Beers, Beams and Beemers in Bavaria

I spent the weekend in Munich, a large city in the southern part of Germany known as Bavaria.

Can we take a moment to appreciate just how awesome that is? I left Copenhagen on 7 pm on Friday and woke up in southern Germany at 9 am on Saturday. I love this continent. You can get anywhere so easily.

But anyway, Munich. Munich is where a lot of our stereotypes of Germany come from: staggering quantities of beer and sausage consumed by loud, raucous Germans clad in lederhosen (if you’re a gentleman) or dirndels (if you’re a lady, and if I spelled ‘dirndels’ right I’m kind of stunned) while they all listen to oom-pah music played by polka bands.

It is my pleasure to say that most of these stereotypes are true, but I won’t get ahead of myself.

My friend Eric and I boarded the train, finding ourselves in a tiny six-seat cabin and praying that we would not be joined by other people and have to end up spending the night sleeping upright. Our prayers were mostly answered, as we were joined by only one other individual–a Canadian philosophy student studying at Copenhagen University. He was a pleasure to talk to, and we had long conversations comparing travel plans and travel experiences–he has already been in Copenhagen for a semester, and seen a good part of Europe. By the sounds of it, there really isn’t a ‘bad’ part of the continent, i.e. a part that isn’t worth at least a day trip. This is both good and bad. Yes, it means that I won’t end up having a lousy time. But it also means that I’ll agonize about where to go up until I actually book my tickets because EVERY PLACE SOUNDS AMAZING. Of course, this is kind of like being at a buffet of all my favorite foods, so I can’t really complain.

Anyway, because our fellow traveler, we ended up with some creative sleeping arrangements. I can’t really remember how this happened, but they told me that there came a point where I had tried to balance my head on one seat and my feet on the other side of the isle, with my torso hanging down between the isles like I was trying to be my own hammock. To put an end to this foolishness, Eric switched with me–he took the seat and I took the floor. But you know, when you’re tired enough, even a floor is comfortable.

Thankfully, once we were in Munich, we found a place to stay that was much more comfortable than the floor. We stayed at the Wombat Hostel, which is one of a small chain of REALLY nice hostels located in Germany and Austria. The hostel has a real ‘youth’ focus, which means putting up with some eccentricities (like a koala wearing sunglasses hanging from the light fixture above the front desk) in exchange for a cheap breakfast (3.50 euro for all you can eat! Heavenly!) and a free tour of Munich in the morning. Really, I had nothing to complain about. They also had bunk beds, which never lose their charm, even if your bunk mate doesn’t feel like turning the beds into a sweet fort (thanks for being a buzzkill, Eric).

But we got to our hostel at 10 am, and we couldn’t check in until 2 pm. What are two young men in the heart of Bavaria to do with so many hours to kill?

They head to the famous Beer Halls of Munich, that’s what. Seriously, the beer halls are their own culture, and they are exactly what you expect. You sit at long tables, eating the traditional Bavarian breakfast–pretzels with sweet mustard, white veal sausages, and lots of beer, usually a style of wheat beer called weissbeer. Here is where you can see the iconic German image of one-liter beer steins, glasses so large that I probably could have put four wheels on them and called them compact cars. We didn’t opt for the steins, because, well, frankly, I don’t think my body can hold one liter of any liquid. But we did indulge in the veissbeer and the pretzels and the sausage, and the whole spread was DELICIOUS, and strangely fitting for breakfast. Veissbeer is almost sweet, so all the tastes compliment each other very well.

It is also important to mention the context of our breakfast. There was a huge football game in Munich on Saturday–Munich vs. Cologne. Munich is apparently the strongest team in Germany, and my God are the fans willing to let you know that. The beer hall was FILLED with people dressed in very, VERY eccentric costumes, a combination of pride for the Munich team and the fact that this weekend was Carnivale in Munich (and I’m sure the liters of beer added a certain…confidence to the way these people dressed). But the fans were having a great time, singing song after song and getting the entire beer hall involved. Eric and I watched in wonder. I took a video to try to capture the scene, but it doesn’t quite do it justice.

