Journey to the Center of Italy

So, I’ve pretty much seen all I want to see, done all that I want to do. I was in Rome for only one day. I attribute my speed and efficiency to the fact that I planned meticulously and bought my tickets ahead of time so as to avoid the queues reaching to infinity. *Pat on the back.*

Last night I had a Mexican meal with a friend from high school who is an intern for the State Department here in Rome. It was nice to meet a bunch of Americans and talk about crap while watching the USA lose to Ghana. (Did I really just say that? You never thought you’d hear me with any sport spirit at all.) In my discussions (after everybody became aghast at my statement “I’ve seen all that I care to see”), I decided I would take a day trip, since I probably won’t come back to Italy for a very long time. Naples sounded good because it’s only 2 hours away and has some pretty exciting stuff on its periphery, like the Mediterranean.

So this morning I hopped on a train (at 7:30am, mind you) and was whisked away to the home of Pizza. The train was not very pleasant (even though it was one of the nicer trains.) No air conditioning and seats in compartments which one must share with 5 other people. The window was forcefully closed by an angry Italian lady who screamed things at me (I have no idea what; probably something like “It’s not hot enough in here for me. Why don’t you go back to the north where you can be a heat wussy?”) Anyway, so I had a seat reservation, but somebody was sitting in it. I didn’t have the necessary innards to ask them to politely move, so I just sat somewhere else. This turned into a chain reaction until I finally confessed that I don’t know any conversational Italian. I can say “Thank You” and “Goodbye.” One of the other people in the compartment spoke English, so we sorted out the whole fiasco with minimal physical or emotional harm. My seat was in the middle of two people. It was an awkward 2 hours.

When I arrived, all was great except I was bombarded with all of the things that make a visit uncomfortable: gypsy cabs, street vendors with their fake Prada and Dolce & Gabbanna paraphernalia splayed across the sidewalk. Luckily I was only going to be in the city for a few minutes. I bought my ticket to Herculaneum and dashed off.

So, I was once again I was confronted with an issue: too many people getting too close to me. I think this issue wouldn’t have been as severe if I were back in good ol’ Germany where people aren’t quite as, well, Italian. There are many social norms that are quite jarring to me, and being the lone tall, blonde, white guy on a train platform really exacerbated by discomfort. Normally I would have just brushed off this feeling, but it is a feeling I felt while in Rome and also around the Italian foreign exchange students. So I feel this is the perfect time to make known my observations.

Italians are very shifty people. This does not mean that they are all untrustworthy. It just means that their continual sharp movement and quick glances in many directions and inability to stand still really makes me nervous. They also smoke like no other. In the US and Germany, smoking is forbidden in most public places and is strongly enforced. Here, people just light up standing in a subway platform, in the train station, waiting in line for a ticket, or (like one person) even on the train itself. In fact, my server at lunch was smoking a cigarette while taking my order (inside, I will add), and still had it in her mouth as she brought out my pizza. They then promptly throw the butt in the street, where it becomes one of many amassed butts accumulated since the last street sweeper sometime last millennium.

Another thing doesn’t really have to do with PEOPLE so much as a company. Italians are “validate” happy. I bought a ticket and I had to validate it. What? I just bought a ticket for the 7:36 train. Why do I need to validate it? It says on the ticket “7:36am to Naples.” You mean you’re going to fine me if I don’t stick that paper into a machine to receive information that is already on the card? No sense.

And then the validation machines were broken! I had to run amok through the train station to find a line of people validating their tickets. That’s dumb. If you’re going to force a dumb validation, make sure the validating machines work.

Anyway, beyond the annoying inflection in their voice (which always makes me feel like I’m being yelled at) and the hand gestures, I’m sure they’re nice people. I would just need some time to get used to them.

Anyway. So I went to Herculaneum, one of the Vesuvius victims. Based on the advice of a former Latin teacher and a few people who made the mistake, I chose this place over Pompeii. It was a good choice. The place was almost empty of tourists and it didn’t require any excess bus trips or haggling with unpleasant people. It was nice and enjoyable.

So the difference between Herculaneum and Pompeii is that H was covered with lava whereas P was covered with ash. As a result, the stuff in H is better preserved (because it was covered by rock instead of ash.) The buildings were really cool and they looked like a present handed down from the past. I was most impressed by the walls, which were painted and looked pretty impressive. The marble floors were cool, too. I think I’ll devote an entire blog to Herculaneum, so look out for it in the near future.

Tomorrow is my last day in Rome. I have the entire morning free, so I’m going to pay that gigantic fee to walk amongst the ruins of the Palatine Hill and then high-tail it back to Germany, where the trains are air-conditioned.

Roma

So I eventually arrived in Rome to be greeted in the best way known to mankind: a beggar. Immediately I rolled my eyes and thought “great, this is another place where I have to keep my wallet in my front pocket. I paid my ransom to ride the train into the city (which cost just as much for me to go from Wuerzburg to the Frankfurt Airport, many times the distance AND had air-conditioning) , dropped off my crap and went out! By the time I was all settled and such, it was already 8:30 and the sun was fast disappearing. I high-tailed it (meaning I looked confusedly at my map – vainly - trying to figure out which way was the most efficient to get from point A to point B.) About 30 minutes later, I approached the Colosseum. It was right as the sun sank into the horizon: the illuminating lights had just turned on, but one could see a vague semblance of the sky. It was magical. Photo-op.

