Wine-Covered Hills and Seas of Tourists

Tourist hordes in Florence

In the second week of our trip to Italy we made excursions to Firenze (Florance), Siena (Sienna), and I made an overnight excursion to Bologna (Baloney--just kidding). It is said that people who visit Italy fall into two categories, those who love Florence and those who love Sienna, and I am most definitely in the latter group. 


Here are a few reasons why I'm not real big on Florence. First, you literally have to fight your way through the crowds to see the sights, many of which require long queues. While waiting in these lines, you are pestered by peddlers of all kinds, from Balkan beggars to random African dudes selling an even more random assortment of crap and who don't take no for an answer. These people arrive in a similar manner as Cubans arriving in Florida, in crappily built boats that often require rescuing, but the Italians are so laid-back they don't seem to care. There are also street "performers" doing the "see how long I can hold this pose and throw some money in the hat" routine. I get the guy who has powdered his skin completely white pretending to be a statue of Da Vinci (even though he was from the village of Vinci and not Florence), I even cut the fat guy dressed up as cupid some slack, but what does someone dressed up wearing ancient Egyptian death mask have to do with anything? Second, unlike most cities in northern Italy which are built on hilltops, Florence on a valley floor straddling a river that becomes quite stagnant in the Summer. This combined with all the tourist buses makes the place stink. The only reason why they were able to defend the city in the old days was that the surrounding mountains form a sort of outer wall for the city, and its strategic position on key trading routes ensured it always had enough money to hire top-notch mercenary armies. Third I found the city overall to be architecturally disappointing, perhaps I had been de-sensitized after being in Tuscany for so long. My expectations may have been high, but I just found it to be plainer than expected. Finally, everyone makes a big deal about the cathedral in Florence, and it is indeed very big, but save for the inside of the dome and fresco of John Hawkwood, it is pretty boring inside, nowhere near as ornately decorated as the cathedral in Sienna, which is only slightly smaller. I will concede that it is worth visiting Florence just to see it's greatest museum, the Uffizi. The Uffizi is one of the greatest art museums in the world, holding paintings such as Botticelli's The Birth of Venus and possessing one of the most comprehensive collections of sculptures you can find. Interestingly enough, there was a stone carving directly in front of the Venus expressly put there for blind people. I first thought, who would be cruel enough to bring a blind person to an art museum. Second, Venus's breasts look a little worn from all the attention they're been getting from these poor blind bastards. I only had two hours to tour it which meant I had to power walk through rooms of less interest so I could have time to take in the art that I most wanted to see, and stare into the eyes of all the busts of the Roman Emperors. Most of the sculptures there are in the Hellenistic Greek style but are actually little more than cheap 2,000 year-old Roman copies with only a handful of actual Greek statues.

Fresco of John Hawkwood
in the Cathedral of Florence

I was willing to endure the wait to get in to the cathedral just to see this fresco of John Hawkwood, and waited until lunch time to go when the wait was only 30 minutes (rather clever if I do say so myself, and I do). John Hawkwood is one of my favorite personalities from the Middle Ages. Living in the late 14th century, he was an Englishmen who traveled to Burgundy to fight in the Hundred Years War as a condottieri, or mercenary captain. He eventually made his way to greener pastures in service to wealthy city states of northern and central Italy. The Italians in that time were mostly focused on trade and much of their manpower was vested in great fleets to that effect, they used their wealth to hire private armies to do their fighting for them. These condotierri were the Blackwater of their day, commanding mercenary companies that were essentially pre-packaged armies to supplement the city-states' own militias. John Hawkwood was one of the most astute condotierri of his day, not only as a soldier but as a politician, playing the Italians off one another, accepting a contract from one city-state then demanding money from another not to attack. He was sometimes paid not to become involved in conflicts, and I admire a man whose so good at his job that he gets paid not to do it. He commanded the Papal armies for some time but his most consistent employer was Florence where he became a hero. Therefore a huge fresco is dedicated to him in the cathedral, it was originally to be a model for a bronze statue of him, the funds for which never fully materialized. 

 Cathedral of Sienna

No matter which city you love, everyone loves what lies between: the region of Chianti. On our way to Sienna, we made a couple of stops to do a bit of wine tasting. It was a beautiful day and the Italian countryside had the look and smell of California with the same tinge of unbelievable fiscal irresponsibility. At one winery, the people who went before us in the tasting were a young English couple who bought a couple of overpriced bottles, and then unsuccessfully tried to hint their way into a dip in the pool by asking if there was anywhere to swim nearby, nice try limeys! 

Beautiful floors of the cathedral in Sienna

Sienna...amore mio, I fell in love with Sienna. Perched up on a hill with most of it's walls still intact, Sienna is often overlooked by tourists and much better managed; its narrow cobblestone streets remain unmolested by tourist buses. Shortly after arriving we had one of the better Gelatos I had in Italy, although served in such a generous amount so as to make its consumption a race against time and stickiness. Sienna is a more elegant city than Florence, it is smaller, the buildings closer, the feel of the whole place is more intimate. The cathedral in Sienna is probably the most impressive I have ever seen, inside and out, it is an unbelievable ornate testament to the craftsmanship of those artisans who worked on it for generations. It was begun during the Gothic era and finished during the Renaissance and was originally intended to be the largest cathedral in the world. What exists today was actually intended to be the "arms" of the cathedral that run North-South (churches traditionally are east-oriented) but it's further construction was blocked by the papacy, which did not want it's expansion of St. Peter's to be outshone. Nonetheless, it is a gorgeous cathedral filled with ornate frescoes and unbelievable stone floors depicting biblical scenes. I was lucky to get a picture of it's green and pink marble facade basked in the light of the late-afternoon sun. After prying ourselves from the cathedral, we headed to the central plaza, the Piazza del Campo. It is home to a yearly horse race dating back centuries, in which the districts of the city are pitted against one another in a frantic stampede before a cheering mass of thousands. Our experience was much more quiet, as the sun went down we had dinner on the Piazze del Campo and I had one of the best pizzas of my life, made with bacon and mascarpone, it was also one of the most unhealthy, but I figured the red wine from the day's tasting would balance it out. On our walk back to the car I was amazed to see a store for Champion athletic wear, advertising zip-up hooded sweatshirts for 125 Euros that you could pick up at a Costco back home for $30. Then again, wine that would cost a couple bucks in Italy you'd have to give your first born son for in the US.

