Day 2 Zurich

The next morning was a flurry of activity as I prepared myself for what I expected to be a stressful and trying day. I got dressed in the nicest clothes I brought with me, actually did my hair and makeup for the first time in weeks, and walked down to the breakfast buffet. The food was actually quite good—with a wide collection of cereals and yogurt I couldn’t be happier. After some mornings with just bread and nutella it was all I could do not to crack a huge silly grin on my face. Its amazing after so many months of traveling how much a simple thing like a good breakfast can affect my mood—and I was certainly cheered by this one. I seated myself alone at a table and prepared to experience another one of those awkward mornings. Breakfast is always the worst time when eating alone, because everyone at the hostel is up and moving and it is quite clear who is traveling solo. And no one really wants to sit and chat so early.

Luckily for me in a few minutes an Asian man about my age sat down across from me and introduced himself. Space was filling up at the tables and no one really had the option to sit all alone anymore, and I guess he figured I looked the friendliest of all the solo travelers this morning. I expected him to just sit there and munch on his cereal, but instead he looked right at me and asked me how I ended up in Zurich. I told him that I was a Davidson College student writing a thesis on stadium design and that I hoped to interview Santiago Calatrava. Turns out he was a recent graduate of Stanford, who was in Zurich for a summer job and who had majored in English and wrote a thesis on Thomas Jefferson’s relationship with his wife, who died young. He told me that despite all of the Sally Hemmings scandal, all evidence seemed to indicate that Jefferson and his wife had a very loving relationship, one that was completely enigmatic because after her death he burned all of the letters that they wrote to each other, save for one, which was discovered in a writing desk in a secret compartment. The letter contained a quotation from a now-obscure fiction book which they each copied, something that evidently meant a considerable amount to both of them. But there are no explanations, and this guy apparently meant to make some in his thesis. I found it incredibly interesting, that someone could write an entire thesis about something so specific that happened in someone’s life.

Turns out that he was an art history buff too, and when I told him about all of the art museums that I had been visiting, he immediately chimed in with a “well, have you heard about Art Basel?” I said no, and he proceeded to tell me about an incredibly famous art exhibition that was taking place in the next four days in the city of Basel, only about 1 hour away from Zurich by train. There, I would find the biggest art exhibition in the world, with dealers coming from all over the world to display and sell some very important pieces of art, stuff that I had seen in my textbooks—works such as those by Warhol, Giacometti, and Klein. I was intrigued. I thanked him for his advice, and he told me that a friend of his had managed to garner an interview with Frank Gehry with nothing other than a letter of recommendation. So it looked like my odds were increasing.

I suddenly looked at the clock and realized how much of the morning had flown by while I was just sitting there. I needed to finish getting ready and make sure I had all of my papers and interview questions in order before meeting the big man himself. So I said goodbye to my new friend, thanked him immensely for helping me find interesting things to do in Switzerland, and I finished getting ready.

The whole bus ride to Calatrava’s office I was incredibly nervous. What would I say? Would he listen to me? Would he even be available? I watched the streets whiz by out of the window as the tram as my stomach slowly turned itself into knots, and when I reached the right exit, I got out and started walking up the street in question, looking for number 5. I started a few blocks into the city, but as the numbers kept going down I continued walking toward the waterfront, and the shops and businesses gave way to a residential area with stately homes and well manicured yards. This seemed like the wrong place, especially when I dead ended into a museum. However, right before I reached the museum I came to house #5, and under the brass plate with the buzzer was the name “Calatrava.”

However, it looked like there was some sort of serious construction or maintenance work going on around the house—a few crews of men in stained dirty jeans and shirts were carting around heavy machinery. One of them, seeing me hovering about the entrance, asked if he could help me find what I was looking for. I responded by asking if this was Calatrava’s place… and to my surprise it was. The man gestured for me to come with him—his English was not very good and he directed me to someone who would be able to help me find Calatrava better. After trying to explain my situation in Spanish to another worker, he eventually directed me to come inside the house where I stood uncertainly, looking at the sleek sculptures that appeared here and there between the pieces of spare furniture. A young man wearing all black with a slicked down head of dark curling hair approached me and in a strong voice (and perfect English) asked me “so you have come to see my father?”

I guess I was so wrapped up in Calatrava as an architect that I had forgotten that he was a real person too, with a real wife and real kids—one of whom happened to be standing right in front of me with a cool appraising expression. I stammered out an answer—something about wanting to talk with Calatrava about his Athens Stadium designs. His son nodded once, and told me that Calatrava was not in Zurich. He was in Greece (go figure—I had been there less than three weeks ago). However, his son told me that I could go to his offices, which were located all of the way across town. This, incidentally, was the house, which had been used as an office until Calatrava’s business expanded so much that he needed more room. The house was in the midst of renovation, but even with the noise and the dust I could see an elegant traditional looking building with individualized touches by a creative mind. The banisters on the stairs had a curving, sensuous quality that were at odds with the more traditional upright posts. Even the lights that lined the hallway were taken out of Caltrava’s own sketchbooks—I recognized the shape of the man-making-an-offering from his materials about the Bahnhof Stadelhofen station in Zurich.

His son walked me into what looked like an office—a low light wood table set into the wall with a computer, and a larger pine table where he got out a sticky note to give me the address of the office. I showed him the map of the metro and trams that I had with me, but it was small and so he decided to make sure that I wouldn’t get lost by bringing me upstairs to the main office, a sunlit room with watercolors of bulls by Calatrava himself adorning the walls. His son started up the black desktop and printed out a mapquest blow up of the area of the city. He asked me what my other plans were in Zurich, and I mentioned Art Basel, and he nodded quickly, adding the names of a few other art museums in and around Zurich that he particularly enjoyed. I asked him what he studied—his knowledge of the art scene in Zurich seemed to me to indicate a profession similar to his fathers. “Law,” he replied. So much for that conjecture.

With my new maps and directions in hand, I shook hands with Calatrava’s son, who promised to call ahead to the office and tell the people working there that I was coming. Maybe they would let me see the archives! I was full of hope as I trudged back down the road to pick up the metro. And the nervousness nit me again; my stomach turned into knots as I went back over to the part of Zurich from which I had come, got off at the Bahnoff Enge station and walked the few blocks to a brown three story building.

I saw the same brass engraving on the gate, and rang it to be buzzed in. I entered the office where I found a few secretaries typing away at their desks. They looked surprised to see me. I went over and introduced myself to one of them, a woman with long dark hair, and she eyed me with a disapproving glance and told me that there was no way I could just waltz in to the office without an introduction and expect to see anything. I told her that I had a letter of introduction sent, and showed her the copy I had in my hand. She shook her head, and told me that it was too late notice to expect anything. She said that she would call Calatrava and ask if I could see the Athens materials, but that I should not expect much. I was apparently violating some kind of protocol.

I thanked her and promised to call her back later that afternoon, and rode the tram back home, fighting back tears. I had come all of the way to Zurich, I gotten myself a letter of introduction that had been in the works since January… I just kept kicking myself for not emailing Calatrava myself when I had the chance. I had written a letter way ahead of time, and had expected it to be forwarded along with my letter of introduction months ago, but somewhere between me going abroad and my contact being busy it had not happened until a few weeks ago. It was so hard for me to believe—I thought that I had done everything right and to see it blow up in my face was hard to take. I just hoped that my last ditch efforts would pay off with a chance to see Calatrava’s offices and papers.

So I returned to the hostel to wait. In the meantime, I checked the internet and downloaded every single possible article I could find on Calatrava and his works on the Olympic Stadium, taking notes so that I would know what to look for when I hopefully would get access to the archives. I did not want to leave, I only counted down the minutes until 4 oclock when I could make the phone call. When I did connect, the same woman only had more bad news—due to the late notice my contact had given, and because I was too stupid to do it on my own, I was not going to be able to see the archives after all. I was crushed.

I stumbled out into the late afternoon, determined to get as far away as possible from the hostel and from the whole waste of a day I was stuck in. On the way I ran into Marco, but I was not in the mood to chat or to entertain someone I was not interested in at all, so I told him my sob story and said that I would not be good company. I needed to get out and be alone for a while.

My wanderings took my to the Kunst Museum, which was located in a sleek looking modern building with a huge bronze sculpture located out front. It was a sculpture by Auguste Rodin depicting scenes of the gates of hell—twisting and turning figures trying desperately to avoid the inferno. It was positively magnificent. I stood in front of it for a few minutes before walking into the main lobby where there were a number of more Rodins adorning the entryway. And into the main lobby of the museum, where I bought my entrance ticket, busted out my sketchbook, and lost myself in the soothing silence of the modern art museum. I was greeted by some figures from my Contemporary Art class—Giacometti—who I discovered did more than the attenuated sculptures that I knew him by. There was also George Segal, Richard Hamilton, Robert Rauschenberg, Barnett Neumann, and Mark Rothko. I was happy to see them, for the first time outside of a textbook, and spent the better part of the afternoon drawing and looking at all of the pieces. It lifted my mood immediately, and I lost myself for a few hours.

I emerged from the museum in the fading light, and watched the sun going down across the lake. I took my time getting home, and I walked across the bridge and saw the snow-capped mountains in the far off distance. I kept going, reluctant to take the trams when the scenery close by was so beautiful. It was a lovely night, and I had to keep moving in order to keep from getting too cold. It was remarkably pleasant, and I went through a number of parks and passed a lovely restaurant in an old house in the middle of the forest before continuing on to the hostel, arriving just as the last gasps of light faded from the sky. I was tired from the long and emotional day. I walked into the hostel ready to prepare myself for some picnic food and a movie to drown my sorrows.

On the way in, I spotted a girl doing what looked like architectural drawings. Never shy about asking people questions, I plopped down next to her and introduced myself. She was a student that went to some school in the Midwest, and she and a group of students were studying architecture in Zurich for about 4 weeks. I asked her questions about what she had seen, and she showed me her book of famous buildings in the area, and recommended some places for me to see, including the Corbusier House, which I had missed and my parents had also recommended, as well as a few other Calatrava buildings in the area. She and I talked architecture for a while, which got me really excited, but I was getting tired and I could see that she had work to do so I said goodnight and went my room. My roommates had arrived already, but I had not said much to them yet besides telling them of my plans to head to Basel the next day. Neither of them had been, but it sounded like a good idea to both of them.

After talking for a few minutes, we all decided to go to sleep. I was getting up early the next day to take a train to Basel…

First Day in Zurich

The next morning I woke up early and checked out, hauling my bags across the cobblestoned and down the picturesque little streets on my way to the train station, and when the train rolled in, right on time, and I boarded and spent an uneventful 5 hours watching the green countryside roll quickly by as I sat in my luxurious second class seat complete with an electrical outlet (thank goodness) so I could blog or watch TV as I liked along the way.

