I'm back in the US now and I promise to write about Egypt once I temporarily reclaim a letter I wrote in which I detailed many of my thoughts on the country. Until then, I'll tide you all over with a quick account of the highlights of my plane ride from Paris back to Detroit last Saturday.
Two amusing things that happened on the flight that I thought I'd share with you all. The first involved a French woman who spoke very little English, a stewardess who spoke absolutely no French. Excessive pantomiming ensued. At first it began as simple miscommunications concerning the type of food they wanted, but later in the journey, the French woman took out a cigarette and proceeded to waggle it in the corner of her mouth for a few minutes, the rolled tobacco leaves just waiting to be lit. I felt a sinking in my stomach, awaiting what would surely be a terribly embarrassing exchange between this oblivious Frenchie and the stewardess.
Eventually the stewardess returned to the row with her snack cart, and as she started down the aisle, the flight attendant on the other side of the plane said to her in a very loud whisper, "Jane," (or whatever her name was) "meet me in the galley!" Clearly the other one had spotted the contraband first and now they had to discuss their strategy for addressing the situation. The first stewardess came back out and said to the French woman, "Hey, you know you can't smoke that in here, right? Nooooo... smooooking... Understand?" She then she attempted to communicate the concept of a no-smoking sign through her poorly cultivated charades skills, although I'm not sure why she bothered, since there was a nicely illuminated version, directly over every single seat, readily available for pointing at. Then there was some sort of incoherent spouting from the French woman, but apparently the stewardess is really good at understanding very broken English, since she then said to her fellow attendant, in a nice loud voice so everyone could hear, "Oh, it's not a real cigarette, it's just rubber." Then she turned back to the French woman. "Okay, remember, you can't smoke in here. People like you freak us flight attendants out." I'm pretty sure the French woman - who, by the way, had a voice a little bit like ET - didn't understand anything that was said, since her only reply was a chuckle that consisted mostly of the sound of phlegm loosening from the back of her throat, accented with a sibilant whistle of air being forced through the gap between her front teeth. The "fake" (I couldn't confirm it, and wasn't too convinced of the veracity of the story) cigarette continued to waggle, taunting the flight crew, as if to say, "Zo vhat if she lights me? De vorld is full of merde! C'est la vie!"
The other notable item from the flight was the American couple who sat directly in front of me. I think they were just married and were returning from their honeymoon in Paris (what a wretched place to spend one's honeymoon...). They spent most of the flight making out, and not even discreetly or quietly. No, these were big sloppy kisses, with their faces positioned right at the crack between the seats, so every time I looked up, I witnessed two tongues stabbing at each other like Olympic fencers. I'm pretty sure the guy won the bout, probably due to sheer overwhelming strength, but the woman certainly made a valiant effort, parrying and counter thrusting the whole time. At one point, they must have realized that they should save such activities for a more appropriate venue; therefore they adjourned to the lavatory. As was already evidenced, subtlety was clearly not a course taught in either of their primary schools, since they giggled the whole way to the loo, and simultaneously entered in a rather less than graceful manner. I discovered was not the only person to witness the antics (how could I be?), since I doubt that the three of the flight attendants who suddenly took up a vigil outside the lavatory door had all spontaneously decided that they really needed to pee just that second. When the pair once again emerged, it was a walk of utter shame that greeted them. The congregation of attendants outside the door had drawn most peoples' attention, so as they returned to their seats, it must have dawned upon them that that everyone on the plane, or at least in their section, now knew that they had just shacked up in one of the filthiest, most disgusting locales imaginable. How many people have puked in that little closet? How many morbidly obese men have relieved themselves of a terrible case of the traveler's trots in there? How many other people have had sex on that same wash basin counter top? Eww...
If you happen to be on a diet, I hope I've done my part to keep you from eating.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Friday, June 22, 2007
And I used to wonder why people called me strange
Excerpt from a recently written letter concerning a typewriter I bought at a flea market in Konstanz:
I was out walking about the downtown area here in Konstanz this weekend when I happened upon the biggest flea market I'd ever seen. The thing started at an intersection next to the river, near my university, and stretched into infinity in two directions. It was almost midnight when I happened upon this giant bonanza of secondhand commerce and it looked like the entire population of the city had come out to investigate the wares and had no intention of leaving before sunrise. The place was PACKED. Never before had I needed to walk sideways down a city street in the dead of night in order to make my way through the throngs of people blocking the way. When I began walking down one of the infinite rows of merchandise, I was unaware of its infinite nature. About a block down the line, I happened upon a very nice looking manual typewriter, of which I asked the price. The guy manning the tent told me to make an offer. "20 euro?" "Okay, sicher," he said. I hemmed and hawed for a while. "Möglicherweise später..." I wasn't ready to commit.
We (myself and two friends who were with me) continued on in search of treasure, picking our way over heaps of broken rotary-dial phones, trashy German romance novels, and used baby clothes that were held together more due to the adhesive properties of the spit-up that probably covered them by the material of the garments themselves - I couldn't verify this for sure though; spit-up stains are difficult to identify by flashlight illumination. Eventually, I spotted another manual typewriter, this time a smaller portable version, complete with carrying case. "Wieviel kostet es?" "Fünf euro." "Nur fünf?!" "Ja, genau." (As you can see, my German has progressed to the point where I regularly hold deep, philosophical conversations.)
I leapt at the bargain, accidentally knocking over two old women and a Chinese vase of Ming origins as I flew through the air. I'd always wanted a manual typewriter, since I tend to be silly and backwards in my tastes. At a price less than that of some sandwiches, I couldn't pass it up. Unfortunately, my new toy weighed on the order of an ass-ton and a half (with one ass-ton equaling the weight of 2000 donkeys)(and mind you, this was the portable model) and we still had the better part of an infinite distance to cover before reaching the end of the market. About an hour later, judging from a fractional sense, we'd made approximately zero forward progress. (I feel like this would be a good place to analogize my situation with a mathematical limit, but perhaps I'll refrain for everyone's sake.) My arm by this time was being held onto my shoulder by a few thin sinews of muscle that hadn't been torn free by the weight of the typewriter, so after running a quick cost/benefit analysis of the situation, I decided that heading back to my dorm and returning later to investigate the rest of the hodgepodge of miscellaneous offerings was probably a wise course of action.
So, upon returning to my room - which, incidentally, I like to call The Bat Cave - I was lured away from my bed, where I belonged, by the silky looking, cream colored machine sitting on my desk. It called to me there in the dark of night. It asked me to caress its keys. "I'm so lonely! Won't you come play with me?"
I didn't believe at first that it was actually talking to me, but then it began to ring the bell warning that one is approaching the end of a line. It was trying to get my attention. The motionless hammers looked at me with such a forlorn expression, I couldn't help but go and comfort them. I began by writing random words, simply to test the action of the keys. Then I started writing a letter. To whom, I didn't know, but I felt that writing a letter would be a proper use of such a noble beast.
I asked idly in my letter how the family was, if there was any news since the last time we'd talked, you know, the usual. After coming to the end of my paragraph, I stopped for a moment to think of what to write next, when before my eyes, my Triumph portable typewriter started drafting a response. It said, "I'm so glad to hear from you again. It’s been such a very long time since you last wrote. Billy and Pa are doing fine, though Stephie has been down with the measles, but Doctor Kindman says she should be well in no time at all. He says she has a very good constitution, and that if we keep giving her plenty of chicken soup and the medicine he prescribed, we should expect to see her out of bed early next week." The typewriter continued on for some time in this fashion, until it finally decided that it must be boring me with details and that it would allow me to go about doing more important things. I wrote back, telling it that there was no such thing as an unimportant detail and to not hold back. We exchanged communiqués at length before I finally decided to retire for the night.
