The Half Way Point

Just to note that July 13 marks the midpoint in my trip (essentially, as I leave continental Europe for Iceland on August 13, even though I don´t return to the USA until the 17th).

It´s been a month already?!

Drinkin' through München

I have never been so drunk in my life.

Let´s Go describes the appeal of München as its "stein-themed" qualities. Uh huh. Perhaps it would be more appropriate to say that, if you are in your early 20s and you decide to hang out with other expats around your age (or not even your age), your view of München will be colored in shades of beer and tastes of alcohol. My first day in the city included a fantastic bike tour, which included a beer garden stop in the lush and beautiful English Garden. The tour picked up substantially after our guide eached downed a maß bier (1L) and I a halbe bier (.5L). And after the tour, those of us up for a night out, including a group of recent Princeton grads now living in the East Village and George, a new friend and Seattlite, headed to the old-timey Hofbräuhaus, the first beer hall in Bavaria. There, amid umpa bands, rushed waiters and our local tablemate Joseph´s discussions of world politics in English, German and Italian, I enjoyed a maß of my own. And THEN, talk about peer pressure, the Princeton grads and our tour Irish tour guide, Steve, insisted that I join them at a cocktail bar for drinks and shots. After a huge mojito and a few too many shots of some concoction of SoCo and Lime (thank goodness it was a cheap bar!), I stumbled my way back to the hostel. Night one. And no hangover the next morning.

Day two opened with a stroll through the city, with its lovely old-time feel mixed with cosmopolitan energy. I enjoyed a €2, half kilo of delicious peaches for breakfast from a street vendor, found another World Cup baseball cap to replace the "disappeared" one from a week ago and then met up with George for lunch at a local cafe. Where I drank water. Thankfully.

The two of us, on the spur of the moment, decided to visit the Dachau Concentration Camp outside of München. The camp itself is a truly sobering experience, and one that makes tangible for me, in far too disturbing a way, the experience of Nazism. Just following the path into the unused gas chamber (Dachau was the prototype camp, but not a "death camp"), is enough to give me nightmares for the rest of my life. George and I split up and wandered for a good three hours, captured and horrified in ways that I am afraid my typing cannot really capture. The bus and train ride back to the city were silent. We agreed to meet for dinner later that night and headed off to our respective abodes.

That evening, George selected "7 Fish," easily the nicest resaurant I will eat at during this trip. I decided to splurge. And, here´s the downfall, George insisted that he select and pay for the wine. Well, George is a wine expert, with a collection of over 1000 bottles. So, not only was the wine reasonably priced, it was exceptional! Together, over five hours of fascinating conversation and some of the best seafood I have ever had, we shared what amounted to over 2.5L of red wine. We paid, said our goodbyes, and I stumbled back to my hostel. Night two. And no hangover the next morning.

And then there was today. A light day. Only one maß at an amazing beer garden on the outskirts of town. Now, as I sit in an internet cafe, killing time before my 5am train to Berlin (gulp!), I´m realizing what part of the city I actually experienced. Not that I enjoy being that drunk, not that it´s something I particularly want to do a lot, but it is definitely a way of seeing München. I appreciate and love the beauty of the city, the art and culture that exists here (the opera house is breathtaking!) and the brutal history that this town held at one time. However, for me, this visit was about two things: sobering history and giddy, drunken revelry. Polar opposites, perhaps, but a neat look at a city bubbling with culture, history and excesses. And, perhaps, an experience you an only have at 21, when you are resilient enough to wake the next day before 10, brush your teeth, comb your hair and set off to repeat the night before.

The Caesar Shuffle OR Ethan Gets a Sunburn

Rome may not have been built in a day, but, on this trip, that´s how long the ancient city got. Rome was my introduction to Europe and international travel nearly ten years ago, so there was a part of me that needed to go back. However, there really wasn´t too much I had to see. The Colosseum, which was closed when we visited, and the Roman Forum were my two necessities. And maybe some time in Piazza Navona, taking in the street performers, before I hop an overnight train to somewhere. That was the plan.

Well, I began my day in Rome oversleeping my alarm. By the time I got down to breakfast (the hostel had a heck of a spread!), it was already 10:30am. Great, I thought, I´m going to be a "mad dog" today, sunning myself in midday brutality. I hopped the Metro, popped out at the Colosseo stop, and hoped for the best.

Perhaps the thing I had not expected on this trip to Rome is how very much four years of Latin changes your perceptions. As I strolled through the Forum, dutifully listening to the audio guide that explains the ruins, I began to forget about the heat. What is that inscription? I bent over the stone and, as the radio attached to my ear spewed dates and facts, the wheels of my brain started turning. Something about marriage, freedom... they´re using the possessive... ok, so this was made for a wedding, and it´s dedicated to the freedom of the Roman empire. Yes! Screw the heat, I´m communicating with ancient Romans, even if I can barely make their scratchings out. I scurried around the Forum for four hours, gaping at inscriptions, listening in on guided tours and doing my darndest to be an Ancient Roman for a day. I hopped over the the Colosseum and walked the aisles, imagining what it must have been like to see so much blood spilled in such an immense theater. Peering into the central pit, I wondered what it would have been like to be an actor in this arena, knowing full well that your career would go out in a blaze of bloody glory. Talk about acting as a tough career!

Before I knew it, it was 17:00 and I was hungry. I raced back to my hostel -- near the train station -- grabbed lunch and then headed to get in line for a train reservation. Vienna might be a nice stop, I imagined, hearing strains of Mozart in teh back of my head. And what´s this? There´s a train that leaves at 19:40. PERFECT! I´ll have to skip Piazza Navona, but that can go on the "next trip" list. I stand in line, perusing my guidebooks and getting in a Viennese state of mind.