I finally pulled into the Zurich train station and was immersed in an ocean of sound and movement and was totally confused as to where to go. Luckily, I found a huge board ahead of me flashing the times of all the trains that ran in Zurich, including (luckily enough) the S-bahn system, and after walking through the many corridors of the main train station I finally found the right train, and zoomed off in the direction of the youth hostel. The train spit me out some distance from the place, but some signs pointed the way, and with the help of another friendly resident, I finally arrived in front of a squat reddish-purple building in the middle of a wide residential area. Standing just next to the bus stop was a tiny black guy, who looked about as lost as I felt. I approached him and he asked me in what sounded like British-accented English where a certain street in the city was. I told him that unfortunately I was equally unfamiliar with the city, and pointed at the hostel behind me, a clear indication that I had just arrived.

He told me a little bit of his story as he waited for the bus to arrive: he was actually from Uganda, and had been living in Geneva studying computer science. He was about to begin taking classes at the University of Zurich and was looking for an apartment he had seen listed. I told him that unfortunately I had no idea where the apartment complex he was looking for was, but he looked relatively unconcerned and instead of rushing off to find his apartment as I thought he would, he simply looked at me in a simple and direct manner and asked if I had any plans for later. Usually my first night in a new place is spent walking aimlessly around anyway, so I told him that I needed to check in and run some errands, but that I would meet him inside the hostel in an hour or so. Happy to have met someone to talk to so quickly, I went inside the red-purple building and found a helpful and VERY multilingual staff who checked me in and directed me to my room on the first floor of the building.

I entered the room and was immediately relieved—this was no bare bones hostel, it had a sink in the rooms and functional lockers with keys, reading lights, and a small desk. I knew that I would be happy in the place. I went downstairs, asked at the desk and walked the short block to the nearest grocery store, enjoying my new sampling of Swiss chocolate, and dealing with the unfamiliar currency. After so many months, the Euro had begun to seem so normal that I no longer had to squint down at the coins to identify their values and could easily give cashiers exact change. On the Swiss Franc, however, I was thrown into an entirely different currency system, one which began with the huge 5 franc coins and ran all of the way down to 5 cents (or its equivalent). But every coin was the same color, and contained much of the same insignia, and size was not necessarily an indicator of the value, so I was stuck fumbling at the cash register until I could finally pick out the right amounts. But I took care of my shopping quickly enough, coming back with some veggies for the next few days and contact lens solution, and came back to a room still empty of roommates.

I met my new friend, who I discovered was named Marco, and the two of us grabbed the nearest means of public transport—which I quickly discovered was the tram, not the S-bahn—and headed toward the center of the city. We passed some very posh shopping districts, dotted with designer labels like Armani and lower scale stores like Zara and H&M, the streets filled with the tiny European women in their skinny jeans and high heels. As we rode, we filled more of the blanks in of each other’s lives—I told him about my adventures in Europe, and he told me about how he ended up in Switzerland. Then the city opened up and we reached the waterfront area, the tram swinging around to get a great view of lake Zurich and the snowcapped mountains that we could just barely make out in the distance, fading into the blue of the sky. We got off there, having no idea really where we were but content enough to walk for a while.

This was an older part of Zurich than I was living in—all of the buildings were clustered together on the waterfront and even encroached on the bridges, and in the distance we could see the steeples of several different churches soaring their ways skyward. Ahead of us, we could see a smaller street winding along, its restaurants spilling their tables out into the street, and crowds of people moving around. It was still early though, and we simply perused the options, which ranged widely from Chinese to Italian and then to what I supposed to be the “native fare”—sausages, potatoes, and beer. Much of Switzerland already seemed very similar to Germany, and the food looked like it was no different. We kept walking as the street meandered, and emerged along the waterfront, a narrow area where the lake worked its way up into the heart of the city. Farther down, it opened up into a blue and white expanse, where the city continued to border the water all of the way into where it faded into the mountains.

We stopped at about this point and picked up some fresh fruit at a local vendor, which we munched on as we walked, down to what looked like the theater district. I saw several cinemas and what looked like those old fashioned theaters, complete with the red plush seats. From here, looking back at the old part of the city, I could see the constant buzz of activity that indicated a thriving night life and a city with a lot to offer. I was excited. But by then I was getting pretty hungry, so Marco and I returned to the cramped street we had seen on the way and stopped in at a local tavern, which served a variety of meat and potatoes. Both of us ordered sausages because they were the cheapest, and seated ourselves on the long tables that filled up the hall—no individual tables for people—we ate cafeteria style, elbow to elbow with complete strangers. The place was noisy and the waiters rushed about carrying huge steins of beer and plates heaping with various types of meat. Making conversation was difficult in that place, but I managed to get Marco to talk about his experiences in Uganda, a place that I was totally unfamiliar with.

Turns out, parts of it are just as wild as the word “Africa” conveys. He said that it was still common to occasionally see wild animals in the rural areas, not the usual boring deer or rabbits, but genuine lions and gazelles. Which I found endlessly fascinating. He asked me about Florida and North Carolina, and I told him how different I found it from living in the US—the distances and the climate and the food. He agreed, but he also said that the more time he spent away from home he realized how similar every place is. He made a Uganda for himself in Switzerland, because, after all, people have more in common than their surface differences. I could not help but agree.

After we had finished up our sausage and potato meals, we took another stroll back up to where the lake tightened up into a river and various boats could be seen perched on the water, some hosting live music and dancing, and some looked like they had been converted into restaurants where we could hear the sound of voices and the clanging of dishes come over the water. I was really tired by then, and ready to head in, but Marco convinced me to stay out with him for a little while longer. Just for one drink, he said.

A few minutes later we found ourselves seated in a little restaurant in a crowded square filled with chattering people, surrounded by the low lights on the tables and the clattering of silverware. I had a glass of white wine, and he helped himself to a beer, and we kept talking for a long time. I could tell that he was interested in me, but I was not, and I decided to prematurely end the night after one drink. After all, I had wanted to interview Calatrava the next day and needed to do some last minute research so that I could talk intelligently when I met him. So after paying, the both of us hopped on the tram to take us back to the youth hostel, where Marco had also booked a night.

When I arrived, I found my roommates fast asleep in my room, so I gathered up my books and papers and moved down to the lobby to do some quick reading before turning in. It had been a long day, and after a short amount of time I was really too tired to read much more. I resolved instead to wake up early and get the rest of my preparations, my interview questions and such ready before heading over to Calatrava’s office. All I had was the address, a map, and a letter of recommendation. I hoped that it would be enough.

Nuremberg

June 21, 2007

On the way home

Yes, I know, I have been terribly lax in keeping up the blog, but I am catching up right now…..

I would not see another familiar person for the next 3 weeks. It got lonely at times, but luckily I met very nice people almost everywhere I went, and had plenty of things to see and do. I have found a good deal of strength in knowing that I can travel alone, without feeling too lonely, and it has made me realize how independent I can be. At the same time, being in foreign countries with no one to share one’s thoughts with can be trying. I think if I were to travel again I would do it with more people, or else go alone for a shorter period of time. Three weeks is a long time to be alone.

That being said, I really enjoyed the opportunity to do all of the dorky things that I would never be able to drag another person to, and being by myself forced me to be outgoing in opening up conversations with perfect strangers. They helped me find many of the things I did which I found so rewarding.

I arrived in Nuremburg completely tired from the previous night, and still feeling the effects of the cold. I arrived in the town and immediately went to the tourist office—my map of the city was horrible and I needed to know how to get to my hostel, a place according to my guidebook that had been created out of the royal stables and was a stone’s throw from the huge castle in the old part of the city. I was pretty excited. But when I asked at the tourist office I found that the best (and what looked like only) way to access the hostel was to walk through the entire old part of the town. I slung my bags on my back and set out through the streets. It was actually quite a lovely walk—all of the buildings I passed had their old world charm, and the streets twisted and turned, going over a river and past the high spires of gothic churches along the way. I entered a huge market square, full to the brim with brightly striped tents and booths selling all kinds of fruits and vegetables and a range of flowers in bright colors. My bag bounced along behind me, protesting the cobblestoned streets the entire way. I went past an ornate gold statue set up in the corner of the plaza—a lacework of spires and statuettes working their way up to a sharp point that met about 10 or 15 feet overhead. And then, as I rounded the corner, I could see the masonry of the castle rise before me, and to the side a solidly built stone building with rows upon rows of small windows rising up the sides and even into the roof, projecting in a ton of tiny gables.

I had finally reached the hostel, and as beautiful as the walk was I was sick of bouncing my bag along the rough streets and tired from my long train ride and it was all I could do to go through the formalities of checking in and getting my sheets before throwing my things down on the floor and collapsing into bed on the top bunk of a room on the 7th floor of the hostel. It looked like the place was huge and when I asked at the front desk my suspicions were confirmed—the hostel contained some 360 beds and most of them looked like they were occupied with high school age kids. Or younger.

I woke up to find some German girls sharing my room. They were polite enough, but they spoke very little English and all that I managed to find out about them was that they were studying for exams to take in the local music school. But the sun was going down already and I had to get food—grocery stores and such tend to close very early by American standards so I gathered up my things and headed out to the main market square that I had seen on the walk into the city. I arrived right before the vendors closed, and in my hungered state I bought tons of fruit and vegetables—ripe strawberries, cherries, tomatoes, cucumbers and some apples. The grocery store was still open also and so I went in to get some protein to add to my salad, and they easily accommodated me with a nice sausage salad. The dinner I had that night was quite delicious.

I also went for a walk thorugh the gardens of the castle—in the shadow of the high turreted walls neatly manicured hedges and sculpted trees stood among artfully arranged flowers. It was a beautiful place, and from one angle I could see the whole of the red-roofed city spread out below the castle, punctuated here and there by the spires of a few massive gothic churches. This was one of the prettiest cities I had seen so far, in addition to Weimar. I walked around for a while, bags of food in hand, and then I ran across an internet café—luckily, because I was still trying to arrange a meeting with Calatrava (the architect who designed the Athens Olympic Facilities) in Zurich and I needed both to communicate with my contact and make travel arrangements for my trip. I knew nothing about Switzerland so far and had to find a place to sleep and things to do. I made contact with my parents, which was always welcome, and then took a meandering route back to the castle and to my hostel.

The guide book had warned me about the hostel when I booked—it had explicitly said that June and July defined the phrase “overrun with schoolchildren” and it definitely was not wrong. I had never quite realized how annoying they are having been one so recently, but now I quite saw why adults rolled their eyes at class field trips and the like. I was feeling sick and all I wanted to do was sleep and these kids were running up and down the halls like it they were racing tracks. The hostel even had quiet hours, but all that it meant was that the kids took the noise outside, and the sound permeated the walls and came right into the room. I think if I had been feeling better I would not have been so frustrated, but I solved the problem by popping The Bourne Identity into my laptop computer, catching up some more on my increasingly neglected blog, and going to bed early.