We were later joined by some guys from Cologne who told us that this whole scene was tame compared to what was going on in Cologne for the Carnivale. The only image my mind could conjure was Cologne burning. But the guys from Cologne were great–very friendly, willing to coach us on the proper etiquette of drinking at a beer hall (yes, because after all, there is no greater faux pas than not observing proper etiquette while drinking a small lake’s worth of beer). The German police even came in at one point, but they simply observed the audience for a bit, smiled appreciatively, and left. It was kind of surreal.

After the beer hall, Eric and I kicked around the city for a while, coming to the conclusion that Munich is very beautiful, very old, very Gothic, and very lively. I’m sure Carnivale had something to do with it, but there is so much energy on the streets–lots of open markets and street musicians. I probably saw the single greatest accordion player I’ve ever seen. And I know you’re thinking that a great street accordion player is either a) as impressive as a glass of water or b) as welcome as dropping a box of books on your bare foot, but seriously, the man was amazing. He was doing entire orchestral works on that thing. And besides, street musicianship in European cities is a damn impressive talent.

But the city! The city’s landscape is dominated by Gothic spires and archways, which makes the place feel very dramatic (and makes the McDonalds you come across feel very, very out of place). Eric and I wandered across this one place that, as far as we could tell, was simply a gigantic Greco-Roman temple, with huge statues and a staircase flanked by two huge lions. It was puzzling, since it seemed to serve no other purpose other than to be awe-inspiring, but my goodness it was beautiful. This was right near the university area, which I really wish we could have had more time to explore–lots of tiny hole-in-the-wall places. And in the one indulgence I allow myself in this post, Munich transportation is incredible. Apparently, you’re never more than about 300 meters from a subway stop whenever you’re in the downtown, and this is in addition to a light-rail transit system that seemed pretty comprehensive AND a bus system. So. Damn. Jealous.

Munich is also very cheap, especially coming from Copenhagen–we got sandwiches for 2.50E€, which is pretty much unheard of in Copenhagen. So we decided to celebrate with a nice dinner out at the Glockenspiel Cafe, where we had a delicious plate of gnocchi (yeah, I know, Italian food in Germany, but there’s really only so many sausage-and-pretzel combinations you can have before it get’s to you) for 8€. It was magnificent. I was so enamored with the food that I wanted to take a picture of it, but Eric simply said “No, Baird. Don’t be that person.”

The next day was our indulgence in cultured learning and, as Eric so endearingly put it, ‘car porn.’ We went to the Deutsche Museum, which holds exhibits on pretty much everything (I learned about bridges and sailboats and digital film), and the BMW museum, which holds exhibits on cars, and the BMW Welt, which is essentially an architectural wonder of a showroom. If the BMW Museum is perhaps one of the most innovative and engaging museums I have ever been in, regardless of its subject matter. The museum’s layout is very modern and simple, but the light and colors are very warm, and you’re naturally but subtly led from one exhibit to the other, as opposed to the Deutsche Museum, where you were essentially placed in a large room and you could just look at stuff. The BMW Museum did damn sure to make sure you saw everything and that you understood that BMWs are built according to principles of lightweight construction and emotional aerodynamics. And while I wish I could mock BMW for the phrase “emotional aerodynamics”, I really can’t argue that the aesthetics of both the museum and the cars are honestly really engaging and captivating. I mean, look:

They also had these REALLY cool exhibits where words projected from a monitor would run over a blank surface. You could touch the projected words and your touch would open up a window that went into detail about the subject matter. IT BLEW MY MIND.

As for the Welt…my goodness. The structure is based on a double-cone whirlwind that leads the eye up and into the showroom/exhibition hall, and again the architecture is really modern and light–you’re supposed to feel like you’re floating while you’re there, which is an accurate description. Of course, to accomplish this, they included a free-hanging bridge, which I was less thrilled about. I don’t like bridges that shake beneath your feet when the zealous ten-year old ahead of you leaps up and down. Why tempt fate?