Me in the Piazzo del Campo

In the final days of our vacation I had the opportunity to make an excursion of my own to Bologna. A greatly under-appreciated city that is largely ignored by tourists, Bologna is considered by many to be the culinary capital of Italy, and is home to Europe's oldest university. It was a very important Medieval city so naturally I decided to make my way there. I caught the train from Pistoia and had to change in Prato. I waited on the platform for the train and noticed that it was running late, but decided to take an Italian attitude and not worry, there were about ten other people milling around waiting for the train. A few minutes later, a family from Chicago asked me if I was taking the train to Bologna and I told them not to worry that sometimes things run a bit late in Italy. Shortly thereafter, a conductor asked us if we were going to Bologna, then informed us that the train had come in on a different platform and already left, and that an announcement had been made over the loud speaker, but only in Italian. An hour later, I was on my way to Bologna. After arriving, I felt a bit pressed for time and took a taxi to the cheap little hotel I had book just outside of the walls of the old city. The woman at reception spoke no English, but after handing her my passport she found my reservation and handed me my keys. The room was Spartan, but spacious and neat, with a shared bathroom, and only 30 Euros for the night and a 20 minute walk from the city center. After grabbing a quick bite to eat and a Birra Moretti, the only Italians beer worth drinking, I headed the nearest gate and inside of the wall. Bologna is a very old city even for Italy, it feels like the buildings are looming in towards you, partially because of the beautifully decorated covered sidewalks which the city is famous for. I made my way to the central plaza with it's fountain of Neptune and cathedral, whose outer facade was unfortunately obstructed by renovations. I stopped at the nearby site of the original university, and visited the world's first operating theater where examinations of cadavers were exhibited under the watchful eye of an Inquisitor. I then headed to the renowned antiquities museum to take in some Roman and Etruscan artifacts, only to arrive ten minutes before it's 3PM closing time and being turned away. It was my own fault for not paying better attention while preparing for my excursion, but I was nonetheless forlorn and in need of spiritual renewal. So, I headed south to the Basilica d' San Dominica, wherein the Capella holds the bones of Saint Dominic, founder of the Dominican order. Saint Dominic was an ascetic, known for leading an unbelievably humble life even though he was born into a wealthy family. A student during a terrible famine, he sold his books (which would have been unbelievably valuable at the time) so that he could use the proceeds to feed the starving-poor most affected. Were he to see how unbelievably beautifully the Capella is that houses his remains, he would turn over in his ornately-decorated marble sarcophagus, for which an angel was carved by a 19-year-old Michelangelo.

A nice marble table to get carved up on

 Bologna is full of churches that aren't even mentioned on tourist maps but are nonetheless incredible edifices and examples of craftsmanship. After taking in a dizzying amount of them, I headed back to the hotel to get off my feet before heading out to take in some of the night life. I came back to the hotel and found a guy working on a Vespa in front of the door, after he saw me standing at the reception desk he came in and asked my what I needed. Thankfully he spoke very good English and was able to give me the restaurant recommendation I was looking for, something not too touristy or expensive between there and the university district. He gave me the name of a place 5 minutes away and clear directions on how to get there. I certainly got what I asked for. No one at this place spoke English, especially the staff. The very comprehensive menu was only in Italian, and after looking over it for 20 minutes I ordered some dishes that I could recognize a few words in: some kind of pasta with asparagus, some kind of meat, and red wine. I ended up with a pasta course of asparagus and squid (which thankfully I like) that was delicious, a thin-cut, pan-fried, breaded pork cutlet that closely resembled schnitzel, and a rather large carafe of wine, all for about 20 Euros. I thoroughly enjoyed my feast out on the patio as I watched a couple of silly little girls raise all kinds of hell running around, sporadically fighting with each-other, and knocking over the restaurant's potted plants. After the unexpected carafe of wine I found myself feeling quite social and headed to the university where I earlier seen a stage being set up and found they were having some kind open mic night with people reading poetry and playing music, one group actually laying down some pretty respectable blues music. I met a group of Erasmus students while there, a couple of girls, German and Dutch, and a couple of guys, Greek and Chinese. Erasmus is a program by which people study at different universities throughout the course of their degree so as to receive as diverse an education as possible. As the open mic night drew to a close we headed to a bar nearby that is well-known for doing all kinds of creative shots ranging in taste, and in the spirit of Erasmus, took in a variety of shooters, some tropical, some involving fire, some having absinthe and others whipped cream. These bartenders knew their stuff, but I guess being in one of the oldest university towns in the world sets a precedent for having good nightlife. It came time for parting ways, and I headed back to my hotel for some terrible Italian TV and to down a very large bottle of water to ensure that I caught my train in the morning, which I did, fresh as a daisy.

Capella d' San Dominico 

We headed back North the day after I returned from Bologna. Driving up through South Tirol, a German-speaking semi-autonomous region of northern Italy (and it's richest), and past Innsbruck in Austria, before stopping overnight in Munich. I had a chance to once again visit my old friends before resuming the journey with the two poor babies forced to endure such a long car ride. Being in a car with small children for 6+ hours a day is enough even to try the patience and kindness of Saint Dominic. So is trying to cram your stuff into one of those roof-rack boxes you see atop of cars, trying to perfectly jostle the contents so that everything lines up correctly and you can finally lock the damned thing. In the end Wolfram and I were triumphant, fitting all our luggage along with the wine and olive oil we brought back into the car and box, arriving in Berlin last Saturday night with our wits still about us, just a few days before Berlin Autumn's first cold kiss.

