Off to Milano

My time on the Rhine is a little hard to describe without pictures, and I feel somewhat bad about the simplistic description I gave in my last post, so I found this website which has a couple photos from Bacharach. Suffice it to say, it was truly a highlight. Hiking in ruined castles, sipping sweet Reisling and chatting with Green Bay natives, Canadians and Aussies for two days is just what I needed after my urban sightseeing of the last weeks. Now, I'm doing a day trip in Frankfurt before I overnight it to Milan and start my adventures on Lake Como. One week of voice and Alexander Technique lakeside, here I come!!

The Most Beautiful Place I've Seen

As you may be able to guess by the mass-posting, I have found an internet cafe. This post is current, so the date stamp is correct.

I left Cologne this morning, bound to catch a boat down the Rhine. The trip is glorious. The old towns and bluffs, the castles and, of course, the wine. It was four hours of photos and beauty (and really cold winds). But, as I was on the boat, dutifully following Rick Steves guide to the Rhine river towns, I noticed a small section about a town called Bacharach. It describes a hostel in a 12th century castle, which is about 4 kilometers up a hill, but affords breathtaking views of the Rhine and the surrounding towns. What the hell, I think. I don't have anywhere to be until Sunday! Why not spend the night in a castle?

As I ascended the steps, I was first greeted by red ruins of a very old castle. I haven't done the research yet to figure out what they are. They stand like a maze of red sandstone with long slotted windows so that, when you look through them, you see a huge pile of interlocking red stone. It's humbling and makes you feel so small. I need to spend more time exploring them.

To get to the hostel, you come around the back. So, after about 3.9km, I began to wonder if I was ever going to get to witness this great sight promised in the guidebook. I found the door to the hostel, check in, make my bed, drop off my bags, and head out the true front door. As I stepped out onto the stoop balcony, I burst into tears. You can see for miles! The Rhine valley towns are a mosaic of color amid great swaths of green trees and vinyards, with the blue Rhine shimmering all the way to eternity. I stood stuck on the stoop for a hour just trying to take it all in.

I realize that it is difficult to get a sense of what I am seeing from the blog (I'm still a little overwhelmed, so my descriptive skills are probably lacking), but I promise pictures a-plenty when I get back. I think I may need to stay here for a little while longer. It is all just too beautiful.

Viva Mexico

Night trains from Denmark go to one of two places, Cologne or Stockholm. While both are lovely choices, it turned out that the Stockholm train was full. So, in the spirit of "always say yes," I found myself stuffed in a couchette compartment with three Mexicans, one Dane and one Norwegian (thankfully, we all spoke English). The Dane was headed to Cologne to drive a car back to Copenhagen. We had a lovely chat about politics. The Norwegian was headed to Amsterdam to visit some friends. We also talked about politics. The Mexicans, however, were headed to Cologne to watch Mexico take on Portugal in the World Cup. When they discovered my plans are loose, they asked if I wanted to join them. "Always say yes" number two! Gerardo, a young entrepreneur from Tabasco (NOT the sauce), offered me floor space in his hotel room to crash. "Always say yes" number three. And, when we arrived in Cologne at 7am, the first place we headed was to that hotel room. Mexicans teamed with Scandinavians makes for some heavy partying on the train!

I woke up before Gerardo, only to discover that it is1:30pm. The game isat 4, but it isover an hour away by train in Geldenkirchen. I wake Gerardo up, who begins to panic, calls his nephews (who were supposed to meet us at the hotel, but went right to the stadium instead) and sends me to find additional train schedules. I race down to the receptionist and get a list. No use! We'll never make it to the game before it starts and Gerardo was hoping to get some tickets off the street. The two of us regroup and decide to get to FanFest (the free TV projection area outside the stadium) as soon as we can. Gerardo dives into his jersey and green face paint and we race to the station.

But now to get train tickets! I have my Eurail pass, which saves me the headache, but Gerardo has nothing. We fight with three machines before finally getting one to work. It spits out a ticket entirely in German and we pray that everything will be correct. We get to the track where the train is supposed to be with one minute to spare.

The train is 25 minutes late.

