(Quick Aside: Hey reader, remember me? I have returned from my paid Hiatus (Thanks goes to the Bruce and Melinda Gates Foundation for their continued support of my travels worldwide) and am ready to continue on my rambunctious ramblings. I hope you enjoy and sorry for the delay!)
It is rare to get excited about a shower. We often take this daily routine for granted in our fast-paced semi-adventurous topsy-turvy lives. But when I snuck a peek the night before at our showering facilities (as is a necessity when checking into a hotel) a fire of anticipation was lit inside me that could only be extinguished the next morning when the blessed water fell playfully on my silky smooth skin. I could hardly sleep that night, despite my utter exhaustion, due to my excitement over a shower. You see dear, dear friends, by this point we have seen our fair share of showers and each has surprised us in their (O, let's say) uncleanliness. Hostel showers are a (O, let's say) phenomenon that must be experienced first hand (or foot (ouch.)). In some instances they are relatively clean and have continually warm running water (this is indeed an achievement) but more oft than not you feel dirtier coming out than when you went in. So to see a shower that has been cleaned within the last 24 hours, is in your room so you don't have to walk down a dirty hallway/staircase/atrium in bare feet to get to, AND has complimentary Dove soap is indeed a Hallmark occasion. And one to be taken advantage of.
My God was it refreshing!
I got out with a shave and a smile. And, already spoiled by this pyramid of greatness, I had something else to look forward to, something else to fuel that raging fire of anticipation within me.
Breakfast.
We had made a bad habit of 'missing' our past complimentary 'breakfasts.' But these, as is expected in hostels (devotees will remember my first London experience) usually consist of tea, coffee, some sort of bran, and white bread. Not, however, this one.
We had awoken early (*gasp*) to catch it, and catch it we did (what a sentence!). It pleased mine eyes when thy fell upon the scene that was before us (and this particular instance would not end in disappointment, but, rather, the greatest of satisfaction (like the Stones said, 'I can get Satisfaction' (didn't they?))):trays filled with cakes, fresh breads, granola, yogurts (yoghurts), juices, teas, coffee, smelly tasty cheeses, sliced meats, eggs, sausages, beans, potatoes, fresh fruits, salads, and more...and more! (Quick aside: I have just realized that my mind remembers almost to perfection what I ate at this breakfast even perhaps how many cups of apple juice I had (5) but not so much the names of the places we would see later that day or what historical significance each landmark had. Hmph, it's funny how the mind works. Oh well.) I can say without blush I indulged in one of the seven deadly sins that morning. And it wasn't sloth.
Fully satisfied (stuffed is such an ugly word) from this eatery of excellence (indeed, How I do long for it now!) we moved slowly and gingerly towards the city center and a walk to remember (starring Mandy Moore and Chad Michael Murray (how do I know that?)).
The sun sang as we ambled along, enjoying the easy pace of the city-folk and the remarkably laid back style of such a bustling and historically significant metropolis. We snapped a few pictures hither and thither and mostly just smiled our way past each strikingly beautiful landmark. There was an energy in Prague that I had yet to experience anywhere else, one that invigorated and heightened my senses. I looked from person to person nodding in a way that suggested, 'I get it, I am one of you, accept me.' I looked from beauty to beauty sighing and cooing and remarking, 'Why, isn't that remarkable?' or 'My, what a sight to behold!' I looked from building to building, debating if I could afford to live in each one and what an apartment cost in such a grandiose location. At one point I briefly considered approaching a woman walking her dogs into an apartment building and asking if there were any spaces available this time of year. Luckily for her and my parents, I thought better of it and instead continued our ambling ways.
As with almost all big cities Prague is endowed with a multitude of Parks. And as with all big cities we've visited we thought it was our duty to enter these parks and enjoy a leisurely stroll through gardens of green. Our choice for a "Leisurely Stroll" was chosen from a complimentary map given to us by our hotel and was subtly named Petrin Hill.
It was always Dave's favorite part of the day when Scott or I mentioned a light walk up a hill (devotees will again recall his troublesome time up a "hill" in Barcelona) so as we approached this particular park a wave of frustration ridden anxiety passed across his face. Before us was another uphill climb for a moment of sheer awesomeness. For at the top of this hill laid, we were sure, a view that left all previous views bereft of substance (bereft of life, even!). Dave's anxiety was quickly replaced by a fleeting joy, however, when his eyes fell upon what looked to be rail tracks clinging to the side of the hill. 'Is there a tram?' His eyes wild with delight. He knew the question before asking it, though, and as soon as he asked it I feel he knew the answer. 'I'm not paying for it.'