Zest for Life and Lot's of Hand-gesturing

San Bernadino pass, not to be confused
with the street in Newport Heights

Two weeks ago the Family von Heynitz and I headed south across the Alps to enjoy some vacation time, taking the same route as great medieval German kings seeking to bring the rich and proud Italian city-states into line with the rest of the Holy Roman Empire. So I, like a middle-aged woman attempting to reclaim her mojo (yes I have seen the movie) headed to Tuscany. Our adventure began early on a Friday morning, pulling sandy-eyed babies out of bed in an act of revenge for all the inopportune times they'd woken us up; heading to a lovely Schwäbisch town to stay with a college friend of Wolfram's on the first leg of our Italian expedition. Swabia is a region of southwestern Germany, existing across the border of Baden-Württemberg and Bayern (Bavaria), with a dialect that, according to Germans, is arguably less comprehensible than the Bayersich that is spoken in the countryside surrounding Munich (where I did my third year of college). Thankfully, our hosts spoke Hochdeutsch (High-German) and were as delightful as they were well educated. This is also one of the most prosperous regions of Germany, for example, the town had an unemployment rate of less than 3%, which statically speaking means the population is fully employed. 

Sunset on our first night in Borgo Casalvento,
with Dutch neighbors in foreground.

The next day we saw five countries in one day: Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Lichtenstein, and Italy. For those who are curious, Lichtenstein is a country that is a few miles across, and has served as a tax-haven for Germans as well as other Europeans for a long time; a Cayman Islands of the Alps. I always wondered how such a tiny country could have endured for so long, until I saw it; Lichtenstein has a few Alpine villages surrounding a small city with an impressive old fortress above it that serves as it's capital, all sitting on some of the most defensible ground I have ever seen. 

And then came Italy, strikingly similar to California in several ways. First, the landscape, second, the aggressive driving, third, the fashion consciousness, and finally, no one seems to work. You walk around a town at ten in the morning and people seem to be just then filing into work begrudgingly before taking a two hour lunch break. Despite the lax work schedule, it sounds like someone is getting chewed-out whenever you walk into any business there. Italy is the kind of place where you can great a great espresso in a gas station and you can't really get a bad meal anywhere. 

Soon to be known as Palazzo d' Kalanzo

Italy is full of beautiful, svelte young women with olive skin and pouty expressions on their faces, along with four-and-half-foot-tall grandma's in coke-bottle glasses who spend their days swooning over the "bambinos"--the change seems to happen overnight. Young Italian men often come in a skinny-jeans wearing type that is more concerned with what the other guys are wearing rather than the girls, juxtaposed with the self-assured jolly older Italian man. The aging process is more apparent, with the creepy Berlusconi style man in between. Italy is a country where the Prime Minister can be brought up on several counts of having sex with underage prostitutes, but not be impeached because he is probably the most productive and successful leader they've had in decades (Italy has had something like 18 constitutions since WWII). Nonetheless, Italians are overall friendly, wonderful people who know how to live life well and I had a chance to enjoy some of this good life. Surprisingly few Italians speak English however, which I admit was a proud assumption on my part. The towns are also full of fat little dogs that are very pushy and seem to have no problem blocking traffic. While there I had my own little friend/enemy, a skinny cat who I caught once digging through our garbage (which I had to then clean up), and who tried to sneak into our apartment so many times that I named him Mr. Kitty. 

The elusive Mr. Kitty

We stayed in a rental apartment in a renovated farmhouse on what appeared to be an old olive farm, judging by all the old olive tress. It was on a mountain in an area known as Baco, above the town of Cantagrillo, near the walled medieval city of Pistoia, less than an hour west of Firenze (Florence) by car. Our first week we found ourselves to be the only non-Dutch family staying there. As part of our package we rented mountain bikes but soon found that our location was so charmingly remote as to make anything more than a short journey more strenuous than enjoyable. I discovered this for us on one of the first days, when, after a hair-raising flight down the mountain to Cantagrillo lasting a little more than five minutes, I then endured a 40-minute Bataan Death March-esque trip back up the mountain, riding less than a quarter of the way up, in which I discovered that I am woefully out of shape and in need of a gym membership. A lot of people do bicycle tours of Tuscany, which seems idiotic to me considering that it is a very hilly region where most of the towns and cities worth seeing are placed on defensible ground. Perhaps these tourists want to be able to brag to their friends back home that they were the only people to lose weight while visiting Italy. 

A gate of San Gimignano

The first week of our visit included trips to the walled cities of Lucca, known for it's elegant palazzo and cathedral, San Gimignano (don't ask me how to pronounce it), known for it's many medieval towers and fresco-covered church, Volterra, known for it's breath-taking, windswept view, and Pistoia, which I found to be a much overlooked destination. This is partially due to the fact that I had a chance to enjoy some of the nightlife there. After a walk around the beautifully-lit city-center, I tried a couple of bars, eventually landing at one which not only had an English-speaking bar tender, but one who was headed to California for a two-month research project. After trying a couple of local wines I asked him to call me a cab to head home around 12:30, he refused, saying that the scene was just really getting good, and that I should stay and let him give me a lift home. A cute Basque bartender then made me a stiff Mojito. A couple hours later I found myself making stops with him at the apartments of two of his friends, allowing me the opportunity to mix with some of the locals in a more natural, non-touristy setting. Good luck in San Francisco Alessio!

A tree miraculously growing from
the stone of a tower in Lucca

Even reading a menu in Italian makes you wish that you could speak the language, and thankfully you can kind of fake your way through Italian, at least enough to order a meal or get some prosciutto at the butcher, if you already know a little Spanish, or took three years of Latin in high school. People there tend to express themselves with intense hand-gesturing and miming, making them potentially great players of charades if they were able to hold their tongues.  