Once arriving in Geldenkirchen, we look for the stadium. Where is it!? Football stadiums are so large that they usually stick out! Turns out we need to get on another train to get to the station. We fight another machine and procure Gerardo a second ticket. As we step on the train, however, I hear the conductor say, "There are delays on this track." I bolt for the door, grabbing Gerardo, but the door slams shut. We wait in the crammed train for 15 minutes before it starts moving. At least two other trains whiz by.

We get to FanFest by the end of the first half. The score is 2-1, Portugal is ahead. But FanFest is packed! The police are turning people away! I look around to see if I can see a back entrance. There is nothing! We're shut out! Rejected, but determined to watch the rest of the game, we cram ourselves in to a small German pub. The TV is one of the smallest I've seen. And the bar is FILLED with Mexicans. Gerardo gets a beer, I settle in to hold our spot, and we brace ourselves for a Mexico comeback.

It never occurs.

Despite the cheering, the shouting, the thrown beers, the cursing, the laughing, the crying, the score stays at 2-1. But, what is that we hear? Angola and Iran tied. So, according to the World Cup rules, Mexico is in! The crowd roars, start singing "Olé" and begins a trend of hugging me in a show of true Mexican-American solidarity. We sing, dance, hug and kiss all the way back to Cologne.

A Day in Helsingor, A Night in the Tivoli Gardens

After two days of wandering around the quaint streets of Copenhagen (which are just as "wonderful" as sung by Danny Kay in Hans Christian Anderson), I decided it was time to do some true "day tripping." Perhaps there is a nice fishing town in Denmark that would be hospitable to a young backpacker. Or maybe another university town like Duisburg (for those counting, Copenhagen also has a good university). However, as I lay dozing in my hostel bed, the voice of Eliza Ventura, my acting teacher, came into my head. "In Denmark," she told our class when we were working on Shakespeare scenes, "I visited Hamlet's castle in Elsinore." Elsinore! Yes, that is where I should go! I fell asleep with thoughts of Shakespeare rolling around in my head.

In the morning, however, I was stumped. There are almost NO towns in Denmark named Elsinore. After much flipping through my guidebook, however, I discovered that Eliza, bless her soul, had left off the H. Helsingor is the name of the town. And, after an hour on the train (thank you Eurail!), I discovered for myself a windy, seaside town, a mere 5km from Sweden. And, sure enough, on the bluffs sat the glorious castle Kronborg Castle, a true gem. As I made my way to the drawbridge (really! it has one!), the glory of this place really struck me. It is imposing, yet it maintains a sense of curiosity and wonder, an image that I am sure would have inspired Shakespeare. And, as I wandered the castle rooms, I myself got caught up in that sense of imagination. I, as a 21 year old, am about the same age as Hamlet. For me, the experience of walking through the rooms was one of trying to become Hamlet, if even for a few moments. Where does he hide behind the tapestry? Which tapestry? In which room did he bring the players? Where was his mother's bedroom? Where did he die? By the end, my camera was filled with pictures and my mind with stories. Eliza told me that someday I will play Hamlet; after visiting Kronborg, I think I'm ready. I lunched on the ramparts, wishing I could find an English copy of the play, took a quick boat over to the twin city of Helsingborg in Sweden (where I was greeted by the smells of Swedish meatballs, although I could not find the source) and then trained back to Copenhagen.

That evening, I treated myself to a visit to the Tivoli Garden. Perhaps I've been living under a rock, but I had never heard of it. It is, for clarification, the world's first amusement park. As I entered, I was overwhelmed by the profusion of flowers, greenery, music (Danes have a thing for Big Band and do it REALLY well) and wild rides. Call it Disney meets Six Flags with a dash of Scandinavia for flavor. I had a lovely time munching on an ice cream cone and enjoying the rides (the new carousel spins you on swings HIGH in the air and has a great view of Copenhagen) and music, but the real fun started with the evening show, "A Tivoli Fairytale." It's a classic theme park show and showcases the talents of the under-30 singer/dancer/actor crowd in Copenhagen. The thing they have that is most amazing, however, is that they are genuinely happy to be there. Real smiles, real joy and, for chincy theme park parades, a really good show. After midnight fireworks, I headed back to the hostel and crashed.

