Barney Stinson and Beer Halls

          I was in Munich this weekend, and there were a lot of “firsts” for me. First time in Germany, first time going to an Olympic Park (it was cool), first time in a beer hall, and maybe most importantly, first time in a hostel. If you've never been to a hostel, I don't recommend the experience at all. Sleeping in a small room with six or eight other people and sharing a bathroom and miniature shower sounds fun in theory...who am I kidding?- it sounds awful. I will say it's cheap, but definitely not my favorite way to travel. Oh well. The point isn't to stay inside a little room while you're in a foreign city, anyway. But were there any benefits to staying in a hostel besides cost? I guess you could say so. We did meet an interesting person or two.

          After a day spent all around Munich, we came back to the hotel and took a short nap. When we woke up, voila, there was a young German man in lederhosen standing right in front of us.

          “Allo,” he said. He had a goofy grin on his face.

          “Hey,” we said back.

          “What doing in Munchen where from,” he said.

          One of my friends and I looked at each other, obviously confused. Most of the Germans we'd encountered spoke pretty clear English, especially compared to all the “Czechlish” we've been hearing for the past couple weeks. But this guy was borderline impossible to understand. We didn't know what to say, so we didn't say anything. Finally, he reached out his hand. 

          “Andy,” he said. That was easier. We introduced ourselves and he started to slow down a little bit. He was from Germany, but apparently his plans fell through with a friend, so he had to stay in a hostel. He quickly asked, “Girls in room?” to which we said we didn't think so. “No good!” he said. “Need the girls. Girls like how may mother.” Again, we had no idea. He kept trying. “I'm Barney Stisson. I learned all the moves. You know, how may mother,” he said. Something clicked and I realized he was talking about the TV show, “How I Met Your Mother.” I busted up laughing. His skills with the ladies were based off of an American sitcom character who also happens to be gay. I bet Andy had a lot of success with his “moves.”

         We talked for a while longer, and Andy told us what he'd been doing all day: “Brauhaus since 10.” A brauhaus is a beer hall. And 10 as in 10 A.M. It was now past 7 P.M. That explained the poor English and slurred words. Andy was drunk. However, he was also a pretty nice guy. He invited us to go to another beer hall with him and “Spanish girls.” Who better than a German to show us around Germany? So we went.

          We left the hostel and actually met up with three girls from Spain. Maybe Andy had learned a thing or two from How I Met Your Mother. We hopped on a tram and headed in the direction of a beer hall across town. And of course, the first thing we see when we get on the tram is a group of thirty belligerently drunk, cross-dressing males. I think trouble just seems to find us.

Oh hey there!

"So...you doin' anything later?"

          I couldn't tell if Andy knew them, but he made friends with them in seconds. They were all laughing and shouting and posing for other passengers on the tram. They also had a giant case of beer with them, and they each seemed to have a bottle in hand, as well. It was one of the more interesting tram rides I've been on in Europe.

          Once we got off the tram, it was a short walk to the beer hall. Naturally, our cross-dressing friends got off right along with us. The short walk to the beer hall wasn't a speedy one, as the cross-dressers took the opportunity to proposition the drivers of pretty much every car that passed by. I wish I could erase the image of these guys on the street corner, hiking up there skirts and waving at drivers. But unfortunately I think it's seared into my brain.

Strutting their stuff

          We walked into the beer hall in a giant group. A beer hall is kind of like a tavern/cafeteria that seats hundreds, where everyone eats sausage by the kilogram and drinks beer by the liter. Needless to say, it's usually a wild place to begin with. Our entrance was greeted with yells and whistles and laughter. At least they were happy to see us.

Beer Hall

          We ended up separating from our German friends, as well as Andy, so we could find a place to sit and enjoy ourselves. We ordered food and drinks, and for once, it was really good. (Aside: German food is the worst cuisine I've ever experienced. Case in point: this "meatloaf."  I almost puked before I ate it.)

Bon Appetit!  

          A couple of the guys got pork knuckle, which I wish I had ordered, even though my food was nice. The pork knuckle was truly delicious. Next time, I know what to get. Anyway, we stayed there for a while, drinking and eating. We sat by a group of Germans, who I guess took a liking to us. We didn't say much to them, but they bought us a couple rounds of pear shots. I like Germans.