I think all of the rest was actually really good for me, because I woke up feeling much better in the morning. I wanted to go to the Nazi Party Parade grounds, so I woke up fairly early and went down to breakfast. I was greeted with a long line toward the cafeteria style line, complete with rolls and to my joy yogurt and cereal, and an assortment of jams. But I had to wait at least 10 minutes to get to the food itself; the hordes of younger people were chattering away in front of me in the lunch line. That was when I discovered one of the worst parts of traveling alone—breakfast. That is virtually one of the only times of the day when everyone at the hostel is around at the same time, and the ones who are traveling alone sit in their little islands of silence, looking down at the food in front of them, while everyone else chatters about. I missed all of the kids on the trip—we always used breakfast time to invest in some serious complaining—either about the coffee, or the profusion of bread, or about the upcoming day. It was some serious bonding time, and now sitting alone with my bowl of cereal and yogurt, I wished for someone to complain to.

But I got over it quickly enough, and took the train out to the Nazi Party Parade grounds. These were established by Hitler and Albert Speer in preparation for a massive complex that would include broad thoroughfares and giant buildings intended to cower and intimidate the masses in addition to indoctrinating them into the Nazi ideology. I emerged from the metro however, and all I saw looked like a huge park—green lawns and a nice lake. Walking farther I got to the museum area, which I stopped in first. The building was actually set into one of the few buildings completed on site—a red amphitheater that looked like it borrowed many of its architectural elements from the COlosseum. One corner of it had been renovated to hold the museum and it had a huge metal jagged projection emerging from the corner, that morphed into a stairs and covered walkway leading inward. It looked more like something that belonged on a glacier than anything else, and contrasted greatly with the orthogonal regularity of the original structure, a theme that seems to echo in many of the post-nazi architecture. Anything that the Nazi architecture was, the post-Nazi is not—its modern, made with metal, features jagged or curved edges or glass, and seeks not to intimidate, but to welcome. Such an aesthetic difference is no doubt intentional—the dome on the Reichstag as a perfect example, and I found it incredibly interesting that much of it echoed the progressive voice of the Bauhaus which was silenced with the ascension of Hitler. Post war architecture echoed pre-war modernism, not only because of the aesthetic differences, but because the ideology behind the Bauhaus was so different from that of the Nazis too.

Anyway, the museum contained a number of exhibits, and I got an audioguide and took notes on some of the architectural planning of the complex. Nuremburg, it turns out, had been a site for Nazi gatherings well before the parade ground had been built, but Hitler had selected it as the “most German” of cities and deliberately linked the new rally grounds with the old castle, which had been the site of the imperial government. Such linkages were not only constructed through Nazi propaganda, they were also furthered through the construction of a huge road that would lead from the center of the old town (ie the castle) out toward the new buildings of the parade ground. Hitler and Speer’s plans were ambitious, and with the onset of the war many of them were not completed.

What remained, however, was the Zeppelin field, the administrative building which now housed the museum, and a section of the huge road. The museum showed old clips and videos, and it was chilling to see so many hands enthusiastically raised in the Nazi salute, gigantic swastikas waving in the wind, and the happy burning of thousands of books. Sometimes the old images and the new ones were superimposed, showing just what had happened to the place. The museum also told me that the Zeppelin field was modeled after the Great Altar at Pergamon, which I had seen both in Turkey and in Berlin. It was up to me to confirm this fact.

After walking through the museum, I took a long walk around the parade grounds themselves. I exited the museum and took a walk by the lake. The sun was up, and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue, with puffy white clouds. It was a beautiful walk by the lake.

After a while, I came to the huge road constructed by Albert Speer—it was as wide as a 4 lane highway, and completely paved in white square flagstones. It stretched into the forest and then out into the more modern part of the city, where in the distance I could see the gleam of some high rise buildings. Then, rounding the corner, I could look back on the administration itself—a huge three tiered structure with arches and columns embedded in its walls. It really did look like something that had been imported from Rome and given a 20th century veneer, and with the blue sky and the water creating a reflecting pool, it looked twice as massive. I could really see why the Nazi architecture was so intimidating—it dominated by sheer size and reptetition, the uniform placement of walls or columns that made the building look like it went on forever. And then I turned up into the Zeppelin field.

I could only see the Zeppelinfield from the outside, it was a regular square with a set of stands built up in a hill shape, broken at regular intervals by access doors allowing one to see inside of the parade ground. Walking around the outside of it gave me a real appreciation for its enormity—it was truly huge, and I felt dwarfed even standing on the outside. But I continued around, running into a World Cup stadium that was unfortunately closed. It jutted off of one corner of the Zeppelinfield and I was not sure as to whether or not it was a recent addition—the Nazis tended to conjoin sports and parades anyway, and the concept of a “fit” German society always included the notion of athletic fitness. But I couldn’t be sure, the entire thing was built up in an exterior of steel poles in a metal cage supporting the seats, and without some documentation on that stadium itself there was no way to know.

I rounded another corner and came to the speaking platform—this huge part of the Zeppelinfield had been set up like a big U—the short arms of the U reaching forward to enclose the sides, extended by the bleachers on either end. The bottom of the U made up what was modeled on the Pergamon Altar—a broad flight of steps leading to a tall monolithic collonade, most of which was now missing. I would have liked to get closer to it, but for some reason there was a ton of construction going on in the area, and I could only peek in from the break where the ends of the U met the rest of the stands. It looked huge though, dwarfing the heavy machinery that occupied the interior. Then I kept walking, to the back side of the speaking platform where I saw some scattered half pipes and other evidence of the work of some resident skateboarders.

Finally, I walked back to the subway to head to the hostel for my lunch break. Ever since Berlin I had been trying to give myself enough time to recover from the extertions of the day. Brian’s enjoinder to “take a nap once in a while” had finally been heard, and I only stopped briefly at the main train station to reserve my ticket for Zurich the next day before coming back to the peace and quiet that I wanted.

On the walk back through the old town, I passed by the huge gothic cathedrals that dominated one of the main squares and decided to stop in. The outside was fully encrusted with all kinds of ornate sculpture—over the pointed arch doorways, running up the columns, and the roof, around the rose window, and up to the towers as they melted away into the sky. The inside was quite a bit more austere—none of the loud gold ornament that I had seen in so many of the Roman churches. The walls looked almost bare, with all of the emphasis on the flat walls and the slightly darker ribs that drew themselves up from the columns and thrust into the x’s that crisscrossed their way down the vault of the roof and turned into crazy polygons down near the apse, where they flew back down again and made their way around the chapels set into the walls. The windows were where the works of art resided—huge pieces of stained glass set with pictures of the saints and the lives of Mary. They were fabulous—painted in some places and leaded in others, and the intricate detail of these echoed the lace tracery on the outside of the building.

There were other things inside of the cathedral also—hanging at the intersection of the two arms of the church was a huge sculpture done in wood. It showed a ring of flowers around a central scene of the Madonna and an angel, delicately carved and painted in wood, and suspended above the central vault high overhead. All of the carving was magnificent, and it looked so fragile up there, when in fact I am sure if it were taken down to regular height it would seem huge and imposing. But from this lower vantage point, all I could do was stare in wonder (which I am sure was the whole point). All around the exterior of the church, on ground level were a series of painted or sculptured altarpieces; folding triptychs painted in gold foil and in that characteristic Northern Renaissance style with its stiffer figures, slightly unrealistic perspective, and dark colors. It all had a much more somber tone, in contrast to the Mediterranean color and exuberance of the Italian works. Each of the altars was unique and interesting in its own way, and walking around them I could see a number of different panels that could be folded or unfolded according to the desired image. But I was growing tired, so I returned to the peace and quiet of the hostel at midday.

My room was deserted, and that was the way I wanted it. I fixed myself a lunch with some of the fruit and veggies and peanut butter that I had snagged at the grocery store, and watched the rest of the Bourne Identity, which I should note, happens to take place in Zurich. I had seen Gladiator in Rome, and 300 just before heading off to Thermopayle, it only seemed appropriate that I do the same for Switzerland.

I had headed in at the perfect time, because just as I was finishing my lunch the skies opened up and it started to rain—not a heavy rain, but a light one, just enough to discourage me from trying to wander around outside. So I finished my movie and did some putzing around the hostel before I decided that it was really about time to see the inside of the castle that was right next door. Even though it was still lightly sprinkling, I quickly walked across the courtyard and into one huge arched doorway, to another courtyard filled with the timbered and stuccoed buildings clustered on the inside of the great walls of the castle. And then, on the far side of that courtyard to the heart of the old castle, where the buildings rose up to a great height overhead and the windows and staircases looked down onto the courtyard that I was standing in. It was really cool to be standing in a fully functional castle—everything looked just like it would have hundreds of years ago, with the exception of the small sign indicating the presence of a museum and the planterboxes hanging out of the windows festooned with bright magenta flowers.

I knew that there was a tour of the interior, but the cashier told me that it would not occur for another hour or so, and invited me upstairs to see the museum. At that point I was kind of growing tired of museums, but this one looked interesting enough so I ventured inside, my feet creaking on the wide wooden boards. The lower floor contained some models of the castle complex, and engravings and photographs, and then when I moved into the back rooms things really started getting interesting. I saw a full body suit of plate armor, a diminuative looking knight covered in panels of curved steel, with a claustrophobic looking helmet. And then farther, there was an exhibition on the evolution of horsemanship in Europe. The exhibit had a number of bits, stirrups, and saddles, ranging in complexity from a simple bar across the horse’s mouth to a huge contraption with spirals and stars wheeling around the outside of the horse’s face, which looked like it was largely for show and not really to control the animal at all.

Then I moved up a creaky staircase and things really started getting interesting. The upper two levels of the museum were filled with exhibitions on medieval weaponry and armor, ranging from chain mail to plate armor to swords, cannon, guns, and knives. The little girl in me who used to love playing with her legos was absolutely thrilled, and I stared at the weapons and armor in a fascination similar to that of a teenage boy. It was interesting to see how the styles of the armor and the weapons changed over time, and how elaborate some of the helmets got. They looked terribly uncomfortable—just enough slits to see and breathe through, and in some instances it looked as though the visor snapped or locked into place. To imagine fighting someone with no periphery vision and very little hearing seemed slightly crazy to me, and I could not imagine the strength it would take to wield some of the 4 and 5 foot long swords with a full suit of armor. Clearly, it must have been rather difficult, yet it was something that was considered standard practice for the knights. This was like wearing the most constrictive and heavy football uniform and then trying to swing an equally cumbersome baseball bat. Not fun.