By the time I had finished salivating, I went back to my place of lodging. Naptime. The next day I awoke bright and early. “Free Breakfast” was once again the false promise of sustenance. Nothing disappointing like Paris, but still – people of the world, why do you think a hunk of bread and espresso is enough? I ate my meager early-meal-like-thing and ran to the supermarket to prepare myself for an entire day in the Mediterranean sun: 2 bottles of water (3 liters in total), a bag of bread rolls, and some chocolate (because I’m weak and calories don’t count on Saturday.)

I headed off for my 8:30am appointment with the Vatican Museum. I walked out of the subway station and was affronted by a fortified wall. Yes, it was this big wall surrounding the Vatican. I followed the wall and the signs that say “Museum: that wayà) and felt my stomach drop as I rounded a corner to see the line of poor souls waiting to see trinkets of salvation. I had learned my lesson in Paris: Always buy the tickets in advance. The 4, 5, or 6 euro “service fee” is worth it. I politely (I say that because there were plenty of slow people who decided to stand in my way, giving me the opportunity to not be polite) rounded corner after corner, saying “ciao” to the people who would probably be there until the mid-afternoon. I took my little pre-purchased ticket and joined the “reserved tickets” line. My wait was about 10 minutes.

The collection really reinforced why Martin Luther took a nail and hammer to Wittenburg Cathedral: it was beyond absurd. To think that so much of that was paid for by the poor people from all around continental Europe in the Renaissance. Paying their prayer taxes so some guy could sit with a fancy hat and make decrees about how the world is flat, keeping Portugal from everything West of a certain latitude and telling Henry VIII he can’t get a divorce.

Well, the Sistine Chapel was cool. I made my way to it first (based on some advice) and had a chance to throw my face upward and go crazy. I then made my way through the museum again, frequently slowed down by hoards of tourists. My second round through the chapel was like a fly going through molasses. In a matter of 30 minutes, the chapel went from a few clumps of people to a solid mass of warm-blooded creatures. I would have not been able to enjoy it under those circumstances.

Anyway, it only needed an hour and a half. By 10 I was walking along the Tiber. I had lunch on the Villa Borghese (with really pretty greenery). I made my way to the Pantheon and Piazza Novena. By the end of that hike (you’ve all heard about the 7 hills of Rome; well, they’re hills) I was exhausted. I took a bus back to my lodgings.

There is somebody with whom I went to high school who lives in Rome right now. I think I’ll call them up and find something to do. I really don’t feel like walking right now. The rest of the city can wait until tomorrow.

I fought Frankfurt and I survived

So I flew to Rome. Taking a train would have cost just as much and the thought of sitting in one spot for 12 hours made me slightly sick. I discovered while on my way back to Wuerzburg after the Munich trip that Nuremburg really didn’t have that much to see – at most, it’s an afternoon experience. I assumed the same for Frankfurt, so I left Wuerzburg a few hours early, got off of the train at the Frankfurt Hauptbahnof, saw what I wanted and got back on a train to the Airport (which is worthy of a long-distance train station, because just as many people filter through this airport daily than most medium-sized city train stations.)

A few people have jocularly called “Frankfurt on the Main” (the real name) “Mainhattan” because it has quite a spiffy collection of high-rise office buildings one would expect to find in Manhattan. Yeah, it’s great fun. I laughed a little the first time I read it. Since the decentralization of German power (namely the breaking-up of Berlin), Frankfurt became the money center of Germany. Such a title was only strengthened when the EU plopped its central bank in Frankfurt.

Frankfurt has a population of about 650,000 people, about the size of Austin, but every day 2,000,000 (yes, two million) people fill the city’s offices. So this means that the city has a workforce more than three times the city’s population. Talk about a commuter nightmare. The buildings are tall, the people you see on the street wear business suits with fancy shoes and a tie. What many consider the most powerful bank on the European Continent resides here, along with many of the large banks from inside Germany (and even foreign banks that want a foothold in the Frankfurt market and stock exchange, also the largest on the European Continent.) The city looks and smells like money.

I got bored of architectural-tourism (especially since I’ve traversed through Frankfurt numerous times on my way to elsewhere), so I made my way to the airport. OMFG. It’s huge. Last time I flew (which was to Krakow), I flew out of Nuremburg, a relatively small airport. The trip consisted of a regional train, a quick transfer to the subway, and a quick arrival. The Frankfurt Airport IS a city in itself. I arrived and the big hall was abuzz with activity, mostly people trying to figure out how to check in (read the signs, dumb people. They’re in 4 languages.) Check-in was easy because I had no checked baggage (thank God, because otherwise I would have had to stand in line for an ungodly amount of time.) Security was a breeze (because the airport was actually well equipped for the amount of passengers that pass through – something the Austin airport could learn.) I put my belt back on and looked around a bit. A sign caught my eye. “Walking time to gates.” I thought “oh, this is just because the Germans always stress being on time and love schedules.” No. It was because it actually takes a significant amount of time and there is a good chance you need to know, otherwise you will think you are lost. I was at gate 38. It gave me an estimated time of 15 minutes. And it took that long. It seemed like the terminal was just a long hallway that stretched on forever. I found my gate and sat, apparently far away from civilization (all of the little restaurants fizzled out around gate 20). I sit and look out the window as huge Airbus planes drive past, all nonchalant.