When I arose the next morning, I found a message waiting for me. The typewriter was wondering why I hadn't written again for so long. Was I becoming bored with the accounts of the firmness or lack thereof of Sally, our milk cow's stools? If I was, that could be easily omitted from future letters if it meant I wouldn't neglect to write again. I said it was nothing in the letter that had caused the break in message sending, it was simply that I had things to do - namely sleeping - which prevented me from writing as often as my typewriter was demanding from me.
From the reply I received, I got the feeling my typewriter didn't buy my story. It said to me, "I know you have other priorities, but you seem to have been cold and distant recently. Is there someone else? Please, can we just be honest about the situation?" I was affronted by the accusation; I had had this typewriter for only just over a day and it was already leveling this terrible claim against me. "No," I said, "yours are the only keys my fingers dare to dance upon. I know it's difficult being apart for so long," - I imagine time passes much quicker for a typewriter, as I certainly hadn't thought our separation to be of interminable length - "but I need you to trust me if we're going to make this work."
I sat in front of the keyboard for several minutes before the hammers sheepishly banged out a reply. "I'm sorry I was so quick to doubt. You know how I'm prone to crises of confidence." Of course I was aware; if I had been sold for five euro at a flea market, I would start doubting my self-worth too.
We've been steadily making amends since that particular incident, and I feel like our relationship is really starting to blossom. I foresee writing many beautiful letters together. Anyway, I hope you don’t feel like that was too needless of a sidetrack into my personal affairs.
Hmm… what other mundane activities can I turn into unnecessarily long meanderings of a mind prone to hyperbole?
I was out walking about the downtown area here in Konstanz this weekend when I happened upon the biggest flea market I'd ever seen. The thing started at an intersection next to the river, near my university, and stretched into infinity in two directions. It was almost midnight when I happened upon this giant bonanza of secondhand commerce and it looked like the entire population of the city had come out to investigate the wares and had no intention of leaving before sunrise. The place was PACKED. Never before had I needed to walk sideways down a city street in the dead of night in order to make my way through the throngs of people blocking the way. When I began walking down one of the infinite rows of merchandise, I was unaware of its infinite nature. About a block down the line, I happened upon a very nice looking manual typewriter, of which I asked the price. The guy manning the tent told me to make an offer. "20 euro?" "Okay, sicher," he said. I hemmed and hawed for a while. "Möglicherweise später..." I wasn't ready to commit.
We (myself and two friends who were with me) continued on in search of treasure, picking our way over heaps of broken rotary-dial phones, trashy German romance novels, and used baby clothes that were held together more due to the adhesive properties of the spit-up that probably covered them by the material of the garments themselves - I couldn't verify this for sure though; spit-up stains are difficult to identify by flashlight illumination. Eventually, I spotted another manual typewriter, this time a smaller portable version, complete with carrying case. "Wieviel kostet es?" "Fünf euro." "Nur fünf?!" "Ja, genau." (As you can see, my German has progressed to the point where I regularly hold deep, philosophical conversations.)
I leapt at the bargain, accidentally knocking over two old women and a Chinese vase of Ming origins as I flew through the air. I'd always wanted a manual typewriter, since I tend to be silly and backwards in my tastes. At a price less than that of some sandwiches, I couldn't pass it up. Unfortunately, my new toy weighed on the order of an ass-ton and a half (with one ass-ton equaling the weight of 2000 donkeys)(and mind you, this was the portable model) and we still had the better part of an infinite distance to cover before reaching the end of the market. About an hour later, judging from a fractional sense, we'd made approximately zero forward progress. (I feel like this would be a good place to analogize my situation with a mathematical limit, but perhaps I'll refrain for everyone's sake.) My arm by this time was being held onto my shoulder by a few thin sinews of muscle that hadn't been torn free by the weight of the typewriter, so after running a quick cost/benefit analysis of the situation, I decided that heading back to my dorm and returning later to investigate the rest of the hodgepodge of miscellaneous offerings was probably a wise course of action.
So, upon returning to my room - which, incidentally, I like to call The Bat Cave - I was lured away from my bed, where I belonged, by the silky looking, cream colored machine sitting on my desk. It called to me there in the dark of night. It asked me to caress its keys. "I'm so lonely! Won't you come play with me?"
I didn't believe at first that it was actually talking to me, but then it began to ring the bell warning that one is approaching the end of a line. It was trying to get my attention. The motionless hammers looked at me with such a forlorn expression, I couldn't help but go and comfort them. I began by writing random words, simply to test the action of the keys. Then I started writing a letter. To whom, I didn't know, but I felt that writing a letter would be a proper use of such a noble beast.
I asked idly in my letter how the family was, if there was any news since the last time we'd talked, you know, the usual. After coming to the end of my paragraph, I stopped for a moment to think of what to write next, when before my eyes, my Triumph portable typewriter started drafting a response. It said, "I'm so glad to hear from you again. It’s been such a very long time since you last wrote. Billy and Pa are doing fine, though Stephie has been down with the measles, but Doctor Kindman says she should be well in no time at all. He says she has a very good constitution, and that if we keep giving her plenty of chicken soup and the medicine he prescribed, we should expect to see her out of bed early next week." The typewriter continued on for some time in this fashion, until it finally decided that it must be boring me with details and that it would allow me to go about doing more important things. I wrote back, telling it that there was no such thing as an unimportant detail and to not hold back. We exchanged communiqués at length before I finally decided to retire for the night.
When I arose the next morning, I found a message waiting for me. The typewriter was wondering why I hadn't written again for so long. Was I becoming bored with the accounts of the firmness or lack thereof of Sally, our milk cow's stools? If I was, that could be easily omitted from future letters if it meant I wouldn't neglect to write again. I said it was nothing in the letter that had caused the break in message sending, it was simply that I had things to do - namely sleeping - which prevented me from writing as often as my typewriter was demanding from me.
From the reply I received, I got the feeling my typewriter didn't buy my story. It said to me, "I know you have other priorities, but you seem to have been cold and distant recently. Is there someone else? Please, can we just be honest about the situation?" I was affronted by the accusation; I had had this typewriter for only just over a day and it was already leveling this terrible claim against me. "No," I said, "yours are the only keys my fingers dare to dance upon. I know it's difficult being apart for so long," - I imagine time passes much quicker for a typewriter, as I certainly hadn't thought our separation to be of interminable length - "but I need you to trust me if we're going to make this work."
I sat in front of the keyboard for several minutes before the hammers sheepishly banged out a reply. "I'm sorry I was so quick to doubt. You know how I'm prone to crises of confidence." Of course I was aware; if I had been sold for five euro at a flea market, I would start doubting my self-worth too.
We've been steadily making amends since that particular incident, and I feel like our relationship is really starting to blossom. I foresee writing many beautiful letters together. Anyway, I hope you don’t feel like that was too needless of a sidetrack into my personal affairs.
Hmm… what other mundane activities can I turn into unnecessarily long meanderings of a mind prone to hyperbole?
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Hello all, I am actually still alive. I haven't posted anything here in a long while because I've taken to writing letters and postcards instead, and I'm pretty sure those have been reaching most of the people who read this blog anyway, so I don't feel too terrible about my delinquency.
I've got about three more weeks before I head back to the US, so I have to figure out what sort of traveling I'm going to do in that time. I have a friend here who is interested in going to Serbia, but I mentioned this to a Romanian friend of mine, and she said that she'd never been there, but that she heard there wasn't much to see. I think Kurt (not my housemate from Flint) is keen on going just because the US bombed the place in the not too distant past. Maybe I'll go, maybe I won't.