          We spent a few hours there, and then we figured it was time to get going out. We thanked the Germans for the alcohol and made our way to the exit. As we walked to the door, we saw a handful of our cross-dressing acquaintances, mostly with their heads down on tables, passed out. I wasn't surprised. After a busy day in Munich, we decided to go back to the hostel and get a little sleep, too.            

The Nazis Are Coming

          Just like Michael Jordan, Johnny Cash, and Jesus, the Nazis are making a comeback. How do I know? Well, for one, I went to Munich, Germany this past weekend. It was a lot of fun, don't get me wrong, but I still felt a distinctive Gestapo presence. They were everywhere- on trams, in beer halls, and in the city center. And, to make themselves harder to identify, they even dressed in normal, everyday clothes. To the untrained eye, they might have seemed like plain old Germans. There wasn't any of the saluting or yelling or marching that Americans have come to associate with the Nazi party, either. Instead, this comeback appears to be taking place secretly, a kind of underground uprising. But, of course, I was able to see through their act. I wasn't fooled.

          OK, so that last paragraph might have been an exaggeration. I don't really have a whole lot of evidence that Nazism is making its return to Germany. That didn't stop me from imagining it, though. I couldn't help it- this was my first time in Germany, and at the beginning it was all I could think about. I'd get on the metro and see someone and wonder if they had Nazi sympathies. Or at least if they had ancestors involved in World War II. I figured that was a pretty good bet. And, oh look, that guy has a shaved head! NEO-NAZI!!

          Anyway, eventually my friends and I (there were four of us) got tired of waiting for the SS to show up, so we went out to track them down on our own. We decided a great place to start would be Dachau, which was used as a concentration camp in WWII. So, on a cold, gloomy Saturday morning, we took the bus out there. About thirty people were on the bus with us. When we arrived, we saw about fifty more at the entrance. If this was any indication, it seemed like it would be pretty crowded in there. It was hard to tell, though. We split up from the rest of the group and went inside.

          Once we entered the camp, we found a barren, desolate, huge plot of land. Nobody else was around. The grounds were mostly empty space in the middle, where the dozens of barracks had been. There were walkways around the edges, and one main walkway down the middle of the street. The middle path held special importance during prisoner's internments, as it was a gathering point and the main area of liveliness in an otherwise torturous place. Also, there was way more room out in the street than in the barracks, which had been built for two hundred people, but at times housed over two thousand.

Middle Street

Bodies were cremated in these.  Yikes.

Where one of the barracks used to be.

Little kid, all alone :(

          Let me tell you, it was just about the perfect day to go to a concentration camp. The gray skies and drizzling rain provided great atmosphere. We only saw a few other people as we walked around, which contributed to what my friend described as a, “feeling of death in the air.” I had to agree with him- there was a relentless emptiness surrounding the camp. It definitely wasn't the same bustling center of commerce from sixty-some odd years ago!

          All joking aside for a minute, this was an incredibly depressing place to visit. It hits home when you actually see the crematoriums and walk through the rooms used as gas chambers. And after we had walked around the camp for a couple hours (we only made it through a small part, too), we went into the museum. I could've stayed in there for hours. They had hundreds of eight-foot tall displays filled with the stories of people who'd been in the camps. While it can be hard to comprehend a piece of marble that says, “Grave of Thousands Unknown,” these stories were personal and moving. So much death and destruction, and so many horrible experiences. And yet, the museum was able to highlight at least some positive stories, about people who had lived here and heroes who had helped fight against the regime. There was one about seven mothers who all had babies during their time in Dachau. Even though the Nazis had taken to killing all pregnant women (and all newborns), these women had somehow survived. And since the American liberation happened soon after the birth of their children, each of the babies lived, too. The American soldier who found them was overwhelmed by the sight of the mothers and their newborns. After having seen piles of dead, mutilated bodies, there was this small, good thing. He burst into tears on the spot.

