Munich... Part II

MUNICH, GERMANY -- May 27, 2006
(continued)

Thanks to Aaron, my Michigan-native, German-speaking guide, I learned that Munich is where Nazi Germany got its start, but that Munich was first founded by Henry the Lion in the 1100´s (which explains the abundance of lions on display throughout the city), and that the name Munchen (which is the actual name for English-derived Munich), comes from an expression meaning "near the monks," because monks had been living here for over a hundred years before Henry founded Munchen.

Peeking inside several of the churches clustered around Marienplatz, Aaron pointed out the monk icons set in plaster on ceilings, walls, and doorways. We moved across the street to the Viktualienmarkt, where, it became obvious, the parade had convened. The square was buzzing with locals clanging beer steins, chugging to the sounds of trombones oompahing in the adjuacent biergarten, and throngs more pushed against a counter along which two grtizzly beertappers were slinging glasses filled with yellow, frothy liquid by the dozens, free for the taking. The air smelled of sausage and sauerkraut and, giving in to my whims, I ordered up a bratwurst of my own.

I chatted with a few travellers also on the tour -- Tim from St. Charles, MO (what are the odds of that??) and Kerry, an Aussie on 6-month holiday before returning to London, where she has been working for the past 3 years. Leaving them, I wandered through the food stands and horse carts, wrapped up in the ambience of this heady celebration, not realizing that my tour group had left without me. I scouted around for them for a few minutes, and then headed for Old St. Peter´s without them. St Peter´s, the oldest standing church in Munchen, houses a 306-step church tower that offers the best views of the city. From my high perch, I could see even a hint of the Alps, which are 1.5 hours away.

I headed to the famous Englischer Garten (the largest metropolitan park in Europe!), passing the Residenz (where Bavarian rulers lived from the 14th century until less than 100 years ago), and the nearby Hofgarten, where locals relaxed under shady trees sipping beers. As I walked along Schwabinger Bach in Englischer Garten, I passed tranquil ponds with flapping ducks and graceful swans, cascading waterfalls, and open stretches of grass dotted with sunbathers, until I arrived at the Chinesier Turm (Chinese Tower), one of the park´s famous biergartens. Here, under the shady brances of stories-tall trees, locals and toursits relaxed with a good drink and perhaps a drumstick, bratwurst, or oversized pretzel, while a band played merrily from the tower´s upper platforms.

Looking ahead of me, I saw a familar face approaching through the crowd. It was Kerry, the Aussie traveler I had met earlier in the day. We continued together through the garden until we arrived at the northern end, near a lake where couples perused the waters in covered paddleboats. The sky, which had been growing darker, broke its silence with a furious rainstorm, saturating everything in its path. We took shelter under a tree and chatted about the deeper subjects of life, waiting for the rain to ease up. An hour later, despite the storm, we decided to hoof back to the city and find a coffeeshop where we could dry off a bit.

En route, we passed the spot along the river where surfers -- yes, surfers! -- donning wetsuits rode the white water waves which kicked up at the river´s bend. Over a mango lassi (ahhhh.... Indian food....) we swapped life stories, and I found myself drawn to this woman who shared so many of my hopes, dreams, and experiences. It was refreshing to really connect with someone -- beyond the on-the-surface conversation I often have with others I meet. She left me with a list of book titles to continue my self-exploration as I travel onward.

As if today hadn´t been fully enough, I happened to cross paths with an American traveler named Jeff, who between his cheesy jokes and even cheesier pickup lines, managed to talk me into a night on the town in Munich. We scammed a few rides on the U-bahn (subway) to Marienplatz, and wandered around until we found the famous Hofbrauhaus, one of Munich´s oldest -- and certainly most famous --- beer halls. This is the one those Glockenspiel characters were twirling about, and it didn´t take long for us to discover why. Row after row of wooden benches, filled to the gills with smiling patrons, stretched across the large beer house from one wall to the other. Yet another oompah band played jovially from a simple stage, and merry voices at nearby tables joined in as they neared the chorus. Above the din of clattering mugs and excited conversatin, aproned beer maids scibbled orders for traditional Bavarian chow -- roasted log of chicken, plates of cold salamis and cheeses, bratwurst with host mustard sauce and sides of sauerkraut.

