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.
No comments:
Post a Comment