I was feeling spritely, if not jovial, and a quick jaunt up the hill was just what I was in the mood for. As Dave quietly huffed and puffed and cursed his way up it, it took all of me to withhold from sprinting wildly up the hill and opening my arms in an arching spin a la Maria from The Sound of Music. Scott and I continually tried to find the shortest (and steepest) path to the top, which continued to (well let's say) worsen Dave's mood. But, at the top of this surprisingly steep hill, an oasis laid before us and all was righted. We rested awhile on white benches situated around a ready-to-bloom garden. The sun was high in the sky and it beat upon us like a heavy hammer. Shade was our ally and we sat fairly silent for about twenty minutes, watching a smorgasbord of Prahans wander about the small garden atop this large hill. After our feet were fully rested we decided to explore this hilltop, which in fact was somewhat of a devoured fort with high walls and curiously strewn buildings. Wandering away from the fort, however, we found what appeared to be a miniature Eiffel Tower and the first thing that came to Scott and my mind was, 'I have to climb it.'
Dave sat this one out and up Scott and I ventured. The view from atop this 300-staired mini tower was startling. A panoramic view of the entire city was afforded by a rotund observation deck and easy (perhaps too easy) opening windows. It was a romantic moment between the city and I as I said lovingly, and most assuredly as silently as possible, 'You take my breath away.' After snapping a few pictures we stepped down the steps (too redundant?) and looked around for Dave, eager to rub it in his face. Both of us quickly explained it's awesomeness and Dave responded in monosyllabic grunts, intent on the fact that he did not pay the 20 kronas for a view that he thought he had already seen (and partly he was right, though the view was majestic it did not really afford anything unseen from the ground). We agreed to disagree and carried on our way.
We were a bit worn for the day's outing and the sun was just deciding to wane in the pleasantly blue sky, so we decided to take the tram back to the hotel to get ready for dinner. Little did we know what we would encounter that afternoon.
Wednesday 30 April 2008
Thursday 17 April 2008
Prahallelujah
I wanted to try to come up with the corniest title I could using Praha and I think I have succeeded with this one. It was between that and Prahahahaha, but I feel Prahallelujah has a better ring to it.
Now to the adventure!
(Not really)
(There weren't any real adventures in Prague)
(Oh by the way Praha is Czech for Prague, I may use Praha, I may use Prague, We'll see what kind of mood I am in when I come to it, it may be both)
We arrived in Prague (American mood) during twilight. An easy rouge hung gingerly over the city (I'll take the Poet Laureate position any day now Congress). We were on the outskirts, though, as someone had made us get out one station too early (It was me!). Praha (Czech mood(it changes that quickly!)) public transportation was foreign to us at this point so we timidly shuffled up to a group of taxi drivers speaking with police men (a good (or more likely bad) sign). The largest one came over to us. His over bearing presence made us rock back on our haunches and hang our heads low like timid children asking for a cookie that they know they can't have (O it gets better). He gave us a head nod and a snort--an indication to start talking and make it quick, I presumed. 'How much,' I asked like a cowering cockatoo (what?! Damn this alliteration addiction (haha!)), 'to the Pyramida Hotel?' He looked us over (gave us the old one over, as they say), sized us up saw the backpacks (save one (thank you Dave)) and replied while looking down his nose to our quivering bodies (perhaps it was just me that was quivering or perhaps this is a gross exaggeration because I totally wasn't quivering), '400 crowns.' 'Ok,' I said quickly and hopped off the kerb (thank you 1950s American literature) and into the cab. For in that precious pause of his, both he and I had decided that whatever was said it would most likely be agreed on. He saw in me that the question was not so much a query but a plea for help, 'get us to the Pyramida hotel and we will pay you a set amount that you say before we get in your car.' The ride was silent as we each tried to convert 400 crowns into dollars in our heads. The fact that none of us knew the exact exchange rate made this rather difficult (indeed, and it would lend itself to the majority of our conversations that we had in Prague (American mood)). So we arrived, emptied out my wallet, said a stuttered goodbye and stepped into a real hotel.
I just realized something extremely monumental about the former story: we took a TAXI to a HOTEL. Who are we? What have we become? The first day of the trip I made a vow to only spend 20 Euros a day (possibly less). What is this then? A TAXI to a HOTEL. No wait, let me re-write that: a TAXI to a 4-STAR HOTEL. What is going on?
Ah, but there is a twist to this story.
(sort of)
My dad through his numerous connections (shoot, people honk their car horns and wave at him ALL the time) happened to know some wonderful folks in Praga (Spanish mood), who were gracious enough to offer us this wonderful, wonderful deal. 55 Euro a night for a three bed room in a 4-star hotel. O, and breakfast was included (booyah!). This was less than what we payed at almost all of our hostels.
And it was spectacular.
A room with a view, if you will allow me to be lame and cliche, is what you could call our arrangements. We drew back our curtains and we drew in our breaths (that's so corny it makes me want to puke (yes I did just read The Catcher in the Rye, nice catch (oh!)), but sometimes corniness=awesomeness (my vocabulary is off the charts tonight!)). From the eighth floor we could see the city twinkling magnificently. I looked quietly at this sparkling city, easily admiring it's beauty, when, of a sudden, I became hungry. I wanted to taste it. I wanted to digest it. I wanted to rub my belly in delight after satisfiably gorging on this magical city. So we went --we went to eat.
