Where do you possibly begin with a city that has been (rather successfully) in film, literature and music for about as long as it has been in existence. Do you start with the snooty Parisians who, high on living surrounded by such impossible beauty, rarely deign to mix with Non Parisians, especially if they don't speak French (or are German ... lest we forget Victory over Paris in Berlin's Parisiaplatz). Or do we, continuing along the vein of petty, trivial things, in order to get them out of the way, comment on the weather which made sightseeing (read: skipping along the River Seine in a striped babydoll dress sipping a Cafe au Lait) a needlessly tiresome process. But lets not blame Paris for that, let's blame the human propensity for screwing up the environment. And so now the two things that dampened our days in the City of Love & Baguettes are dealt with, I can proceed on a much higher note.
We arrived in Paris a little worse for wear, the reasons for which have been previously documented. No one likes a hangover and a flight. As we stood in the cab rank, a shouldering a total of 30kg of luggage each (except for Satie who went with the backpack option and so weighs in at a mere 18kg) watching large gleaming Mercedes ferrying weary travellers away and thinking how God really skimped on Sydney in the cab department, a decrepit vehicle that sold well in 1987 came to a halt in front of us. No gleaming Mercedes for the grubby Australians. Some time was spent gesticulating wildly to our cab driver, in order to make our address in Paris known - not because we don't speak French, but because we don't speak Mandarin.
Our residence, off Boulevard Voltaire, in the charming district of Nation (Nass-e-on, Mum, my French pronunciation has come a long way) was on the second floor of a quaint apartment block that belongs in Hollywood's library of French cliches. As did the street on which it was situated. Riddled with similar cute apartment blocks, one covered in ivy and sporting a courtyard perfect for breakfasting on pain au chocolat in, mornings saw the windows flung open and the residences enjoying the balmy weather on their little wrought iron balconies.
Our first official day in Paris (not counting the one in which we ate a kebab and fell asleep at 8pm) it rained. Our sightseeing enthusiasm undeterred, we donned berets and Chanel couture (a girl can dream) and set out for the Eiffel Tower. It is nearby this stunning monument that I embarrassed myself beyond belief. It has happened before and it will happen again - I like to blame my weak ankles and gammy knees. I fell over. Face planted. I absolutely, face first, ass in the air, hair in a puddle, fell over.
Once more, a direct entry from my journal ...
Later ... in cafe drinking $9 cup of hot chocolate. Had to soothe soul and ego following disastrous and mortifying trip. As in fall. Stack. FACE PLANT. Waitress = rude & french.
On a quaint French street ... running through the rain in a carefree manner, wind in my hair, bag clasped to my chest, calling out to Dee and Satie in gay tones. Left ankle gives way, twinging as it cruelly bows out. Buckling from full weight of chinese-bloated body, left knee folds it in, leading to bizarre moment of surfing, arms outstretched, down puddle riddled alley. Eventually fall onto belly, seal style, and continue to surf the puddles for a good two metres, gliding to a halt, facedown in particularly large puddle. Am now drenched, there is a hole in my leggings, a scrape on both my knees and my right elbow.
Strangely, the day then became magical. The rain eased enough to be able to walk through it, and so we made the Arc di Triomphe our next port of call. Why not knock over all the Lonely Planet hotspots in one day. Drenched. And bleeding. From the knees and the ego. We reached Champs Elysee as the rain stopped for good, the sun began to set, and Paris suddenly decided to smile. As did a strange man who kissed me after his friend photographed us together beneath the Champs Elysee sign with his mobile phone. As we walked down Champs Elysee, it was decided that although the day had surfed dizzying heights (sitting beneath the Arc di Triomphe as the sun set) and plundered crushing lows (facedown in a puddle being stepped over by chic Parisians and their Chanel wearing dogs) it was the kind of introduction to a city you never forget.