The guns too looked huge and unwieldy—and some of the engravings showed the men—by then dressed in what looked like a uniform from The Three Musketeers rather than A Knight’s Tale using crutch like props to hold up the barrels of their guns, which were taller than they were. In the early years, the accuracy of these guns must have been questionable, and taking the time and effort to carry a 6 or 7 foot gun must have been a mark of prestige. Technologically, it seems as though everything gets smaller and
faster—such is the case with guns and computers. Just the change in a few hundred years was immense, and seeing all of the suits of armor brought to mind scenes from King Arthur and the like. I emerged from the museum with thoughts of jousting tournaments and kings and ladies in waiting dancing in my head.

I emerged just in time for the tour to start, and joined by a number of Italian and Spanish tourists. Unfortunately, as soon as the tour began we realized that it was only conducted in German (go figure). So I did as I had done before, followed at the back of the group and watched and listened for the words that I could recognize. The inside of the castle was just as cool as the outside—we stepped into a chapel, a simple whitewashed interior with arched vaulting overhead and the heraldic images of the king carved into the rafters overhead, and a lower level for the worship of the women. Then we went into a great hall—a huge space with wide wooden boards on the floor and huge beams spanning the ceiling, almost completely bare except for the presence of one or two tapestries on the wall. We continued to several other rooms, some of which contained the traces of what looked like colorful frescoes, the ceiling painted with the heraldic eagle and traces of gold leaf all along the walls in a pattern of floral designs. Some of the furniture was original—big dark wood pieces with inlay in a variety of wood types.

Then we emerged from the darkness of the interior of the castle and the tour guide gestured for us to follow him to the Deep Well. We went out of the innermost courtyard and walked back the way I had come, to a small building that was indicated by a placard on the wall by the door as being one of the oldest places in the whole castle complex. It was the deep well, which ran some 47 meters down into the rock. The tour guide had a chandelier full of candles that he lowered down into the blackness, and we saw the slick sides of the shaft illuminated as it went down, and down, and down, the group of us hanging over the sides to watch it as it descended. And then, even more unbelievably, he took a bucket of water and poured it over the sides and into the well, and we waited for it to hit the water… some 5 or 6 seconds later. The time delay made the whole group of us gasp aloud. The tour guide grinned at us and at our amazement, and we all looked down again to where we could see the faint glimmer of the candles so far down below us. It was incredible to see.

And with that, we were realeased into the fading light of the afternoon. I spent most of the rest of it relaxing—I took another trip past the market, fixed myself a picnic in the room, and did the last bit of emailing, discovering at the window of the dorm room a strong wireless signal so I skyped my parents and downloaded some Desperate Housewives. It was incredibly relaxing, but I was ready to get going…. On to Zurich!

The Rhein and Wine

We got ready, and rushed to the docks just as the boat was boarding, and got on just in time, me feeling slightly ridiculous in my huge roller suitcase and bags, while Brian had only come with a small backpack and most of the other people on the boat were only going for a day trip, taking the train back the same night. Brian and I had opted to spend a night away from the city, getting into a more picturesque and a more natural side of Germany, which suited both of our temperaments infinitely better than the sleek corporate modernity of much of Frankfurt.

We spent all of the morning and most of the afternoon on the ferry as it lazed along the Rhine river. At first we saw some of the sighs of Frankfurt—a mixture of old gothic churches and very new office buildings, bordered from the river directly by a thin band of green. Farther along, we passed the suburbs of the city, where elegant houses with manicured lawns and turn of the century architecture lined the river, extending their front yards down to the waterfront.. We stopped at every few towns along the way, to pick up more people, and soon the boat was teeming with folks, either downstairs in the restaurant area or up stairs, where Brian and I had perched, on the open deck on the top of the boat. From there we got the benefit of the bright sunlight and the cool breezes, and could sit and watch the country side float by.

We went downstairs for a while, to escape the sun, talking the whole time about Spain and my CSA trip and all of the adventures that had happened to us since we had seen each other last. It was amazing to hear how similar some things were between my experiences in Greece and Italy and Brian’s in Spain. But, he had the benefit of a host family and of knowing the language, which he said was a big factor in his decision to go to Spain in the first place. He said it was strange to be in a country where he could not speak the language at all, and I laughed and welcomed him to the world of the Classics Trip. I shared some of my own stories about the crazy adventures and group dynamics I had experienced, and the more I talked, the crazier my trip seemed: 4 months, 20 people and 10 countries… and to add along to that, a professor from Cyprus, a grad student at Harvard, and Davidson students with too much imagination on their hands. Being on the move all of the time had also had its share of impact—I told Brian I had not made my bed or washed my clothes in a machine since January, and I told him how much I appreciated good showers and the English language. Being in a different place does make you realize how many things are so easy in the States.

We changed ferries once, at Rudesheim, and continued on our way, the land around us deepening and turning more wild as we entered the wine country. And then we started to see castles—big towers and walls of stone nestled high on the green cliffs and rolling mountains along the river. Even the towns we stopped at now had a distinct medieval quality—small turning streets and brick, stucco and timber construction. A church dominated the center with a huge narrow spire jutting into the air, and the smaller red roofed buildings clustered around. Gone were the skyscrapers and glass…

The land was absoultey beautiful, wrapped in mist because by now it had become slightly overcast. We could make out the spires and roofs of the little villages but I felt like since our transfer to Rudesheim we were entering another time, one in which things like dragons and witches were possible. Brian too seemed to enjoy the view, and turned to me at one point and told me that he was so happy to get out of Frankfurt. I agreed—as nice as Franfurt was, these small villages had an inescapable charm.

We finally docked in the late afternoon and very quickly found our way to the youth hostel in St. Goar. It was not a very big town, with a few major streets running down parallel to the river, and a set of rails to connect it to the wider world. We found our hostel on the other side of the tracks, just underneath a sprawling stone hotel that we later discovered was connected to a big castle. From our hostel we could look out over the town as it fell away beneath us and to the river and the green cliffs on the opposite side, which lay largely untouched until they flattened out near the bottom and another small town called St. Goarhausen clustered along the other side. A flat bottomed ferry moved across the water from shore to shore every twenty minutes, and on the St. Goarhausen side we could see two castles high up in the hills, pointing their solid walls and spindly spires skywards. It was a perfect setting.

We were also really hungry, after having just packed a little bit of food and snacks for the ferry ride, and tired from the early start we had made. After dropping our stuff off at the hostel, quoted in the Let’s Go guide and for the next two days by us as a hostel that was clean, well located, and packed in beds with “admirable efficicency.” I think that phrase would do well to describe Germany as a whole, and it was definitely the case with the hostel—our room shared bunks with at least 7 or 8 other people, and the bathrooms though spare were werll equipped. After taking the bunk in the corner, complete with its ranger-green paint and red checkered sheets, I promptly arranged myself in the top bed and fell fast asleep. Brian, who unfortunately was the one with a sleep deficit, was stationed on the bottom and with very poor ventilation his bed was too hot for him to rest. I don’t really know what he did while I whiled away the hour in dreamland, but I felt grateful for the chance to rest and get over my cold.

When I woke up, Brian was awake, and looking at me in a way that said that his over active metabolism had reached its peak. He needed food, and had already waited for at least an hour while I had slept. And although the hostel did offer dinner services, we arrived a little too late to get the food, so we resorted to a night out on the town. We asked the receptionist at the hostel where to go and she directed us to a tiny hole in the wall restaurant that could be found only by happening to spot the tiny sign on the main street, and following it up a narrow alley to where we could see a little tiny porch clustered with tables and chairs and umbrellas. We seated ourselves on what looked like the last available table, and got ourselves a menu entirely in German and Italian (it was a pizza place). I recognized some of the items on the menu from our tour of Italy, but not being in the mood to spend much I opted for the classic Margherita pizza and Brian had the same. The place was busy and understaffed and although it took us a while to get our food it was delicious! I surprised myself by eating the entire pizza I had been given. Afterwards we just sat for a while on our full and happy stomachs, and decided what to do next.

It was nearing 9 o clock, and we were in the middle of the German wine country. We both decided to go try to find some, hoping that in a town of this size that everything would not be closed. Brian was still hungry, so we decided to walk around and see if any dessert shops were open. So dessert and wine were the orders of the evening.

We returned down the narrow passageway to the main street where I had spotted a gelateria, and just as we emerged a group of old German men sitting at a big outdoor table in one of the restaurants along the road simultaneously klinked their big mugs of beer together and began a drinking song. Brian and I both stopped in our tracks, and he looked at me and said “I think this is the coolest thing I have seen here.” I had to agree, I felt like it was a slice right out of genuine Germanity—a group of grizzled white haired old men enjoying each other’s company and the warm summer night and the great beer by singing. I wish I had my camera, it was something that I will never forget. Both of us Americans stood at the corner and watched as the men swung their classes high in the air and sang in their raspy voices, and when they were finished they all brought the huge mugs to their lips and began their next round of beer. Brian turned to me and said that he only hoped that when he was an old man he could sing and drink beer with all of his pals. I laughed, and agreed.

I don’t hink anything we saw for the rest of the trip really topped that as a “true German experience.”

We stopped in at the gelateria we had seen, and helped ourselves to the great ice cream. Then, we slowly ate our cones as we walked up the street, passing more groups of people eating, or drinking or talking, just enjoying the nice atmosphere of the place. We spotted a doner kebab place, which I mentally noted for the following day, and stopped in and bought some wine (unfortunately after I bought it I realized that we had just gotten some Italian table wine, which was good but not the authentic German stuff I was looking for.) We got some small plastic cups, and just two shops down from the doner place, we ran smack into a wine store, advertising local wines. Even though we had just gotten the Italian red, I decided that the opportunity to drink local-made German wine was just too good to pass up, and the vendor ended up selling us a nice 6 euro bottle of half dry white wine made in St. Goar. He even got us a chilled bottle and opened it for us, because he knew that we were planning on having it that night.

So, looking like complete drunks with two bottles of wine and our plastic cups we walked down to the waterfront, where just past the ferry landing there was a long strip of land that had been made into a park, complete with green lawns and trees with long drooping branches that stooped all of the way down to the water. The light was fading from the sky, turning it and the reflected river pastel colors. St. Goarhausen, visible on the other side, was just beginning to light up, the long dashes of brightness appearing on the darkening face of the water front. Up above the sleepy little town, an imposing looking castle with a number of tall turret towers and stone walls with slitty little windows was starting its own light show—lights projected up onto the walls bathed the entire building in warm light, creating its own island above the dark trees that surrouded it. It was a beautiful evening, and Brian and I sat there for most of the night just talking, watching as others wandered down by the water or stopped at what looked like a wine stand down below us closer to the river. The ferry from our side to St Goarhausen made slow loops back and forth across the rushing dark water. This was the life, and if I could come back to Germany, I think I would bypass the big towns mostly and settle for a peaceful place like this. We must have sat and talked for hours—the bottle of German white slowly drained, and we made a small dent in the Italian red before I realized that with the setting of the sun it had actually grown quite cold, and so we grabbed our things and made a slow walk back to the youth hostel.