Italian bird hunters Davido McHoné and
Bobito Milikenangelo overlooking Cantagrillo

Next week I will publish part two of the Italian adventure, with visits to Sienna, Florence, and Bologna. See you then, and sorry for the long wait since my last blog!

A Carefree Day in Potsdam

The terraced vineyard below Sanssouci Palace

Potsdam, sight of the famous conference between Truman, Churchill, and Stalin at the end of WWII, is a city lying about an hour southwest of Berlin by light rail, and was home to the Summer residence of the Hohenzollern dynasty that ruled Prussia and eventually the German Empire until 1918. The current Prince of Prussia (in title only), George Friederich, who would be Kaiser if the First World War hadn't led to the dethronement of the German monarchy, was recently married to Princess Sophie von Isenburg at the Palace of Sanssouci in Potsdam this past weekend. The name of the palace comes from the French sans souci, meaning "without worry" or "carefree." It was created in the mid-18th century by King Frederick II, known as "The Great," as a place of relaxation away from the formality and ceremony of court life in Berlin. Surrounded by nearby lakes, Potsdam also provided a more tolerable Summer location than Berlin. Frederick the Great is known as one of the greatest military minds in all of history; in fact, Napoleon, after defeating the forces of Prussia in 1807 and forcing a peace with them, visited the tomb of Frederick, saying "If this man were still alive, I would not be here today." 

The Orangerie, a large greenhouse

Grotto below the Orangerie

However, Frederick was in his heart of hearts a sensitive man, a lover of philosophy and music, who did not want to be king. As a young man, he unsuccessfully attempted to flee to England with his best friend, whose decapitation after their capture, he was forced to witness. He himself was spared the punishment for desertion (he was an officer in the Prussian army at the time). Instead he was demoted and relegated to a post away from Berlin for several years, allowed only to return for the wedding of his beloved sister. He was sternly reminded that the throne was his obligation, that his responsibility was to his people, and that selfishly shirking that responsibility to pursue his trifling interests would lead to a crisis of succession jeopardizing the stability of the Prussian state and the safety of his people. During his exile from Berlin his studies were focused on soldiery and statecraft. This experience attributed greatly to his belief in Enlightened Absolutism, that just as it was his subjects' duty to follow his absolute rule as king, so was it his responsibility as god's sovereign representative on earth to see to the safety, welfare, and improvement of his people. It was this feeling of responsibility to the people that differed his brand of Absolutism from the French form propagated by Louis XIV "The Sun King." Furthermore, it was in this spirit that in the 1720's, he made Prussia the first country in the world to have mandatory public education, as well as providing a haven of religious and political tolerance, arguing that such a virtuous system should not fear to tolerate debate and discussion. He enjoyed the friendship and correspondence of Voltaire, although they were known to quarrel. All this took place in the most militarized country in Europe, where social and political advancement was only possible through displays of merit by serving the state, rather than by birthright. It was said that "Prussia was not a country with an army, but an army with a country."

The Windmill (reconstructed in the 19th c.)

 Heavy lay the crown upon the head of this great man, whose palace of Sanssouci was was a small rococo villa in comparison to the lavish baroque Versailles. The sprawling gardens of Sanssouci Park boasted the neatly ordered features of a baroque garden: geometric footpaths, perfectly manicured lawns and box hedges, some shaped into pyramids, fountains (long hampered by poor water-pumping technology), as well as statues, grottoes, colonnades, and temples in the style of classical Greece and Rome. He even had a faux ruin constructed to conceal the water reservoir on a neighboring hill.  It was a place of escape and relaxation that also exhibited how the tastes of the comparatively spartan Frederick who typically wore a simple blue army uniform, differing from his counterparts in the french aristocracy, who were already stagnating in the opulence and disconnectedness from their people that would lead to their bloody demise only decades later. A terraced vineyard lead up to the palace, and the park possessed some 3,000 fruit trees, as well as numerous green houses where oranges, dates, and even bananas could be cultivated, most of which still exists, along with an old windmill Frederick chose to keep for its rustic aesthetic. 

The author's head poking out of the water on the left

Sanssouci is only one of the palaces in Potsdam, and it took a couple of hours to make a cursory tour of the grounds. Since it was the height of tourist season, the wait to tour in the inside was was too long for us, because we had some swimming to do. As mentioned in previous blogs, there is a good-sized minority of Southeast Asians in East Germany, and we lunched at a Thai restaurant in Potsdam. I had a very tasty fried duck breast, which I joked to my companions had come from one of the fat ducks living in the waters of the palace, saying that they probably sent someone running down there, clever in hand, to fill my order. After lunch, we took the train back a few stops in the direction of Berlin, getting off at Schlachtensee. It is one of the smaller lakes in the area, and doesn't require an entrance fee. The Summer having been so rainy and uncooperative, we understood that the more popular lakes would be covered with a certain type of pumped-up, fake-tanned, working class German, somewhat akin to American white trash and more specifically, the 'wife beater' wearing residents of Riverside county who so annoy the residents of beach cities back home. The water of the lake was fairly clear and refreshingly cold, but not freezing as it did not seem to be all that deep of a lake. I nonetheless teased the girls about the man-sized catfish that would come up from the depths of the lake to nip at their legs, and proceeded to play the role of the catfish, laughing like a mischievous little boy. After our dip we enjoyed a bit of sunshine and Rotkäppchen on the banks of the lake. Rotkäppchen is a German brand of sparkling wine or Sekt that was the principle brand available in the old East German state and is still much loved in this part of the country and usually sells for about 4 Euros in a grocery store. Rotkäppchen is also "Little Red Riding Hood" in German, and the brand probably refers to the story, wherein the German version, she brings cakes and wine to her sick grandmother, who for some reason lives alone in the middle of a forest crawling with wolves, a minor plot hole. After our long day we returned to the city for a little cheap pizza and then went to hang out on the Admiralsbrücke, a small bridge in Berlin that people, for some reason, like to loiter and obstruct traffic on until the police come at 10 pm to send everyone packing because of a noise ordinance. All in all it was a very relaxing and enjoyable day, and although caring for two small children isn't quite as stressful as being King of Prussia, it's always nice to get out of town for a day. 