Rain (and a mini hailstorm) forced us to take cover in romantic archways and Edith Piaf soundtracked cafes the following day. A simple half hour walk down Rue Faubourg, past Bastille and onto Notre Dame, became an extreme sport. However, as it often is with extreme sport, the work was worth it. Notre Dame is exquisite. And although it is somewhat ironic to have to watch one's bag and shield it from pickpockets in God's house (pickpockets are mad for sinning under His nose) it was an architectural and spiritual highlight. We continued on, down the River Seine, to the Musee D'Orsay. A simple flick through the Lonely Planet would have revealed to us what we discovered after a half hour walk, that the D'Orsay was closed ... but combatting blustering winds scudding off the river was well worth the walk. The sun came out that day ... at 9pm.
And to the Catacombs, for an education in the macabre. This 2km stretch of quarry is the home of the skeletal remains of over 7 million Parisians, displayed in, as the guide at the beginning puts it, in a 'decorative manner'. I'm not going to lie to you, it is bizarre. Particularly when the father of an especially heinous father-son duo produces a blue light, holds it underneath the nasal cavity of a skull and encourages his son to take a photo. I mean, really. And, watching various tourists embrace skull photography with great enthusiasm, I was left to wonder, what is the appropriate pose for you, a skull, and a pile of artfully arranged femurs? Do you smile? Are you really that happy to be surrounded by the remains of 7 million people who died in horrendous circumstances? Do you look sombre, so as to befit the occasion? Because, when flipping through your travel album twenty years later, do you really want to see you posing dourly next to a leering skull? Surely not. We elected to skip this photographic dilemma and instead, watched in horror, as people went about making their own rules that at times, as aforementioned, involved props.
Take two with the D'Orsay failed to see us actually enter the building. To the uninitiated eye, it would appear we were casing the museum for a potential break in. This time it was open, but the queue was two hours long and the museum closed in two hours. Tip - for the big stuff in Paris, pre buy tickets. Or cry. We walked home, along the River Seine having walked over 7 million graves, a million spokes piercing the stormy sky.
Third time was a charm with the D'Orsay, which was as confusing as it was wonderful. I got lost and ended up riding escalators for a good half hour admiring the lesser known sculptures they put near the bathroom, for lack of wanting to look like I was actually lost in a museum. Having learnt our lesson, we set out to pre buy tickets to the Louvre and got thoroughly lost. That being said, if you are going to get thoroughly lost anywhere, do it in the winding little laneways of Paris. There is no better place to be. Especially when you sit down to some lemon pie and a cafe au lait, only to have a passing, portly old gentleman pat an imaginary extended belly and point at you through the window. We didn't, however, learn our lesson enough. That evening we attempted to see Harry Potter only to find both french and original versions were sold out. So we pre bought our tickets for the following night, in perhaps the most exciting pre buy to date.
The Louvre and Harry Potter dawned on the same day. Venus de Milo blurred into Voldemort , Mona Lisa into Draco Malfoy. It was a very, very exciting day. I really don't need to say anything about the Louvre, because I really can't say anything that will do it justice. Yes Mona Lisa is tiny, yes I almost cried when I saw Venus de Milo and yes the Greek, Roman and Estruscan collection is heaven, endless rooms of heaven. A personal highlight for me, however, came in the form of an Australian tourist, straight from the Kel Night mould. He managed to situate himself in an empty archway (Venus' room was under construction, so there were plenty of these empty archways) and, adopting some god forsaken imitation pose, boomed to his fellow tourist group 'oi, it's Simon de Milo ...'
Simon de Milo.
There we are, in the Louvre, everyone breathless and starry-eyed, bloated with culture, Asians peacing out madly - and the Australian coins himself Simon de Milo. Not quietly either, but in a loud, suburban twang, in a hall that needed no help with accoustics. I laughed, very hard.
For the record, Harry Potter was superb. Absolutely superb. And book number 7? Breathtaking.
Our last full day in Paris began as it did every morning, with severely sprained necks. Our beds rivalled concrete slabs for comfort. Leni arrived in the morning to continue her European Jaunt. From the word go, it was the most beautiful day in such a city, anyone could have asked for. If the first day was a faceplant in a puddle, the last was a bubble bath in champagne. Crepes and cafe au lait, from a tiny off the beaten track (until the Lonely Planet reviewed it) lined our stomachs for yet another dalliance with the dead. This time the skulls were safely ensconced in the rather beautiful Cimetare Pere which is the resting place of Moliere, Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison among thousands and thousands of others. And let it be said, this time, we took pictures and we smiled. What else would Oscar Wilde have wanted?