Since the last time I posted, I've been to a couple of places. First to Prague, then to Egypt, and most recently to Berlin. I suppose I probably should write something about Prague, but I think I'll come back to Egypt and Berlin later, since I wrote a couple of letters that really cover those quite well, so I think I'll go about attempting to requisition those back from the people to whom I sent them and perhaps post adapted versions of those letters after I get back to the US.
It's been about a month already since I was in Prague, so some of the details are starting to get a bit sketchy, but there were a few things that still really stand out in my mind. Kurt (this time it's my housemate from Flint), Steve (aka Loud Harold) and I went to Prague together and had a couple rather interesting experiences. The first one that comes to mind is going to "Central Europe's Biggest Nightclub," where we met a large group of Swedish high school kids on a school field trip. I think they were all 15 and 16 years old, which was extremely odd to me, although I guess is more then norm around here. In the same club, we also met a couple German guys who were very excited to hear our thoughts on Germany, and some Canadians who did nothing but talk about politics (which the Germans thought to be an absolutely ridiculous thing at a nightclub).
The other things I remember were Steve getting accosted by a couple of Czech prostitutes who ended up trying to steal his cell phone, Kurt and I getting accosted by a very angry, very ugly woman wanting cigarettes (I think), and talking to a very nice Czech woman and an old German man on our train from Prague back to Germany. We had had a salon compartment on the train, and at first the woman had been talking to the old man in German. After a while, he left to go find his wife, and I began talking to the woman, at first in terrible German, and then switching to English. She told me all sorts of stories about how she used to work in Nigeria and lived in South Africa, and then about all the progress the Czech Republic has made since the end of communism. Then the old man came back, and she asked him if he spoke English so we could all talk together. He said he spoke a little, and then proceeded to converse with us in the most eloquent English I'd ever heard from someone not reading lines in a play. He imparted upon us the wisdom he'd accrued over his years of living, one of which was to learn as many foreign languages as possible. He asked Kurt and I how our German was coming and we admitted that it was progressing very slowly. He asked if we had German girlfriends, and when we said no, he said, Oh, once you get a German girlfriend, you'll be speaking it in six months. (No, since that time I've ended up with a Romanian girlfriend, but unfortunately, my Romanian is no better for it. I guess her English is just too good.) The Czech woman told us that we should enjoy life early on and to not put it off until later. She said that she and her husband planned to work hard and save until they were 55 years old and then they would retire and do all the things they wanted to do in life, but that her husband died when he was 54. Since then, she said, she's been doing nothing but traveling and living life to the fullest, but she regrets that she didn't do it earlier. She also gave me hope that it's never too late to learn another language. She said that she spoke Portuguese (fluently I assumed) and she didn't start learning it until she was 60, and that she was 64 now (or there abouts).
Somehow, between Prague and Nuremberg, our train ended up becoming about an hour late, which makes no sense to me, since we left right on time. Anyway, due to the delay, we missed the connection we were supposed to catch to get back to Konstanz, and this nice Czech woman was so friendly and helpful that she stopped at the information desk in the Nuremberg train station to find out if there was a way for us to make it back to Konstanz that night (since the train we were supposed to be on was one of the last coming into Konstanz that evening). We could have easily gotten this information ourselves, but I was just so stunned by how nice this woman was in having honest concern that we safely make it to our destination. Fortunately, we were able to make the very last train back home and didn't have to spend the nights wandering the streets of Ulm.
I'm sure I've got plenty more to talk about, but I have to go work on a project for school. What?! School work?! Yes, I should have known it was going to come sooner or later. I was fortunate and it came later, but now I have to actually get to it. Hopefully I'll find some more time to write after I'm done with my finals.
I've got about three more weeks before I head back to the US, so I have to figure out what sort of traveling I'm going to do in that time. I have a friend here who is interested in going to Serbia, but I mentioned this to a Romanian friend of mine, and she said that she'd never been there, but that she heard there wasn't much to see. I think Kurt (not my housemate from Flint) is keen on going just because the US bombed the place in the not too distant past. Maybe I'll go, maybe I won't.
Since the last time I posted, I've been to a couple of places. First to Prague, then to Egypt, and most recently to Berlin. I suppose I probably should write something about Prague, but I think I'll come back to Egypt and Berlin later, since I wrote a couple of letters that really cover those quite well, so I think I'll go about attempting to requisition those back from the people to whom I sent them and perhaps post adapted versions of those letters after I get back to the US.
It's been about a month already since I was in Prague, so some of the details are starting to get a bit sketchy, but there were a few things that still really stand out in my mind. Kurt (this time it's my housemate from Flint), Steve (aka Loud Harold) and I went to Prague together and had a couple rather interesting experiences. The first one that comes to mind is going to "Central Europe's Biggest Nightclub," where we met a large group of Swedish high school kids on a school field trip. I think they were all 15 and 16 years old, which was extremely odd to me, although I guess is more then norm around here. In the same club, we also met a couple German guys who were very excited to hear our thoughts on Germany, and some Canadians who did nothing but talk about politics (which the Germans thought to be an absolutely ridiculous thing at a nightclub).
The other things I remember were Steve getting accosted by a couple of Czech prostitutes who ended up trying to steal his cell phone, Kurt and I getting accosted by a very angry, very ugly woman wanting cigarettes (I think), and talking to a very nice Czech woman and an old German man on our train from Prague back to Germany. We had had a salon compartment on the train, and at first the woman had been talking to the old man in German. After a while, he left to go find his wife, and I began talking to the woman, at first in terrible German, and then switching to English. She told me all sorts of stories about how she used to work in Nigeria and lived in South Africa, and then about all the progress the Czech Republic has made since the end of communism. Then the old man came back, and she asked him if he spoke English so we could all talk together. He said he spoke a little, and then proceeded to converse with us in the most eloquent English I'd ever heard from someone not reading lines in a play. He imparted upon us the wisdom he'd accrued over his years of living, one of which was to learn as many foreign languages as possible. He asked Kurt and I how our German was coming and we admitted that it was progressing very slowly. He asked if we had German girlfriends, and when we said no, he said, Oh, once you get a German girlfriend, you'll be speaking it in six months. (No, since that time I've ended up with a Romanian girlfriend, but unfortunately, my Romanian is no better for it. I guess her English is just too good.) The Czech woman told us that we should enjoy life early on and to not put it off until later. She said that she and her husband planned to work hard and save until they were 55 years old and then they would retire and do all the things they wanted to do in life, but that her husband died when he was 54. Since then, she said, she's been doing nothing but traveling and living life to the fullest, but she regrets that she didn't do it earlier. She also gave me hope that it's never too late to learn another language. She said that she spoke Portuguese (fluently I assumed) and she didn't start learning it until she was 60, and that she was 64 now (or there abouts).
Somehow, between Prague and Nuremberg, our train ended up becoming about an hour late, which makes no sense to me, since we left right on time. Anyway, due to the delay, we missed the connection we were supposed to catch to get back to Konstanz, and this nice Czech woman was so friendly and helpful that she stopped at the information desk in the Nuremberg train station to find out if there was a way for us to make it back to Konstanz that night (since the train we were supposed to be on was one of the last coming into Konstanz that evening). We could have easily gotten this information ourselves, but I was just so stunned by how nice this woman was in having honest concern that we safely make it to our destination. Fortunately, we were able to make the very last train back home and didn't have to spend the nights wandering the streets of Ulm.
I'm sure I've got plenty more to talk about, but I have to go work on a project for school. What?! School work?! Yes, I should have known it was going to come sooner or later. I was fortunate and it came later, but now I have to actually get to it. Hopefully I'll find some more time to write after I'm done with my finals.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Irish Adventure - aka Low Cost Airlines: You Get What You Pay For
Finally, could it be? Another update? Why yes it is. I suppose I've got a lot to catch up on, but I think in favor of actually doing that, I'll just pick out the highlights of the past few weeks, since that will probably be far more interesting than wading through a sea of verbosity pertaining to the majestic beauty of pretty much everywhere I go. In addition to that, I'm also going to cheat and use an adaptation a letter I wrote just a little while ago to cover the exciting parts of my Dublin adventure. So here goes!