Anyway, so the Airplane was late, or “verspaetet,” which is just a nice way of the german language making an act that irks Adam sound like some passive act – the plane had no other choice than to be late; the gods have spoken.

The airplane ride was surprisingly nice. I flew with Lufthansa; the seats were actually comfortable, I had legroom, and not only did I receive TWO servings of apple juice, but I ALSO got a sandwich AND a chocolate granola bar! Take that, American Airlines. Lufthansa didn’t even have to charge us for a suitcase.

Mozart Fest

Last Saturday I participated in one of the most anticipated events of the Wuerzburg calendar: Mozart Fest. The history of this event is one of great importance; once upon a time Mozart traveled through Wuerzburg on his way to some other important city, played a concert and said "this is a nice city." Ever since, the city has been googley-eyed over this guy and his music and has held a month-and-a-half long festival every year in his honor.

Well, a friend of mine had bought a bunch of tickets and then decided she couldn't go. As a token of thanks for dealing with mean Korean airline companies to change her flight back to Japan (in English...?), she offered them to me. I thought "what the heck." So I paid her 10 euros (the "student discount") and went. I dressed as I would for any normal concert: nothing too fancy, but not a schmuck in holey jeans and a stained t-shirt. I had a nice sweater and a nice pair of jeans with some nice shoes. I got there and I realized I had totally under-estimated the local population. They were in evening gowns (complete with gems) and tuxedos (complete with cumber buns.) Not only was I mortified, but I had no time to go home and change (not that I would have anything to change into, because my entire overseas wardrobe consists of normal-wear clothing.) So I sucked it up, absorbed the judgmental stares and paraded through. Luckily, there were a few other students dressed like I was, so I wasn't alone and therefore not the only target of snobby disapproval.

The concert took place in that big baroque palace that I talk about so frequently. My ticket said "Kaisersaal," which was this former ballroom on the 2nd floor. I was excited-this was going to be like a chamber concert in the good-ol-days. But then I realized that there were way too many people here. I was slightly confused. Then I walked upstairs and it all made sense. I have drawn you a little diagram to help explain:

So, as you can see, they divided the audience into four groups. One group (probably the people who paid lots and lots of money) got to actually sit in the same room as the orchestra. The rest of us had to sit somewhere else (the two wings on the left and right weren't actually rooms, they were hallways) These were rooms connected by doorways. As a concession for our displeasure of feeling like women and slaves in a Puritan church they opened said doors, allowing us slight access to the vast amounts of culture, faith, and enlightenment they would send forth from the pulpit. This allowed for an acoustical phenomenon I call "mish-mash-mush" in which the sound vibrations are forced to reverberate through a hall covered with hard surfaces until they finally make their way through a small opening. As a result, there were some sounds that burst free before others and others were at a slight delay. Now put these two things together. It's like 3 or 4 discrete sonic events compressed and presented simultaneously. The effect was not impressive; in fact, it was slightly nauseating.

Given my seat location and the wall separating me from the ensemble I had paid money to see, I had a fine view of a horn player through the center door. You know, the horn player sitting at the very back and very edge of the left-hand side of the stage. Because I'm slightly ADHD, I couldn't focus all of my attention on this one horn player who played only a fraction of the time (the rest of the time emptying spit or pretending to be cool with lip exercises), I was forced to divert my attention to the absurdly ornate ceiling of the room in which I was confined. It was all cool. What was creepy was the big ceramic heater sitting in front of me. It had little toddlers of indeterminate gender flailing around with bunches of grapes, leaves, and flowers. One in particular was angled to stare at me with a devilish grin. It was at the very least a little uncomfortable.

Anyway, so I was confused the entire time because they don't give out programs - they charge you for them. I'm super cheap and don't believe in concert robbery, so I abstained. As a result, I had no idea if it was time to clap or not. My general sentiment of dissatisfaction would have kept me from clapping anyway.

So no more Mozart-Fest for me. I've decided it's not really about celebrating some good music. It's about wearing a tuxedo and staring at people hitting rods against some expensive hunks of wood. I'll be all pretentious music major and say that I'm more cultured than them, because they probably wouldn't have appreciated all of the cool crap Mozart wrote anyway. They were too busy suffocating in their uncomfortable girdles.

Then and Now

Earlier I told you about Germany's "Wirtschaftswunder" and how Munich's 1972 Olympic Stadium is such a fitting symbol for that rise out of turmoil into one of the most powerful nations in the western world.

So now let's talk about another country that rose from an embarrassing defeat in a different war that consumed much of the same territory in continental

Europe.