After taking the metro to a spot near the Charles Bridge, we walked gingerly on those amber-lit cobble stone streets looking--looking for a place to eat (please forgive my metaphorical indulgence and by now, I realize, ambiguity, but at this point we were actually hungry and we were really looking for a place to eat). We found a quaint restaurant that served authentic Czech cuisine (or so it said) and ventured in. It had a pleasant atmosphere with a piano player tinkling lightly and melodically on the keys (that inside joke is a rough one because only one of my readers could possibly have any idea of what it is in reference to (I'm banking on at least one laugh here), but really it was too hard to pass up) (P.S. it is not meant to coarse, it is only an inside joke). We ordered a litre of Pils each and sat smiling waiting for our meal. I had a modest chicken and rice affair, while Scott and Dave splurged on 750g of stomach destroying meat and veggies (in a thick cream sauce), but more on the stomach destroying later. For the moment we were satisfied and after swooning over the bill for a minute we left the restaurant to its 2 or 3 other customers.
The night had taken steady control over the city now and the streets were beginning to empty. We hopped on a tram that we assumed would go back by our hotel (they all must go there, right?) and sat back nervously satisfied. Why nervously satisfied, you ask? Because we never found a ticket vendor so we had no tickets for every ride thus putting me at an unease whenever a plain suited gentleman entered the tram by himself (for it was a 40 euro fine!), and we had no idea the routes of the trams, we merely hoped our whole way through the ride. On this particular ride hope turned to worry, which, in turn, turned to fear. Statements like, 'I think this looks right,' and, 'I remember that,' turned to, 'I think this might not go by our hotel,' and, 'Just one more stop and then we'll see,' which, in turn, turned to, 'Alright, yeah, we are definitely going the wrong way, and, 'We should get off.' So we got off. In the middle of a residential neighborhood, in the middle of the night, in God knows where. Should we pray? Instead of praying we just stood there. We waited for the next tram that would go in the opposite direction. We just stood there. What was more unsettling about being stranded, and the relative silence when cars were at an interlude, was the fact that the tram stop was literally right in the middle of a 4-lane highway. So as cars intermittently flew by we tried to look as cool and comfortable as we could--like we meant to be standing at this lone tram stop in the middle of this residential neighborhood in the middle of the night. Luckily the next tram came which we took back to our starting point and caught the correct tram to our hotel. It was an anti-climatic end (as most my stories seem to have, now that I think about it) to a rather exciting evening.
But now our beds were calling and we, like so many times before and to come, were exhausted. We slept easily in these comfy companions to our bodies (does that sound right?) and eagerly awaited the next day. It should be a good one.
Now to the adventure!
(Not really)
(There weren't any real adventures in Prague)
(Oh by the way Praha is Czech for Prague, I may use Praha, I may use Prague, We'll see what kind of mood I am in when I come to it, it may be both)
We arrived in Prague (American mood) during twilight. An easy rouge hung gingerly over the city (I'll take the Poet Laureate position any day now Congress). We were on the outskirts, though, as someone had made us get out one station too early (It was me!). Praha (Czech mood(it changes that quickly!)) public transportation was foreign to us at this point so we timidly shuffled up to a group of taxi drivers speaking with police men (a good (or more likely bad) sign). The largest one came over to us. His over bearing presence made us rock back on our haunches and hang our heads low like timid children asking for a cookie that they know they can't have (O it gets better). He gave us a head nod and a snort--an indication to start talking and make it quick, I presumed. 'How much,' I asked like a cowering cockatoo (what?! Damn this alliteration addiction (haha!)), 'to the Pyramida Hotel?' He looked us over (gave us the old one over, as they say), sized us up saw the backpacks (save one (thank you Dave)) and replied while looking down his nose to our quivering bodies (perhaps it was just me that was quivering or perhaps this is a gross exaggeration because I totally wasn't quivering), '400 crowns.' 'Ok,' I said quickly and hopped off the kerb (thank you 1950s American literature) and into the cab. For in that precious pause of his, both he and I had decided that whatever was said it would most likely be agreed on. He saw in me that the question was not so much a query but a plea for help, 'get us to the Pyramida hotel and we will pay you a set amount that you say before we get in your car.' The ride was silent as we each tried to convert 400 crowns into dollars in our heads. The fact that none of us knew the exact exchange rate made this rather difficult (indeed, and it would lend itself to the majority of our conversations that we had in Prague (American mood)). So we arrived, emptied out my wallet, said a stuttered goodbye and stepped into a real hotel.
I just realized something extremely monumental about the former story: we took a TAXI to a HOTEL. Who are we? What have we become? The first day of the trip I made a vow to only spend 20 Euros a day (possibly less). What is this then? A TAXI to a HOTEL. No wait, let me re-write that: a TAXI to a 4-STAR HOTEL. What is going on?
Ah, but there is a twist to this story.