We seated ourselves at a table, empty except for one scruffy older gentleman wielding his own silver beer stein. In pure German, he tried to explain (we think!) that this was a reserved table, but as he was leaving momentarily, we were welcome to stay. Realizing our mistake, we got up to leave. But Adolf must ahve had a bit too much to drink, because he plunged his fist into the hard oak table and ordered, "Nein!" (NO!) Sheepishly, we settled back into our seats, and felt a tinge of relif when he headed out into the night.

We ordered up a few mugs of the house brew, which cost a handsome 6 eurose each, and were served in a Liter-sized mug, along with a few shots of the anise-flavored, very German Jägermeister to round our our salty dinner plates.

Munich far exceeded my expectations, and it´s no wonder to me now that it´s the capital of the most visited region of Germany, Bavaria. It lacks the big-city stuffiness taht so often accompanies a big metropolis, yet it is the third largest city in all of Germany, outranked only by Berlin and Hamburg. Munich, I´ll raise my mug to you any time!

~Melanie

Munich, Germany's Heart of Gold

MUNICH, GERMANY -- May 27, 2006

It must have been intuition.... that, or just extremely good luck. Either way you look at it, I couldn't have chosen a better day to "do Munich." Although I had a rude start (thanks to two German backpackers who, after insisting on an open window through the night despite drizzly rain and cold drafts, woke before the crack of dawn and chattered loudly as they shuffled from dorm bed to shower stall to, thankfully, the front door), the day soon redeemed itself.

Map in hand, I followed Lindwurm- strasse towards the town center, passing a medieval-ages-old stone arch and busy street corner lined with fish markets and wine-tasting booths. Workers were wetting up shop, arranging their displays of fresh meats, gleaming bottles, and other tasty treats to entice early-morning passersby. I was on the lookout, however, for a bread shop, and I found one, much to my satisfaction, right across the street from a nondescript church from which a large number of tourists seemed to be streaming.

Deciding to take a look, I entered the chapel to find a gleaming gold ceiling, ornately decorated with angels and celestial beings, perfectly reflected in a horizontal mirror which nearly encompassed the whole of the chapel itself. From the far end of the chapel, facing the main entry, light filtered through golden stained glass, falling onto the mirror like a bright halo encircling the silhouettes of the throngs entering and exiting the front doors. It was a brilliant sight -- an unexpected treasure.

As I neared Marien- platz, Munich´s main square, the clouds dissolved and the sky transformed itself to a deep blue. The famous Rathaus (new town hall) and adjoining Glockenspiel glimmered in the sunlight. I bought a carton of fresh strawberries from a nearby produce stand and enjoyed a few as I waited for the Glockenspeil to begin its first performance of the day, a music-box-like dance of 18 figurines acting out the wedding festival of Renata Von Lothringen and Wilhelm V.

Those names mean little to most, but for Bavarians, Wilhelm is renowned as the founder of the Hofbrau brewery. (And if there is one thing Munich is known for, it´s beer! Munich is home to the world´s largest folk festival, Oktoberfest, which is a 16-day drunken, beer-guzzling party that started eons ago as a wedding celebration... but my guess is that weddings have little, if anything, to do with the reason throngs descent on Munich from mid-September to early October). And even were it not for Oktoberfest, Munich remains the beer-drinking capital of the world. In fact, I read somewhere that locals drink on average 350L of beer per years -- if my calculations are correct, that´s the equivalent of 8 cups a day...

So it was no surprise -- although it was a great treat! -- when a beer- themed parade marched trhough Marienplatz just minutes later. Horse carriages loaded with barrels of local brew kept tempo with brass bands, players dressed in leiderhosen. Young boys and girls, fresh flowers in their hair, followed suit, and a jester zigzagged through the crowds, smudging black soot on the noses of surprised onlookers. I was one of them! The whole thing was over before I knew it, and I relocated myself to the Glockenspiel, awaiting what I already knew would be an overrated performance (15 minutes of wooden figures sword-fighting in slo-mo is a bit much, even for hard-core cuckoo-clock enthusiasts).
Behind me, I could hear voices of a gathering crowd, no doubt here for the free "New Munich Tour" offered daily. I had contemplated joining the tour when I picked up the brochure from my hostel´s reception, but tours and I don´t always go well together, so I was skeptical. Yet in the minutes we all waited for the Glock to do its think, I was entertained by the two happy-go-lucky tour guides (neither of whom were German, or Bavarian for that matter!), and decided that a free tour of the town with some history thrown in surely wouldn´t hurt.