What a Month...Not

Dear forlorn blog readers,


I apologize for the month-long drought without my wit and insight, the last two weeks I have been on vacation and frankly there hasn't been much to talk about. The news this past month has also been so depressing that it has been hard not to be affected by it. It is pretty incredible that we are simultaneously witnessing our political system lose whatever pathetic shreds of credibility it once held on to while manufacturing a second economic crisis. This ugly episode just confirms that most Republicans seem to have no soul while most Democrats seem to have no balls. Who would have thought a day would come when the Baby-boomers pined for the reincarnation of LBJ to get Congress to work again. All the while we have created with China the economic equivalent of Mutually Assured Destruction, and are waging four wars. Please, Ron Paul, save us from ourselves. European leadership is proving to be similarly ineffective in solving it's own debt crisis, but should we be surprised that a continent which has been in a near-constant state of war for most of its existence isn't able to work as a single functioning political/economic entity?


While you all have been enduring one of the hottest and most grueling Summers on record, Germany has been having one of it's wettest and crappiest Summers ever. It has rained most of the days since I last wrote, even an escape to Munich for the past week offered no respite, even though normally if the weather is bad in the North of the country it's good in the South and vice-versa. This Summer, however, is so bad that it has trumped this adage. 


The day I left for Munich was actually one of the only sunny days we've had so far, but it was terribly humid. My old housemates in Munich are most hospitable, one guy who is dating a girl in the house was so kind as to let me stay in his room for the week and even provided clean bedding and a towel, a luxury for college students. It is also tough to get them to let me pay for anything as they still treat me as a guest. In exchange for their kindness I agreed to pick up a used espresso machine from someone living not far from me in Berlin, originally a 500 Euro piece of equipment they got for 80. The machine ended up weighing 25 pounds and by the time I got to the subway station lugging the machine and my backpack. I was moving quickly and running late, sweating profusely in the Sun and humidity. As I looked down the long flight of stairs at the subway I caught a glimpse of a taxi parked nearby and decided to not take the chance of running late. The Turkish cab driver gave me a funny look then popped the trunk, it turned out to be a very well spent 10 Euros. I arrived in time to catch my train, but didn't have time to eat before the 6 hour train ride as I planned. No problem I thought, I'll grab something to eat in the dining car. 


I thought wrong, the food service crew's train into Berlin was late and the normal train workers are not licensed to serve food. After some negotiating I was able to procure a Snicker's bar and a bottle of beer for an extortionate price. I successfully napped for most of the train ride to unconsciously avoid my hunger and ate the first thing I saw when I arrived in the Munich train station, which was the German equivalent of a meatloaf sandwich in a dinner roll. I thought I had arrived in the sunny wonderland of alpine foothills but the next morning woke to rain, and it continued to rain for at least half the day, everyday but one, for the rest of my visit. Our one rain-less day (I hesitate to use the word "sunny") we grilled outside of our building and indulged our colons in a variety of flame-kissed meat. We were even so lucky as to be joined by one of the Chinese students in the building, who normally do not mix readily with the round-eyed devils. After about a beer and a half he was drunk and pretty entertaining, reveling in the ability to be openly intoxicated which is very looked down upon in their society. That is not to say there aren't drunks on the streets of China. I have friends who studied abroad in China and said people would get wasted on Baijiu, which is essentially the liquor of the proletariat, a Chinese firewater costing a dollar or two for a bottle. 


Our mobility being impeded by the weather, we focused on feasting, trying to prepare dishes that took as much time as possible while joking around in the kitchen and common room, and playing foosball (table soccer, which they call "kicker") in the basement. One night I made a big pot of my great-grandmother's beef stew which my old housemates remembered fondly, and was appropriate for a chilly and rainy August evening. I also helped with the painting of an old tandem bike that was being reconstructed for a trip to the Czech Republic. It was to be painted with tiger stripes in an allusion to a German children's book. I took it to be a more uplifting story than a Brothers Grimm fairy-tale, which usually involve children who don't listen to their mothers being brutally maimed or killed. The American versions are considerably watered down. 


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It is not possible for me at the moment to deliver the wedding pictures I promised from last time, so instead I will include a short piece about the Christopher Street Day Parade (Gay Pride Parade) in Berlin a few weeks ago.

It doesn't need to be a festival day in Berlin to see Peter Rabbit and whatever the hell the other guy is supposed to be playing for change on the street. In fact, you can be exposed to a wide variety of music just by riding the subway here, from Spanish guitar to Ukulele to some young kid who thinks he's a hippie. I've heard some pretty good blues guitar being played in the subway station and jazz saxophone being played on a street corner. At the subway stop I get off at every day to pick up the kids there is a young guy who plays everything on the accordion from Beethoven to Rock n' Roll, and a woman in the square I cross who is obviously an accomplished violinist. Unfortunately for them musicians, like graphic artists and English teachers, are a dime a dozen in the this town, but from what I hear people playing music on the subway can do as well as 20 or 30 Euro's an hour, while occasionally having to run away from the subway police for performing without a license.  

Look! A real American Indian! Standing as still as a cigar store statue...

There are tons of party buses during the parade blasting music. On the back of this one are posters saying "Save the Sausages" in an advertisement for condom use. It is interesting to watch a gay pride parade on the same boulevard where my grandfather witnessed the armies of Nazi Germany marching out of the city to invade Poland seventy years earlier.  

Here we see the homosexuals of ancient Rome brought back to life for a day. I wonder where this guy keeps his chariot stashed all year, perhaps he owns a bike rental service and uses it for advertising.

 In an unprecedented reversal of opinion, even the Holy See has sent representatives to partake in this day of good will and friendliness. Benedict XVI looks much better in person, I guess Popes aren't elected for how photogenic they are. 