As for Carnivale…the gods were not kind to that festival. Those participating in Carnivale were once again dressed in very eccentric ways, and there were lots of food and drink stands, although any three stands pretty much offered all there was to be had at Carnivale: pretzels and sausage, beer and liqour, and those really delicious German doughnuts that I thought were called “berliners” but apparently are called something else when you’re, you know, not in Berlin. And perhaps the greatest part were the people wearing costumes who pushed around pushcarts full of bags of confetti. That’s it. You could buy a bag of confetti to throw in the air or on your friends or at passersby (which happened to me and Eric) But despite all the fun and games, Munich was hit by the Godawful weather phenomenon I thought unique to New England that is ‘the wintry mix’. And let me tell you, when a handful of confetti thrown into the air with zest and gusto is cut down by a wind driving nearly-freezing rain at a 45-degree angle and is then shoved into the slushy mix of snow and sand and salt that is covering your boots and soaking your socks, YOU DON’T FEEL LIKE HAVING A PARTY. I’m sure it got better once enough people showed up to reach critical mass and convince everyone to laugh in the face of adversity, it was a grand old time. And I’m a little sad that we couldn’t be there to see it.

We bid Bavaria a fond farewell and boarded the train, where we were soon joined by a guy from Hamburg who was incredibly friendly, and told us that we should travel to Hamburg in order to get a more complete perspective of Germany. He said that most people base their knowledge of Germany off of Bavaria, but that life is very different in the North. So add that to the list, along with Barcelona, Cologne,

Later on in our journey, we were joined by a woman who was currently living in Copenhagen (the Frederiskberg neighborhood, where I once got lost), but had also lived in Paris, Berlin, Barcelona, and was born in Brazil. This led to some really, REALLY interesting cross-cultural discussions, including the role of the EU and what it’s like being German after WWII.

Despite the amazing conversations, I still ended up sleeping on the floor, like you do, and getting stepped on when the German got off at Hamburg. I woke up in time to head to Danish class.

Oh, and fun fact. Throughout my entire trip, I carried with me a loaf of bread. This is because I thought Eric and I had planned to make sandwiches for the train ride, but apparently Eric thought we had agreed to just take some fruit along. Now, I brought the fruit, but I also brought my loaf of bread, whereas Eric brought only fruit. So I had a loaf of bread by my side for all my travels (well, okay I left it in the hostel once we got there), and it’s been by my side all day while I’ve been in my classes. I contemplated taking it along for all my pictures, thinking I could slowly build up into a series of photos based on the ‘A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou’ poem, but I thought that having to explain away my loaf of bread just wouldn’t be worth it. So I think I’ll just make some toast and find a better traveling companion for next time.

p.s. I’m trying to get pictures on to this post, but my computer is being difficult. Pictures will follow as soon as my computer decides to cooperate.

It’s a good world

In a brief departure from my usual long-winded analyses of all things Danish, I just want to share a few stories that have made me really happy, starting on Friday afternoon:

I went exploring with two friends of mine, and we discovered a graveyard in the middle of the Nørrebro neighborhood, and it was beautiful. It was really more of a park than an actual graveyard–lots of trees; long, wide paths with lots of people walking or biking; graves heavily adorned with flowers and candles; wide open greenspaces to walk in. I was really impressed, because while the solemnity of death had not been replaced by people exercising, the graveyard was nevertheless a place to explore rather than avoid–I feel like it was a way to make death a part of life.

Death, be not proud

Continuing on with the awesomeness of the Nørrebro neighborhood, my friends and I wandered into the Landromat Cafe, which is a fairly well-known place in Denmark (at least, famous enough to be mentioned in my guidebooks), and it is exactly what it sounds like: a cafe where one can have a cup of coffee, take a paperback from the long, long shelves of books, and do one’s laundry. It is a very warm place, and remarkably practical if you ask me–you’d be sitting there with your laundry anyway, so why not have tea?