The beginning of my harrowing adventure of getting to Dublin involved a 3km sprint/jog to the train station around 4:30 in the morning. (I think you've all probably realized that this has pretty much become my M.O. for traveling. Alexa asked me once I actually got to Dublin whether I'd heard of such a thing as a taxi, but quite frankly, I think that takes all the fun out of it.) I needed to catch such an obnoxiously early train in order to make it Frankfurt - about 4.5 hours away - in time to check-in for my Ryan Air flight at 10:15. Once I reached the train station, I was quite tuckered out, and was looking forward to taking a nice long nap until I needed to change trains. Unfortunately, this was not to be, since at the second or third stop, a large group of extremely drunken teenagers boarded my car and began yelling random things in German and English at the top of their lungs. I think my first mistake on this trip was engaging these totally trashed kids in conversation. Don't get me wrong, it was quiet interesting and entertaining, even despite it still being unreasonably early in the morning; the problem was that I either changed trains at the wrong station, or got on the wrong train at the correct station, on the advice of my new found, highly intoxicated friends. They were headed in the same direction as me, and from what I remember, the train we got on departed at the time I had noted on my scrap of paper turned itinerary, so I assumed it was the right one. Indeed, it did go to the right city, but arrived 10 minutes after my final connection to Frankfurt.
Now, Ryan Air requires passengers to check in at least 40 minutes prior to take-off, so I already knew I was going to miss my flight, since the next train would get me to the airport about 10 minutes before my flight, but that was alright, since I knew there was another one leaving in 12 hours, at 10:15pm. I thought I'd get a ticket for the next flight, and then just tour Frankfurt for the day. When I started looking for the Ryan Air check-in desk, I once again realized there was something terribly wrong - namely that there was no Ryan Air check-in desk. Finally, after asking several airport employees who all gave me rather confused looks in response to my question, one of them had a eureka moment and remembered that Ryan Air flys out of Frankfurt-Hahn airport, not Frankfurt-Main, where I was currently standing. Okay, no big deal; I just have to catch a local train to the other side of the city, right? Oh, if only it was so easy!
Twelve euros, 100km and an hour and half bus ride later, I arrived at the proper airport. When booking the next flight to Dublin, I assumed that there'd be little chance I could have my ticket from earlier in the day moved up and become valid for the later flight, since that would fall under the category of customer service, which is one of the non-essentials the low cost airlines have disposed of in the name of price management. I did, however, expect buying anther ticket to not be terribly expensive, since none of their tickets are terribly expensive. I had originally paid about 80 euro for my round-trip ticket. The standard fee for taking the next available flight? 75 euro!
So, after essentially paying for my flight twice, I was greeted with a 10 hour wait before my flight, in which time I could contemplate how ridiculous this whole situation was. 'Why not go see the city?' you ask. Unfortunately, 100km outside of Frankfurt, there is no other city. There is an airport, surrounded by farmland and windmills for as far as the eye can see. Ever seen the Tom Hanks movie, The Terminal? He had it good, being stuck in JFK airport. Frankfurt-Hahn is what I now imagine purgatory might be like. In fact, I began to wonder if that might not be the reality of it. I was there from noon until a little past 10 o'clock at night (mine, I believe, was the last flight that day), and there were about four or five people I saw just hanging around the airport that whole time, like me, but who apparently never got on a plane. Why else could they be there, other than to serve penance for their sins? I'm sure no western government with laws against cruel and unusual punishment would impose a sentence such as that upon any of their criminals. Okay, perhaps I'm hyperbolizing a bit, but only a bit.
I did eventually make it to Dublin, but only after I'd realized that with the amount of time it took me to get there, it may have been quicker to take a train from Konstanz to Paris, take the Eurostar to London, hop on another train there and take it to the west cost of England, and finally take a ferry from there to Dublin. But nonetheless, I made it.
I'm not really sure what preconceived notions I had of Dublin, but whatever they where, they weren't accurate. I think I was expecting it to feel more home-like because of the English speakingness, but at the same time, more exotic than it ended up being. It was really quite the reverse. Though I could understand most people, I realized that it doesn't really matter what language people are speaking, since I don't really talk to strangers any more in English speaking locations than I do elsewhere, so I guess there was a sense of alienation that dawned upon me. I don't really feel that in Germany, probably because I don't expect to understand and take part in a lot of conversation with people, primarily because of the language barrier, but here I did, since I had expectations that weren't met. I really have no idea where I got the notion that Dublin was a pretty city, since everything I've ever read by Irish authors seems to portray most every city in the country as being rather dreary. I guess they nailed that one on the head. This is not to say it's a particularly ugly city (Flint, I'm talking to you!), just that it's really nothing to write home about (though I did indeed do just that). Perhaps I should give it another chance when I have more time to really explore it. I think my limited stay, further impinged upon by the flight fiasco, really didn't give me time to properly experience the city, so although I won't renege on my first impressions, I will put them out there with this disclaimer.
There was one particular incident that really was a lot of fun that I'm glad I got to take part in. On my last day in the city, Alexa decided that I needed to try Guinness in Dublin, since according to her, it's better there than anywhere else. As we were walking down some little street just off the main thoroughfare, we passed this postage stamp sized pub, in which two guys where playing banjo and guitar, while another was singing along with them. We walked inside, each got a pint, and sat down to listen to the music. Apparently the fellow who was singing was one of the patrons, and all the guys in the place were taking turns singing. After he'd finished a few more songs, he came over to me and informed me that it was my turn to provide the entertainment. I told him I didn't know any Irish songs, to which he replied that that was alright, and seeing as I was an American, some Britney Spears would do just fine. I told him thanks, but no thanks. A few songs and about a pint later, I suddenly remembered that I did know an Irish song: "Whiskey in the Jar" (Thanks Mr. C!)
After thoroughly butchering the song, I had many an Irishman patting me on the back, either because they were impressed by the fact that I even knew the song, or because they were simply too drunk to care how badly I sang. Either way, I found myself the receiver of about six or seven insta-friends. Of these guys who started talking to me, apparently one was some sort of Irish dancing champion, while another was a handball champ, another was a boxing champ, and a fourth had played for Ireland's (national?) soccer team. I was never really able to ascertain whether these were indeed big name sports stars, or if they might have played in the minors of their respective sports at one time and enjoyed augmenting their stories for greater listening pleasure.
The week after these particular shenanigans, I traveled down to Camogli, Italy (near Genova), to meet up with Sanjay, his parents and his aunt for a weekend vacation. Though it was a wonderfully pleasant trip, it involved far less ridiculousness, so I'll keep the record of that trip for my personal notes. I should, however, have much to report on in the next few weeks. This Wednesday evening, I'm going with Kurt, my housemate from Flint, to Vienna and then to Prague over four days. The following week, I'm flying to Cairo to meet up with Brandon, and we will be gallivanting across the country, investigating historical sites, talking about the cost effectiveness of Zeppelin air travel, and generally being dorktastic. I will update as more excitement occurs – hopefully this will not involve such excitement as getting detained while crossing international borders and being forced to do complex mathematical problems while doing handstands, but who knows. (I jest Mother, I jest. Don't worry!)
Alright, time to grab a döner kebap!