Well, that's all folks! 

The Marriage Figaro, I mean Maeve and Wolfram

Hello patient followers of my strange musings. I just recently got the main theme to the Marriage of Figaro out of my head after hearing the rehearsal for an outdoor concert at Gendarmenmarkt over the weekend. It has been an unbelievably busy couple of weeks for all of us in the von Heynitz household. Although Maeve and Wolfram were already married last Fall in a small private ceremony in Berlin with their two children present, they publicly confirmed their nuptials the first weekend of July in a ceremony at the Schloss von Heynitz. Located in the village of, you guessed it, Heynitz (about 45 minutes outside of Dresden), the castle was originally a fortified tower, which was eventually added onto and transformed into a more comfortable residence. This is true of most castles; and the image of a fortification with high stone walls, a portcullis, and a moat, is representative of only the most formidable of fortifications from that time and would have been prohibitively expensive for anyone save kings and the wealthiest of nobles. Most were essentially stone houses with a heavy door, windows that could be secured, and a fortified tower which could be used as a refuge in case of sudden attack by another noble, or disgruntled villagers. When we were going over the order of events for the wedding, I couldn't help but joke, asking at what point the villagers would come on bent knee to pledge their everlasting loyalty to Wolfram and his progeny, which he thankfully found to be amusing--at least I was not thrown in the dungeon. 

Schloss von Heynitz, you can still make out what was once
a tower on the right hand side of the building.

Monday of the big week, I had the pleasure of meeting much of Maeve's family, as we had her mother as well as ten aunts and uncles over for dinner. Her family is originally from Limerick, in SW Ireland, but are now spread across the Emerald Isle. They are a wonderful group of people who reminded me of my own family--joking and teasing one another in a loving and playful manner. They toasted my mother for raising me well, and when I revealed that my father's mother was from Ireland, they let out a resounding cheer saying things like, "we knew you were alright." I also think I heard the word "grand" more times that night than I have collectively before in my life, it seems to be a favorite word of the Irish. That first night I found them to be difficult to understand at times, and they would occasionally drop a Gaelic word into conversation that would throw me for a loop, but by the time the weekend came I could understand them all quite well, and found even I was dropping into an Irish accent at times. I now have many places to stay for free in Ireland "when and not if" I come. Wolfram also seemed to really enjoy their company; the big family experience is somewhat foreign to him because he does not have much extended family due to the devastating effects of The War.

After going to Heynitz to ensure that everything was prepared for the big day, we spent Friday night in a 5 star hotel in Dresden, Hotel Taschenbergpalais Kempinski. It is a beautiful building in the heart of the city, located across from the Dresden castle and Zwinger, famous for their elegant architecture. Rainy weather prevented me from getting any good pictures of the buildings, but they can be easily Googled. Oddly enough, it had a bar tastefully decorated in the theme of the Old West, named after 19th-century German author Karl May, who wrote adventure stories mostly set in the American West that inspired the German's fascination with the subject. In fact, many Western films were made in both West and East Germany during the 60' and 70's, enjoying great popularity. Europeans seem to interpret these stories through a medieval lens, equating cowboys to knights, which is not entirely inaccurate as the Middle Ages were also a time of migration and settlement across Europe. 

Saturday we headed to Heynitz on an unfortunately dreary day, especially considering that the weekend was flanked by warm and sunny weather, but rain is supposed to be a good omen, is it not? Or at least that's what they've been telling disappointed brides for centuries. Everyone gathered in the chapel of Schloss von Heynitz while we were preparing in an upper room. It was my job to dress the children, keep them clean, and to try to ensure they were in the best of moods to avoid any meltdowns during the ceremony. Caiomhe was in a little white dress with flowers and Daire in a pair of lederhosen belonging to his father. When wearing them Daire is almost indistinguishable from pictures of his father as a child. I also found myself inadvertently responsible for tending to the nervous bride in the time before her big moment, ensuring her all would go well and that everyone would marvel at how beautiful she was. Maeve handled everything with grace and composure. "Wedding" in German is "die Hochzeit" which literally translates to "the high time" which to me has the ring of a western-style showdown at high noon. 

I even had a role to play in the ceremony, as my entrance before the hundred or so attendees was the signal for the music to change and the ceremony to begin..no pressure. Wolfram first entered carrying Caoimhe, and then handed her off to me. Then Maeve entered being escorted by Daire in his little lederhosen. He seemed to grasp the situation, and conducted himself in a serious manner with as resolute an expression on his face as a two year old is capable of. He then sat down next to me in the front and maintained his composure throughout the ceremony, holding his little bouquet and sitting still. Caiomhe was slightly more animated, tearing into her bouquet like a hungry little rabbit who I was not able to prevent from eating some of the rose pedals. A few minutes later, she vomited just a little bit on my leg. It happened so quickly that at first I did not realize what had occurred, and then was in such disbelief that I pretended it did not happen. Many of the guests did notice, and told me at the reception how impressed they were by my handling of the children, and the "incident." The ceremony included reading in both English and German, and the telling of a story centered around a song. As a teenager, Maeve spent a few years in Vienna. One night after being out at a bar with some friends, she took a cab home and a song that played on the radio struck a chord with her. The next day, the only line she could clearly remember was "At the age of 37, she realized she would never ride through the streets of Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair." For years, she asked friends if they had heard of the song but no one could help her. More years went by, and while working at the Irish embassy in Tel Aviv, she met Wolfram. On their third date, she commented on how she had never been to Paris, to which Wolfram responded, "didn't you ever want to ride in a sports car with the warm wind in your hair?"

Doors are a good way to determine how old
a building is. Daire is only 2 and he is nearly
half as tall as this door in an upper room of
Schloss von Heynitz.