(sort of)
My dad through his numerous connections (shoot, people honk their car horns and wave at him ALL the time) happened to know some wonderful folks in Praga (Spanish mood), who were gracious enough to offer us this wonderful, wonderful deal. 55 Euro a night for a three bed room in a 4-star hotel. O, and breakfast was included (booyah!). This was less than what we payed at almost all of our hostels.
And it was spectacular.
A room with a view, if you will allow me to be lame and cliche, is what you could call our arrangements. We drew back our curtains and we drew in our breaths (that's so corny it makes me want to puke (yes I did just read The Catcher in the Rye, nice catch (oh!)), but sometimes corniness=awesomeness (my vocabulary is off the charts tonight!)). From the eighth floor we could see the city twinkling magnificently. I looked quietly at this sparkling city, easily admiring it's beauty, when, of a sudden, I became hungry. I wanted to taste it. I wanted to digest it. I wanted to rub my belly in delight after satisfiably gorging on this magical city. So we went --we went to eat.
After taking the metro to a spot near the Charles Bridge, we walked gingerly on those amber-lit cobble stone streets looking--looking for a place to eat (please forgive my metaphorical indulgence and by now, I realize, ambiguity, but at this point we were actually hungry and we were really looking for a place to eat). We found a quaint restaurant that served authentic Czech cuisine (or so it said) and ventured in. It had a pleasant atmosphere with a piano player tinkling lightly and melodically on the keys (that inside joke is a rough one because only one of my readers could possibly have any idea of what it is in reference to (I'm banking on at least one laugh here), but really it was too hard to pass up) (P.S. it is not meant to coarse, it is only an inside joke). We ordered a litre of Pils each and sat smiling waiting for our meal. I had a modest chicken and rice affair, while Scott and Dave splurged on 750g of stomach destroying meat and veggies (in a thick cream sauce), but more on the stomach destroying later. For the moment we were satisfied and after swooning over the bill for a minute we left the restaurant to its 2 or 3 other customers.
The night had taken steady control over the city now and the streets were beginning to empty. We hopped on a tram that we assumed would go back by our hotel (they all must go there, right?) and sat back nervously satisfied. Why nervously satisfied, you ask? Because we never found a ticket vendor so we had no tickets for every ride thus putting me at an unease whenever a plain suited gentleman entered the tram by himself (for it was a 40 euro fine!), and we had no idea the routes of the trams, we merely hoped our whole way through the ride. On this particular ride hope turned to worry, which, in turn, turned to fear. Statements like, 'I think this looks right,' and, 'I remember that,' turned to, 'I think this might not go by our hotel,' and, 'Just one more stop and then we'll see,' which, in turn, turned to, 'Alright, yeah, we are definitely going the wrong way, and, 'We should get off.' So we got off. In the middle of a residential neighborhood, in the middle of the night, in God knows where. Should we pray? Instead of praying we just stood there. We waited for the next tram that would go in the opposite direction. We just stood there. What was more unsettling about being stranded, and the relative silence when cars were at an interlude, was the fact that the tram stop was literally right in the middle of a 4-lane highway. So as cars intermittently flew by we tried to look as cool and comfortable as we could--like we meant to be standing at this lone tram stop in the middle of this residential neighborhood in the middle of the night. Luckily the next tram came which we took back to our starting point and caught the correct tram to our hotel. It was an anti-climatic end (as most my stories seem to have, now that I think about it) to a rather exciting evening.
But now our beds were calling and we, like so many times before and to come, were exhausted. We slept easily in these comfy companions to our bodies (does that sound right?) and eagerly awaited the next day. It should be a good one.
Friday 4 April 2008
Berlin and the Beast
We left Hamburg late. We got to Berlin late.
Darkness overtook us at first as we ventured up, up the Hauptbahnhopf's many layers. Confusion had struck us like a match -- well flamed and exciting at first, then slowly it eased away. We randomly jumped on an S-bahn, which happened to be the right one, then randomly hopped on an undergroun, which again happened to be the right one, then randomly exited and happened to see our hostel across the street. After traveling for a while one looses the greater anxieties of reaching a destination and, instead (at least in my case), takes a more Taoists approach. The hostel was new and eye-painfuly modern. It was a hip place, save for the twenty-something american tourists that littered the lounge area. They all seem to make things plain.
It was strange that night. I had spoken to a certain teacher of mine, a Mrs. Matz, for those in the know, and she said she would be at the hostel at exactly the same time with 12-13 high schoolers in tow. So, this causing the most anxiety of the night (for those in the know know why), I wanted to quickly check my mail and then procure a pint at, perhaps, another locale. While writing a blog spot at the computer and with Dave hovering gingerly over me, I heard a, 'Hey.' A colloquial greeting that one can only familiarize with a common background. 'Hey,' Dave responded and so it began. Every now and then a high schooler would venture up and ask us the same standard questions, 'Where...?' 'How...?' 'What...?' And us being kind and gentle people responded pleasantly and in turn asked our questions, 'Where...?' 'How...?' 'What...?' Most sentences consisted of a few 'awesomes,' and at least one or two 'crazys.' But as aprubtly as they had come so too did they leave, I saw not of Mrs. Matz, for she was sleeping off a headache in an unknown room somewhere in the hostel. I must say this disappointed me a little (the shock, I know) because it would have been interesting and most certainly blog worthy to perhaps procure a pint (one of my favorite expressions, as you can see) with my former teacher in this foreign land. But it was not to be and the night dragged on before us as we, ourselves, searched for an interesting pub (and found none) and thus wandered the night away.