The beginning of my harrowing adventure of getting to Dublin involved a 3km sprint/jog to the train station around 4:30 in the morning. (I think you've all probably realized that this has pretty much become my M.O. for traveling. Alexa asked me once I actually got to Dublin whether I'd heard of such a thing as a taxi, but quite frankly, I think that takes all the fun out of it.) I needed to catch such an obnoxiously early train in order to make it Frankfurt - about 4.5 hours away - in time to check-in for my Ryan Air flight at 10:15. Once I reached the train station, I was quite tuckered out, and was looking forward to taking a nice long nap until I needed to change trains. Unfortunately, this was not to be, since at the second or third stop, a large group of extremely drunken teenagers boarded my car and began yelling random things in German and English at the top of their lungs. I think my first mistake on this trip was engaging these totally trashed kids in conversation. Don't get me wrong, it was quiet interesting and entertaining, even despite it still being unreasonably early in the morning; the problem was that I either changed trains at the wrong station, or got on the wrong train at the correct station, on the advice of my new found, highly intoxicated friends. They were headed in the same direction as me, and from what I remember, the train we got on departed at the time I had noted on my scrap of paper turned itinerary, so I assumed it was the right one. Indeed, it did go to the right city, but arrived 10 minutes after my final connection to Frankfurt.
Now, Ryan Air requires passengers to check in at least 40 minutes prior to take-off, so I already knew I was going to miss my flight, since the next train would get me to the airport about 10 minutes before my flight, but that was alright, since I knew there was another one leaving in 12 hours, at 10:15pm. I thought I'd get a ticket for the next flight, and then just tour Frankfurt for the day. When I started looking for the Ryan Air check-in desk, I once again realized there was something terribly wrong - namely that there was no Ryan Air check-in desk. Finally, after asking several airport employees who all gave me rather confused looks in response to my question, one of them had a eureka moment and remembered that Ryan Air flys out of Frankfurt-Hahn airport, not Frankfurt-Main, where I was currently standing. Okay, no big deal; I just have to catch a local train to the other side of the city, right? Oh, if only it was so easy!
Twelve euros, 100km and an hour and half bus ride later, I arrived at the proper airport. When booking the next flight to Dublin, I assumed that there'd be little chance I could have my ticket from earlier in the day moved up and become valid for the later flight, since that would fall under the category of customer service, which is one of the non-essentials the low cost airlines have disposed of in the name of price management. I did, however, expect buying anther ticket to not be terribly expensive, since none of their tickets are terribly expensive. I had originally paid about 80 euro for my round-trip ticket. The standard fee for taking the next available flight? 75 euro!
So, after essentially paying for my flight twice, I was greeted with a 10 hour wait before my flight, in which time I could contemplate how ridiculous this whole situation was. 'Why not go see the city?' you ask. Unfortunately, 100km outside of Frankfurt, there is no other city. There is an airport, surrounded by farmland and windmills for as far as the eye can see. Ever seen the Tom Hanks movie, The Terminal? He had it good, being stuck in JFK airport. Frankfurt-Hahn is what I now imagine purgatory might be like. In fact, I began to wonder if that might not be the reality of it. I was there from noon until a little past 10 o'clock at night (mine, I believe, was the last flight that day), and there were about four or five people I saw just hanging around the airport that whole time, like me, but who apparently never got on a plane. Why else could they be there, other than to serve penance for their sins? I'm sure no western government with laws against cruel and unusual punishment would impose a sentence such as that upon any of their criminals. Okay, perhaps I'm hyperbolizing a bit, but only a bit.
I did eventually make it to Dublin, but only after I'd realized that with the amount of time it took me to get there, it may have been quicker to take a train from Konstanz to Paris, take the Eurostar to London, hop on another train there and take it to the west cost of England, and finally take a ferry from there to Dublin. But nonetheless, I made it.
I'm not really sure what preconceived notions I had of Dublin, but whatever they where, they weren't accurate. I think I was expecting it to feel more home-like because of the English speakingness, but at the same time, more exotic than it ended up being. It was really quite the reverse. Though I could understand most people, I realized that it doesn't really matter what language people are speaking, since I don't really talk to strangers any more in English speaking locations than I do elsewhere, so I guess there was a sense of alienation that dawned upon me. I don't really feel that in Germany, probably because I don't expect to understand and take part in a lot of conversation with people, primarily because of the language barrier, but here I did, since I had expectations that weren't met. I really have no idea where I got the notion that Dublin was a pretty city, since everything I've ever read by Irish authors seems to portray most every city in the country as being rather dreary. I guess they nailed that one on the head. This is not to say it's a particularly ugly city (Flint, I'm talking to you!), just that it's really nothing to write home about (though I did indeed do just that). Perhaps I should give it another chance when I have more time to really explore it. I think my limited stay, further impinged upon by the flight fiasco, really didn't give me time to properly experience the city, so although I won't renege on my first impressions, I will put them out there with this disclaimer.
There was one particular incident that really was a lot of fun that I'm glad I got to take part in. On my last day in the city, Alexa decided that I needed to try Guinness in Dublin, since according to her, it's better there than anywhere else. As we were walking down some little street just off the main thoroughfare, we passed this postage stamp sized pub, in which two guys where playing banjo and guitar, while another was singing along with them. We walked inside, each got a pint, and sat down to listen to the music. Apparently the fellow who was singing was one of the patrons, and all the guys in the place were taking turns singing. After he'd finished a few more songs, he came over to me and informed me that it was my turn to provide the entertainment. I told him I didn't know any Irish songs, to which he replied that that was alright, and seeing as I was an American, some Britney Spears would do just fine. I told him thanks, but no thanks. A few songs and about a pint later, I suddenly remembered that I did know an Irish song: "Whiskey in the Jar" (Thanks Mr. C!)
After thoroughly butchering the song, I had many an Irishman patting me on the back, either because they were impressed by the fact that I even knew the song, or because they were simply too drunk to care how badly I sang. Either way, I found myself the receiver of about six or seven insta-friends. Of these guys who started talking to me, apparently one was some sort of Irish dancing champion, while another was a handball champ, another was a boxing champ, and a fourth had played for Ireland's (national?) soccer team. I was never really able to ascertain whether these were indeed big name sports stars, or if they might have played in the minors of their respective sports at one time and enjoyed augmenting their stories for greater listening pleasure.
The week after these particular shenanigans, I traveled down to Camogli, Italy (near Genova), to meet up with Sanjay, his parents and his aunt for a weekend vacation. Though it was a wonderfully pleasant trip, it involved far less ridiculousness, so I'll keep the record of that trip for my personal notes. I should, however, have much to report on in the next few weeks. This Wednesday evening, I'm going with Kurt, my housemate from Flint, to Vienna and then to Prague over four days. The following week, I'm flying to Cairo to meet up with Brandon, and we will be gallivanting across the country, investigating historical sites, talking about the cost effectiveness of Zeppelin air travel, and generally being dorktastic. I will update as more excitement occurs – hopefully this will not involve such excitement as getting detained while crossing international borders and being forced to do complex mathematical problems while doing handstands, but who knows. (I jest Mother, I jest. Don't worry!)
Alright, time to grab a döner kebap!
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
It turned out that the cookout to which I was invited on Sunday evening was an all-Czech affair. I think most everyone there spoke English, and would do so when addressing me, but the rest of the time, it was definitely like watching a movie without subtitles. Maybe I should try to learn Czech next, since it seems like that’s that language that’s spoken most often around my residence, even in excess of German.
One of the people at the party was a guy who was working on his Ph.D. in medieval Bohemian history between the 14th and 15th centuries, and when he heard that I was from Michigan, he asked if I had been to Kalamazoo College, since there’s a big medieval history conference there every year. Sadly, I have never been to Kalamazoo, but I do remember my cousin, Alex, telling me several years ago about what a great medieval history program they have there. This guy is the first person since I’ve met since then who had also heard of the program. I was kind of amused when he said, “I think there are probably about 150 people in the world working on the same area of history as me. I think I know about three quarters of them personally.” I’m wondering if the definition of his field of study is not merely “14th and 15th century Bohemian history,” but something more like, “History and correlations of grain production with beer and soap consumption in the western villages of the northern provinces of Bohemia during the 14th and 15th centuries, as they may or may not relate to the early philosophies of Jean Sartre.”