We talked for a little bit and then when some of our roommates came back made and attempt at sleep. Brian told me the next day that he fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, luckily for him, because I was about to drop off when a group of what sounded like 7 or 8 very loud, very drunk Germans stumbled in, talking at the tops of their voices and flicking the lights on and off. I hid my head under the pillow, wondering whether or not to make the effort to get them to be quiet, but when I heard them loudly shushing each other I gave up. They were too drunk to be quiet even if they were trying too. I heard a groaning noise and the distinctive sound of someone puking into a bucket, and groaned inwardly. It was a long time until they were quiet, and I was losing sleep the whole way.

Luckily in the morning I discovered that Brian had slept through the whole thing, so I was happy to hear that at least one of us was not going to be in a bad mood. As for myself, I silently threw daggers in the direction of the Germans when we saw them at breakfast and later in the room as we were getting ready. One of them came up to me and apologized, which I guess makes it better, but it was not going to bring my sleep back. Apparently it had been somebody’s birthday, and they had DEFNINITELY celebrated. Perhaps a little too hard. But luckily it was only one night, and we had plenty of amazing things to see that day.

The first thing we did was to visit the castle that was conveniently located right above our hostel. Walking back along the road, we reached a fork, and 15 minutes later we were up on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Rhine river valley, and beyond that the little village of St Goarhausen and the castles beyond. This castle had been one of the most important in the area, called Rudesheim, it was built early on as a trading post and had been expanded over the years to a vast warren of rooms. However, the invention of gunpowder and its liberal use in the years after its construction led to the demolition of the central keep and many of the outlying buildings, resulting in a castle with crumbling walls covered in vines, stairways that led to nowhere, and dark tunnels down into the earth. I asked Brian if he had ever read the Chronicles of Narnia, and told him that this was exactly what it felt like to me. He hadn’t, but he agreed with me that it was the coolest place ever. We felt like adventurers, and although the more dangerous parts of the castle were roped off, we could still scramble around in near darkness around the remains of the fortifications, the dim light of day filtering through half overgrown loopholes for arrow fire.

We had not realized how dark the castle would be in some areas. We would walk into dim passages, and as the loopholes were filled in or as we reached the deeper, darker underbelly of the castle, the light would gradually disappear and we would resort to using the flashes of our cameras and the red focus light to find our way, briefly illuminating the penetrating darkness. We almost followed a spiral staircase down that way, but realizing that we could see absolutely no light at the bottom and fearing broken legs on the stair in the dark, we turned back. Then out of the dim passages we would burst out into the bright sunlight, squinting and more than a little disoriented—this castle had a myriad of passages everywhere, and figuring where we had come from and how to get around was more than a little confusing. But we had all of the time in the world, and spend most of the morning rambling around the ruins.

After a short water break (which actually turned out to be expensive, bottled, and fizzy water), we turned back to the castle for one more adventure—having explored the entire fortification wall we wanted to get right into the guts of the buildng. This part had been more damaged than the others by the blast, and was mostly a series of broken walls left to bleach out in the sun, or to be pulled down by the encroaching creepers. But some of the higher towers and walls were still climbable, and reaching the top we could see before us the whole sweep of the land below; rolling green fields behind us fading into the steeper slopes as we got closer to the river, and then turning into terraced vineyards as they descended into the water. It was breathtaking.

There was even a small museum that had images of the castle and engravings depicting its history and building, but we were more interested in the outdoors, so we hiked back down the hill to our hostel, past strings of vines that wove their way down the slope, back to the hostel. We had read in the guidebook about a nice hike on the opposite shore, so after grabbing a few Doner Kebabs we prepared ourselves. The castle that we wanted to visit was called Burg Maus, and although it was clearly visible from our perch atop the crumbling towers of the much larger Burg Rudesheim, once we neared the river it had disappeared out of sight around a bend in the river. According to the guidebook, however, it was a rewarding and strenuous hike, and we both needed to get some exercise. So we took the brief trip across the river, emerging in St Goarhausen.

Across the river the Berg Rudesheim looked huge—a sprawling expanse of walls and rubble, and the town below looked absolutely charming. The little steep roofed and timber faced buildings clustered together along the waterfront, and right in the middle a church sent its steeple skyward. If it weren’t for the steel and riveted barge we had ridden over upon it would have just as easily belonged 500 years earlier. Turning to our side of the river it was no different—small houses and narrow streets paraded along the water front. We set out in the direction of Burg Maus, walking along the water where as we moved from the city center the buildings grew simpler and more modernized—the timbered fronts exchanging for painted concrete and flat roofs. But the water was still lovely, and after asking directions from several non-English speakers we eventually found the road that went up to the castle. We took the road back away from the water and deeper into the town, passing underneath the railroad tracks that ran like a ribbon on the side of the river, moving back toward the mountains which towered over the roofs of the little town.

And we began our ascent, up the road which was well shaded and switchbacked frequently. It was so green here—ever greens and larger deciduous trees that crowded out much of the sunlight and sent it downward in dappled splotches to us on the road. Where the trees did break, we were always afforded a great view of the land either stretching behind, or the river stretching before. It was a pleasant hike, and as always Brian and I had plenty of things to talk about as we walked. We reached the top in a few hours, and came to the brilliantly painted door of the caslte—a heraldic double headed eagle that screamed at us in black paint. But the massive doors were locked for a bird show, and over the walls we could hear the screeching of hawks as they swooped overhead. All this way to find the castle closed! It was a disappointment, but we both had thoroughly enjoyed the walk. We sat for a few minutes on the low stone wall outside of the castle, debating what to do next.

We had seen a sign for a hiking trail that led back to St Goarhausen, but it was not the same path that we had taken on the ascent so we were not sure how long it would take or where we would end up. I was still feeling pretty under the weather because of my cold, and the lack of sleep on the previous night was certainly not helping, and because water was so scarce in Germany we had not had any all day and with the hot sun we were quickly getting dehydrated. So we opted to go back the way we had come, going down the switchback road and out into the town. We passed a campground that we had seen on the way, and stopped in to get a drink because we were both famished. We asked for bubble-free water, and of course, they did not have any, but we made a sign for the faucet and although they looked at us really strangely in a few minutes we were rewarded with ½ liter glasses of the stuff. I had never been so appreaciative of water all of my life. It is true in Germany that it is as expensive as beer, and Brian and I being such enthusiastic water drinkers it was a difficult adjustment to make. We had to budget in an extra 3 or 4 euros every day to buy the bottled stuff wherever we went, and being from a country where water is usually free and readily available, we were suffering. That is one thing that I will definitely be grateful for when I return to the United States—bubble-free and endless supplies of water.

We continued on our way, meandering back up the water and taking the ferry over to St Goar. Brian’s insatiable appetite was acting up again, so we stopped at the same Gelateria that we had eaten at the night before, and treated ourselves to some more deliciousness, and then slowly walked back to the hostel. It was almost time to take the train back to Frankfurt, and as much as we did not want to leave this bcautiful little town, Brian’s flight left around noon and we could not afford to spend the night so far away.

The train ride was relatively uneventful—punctual, as always, and clean. On the way, Brian took out his iPod and introduced me to some of the American music I had been missing while I was away. I felt so disconnected from the media frenzy of the States. I had almost no idea of what movies were playing other than the ones that I had seen advertised in Europe, and most of the music that I had heard was at least 6 months old—I new it from before I had left. I popped one of the earbuds into my ear and we jammed away, first to the pop music that had come out, and when that was exhausted, Brian showed me some of the “good music” that he had discovered recently. It was a great time, and before we knew it we had traversed the 2 hours and had arrived back into the shiny steel world of Frankfurt.

We returned to Pension Bruns to find the place almost completely full. The woman who worked there told us in her broken English that she had to turn people away because we had reserved a room there, and explained that we would be in a different and more expensive room than we had been in before. We were both so happy to have arrived, and the difference was so small (only 5 euros), that we reassured her and dutifully followed her as she took us down a back stairs and into a large room with a huge bed and a private bathroom, something I had not seen since the Classics Trip had ended weeks ago. We were both really happy to have the peace and privacy, especially after my bad night with the German invasion that had occurred the night before. We were settled in Frankfut once again.

But we could not leave Germany without seeing a bit of the nightlife. Normally I don’t really go out late unless I have someone to go with—its just safer that way—but between my cold and Brian’s fatigue that first day we had not had the opportunity to see anything. And even though I was not entirely recovered, I felt more than well enough to find a place to hang out for a few hours. We each showered, and then went to a local place for some more excellent Italian food. I think Germany has almost as good pizza as Italy does, and after overloading ourselves with Bratwursts in those first few days we were happy to get away from the hearty German fare. It was truly delicious and we were both anxious to fill our empty stomachs.

We consulted our guidebook again and it informed us that there was a good district to try across the river in Frankfurt, so we hopped on the subway, emerging in what looked like another quiet residential neighborhood. Not quite the hopping scene that we had expected. We were almost ready to just turn around and call it a night, but we decided to walk just a few more blocks away from the metro station just to see if anything was going on, and as we walked we began to see both more people and more lights—not as much as a night in Athens, but enough to let us know that the neighborhood was not entirely dead. We kept moving past various neon signs, peeking in the windows to look for any activity, when I spotted a hole in the wall Irish Pub radiating the cheerful sound of a guitar and the murmur of voices. We stepped inside, went down a narrow set of stairs and emerged into a warmly lit basement, paneled along one wall with dark wood and with high tables and stools scattered around. In the far corner some young looking kids with guitars were covering some moody music, and a lively group of people were perched along the bar.

We sat down and were immediately greeted by a solid looking guy in a dark oxford shirt and an earring who spoke to us in what sounded like a genuine Irish accent. We asked him if we could have Applewine (a Frankfurt specialty), and he immediately looked at us in a start of horror. “Why would you order that crap in an Irish Pub?” he said. We looked at each other, wondering what the problem was. This was still an Irish Pub in Frankfurt…

He proceeded to explain to us that Applewine tasted like apple cider that had been left to sit out in the sun all day and then put in a bottle, and since we told him that we were leaving Frankfurt the next day and wanted to try it, he conceded by bringing us a small sample instead of the liter jars in which the stuff was normally served. Luckily for us, he was right—the stuff did not taste good at all, and when we had our obligatory sips and returned the glass to the table he smiled at us and said “Now, tell me what you would really like to drink…”

The guy turned out to be from Canada, and was in Frankfurt at an Irish bar because, as he put it, it was the best job for someone who liked alcohol and could not speak German. He ended up as our unofficial advisor for the rest of the night, recommending and describing the various items on the menu. We watched him make the round of guests sitting there, cajoling some and admonishing the others, and making sure that everyone had their fill. In the background, the young boys in their instruments broke into a rendition of Damien Rice, and Brian and I looked at each other, startled, because the song had meant a great deal to both of us and because neither of us had heard it outside of playing it on our own iPods. It was a funny coincidence. The boys finished their set after a while, and the bar turned into a karaoke venue which luckily did not last long; the girls who went up to sing were absolutely terrible and we were both happy when the house music was turned on and we were left to our own conversations. The place was buzzing, people talking and laughing, and one guy eventually broke out in an Irish song that turned heads in the whole building. At the very end of the night, the Canadian turned to everyone there and got them to sing their national anthems and we got to hear Germany, Ireland, Canada, and a great rendition of the National Anthem by Brian, who was duly complimented by the Canadian when the song had ended. Everyone joined in when they could, but no one was familiar with each other’s words, and the whole thing ended up mixing verses and sounded quite funny except for Brian’s strong voice cutting through it all. When he had finished, everyone clapped and with a bravo, we ceased to be a unit and broke up into our little groups again.