          We headed out of the museum and toward the exit of the camp. It had been a long day already, and it was only about 2 P.M. I kind of wanted to get a souvenir from there, but I wasn't sure if there was a shop. I was thinking something like a, “I SURVIVED DACHAU!” t-shirt would be nice (Yeah, I know I'm going to hell for that one). When we got to the end, we did find a small souvenir shop. Sadly, pretty much the only thing they were selling was postcards. I thought about getting one, but decided against it. I mean, sending one of those just would have been morbid, right?       

You're The Scum Between My Toes: A Love Story

         So it's Valentine's Day tomorrow, and what do you know, there's a girl. The strange thing is, it all began as a joke. The two of us had hung out before, but nothing had happened until one particularly crazy night at a pub. Yup, the girl is Kelli, who you might remember from the previous story. Since that night, we've been together a lot more, sightseeing and chatting and “studying.” One time, she even wrote me a love letter. I don't think she'll mind if I post it, so here it is:

         

          Dear Noah,

         

         I hate your stinking guts. You make me want to vomit. You're the scum between my toes.

          

         ♥ Kelli

          She's pretty great, don't you think?

          Of course, now that we're something, I've been looking back even further than the night at the pub, trying to figure out exactly how it happened. I decided I might as well start with the first time we met. I actually remember it well, which is probably because of what she said. It must've been the second or third day we'd been here. We were standing in a group of about six people, going around and introducing ourselves. The time came for my introduction, so I said, “Hey, I'm Noah.” Kelli looked at me and responded by saying, “Noah? I've heard about you.” I'll be honest, I don't think I've ever gotten that reaction before. My reputation doesn't usually precede me. And the way she said it, like I was infamous or something. I was a little bit confused and a little bit intrigued. I wondered if she was interested in me. Yes, my thoughts went there in about five seconds. I'm a guy, what can I do? Anyway, I figured sooner or later, everything would become clear. It turned out to be sooner.

Awwwwwwwww!

         And now we're here. How would I describe us? We're just like any other couple. I will say that we have some especially fantastic conversations. We talk about things like vomit and poop and lactose intolerance. It's wonderful, really. Sometimes we even talk about more serious issues like...umm...you know, just take my word for it.

         I've learned all about her in only a few days, too. Her family situation is pretty similar to mine- divorced and remarried parents, and lots of siblings. She goes to college in Michigan and is graduating this year. She's going to Wisconsin for grad school. I take this to mean that she's ambitious and will probably have a job once she's done with school. Perfect. I've already begun to plan out my next twenty years as a stay-at-home dad. There's no shame in that- I've been looking for a sugar momma all my life. I didn't think I'd have to travel all the way to Europe to find one, but hey, I'm not complaining.

         While we're in Europe, we'll be visiting a bunch of different cities together. But it's not going to be just us. We're part of a group of seven friends who mostly stick together and go out and plan travels. If we break up, at least I'll have other people to hang out with while I'm in Germany or Greece or France. Obviously, I'd rather that didn't happen, though. I mean, we've already kind of planned our wedding. It'll be in Paris, the city of love. I think we're shooting for late March, sometime around the 20^th. Of course, everyone is invited!

         I wouldn't want to get too far ahead of myself, though. I've only been here for a couple of weeks. We've still got a long way to go- it's not even Valentine's Day yet. Will we be doing anything special in light of the holiday? I'm not really sure. I've been busy here just trying to get everything in order, not to mention, classes start tomorrow. But I know I should probably think of something. We'll see. Maybe this post is a start. I never did get to respond to that love letter she wrote me. I think this counts, though. So I'm dedicating this to my charming little friend. Go shit a brick.

      

         ♥ Noah    

A Ruined Undercarriage

          Are all British people crazy? It's hard to say- I've only met a handful of them. But the group we met at the pub? Absolutely. In one night, I learned the waltz, got hit on by a man, and witnessed a striptease. Oh yeah- I also got engaged to a girl in our program. Any time that many ridiculous things happen in one night, there has to be a cause. I blame it on the Brits.