The end of this war still saw the country in a mercantile-like economic system with the victors; this country had massive war reparations to pay. This country was forced to produce finished products and sell them at almost cost value to eliminate some of this debt. Its currency was inflated to the point where cash money was more valuable to start a stove on fire than to buy paper for the same use. This country needed an upswing, and it needed it badly. People were starving, labor was hard and for low pay. Right as the situation was starting to get better, the situation got even worse when worldwide markets crashed, bringing said country back to the ground, only without the rich neighbors to buy their goods. Everything was grim, that is until a charismatic young leader took the reigns and m

ade this country a world power again.

Industry was king. The working class had jobs again, the country's currency shot up in value.they could feed their families and shop at department stores. The world seemed to be right again.

At the peak of this country's success, its leader was named Time Magazine's Person of the Year. The Olympic Committee chose this country to host an Olympiad. A grand stadium was built, countries from all around

the world came and participated. The games went off without a hitch. Despite some concerns from the world community that this country might be getting a bit too powerful, overall consensus was favorable.

This country is Germany, and the time frame is between the end of World War I and 1936. The Berlin Olympics were seen as the symbol of Germany's growth again to the world stage, that Germany was once again a country of wealth and civilization.

So what does this mean? It means that signs are confusing. Up until 1938, the world at large saw the new German Leader as a man who cared for his country and was taking charge to get stuff done. We only fully realized what was happening when he started to invade countries for no good reason. It means we don't study history because otherwise we are doomed to repeat it. It means the world is not as clean cut as we hope. It means we can't be lax and ignore signs, but at the same time we can't be too vigilant and squash everything that looks as if it's getting better.

It means "I don't know."

Berlin and the East (or the West)

So we all know that Berlin once upon a time had this little wall. Starting in 1989, this little wall was torn apart – parts of it became walls behind urinals, other parts became chunked protrusions in buildings, and even more parts divided amongst the world’s populace as tourist trinkets. Yeah, I’ve read about this wall. I’ve read about how people escaped in hollowed-out car dashboards, I’ve read about how people were separated for 30 years. But I don’t think I really understood the real meaning of this hunk of cement that circled West Berlin, cutting through the city center. I don’t think I can even really fully understand this meaning, but I was really moved and struck by the flood of epiphanies as I stood where the former wall was.
First, the wall encircled an island of west. It was built not to keep the West out, but to keep the East in. After the East became a state-controlled communist nation, many of the leading intellectuals moved to the West where censorship (not just big black marks through letters, but the dictation of what may/could be produced) thing was not a problem. So up came the wall – immigration laws were made more strict (keep in mind that East Berlin was a totally different country and West Berlin was stuck in the middle).

Imagine if your town were all of a sudden divided. Where you used to work is no longer accessible to you. Where you grew up is now behind this big cement curtain, unsure if you’ll ever be able to see it again. You can tell it’s still there – the sky still hovers above, but it is just beyond your reach.

Suddenly families were separated; mothers from children, husbands from wives. Friends were no longer able to communicate or see each other. Two completely different social, political, and economic systems grew next to each other but largely separate from each other. The Easterners were reminded many times daily that this wall existed – Border police monitored the border around the clock, dogs roamed the “death strip,” and all facades facing the west were bricked over. The city was split in half. The commuter trains and subways that had once connected all sides of the city were partitioned – the West got most of them, but when the trains went underneath the East, they couldn’t stop at the stations. If they did, they were met by the stern glances of GDR police.

Product availability made shopping a hit-or-miss experience. Fashion was designed using cheap materials, fruit was almost non-existent, vegetables had a small selection and the purchase of a GDR-made car had a 16 year waiting list. The Westerners could walk about their day as if the world surrounding them didn’t exist – they could shop at the largest shopping mall on continental Europe (KaDeWe), wear the latest fashions from Paris, New York, and Milan, eat whatever varieties of fruit, vegetables, and enjoy consumer goods from a toaster to TV to a family car from anywhere in the world. The West had its economic miracle, the east continued with its deficit spending command economy, producing products with foreign currencies because the East German Mark was worthless in world markets. Plus, they had tacky fashion because of this government-controlled output of everything. For the West, the wall was a tourist experience: people would look over to see a long strip of nothing and then the mountains of housing projects built quickly to satiate the housing shortage.

Further into the East, it was as if the wall didn’t even exist. As one walks down the showcase-street of the GDR, one forgets that JFK is a donut or that Reagan demands that the wall be torn down. The abundance of Pickles and the shortage of Bananas were just facets of everyday life. One simply acclimated to the perpetual fear of being arrested for libel or treason – the person with whom you speak could easily have been paid by the Stasi as an informant and have a tape recorder disguised as his fourth button down. Loyalty to the state came from a few years of patriotic movements, an education that includes a heavily politicized history curriculum and flag-waving, and public holiday parades. After all, employment was abundant and housing was finally becoming readily available.

When the wall finally came down, yes, there was a celebration that the organism of the city was finally reunited, but by that time the Berliners had become so diverse – the postulate of divergent evolution. Yes, many people in the east flooded through the Brandenburg Gate towards freedom, but what could the do there? Their bank accounts contained money that was worthless, they lived and worked in areas supported, even run, by the government. Incorporating the Eastern neighbors into the People’s Republic of Germany was going to be a significant move requiring lots of money, lots of firm policies, and lots of time.