Sacre Coeur was next, along with a brilliant, sundrenched view of the city in all its glory. And of course, the sun came out for our final 24 hours, so everyone was out lounging on the grass, listening to buskers sing Heal the World (no I did not make that up). And finally, we came full circle and spent the rest of our last evening at the Eiffel Tower. It was the day before Bastille Day, so the city was feeling festive, and by sunset the lawn in front of the tower was packed with picnicking Parisians (and drunken youths a la Milsons Point on NYE). Not to be outdone in the picnic stakes, we rustled up some Camembert, red wine (purchased from the very same cafe we had sought refuge in following the face plant) chocolate and Madeleines and had ourselves a bona fide French picnic, as the sun set behind the Eiffel Tower and the fairylights came on to scatter it with stars.
We left for Barcelona the next morning, having finally fallen in love with Paris.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Monday, July 16, 2007
Cycling Legs, Mini Trips & Moving Out
Just two days after getting home from Munich, we left for Berlin. At 5am. Christian and Tommy, who were sharing the four hour drive (flight) down the autobahn, predicted traffic and so as the sun rose on Michaelweg, we were peeling out of it, packed tightly in the comfort of fine German vehicular machinary. After a Bathroom and Bad Coffee Stop, and four hours of some serious singing, we arrived in Berlin at 11am, found our hostel and then sought out the most important thing, a kebab. Christian's promise of Berlin having the best kebabs came good.
Leni met us at the hostel, on the same morning, for the first of what has become several European jaunts. Tradition dictates we christen a new city by eating immediately (done) drinking immediately and sussing out the city centre (read: shops) and so, I am embarrassed to say, we spent out first day in the history HOTSPOT that is Berlin, drinking Mojitos and window shopping at Ka De We. We attempted to make up for it the following day, by scheduling a full day of sightseeing, only to be completely waylaid by pouring rain and a gay pride parade, en route to our planned Museum binge. And so it came to be that instead of prancing around an art gallery, I was pranced around by super smooth gay men on leashes. We managed one museum on museum island that day, and it had absolutely nothing to do with Berlin. I was happy as larry, however, because it had everything to do with Greek and Roman history.
A rather large night followed that saw all plans to leave the hostel nixed, and a group of Texans join us in the hostel bar for some raucus fun. So raucus, in fact, that Tommy managed to get shushed by security. He was later heard trumpeting 'I am the German spider man'.
As is becoming custom, our last day in the city was the best. The sun actually shone, so we didnt need to gad about in leftover ponchos from the World Cup with 'Deutschland' emblazoned across the back, and we, finally, did an activity that acknowledges Berlin for the historical HOTSPOT that it is. We did a walking tour that ended with a passionate monologue on the steps of the ault art museum from the guide and welling eyes from us. Berlin is like a foster child that has been passed from dysfunctional family to dysfunctional family, through one of the most volatile periods of history. And yet it retains its beauty and its strength as a city, and you really get a sense of that, walking past and through buildings that have been desecrated and rebuilt, some several times.
We did a bit of our own walking tour afterwards, led by Christian to whom Berlin is what New York is to me. I will not blame his impeccable guide skills on what happened next. The consumption of the worst food in the history of food consumption, most memorably a cheese platter ordered by Satie. Never has Brie resulted in such a stunning, enmasse gag reflex. Buoyed by a goblet of red wine, I may have shrieked 'this is the shit of Satan', as Satie slumped, wordlessly by her platter.