~Melanie

Dachau, Voices from the Dust

DACHAU, GERMANY -- May 26, 2006

Dachau. What do you write about a place carved forever into history for the evils which took place there? The silence of its sterile halls speaks volumes more than my feeble words can. Yet I feel compelled to write something, if only to give myself a chance to digest it all.

Dachau was the first concen- tration camp created by the Nazis, in 1932. From the moment you walk through the heavy iron gates, mockingly marked with "Arbeit Macht Frei" ("Work will set you free") and hear them groan as they close behind you, you feel the weight of this place crashing down on you like the iron chains that hold prisoners behind walls of concrete for years as their lives drain away.

This was the same gate that every prisoner who arrived at Dachau entered through, leaving behind their earthly possessions -- even the clothes on their backs, their identity, their individuality, and their dignity. Everything that could be taken was taken from them, and when they stepped through to the other side, their names were never spoken again, except in whipsers, among friends, among survivors. To the Nazis, they were but a number. A number that they wanted to simply erase.

I learned that Dachau was created as a "slave labor camp," where political prisoners -- anyone who resisted the absolute suppression of freedom as defined by Adolf Hitler -- were worked to the point of death, as opposed to being gassed or gunned down en masses, at at death camps such as Auschwitz and Treblinka. Political radicals, priests, homosexuals, and most certainly Jews were detained here until the liberation of the camp in spring 1945. Dachau was designed to include gas chambers, posing innocently as shower halls, and they were built here. But for reasons uncertain to many, these chambers were never used.

What is clear is that during their years of captivity, the Jewish prisoners were given the hardest, most grueling work, fed the smallest, most worthless rations of food, treated with the harshest, most unrelentless punishment, and assigned to the poorest, most inhumane living quarters. What kept the survivors alive -- what enabled them to push past starvation, exhaustion, physical beatings, illnesses, even an outbreak of deadly typhus (which killed thousands, including Anne Frank and her sister Margot), was the power of their hearts.

Thrust into an environment where man cared only for himself -- where daily, armed officers kicked and beat and defamed these people whose only crime was their faith -- still, they watched out for each other, sharing their meager rations, singing and praying together in private, caring for their sick and wounded, even initiating newcomers by teaching them the rules of the camp. Despite the absolute worst of circumstances, many lived to see the day of iberation, and then went on to rebuild their entire lives.

I stood in the barracks where starved-thin bodies were crammed head-to-toe, celing to floor, for months on end. The barracks, designed to hold 200 prisoners each, were holding nearly three times that amount when the Allied Forces found them. I walked through the crematorium where bodies of the dead were reduced to bones and ash in an effort to hide from the world´s eye the true purpose of this prison. Though, when the liberators arrived, the found piles of rotting corpses stacked near the crematorium and other bodies half-burned, as the Nazis had run out of fuel when their supplies and funds began dwindling towards the war´s end.

A wrought-iron sculpture stands today near the main hall, its silhouette of twisted barbs and torqued skeletons a sharp visual reminder of the turmoil and torture that took place here and of the lives lost that we must never forget. It is places like this that bring realism, purpose, reflection, solidity to the larger experience that for so many travelers to this region is simply a vacation from the daily grind of life. Here in this place, behind this gate, we are all reminded that our very existance borders on the sacred. The thousands who breathed their last breath here would tell you the same, if they could. Or maybe they are.

~Melanie

Strudel and Schnitzel and Leiderhosen, Oh My!

HALLSTATT, AUSTRIA -- May 25, 2006

Over breakfast, I learned that today was a special Austrian celebration -- a religious commemoration for all 8- and 9-year-old children partaking of their first communion. Unlike holidays back in the good old U.S., here there is no political underwriting to the festivities that mean, more or less, the entire workings of the town close down for the day. It´s a religious holiday.