The washing machines are in back

I love the place. I plan on returning on my next trip to Nørreport, which will hopefully be soon. That whole neighborhood in general is pretty amazing, although apparently there were some youth riots there a while back. But then again, I’ve always wanted to see a riot happen (a summer in Boston, and NOTHING), so maybe…

Bidding Nørreport farewell, I took the train and then the bus back to my town of Greve. Now while I would love (and I mean REALLY REALLY LOVE) to use that segue to talk about transportation in Denmark, I’m not going to do so just yet. That day will come later, and it will be a beautiful day. But anyway. I was on the bus, which was just departing the train station. It is important to realize that buses in Denmark run on a pretty tight schedule, so once they are in motion, they generally do not stop (except for, you know, bus stops). But the bus had just started to pull away when it stopped suddenly. I thought there might have been a problem with the bus, but instead the driver opened the door to allow someone who had just gotten to the station to board. The door opened for an elderly woman with a cane. She boarded, smiling warmly and slightly out of breath, a bright blue beret on her head (AWESOME).  Now, another bus would have been along in about ten minutes, but the bus driver disregarded the rules to let this woman on board and let her get into the warmth and comfort that much earlier. That just made me smile.

When I got home, I found my host family in a wonderful mood–particularly, my host father. Now, this is easy to see–it was a Friday afternoon, everyone was home from work or school, and, for my family, it was the beginning of a week-long holiday that they will spend skiing in Sweden. Unfortunately, I cannot go with them (though they invited me) because of classes. To make up for this, I think, they decided to cook burgers–straight-up, smother-them-with-ketchup-and-mustard burgers, with a nod towards me. When I walked in and found them in the kitchen, my host father loudly announced “Welcome to McDonalds!” and handed me the (HUGE) bottle of ketchup to put on the table. The whole family continued to move about the kitchen with an energy that spoke of people with nothing on their mind but the good times ahead, even though they had an entire day’s worth of packing to do.

Shortly thereafter, my father asked his son to go out to the garage and bring in some beer, declaring “Drinking tonight! We shall get drunk!” I wasn’t quite sure if he was kidding or not, but just to be safe I started to prepare myself mentally for the challenge of doing a case-race with my family. But that didn’t end up happening–we had our beer with dinner (and with preparing the food, which may have been unwise considering it was my job to cut open the hamburger buns with a huge knife, but, ya know, you live and learn), and no drinking contests were called for or anything of the sort. It was, once again, the enthusiasm of my host father. But I still got the satisfaction of eating a burger with all the fixings (except onions–they have no place on my burger) and having a beer to wash it all down with. The only way it could have been more American would be if a bald eagle had flown in to open the beer bottles with its talons.

And for the last story to share, I went for a bike ride with my 12-year old host brother, finally putting my skills at biking to the test. Although “test” might not be the right word, given the fact that, rather than taking to the urban (yet cobblestoned) streets of Copenhagen, we biked around the bike paths of Greve Village. Despite the tranquility of this place, I still had my high-tension moments on the bike, like whenever we had to make a turn sharper than, oh, say, 45 degrees. I also thought that the ice that covered one muddly puddle was strong enough to support both me and the bike. It wasn’t, much to my brother’s amusement.

And speaking of my host brother’s amusement, he has also taken to watching me drink my morning shot of bitters every time my host parents encourage me to do so. The shot of bitters is, as you might expect, very bitter. And it has a powerful kick that comes a good couple of seconds after you’ve actually swallowed the drink. It is painful. Very painful. And apparently the faces I make reflect this fact, and do not do a good job hiding my… slow adjustment to the drink of bitters. And my host brother thinks this is hilarious.

