Bratwursts and Sauerfraut

July 26, 2001
Munich, Germany
"Bratwursts and Sauerkraut"I knew I'd caught the right train to Germany because the little girls in the seats behind me kept saying "Kaputt" whenever they lost a hand at cards. Kaputt means something's not right. If your car breaks down on the 405, it goes Kaputt. I learn my basic words from listening to children on trains. Kids speak slow, loud, and they usually repeat themselves. By the time I reached Munich, I knew how to count to ten, hello, goodbye, and how to say "mommy, i need to go potty". This last one is important . . if you dont know how to locate the bathroom in a foreign country, very soon things go Kaputt.
Europe is crowded in the summer. My travel guide, Lonely Planet, lists a few cheap accomodation options in every city. When I call these places they are almost always booked. Why? Because we all bought the same Lonely Planet Travel Guide at Barnes&Nobles before we left. This is what happened in Munich. I threw myself on the mercy of the Tourist Office. The German behind the counter told me "VE only have vooms for 140 marks" (about 70 bucks). I asked him if he had anything cheaper. He frowned and said "Of course, there is alvays 'Zeee Tent'"
The Tent. 19 Marks a night. So I went. The Tent is actually a big circus tent on the outskirts of Munich. The Germans set it up in 1972 to move all the hippies out of town before the Olympics began. The hippies never left. Well, they did, but they got replaced by Oregon's finest. I showed up and found two big Circus Tents surrounded by a sea of little tents. People lived here. For Months. Years. The front desk (a winnebago) said they didn't have any more dorm beds. "But you can sleep on the floor. 15 marks a night, heres a mattress pad and a few blankets."
Cradling my bedding, I walked into the huge circus tent. Hundreds of mattress pads covered the wooden floor. All sorts of travelers scurried about inside, sleeping, packing, doing laundry, playing guitar, cooking hippy-vegan food, sewing, etc. I found a space in the corner between a locker and a bunch of Irish kids who looked like they hadn't been sober in weeks. I laid down on my mattress and tried to sleep. I couldn't. Some travellers were practicing Tibetan atonal horns. After a few minutes, it started to rain.
Kaputt.
"So, you vant to go to zee Concentration Camp?" the tourist officer asked.
"No," I said, "I want to visit it."
Dachow is in the suburbs of Munich. It's hard to find. I walked down a nice street lined with new Irvine-type homes and found a guard tower at the end of it, and a chain link fence. I'd reached Dachow. There's only one English tour a day. By the time it started, my stomach was growling. The tour guide said the tour would take 3 hours. 2 hours into the tour and I was dying for a bratwurst and sauer kraut. Anything. Hunger. Walking through Dachow with a gnawing stomach. I realized later that this affected me the same way Lent does. I try to stomach a little suffering, I fail. I can't even wait the full 3 hours. How much harder must it have been for those how truly suffered? And in Dachow, they suffered alot. The neo-nazis say Dachow wasn't bad, because nobody got gassed here. True, but 35,000 prisoners died here from starvation, disease, and bullets. They showed us a field where 5000 Soviet POWS were gunned down by the S.S. for target practice. The lies were rampant. The front gate says "work will set you free" When the prisoners were led to the gas chamber, they were told they would be getting a hot shower, and afterwards some coffee and jam for breakfast.
I came to Germany wondering how could the people of Germany could let this stuff happen? How? Well, the nazis moved quick. The imprisoned all the opposition.
Dachow wasnt just for Jews. They sent everyone here; journalists, bankers, communists, priests, anybody who spoke out against the party.
Some guy on the tour asked "How do the modern Germans come to terms with this, this camp?" The tour guide said, "Life must go on. You can live with it, just do not deny that it happened."
The place swarms with German students. They are learning about it now, which didn't happen 20 years ago. Life goes on. Houses surround the camp. But the camp remains.
So does the good parts of German culture. Munich is Bavaria, the heart of stereotypic germany; bratwursts, liederhosen, and the Hofbrauhaus. The food is excellent, the people are friendly, and the city is the biggest small town in Germany. None of the buildings can be taller than the central church. The parks are full of biergardens. The streets are full of Mercedes. The smell of roasting Brats fills the parks, and people dance to Um-Pah bands and proudly wear there liedhosen.
I had only one day of sunshine, and I made it to the Gardens for all the fun.