The day after our triumphant return from Berlin, Mama, Papa and Christian took us to a seasonal fair that is held on the lawns of a castle in Munster (as fairs often are). We foolishly downed chips and mayo and a crepe, before enthusiastically hopping on board one of Christian's 'favourite childhood rides' which involved frantic whipping about of capsules at a steadily increasing pace. Satie and I partnered up, narrowly avoided strapping ourselves into an actual capsule of vomit (the man found our horror at this near miss amusing) and then proceeded to yell such gems as 'ARE WE GATHERING PACE?´'I AM GOING TO VOMIT ... WELL IF YOU VOMIT, ANGLE YOUR HEAD THAT WAY SO THE BACKLASH DOESN'T GET ME ...' I didn't vomit, but I did pinch a nerve. How embarrassing. Am I eighty?
A few days after that we did a day trip to Koln (Cologne) and climbed all 500 (alleged, I am going to go out on a limb and say it was 1000) steps to the top of the Koln Cathedral. It was enthralling ... once we got to the top. Which involved snaking around panting poms who took inappropriately timed breathers when the winding steps were at their most narrow. This day trip marked our 15th city and 2 month trip anniversary. We cheersed to it with red wine in the plaza. We also cheersed to the news the boys' apartment was officially (or unofficially, depends on how much furniture makes living quarters official) ready and it was time to leave Michaelweg and our parents and strike out on our own.
Our final hours spent with Mama Rita were spent cycling around the town of Munster. Yes, cycling. There are more bikes than people in Munster, cars actually give way to cyclists on the road (instead of try and run them down, like me) and the majority of Munster's crime is tied up in bike thievery. So you can just imagine the three of us straddling giant hire bikes and taking off around the city, none of us having cycled since the age of 10; one loses their cycling legs after a while. Dee rear ended Rita within five minutes of taking off and Satie, in a stunning display of athletiscism, narrowly averted falling off her bike and into the river. By day´s end, so smug in our capabilities were we, that we cycled home to Michaelweg from Graelstrausse at 1am ... even after a celebratory Liquor 43 or two. If anything, we were celebrating getting Tommy's waterbed up the stairs, as much as we were the apartment being completed.
We officially moved in the following day, and, following our final dinner at Michaelweg, we hosted another round of celebratory drinks, on a larger scale than the previous evening. Leni jetted in for the weekend, we drank champagne, and it all culminated in a wildly interpretative dance to Atomic Kitten in the living room, newly minted as The Girls' Bedroom. It was a headachey foursome who made the trip to the Netherlands the following day, and it was a very calm Saturday night spent watching White Chicks and eating Doppelkeks.
Our final days in Munster sped to a close far, far too quickly. So quickly, in fact, that we will most probably be returning some time in September to recapture the Graelstrausse magic. We spent our days eating pizza (might have had something to do with an attractive pizza maker, not so much the delicious ruccola pizza he made) and ice cream sundaes comprising of 60 scoops, drinking cheap Spanish red wine on the cluttered balcony (and spilling it all over said balcony ... Satie) reading law papers and trying to prep Lennart for his exams (which goes to show how dire his preparation was considering my help was the best option going) shopping, watching Boston Legal (apparently an effective study method for budding lawyers) inhaling the healthy combination of chips & mayo and doppelkeks and extending our three word German vocab to an impressive 15+.
And the final night suddenly rolled around. We had our Last Supper at a lovely restaurant nearby, then returned to Graelstrausse to disturb the neighbours for a couple of hours (and close the door in their face, politely, when they appear for the second time, be-robed and with arms folded). Eventually, we removed ourselves from the building and took ourselves off to the Tracks of Munster. Really. I have said it before, but this was the actual Tracks of Munster. The crew were all there - Tommy, Anke, Basti, Jacob, Nicole - and shots abounded, namely because tequila was the best thing to get with the free drink tab.
I cannot describe the pain of the following day. Our train left for Frankfurt at 6am. We rolled in through the door, bloated with the heady mix of kebabs, pizza and tequila, at 4.45am. I crawled into bed until 4.50am, when Satie whipped the covers off, demanding to know why I had gotten into bed with the alarm due to go off in ten minutes. Half an hour of frenzied packing ensued, what were emotional goodbyes were delivered with drunken nonchalance, and we set off for the station in outfits borne of being on the floor at the time, and not stuffed into suitcases.
