drag me out of bed, or else I might have never gotten up. I was still exhausted from the evening previous—I had stayed up too late trying to take pictures of lightning in the direction of Ludwigshafen.

A quick refresher course of the geography of Mannheim, so as to educate you about the locations of all the places and landmarks I keep referencing. The Hauptbahnhof (Hbf.), or the main train station, is located to the south and east of our location. In the map I have provided you can see our location, just along the Neckar River by a canal, marked with an X. The star you see below it is the approximate location of the building where our classes are held. You see the Schloss, or the old residential castle from the 1300s next to the train station. Then there is the Bismarckstrasse (the road in front of the Schloss and Hbf.) and the Ringstrasse (the Ring-street that goes around in a semi-circle).

The two streets that intersect at the middle of the Paradeplatz, or the main city square, are the Breitestrasse (Broadstreet), and die Planken, (Coming from the old tradition of laying down planks so fine ladies wouldn’t soil their dresses) which runs East to West, ending at the Wasserturm, (the old Water tower from centuries ago) marked with a circle. Ludwigshafen is another city across the Rhein from Mannheim, and is highly industrialized. (Showing here, with sunset) One of the nice things about the city is that you never have to look both ways before crossing—most of the streets are one-way. There are of course more intricate details to the plan of the city, but this is as complex as I dare venture at the moment.

As I said, the day dawned bleak. It was raining again, and there were no buses running on our street due to the construction that was going on right outside of our window that had woken everyone up the day of our trip to Heidelberg. Yet apparently construction follows us wherever we go, for when we arrived at block B6, where our classes were, there was a construction shovel ripping apart the street. So we sidetracked around and dashed inside, where we ate breakfast. I was lucky enough to find a bakery on the route to class, but that isn’t saying much—the entirety of Mannheim is riddled with bakeries. The German language class is difficult, but bearable. Dr. Hasty gave us the last two days of the week off so we could work on the homework that he had assigned, one of which was to write, act out, and film a German fairy tale. Here was my submission, in English:

“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who lived in a large castle. [Interior shots of our dorm] But she was unhappy, for she could not marry. [Shots of Shannon or Stephanie looking despondent] Her stepfather chose a valiant suitor for her, but she refused. [Me, looking evil] She could never marry the snobbish suitor, she claimed, because of his bad habit of refusing to do the dishes, instead opting to throw the dirty china on the floor. So her evil stepfather locked her away in a hideous dungeon. [Me, cackling in a diabolical manner] She could only be free, he said, if she cleaned the kitchen. Being a high-bred lady, she despaired. Also, the cabinets were enchanted. No matter how many times she tried to empty them, every time she opened them they were full again. One day while going through her daily ritual, she heard laughter behind her. She turned to see the stable boy of the castle. [Shot of local urchin] You can’t do it that way, said the stable boy. Why not, she asked. If you throw everything out, it will simply go right back to where it was, obviously. They just wait until you aren’t looking, he said. Reorganize it, and it will stay in its place. Curse me for a commoner! She cried. And so the princess was released from her imprisonment, and absconded away with the stable boy. Thus there was no heir to the kingdom, and after the evil stepfather died there were several bloody wars of succession fought with France over who got to keep the crown. The end.

Naturally, the others hated it, and said they would rather have a fairy tale of forbidden love about a unicorn named Charley and a horse named Priscilla. Not only did this make me gag, but it also absolved me from making any contribution towards group projects in the future, for which there was much rejoicing. Yet as you can see, it was not a very happy fairy tale, per se, but very accurate for the times, when France and some part of Germany was at war every other weekend, it seemed. This we learned about in the Holy Roman Empire class. Every time I would bring this up around my family, Joe would spout his idiosyncratic “Coffee Talk” bit, which was vexing after hearing it for the 3,000th time. Yet the HRE class has been interesting thus far, albeit a trifle one-sided. Aside from the Professor, the room is as silent and cold as a Presbyterian congregation on Sunday. But now I must depart for the Hauptbahnhof; I need my Eurail pass validated so I can travel to Freiburg this weekend. More later then.