After a short champagne reception, most of the guests went back to Dresden to change into their clothing for the main reception, while we headed to Reichstädt, to a Schloss that belongs to the cousins of Wolfram where the party would be and where we and those with children would be staying. The attire for the ceremony had been more casual, sport coats and ties for the men, dresses for the ladies. Wolfram and many of the men had on tuxedos for the reception, and more formal gowns for the ladies, Maeve's being a flowing white dress that evoked Marilyn Monroe. I myself wore a black suit, a white shirt with a button down collar, and a pink paisley tie to match Caoimhe's little pink dress. Daire had a little black suit with a white shirt, but was stylishly dressed down with no tie and a new pair of little black Chuck Taylor low-tops. Although I got a big-boy meal, I was responsible for controlling the kids table in the "hunting room" that adjoined the main ballroom. It was similar to what I imagine the barbarians' feast following the sack of Rome must have been like. I thankfully had the help of Wolfram's 13 year old niece in keeping the little bastards, I mean darlings, from killing each other or tearing the centuries old hunting trophies off the walls. Thankfully, my two little angels were the best behaved children in attendance, and did their Kurt proud. Of course, just minutes before my main course of good Irish lamb arrived, Daire pooped himself and Caiomhe was just plain pooped, so I had to bring them to bed, and tell the servers to put my plate in the oven. Equipped with a walky-talky in my coat pocket, I returned 30 minutes later to eat my dinner and watch the first dance, a Waltz. This was followed by a Ceilidh, a traditional Irish dance that appears to be the predecessor of an American hoe-down or do-si-do, which I did get a chance to take part in. The reception was great fun, they had a multinational band from Berlin that does covers of songs in a sort of bluegrass interpretation, and they did a wonderful job. The party went late into the night with people dancing and clapping. At a couple of points during the night, some of Maeve's aunts told me, "if I were forty years younger I'd just run away with yea." They sure know how to make a guy feel special. 

The next day Maeve and Wolfram hosted a brunch in Dresden where they had the chance to say goodbye to everyone, but by this time the children had had enough of parties and such, and were both very cranky, which negatively  affected the disposition of their slightly hungover and majorly exhausted Au Pair. We returned to Berlin that afternoon and Maeve and Wolfram prepared for a short honeymoon in Paris, where Maeve would finally get to ride through the streets in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair. I had the help of Maeve's wonderful mother and her partner for three of the four days, and was treated to some good home-cooking and the kind of embarrassing story telling that mothers are so adept at. The children got along much better in the absence of their parents than any of us expected, but we were all very glad when Mommy and Daddy came home, and life returned to normal. 


I am sorry that I do not have more pictures of the ceremony and reception, but I was simply too busy to take as many pictures as I would have liked, and more I will put up a few more in the next blog once we get the pictures back from the photographer. Thank you all for tuning in and again sorry for the long break since the last blog.

The Blogs Collide: Visit To Munich and Caiomhe's Birthday

It's been quite a week for me. This past weekend I caught the train down to Munich to visit with my old house mates. Most of them are doing at least a master if not a doctorate so I was pleased to hear that they would all be there for at least another year, and some for a few more. It was an especially surreal visit. I got in very late on Friday night when most had gone to bed, so I did likewise and on Saturday morning it was Déjà vu all over again. As I saw everyone again for the first time in three years it suddenly felt like I had just left a week ago. Yes things have changed a bit, the kitchen had been remodeled with new cabinets, stoves, and refrigerators; the house looked better as my friends had gained more clout over the years to enforce stricter rules on the upkeep of the building, and the common room was spruced up with some new paint, as well as a donated TV and couches. Nonetheless, it seemed like I was suddenly re-immersed into the past as though with a time machine, because most importantly of all, the people hadn't changed a bit. I had forgotten how much of a family Haus 5A in the Studentenstadt is, and they hadn't forgotten me. My requests to pay for anything or wash a dish were summarily and routinely denied. I was reminded continually about how every year another American came and went, but none had been as fun or involved as myself, although this year a worthy heir to my throne had finally come, a lad named Tom from a small town outside of Chicago who I got a chance to make friends with. Going into my old room, where I had lived for a year that was perhaps the best in my life, was surreal. In this room I had struggled over grammar till I wanted to pull my hair out, laughed over beers with friends so hard that I cried, grieved for my father in the most lonesome moments I ever knew, and found even greater strength and independence than I thought I possessed. In this room I learned that I could hack it living in a foreign land and a foreign tongue. 


Unfortunately it rained the whole time I was in Munich, which couldn't have been more than 36 hours. That just meant more quality time cooped up in the house with my friends, preparing for the celebration I coincidentally was in town for. "Neueinzügleressen" roughly translates to "newcomer's meal" and is something done every year in our house that is supposed to get new people in the house more socially involved; it is essentially a potluck dinner of dishes from all the countries represented in the house. When I was there I made my great-grandmother's beef stew, "Rindertopf" in German, which people still remembered when I went back this year. It is truly a feast, and the huge amounts of food people eat is only made possible by the equally large portions of alcohol consumed. The Germans even have certain varieties of schnapps called "Digestiv" that are specifically distilled to aid in digestion to help one not feel quite so full after a heavy meal, also allowing one to make more room for seconds and thirds. But in general, alcohol helps break down fat, and there was a whole lot of fat to be broken down. We even had some homemade schnapps, the equivalent of German moonshine, smooth to drink but you could light your breathe on fire after taking a shot of it. The women kept complaining about how all the dishes people chose to make ended up being either starch or meat, while the men celebrated this same fact. Perhaps that is why most of the people affected by the recent EHEC scare (E Coli in vegetables as mentioned in previous posts) were female. Once the drinks got flowing, I was able to get our resident Bavarians to break out the accordion and harmonica and play some of the tunes that were the background music to my year in München. The whole experience was so heartwarming that on the long train ride back, I began to seriously consider going back there for my master's. 

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This week we had the pleasure of celebrating Caiomhe's 1st birthday! We had a wonderful little party with about a half dozen kids and their parents in attendance. I will say that I was nearly blinded when a balloon exploded half way through inflation; in that split second, I pictured myself in a dive-bar sitting next to a one legged man with a patch over my eye. 
"How did you lose your leg?"
"Rocket propelled grenade, Fallujah." 
"How did you lose your eye?"
"Blowing up a balloon for a little girl's birthday party, Berlin."