Entire families attend church together, dressed in their traditional Austrian clothing, men wearing leiderhosen, their heads capped with feather berets... women wearing cotton dresses with tight bodices and gathered skirts, small caps keeping their locks tightly hidden away.

I took a hike with Rob to a nearby waterfall. We hiked along fields of wildflowers and pickture-book gingham houses trimmed with flowerboxes. Climbing into the mountainside thick with green, we finally arrived at a bridge taht crossed the falls. The roar of the water as it swept down the mountainside was deafening. With all the rain we´ve had in the past few weeks, the currents were unbelievably strong and loud!

We circled back around to our home base, where another trail began nearby, this one leading up a steep section of the mountain to the salt mines, Hallstatt´s most noteable claim to fame. Although posted signs and roadblocks we encountered halfway warned of falling rocks and closed off the remainder of the ´trail, we picked our way through the remains of a newly fallen tree and continued on our way.

Switchbacks led us on a dizzying upward course until finally we arrived at the top of the mountain. The views down across the lake and villages beyond were beautiful!

Back in town, I wandered along the main road again until I stumbled across a little restaurant tucked away inside a large building. Signs for "Apfelstrudel" enticed me to have a seat and enjoy a little sweet indulgence. My plate arrived, flaky strips of pastry wrapped around a thick apple filling, dusted with powdered sugar. Much thicker and slightly less sweet than good old American apple pie, this traditional Austrian treat was a perfect ending to a day of hiking among the Austrian lowlands.

I passed the evening playing card games with Rob and three girls, all European exchange students, who had checked into the hostel that afternoon. They had been studying in Vienna for the past year, and after getting some recommendations from them on what to see and do in Vienna, I decided to switch up my plans and try to stay a few extra days in Vienna... when I get there in July, that is.

~Melanie

Hallstatt: Welcome to Life in the Slow Lane

HALLSTATT, AUSTRIA -- May 24, 2006

I arrive at the station to nothing but a 1-platform rail and a deserted station. You´d think it was the middle of the night by the state of things. But it is 10:00 AM, and Hallstatt´s one ferry is right now midway across the lake between the train station and the town, bringing its passengers aboard in the belly of its red wooden frame. I follow a small trail to the lake´s edge, where the other passengers and myself begin queueing for a spot on the ferry, meanwhile snapping photos left and right of the cloud-shrouded lakefront and tiny village beyond.

Gingerbread houses along the main street. I stash my backpack in some shrubs behind the hostel. A little note on the door says the landlord will be back at 4:00. But I have exploring to do. And my gut says my bag is safe here. There seems like the kind of town where people leave their parked bikes unchained, where children play in the streets, around the corner and down the street from mother´s watchful eye, and where many a night, doors are left unlocked and windows are opened to draw in the breeze that filters through the night air, breathing fresh mountain air into the bedrooms of soundly sleeping villagers.

Bratwurst and pommes frites for lunch. Pass swans on the lake. Fancy containers of Hallstatt salt line trinket shops. The famous salt mines are a 40-minute hike away. Back at the hostel, I fix up the Italian tortellini and sauce I´ve been carrying since my stay in Mennagio. I share a bottle of spumanti with Rob, a traveler who has also landed for the night at the Judenherberge Gastehaus. Spent a good few hours listening to his stories of Southeast Asia, where he just concluded three months of travel.

And then, spent several late hours in the chilly dorm room that I shared with no one but myself, bundled up in blankets and layers of clothing, reworking my travel plans, exploring the possibility of extending my Eastern Europe adventures.... I´m considering going overland through Romania, Bulgaria, Macedonia, Albania, and then through Greece.... ambitious? Yes.... but I suppose that shouldn´t come as a surprise... for me, it´s second nature to try to bite off more than most people even want to think about chewing ;)

~Melanie

Kinderdijk: Finding the Land of Windmills

KINDERDIJK, NETHERLANDS -- May 23, 2006

19 windmills. One little village with vintage feel and a cozy warmth that makes you want to giggle. This is Kinderdijk. Welcome to the Netherlands, for the local time, please set your watch back 50 years.

Ducks paddling in the slow-flowing canal waters, alongside locals pedaling their bikes. Flat land, lush, green grass, and the skyline broken by the tall, wooden wonders that spin morning and night, churning air with their huge armlike fans. An old man climbs a rickety ladder outside the one windmill in town deemed "The Windmill Museum," adjusting ropes and pulleys as the wind whips rosy circles on his cheeks.