And so we made it to Frankfurt and onto our plane to Paris in the exact manner in which we arrived in Frankfurt from New York. Hungover as all hell, grumpy, grubby and in desperate need of sleep. For me, Frankfurt will forever spell headache.
Things always go full circle.
Leni met us at the hostel, on the same morning, for the first of what has become several European jaunts. Tradition dictates we christen a new city by eating immediately (done) drinking immediately and sussing out the city centre (read: shops) and so, I am embarrassed to say, we spent out first day in the history HOTSPOT that is Berlin, drinking Mojitos and window shopping at Ka De We. We attempted to make up for it the following day, by scheduling a full day of sightseeing, only to be completely waylaid by pouring rain and a gay pride parade, en route to our planned Museum binge. And so it came to be that instead of prancing around an art gallery, I was pranced around by super smooth gay men on leashes. We managed one museum on museum island that day, and it had absolutely nothing to do with Berlin. I was happy as larry, however, because it had everything to do with Greek and Roman history.
A rather large night followed that saw all plans to leave the hostel nixed, and a group of Texans join us in the hostel bar for some raucus fun. So raucus, in fact, that Tommy managed to get shushed by security. He was later heard trumpeting 'I am the German spider man'.
As is becoming custom, our last day in the city was the best. The sun actually shone, so we didnt need to gad about in leftover ponchos from the World Cup with 'Deutschland' emblazoned across the back, and we, finally, did an activity that acknowledges Berlin for the historical HOTSPOT that it is. We did a walking tour that ended with a passionate monologue on the steps of the ault art museum from the guide and welling eyes from us. Berlin is like a foster child that has been passed from dysfunctional family to dysfunctional family, through one of the most volatile periods of history. And yet it retains its beauty and its strength as a city, and you really get a sense of that, walking past and through buildings that have been desecrated and rebuilt, some several times.
We did a bit of our own walking tour afterwards, led by Christian to whom Berlin is what New York is to me. I will not blame his impeccable guide skills on what happened next. The consumption of the worst food in the history of food consumption, most memorably a cheese platter ordered by Satie. Never has Brie resulted in such a stunning, enmasse gag reflex. Buoyed by a goblet of red wine, I may have shrieked 'this is the shit of Satan', as Satie slumped, wordlessly by her platter.
The day after our triumphant return from Berlin, Mama, Papa and Christian took us to a seasonal fair that is held on the lawns of a castle in Munster (as fairs often are). We foolishly downed chips and mayo and a crepe, before enthusiastically hopping on board one of Christian's 'favourite childhood rides' which involved frantic whipping about of capsules at a steadily increasing pace. Satie and I partnered up, narrowly avoided strapping ourselves into an actual capsule of vomit (the man found our horror at this near miss amusing) and then proceeded to yell such gems as 'ARE WE GATHERING PACE?´'I AM GOING TO VOMIT ... WELL IF YOU VOMIT, ANGLE YOUR HEAD THAT WAY SO THE BACKLASH DOESN'T GET ME ...' I didn't vomit, but I did pinch a nerve. How embarrassing. Am I eighty?
A few days after that we did a day trip to Koln (Cologne) and climbed all 500 (alleged, I am going to go out on a limb and say it was 1000) steps to the top of the Koln Cathedral. It was enthralling ... once we got to the top. Which involved snaking around panting poms who took inappropriately timed breathers when the winding steps were at their most narrow. This day trip marked our 15th city and 2 month trip anniversary. We cheersed to it with red wine in the plaza. We also cheersed to the news the boys' apartment was officially (or unofficially, depends on how much furniture makes living quarters official) ready and it was time to leave Michaelweg and our parents and strike out on our own.
Our final hours spent with Mama Rita were spent cycling around the town of Munster. Yes, cycling. There are more bikes than people in Munster, cars actually give way to cyclists on the road (instead of try and run them down, like me) and the majority of Munster's crime is tied up in bike thievery. So you can just imagine the three of us straddling giant hire bikes and taking off around the city, none of us having cycled since the age of 10; one loses their cycling legs after a while. Dee rear ended Rita within five minutes of taking off and Satie, in a stunning display of athletiscism, narrowly averted falling off her bike and into the river. By day´s end, so smug in our capabilities were we, that we cycled home to Michaelweg from Graelstrausse at 1am ... even after a celebratory Liquor 43 or two. If anything, we were celebrating getting Tommy's waterbed up the stairs, as much as we were the apartment being completed.