Apparently Jĭrkĭ and his girlfriend, Anna, had heard me playing guitar earlier in the day, so they asked me to go get it and play for everyone. Regrettably, I know only a few songs to which you can sing, none of with the Czech people knew. Everyone kept requesting Beatles songs, but since most Beatles songs are too high for me to sing, I never bothered learning them. After I went through the few sing-along songs I knew (though no one knew the words, and therefore abstained from the singing), I passed the guitar over to the history guy I had been talking to, and he started playing some traditional Czech songs, to which there was immediately a 20 person vocal accompaniment. Someone asked me why I knew so few songs you could sing along to, and I said it was because none of my friends ever want to sing (I’m looking at you, Andy Baum, Kaitlyn, Alexa…). She looked very puzzled at my answer, apparently unable to fathom how I managed to befriend such party poopers. Now that I actually know people who are willing to sing, it looks like I’ll be learning a lot of Beatles song (much to the chagrin of Andy’s mother I’m sure).
Despite my inability to understand anything not specifically directed toward me, it was a great time. People kept forcing me to eat more bratwurst, steak, and little mushroom looking things filled with tuna, though I put up little resistance. I think Anna was a little concerned that perhaps I was ill or something when she said, “You have only two beers all night?! Are you sure you okay?” I was extremely flattered by the kindness of these people who I’d hardly ever talked to before, but randomly decided to invite me to join their gathering and to feed me till I was ready to burst.
One of the people at the party was a guy who was working on his Ph.D. in medieval Bohemian history between the 14th and 15th centuries, and when he heard that I was from Michigan, he asked if I had been to Kalamazoo College, since there’s a big medieval history conference there every year. Sadly, I have never been to Kalamazoo, but I do remember my cousin, Alex, telling me several years ago about what a great medieval history program they have there. This guy is the first person since I’ve met since then who had also heard of the program. I was kind of amused when he said, “I think there are probably about 150 people in the world working on the same area of history as me. I think I know about three quarters of them personally.” I’m wondering if the definition of his field of study is not merely “14th and 15th century Bohemian history,” but something more like, “History and correlations of grain production with beer and soap consumption in the western villages of the northern provinces of Bohemia during the 14th and 15th centuries, as they may or may not relate to the early philosophies of Jean Sartre.”
Apparently Jĭrkĭ and his girlfriend, Anna, had heard me playing guitar earlier in the day, so they asked me to go get it and play for everyone. Regrettably, I know only a few songs to which you can sing, none of with the Czech people knew. Everyone kept requesting Beatles songs, but since most Beatles songs are too high for me to sing, I never bothered learning them. After I went through the few sing-along songs I knew (though no one knew the words, and therefore abstained from the singing), I passed the guitar over to the history guy I had been talking to, and he started playing some traditional Czech songs, to which there was immediately a 20 person vocal accompaniment. Someone asked me why I knew so few songs you could sing along to, and I said it was because none of my friends ever want to sing (I’m looking at you, Andy Baum, Kaitlyn, Alexa…). She looked very puzzled at my answer, apparently unable to fathom how I managed to befriend such party poopers. Now that I actually know people who are willing to sing, it looks like I’ll be learning a lot of Beatles song (much to the chagrin of Andy’s mother I’m sure).
Despite my inability to understand anything not specifically directed toward me, it was a great time. People kept forcing me to eat more bratwurst, steak, and little mushroom looking things filled with tuna, though I put up little resistance. I think Anna was a little concerned that perhaps I was ill or something when she said, “You have only two beers all night?! Are you sure you okay?” I was extremely flattered by the kindness of these people who I’d hardly ever talked to before, but randomly decided to invite me to join their gathering and to feed me till I was ready to burst.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
I forgot that stores aren’t open on Sundays here. I have two bananas, five slices of bread, ½ cup of basmati rice, a 75ml can of tomato paste, ¼ of a wheel of Camembert cheese, a jar of chicken bullion, and for some reason, lots of butter. Fortunately, the people on my floor are having a cookout on the balcony, to which Jĭrkĭ has invited me. I have absolutely no idea how to pronounce his name, but that doesn’t stop him from being my favorite person today. He’s also the guy who signed for my Eurail pass when it came via FedEx, so he already had pretty favorable status as far as I was concerned.
Yesterday I ended up having that picnic with Maria, Claudia, and German student from the Fachhochshule, Phillip. I was going to invite some of the other Kettering folks as well, but I think I was the only one who was in Konstanz that day. I met Phillip a week or two ago through Kurt at a party thrown at one of the dormitories near the FH. When I discovered he owned a guitar, he became my insta-friend. I don’t want to sound like I’m only friends with Philip because he has a guitar – he’s really a cool guy anyway – but how can I not appreciate a guitar player? He told me to give him a call sometime if I wanted to come by and use his guitar, so I called him up yesterday and told him he should join us for lunch by the river and bring the guitar with him.
We arrived at the river, armed with sandwich material and some tasty chocolate and cookie morsels Maria picked up from Kaufland, and found Phillip with guitar and blanket in hand. Oh, how I’ve missed my guitar! I was so excited to get to play again. Phillip and I swapped off playing songs until both of us had exhausted our repertoires, at which point Maria and Claudia, perhaps a little begrudgingly, entertained us with a few Romanian songs. After each of us had partially recovered from our food comas, we broke camp and headed home, but with me in possession of the guitar. Phillip doesn’t play it that well and only practices it occasionally, so he said I could borrow it for a while, and when he gets the fancy to play it, he’ll just call me up and ask for it back. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!
When I hang around with Maria and Claudia, I usually end up talking mostly to Claudia, since she speaks very good English, while Maria speaks very good French, but only a little English, German and Spanish. When Maria and I do talk, it’s usually in a combination of the latter three languages, but I think we both find it difficult to get our point across. Anyway, Friday evening I wrote a little letter to both of them in German, inviting them to have lunch the next day. Though I can hardly speak at all in German, I can write well enough to get my point across, since I have time to think and to look up words when I’m writing. Anyway, Maria happened to be home when I dropped the note off, so she read it while I waited and said she’d be happy to go. Later in the evening after we’d come back from the picnic, I found a note tucked into the jamb of my door. Apparently Maria had been so delighted that I’d written that letter in German for her benefit, she returned the favor with a note in Spanish, apologizing that she doesn’t talk very much, since she doesn’t speak English, Spanish or German very well (though I think she probably speaks the latter two better that I do), but thanking me for the picnic and the entertainment on the guitar. It was an incredibly sweet gesture – not to mention her handwriting looks like a work of art.
Yesterday I ended up having that picnic with Maria, Claudia, and German student from the Fachhochshule, Phillip. I was going to invite some of the other Kettering folks as well, but I think I was the only one who was in Konstanz that day. I met Phillip a week or two ago through Kurt at a party thrown at one of the dormitories near the FH. When I discovered he owned a guitar, he became my insta-friend. I don’t want to sound like I’m only friends with Philip because he has a guitar – he’s really a cool guy anyway – but how can I not appreciate a guitar player? He told me to give him a call sometime if I wanted to come by and use his guitar, so I called him up yesterday and told him he should join us for lunch by the river and bring the guitar with him.