The next morning did not greet us with heaps of sunshine like that of Groningen (Is he being serious? How could you know how the weather in Groningen? What a cruel, cruel game this author plays.). It was a tad rainy with hints of wind. After another in a series, in a series, ina series of slow mornings we were out the door by mid-afternoon (our pride is palpable if we make out before noon!). Our first stop was the wall.
It was drab and dreary as we walked slowly along this grea artifice. Fitting, I suppose, as per the memories (those which I do not possess, but others may have) this monument eokes. It os littered with graffit/art which lends to the peculiarity of the structure. It stretched on, further than our eyes could see, to some unknown destinaton. We walked only about a block of it before it started to drizzle. This interrupted our befuddled and bedazzled daze and shook us into moving to Museum Island.
Museum Island has Museum's. We went to a few of them. What more can I say?
Now for my best Tom Wolfe impression!!!!!!!!
Later that night....
We had just finished eating a peculiar dinner at an italian restaurant where the pastas are comprised of three noodles and the pizzas are as huge as a giant pizza man's head (?), when we came upon and old building. Scott mysterious friend had told us about this place...this Tacheles...but from his vague description (mall-like was uttered I believe) we were unsure of this building that we gayed longingly at from across the street. It was tall...maybe 5, 6 stories...It had an unmistakable broken-ness to it that one could only associate with crack-dealers or struggling artists. As we moved slowly toward this lightly litted entrance we saw peppered with graffiti that was delicately placed upon white walls with one shady man slowly smoking a chalk-white cigarette...we hoped for the latter.
We were timid prey slowly approaching the watering hole. Would this quench our thirst satisfiably???? Would there be a predator waiting serenely beneath the murky surface????
The building looked dead save for that lone smoking figure hovering around the gaping entrance. The first sign of life, however, came to us as we slowly made up the brightly tagged stairs. It was the sound of brass. A brass sax to be exact!!!! And the blower of this horn stood above us as we inched our weary way up the stairs to the first floor. It was an impromptu band of sorts that greeted us on that landing. Comprising of the aforementioned horn-blower (a blower of horn, if you like)...a bass player...guitar strummer...and a bongo beater...all these loosely dressed boys were surrounded by buckling and swaying and moving and grooving hipsters that sent good, good, good, good, vibrations to us the O So Unseasoned members of this strange and somewhat secret side of The Den of Lions (Berlin!!!). The sax-man blew hard into unsatisfiable baby, all the while kicking, throwing, moving, pushing, shoving his feet back, back with bended knee like a prancing dancing show horse. The hipsters moved without err to every hard-hit banging beat. After standing...sagging... a while (Yes, attempting to look IN) we figured we could only go up.
Up, Up, Up!!!!!
Each floor was covered wall to wall with bright, colorful, interesting, frustrating, stupid, brilliant graffiti. It was brightly lit so as to enhance the glow of the art work...and to the on-looker (i.e. outsider) at ease. Along with the walls one could find art work (works of art, if you like) in almost every room in this beast. Work that ranged from the strangely sublime...to the satisfyingly surreal...to the sadisticly sickening. All, however left an impression (Indeed, one woman I overheard upon leaving, 'Well, I've seen it now I never have to see it again.')
We grabbed a beer on the top floor and gazed cooly over the sparkling buildings of Berlin. We felt IN now. We had been there a little over an hour. We had heard the jazz man blow...we had talked with the artists...we had scoffed and smiled sheepishly at the naivety of the Bourgeousie, As far as we were concerned this Tacheles belonged to the night...and we owned the night.
But this night...this our property...waned, and the adrenaline induced surprises were gone. Our cool-ness...chic-ness...anti-establishment-ness turned into sleepi-ness after the second beer. We figured this was the time to leave this creature to its own devices. We listened to the sax man blow a little while before we ventured down those stairs that had carried us here in the first. Back then we were so naive...we thought...What a different world it was three hours ago!!!! We were but children before Tacheles...now we were (almost) men. And these men had another spot to conquer...another world to see...These men were on an adventure...these men were to live...to breath...to experience. These men were to go to Prague.
!!!!!!!!
Darkness overtook us at first as we ventured up, up the Hauptbahnhopf's many layers. Confusion had struck us like a match -- well flamed and exciting at first, then slowly it eased away. We randomly jumped on an S-bahn, which happened to be the right one, then randomly hopped on an undergroun, which again happened to be the right one, then randomly exited and happened to see our hostel across the street. After traveling for a while one looses the greater anxieties of reaching a destination and, instead (at least in my case), takes a more Taoists approach. The hostel was new and eye-painfuly modern. It was a hip place, save for the twenty-something american tourists that littered the lounge area. They all seem to make things plain.
