Munich

I had been in Germany for around a week, trekking via the Bahn from Frankfurt International to Berlin, where I had found myself one hell of an unforgettable time. Having escaped just before that great sprawling Mecca of a city completely devoured me, I found myself a few stops and a day later due south towards Munich, the center of culture, beauty, bier, and madness. Not to take anything away from Berlin, for the two cities are completely separate animals, and cannot accurately be compared in any way except for size, but I found myself in a completely unique world of fantasy, culture, and alcohol, surrounded by a strange sense of lurking madness of varied sorts.

I immediately checked into the nearest youth hostel for a mere twenty Euro, dropped my baggage, and departed once more on a two hour long (approximately) trip to Neuschwanstein Castle, the Wagner obsessed palace built (partially) by the mad King Ludwig at the foot of the glamorous Bavarian Alps. It was just one of his many palaces scattered about the countryside, but there is, nor will there ever be, anything quite like the castle at Schwangau. When I stepped into the castle, or ‘Berg’, it was as if I had fell down the rabbit hole and landed square in the middle of every movie Walt Disney and Co. could think of. Far from imagined grey stone walls and vast, empty chambers, the place was painted nearly head to toe with beautiful colors, depicting all the various creatures and scenes from Wagner plays, and lined with beautiful furniture and antiquities, and featured a view to die for. Even looking out the windows towards the valley below, it was if I was starring into a painting of paradise.

That same evening I went on the Bier challenge tour, marking the spots I was to visit in greater detail the next day, before grabbing a bite to eat at a wonderful Bier Hall across the street from my hostel, where I stumbled to after devouring a hence forgotten but delicious meal with a young German about the same age as me, named Horst. He was a pleasant enough fellow, but within the span of twenty minutes and a few liters of Bier, I could sense a growing tension about him, and soon found out the source. As I had noticed almost immediately upon arriving in Germany, and would continue to find throughout my stay, Germans are incredibly curious about foreigner’s knowledge and opinions of Germany’s past. Although every German, including Horst, will undoubtedly speak their mind in the end, I could tell it wasn’t an easy conversation to begin, as one could imagine. Nevertheless we had our in-depth conversation, lasting a few hours and quite a few liters, until we headed our separate ways.

 Just as I stumbled up to the doors of the hostel, I was stopped by an older Aussie, who explained he was on a two year long walkabout, and then further insisted we talk American politics over a few beers. American politics is a disgusting creature that I abhor altogether, and so the subject, combined with German Bier, quickly became a fire and brimstone rant about the inevitable doom of the nation I sometimes wished I didn’t have to claim. By the end of the evening, I had assured the Australian gentleman that he had absolutely no interest in Americas,  filthy politics. We then eased into more pleasant conversation about Germany, its past (your starting to catch the theme of common conversation in Germany now), and Europe in general, before I excused myself to my room for a shower and a snooze.

With daybreak, I ate a traditional German breakfast served by the Hostel kitchen before departing for the Free Youth tour, where I saw the glockenspiel, the church of St. peter, the Frauenkirche, and various Biergartens, including the infamous Hofbraühaus, and walked the steps of the historic march of an enraged Adolf Hitler and co. and their Bier Hall Pütch, amongst three hours worth of additional attractions  within walking distance of where I was staying. After the tour, I doubled back to the Hofbraühaus and ordered myself a meal and a bier (which turned into several). From my vantage point in the Garten section, I watched a traditional band in a midday performance, leiderhosen and all. After their display, one of the musicians made his way around the Biergarten, visiting with some tourists here and there. When he was stopped by some American girls a few tables down from me, I was to learn a valuable lesson. Never, I repeat, never ask a dirty old man in Leiderhosen what Leiderhosen is. Chances are, he will have no shame in showing you the Leider, and then the Hosen. This became a great conversation starter in coming days when I came across other English speakers.

Later that day, after spending some time getting to know the other American college students (It was nice to have a easy going, fluid conversation for once in over a week), and many unaccounted-for hours most likely spent trying to find the bottom of one Stein or another, I found myself following my tourist map towards the historic Augusteiner-Keller Biergarten; a beautiful, sprawling thing with what must have been hundreds of great round tables and a hundred or more ancient chestnuts providing ample shade to the well-populated place. The waiter, a towering, quite intimidating bald man, sat me alone at a table with my back to a Chestnut and brought me a Bier after a short while (waiters will not usually serve Bier with a lot of foam, and thus let it settle before serving).