We arrived at the river, armed with sandwich material and some tasty chocolate and cookie morsels Maria picked up from Kaufland, and found Phillip with guitar and blanket in hand. Oh, how I’ve missed my guitar! I was so excited to get to play again. Phillip and I swapped off playing songs until both of us had exhausted our repertoires, at which point Maria and Claudia, perhaps a little begrudgingly, entertained us with a few Romanian songs. After each of us had partially recovered from our food comas, we broke camp and headed home, but with me in possession of the guitar. Phillip doesn’t play it that well and only practices it occasionally, so he said I could borrow it for a while, and when he gets the fancy to play it, he’ll just call me up and ask for it back. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!
When I hang around with Maria and Claudia, I usually end up talking mostly to Claudia, since she speaks very good English, while Maria speaks very good French, but only a little English, German and Spanish. When Maria and I do talk, it’s usually in a combination of the latter three languages, but I think we both find it difficult to get our point across. Anyway, Friday evening I wrote a little letter to both of them in German, inviting them to have lunch the next day. Though I can hardly speak at all in German, I can write well enough to get my point across, since I have time to think and to look up words when I’m writing. Anyway, Maria happened to be home when I dropped the note off, so she read it while I waited and said she’d be happy to go. Later in the evening after we’d come back from the picnic, I found a note tucked into the jamb of my door. Apparently Maria had been so delighted that I’d written that letter in German for her benefit, she returned the favor with a note in Spanish, apologizing that she doesn’t talk very much, since she doesn’t speak English, Spanish or German very well (though I think she probably speaks the latter two better that I do), but thanking me for the picnic and the entertainment on the guitar. It was an incredibly sweet gesture – not to mention her handwriting looks like a work of art.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
This post is adapted from a note I started writing while in Salzburg, thus my sitting on the bank of a river during the writing.
I’m in the midst of my second expedition outside of Konstanz, this time in Salzburg, Austria. I arrived here yesterday with Chaz, a B-section guy I hadn’t met until getting to Germany. Classes were cancelled this Wednesday, and we were the only two people from the Kettering group who didn’t have class on Thursdays, so we decided to make the most of our extended weekend. It was only by the skin of our teeth that we made our train yesterday morning. The train left the station in Konstanz at 5:26 in the morning, meaning we had to walk most (if not all) of the way to the train station because of the limited bus service at that hour. We had planned to meet outside the main residence building at 4:30am in order to have ample time to walk the entire distance. Unfortunately, Chaz decided he was going to get extremely drunk the prior evening, and didn’t get out of bed until I came into his room around 4:55 and threw cold water on his face.
By the time we finally got on the road, we only had 20 minutes to cover about 2.5 miles. I didn’t think we had any chance, since we were lugging backpacks and I could tell Chaz was still quite intoxicated, but never the less, we started running as fast as we could. I think I stopped three or four times to give a couple dry heaves (if I had eaten breakfast, it certainly would have been on the sidewalk). When we got to Zähringer Platz, the main shopping and bus transfer station north of the river, I saw a bus on the other side of the large intersection getting ready to pull out. Much to the displeasure of my stomach and bowels, I sprinted for it and managed to hit the door button just as the bus was beginning its forward motion. Fortunately, the doors opened and the bust waited for us. I was again glad that I hadn’t eaten, since that last burst of effort would have made me vomit on the woman sitting in front of me. The pain ended up being worth it though, since we did successfully catch our train.
Six hours and some change later, after a couple train changes and about an hour layover in Ulm (which, by the way, has a ginormous cathedral, the history of which I should research (along with pre-1066 British history, and the history of the fortress in Salzburg), we finally arrived in Salzburg. [After my return to Konstanz, I found, via Wikipedia, that that cathedral actually has the tallest church spire in the world, standing 570ft high.]
The first stop, after checking into our hostel, was Mozart’s birth house. Hmm… what to say about it? Well, it’s a house, and Mozart was born there. They had some interesting artifacts there, but the collection was sparse, and many of the paintings and documents in the house (if not most) were reproductions. Who wants to pay to see a photocopy of a score written by Mozart? I think we got taken by this tourist trap.
Next up was a climb to the top of the hill on which the city fortress is located. After fighting our way through what seemed to be an Italian middle school fieldtrip group, we were able to pay our admission and enter the fort. It was a fairly interesting structure, but had disappointingly few informative markers. All the buildings had plaques inscribed with the name of the building and the year it was built, but if you wanted to know more than that, you had to drop 1€ into an information machine to get any sort of real description. Chaz and I split the cost of one of these (since there are two telephone receiver looking earpieces for people to listen to), but we decided it probably wasn’t worth the 7€ it would cost for the full tour of the place. On our way out, we also discovered that that admission we had paid was for the museum that must have closed just as we entered the fort, since we never found said museum (probably behind some large, closed metal door), and also saw a sign on our way out that said admission was free after the museum closed. Lame.
We then had dinner at some little restaurant/carry out place, where I had an overpriced chicken schnitzel (which I found out is actually just a fried chicken patty), and then returned to the hostel and watched The Sound of Music (shown every night at 8pm!). I think if I lived or worked in this town, I’d get tired of hearing about Mozart and The Sound of Music pretty quick. I guess they’re good for the local economy though.
Today mostly consisted of hiking up another hill, touring a couple churches, and hanging out on the riverside, which is where I am currently. At the top of the hill, there was some old looking building that, according to some sign, used to be an artillery emplacement, but I said to Chaz that it was probably some overpriced restaurant. Lo and behold, I was exactly right, though not terribly surprised, due to the presence of two restaurants in the fort we toured the day before.
After being chastised by the lone waiter for lounging about the patio and not ordering anything, we got some overpriced cheese and bread, and ended up talking to an English couple, who remarked that they had ordered drinks because they too had been scolded. I asked them what cities to see if I went to England, and I think their general recommendations were Devon and Cornwall, and Oxford if I had time.
When we returned to the hostel in search of some cheap dinner at the cafeteria, we found a Korean looking guy had joined our room, but I was quite surprised when he introduced himself as “John from Australia.” I’m used to Asian people having American and British accents, but Australia is a new one for me. Anyhow, Chaz and I talked to him for a while, and we all decided to go down the Irish pub later that evening to check out the live music there. (Since there seems to be an Irish pub in just about every city I’ve ever been to, I would be exceedingly delighted if in Dublin there were a German pub.)
John, it turned out, was from Perth, and was living in London on a “working holiday” visa, meaning he worked for six months, then would take that money and spend the next six months traveling. Sounds like a pretty good deal to me. He had stopped off in Salzburg on his way to some ski resort in the Austrian Alps that was owned by a friend of his, and after deciding that Chaz and I were pretty much the coolest Americans he’d ever met (I’d venture a guess that he hasn’t met many Americans), he invited us to come along with him, since he could probably get us a discount on lift passes. I had already decided I was going to head back to Konstanz, since I had come down with a bit of a cold, and figured I should take the rest of the weekend to recuperate, and Chaz also declined, since he didn’t bring any clothes suitable for skiing and had already made plans to meet some other Kettering guys in Vienna. After a few more hours of talking and Chaz and I both mentioning that we’d like to visit Australia someday, we also found ourselves the recipients of a standing invitation for free rooms at John’s place in Perth if we ever found our way out there. I’ll have to remember that, since I’m sure I’d take him up on it if I had the opportunity.
The next day around noon, Chaz and I got to the train station, with him headed to Vienna, and me going back to Konstanz, by way of Radofzell, by way of Ulm. To be honest, for a six and a half hour trip, it’s really not bad at all. Time seems to go by much faster on the train, certainly compared with being on an airplane. This can probably be attributed to 2nd class trains actually having a tolerable amount of legroom, as well as changing trains giving you a chance to really walk around and stretch a bit.