It was strange that night. I had spoken to a certain teacher of mine, a Mrs. Matz, for those in the know, and she said she would be at the hostel at exactly the same time with 12-13 high schoolers in tow. So, this causing the most anxiety of the night (for those in the know know why), I wanted to quickly check my mail and then procure a pint at, perhaps, another locale. While writing a blog spot at the computer and with Dave hovering gingerly over me, I heard a, 'Hey.' A colloquial greeting that one can only familiarize with a common background. 'Hey,' Dave responded and so it began. Every now and then a high schooler would venture up and ask us the same standard questions, 'Where...?' 'How...?' 'What...?' And us being kind and gentle people responded pleasantly and in turn asked our questions, 'Where...?' 'How...?' 'What...?' Most sentences consisted of a few 'awesomes,' and at least one or two 'crazys.' But as aprubtly as they had come so too did they leave, I saw not of Mrs. Matz, for she was sleeping off a headache in an unknown room somewhere in the hostel. I must say this disappointed me a little (the shock, I know) because it would have been interesting and most certainly blog worthy to perhaps procure a pint (one of my favorite expressions, as you can see) with my former teacher in this foreign land. But it was not to be and the night dragged on before us as we, ourselves, searched for an interesting pub (and found none) and thus wandered the night away.
The next morning did not greet us with heaps of sunshine like that of Groningen (Is he being serious? How could you know how the weather in Groningen? What a cruel, cruel game this author plays.). It was a tad rainy with hints of wind. After another in a series, in a series, ina series of slow mornings we were out the door by mid-afternoon (our pride is palpable if we make out before noon!). Our first stop was the wall.
It was drab and dreary as we walked slowly along this grea artifice. Fitting, I suppose, as per the memories (those which I do not possess, but others may have) this monument eokes. It os littered with graffit/art which lends to the peculiarity of the structure. It stretched on, further than our eyes could see, to some unknown destinaton. We walked only about a block of it before it started to drizzle. This interrupted our befuddled and bedazzled daze and shook us into moving to Museum Island.
Museum Island has Museum's. We went to a few of them. What more can I say?
Now for my best Tom Wolfe impression!!!!!!!!
Later that night....
We had just finished eating a peculiar dinner at an italian restaurant where the pastas are comprised of three noodles and the pizzas are as huge as a giant pizza man's head (?), when we came upon and old building. Scott mysterious friend had told us about this place...this Tacheles...but from his vague description (mall-like was uttered I believe) we were unsure of this building that we gayed longingly at from across the street. It was tall...maybe 5, 6 stories...It had an unmistakable broken-ness to it that one could only associate with crack-dealers or struggling artists. As we moved slowly toward this lightly litted entrance we saw peppered with graffiti that was delicately placed upon white walls with one shady man slowly smoking a chalk-white cigarette...we hoped for the latter.
We were timid prey slowly approaching the watering hole. Would this quench our thirst satisfiably???? Would there be a predator waiting serenely beneath the murky surface????
The building looked dead save for that lone smoking figure hovering around the gaping entrance. The first sign of life, however, came to us as we slowly made up the brightly tagged stairs. It was the sound of brass. A brass sax to be exact!!!! And the blower of this horn stood above us as we inched our weary way up the stairs to the first floor. It was an impromptu band of sorts that greeted us on that landing. Comprising of the aforementioned horn-blower (a blower of horn, if you like)...a bass player...guitar strummer...and a bongo beater...all these loosely dressed boys were surrounded by buckling and swaying and moving and grooving hipsters that sent good, good, good, good, vibrations to us the O So Unseasoned members of this strange and somewhat secret side of The Den of Lions (Berlin!!!). The sax-man blew hard into unsatisfiable baby, all the while kicking, throwing, moving, pushing, shoving his feet back, back with bended knee like a prancing dancing show horse. The hipsters moved without err to every hard-hit banging beat. After standing...sagging... a while (Yes, attempting to look IN) we figured we could only go up.
Up, Up, Up!!!!!
Each floor was covered wall to wall with bright, colorful, interesting, frustrating, stupid, brilliant graffiti. It was brightly lit so as to enhance the glow of the art work...and to the on-looker (i.e. outsider) at ease. Along with the walls one could find art work (works of art, if you like) in almost every room in this beast. Work that ranged from the strangely sublime...to the satisfyingly surreal...to the sadisticly sickening. All, however left an impression (Indeed, one woman I overheard upon leaving, 'Well, I've seen it now I never have to see it again.')
We grabbed a beer on the top floor and gazed cooly over the sparkling buildings of Berlin. We felt IN now. We had been there a little over an hour. We had heard the jazz man blow...we had talked with the artists...we had scoffed and smiled sheepishly at the naivety of the Bourgeousie, As far as we were concerned this Tacheles belonged to the night...and we owned the night.