The newest generation of Germans never experienced pre-wall Germany. They’ve always been members of the BRD. The bridges made for the older generations have been built and everybody may cross them. Will we soon forget the pungent reality of this big scar?

Hauptstadt Detuschlands

So, this is my 50th post. Whoot, whoot. To celebrate such an achievement, I've taken a trip to Berlin. The train ride was long and pretty tedious. First, it must be known that I’m traveling with a group of other international students. This trip was arranged by the International Office at my host university. The personalities by which I am surrounded range from the quite, modest person to the group of loud and obnoxious people who brought a case of beer onto the train just because they could (and were drunk before we even had to change trains.) So far, it hasn’t been an issue with me because I could put in my iPod and look out the window, and my first run-about amongst the city was with people I find pleasing. But tomorrow we have group activities. If they become loud and obnoxiously drunk, I may become angry and annoyed Adam.


Our train left in the middle of the day, which is probably best for the above mentioned group who partied way too hard on Friday night and were unable to get out of bed before noon. We were all assembled in front of the train station and it began to downpour. I reached over to my umbrella pocket in my backpack and realized it was gone. I’m dumb. I remembered to pack an extra pair of underwear, but not my umbrella. I hope it doesn’t rain the entire time I’m here.
We arrived at the Berlin Ostbahnhof around 6:10pm. Our hotel is actually connected to the train station. At first I was a bit sketched out (I’ve had bad experiences with conveniently-located hotels in the past few weeks), but it’s not that bad. There’s no air conditioning, so I get to hear the rumble of a busy street and busy train station, but I’m tired enough I’ll probably conk out despite that. Immediately after check in, we had to wait for some lecture from the advisor: basically, don’t do anything stupid (advice which I’m sure will be duly heeded by all members…) I then departed with a Finnish girl and a Chinese guy. We hit this city.



First was Alexanderplatz, home to the great big Fernsehturm, the pride and joy of the former East Germany. We ate dinner (naturally, Italian Food, because it’s everywhere and has a predictable variety of offerings at a reasonable price) close to Marx-Engels-Plaza. We then walked down Unter den Linden, the Berlin Equivalent to Champs-Elysee in Paris or Broadway Avenue in New York. Along the street were fancy-looking stores, the imposing Russian Embassy, and finally the Brandenburg Tor, the icon of Berlin.
Right next door was the American Embassy. We crossed through the gate and into (the former) West Berlin and walked our way south to Potsdamer Platz, which is very similar to New York’s Times Square in the incredible amount of illumination everywhere. It’s very odd to view, especially since that area used to be the no-man’s-land between East and West – even the subway station was closed off. Now it’s a thriving center with skyscrapers and a regional train station.


By that time it was already 10:45 – the sun had just set. I was tired, my companions were tired, so we took a ride on the subway. I was surprised at how small the platforms are here. In Munich, there was enough space for a crowd of commuters to huddle and wait for the next train. Here, it’s smaller than the platforms in New York and about the same size as those in London. The trains are really narrow, too – not a lot of space for standing. Also peculiar was the decoration in the stations. For 2 stations after Potsdamer Platz (once again towards Alexanderplatz), the stations were made with tiles, marble, and whatever other creative design materials. Once we made it past the “Border” stations between east and west, the style became much more austere: exposed steel beams with Romanesque column capitals with that ugly off-white almost yellow paint. That style continued as we traveled further into the east. It was very interesting to me. I hope it’s not the last contrast I find in this previously divided city.

(Insert Edit)

So now it's 6:40 am and I'm sitting underneath the Fernsehturm mooching free internet from Starbucks (thank you, American brand and your dedication to customer service and comfort.)

I began my search for some Wi-Fi at about 5am (I woke up uncomfortably early.) I walked around, took a train to the city center, but everything was closed. Finally, I decided to go back to the hotel and just give up, but I found a Starbucks hiding out. Enough of that. The real reason I made this edition:



As I left the hotel, I ran into the group about which I complained earlier. They were just getting back from a long night of clubbing and partying (I had heard that the Berlin club scene was pretty intense). Anyway, I shrugged it off - dumb tourists. They were loud, obnoxious, and probably moments away from a narcoleptic fit. I proceeded outside and into the train station only to find more, more, and more poor souls waiting for that train to take them home after they had been out all night. Everybody was still dressed as they were 6 hours earlier when they first entered their party-central. As I progressed throught he city, the exodus progressed as well. Everywhere I went, there were women carrying their heels as they walk down the street, men with their gelled hair flaking and losing its hold, and clothes no longer neatly pressed. It was very funny - I had awoken early and began my day right as they were going home to end theirs. It's really awful.



Today we have a bus tour. I think a few people will sleep through it. Not my problem.

Schwäbisches Toast

So, Stuttgart. I bequeath unto you the whole story, because it's hot and I can't fall asleep.