Berlin is just the opposite. A brand new city since the fall of the Berlin Wall, the city is skyscrapers, techno music, and sleek shopping malls. I arrived in Berlin during the "Love Parade" the biggest techno party in Europe. The streets were crowded with people wearing crazy outlandish costumes (no liederhosen in sight) everyone had died hair, glitter, and boas. What was going on? I watched about 10 floats go by, all the same, crowded floats full of ravers dancing away. There were 90 more floats on the way. It was quite a spectacle . . . very different than Munich. But I still was able to find a good Bratwurst. When my train left that night, we rode across Berlin and saw almost every major Plaza packed with people dancing. I wonder if these were the same people who loved David Hasselhoff a few years ago. Whatever they are, the Germans are very passionate, and they all seem to be very passionate about the same thing at once. And they make good food.

Is this Epcot Center?

July 13, 2001
Italy, Switzerland, Germany
"Is this Epcot Center?"

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of travel. I´ve been through Italy, Switerzland, and now I am in Munich, Germany. I had originally desired to travel further south into Italy, to see the ancient Roman wonders of Pompeii and Rome, but after 6 days in the T-shirt drenching region of Tuscany, all I wanted to do was go to the beach and relax for the Fourth of July. I decided on the Ligurian Coast, a little cluster of fishing villages known as the Cinque Terre. This mediterranean region promised beautiful beaches, excellent coastal hiking, swimming, and eating (Cinque Terre is the birthplace of pesto) This coastline was a hangout for those later romantic poets Lord Byron, Percy Shelley (um, Mary's husband) well it was there hangout until Shelley drownt on a ferry to Livorno. The Italians dubbed the gulf the "Golfo di Poeti" in honor of these wacky Opium-taking English poets. Now it is just another source of tourism. You can stay at the Shelley Hotel, or order the Lord Byron Pizza. Ridiculous. There are moments when I see the the ironic value of my English degree.
The Cinque Terre is five fishing villages, each connected by a long coastal trail called "Lovers Lane" . . . Paseo de Amaro. I warn you, on this path you will fall in love . . . no, not with any of the hundred odd tourists walking the path, but with the torquoise blue mediterranean water, the breathtaking views of the coastline, and the little villages and their colorful fishing fleets.
On the train here, I met Capt. Charles Robertson, a US Army JAG officer, who almost convinced me to come down to the Army Installation in La Spezia for the forth of July. He said they've got a beach called "The American Beach" and the 4th is a big firework spectacle. Cinque Terre was better. I watched a live band in Riomaggiore, the first of the five fishing villages, and the band played blues covers and they shot off fireworks, and everyone sang the National Anthem. I wonder what all the Italians thought of our nationalism, but then I realized they were taking our money with smiles, so maybe they sang along with us.
Italy has become expensive. They know we like their country. They are correct, the countryside cannot be denied, Tuscany is gorgeous, the old medieval feel of Florence is rare and packed with Art. But you can live and eat inexpensively, if you know where to look. For me, the key is asking some locals (usually older peopele) about where to get some good pasta outside the tourist center. Each time I succeeded in finding some out of the way trattoria or pizzeria, with good prices, no tourists, and funny Italians looking at you and wondering how you found them.
Italy is hot. And laundry is expensive. I spend 10 bucks on one load, but I needed to do it. I wore 2 shirts a day . . . walking around the Duomo in Florence, down to Pont Vecchio bridge, and then up the steep hill to Piazza Michelangelo, I was completely drenched. I go back to the river for refreshment, but mosquito swarm and I run away, breaking another sweat. The only way to beat the heat is Gelati. I am a convert. I dont go out much for ice cream back home, but I think I will now. Gelati is delicious and colorful, and it really cools you down (and adds on the pounds) I probaby had one or two cones a day.
Italy also had strange weather. On the night i uploaded my pictures (pics of spain-portugal) a freak lightening storm struck, and I thought the Italian air force pilot was breaking the sound barrier . . until I realized the Italians dont like to work, and probably dont have an air force (just kidding, chris) . . . the internet cafe lent me an umbrella, and I walked back to my hostel, buckets of rain pouring over my sweatshirt, I walked across the pont vecchio bridge (oldest bridge in Florence) and lightening crashed like a flashbulb, lighting up the River Arno . . . it felt like a snapshot . . .walking this old bridge in Florence, cradling my digital camera in my arms, drenched with rain, but my mind burning.
A combination of hot weather, too much pizza, and a big sunburn had me dreaming of something else . . . snow! I wanted a change. I took the train to Switzerland. I took the day train, because I wanted to stay up and watch how the countryside changed . . how does Italy become switzerland? These questions intrigue me . . . so I took the day train to Milan, and took the international train to Interlaken.