Upon returning to Konstanz around six in the evening, I was under the impression that I would head straight home and take a nap, preferably one lasting until the next morning, but instead, I ended up taking a long walk from the mouth of the Rhine along the edge of Lake Konstanz, around the cape, and through another of the several forests in the area, back to Jacob-Burckhardt. There are two Romanian girls, Maria and Claudia, who I’ve become friends with, and I suggested to them last week that we have a picnic this weekend, so I figured I should scout the place for suitable picnic locations. Sadly, for as many natural wonders as Konstanz contains, beaches – at least the real kind, with sand – it has not. All the beaches here consist of big rocks that look terribly unpleasant to walk or sit upon. Oh well. Discovering this other forest still made it a worthwhile venture, not to mention that the walking is good for keeping me from getting fat, since I’ve discovered that the 0.60€ ice cream that is sold everywhere in this city is extremely yummy and a good way to rid my pockets of unwanted change.
Okay, that’s all for now.
I’m in the midst of my second expedition outside of Konstanz, this time in Salzburg, Austria. I arrived here yesterday with Chaz, a B-section guy I hadn’t met until getting to Germany. Classes were cancelled this Wednesday, and we were the only two people from the Kettering group who didn’t have class on Thursdays, so we decided to make the most of our extended weekend. It was only by the skin of our teeth that we made our train yesterday morning. The train left the station in Konstanz at 5:26 in the morning, meaning we had to walk most (if not all) of the way to the train station because of the limited bus service at that hour. We had planned to meet outside the main residence building at 4:30am in order to have ample time to walk the entire distance. Unfortunately, Chaz decided he was going to get extremely drunk the prior evening, and didn’t get out of bed until I came into his room around 4:55 and threw cold water on his face.
By the time we finally got on the road, we only had 20 minutes to cover about 2.5 miles. I didn’t think we had any chance, since we were lugging backpacks and I could tell Chaz was still quite intoxicated, but never the less, we started running as fast as we could. I think I stopped three or four times to give a couple dry heaves (if I had eaten breakfast, it certainly would have been on the sidewalk). When we got to Zähringer Platz, the main shopping and bus transfer station north of the river, I saw a bus on the other side of the large intersection getting ready to pull out. Much to the displeasure of my stomach and bowels, I sprinted for it and managed to hit the door button just as the bus was beginning its forward motion. Fortunately, the doors opened and the bust waited for us. I was again glad that I hadn’t eaten, since that last burst of effort would have made me vomit on the woman sitting in front of me. The pain ended up being worth it though, since we did successfully catch our train.
Six hours and some change later, after a couple train changes and about an hour layover in Ulm (which, by the way, has a ginormous cathedral, the history of which I should research (along with pre-1066 British history, and the history of the fortress in Salzburg), we finally arrived in Salzburg. [After my return to Konstanz, I found, via Wikipedia, that that cathedral actually has the tallest church spire in the world, standing 570ft high.]
The first stop, after checking into our hostel, was Mozart’s birth house. Hmm… what to say about it? Well, it’s a house, and Mozart was born there. They had some interesting artifacts there, but the collection was sparse, and many of the paintings and documents in the house (if not most) were reproductions. Who wants to pay to see a photocopy of a score written by Mozart? I think we got taken by this tourist trap.
Next up was a climb to the top of the hill on which the city fortress is located. After fighting our way through what seemed to be an Italian middle school fieldtrip group, we were able to pay our admission and enter the fort. It was a fairly interesting structure, but had disappointingly few informative markers. All the buildings had plaques inscribed with the name of the building and the year it was built, but if you wanted to know more than that, you had to drop 1€ into an information machine to get any sort of real description. Chaz and I split the cost of one of these (since there are two telephone receiver looking earpieces for people to listen to), but we decided it probably wasn’t worth the 7€ it would cost for the full tour of the place. On our way out, we also discovered that that admission we had paid was for the museum that must have closed just as we entered the fort, since we never found said museum (probably behind some large, closed metal door), and also saw a sign on our way out that said admission was free after the museum closed. Lame.
We then had dinner at some little restaurant/carry out place, where I had an overpriced chicken schnitzel (which I found out is actually just a fried chicken patty), and then returned to the hostel and watched The Sound of Music (shown every night at 8pm!). I think if I lived or worked in this town, I’d get tired of hearing about Mozart and The Sound of Music pretty quick. I guess they’re good for the local economy though.
Today mostly consisted of hiking up another hill, touring a couple churches, and hanging out on the riverside, which is where I am currently. At the top of the hill, there was some old looking building that, according to some sign, used to be an artillery emplacement, but I said to Chaz that it was probably some overpriced restaurant. Lo and behold, I was exactly right, though not terribly surprised, due to the presence of two restaurants in the fort we toured the day before.
After being chastised by the lone waiter for lounging about the patio and not ordering anything, we got some overpriced cheese and bread, and ended up talking to an English couple, who remarked that they had ordered drinks because they too had been scolded. I asked them what cities to see if I went to England, and I think their general recommendations were Devon and Cornwall, and Oxford if I had time.
When we returned to the hostel in search of some cheap dinner at the cafeteria, we found a Korean looking guy had joined our room, but I was quite surprised when he introduced himself as “John from Australia.” I’m used to Asian people having American and British accents, but Australia is a new one for me. Anyhow, Chaz and I talked to him for a while, and we all decided to go down the Irish pub later that evening to check out the live music there. (Since there seems to be an Irish pub in just about every city I’ve ever been to, I would be exceedingly delighted if in Dublin there were a German pub.)
John, it turned out, was from Perth, and was living in London on a “working holiday” visa, meaning he worked for six months, then would take that money and spend the next six months traveling. Sounds like a pretty good deal to me. He had stopped off in Salzburg on his way to some ski resort in the Austrian Alps that was owned by a friend of his, and after deciding that Chaz and I were pretty much the coolest Americans he’d ever met (I’d venture a guess that he hasn’t met many Americans), he invited us to come along with him, since he could probably get us a discount on lift passes. I had already decided I was going to head back to Konstanz, since I had come down with a bit of a cold, and figured I should take the rest of the weekend to recuperate, and Chaz also declined, since he didn’t bring any clothes suitable for skiing and had already made plans to meet some other Kettering guys in Vienna. After a few more hours of talking and Chaz and I both mentioning that we’d like to visit Australia someday, we also found ourselves the recipients of a standing invitation for free rooms at John’s place in Perth if we ever found our way out there. I’ll have to remember that, since I’m sure I’d take him up on it if I had the opportunity.
The next day around noon, Chaz and I got to the train station, with him headed to Vienna, and me going back to Konstanz, by way of Radofzell, by way of Ulm. To be honest, for a six and a half hour trip, it’s really not bad at all. Time seems to go by much faster on the train, certainly compared with being on an airplane. This can probably be attributed to 2nd class trains actually having a tolerable amount of legroom, as well as changing trains giving you a chance to really walk around and stretch a bit.
Upon returning to Konstanz around six in the evening, I was under the impression that I would head straight home and take a nap, preferably one lasting until the next morning, but instead, I ended up taking a long walk from the mouth of the Rhine along the edge of Lake Konstanz, around the cape, and through another of the several forests in the area, back to Jacob-Burckhardt. There are two Romanian girls, Maria and Claudia, who I’ve become friends with, and I suggested to them last week that we have a picnic this weekend, so I figured I should scout the place for suitable picnic locations. Sadly, for as many natural wonders as Konstanz contains, beaches – at least the real kind, with sand – it has not. All the beaches here consist of big rocks that look terribly unpleasant to walk or sit upon. Oh well. Discovering this other forest still made it a worthwhile venture, not to mention that the walking is good for keeping me from getting fat, since I’ve discovered that the 0.60€ ice cream that is sold everywhere in this city is extremely yummy and a good way to rid my pockets of unwanted change.
Okay, that’s all for now.
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