It became clear to my host brother that I am not a regular biker. In fact, he informed me, he could tell simply by the way I sit on a bike that I am not a regular biker. I would like to defend myself, saying that this is because the bike seat was too high and my host father and I couldn’t wrestle the bike seat into a proper position, but I really don’t think I have much of an argument. I’m just a lousy biker. But today was the beginning, and I hope in time to be able to keep pace with the couriers of Copenhagen’s business district.

But it wasn’t the biking that makes it worth telling (although my absence of skill certainly made it amusing), it was talking to my host brother. We have a higher language barrier than most, but we still found things to talk about–he told me about his school as we biked past it, I told him about what it’s like to drive around in America. And talking while you bike beside someone is really enjoyable, even if your fellow biker is moving with significantly greater ease than you.

So, yeah. Wrapping up, it’s a good world. I’ll be on my own for the next week, so we’ll see what comes.

What Do You Go Home To?

Right now, I’m in my room, waiting to go shooting. I will go with my host father and my 12-year old host brother, who, on our last foray down to the shooting range, shot 17 bullseyes in 20 attempts. This has lent my host brother a certain authority whenever he and I are both reaching for the jar of honey. And for the record, this shooting range, belonging to a competitive shooting club, is held in the basement of a local school. This puzzles me to no end, especially since my host father has talked about how there really isn’t a gun culture in Denmark. It’s very difficult to own a gun, and rates of gun violence are very low in comparison to the US–in fact, my host father was very surprised to find out that no one in my family owns a gun. Of course my whole family has been surprised to see that I don’t smother everything in ketchup before eating it (and in all honesty, I feel a little badly about it. My family bought this HUGE thing of ketchup for me and had it prominently on display for a good two days before mentioning that it was there for me). I think I’m a pretty lousy American in their eyes–no ketchup, no firearms, no cowboy hat…

But in turn, I’ve been surprised to see that my host family does not drink like someone just shouted “FREE BEER!” and that members of my family do not walk around the house naked. You may wonder where these perceptions are coming from (other than the fact that people confused Germans with Danes and, c’mon, Germans. You know how they are), but they were two of the more prominent cultural trends that DIS (my study abroad program) described to us shortly after our arrival. Specifically, they said “You should not be surprised if you walk into the living room to find your host parent ironing in his or her underwear.” So far, I haven’t encountered this, but I get a little wary every time someone comes in with an ironing board in one hand and a couple of nice shirts in the other.

This, I think, has been one of the greatest things about living with a host family, for me and the other students with whom I’ve discussed the matter. Having such close interactions with our families, we’ve had the opportunity to erase the idea of a truly monolithic culture. While all of our families seem to enjoy meals together as a family or show a concern for energy use or sit down to talk, each student has found exceptions to the general rule. One of my friends lives with a family who doesn’t eat fish (which is a bigger deal than it sounds, trust me). Another family doesn’t drink. Other families go to bed early, or snack often between meals (we were warned about that, too).  While I don’t believe that anyone who visits another country would assume that every person they encounter in the foreign land would behave in EXACTLY THE SAME MANNER, our comparative experiences create a very conscious reminder that there is only so much a guide book or welcome speech can tell you.  I think that these experiences remove the surprise that accompanies any unorthodox behavior, at least a little bit.

I am writing about my host family not only because they’re awesome but because my host father and I finally had The Talk that every host family American eventually has with the family. While no American has yet to be educated by his or her host family on what it means to become a man or woman, most of the students I’ve talked to wonder why it is that our host families took us in.  My conversation with my host father started when he and I were riding the train into Copenhagen.  We had been talking about Sweden when my host father asked why it was that I chose Denmark out of all the Scandinavian countries. When people ask why Denmark, I usually answer that Copenhagen came highly recommended to me as a beautiful, accessible, and friendly city (three for three on that assessment) and that the Danish welfare state really interested me. But those apply to all of the Scandinavian countries. So my answer for Denmark was that I thought that being more directly connected to mainland Europe would expose me to a more dynamic and international culture, and I added that Copenhagen is supposed to be more affordable than Sweden, which was my other alternative.