Arthur and the Football Game

My posting has been few and far between while I have been in Denmark (note how my last Amsterdam posts occurred just yesterday). Internet in Amsterdam is somewhat hard to find in extended periods of time. I am currently sitting at the Use It tourist information for students (you MUST use them if you come to Denmark!), praying that nobody shows up and that the receptionist wont notice if I run over. After I leave, I'll catch up a bit, but here's my first day in Denmark:

For timing sake, I arrived in Copenhagen on June 17 in the morning (remember, the passports on the overnight train). I found a hostel and spent the day exploring the city on foot. Nooks, crannies, back alleys, pretty harbor views, cobblestone squares... this city was made for the photographer and the walker. With my feet worn out from a day of walking, I wandered back to the hotel, only to run into a Norwegian named Arthur. Arthur and I, it seems, share far too many similarities. Arthur is 22; I am 21. Arthur is traveling by rail for a month; I am traveling for two. Arthur and I both are relying on the Let's Go! guidebook to help us tour around. We're both in our third year of school (Arthur is studying to be a lawyer). We both have a sister who is about 3.5 years younger. His bunk is just above mine!! Mom and Dad, is there something you've been hiding from me?! This being his first day out on the road, and us both being solo travelers, I invite him out for dinner. It's a lovely night and we head to an outdoor Italian restaurant. At the table, we get to know each other better. Arthur tells me all about the influence of American television in Norway (Rikki Lake was on for two months, and everybody knows Leno and Jerry Springer), and I tell him about the Scandinavian influence on Minnesota. Then, as things tend to here, the conversation turns to football (or soccer, just to keep our terminology straight). It seems that team USA is playing Italy this evening, and Arthur invites me to join him at a pub to watch the game. He seems somewhat unimpressed that I know nothing of the American league, nor do I have any knowledge of the team members, but I think I earn points due to my understanding of "off sides." After dinner, we go in search of a pub and I experience my first brush with European football and beer. Arthur guides me through the game, and corrects my cheering blunders (I managed to root for the Italians more than the Americans; such is my heritage, I guess) as we watch the Americans tie it up 1-1. But, ugh, our players play DIRTY! Two red cards (eviction from the game) go to Americans, although the Italians appear to take falls, hits and trips VERY dramatically. Surrounded by Danes, Italians and Norwegians, and sipping away at a Carlsburg, I feel somehow strangely in place, like I'm somehow integrating a little bit more, despite my faulty Danish (lucky for me, Arthur explains that Norwegian and Danish are different dialects of the same language, so he does most of the talking). A taste of football without the screaming, drunken Englishmen. And, amazingly, I really enjoy it! Arthur may have turned me into a true football fan!

For those who are interested, Arthur also has a blog on Blogspot (see! we are the same person!). You can link to it here. It's in Norwegian, so I have no idea what he has written, but you might be able to decipher it. Arthur, have fun!!

(On a tangent, I am leaving Copenhagen this evening. I haven't yet decided where, but it will definitely be on an overnight train. I'll update when I figure it out.)

Dinner and a Slow Train to Copenhagen

So, after the coat excitement (and an awesome lunch with my friend Courtney from NYU who is living in Amsterdam for the summer), I raced to Amsterdam Centraal to catch a train bound for Copenhagen, my next stop. My first train, on this journey, was an InterCityExpress, bound for Duisburg, Germany. I boarded the train at 7:19p, I arrived in Duisburg at 9:47p, about a half hour late. You know I'm FAR too cheap to buy train food. However, by 9:47p, I might just have sprung for the €10 half-sandwich! So, with about two hours to kill before my train to Denmark, I decide to have a look around. As I meander through this small German town, I discover that almost all of its eating establishments are either American chains (which just breaks my heart) or close. All, except, for the "Schnelfoods" place I find about five blocks from the station. As I stare at the menu -- all in German -- I discover that this place probably doesn't employ anybody who speaks English. Into my head pops my father's German-speaking voice. All I can catch is "klein"" and "Deutsche." Damn my fascination with Latin. I walk into the restaurant and go up to the counter. The waitress greets me in German. DAMN! I say "schpreken klein Deutsche," at which point she smiles. I order something with schnitzel, at which point she replies to me in English, "Would you like it to stay or to go?" I thank her and take it "to go." However, now that I know she speaks English, she's not getting off the hook! I ask her to tell me a little about Duisburg and she informs me that it is a university town, home to the third largest and (after some gesturing) best in Germany. The owner comes out from the back. Turns out she speaks English too! We have a lively conversation for a good twenty minutes about the history of Duisburg, the town layout, what I was doing... you get the picture. They invite me to come back after Copenhagen ("You must go," they said, "it is so beautiful!") and check out Duisburg. Feeling thrilled to have really connected with some locals (and with some cheap and yummy German food in hand), I head back to the station and boarded the 11:17p for Copenhagen. The DB Nachtzug. The night train.