But this night...this our property...waned, and the adrenaline induced surprises were gone. Our cool-ness...chic-ness...anti-establishment-ness turned into sleepi-ness after the second beer. We figured this was the time to leave this creature to its own devices. We listened to the sax man blow a little while before we ventured down those stairs that had carried us here in the first. Back then we were so naive...we thought...What a different world it was three hours ago!!!! We were but children before Tacheles...now we were (almost) men. And these men had another spot to conquer...another world to see...These men were on an adventure...these men were to live...to breath...to experience. These men were to go to Prague.
!!!!!!!!
Wednesday 2 April 2008
Tuesday 1 April 2008
Hamburg
How did we get there? Are we gone already? How did we leave? What did we do?
We had very little time in Hamburg, only 20 hours, thus this entry will be short and, hopefully, a little sweet.
There was nothing too memorable or exciting about Hamburg that could be worth a compelling retelling. So, my friend and foes, I will give a pretty standard itineraristic (Booyah!) story. We arrived at our hostel at 9, lovely place, clean, nice beds, friendly, what more could you ask for (cliche!)? Went out to eat, we did next, had a pleasant candle light dinner, is what we did. Decent food, decent beer, good friendly folks, a good spot. Did some internet stuffs, went to sleep in the best bed of the trip. Had a tough time waking up the next morning. Next morning checked out, asked our concierge what to do for 5 hours next. Boat tour, he says. Okay, Boat tour, we say/ We go to harbour, pay for Boat tour, walk around. See, look, sun sparkles off turbulent water there. See. Get back in time for Boat tour. Tours us around harbour (english spelling!) saying more things in German than our English audio guide. Look there. There's the oldest.... There's the newest.... There's a container ship that.... There's one more... two... three... five.... It got cold. We lost interest. A bit disappointed. Ready for museum, we were.
Went to the largest museum in Hamburg, did we. It had old master, new masters, modern art, contemporary art. Old masters: did not see. New masters: said, 'ooh I like that,' 13 times. Said, 'Idig it,' 3 times. Modern art: 'Whoa,' I said 4 times. 'Cool,' 2 times. 'I like that one,' 15 times. Contemporary art: 'I really don't like that,' 7 times. 'Is this art?' 23 times. 'That one is okay, I guess,' 3 times. There were paintings. I looked at them, many with serene and pretentious deliberateness. There were sculpture, I feigned interest with my my arms crossed across my chest. There were po-mo and pre-mo and mo-mo and mo and no-mo and new-mo and nouveau and I looked at it, I looked nearly at it all. Then I sat down. I was ready to go. We go. We go then to the Lion's den. To Berlin.
We go to Berlin.
We had very little time in Hamburg, only 20 hours, thus this entry will be short and, hopefully, a little sweet.
There was nothing too memorable or exciting about Hamburg that could be worth a compelling retelling. So, my friend and foes, I will give a pretty standard itineraristic (Booyah!) story. We arrived at our hostel at 9, lovely place, clean, nice beds, friendly, what more could you ask for (cliche!)? Went out to eat, we did next, had a pleasant candle light dinner, is what we did. Decent food, decent beer, good friendly folks, a good spot. Did some internet stuffs, went to sleep in the best bed of the trip. Had a tough time waking up the next morning. Next morning checked out, asked our concierge what to do for 5 hours next. Boat tour, he says. Okay, Boat tour, we say/ We go to harbour, pay for Boat tour, walk around. See, look, sun sparkles off turbulent water there. See. Get back in time for Boat tour. Tours us around harbour (english spelling!) saying more things in German than our English audio guide. Look there. There's the oldest.... There's the newest.... There's a container ship that.... There's one more... two... three... five.... It got cold. We lost interest. A bit disappointed. Ready for museum, we were.
Went to the largest museum in Hamburg, did we. It had old master, new masters, modern art, contemporary art. Old masters: did not see. New masters: said, 'ooh I like that,' 13 times. Said, 'Idig it,' 3 times. Modern art: 'Whoa,' I said 4 times. 'Cool,' 2 times. 'I like that one,' 15 times. Contemporary art: 'I really don't like that,' 7 times. 'Is this art?' 23 times. 'That one is okay, I guess,' 3 times. There were paintings. I looked at them, many with serene and pretentious deliberateness. There were sculpture, I feigned interest with my my arms crossed across my chest. There were po-mo and pre-mo and mo-mo and mo and no-mo and new-mo and nouveau and I looked at it, I looked nearly at it all. Then I sat down. I was ready to go. We go. We go then to the Lion's den. To Berlin.
We go to Berlin.
Groningen
You're gonna hate me.
After my supreme build up, I realize, like Ediburgh, I cannot complete this story at this time. It was too full of an experience to try to condense at current time of writing where everything is rushed, my mind, though inspired, runs on 5-7 hours of sleep and thus falters with proper...proper...something (see already in this pre-written (for I write my memoirs in a journal than transfer them to the blog) segment my mind waries (not a word? not in my case) my expressions!), and I have not had time to dwell and adore and mend and create and destroy and love and hate the story that shall be told.