If you're going to lose a major appendage, you better damn well have a good story, is the point I guess I'm trying to make, if there is a point to be made at all from that tangent. Anyway, we broke out the streamers, balloons and cake for the little one. She and her baby friends got to "play," which at that age often consists of crawling all over one another sticking their hands in each others' mouths, in a most adorable way, transmitting various childhood illnesses that I will invariably contract because the cold strains here are slightly different from the ones I've already built up an immunity to in the States. Nonetheless, I was pleasantly surprised by how civilly everyone played, from the babies to the toddlers that were her brother's friends. One of them in attendance was Tilly/ie, a very cute little girl from around the corner who occasionally steals kisses from Daire at the park, and I was lucky enough to get them to pose for a picture. 

Nobody Intends To Put Up A Wall!

Two months before the Berlin Wall was constructed, Walter Ulbricht, leader of East Germany, said, "Niemand hat die Absicht, eine Mauer zu errichten!" Now, on the 50th anniversary of the wall's construction, it is a phrase Germans, especially Berliners, use when they intend to do something. It has been a big month for Germany so far. The EHEC outbreak has left Germany with a bit of a black eye after they blamed the outbreak on Spanish cucumbers, leading to losses of hundreds of millions of Euros for Spanish farmers. The wall's construction fifty years ago is not the only painful anniversary this month, it is also the 70th anniversary of nearly three and a half million men being launched in an offensive against the Soviet Union known as Operation Barbarossa. This began some of the most barbaric and ruthless warfare ever waged on a nearly incomprehensible industrial scale. Needless to say, the two events are linked. To put it in perspective: in seven years of war in Iraq, 3,500 American soldiers have died in combat, during the most intense fighting at Stalingrad, the Red Army had that many combat deaths per day, for weeks on end, with the Wehrmacht losing 1,000 per day. 


Aside from some unpleasant anniversaries and e coli, it is a lovely time in Germany; their economy is booming, and the summer festival season has begun. I have been able to get out and about to a few of these events. 


The first happens every Sunday afternoon in a large park next to an old communist sports arena a few subway stops north of where I live. There are vendors selling food, drink, plants, and trinkets, but the main attraction is in the amphitheater dug into the hill on the outside of the stadium. There, in front of a crowd I'd estimate at 2,000, karaoke is being sung. Most of the people brave enough to go out are actually quite good, a few are just quite drunk. When David Langley is ready for his big break, he needs to come to Mauerpark in Prenzlauerberg and meet his public. I attended the event with a group of Au Pair girls, which is actually the term in German. I was the only male in the group, of course, continuing my noble fight against the sexist, heteronormative attitudes of society. 

Another event was held on the southern edge of Berlin, called Kulturlustgarten. It was sort of a cross between a music festival and a carnival. There were several music stages, some rides for the kids, and lots of good food. I had a Hungarian dish that was essentially fry-bread topped with sour cream and cheese. They were serving "Erdbeerbowle," meaning "strawberry bowl," essentially a strawberry punch that deceptively doesn't taste like alcohol and is traditionally served at the beginning of the season when there is an abundance of the fruit. There was even a medieval themed section of the festival, with archery and ax-throwing booths, and a stage where folksy music was performed with strange and archaic instruments. The main stage performed the kind of pop-rock that makes Europeans go nuts. An unusual feature of this festival was that I witnessed three fights, the Germans are typically very orderly and don't tolerate that sort of thing. The first was between two women, I don't know how it started, I just heard a crack and turned around and saw one woman standing over another, the victor was probably 6'4" and 235 lbs. One of the people I was there with said they were fighting over who got to take me home...shudder. A few hours later, a Euro-trash muscle head in a tank top with some Mike "the Situation" sunglasses popped a very thick farmer-looking type while in line for one of the beer sellers, I assume the fight was over cutting in line. The farmer was with a group in matching shirts and a brawl nearly broke out but thankfully about a dozen police quickly infiltrated the crowd before anyone caused me to spill my beer. Shortly after another fight broke out just out of my line of sight so it would be dishonest of me as a writer to make comical observations about the appearance of the antagonists. I again stress how unusual such a thing is here, in all the time I spent at Oktoberfest I never saw a punch thrown, although the bouncers and security there look like retired offensive linemen from the NFL. That and the excessive cleavage produced by dirndls at Oktoberfest tends to calm and quiet the men-folk. 


This past weekend in Kreuzerg was the Carnival of Cultures which draws crowds of hundreds of thousands of people. Again there is food, drink, and trinkets to be bought, but also a parade of floats and people in ethnic dress, if you can get close enough to the street to see it. There is a surprising amount of South East Asians in Berlin and I have had some pretty good Thai food here. During the Cold War, there was an international exchange of workers within the communist world. Since Germany was recovering from depopulation during the war and low birth rates afterward (and still is), East Germany welcomed their comrades from Vietnam and Cambodia to come and take up some crappy jobs. Not to be outdone, West Germany welcomed refugees from the conflicts in SE Asia in the 1970's. Unfortunately, the streets were so clogged with people that all the food lines were extremely long, and becoming impatient, I left the area where the festival was in search of food, and found some pretty tasty Käsespätzle, one of my favorite dishes from Southern Germany. The best way to describe Käsespätzle is if dumplings and macaroni and cheese had a baby, with fried onions. As you can imagine, it has a similar effect to eating pancakes or biscuits, with the food reforming in your stomach as a brick that induces sleep. I'm getting hungry and tired just thinking about it.


I will leave you with a funny picture of a couch I saw on the street near my building. The people who put it out there were kind enough to post a warning, "Do not take, has been marked by the cat." I then wondered if the lost cat on the sign above was the same as the one that marked the couch.