At 19:26, I finally get to a ticket agent. So much for Vienna! But I have no hostel reservation in Rome, so where am I going? The ticket agent looks at me bewildered, grunts and says, "There´s an overnight train to Munich leaving in an hour. You want?" "Sure," I shout, handing over my €20 and snatching the reservation out of his hands. Always, always, always say yes.

I race through the terminal, looking for a place to grab a bite to eat. All I can see open at this hour is perhaps the ultimate international food: McDonalds. Determined that my last meal in Italy will not be any sort of fast food (and certainly not something as foul as the Golden Arches), I race outside, bags and all, and duck into a tiny self-service place. Nothing is recognizable and nobody speaks English. I stare, smell and point my way into a rice salad, assuming it will be cheap and tasty. And I could not have been more right! It´s the perfect Ethan food, with marinated "Roman" artichokes, olives, heart of palm and anything else that´s been pickled in brine. I ate greedily, downed my qurater liter of wine, shouted "ciao" to my hosts and hopped onto the train.

The conductor on the train decided he liked me. I think it had something to do with the fact that the last name ends in a vowel. Regardless, he decided to test my Italian and we had a marvelous, if stilted and unsophisticated, conversation. However, wishing me a good night, he slapped me on the upper back and walked off to his chamber. OUCH!! I raced to the bathroom, in search of the source of this great back pain. And I discovered, to my great surprise, that the Roman excursion granted me what may be the third or forth sunburn of my life. Perhaps its the price one pays for "doing Rome in a day." My Colosseum battle scar, we´ll call it. Regardless, the train ride, already stuffy and warm with a busted AC and locked window, was a substantially more painful than usual and, when I got to Munich, the first order of business was a nap. And a long, cold shower.

Oh Roma!

Viva Italia!

So, as you may or may not know, Italy just won the World Cup.

However, had you been in Rome, in the ancient Circus Maximus, surrounded by thousands of Italians, straining to see the three jumbotrons through thousands of Italian flags and hundreds of smokey flares, you'd know. You'd really know.

When in Rome...

Stop that Train!! / Perugia

My last night in Siena (I was there for two) was spent talking theater and sports with a nifty Auzzie named Dan. From 23:30 until 1:20. Thus thwarting my plans to catch a 7am train to Rome. After a quick morning of packing, running to catch little orange buses to the train station, throwing breakfast down my throat and deciphering Italian directions, I wound up waiting for a train to Florence. A train that would meet up with a slow train to Rome with an hour to spare. A train that would offer me a chance to relive my childhood memories of Piazza Navona and maybe sneak a peek inside the Colosseum.

A train that was already 45 minutes late.

Arriving in Florence at 11am, I realized that I had nine minutes to get myself on the Rome-bound train. But, by this time, my tummy was a rumblin'. Hearing my father's voice in the back of my head ("Don't cheat on the chow line"), I headed off for the little self service place in the train station. I'll grab myself some gnocchi, a bottle of water and a newspaper, and be on my way, I thought. Ah, the best laid plans...

Eleven minutes later, only gnocchi in hand, I watched sadly as my Rome-bound train pulled out of the station. Checking the schedule on the wall, I found the next (non super-fast and super-expensive) Rome-bound train left in six hours. I was not going to waste a day on train travel (this is a pledge I made early in the trip), so Rome, it appeared, was not going to happen today. I slung my bag down, plopped myself into a chair, stuck a fork into my gnocchi and started paging through my Eurail time table. Since Florence is probably booked up, where are we going? Verona? Turin? No, what's on the way to Rome? Where can I get some different scenery, crash for a night and then catch an early train into the Ancient City? This time, Let's Go provided the answer: Perugia. With Eurail confirming that a train left in 27 minutes, I grabbed my stuff, called the hostel and found a seat.

Perugia held me for two nights. Not because of the town (which is rustic and Umbrian, but not terribly exciting); not because of the jazz festival (which was fun); not because of the Baci chocolate (which is produced there but tastes the same as in the US); not even because of the hostel (which did have a great view). Perugia captured me for two nights because of Michael, Lena and Emily, two Germans (Michael is also Polish) and an American studying Italian for the summer and crashing at the hostel until they can find more permanent lodging. Michael, who was living in my room, hit it off pretty fast, and he invited me out with the group on my first night, where we attended a festival concert and then tried, unsuccessfully, to get into the clubs.

The next day, the four of us were a team. We enjoyed a leisurely morning coffee, then picked up picnic supplies and trekked across town to munch al fresco. We talked world politics, travel (Lena and Michael critiqued my guidebooks), theater (Emily is an aspiring actress/director), American and German world images, German words used in English (it does appear that kugel means "ball," kugelmonster is pretty much the same thing as Pac Man, and verklempt means "sexually frustrated"), drivers tests... just about anything you could imagine! That evening, with the Germany-Portugal consolation round game looming, Emily and I were dubbed "honorary Germans," donning black, red and yellow makeup with Lena and Michael. The four of us went out to an Italian bar and, German beers in hand, cheered as loud as we could as we watched Deutschland beat Portugal 3-1 to take third place in the World Cup!

This morning, I boarded a bus to the train station, awaiting another 11:09 to Rome (where, as you can guess, I am now). Michael walked me to the bus. The night before, German lager in hand, I exchanged emails, addressed and cell phone numbers with everybody. We promised to keep in touch. I hope we do.