So, apologies, but look for an ode to Groningen (one in which I hope I am capable of) when I return to Guildford and my head returns to my high standards of literary capabilities.
Hamburg, though, I think I can do.
After my supreme build up, I realize, like Ediburgh, I cannot complete this story at this time. It was too full of an experience to try to condense at current time of writing where everything is rushed, my mind, though inspired, runs on 5-7 hours of sleep and thus falters with proper...proper...something (see already in this pre-written (for I write my memoirs in a journal than transfer them to the blog) segment my mind waries (not a word? not in my case) my expressions!), and I have not had time to dwell and adore and mend and create and destroy and love and hate the story that shall be told.
So, apologies, but look for an ode to Groningen (one in which I hope I am capable of) when I return to Guildford and my head returns to my high standards of literary capabilities.
Hamburg, though, I think I can do.
Saturday 29 March 2008
Brugges-Brussels-Amsterdam
The reason I group these three cities together is mainly out of laziness. We have seen so much it is impossible for me to tell a captivating (like each and every one of my previous blogs! (I am in an exclamation point mood of late(!))) and interesting story for every stop on our trip of dreams and wavy memories. Thus I will simply say the following (and perhaps save some of the words earned at these cities for oral retelling rather than the printed format):
(Also nothing completely crazy or cunningly compelling occured)
Have I mentioned it was cold? In Brugges it was this snow/sleet/rain/wind/torture from the moment we arrived. We walked around a bit, took a pretty cool (literally (c'mon everybody!)) brewery tour, tasted some excellent Belgian Beer, did some more walking, saw some sight, attempted to avoid the rain, went to sleep, awoke next morning, did something, and then headed in the direction of Brussels.
Brussels is a fine city with genuine and in most instances, very friendly people. The only drawback to Brussels was it was cold (bet you didn't see that coming (exclamation point)). Like Brugges, Brussels would be a lovely city if the sun was shining heavily and happily and if it was, O I don't know, warm. Full of parks and terrific architecture and art nouveau, Brussels seems like an excellent walking city. Unfortunately for us it was snowy, we had a nice hotel room and an abundance of delicious Belgian beer, and that mother of all sinners, that killer of all energy, stealer of all souls (what is it with me and souls of late?): a TV. Mix that with museums and some other outdoor activities when it wasn't raining/sleeting/spitting on us, and that nearly sums up our Brussels experience. At least to my already fading memory.
Amsterdam was...well. It is tough to describe Amsterdam from our view point. The weather was lousy, our hotel was insufferable for the astronomical price, the museums were expensive and, in my humble opinion, terribly (ok not terribly) overrated, everything was touristy or seriously sketchy, and what was that smell? Perhaps I will waste my breath in my later days with retelling some things we did in Amsterdam (like the sub-par Rijksmuseum and the ok van Gogh museum) but I will not waste time or energy here and now on this place I did not care for.
For there exists a much a better place I wish to tell you about in Holland, a much friendlier place, a much more exciting place. A place where one feels at home. A place they call Groningen.
(Also nothing completely crazy or cunningly compelling occured)
Have I mentioned it was cold? In Brugges it was this snow/sleet/rain/wind/torture from the moment we arrived. We walked around a bit, took a pretty cool (literally (c'mon everybody!)) brewery tour, tasted some excellent Belgian Beer, did some more walking, saw some sight, attempted to avoid the rain, went to sleep, awoke next morning, did something, and then headed in the direction of Brussels.
Brussels is a fine city with genuine and in most instances, very friendly people. The only drawback to Brussels was it was cold (bet you didn't see that coming (exclamation point)). Like Brugges, Brussels would be a lovely city if the sun was shining heavily and happily and if it was, O I don't know, warm. Full of parks and terrific architecture and art nouveau, Brussels seems like an excellent walking city. Unfortunately for us it was snowy, we had a nice hotel room and an abundance of delicious Belgian beer, and that mother of all sinners, that killer of all energy, stealer of all souls (what is it with me and souls of late?): a TV. Mix that with museums and some other outdoor activities when it wasn't raining/sleeting/spitting on us, and that nearly sums up our Brussels experience. At least to my already fading memory.
Amsterdam was...well. It is tough to describe Amsterdam from our view point. The weather was lousy, our hotel was insufferable for the astronomical price, the museums were expensive and, in my humble opinion, terribly (ok not terribly) overrated, everything was touristy or seriously sketchy, and what was that smell? Perhaps I will waste my breath in my later days with retelling some things we did in Amsterdam (like the sub-par Rijksmuseum and the ok van Gogh museum) but I will not waste time or energy here and now on this place I did not care for.
For there exists a much a better place I wish to tell you about in Holland, a much friendlier place, a much more exciting place. A place where one feels at home. A place they call Groningen.
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