Interesting fact, though–the joke was on me on that one. Sweden has been hit harder than Denmark by the financial crisis, due in part to the fact that Saab and Volvo, two major automobile manufacturers based in Sweden, are now owned by GM and Ford, respectively. The losses from those two companies have hurt Saab and Volvo, which means lots of Swedes have been laid off, putting a greater strain on the generous welfare system, leading to higher public expenditures etc. etc. Denmark, on the other hand, has been largely insulated against the financial crisis, in part due to its largely service/information-based economy and the fact that DENMARK DOESN’T DO STUPID THINGS. For example, my host father works for a Scandinavian bank. When I asked him about the financial crisis, he said that his bank hadn’t been hurt that much because his bank is conservative with its investments, meaning no jumping on the housing bubble bandwagon.

He also added that the executives at his bank did something utterly revolutionary, nay heretical–they willingly gave up their huge bonuses in order to keep the company stable! Who would ever think of doing something so UTTERLY LUDACRIS?! But I’m going to stop now and get back to my conversation with my host father, namely because he just knocked on my door and asked me to stop pounding my fist on the table.

So anyway, I said I chose Denmark for its connections to mainland Europe. I then asked him why he and his family chose to take in an American student. He explained to me that it sort of came to him unexpectedly–he saw an advertisment for hosting American students on the train (which, if advertising is the standard by which goods are judged, puts me on par with energy bars, cell phone service providers, and day-time television).  But he also said that he was very curious to know how Americans live–he and his family have been to the United States a few times, but he never spent that much time with Americans, despite his exposure to their culture and his knowledge of their politics (seriously, he’s on top of things–he asked me about Daschle stepping down the other day). He’s certainly been following through on that curiosity–we spend a lot of time comparing life in Denmark to life in the US in so many ways–food, sports, family life, movies, transportation, education, how we pass the time…it’s really incredible. I really enjoy the conversations that we have.

But he also said that he wants his kids to be able to see what other cultures are like and improve their English (I feel so USED!), saying that he thought it would be better for them to a more complete understanding of the world. And I really respect this–I think it’s so admirable that he thought of his kids when he made this decision and thought what my time here could be for them. This has, however, created the flip-side situation of the “how you say…” phenomenon, in which my father and my two brothers try to catch each other on their mistakes in English (which, as I said before, are few and far between). Whenever one corrects another on his pronounciation or diction, there’s a moment of triumph that really makes me smile. The competition gets kind of intense, though. When my 15-year old host brother corrected my father on his pronounciation of the word “herbs” and I said that my father was actually correct, my host father whapped my brother on the head with a bag of ground coffee. It’s a tense situation here.

Thinking about what his kids could learn from having an American in the house, he extrapolated that perhaps his kids’ peers could learn a lot from having an American in the classroom, and so my host father asked if I would come in to my brothers’ respective English classes to talk to the students–I don’t know what about, maybe it’s just going to be a Q&A session? Maybe I’ll have a slideshow of life in the US? Maybe I’ll drive through the classroom windows in a hummer, a BigGulp from 7-11 in one hand and a copy of the “Transformers” DVD in the other? The possibilities are endless, but I’m frankly kind of nervous. I need to simultaneously live up to stereotypes so that I don’t seem like some Canadian they bribed into wearing a cowboy hat while breaking the stereotypes so that I can merit some forgiveness for the Bush Administration and some patience for the next few years while we straighten things out back in the States. I do plan on telling them that I know Barack Obama, though. I figure that should count for something.

Oh, and by the way, at this point in my writing I’ve returned from shooting. My host brother got 16 out of 20 bullseyes and he shot a quarter out of my hand at 15 yards. I got a couple of bullseyes, having learned from last time that you do better if you actually prop your arm on a table and don’t hold the gun at waist level and fire willy-nilly, pretending that you’re John Wayne. So maybe I did live up to Danish expectations.

And the post title comes from the Explosions in the Sky album All of a Sudden I Miss Everyone. It’s an excellent album.