First: Apparently one of the other 3 students had a deadline on Friday morning, so he threw a small hissyfit about spending the night in Stuttgart. So our plans changed (much to my dismay, because I had packed a day's worth of clothing in my backpack before I went to class - not enough time to go home between the end of class and the last possible train to arrive in Stuttgart on time.) Instead of riding the train, spending the night in a hostel, and then riding the train back the next day, we rented a car, drove there and drove back all in one grand evening. The change of plans gave me a chance to run home, dump out all of the unnecessary crap from my bag, run back into town, and hitch a ride in the rented automobile.

So, we drove in a "mini-van," which was nothing bigger than my grandmother's Buick Lucerne. It was very awkward - 4 real Germans and a German-looking American who still has trouble discerning syllables in this god-awful Franconian dialect by which I am surrounded. We got to drive on the Autobahn, which, thanks to rush-hour, many stalled vehicles, and construction, was not the exhilarating experience it could have been. We arrived in Stuttgart about 2.5 hours before the show began, so the professor drove us to a part of the city he enjoyed when HE went to school (in Stuttgart). Turns out it was actually very interesting - it was an entire section of between-the-wars modern architecture rebuilt after being blown to smithereens by the Allies. It was actually very cool to see all of these bauhaus-inspired designs in real life. As the spirit moved me, I reached into my backpack to discover that I left my camera at home. Ugh.

Well, we walked around for about 30 minutes, decided we were hungry but not "big meal" hungry, so we stopped at a little cafe (also very bauhaus.) I had a buttered pretzel and a bottle of water (gosh it's so hot....). Somebody had hot milk with white chocolate and a scone, the professor had a coke and croissant, and the other two had some cappuccino. All of us were finished with our drinks and snacks, all ready to go, when somebody spoke up and said "wait, I haven't gotten my toast yet." At first I was like "we're waiting for some toast? OMG, let's just ditch your whimpy pieces of crusty bread." Of course, I didn't want to be the jerk, so I sat there and tried to understand the partially-understandable sentences being thrown about. Something about Carrie Bradshaw and Neil Patrick Harris. Who knows.

And then out comes the toast. It's a panini. I was like "that is not toast. that's a panini." I received the most confused looks ever, only to be followed by "no, it's toast." I then had to describe that toast is a piece of toasted bread alone - you can put some butter, jam, or whatever sorted variety of spread you wish. But once you take two grill-toasted pieces of bread and smack lettuce, tomato, mustard, cheese, and deli meats between them, it becomes a panini. Remove the toasted bread and replace with lightly-toasted or "straight-out-of-the-bag" slices of bread, then you have simply a sandwich. This was apparently completely novel to them. "Americans must come from a bread culture, because you have so many different names for toast. You know some Canadians have many different words for snow." It took all of my inner strenght to resist rolling my eyes and to say "but it's not toast." After this short episode, the three students realized that I could both understand what they said and come up with reasonably intelligent responses, so I was no longer that tag-along American: I was a partially-fledged speaking partner (I still spent many conversation topics staring across the table trying to figure out whether they are talking smack about me). It was very liberating and rewarding. But I still refuse to call what was on that plate "toast."

Anyway, afterward we made our way to the un-air-conditioned Opera House, which was all fun and dandy. We had nosebleed seats and the person next to me smelled of halitosis. The performance was good - nothing particularly notable, but better than what I've seen in Austin. It would have been more pleasant if I had about 3 inches more legroom to avoid cramping and/or a 20 degree cooler environment to avoid the perpetual flow of perspiration. Afterward, it was still light outside and we were for real hungry (or at least I was.) It was almost 10pm and dusk was just arriving, so we made our way to the main square. At this time the one who ordered "toast" did something that made me laugh because of the irony: he pulled out his iPhone and looked up the closest fast-food restaurants. He suggested Burger King (you have to pronounce it the way a German would - Bohrguhr Keeng) and started talking about this big-bacon-ranch-something cheeseburger and how delicious it was. I wanted to laugh, because I'm pretty sure they expected that from me. Or maybe it was a joke - but I'm pretty sure it was serious from this kid.

Anyway, majority ruled it out (mostly because we were starving and there were other places to eat within a closer radius), so I partook in my usual "oh my god I can't believe how high the prices are on these menus" meal - a 9 euro bowl of pasta.

When we were done, we hopped back in the car and went crazy on the autobahn. Without the traffic or the daytime construction (the Germans would never be caught doing nighttime road construction), we could just fly by. It was very liberating to drive 180km/hr for some stretches and pass those slowpokes. It makes me want to take my car onto I-40 between Amarillo and the Oklahoma border and just go super-fast. The need for speed consumed me momentarily.

So I didn't have the opportunity to explore Stuttgart at my leisure, but it's OK. I think I saw the really important things: We drove by the Mercedes-Benz world headquarters, saw some super-modern and super-sleek buildings (very similar in style to those built in downtown Austin after the Frost building). I kicked myself a little because I forgot my camera. But it's OK, even if I had my camera I probably would have refrained from going super-tourist because I had to act all calm and cool in front of people whom I would actually have to see again (one of whom will give me a grade at the end of the semester.)

So now I'm here. Tomorrow I will pack (hopefully my camera, too) and get ready for some Berlin.

Field Trip!