We officially moved in the following day, and, following our final dinner at Michaelweg, we hosted another round of celebratory drinks, on a larger scale than the previous evening. Leni jetted in for the weekend, we drank champagne, and it all culminated in a wildly interpretative dance to Atomic Kitten in the living room, newly minted as The Girls' Bedroom. It was a headachey foursome who made the trip to the Netherlands the following day, and it was a very calm Saturday night spent watching White Chicks and eating Doppelkeks.
Our final days in Munster sped to a close far, far too quickly. So quickly, in fact, that we will most probably be returning some time in September to recapture the Graelstrausse magic. We spent our days eating pizza (might have had something to do with an attractive pizza maker, not so much the delicious ruccola pizza he made) and ice cream sundaes comprising of 60 scoops, drinking cheap Spanish red wine on the cluttered balcony (and spilling it all over said balcony ... Satie) reading law papers and trying to prep Lennart for his exams (which goes to show how dire his preparation was considering my help was the best option going) shopping, watching Boston Legal (apparently an effective study method for budding lawyers) inhaling the healthy combination of chips & mayo and doppelkeks and extending our three word German vocab to an impressive 15+.
And the final night suddenly rolled around. We had our Last Supper at a lovely restaurant nearby, then returned to Graelstrausse to disturb the neighbours for a couple of hours (and close the door in their face, politely, when they appear for the second time, be-robed and with arms folded). Eventually, we removed ourselves from the building and took ourselves off to the Tracks of Munster. Really. I have said it before, but this was the actual Tracks of Munster. The crew were all there - Tommy, Anke, Basti, Jacob, Nicole - and shots abounded, namely because tequila was the best thing to get with the free drink tab.
I cannot describe the pain of the following day. Our train left for Frankfurt at 6am. We rolled in through the door, bloated with the heady mix of kebabs, pizza and tequila, at 4.45am. I crawled into bed until 4.50am, when Satie whipped the covers off, demanding to know why I had gotten into bed with the alarm due to go off in ten minutes. Half an hour of frenzied packing ensued, what were emotional goodbyes were delivered with drunken nonchalance, and we set off for the station in outfits borne of being on the floor at the time, and not stuffed into suitcases.
And so we made it to Frankfurt and onto our plane to Paris in the exact manner in which we arrived in Frankfurt from New York. Hungover as all hell, grumpy, grubby and in desperate need of sleep. For me, Frankfurt will forever spell headache.
Things always go full circle.
Becoming German
Perhaps the best place to start is the flight to Germany. It was nearly as epic as our month long stay in, what my father calls, The Motherland. Epic, not in length (we are Australians, flying internationally is always a long haul) but in frequency of chaos and embarrassing moments. I will type now, directly, from my journal;
Disaster has struck - loose of limb and of tongue, our 3 seats have become a vessel of delirium and embarrassment. Began when flight attendant, identified as gay not only through occupation but through overt mincing down aisles, rolled over Satie´s foot with drink cart. Led to an unfair amount of laughter from me, but couldnt help it. Breakfast soon served and, in peeling back my yoghurt foil, it spurted out, volcano style, splattering over my face and clavicle. Similar occurence with sugar sachets for tea. In moment of jest, said carelessly to girls, 'next I will pour tea on my crotch...' Lo and behold, moments later, backhanded full cup of tea all over Dee and I, soaking the groin area of our travel pants. Once this was sufficiently mopped, turbulence struck and Dee, in a moment of Herculean bravery, hoisted the nearly empty tea cup into the air, to avoid similar type of spill ... only to spill remaining tea on my head. Pants are now drying stiff and blueberry yoghurt spots my new Gap hoodie. Forty minutes to go.
And so we touched down in Germany with as much style as we departed it.