The first thing i noticed changing is the mountains, then the green. Patches of lush green, not the arid california type green of Italy. We scuttled along the beautiful and vast Lake Maggiore (the escape lake in 'A Farewell to Arms') and soon found ourselves in lush green countryside dotted with Swiss gingerbread houses. I'm not kidding. Switzerland is fairy tale. As soon as I crossed the border I had that good Disney feeling . . . Its the way I feel when I first enter Disneyland and walk up Main Street in the a.m., before the crowds and the heat, my heart anxiously awaiting all the magic of the rides, but my eyes still fresh and smiling at the quaint charm of Main Street.
Interlaken . . its between two lakes. And surrounded by Alps. The town is magic. The food is excellent (Fondu, Racclette, Rosti potatoes) and the locals are friendly despite the constant stream of American and Japanese tourists. I tried out my german for the first time, and I discovered I didnt know anything. But I kept asking questions, and soon I you get friendly locals helping you.
Interlaken is the extreme sports capitol of Europe. Bungey jumping, Sky diving, paragliding, river rafting, horseback riding, canyoning, hiking, it is all here . . if you can afford it. I chose River rafting, mostly because I loved rafting in Oregon, and I also have wanted to redeem myself for that horrible raft trip we took in Colorado when I was five years old. I was crouched in the back of the boat, crying.
So this time I sat up front, going down this rapids, and I loved it. The guides here are an impressive bunch of rag tag Americans, Australiasians, and Brits. They are wild, out-going thirty year old thrill seekers, who dont care about wealth or safety, they dont seem to have much money but they're rich in scars and broken bones. One texan guy I met pulverized his wrist when he jumped off a cliff on his snowboard, trying to impress his Austrian girlfriend. The texan was planning to head to Poland to score some cheap surgery to restore his messed up wrist. Poland? Surgery? I'm not that crazy.
Simon, the aussie sky diving instuctor, had broken his ankle jumping off the bar. That didn't give me much confidence in his sky diving abilities.
So Interlaken is at the base of the Alps. I used a collection of trains, cable cars and hiking trails to reach the top of Schilthorn, one of the many peaks. At the top I found a monument to James Bond. Apparently they had filmed "Her Majestys Secret Service" there it was only thing that ever happened there. At the top of the mountain I found a 360 revolving restaurant, serving the James Bond drink "vodka martinin shaken not stirred" and the James Bond burger . . . I even found an auditorium where I could watch clips of "Majestys" with the parts showing Schilthorn. Apparently Telly Savalas was the bad guy with the cat, and he lived on top of Schilthorn. The lights came on, the screens went up, and I looked out at the snowy alps while the James Bond theme pounded in my ears.
I didn't find any Bond girls up there, but I learned that the top of the world has wheelchair access. I shared the cable car up with a group of 20 handicapped children, and they were screaming murder every time we crossed a junction pole. A couple had a beautiful dog named max, and the children went mad for the dog. They kept chanting "MAX MAX MAX" and sounded echoed off the cable car windows. They loved the mountain view, they screamed and hollered, and loved the feel of the cold alpine breeze, and amazingly tiny villages down below. Most of the kids were wheelchair bound, and when we finally went back down the mountain, they smashed against the window with their a wheelchair legs stabbing my ankles, but my heart felt happy to see they could go up so far.
The next night I slept in the hay. I found a barn in Gimmelwald, and I slept in the hay for 20 francs. Gimmelwald is a remote little mountain village,and loved the peace and the beauty. Next door to the barn was the "Mountain Hostel" and inside I found a group of friendly Australians who knew about a firepit. So a group of 10 of us from the hostel walked down an alpen path to a stream, and built a fire, chopping world with the complimentary axe, and made s'mores. The aussies didnt know what s'mores are, but they were delighted to find out. And of course they wanted to know why we call them s'mores, so we told them, and they gave us that same dumb look we get when you first hear the stupid answer. So the Aussies ain't bad after all. After the sun went down, one Indian guy named Rojan told a ghost story. Something sinister and scary concerning the guardian of the alps, and mad Suisse log cutters . . by the time we was finished all the girls were covering there ears and freaking out. One aussie named ben successfully snuck away while Rojan told his tale, and ben came back screaming at the scariest part. He freaked everyone out. Good stuff.
We hiked back up the trail, everyone looking over they're shoulder for axe wielding farmers. The men were fine, I was laughing and throwing stones and freaking everyone out, and everything was fine . . . until I said goodbye at the barn and they all headed back to the hostel. So I entered the barn, and I didnt have a flashlight, and nobody else was there. But I walked around, peering into the corners, making sure there no mad suisse farmers were waiting for me. My night vision returned, and I settled down and stretched out on the straw and went to sleep. I slept through the whole night, and the alpine sun woke me up. I ate a big farmer breakfast at a picnic table and watched the alps.
So thanks, Switzerland.
I still have that Disney feeling.