Tomorrow, I'm going to Stuttgart. The best part, I don't have to include it in my budget for travel, because I'm going with a class!

I'm taking a class about a specific composer and one of his operas is being performed. I've been told that the Stuttgart Staatsoper is one of the better companies in Europe, so hopefully it will just be super-exciting and will be "begeistert" (one of those weird German phrases that translates to "becoming the subject of a spirit.")

Anyway, I get to skip some class and not feel bad about it. Because we have to spend the night (the class only has 4 people, so we're doing the whole Hostel thing - I hope that the University has some standards when arranging beds), I don't have to go to my 8 am on Friday. Instead, I'll do some poking around Stuttgart and see what's there. I don't think I'll be bound to staying with this group of Germans because there are no "Land" tickets with which we can travel cheaply.

And then the day after I return from Stuttgart, I'm going to Berlin. Be prepared for some really boring (but hopefully enlightening) posts. *snore.* I've waited quite a few years to run amok amongst the crossroad of Europe. I will do my best not to poke fun of American politicians who may or may not have called himself a donut.

Heiß

Well, it's summer. The flowers are all finished blooming, the trees are in full-shade-mode, the swimming pools are open, the large lawnmowers are running amok in the city parks, and people have no problem laying down on the grass and reading a book, taking a nap, or sipping on their open container. The stores now advertise their new seasons after they liquidated everything with a long sleeve or down padding. The best part? Daily highs are somewhere around 30 Centigrade, or 85 Fahrenheit.

In the USA, particularly Texas, which is currently at 40 Centigrade (100 Fahrenheit), this is Antarctica. The humidity is pretty high (I feel perpetually sticky, just like in Austin), and the temperature drops pretty quickly in the evening around 8:30pm (whereas in Austin it's hot the entire night.) There is usually a nice, light breeze wherever I go, complete with the rustling of tree branches, ready to evaporate that slight condensation around my brow. It's not entirely unbearable to walk around downtown and casually pick up an ice cream cone from the Italian vendors on the corner, and the amount of gross-nasty feeling is nothing like how I felt after walking to the mailbox in Austin. So it's not that bad outside.

But golly gee. Inside is just unbearable. The Germans have not come to the advantages of air conditioning.

Granted, during most of the year air conditioning is not needed at all - that heater is what keeps comfort levels tolerable. The Germans have mostly made up for this mechanical convenience by placing windows that actually open in most buildings (good luck finding windows that open out on most buildings in the USA, especially dormitories, school buildings, and offices.) It's fine for my humble abode because it faces north - never any direct sunlight.

The classrooms? Unbearable. Often, there is only one window in the entire room. This room houses anywhere between 15 and 20 students sitting in close proximity. The wiggles of discomfort coming from everybody, the quick brush-by whiffs of the armpit, and the self-fanning with your class handouts are a frequent sight. Many bathrooms also lack proper ventilation, so the rooms are not only scorching hot and stale, but the smell from that woo-hoo who missed tends to ferment and cause nausea.

Even the library is a victim of this stuffy-ness. I went to find a book, and I couldn't help but feel that I would pass out from heatstroke and lack of ventilation. Open a few windows, please. People were frantically typing on their computers, working up a sweat not from the stress of homework and that impending oral report, but instead from the sweatshop conditions in which they were working. It was slightly unbearable. My body feels sticky just thinking about it.

I refuse to partake in another of the behaviors I've seen many Germans partake in: Walking around barefoot. First, they wear their shorts, showing some super-white legs, and then they take off their shoes and not only sit there, but walk around. They not only walk around the room without their shoes (and socks), but they walk down the street, and go into the store, and eat at the cafeteria. Yesterday, there was a man on the bus not wearing a shirt. He sat down next to an old lady who seemed nonplussed by the situation.

For the sake of something holy, it's only 85 degrees, people. Keep your shirts on. But really, it is hot.

Bäck

Loaf of Bread. Not too exciting.

Today I went to the store (where most exciting things happen, right?) and I splurged on some baked deliciousness. No, not that gross, black, seedy blob of rye, but those tempting, golden yellow, jelly-filled buns of donut. I began to think about how, in 2 months, I will sorely miss those sweet morsels of deliciousness.

Those dessert cakes are actually quite the interesting phenomenon here. In the USA, yes, we have that array of donuts at the supermarket, 59 cents each, or the box of dozen that we can pick up fresh between 5 and 7 am on Saturday, but, I'm sorry Krispy Kreme, it does nothing to top a trip to the local Konditerei.

On any given day, my favorite little bakery shop has a wide assortment of apple-filled turnovers, chocolate-dipped Hörnchens (croissants), almond-sprinkled swirls, and strüdel-covered danishes. Biting into my favorite, the apple-filled turnover, is like eating a slice of heaven. If I arrive early enough on my way to my 11:30 class on Thursday, the glaze is still slightly melted on top of the flaky crust, and the apple filling is of the right consistency to make me just oh so happy. It really sets up the rest of my day (and the flaky remnants remain somewhere on my clothing.)