We arrived in Frankfurt with no idea how to get to Munster, little German and a fiendish caffeine desire (me). We successfully navigated our way onto a train (bless the English speaking Europeans, who needs second languages these days) and after 4 hours of German countryside and wonderfully pushy fellow passengers, we touched down in Munster, the sweetest, prettiest, full-of-university-students city on earth.
We slipped effortlessly into the Munster lifestyle ... because, essentially, it was the one we left at home. We had a German mutti and papa who prepared us breakfast in the morning and massive, hearty German meals at night. A German bruder and thus his group of friends and thus, a ready made segue into the 'Munster nightlife' ... just one big university party really. And, because it doesnt get dark until about 10pm, no one really heads out until midnight, at the very earliest, which means one is leaving the hazy, student-packed venues, as the sun rises. We dug deep to revist our youth, the heady days of Tracks, and effortlessly made the transition from ´ageing crone´to ´bona fide partier.´
At some point, in Germany, time ceased to mean anything. When you eat breakfast at midday, sand doors and sing to Roxette in a gutted apartment till 9pm, when the sun finally comes out, then eat dinner as it sets at 10pm, and when you have already changed from Sydney time to West Coast time, to East Coast time, to Germany time in the space of 5 weeks, you get to a point where to have a body clock just doesnt do you any good anymore. It is still there, I've just taken the batteries out for a while.
Prior to moving into the DIY renovated apartment on Graelstrausse, with our adopted German bruders, we occupied the home of Rita and Bernd, on Michaelweg. Mama and Papa, who have previously only had one son for the past 22 years, suddenly had three daughters to contend with. I dont imagine there is much difference, except that once a week Satie cooked - and we did our own washing, albeit after struggling with the appliances somewhat and shorting the power circuit whilst using the grill to grill pizza.
In between waking late, watching Roland Garros, lending invaluable hands to apartment renovations (and lungs, Toni Braxton has nothing on us) trotting down the street for ice cream and lattes, and exhausting the city's department stores, we booked a few days in Munich. Let it be said, that I love Germany. But it was in Germany that I got over long train trips. The seven hour trip to Munich was dogged by delays, missed connections and overpowering toilet smells. And giant pumpernickel sandwiches, stuffed with sausage, being the only food available from the kiosk.
Munich, however, turned out to be well worth the trauma of the train trip. It was stunning. Romantic, ridiculously pretty. Flower box lined buildings, endless churches, cafes sprawled out onto cobblestone streets, busking quartets playing Vivaldi (no I am not making this up). We stepped outside our Simple Life comfort zone and stayed in a hostel, only to realise exactly why we have avoided them thus far. I dont travel halfway around the world to cohabit with Australians yelling the C word in my face every five minutes. Yes, I had to write the C word, my grandparents would have a heart attack if I didnt.
Following a hearty meal of grilled vegetables, I got food poisoning. Yessss, food poisoning. From vegetables. According to my all knowing American-med-student-dorm-mate who, when not putting anyone who thinks single beds are too small for two people to shame, does field work in third world countries, parasites commonly reside in root vegetables. And so the rest of Munich passed in a green, nauseus blur, and a brief, if not dramatic fainting spell on the train station ... which we had to run for because our tickets gave us the wrong platform. No I was not bitter. Just about to vomit on the next German who tried to push me out of my seat.
I am now, cunningly, going to end this blog and immediately begin another one, Germany Part 2, if you will. Only because this one is now too large for one sitting consumption, and I do not want any complaints from my loyal readers for overloading them.
So on the note of nausea and bitterness, I shall temporarily leave you. See you in Germany Part 2.
Disaster has struck - loose of limb and of tongue, our 3 seats have become a vessel of delirium and embarrassment. Began when flight attendant, identified as gay not only through occupation but through overt mincing down aisles, rolled over Satie´s foot with drink cart. Led to an unfair amount of laughter from me, but couldnt help it. Breakfast soon served and, in peeling back my yoghurt foil, it spurted out, volcano style, splattering over my face and clavicle. Similar occurence with sugar sachets for tea. In moment of jest, said carelessly to girls, 'next I will pour tea on my crotch...' Lo and behold, moments later, backhanded full cup of tea all over Dee and I, soaking the groin area of our travel pants. Once this was sufficiently mopped, turbulence struck and Dee, in a moment of Herculean bravery, hoisted the nearly empty tea cup into the air, to avoid similar type of spill ... only to spill remaining tea on my head. Pants are now drying stiff and blueberry yoghurt spots my new Gap hoodie. Forty minutes to go.