It was a great night. We left soon after the national anthems, and took a short cab ride back to the hotel, collapsing into bed and sleeping soundly until the next morning. I could not believe that Brian was leaving already! It seemed like he had only just arrived, and he had to turn around and fly right back to Spain. And then I was truly alone. We spent the morning preparing for our trips—I made a reservation in Nuremberg, and Brian checked his information for Spain, and late in the morning we both boarded the U-bahn, I dropped Brian off at the airport, gave him a hug, and boarded my own train to Nuremberg.

Frankfurt

continuing to catch up....

The day after I left Weimar I regretfully said goodbye to the two friendly girls, and ventured forth from the hostel to jump on a long train to Frankfurt. I was meeting an old friend from high school there, who happened to be studying abroad in Spain this summer. He had a free four day weekend and had agreed to spend it coming to meet me, temporarily relieving my loneliness! I would have preferred to go elsewhere—a brief glance at the guidebook told me that Frankfurt was well known for its banking and not much else. Luckily I took a closer look at the guidebook later, because I discovered some wonderful wine towns located on the Rhine river only about 2 hours away, which we made a point to visit. It was a wonderful trip—I had not spoken to Brian since I had left Gainesville in January, and it was refreshing to see him again, especially in Germany. Both of us were a little stunned that we had managed to meet up in Europe, and we spent a good amount of the time comparing notes on the things we had seen while abroad. It was really fun though, and I was sad to see him leave! But I still had things to take care of in Europe anyway.

I arrived in Frankfurt in the late afternoon and had very little trouble finding the right train to take to get to the hotel—everyone I have asked for help is very willing to lead me around or point me the right way. I am consistently amazed at how helpful everyone is here. But, helpful as they try to be, the directions that I had gotten from the hotel were incredibly vague and my map was terrible, so I spent a good hour walking back and forth down this huge boulevard by the Messe in Frankfurt looking for Beethovenstrasse. I never found it. Luckily I ran into the street that came after Beethovenstrasse in my list of directions, and after a long walk down what looked like a quiet residential street I pulled up, sweating and tired, to the Pension Bruns, our housing for the night.

At the top of a long flight of stairs I finally reached the lobby, where I was greeted by a very short Asian looking woman, who checked me in at the kitchen area of what must have been an old Victorian house. But soon enough I had my room—a spacious place with high ceilings, sinks, and two comfy looking twin beds, and I threw all of my stuff on the floor and collapsed, waiting for Brian to show up. After about an hour, during which I almost fell asleep, I heard commotion on the stairwell and poked my head out to see a very lightly packed and very sweaty Brian emerging from the ground floor. I was so happy to see him! We settled his stuff inside, and he told me a similar story to the one I had experienced—wandering around Frankfurt looking for a missing street and getting completely lost. Plus, his flight was delayed, so he started off later than most. Luckily, he had asked enough people to help him find his way, and after showering we decided to take the U-bahn to see what Frankfurt had to offer.

Like I said, the impressions from my guide book gave me the thought that there might not be much to do in the banking city, but we emerged in the downtown area amidst tons of colloquial architecture—timbered walls and tiled roofs, huge cathedrals and squares with fountains spitting water, and I was pleasantly surprised. We found the river, with a cluster of new and old buildings on both banks, and we ambled along for a while, catching up and people watching. I also got information on a cruise that I thought looked interesting—a slow ride down the Rhine river to the wine country. But since we had no idea of what we were doing for the next few days, we decided not to get tickets immediately but just to look around. It was a nice area, and the sun was out, and we had a lot to talk about, so we let Frankfurt slide by as we discussed everything that we had missed for the past 6 months.

Eventually we both realized that we were really hungry, so we stopped in at a local place in one of the older parts of town, right next to a huge red brick cathedral. It was outdoor dining, and a stout, matter of fact looking woman gave us an English language menu with a number of different sausage dishes. We were in Frankfurt, after all. So we did as Germans do, and ordered huge bratwurts, potatoes, and topped off the whole meal with a big pitcher of beer. It was all actually surprisingly tasty, in a brawny sort of way. Definitely not my usual fare but I had head that the sausages in the area were very good, so I figured why not? And we spent the better part of the afternoon in that small table underneath a striped umbrella, talking and talking as the bratwurst and beer slowly disappeaered from our plates. When we were finished, we resumed our walk again.

We were looking for something to do that evening, and we spotted one of the many signs in the city downtown that showed the locations of the notable cultural attractions. I spotted a sign for an English Theater, and we both decided that it would be a great way to finish the evening. Map in hand, we ventured forth, making some wrong turns here and there but eventually emerging in a huge square with a big statue of the euro sign surrounded by stars and another modern block like building with well dressed people filtering in and out. I saw a sign on the side of the building—“Frankfurt Oper.” Ditching our plans for the Engilsh Theater, we thought an opera would be much cooler. Neither of us had been to one, we walked inside and up to the cashier. We asked the woman there when the next show was, and she told us that there was one starting in about 10 minutes. It was now or never. We knew nothing about the show, but realizing that the opportunities to go to an opera in Germany are few and far between, we bit the bullet and paid the discounted student tickets, and ventured inside.

We did not get what we expected. I thought that seeing an Opera in a foreign language would be OK—because 1. I was not likely to understand the words even if they were in English due to the flowery singing, and 2. A good deal of understanding anything comes from the gestural side anyway. But the curtain rose and we were greeted with what looked like life size puppets—people with their bottom halves hidden behind a wall and stuffed legs attached to their torsos that they draped over the wall to act as their lower halves. It all looked very strange—the people had princely looking costumes with absurdely short stunted legs, and because they had to keep these false legs behind the platform the entire time their movements could only be back and forth, right next to the wall. They looked in many respects like animated playing cards. There was a king, with a completely false looking beard and a white painted face with huge rings around the eyes, a Queen with long locks of yarn-like hair, and the same white face with bright red lips. And the rogue, what I later perceived to be the Bad Guy of the Opera was dressed entirely in black with a pointed beard.

But, because this was in a foreign language, and the movements of the actors so necessarily restricted by their costumes and the set, I had little to no idea of what was actually going on. All of the movements were slow and deliberate, and the puppetry masked much of the body language that I could have used to figure things out. I looked over at Brian, who was sitting next to me, and I could see he was just as clueless as I was. And knowing how long operas last did not make me optimistic, so I was glad when he leaned over at one of the breaks in the singing and told me that he was totally clueless and more than a little weirded out by the strange performance. He told me he would not mind leaving early, and I agreed. At the first intermission we ducked out, emerging, laughing into the streets. Next time I go to see an opera, I will check to see if it uses puppets. Never again.

But Brian was fading fast, what with a long walk to try to find the hotel and a very early plane ride, he said that he needed to get back to the hotel and sleep, or eat, because it was well past dinner time. So we returned to Pension Bruns and tried to brainstorm about what to do next. We asked the woman who worked there for the nearest restaurant, but finding it closed, we kept wandering about the quiet streets until we found an island of noise, where we found crisp white table cloths and umbrellas lighting up what looked like a rather nice Italian place. Seeing nothing close by, we headed in, and enjoyed a very nice dinner, at a rather inexpensive price. Brian and I always have a lot to talk about, so my Greek salad and his pasta was long gone before we finally decided to get up and head back to the hotel. Brian and I fell asleep almost immediately, exhausted from the day of travel.

We had decided some point earlier that day after looking at the ferry schedule to spend one more day in Frankfurt, where we could see a bit more of the city and make plans for our excursion to the wine country. We woke up late and lazed around a bit in the hotel, thumbing through my guide book and checking the internet for different things to see and do both in Frankfrut and along the Rhine river. We decided to go ahead and take the ferry after all, to Lorelei-St. Goar, a small town about 2 hours away where there was a reputed amazing castle ruin and a “scrambling 1 ¼ hour hike” up to anther castle, from which we could overlook the whole of the Rhine valley, cliffs and all. It looked promising. So we headed back into the older part of Frankfurt, where we made provisions for the journey—asked about ferry tickets, made a train reservation for the way back to Frankfurt, from which Brian’s flight would be departing, and to recharge the minutes on my cell phone, which had decided to run out right when I would need to make important reservations. The day was bright and sunny, and we meandered a bit as we took care of these mundane tasks, stopping at one point to get some fresh strawberries at a fruit stand. Places like this seem to just pop up all over Germany, and the fruit is always good, and fresh. I wish that more stuff like this existed in the United States.

Then, we did some real sitghtseeing. We went to the Dom, one of the few relics of Frankfurt’s medieval past, a massive intricately faced gothic cathedral. It was quite impressive, and stood out in stark contrst from the other sleek buildings that surrounded it. Walking inside, we entered the quiet peace and tranquility that is the hallmark of these places, and sat for a while, taking in the beautiful stained glass windows, and the paintings, one of which was by a fairly well known northern artist (Van Dyk, I think, or Hans Holbern… not having studied or seen many northern works I have a hard time keeping the names straight. ) We also visited the museum attached, which had intricate relics from the church’s past—cloth of gold gowns and elaborately embroidered crowns, jewel boxes carved in miniature, and jewels and wealth everywhere. Brian told me that he had seen works of a similar nature in the churches in Spain—where the Catholic church was notably wealthy and powerful. I could not believe how much material wealth these churches had, and the amount of time and labor that must have gone into the production of such a side variety of things.

We emerged back into the sunlight and did some more wandering again before coming to another old site, the seat of the congress or some other governing body in Frankfurt. We walked in small gate into an old courtyard, the gothic pointed arches creating long colonnades on all four sides. We saw a tight spiraling staircase that took us spiraling up into a great hall lined with dark wood and with an incredibly high ceiling. It looked like something that would belong in an old movie—the sheen of richly polished wood and the grandeur of the high ceiling would have indeed have made a stately place for political gatherings. And then we turned up another broader flight to enter another room. This one was entirely covered in portraits of kings, ranging from ones in the 700s to ones in th 1700s complete with suits of armor and weapons, others followed by flights of angels and carrying the scepter of the church, others astride horses, and other with important documents held in their hands. They all had names like “Heinrich” or “Wilhelm,” appropriately German, and one or two of the names struck a bell in the far off memories of my 10th grade European History class, but none of them stuck. We all admired the portraits, and I at least watched as the fashions in the clothing changed from the heavily plated armor, to short bloomers, to what looked like swashbuckling brigand attire, to at the latest dress that looked like it would have been in perfect keeping with the French revolution—short grey wigs, long coats, and trousers. It was really interesting, but I wish I had known more about the kings themselves so that the insignia that they chose to place with their portraits actually meant something. Too bad.