Rusty tools, well-worn clogs, and a smattering of windmill-worker memorabilia lines the walls as I climb the narrow stairs into the heart of the windmill. On the top floor, I peek out from tiny vents to picturesque views of the landscape below. Cows sit lazily amid waving green grasses. A boat glides slowly through the canal, leaving a trail of white in its wake.

I feel like I experienced something authentic today... not that modern Amsterdam isn´t its own kind of authentic. But here, the tourists are few, and life is in slow motion. For some refreshment from the maddening crowds, I can think of no better escape than Kinderdijk.

~Melanie

A photo selection from Delft, Netherlands

Wheeling and Dealing in Amsterdam

AMSTERDAM, NETHERLANDS -- May 22, 2006

After wandering aimlessly for the past two nights around the maze of canals and concentric rings of streets that make up central Amsterdam, I made an executive decision:

First thing this morning, John and I would find a bike shop and begin our haphazard exploration on wheels. Who knows, maybe before the day was out, we would actually have our bearings. At the very least, we were bound to see more than we would on foot. Two birds. One stone. I call that a good deal.'

We managed to navigate ourselves to Mac Bike Rentals, just outside Centraal Station, and settled on a pair of seen-better-days black metal bikes, sans handbrakes, each bearing an eyesore of a circular "license plate" with "Mac´s" logo. Opting to save a few euros and skip out on the optional theft insurance, we grimaced at the sight of those logos. They may as well have been flashing neon lights; the message was the same: "I belong to a tourist... STEAL ME!"
And of we headed into the maze of Amster- dam. We pedaled along the flat canvas of land, trying to adjust to life in the fast lane -- or, the bike lane, at least. Amsterdam is extremely bike-friendly, designating a lane of every major road for two-wheeled travelers. We crisscrossed canals and maneuvered around pedestrians, whizzing past them as if we were born on the back of a bicycle.

Here and there, we dismounted our black beauties and locked them -- not once, but twice, just for good measure (and rental shop rules) -- before venturing off on foot down one alley or another. It´s no joke that locals often spend more on good locks than they do on their city bikes. Bike theft is rampant, and one look around any canal bridge, bike rack, or lamp post will confirm this to be true. Beat-up bikes are all the fashion in Amsterdam!

Over the course of one rain-splotched day, John and I picnicked on the steps of Dam Square amid a cloud of pesky pigeons, stood at attention before the bronzed status on Rembrandtplein (created in replica of his famous work, "Nightwatch," strolled along the aromatic flower shops of Bloemenmarkt, lined with bushels and baskets of tulips in every color of the rainbow, and wandered through tranquil Beijinhof, a quiet corner of the city set aside as living quarters for nuns and single women.

We paid a visit to the Anne Frank house, and lingered silently inside the chambers and corridors which were her secret sanctuary for over two years. It has been nearly two decades since I first read her story, read of this young 13-year-old forced to hide in captivity with her family in the empty space above her father´s busy warehouse. It was Nazi Germany, and the Franks, a family with a strong Jewish tradition, were well aware of the Anti-Semitic movement which was growing in intensity with each passing day. Otto Frank, Anne´s father and successful business owner, arranged with two of his trusted colleagues -- his bookkeepers and good friends, for the movement of his family to the hidden quarters above the warehouse.

I slid behind the moveable bookcase to the hidden hallway leading upstairs, where the Frank family lived for so many months. I walked through Anne´s room, decorated just as she left it, with pasted prints from her celebrity magazines, which Miep Gies would sneak to her on occasion. I viewed the meager water closet and porcelain sink which could olnly be used during certain times of the day, lest the workers below hear water trickling overhead and give their secret up. I peered out the window where Anne watched with guilt at her own safety as a Jewish man was dragged away by the Gestapo. And then, the secret leaked, and one day the Gestapo came for Anne and her family, as well.