And so we touched down in Germany with as much style as we departed it.
We arrived in Frankfurt with no idea how to get to Munster, little German and a fiendish caffeine desire (me). We successfully navigated our way onto a train (bless the English speaking Europeans, who needs second languages these days) and after 4 hours of German countryside and wonderfully pushy fellow passengers, we touched down in Munster, the sweetest, prettiest, full-of-university-students city on earth.
We slipped effortlessly into the Munster lifestyle ... because, essentially, it was the one we left at home. We had a German mutti and papa who prepared us breakfast in the morning and massive, hearty German meals at night. A German bruder and thus his group of friends and thus, a ready made segue into the 'Munster nightlife' ... just one big university party really. And, because it doesnt get dark until about 10pm, no one really heads out until midnight, at the very earliest, which means one is leaving the hazy, student-packed venues, as the sun rises. We dug deep to revist our youth, the heady days of Tracks, and effortlessly made the transition from ´ageing crone´to ´bona fide partier.´
At some point, in Germany, time ceased to mean anything. When you eat breakfast at midday, sand doors and sing to Roxette in a gutted apartment till 9pm, when the sun finally comes out, then eat dinner as it sets at 10pm, and when you have already changed from Sydney time to West Coast time, to East Coast time, to Germany time in the space of 5 weeks, you get to a point where to have a body clock just doesnt do you any good anymore. It is still there, I've just taken the batteries out for a while.
Prior to moving into the DIY renovated apartment on Graelstrausse, with our adopted German bruders, we occupied the home of Rita and Bernd, on Michaelweg. Mama and Papa, who have previously only had one son for the past 22 years, suddenly had three daughters to contend with. I dont imagine there is much difference, except that once a week Satie cooked - and we did our own washing, albeit after struggling with the appliances somewhat and shorting the power circuit whilst using the grill to grill pizza.
In between waking late, watching Roland Garros, lending invaluable hands to apartment renovations (and lungs, Toni Braxton has nothing on us) trotting down the street for ice cream and lattes, and exhausting the city's department stores, we booked a few days in Munich. Let it be said, that I love Germany. But it was in Germany that I got over long train trips. The seven hour trip to Munich was dogged by delays, missed connections and overpowering toilet smells. And giant pumpernickel sandwiches, stuffed with sausage, being the only food available from the kiosk.
Munich, however, turned out to be well worth the trauma of the train trip. It was stunning. Romantic, ridiculously pretty. Flower box lined buildings, endless churches, cafes sprawled out onto cobblestone streets, busking quartets playing Vivaldi (no I am not making this up). We stepped outside our Simple Life comfort zone and stayed in a hostel, only to realise exactly why we have avoided them thus far. I dont travel halfway around the world to cohabit with Australians yelling the C word in my face every five minutes. Yes, I had to write the C word, my grandparents would have a heart attack if I didnt.
Following a hearty meal of grilled vegetables, I got food poisoning. Yessss, food poisoning. From vegetables. According to my all knowing American-med-student-dorm-mate who, when not putting anyone who thinks single beds are too small for two people to shame, does field work in third world countries, parasites commonly reside in root vegetables. And so the rest of Munich passed in a green, nauseus blur, and a brief, if not dramatic fainting spell on the train station ... which we had to run for because our tickets gave us the wrong platform. No I was not bitter. Just about to vomit on the next German who tried to push me out of my seat.
I am now, cunningly, going to end this blog and immediately begin another one, Germany Part 2, if you will. Only because this one is now too large for one sitting consumption, and I do not want any complaints from my loyal readers for overloading them.
So on the note of nausea and bitterness, I shall temporarily leave you. See you in Germany Part 2.
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