By that point, it was nearing a late lunch time, and wanting to avoid yet another costly meal out, I suggested that we try to find a grocery store and make some kind of picnic lunch for ourselves. We could even grab extra for dinner. Consulting my Let’s Go Germany, I found something even better—a listing for a huge three story indoor food market, located very near by to where we were by the Dom. I looked at Brian, and he looked at me, and I could tell by the expression on his face that we had hit something good. Jackpot. We followed the map and turned up a few side streets before reaching what looked like a big warehouse.

But inside, it was anything but—booths after booth of different vendors selling many different varieties of food. There were the sausage vendors, of course, with ropes of different colored meats hanging from the ceiling, and trays and trays of meats in all stages of processing. There were fruit stands, with all varieties of fruit, much better and fresher than any grocery store. There were also little bakery shops, with turnovers, and meusli bars. There were Turkish food stores, which I especially welcomed—trays of honey-and-nut goodies, and of course Baklava. There were also places that sold wine, places that sold huge varieties of olives and Mediterranean specialties, and fish markets. Brian, who is an absolute slave to his insatiable appetite, was absolutely enthralled, and I who had fond memories of shopping in the Spice Bazaar and in Florence was truly happy to enter the panopoly of sounds and smells. We could not decide what to eat first! But we saw along one wall a bratwurst stand, selling cooked brats and bread and we started there. For only a few Euro, the woman who worked there sliced off a bit of pork sausage, with garlic or without, peeled the skin off and served it with a hunk of bread and some mustard. There was a huge line of people and scores more eating as they stood, with a little paper tray in one hand and the food in the other. Brian and I each got some, and it was delicious! We found a small counter and ate away. Then for more food we went to a fruit stand, and after that to a Turkish food stand, where I got a ball of nuts and dried fruit and honey. Delicious!

We both decided that we would come back to this place to shop for dinner, and would eat it, CSA style, as a picnic in our hotel room. Going out all of the time was getting expensive, even though we were trying to be as frugal as possible. I was getting tired, and Brian too—I had developed the beginnings of a head cold when I was in Weimar, and in typical Nicole fashion had decided to ignore it, thinking that by doing whatever I was going to do anyway that it would decide to leave me alone. Unfortunately for me, it had only gotten worse. Luckily, Brian acted as a check on my sanity that day, and convinced me to actually acknowledge the cold long enough to retreat to the hotel for a nap. He wanted to go running and rest for a bit. So, we headed back, where I blogged for a bit and slept. He came back from his run and showered just in time for us to return to the market, where we stocked up on goods for a salad, finishing it off with some shrimp in olive oil.

That night, I had what was probably one of the best picnics of my life—all of the veggies were delicious, and we bought a lemon to use as salad dressing, a suggestion that Brian had thought was really strange until he tried it and then liked so much that he actually started cutting up bits of lemon and mixing them with his salad greens, to “enhance the flavor.” The shrimp that we had bought at the market was delicious, as was the Turkish delight that we had for dessert—leftovers of the pack that I had bought while in Berlin. And, to make the entire picnic seem a little bit more civilized, we had borrowed plates and extra forks from the hotel and were not just eating out of my scuffed plastic bowl. It was a good night. We talked just about the whole time, but even with my rest in the day my cold was catching up with me, and knowing that venturing into the city would require yet another metro ride and more money to spend, I suggested that we just take the night easy and watch a movie.

Casino Royale was duly inserted into my laptop, and before long we were both engrossed. I fell asleep before the end, but Brian told me the next day that he had gotten restless and eaten some of the leftover food, and ended up watching the whole movie, staying up very late. We were catching the ferry to Lorelei the next day, and he woke up completely regretting his sleepless night. I was more recovered, and looking forward to a lazy day on the river. At least when I was stuck on a boat for four hours I could not possibly run myself down. There was nowhere to go.

....to be continued......

Weimar

June 11, 2007

Nuremberg, Germany

Still trying to catch back up from the whole week’s madness… there are only 8 days left in my travels and it is feeling like it has flown by! I cannot believe how much I have seen and done but I am starting to get a little bit road weary. Its annoying to figure out how the shower works and where to get food every place I go. Enough already! Get me to something familiar!

That said, this whole trip has been incredibly awesome. I feel like I have done and seen more things in the past few weeks than I will see for the next few years. (Hopefully not, but it seems likely.) And Germany has been remarkably easy to navigate and the people immeasurably helpful. Almost everyone I met after the fiasoes in Dessau spoke very good English, and whenever they caught me with my forehead scrunched up and half-frowning, turning my map and myself around and around, they were quick to jump in and point me in the right direction. Which I greatly appreciated, especially when I was loaded down with all of my bags, computer case, etc, and was looking desperately for my hostel. After a long day in the train the last thing I wanted to do was wander around a strange city for hours and hours. But with their help I usually found it in no time.

I regretfully said goodbye to my incredibly comfortable digs in the Bauhaus, grateful that I had one night where I did not share a room—preventing me from talking away my sleep time and letting me laze around as much as I wanted without risk of being disturbed. Then, I hiked all of my things down to the train station, and whizzed off into the German morning. I was headed to Weimar, the capital of Germany at the time of the Bauhaus’ infancy in 1919 and considered by Let’s Go Germany to be the cultural capital of the whole country. Goethe, a famous German poet largely unknown to myself, was born and spent a signficicant amount of time there, and I found a number exhibits about him and his contemporaries in a nearby museum.

The train rolled up to the small station, I hopped on a bus, and arrived completely disoriented in Goetheplatz, what I though was one of the main centers of the old town. All around me buildings rose in rough hewn timber and stucco, with sloping slate or tiled roofs. I felt like I had stepped out of the contemporary world and back some 500 odd years, where any minute a horse and a knight in shining armor would come charging around the corner. Luckily for me, burdened as I was, the cobblestoned streets remained relatively calm as I trundled along, my rolling bag clicking over the gaps in the stones. (One side not for future travel: use a heavy duty backpack! The small towns are not equipped for rolling suitcases!) After making a few wrong turns and backtracking I finally found my hostel, a self proclaimed unconventional and student run hostel set in an 1800s house close to the main square, with a huge bronze fountain out in front spouting water, and the walls crawling with ivy.

I rang the bell, and after a short wait a scruffy looking student opened the door, and invited me to haul my bags up one flight where I entered a dimly lit and eclectically furnished living and dining room, which upon paying I was lead to a cramped and even more eclectically furnished bedroom, stacked to the ceiling with all kinds of different bunk beds. I found myself a nook high up, with a convenient shelf over the headboard where I threw my camera and other things as I got myself settled.

The Hababusch Hostel quite lived up to its reputation for being unconventional. It looked like someone working at Satchel’s Pizza had decided to open up a hotel. (For those of you that don’t know Satchel’s, it’s a great locally owned and operated pizzeria in Gainesville furnished completely with mismatched salvaged furniture, lights, and dishes. It’s a wonderful menagerie of different styles and aesthetics—there is even one table constructed in an old VW van. And, of course, the pizza and signature Satchel’s Salad with homemade dressing is delicious. Lunch special with one slice and small salad for $5, totally cheap and absolutely mouthwatering. Nothing better in the whole world—its still my favorite restaurant, and I always go there when I come back home.) This Hostel looked like it was furnished from bits and pieces of trash-turned-treasure. There was a huge wrought iron chandelier over the dining room table, which featured an assortment of plastic, metal, and wooden chairs. The bathrooms looked like they had been refurbished by the students who ran the place—the shower controls looked like something originally intended for a sink, with a tube running up overhead from which the water emerged. In the bathrooms, a series of mismatched white pedestal sinks paraded in front of a huge mirror, and one of them had been flipped upside down and wired through and through and stuck overhead to make one of the most unusual lights that I had ever seen. The walls in the living rooms were covered with what looked like student paintings, and old couches and ripped up auditorium seats rested against the walls to make more seating area. It was incredibly bohemian, and a really fun change from the white acerbic cleanliness of the Bauhaus, and the spare utilitarianism of the Jetpack hostel in Berlin.

I stayed in long enough to breathe in the atmosphere and drop my things off. So far I had two roommates, a shy Asian girl who I discovered was taking exams for entry into the music school in Weimar, and a Russian guy with a bald head who only spoke enough English to introduce himself, and continued to look at me with a strange quizzical expression as I got out my maps and wallet and got on my way. I left him standing in the door looking at me as I walked out into the Weimar morning.

I was delighted to find Weimar in a bustle of activity. Simply walking around I saw the most charming little buildings, and crazy streets that turned at odd angles and tehn would suddenly open up into a larger square framed by an impressive building on one side, usually with a statue or a fountain as accompaniment. I came out into a square just like that—framed on one side by the Weimar theater and on the other by the Bauhaus museum, which was the whole purpose of the trip.

The Bauhaus Museum in Weimar is neatly tucked into an old pastel colored building, but the interior is painted completely white with a central exhibition space made of curving walls and a mechanical looking set of stairs—a bit of modernity in a wrinkled skin. The exhibit contained more of the paper works of the Bauhaus masters—Feininger and Kandinsky, as well as a good deal of the student exercises and works, experiments with color and composition. It was interesting to note how much more organic most of these works appeared than the architecture that the Bauhaus produced. While all of the objects—the lamps, the coffee pots, and the furniture, seemed to be firmly based around the grouping of primitive solid objects, the painting seemed to express a different variation on the Bauahus theme. Granted, some of Kandinsky’ pieces were dominated by scattered circles and vague grid patterns, others like Lionel Feiningers were much more painterly—resembling cubism more than anything else. His works even had a relatinship to the concrete world—they were vast cityscapes, patches of color as though the city was being seen through a wavy old glass window. But it was never distilled all of the way down to black and white, solid simple lines and shapes. And the fabrics too—they almost seemed tribal in appearance.

I guess the Bauhaus is more multifaceted than anyone gives it credit for. I also was beginning to receive some information about the ways in which the school changed from its inception during the Weimar heyday until its move to Dessau and its later confinement in Berlin before Hitler closed it down altogether. In its earlier incarnations, Gropius spoke of the Bauhaus as a union between art and craft—bringing together the functional and nonfunctional aspects of design. Such would explain the prevalence of fabrics and an emphasis on more organic principles. After the move to Dessau, however, Gropius released a new statement on the mission of the Bauhaus to unify art and technology. Such a change would lead to a departure from the craft guild atmosphere of the Weimar school and towards a machine-manufactured world. The upper floor of the gallery contained some of the objects from the Dessau Bauhaus, and the difference could be seen in some of the objects—the shiny cups and bowls and in the space age looking lamps and chairs.