That Bier (called Edelstoff) came straight from a barrel kept in a cool cellar below the Garten, and was, by far, the finest bier I had ever tasted, and still is to this day. So delicious was it, that without even noticing or being too drunk, I was consuming about a liter every fifteen or twenty minutes, savoring every sip. I finally worked up an appetite and placed my order as the waiter, who had since discovered the rhythm and timing of my drinking, brought me what must have been my sixth round. Before he departed, I asked him if there was a way I could purchase a Stein or two. He smiled and said “There is always a way, Amerikaner. We will discuss later.”

I was surrounded mostly by older Germans, discussing various matters both understandable and not. One older woman named Greta, upon noticing I had been peacefully indulging in my Bier alone, stopped by on her way back to her own table and asked me in polite German why I was out by my myself. I practiced my German long enough to exacerbate things and then we switched to English, as I explained that none of my friends or my girlfriend could afford to come, and I could wait no longer (Germany had been my calling for years), nor could I afford to pay anyone else’s way unless I waited another few years. Greta was still taken aback by the simple fact I had the nerve to hop the pond alone, even as I explained to her that however much I may miss my girlfriend and family, I had been destined to return to the place of my birth for some time. She kissed me on the cheek for my supposed ‘bravery’ and bid me farewell, returning to her table.

Almost immediately the waiter returned, not with Bier or food, but in the company of two Irishmen, a Japanese guy, and a few English speaking Germans, all about my age. “Hier,” said the waiter, “I have brought more English speakers.” I cannot for the life of me remember any of their names, and with the amount of alcohol I had consumed by that time, one could understand why. We discussed where we all had been, what we had done, and what we were going to do over a few liters before the waiter finally brought my meal of the finest Pork, potatoes, and sauerkraut I had ever tasted. No meal before or since has tasted so damn good.  The Irishmen soon ordered the same, but had some catching up  to do on gaining an appetite, which they did in fine Irish form.  A few Biers and the easiness of conversation that inevitably follows, led once again to politics, before finally moving on to the lighter subjects of school and music. I remember thinking to myself during a silent moment that Germany was a haven for the politically curious, or confused, and the subject was unavoidable no matter which part of Wonderbar Deutschland you found yourself in. 

As night fell, between the Irish, Germans, and myself, we had sufficiently drained what could have easily been a barrel or two, and were having ourselves a good time discussing things typical young men would discuss at the table. The Jap wasn’t saying much at this point, doing his best to stay awake and coherent. Upon hearing my accent, a German approached our table and inquired as to if I had ever seen the film ‘The Punisher’, to which I, and the Irishmen replied that we had, and loved it. The German went on to claim that he was Tom Jane’s brother (obviously by marriage if true), and was a professional golfer.  To this day I am not sure whether or not the man was telling the truth, but he made a call as he sat with us and had a quick conversation with what sounded credibly like Tom. It was sufficient proof for us at the time, and we took turns taking pictures with the man. We then decided it was time to find appropriate Munich nighttime entertainment. We paid the waiter and tipped him handsomely, to which he said “No, Amerikaner, that ist too gross. Or, much, I mean to say.” He handed me a few Euros back and pointed to the steins on the table. “Put those steins in your bag before you go.” We thanked him and then hired a few taxis to take us clubbing.

I cannot remember the names of any of the five places we stopped, but I do know that the Japanese chap crapped his pants on the way to the first destination, which I believe we left up to the taxi drivers, and was thus left behind as we partied the night, and most of the morning away in various clubs both indoors and out, playing a cornucopia of music and serving different types of alcoholic beverages, including Absinthe. That night, I might have been the best dancer in all of Europe.  As morning came, we made our way back to the safety of our hostel (we were, by chance, staying at the same place), and helped each other through the doors. I remember thinking to myself as we cleared the entrance how happy I was that I didn’t have to run from, or encounter in any way, any hookers as I had in Berlin. The Irish thought my previous predicament was absolutely hilarious, and one fell to the floor laughing immediately upon hearing of it. We must have been quite a sight for any sober eyes; Two Irishmen, and one German-American, conquerors of Munich for a night.

 

Reviews

[Catlen]

Good continuation of the story!