So really. What is it with desserts here? They have a name for so many things: The Amerikaner (of unbeknownst-to-americans fame), the Berliner (of JFK fame), and Marzipan (of every kid during Christmastime fame). A trip to the student cafeteria gives the opportunity to try out this kind of cheesecake with geletanized strawberries on top (also delicious) or some sugar-coated brotchen (it's like a hot roll.)

Oh, it's like a smörgåsbord of things that will cause one to instantly gain 5 pounds (3 just by looking at it.) And the great part? They're not really that sweet. Often, I'm overwhelmed by the glazed donuts from my local supermarket - the sweet remains in my mouth for an hour, and sometimes it's so strong I feel sick. I've never felt sick after a binge-bakery-run here. It's like the pastries (and also the ones I tried in France - namely the Macaroons) have the right amount of sweet balanced with the right amount of fruit with the right amount of dough. The three together give you something that tingles your entire tongue without the stomach sensations thereafter.

It would just be perfect if I could buy them at the grocery store and have them for a whole week, but sadly they become dry and stale after about 1 day, inedible after 2. Plus, they get squished in my backpack as I lug them on the bus. The battle of bottled water vs. Berliner usually ends with jelly smeared inside a bag.

Modernizing a City

My recent trip to Paris allowed me to witness a very rare thing for any European capital: City Planning.

We’re all familiar with the Rue de Champs-Elysees, Rue de l’Opera and what other French-sounding boulevards we’ve all heard of. They spread out like a system of veins delivering the life-blood of Paris to virtually every area. In the USA, we don’t really think twice about the virtues of a well-planned city – barring that nasty snarl of traffic, we simply hop into our cars, go down Blah-Blah Street and turn right at the Rue de l’Whatever. Magically, we arrive at our local sundry goods store. Assuming that one can arrive at his destination with only a few right-angle turns is a mixture for malady in most European cities. The streets seem to go in non-concentric circles. Intersecting streets appear to be radii from the city center, but are really cords of the larger circle, bringing you back to the street on which you were just traversing. Heck, there’s even a good chance that your much-beloved path of Rue de l’Easy becomes Boulevard du Purgatory shortly after passing Place de la Something.

Streets in Europe are only for those with an extremely fast metabolism and/or a SmartCar. I complain frequently of the long journeys on the bus during which other cars play chicken with my bus for the right-of way. Those “think thin” moments hang upon the hope that some other cars pull over and lets the opposite direction pass. There are circulation blockages everywhere – from that DHL van double-parked to that bus at the bus stop waiting for some loser to find a 5-cent piece in his/her wallet to complete the fare. In a hurry? Too bad. You should have walked.

Paris was sort of a different experience. Yes, there were those narrow streets that annoy every speed-oriented gas-pedal-pusher, but they are short and mostly intersect with those giant, thriving arterial Boulevards. Granted, they’re still congested like one would expect in any large city, but the traffic actually moves at a respectable pace. A journey between the Paris Convention Center and Gare du Nord took about 30 minutes, which is less time than it takes for a bus to travel between Kensington and the City in London, and is about the same distance.

This didn’t come about by accident. We all know that these cities grew slowly for a few hundred years between the 10^th century and the Industrial Revolution. Suddenly, populations exploded exponentially. Post-plague numbers place Paris at about 100,000 people (1340s, and remained relatively stable thanks to disease outbreaks for 500 years). The end of the Franco-Prussian war sees Paris at 650,000 people (6x as many people in about twice the space), which grew through the Industrial Revolution to today’s 60 Million inhabitants. The tiny, winding streets became a danger for sanitation, fire abatement, and, you know, violent uprisings by the bourgeoisie against the monarchy. Given France’s (in particular Paris’s) affinity towards protest in the streets, overthrowing the government, blockading said streets and waging guerilla warfare behind sandbags and overturned tables, it was time to do something. Plus, Paris was choking itself in the maze of medieval, sprawling capillaries that don’t even allow for efficient movement between different arrondissements.

The fearless French leader Napoleon III recognized this impending disaster/threat to his rule. He hired (the French, not German) Haussmann to do something about it. Haussmann came in, destroyed building after building to give Parisians a method of getting from Point A to Point B without relying on a Guillotine to remove some protruding body parts. This renovation discouraged/prevented those pesky revolutionaries (also enabled those pesky invaders) and gave Impressionists something to paint. (See THIS and THIS) It really was revolutionary. Suddenly, the idea of city planning was everywhere – New York could spread north, the ring-and-radius method of highway planning was enabled, and cities could anticipate the boom of the Model T.

Haussmann took major Parisian landmarks or locations (Arc d’Triomphe, Paris Opera, Place de l’Concorde, etc), built a ring in front of/around them, and connected each of them with a series of rays emanating in multiple directions.

Naturally, this meant razing entire sections of the city, plopping down a chunk of thoroughfare, and rebuilding around it. The new buildings had a series of interesting building codes setting standards for height, width, alignment of windows, façade motif, roof slope, and whatever else. Since Haussmannization (1852-1884) didn’t happen overnight, there is a bit of variance between the early-stage rebuilding and the late-stage rebuilding; however, in general, it gave the streets of central Paris a uniquely identical atmosphere.

And thus it gives Adam a strategy as he plays SimCity instead of reading for class.