I spent the rest of the morning in the museum, and emerged quite ready to rest up a bit and have some lunch. I returned briefly to the hostel to drop off a few things—notebooks and such, before heading out in a different direction. My guidebook told me that one good area to look for food was in a market square not far from my hostel, and when I emerged from the tunnel of streets into this open space, it was into a wonderful splash of color. Tents had been set up facing the one large red gothic building that dominated the square, the rathaus, I think. Most of them were striped like candycanes—red and white, and different booths were set up selling all manner of foods. Most of them were fruit and vegetable stands, and when I saw a man hawking a whole box of strawberries for 99 cents, I immediately walked over and bought some. I sat on a bench facing the market area, watching tourists and residentcs come and go with their ice cream or their fruit in hand. I sat next to an older couple dressed out in khaki pockets scribbling postcards. But the berries were delicious! It had been ages since I had strawberries—they are normally so rare and expensive we avoided them. But not here! I was so happy.

When I had about half exhausted my berry supply, I decided to get up and get some real food, so I found the nearest rostbratwurst stand and picked myself up a Thuringer Rostbratwurst, a huge dark colored sausage that the vendor stuck in a completely inadequately sized piece of bread. It looked funny to me—the sausage was sticking for a good several inches on either side of the small roll of white bread. But it was delicious, and I returned to my bench to watch the people milling about as I finished up my lunch. Since I was there, and since there looked like an overabundance of fresh food around, I bought a few apples and things to supplement my peanut butter and bread for dinner. Satisfied that I had fulfilled that basic need, I ventured out into the town again, wandering toward the Schloss Musuem, but first finding the Anna Amalia museum and what I thought was a part of a castle, the dark outline of a turret tower reaching skyward.

Turns out the dark turret was actually a part of the Schloss, a huge complex set in a great square around a courtyard, its very tall windows looking into the cobblestoned space and on the other side outward to where a lazy river and a sprawling park meandered. It was so beautiful, I was almost reluctant to leave the museum and simply spend the rest of the afternoon whiling away the time on the grass by the side of the river like I saw many other people doing. But I always knew that I could do that later, and I had heard some good things about the museum, so I approached the entrance with the most banners around it, supposing it to be the main entrance. Turns out that it was a special exhibit to Anna Amalia—the name kept popping up, and I had no idea why.

So I asked where the permanent exhibition was, and was directed to a less-adorned entrance with the simple gold lettering declaring “Schloss Museum” over the top. The woman there spoke no English, but she sold me the ticket readily enough, and I gave a sight of relief as I entered the quiet echoing halls of the museum. The first museum contained a good number of portraits by Northern Renaissance artists, including Albrecht Durer. They were very different from all of the Italian works I had seen, darker in color, with a profusion of mahogany wood and forest green, with the sober expressions of figures placed less realisitically in their setting. The emphasis here was on a clarity of line and image, not necessarily with exuberance of light and color. The word that came to mind when viewing them was sober—they looked serious and stern in a way that the Italian works did not. Perhaps it was the lack of a Mediterranean atmosphere or something.

I broke out my sketchbook but I had lost all of my writing utencils except for a felt tip black pen, which was a radical departure from my ball-point and pencil scribblings. I decided to adapt by trying some simple line drawings, instead of trying to build form by the addition of more line and volume in repeated strokes of light lines, I had no choice here but to go dark. So I simplified my drawings down to contour lines, focusing not on strict versimilitude, but upon simplicity and economy of line. They looked very different from anything that I had done before but they were a good exercise. Normally I don’t even like ball point because it takes me a lot of experimentation to get the forms the way I want—I liked acrylic paint the best because I could quickly repaint over an error. Here, the errors could not be erased or drawn over without creating great dark lines. So I had to simply draw very carefully my first impressions of the faces of the people in the painting and be satisfied with that.

I kept walking deeper and deeper into the gallery, stopping to admire painting after painting—most of them by artists unknown to me but consisting primarily of portraits or of scenes from the Bible or mythology. There were also some miniature sculptures—something that perhaps the Northern artists specialized in (they were certainly fond of minature paintings, I thought) with intricate carvings in ivory and bone of chubby cherubims or angels. I could not believe the level of detail carved into these tiny, Christmas-tree-ornament-sized objects. I would step really close and press my nose almost to the glass to try to get an impression of it all.

There were also ceramics, decorated with genre scenes of everyday life—ladies in huge flouncy dresses and men in their pantaloons sitting in a romantic setting by a pond. It all looked kind of like something out of a Fragonard picture, too delicate and too picturesque to quite be believable. But the craftsmanship on the vessels was excellent. I kept moving through the museum, looking in curio cabinets and on the walls until I suddenly turned the corner and dead ended into a wall. I walked slowly back through the exhibit, stunned the I had come to an end so quickly. But I had. I exited the museum and was about to leave the place to return to the hostel, much earlier than I had expected, when I saw the Anna Amalia exhibit that I had avoided previously. Figuring that I needed to occupy my time somehow, and thinking it might be interesting, I got myself a ticket and an audioguide—a great feature when all of the placards and signs are in German—and let myself inside.

I ascended a big flight of steps to reach the main exhibition gallery. It turns out that Anna Amalia was the duchess of this region before it was incorporated into the German state, and she lived contemporary with some of Germany’s greatest poets and thinkers—Goethe an Schiller. The exhibition contained stories about Anna Amalia’s life, the state of her duchy and political events surrounding her reign. Anna Amalia had taken on a duchy saddled with debt, but she could not rectify the situation and the problem was not solved until her son came of age and relieved her of her regency. Then she was free to pursue more pleasurable pastimes, such as music and painting—some of her original works lined the walls. And, later in life, she embarked on a grand tour similar to the one that I am near the end of now. The audioguide explained the fascination with the classical world, and I entered rooms full of romantic paintings of Rome—I recognized the Piazza del Popolo, and the Pantheon, not from pictures, but from my own experience! What a great feeling, to feel like I have followed in the footsteps of a German duchess.

Other parts of the exhibit showed some of Goethe’s contributions to the area. More than just a poet, as most intellectuals were those days, he discovered the mid-jawbone in humans, a trait that linked them with other mammals. He was also interested in music and theater, and took control of a local theater in the region, directing all of the plays and performances there. He was at the forefront of a number of intellectual movements simultaneously. The museum showed other developments contemporary with Goethe—experiments in electricity and navigation, and I found myself engrossed in the exhibition. I drew occasionally, but mostly listened and watched as this world completely unknown to me unfolded in the high walls of the old palace.

The exhibit eventually spit me out in the bright light of the afternoon, and I took a long route back, meandering through the park whose paths were landscaped by Goethe. The place alternated between some landscaped regions on the bank of the river closest to towns, to sprawling greens and drooping trees on the part which I walked. It was a place that would almost make me believe in the idyllic settings created by Fragonard. I walked until the sun looked like it would beat me on the way down, and so I quickly retreated to the welcome bohemian hostel.

It turns out our odd Russian friend was there again, and he seemed very happy to see me. He kept trying to talk to me in Russian, or German, or whatever it was, when all I really wanted to do was to eat and read in peace. I tried moving out of the bedroom that we were all sharing and into the dining room area, where I seated myself at one end of the long table away from the residents, who spoke quietly in German to each other. But he followed me there! I buried my head in my book and hoped that he would not talk to me, but he kept trying to get my attention, and when I would look up, he would stare at me with a kind of blank look on his face as he tried to scrap together bits and pieces of English. Which usually resulted in bits and pieces of German emerging from his mouth.

I retreated to the room, to find myself in the company of a girl who looked about my age and who I spoke to rapidly, pointing at the door through which the Russian would emerge. She told me she didn’t speak much English but she seemed to understand the gist of what I was saying, and when a friend of hers entered the room, she explained the situation to her also… Then the Russian returned, and stared at the three of us as we made a quick exit. The two girls, who I later disovered were German, were on summer vacation and offered to eat some dinner with me. Although I had already had a peanut butter sandwich, they were cooking up some good looking pasta in the kitchen and I desperately wanted their company over the Russians. So we hung out while the water boiled. The Russian kept coming in and leaving, trying to talk to us, and we told him to go away every time. The situation got stranger and stranger until I finally just went upstairs to where the art students lived. I told them that this guy had been following us around for the past hour, and they promised to help—they would get a friend who spoke Russian to talk to him.

In the meantime, the two girls and myself had seated ourselves at one end of the very long table and began talking, trying to ignore this strange man who had taken it upon himself to sit down next to us. I found out that they were from the southern part of Germany and that they were both just out of high school. They had traveled by train. We started talking about where we were from and what schools were like and what we liked to study, trying to talk over the huge white elephant sitting at the same table and staring at us. Luckily before the end of dinner the Russian speaking hostel person came and rescued us. Instead of having to share a room with this strange man, all three of us and the shy Asian I had met earlier got to change rooms.

Later that night, after we had settled in, the two girls, another guy we had met in the hostel who spoke Chinese and German, and myself went on a big meandering walk around the town. We passed the now mostly closed shops, and I asked Steffi (she was the one who spoke better English) about her favorite types of music, discovering in her a big affinity toward punk and indie rock music, although she said that she also really liked the Chili Peppers. I guess American media dominates the whole world; I don’t think I have been to a single place where American music has been absent. Its everywhere. She told me about where she was from, and how different it was from here. She said that because of Germany’s late unification there were a number of different German dialects and food, and cultural traditions that varied greatly from region to region. Which I of course found very interesting, and shared with her in turn my impressions of the American south. She asked me about the Civil War, and was shocked to hear me tell her that there are still placed in South Carolina that fly the Stars and Bars. She asked if the Civil War was a bigger deal in the States than WWII—and followed up her question by saying that, of course, WWII is huge for Germany. She told me that displaying the Swastika is outlawed, and that many Germans still feel guilty for the war, and that identifying oneself as a German outside of the country could bring trouble.

I was surprised that the ramifications from the war still resonated in her—someone way too young to have lived in it. But like in the States, there are reminders everywhere, and every history class speaks about it. The Germans are probably more highly conscious of the war than anyone else due to their involvement and the huge reparations that they had to make afterwards, resulting in such a big guilt complex. It was interesting to hear about though, and the four of us settled down in a table—myself and Seffi chatting in English, and her friend and the guy in German. I felt quite multicultural.

But soon enough it was bedtime, and we retreated back to our Russian-free room to talk some more, check emails and sleep. Although I would have liked to avoid the uncomfortable encounter with the Russian, meeting the girls was definitely worth it. We exchanged email addresses and I told them that if they ever wanted to visit the US they should look me up. Its amazing what friendly people I have met so far.