It was heart- breaking to be reminded that Anne and her sister perished in Dachau from typhus, just a few short weeks before the Nazi regime came to a screeching halt. And heartbreaking that Otto Frank was the lone survivor of his family -- God only knows how long he held onto hope that his daughters, his wife, would return to him. But Anneäs diary found its way to him, thanks to the protective care of Miep, who rescued it from Anneäs quarters before the Gestapo had a chance to cart it away with the rest of the family´s meager belongings.

As so, a part of Anne survived the camp, and still lives on. Her greatest dream, of becoming a famous author, was fulfilled -- just not in the way she had imagined. But millions have been touched by her honest recounting of a teenage girl hidden away while the world outside began to fall apart. In her childlike, yet wise-beyond-her-years way, her words have worked their way into the hearts of countless people, hungry for an understanding of this black period of humanity.

Back in the daylight again, John and I contemplated the heaviness of Anne´s story from a park bench, while a raging wind surged around us. We capped off our day with a bike ride through Vondelpark, where we shared a scenic, circular bike path with commuters on their way home from the office, making that one last mobile call while steering their bikes with one hand.

~Melanie

From Cheese Factories to Flower Gardens: Following My Nose Through the Netherlands

DE ZAANSE SCHANS, NETHERLANDS -- May 21, 2006
(rough notes)

Back to A'dam, transfer to small town of De Zaanse Schans, a touristy little village just 17km from A'dam. Despite threatening skies, walking from train station 1 km along industrial road that smelled strongly of Gouda and Edam -- must be a cheese facotry tucked away somewhere along here! Hearing some hooplah, headed across the street where a crowd had gathered around covered outdoor cafe. Women playing drums and oompahing to the delight of onlookers.

Getting my fill, continued on foot over a busy bridge to the small little village of dZS. In the distance, along the banks of a narrow river, I could see a handful of windmills rising up from the flat land. Within the village, little shop with pewter demo. Crossed small footbridge where gingerbread houses painted in the old-world Dutch tradition, mallard-greena dn navy-blue with white or ochre trim, lined the dirt walkway.

Eventually reached a wooden shoe shop, filled with historical remnants of Holland's long tradition of clogs. From ceiling to floor, literally, along the walls were clogs of every size and color. The floor of the workshop in the back corner was covered with wood shavings and smelled of fresh sawdust.
Next to the cheese facroty, where smiling girls in vintage aprons and white hats spread wedges of house favorite cheese, including a delicious naturally smoked Gouda, on plates for visitor to gobble up. Wax-covered mounds of cheese were stacked on shelves both high and low, ranging in size from teacup saucer to car tire.

Sheep, goats, horses grazing in the pastures -- everything felt so old-world pastoral that, despite the obvious tourism angle, I left feeling like I understood a bit more of the Holland so loved by my father (who spent two years here back in the early 70's), my mother (who has not been yet, but has long loved its charm), and my sister Lorelie (who spent a year and a half here from 2003 to 2004; she had to be pried away, she loved it so much).

Back in A'dam, meet up with John. Walk the city, plate of nachos :) and later doner kebabs (first time I've had other-ethic cuisine while traveling!) Spent next 3 hours trying to find our way back to the hostel, but an enjoyable walk along quiet canals.

~Melanie

Tiptoeing Through the Tulips in Keukenhof

KEUKENHOF, NETHERLANDS -- May 21, 2006
(rough notes)

Rainclouds and an ominous forecast are threatening, but this is the last day of the season that the gardens are open. So even if it pours, I will be there, to enjoy what I can! I take the train to Leiden, bus to Lisse.

En route, I meet a sweet little Dutch woman, taking a day to herself to enjoy the scent of flowers. She speaks English fairly well (as do most of the people I have tried to talk to here). Pleasant ride to the gates, except for my ticket fiasco (I almost lost it, and with it, my chances of getting entry to the gardens)! The gardens are spectacular - more beautiful than I had imagined....minus the picture-postcard rows of colored tulips in the large field, which I missed by two weeks.

Clouds and scattered showers followed me for the first hour or so. Then, a miracle -- the sun came out, illuminating tulips buds and creating an oasis of vivid colors breathing life into happy onlookers. Walked through one of the greenhouses, filled to the brim with lilies of every kind. The perfume from the flowers hung thickly in the air, was so intoxicating.

On the way out, snapped a photo of a girl collecting tickets, wearing traditional Dutch clothing.

~Melanie