Now, night trains are great. You get a flat place to sleep, a nice, cushy mattress, a fluffy blanket, a soft pillow and the clickety-clack of the train to rock you to sleep. It's all very peaceful and actually sleep-inducing. With one exception. As a non-EU citizen, my passport is of great interest to the conductor. However, he is polite enough not to take the blue thing from me. So, whenever he needs to see it, Mr. Conductor comes a-knockin'. Three times over the course of the night, all evenly-spaced, he woke me up to take a peak at my passport. Thus, somewhat rested (and having apologized to the Swedes in my compartment for having the lights thrown on so many times during the night), I arrive in Copenhagen.

Haggle for your Coat

It's cold in Amsterdam, and so I decided it was time to get myself something more substantial than the red windbreaker I received when I worked for NYU Commencement. Lenny and Joyce told me about "Waterlooplein," a flee market in Amsterdam with "good deals." So, I went. Among me sat the usual tourist stuff: wooden shoes, tulips and Van Gogh prints. However, I was tempted by the surprisingly large array of coats available for purchase. My first attempt was at the €10 coat stand. A very round Dutch man was also there, trying his luck. We got to chatting (in English, after I tried out my meager-at-best-but-steadily-improving Dutch on him) and discovered that if we combined ourselves (his arms and my torso), we would fit every coat on the table. So, that was a bust. As I moved on, however, I found for myself drawn to another stand, this one with four overflowing buckets of Swiss Army Knives outside. Again, I didn't pack one of these (for fear of airport security stealing it away from me). And, as I dug through these piles, hoping for something that wasn't either too obviously a knock-off or rusted beyond recognition,a scraggly looking man approached me and said something in Dutch. Apparently, I look American enough that he just switched over to English. He explained something I couldn't quite grasp about needing a knife and looking for one that costs €1. I suggested he take my knife and ask if we could collectively get a good deal (€2 each instead of the listed €3). Something happened, I'm not sure what, but I was approached by the stall owner and asked for €4. Apparently, this guy thought I was buying him his knife. I explained that he had to pay for his, handed over my €3 and left. Never thought somebody would try to do that to me in the Netherlands!

Back on the hunt for my coat, I spy a huge woman standing by a stall with a rack of denim jackets. I smile at her. She smiles at me. I pick up a jacket. She blows smoke in my face from her cigarette. I put down the jacket. She retreats to the back of the store. Eventually, I realized that this "dance" we were doing had something to do with getting me away from the denim jackets and towards the cloth ones on the other side of the store. I step over, carefully, towards the cloth jackets and pull down one that I like. It is tan with blue sleeves and has some sort of logo with the letters U and S in it (it is definitely not USA, so don't worry.) I ask in broken Dutch how much the jacket is. She replies, "Fifteen euro... it is good price." I must REALLY look like a tourist, or my Dutch is worse than I thought! Never one to accept such a grossly high (well, not really) offer, I counter with €8, hoping for somewhere around €10. "No," she replies, "it is very good price." So, I turn on my heals, walk towards the hanger and, as I am about to turn away, I turn back. "Ten?" I ask meagerly. "Twelve-fifty," she laughs. "Sold!" I shout, hand over the euros and race away with a "danke vel" before she can change her mind.