         There were about seven or eight of us who went into the pub together. When we walked in, it was insanely loud. Like fourth and goal with the driving team down by 6 at the Super Bowl. (Aside: yes, I saw it. It was dubbed in Czech, and there were no commercials, and it didn't end until 4:30 AM. Not my favorite way to watch the game. But god, I am going to miss football.) Anyway, I think the noise was more apparent because everything is so quiet here in Prague. Sure, you have the noise of cars and trams, but step onto the Metro and nobody is talking. If they need to have a conversation, it takes place in hushed tones. Same for restaurants. Even pubs are pretty quiet. So it was a big surprise when we came into this one. We headed for a table at the back, and it only got louder. 

          Once we got back there, we found a bunch of tables pushed together, occupied by maybe fifteen Englishmen. They made enough noise for thirty. We sat down next to them and looked at each other, our eyes saying, “What the hell's going on?” Then the waitress came by, and we heard their order: “Fifteen pints and fifteen shots of Sambuc-er, and fifteen shots of tequila and...ten Jagerbombs!” Keep in mind, they already seemed trashed (the empty mugs and shot glasses all along their table provided further evidence for this theory.) Well, whatever. Rowdy Brits are fun, right?

         About a minute later, one of the older men (40ish) in their group slid over to one of our girls, Kelli. Within seconds, he'd asked her if she had a vibrator in her bag and if she was a “screamah.” We were all shocked, but we laughed. I think because he was a Brit (and because of that accent) it came off as charming and naughty, when in reality it was really freaking creepy. He didn't seem too threatening, though- I mean, he was wearing a scarf for chrissakes. But he did put his arm around her shoulder at one point, and of course he asked those questions, which made him less than innocent. So when he asked her if she had a boyfriend, her response didn't come as much of a surprise. She looked across the table and said, “Yes. Noah.” It wasn't the truth, but I was happy to play along. Naturally, he started asking her how I was in bed, but I figured that was better than the alternative.

          He continued to hang out with us as his group ordered more drinks. Their group kept suddenly breaking into song (Swing Low, Sweet Chariot was a personal favorite) and repeating a few lines until they tired of it, which sometimes took five minutes. One of them stood on the table and began to take his clothes off, to the chants of “I Believe in Miracles.” He got down to his boxers before he fell off the table. Thankfully. We would later see him come out of the kitchen, shoving a ladle down his pants. I don't plan on eating here any time in the near future.
          Our main British friend stayed around us. And he wasn't all vulgarities, either. He took us one by one and showed us how to waltz. I admit, I felt a little strange about dancing like that with a man. And that was before he complimented me. Our waltz ended soon thereafter. 

Fantastic form

           But I'm pretty sure he wasn't actually interested, as we learned that he was married and had triplets. Didn't see that one coming. This topic inspired him to share some advice with Kelli and I about having babies: “You don't want to have them come out down there, you know. It ruins the undercarriage.” It didn't stop there, though. I think he wanted to make a more thorough point to me.

          “Where are you from?” he asked.

          “Uhh...Missouri.”

          “They got rivers in Missouri?”

          “Yeah.”

          “Are there tunnels under the rivers?”

          “Maybe?” I said.

          “You see, it's like going down in one of these tunnels. It's dark, so you light a cigarette. You can see the edges of the tunnel, just barely. And it's fucking horrible, you know?”

           I didn't know, but I said “yes,” anyway.

          

          All of this talk about babies and family must have gotten him thinking about marriage, because suddenly he got the idea in his head that I should propose to Kelli. Right there at the bar. Not that I've put much thought into my proposal, but this wasn't exactly how I imagined it. 

          “I don't even have a ring,” I said.

          “Here,” he said. He took off his wedding band. “Use mine.”

          I looked at everyone around me. They were all smiling and laughing.

          “All right,” I said.

          He pushed the two tables apart to make room for me. I kneeled down on the floor, ring in hand. “Kelli,” I said, “We haven't been together for long, but I think there's something special between us. People say that when you find the right person, 'you just know.' Kelli, I didn't believe them before, but now I know. Will you marry me?”

          “Yes!” she said.

          I slid the ring onto her finger. My engagement record: one for one. Not bad.

          Once that was over, we talked with a couple other British guys, who were very nice when they weren't falling over. Things only got sloppier as the night went on, and after a while, we decided to leave. Sadly, we had to give the ring back to our British friend.  I guess I'll have to buy Kelli another ring soon, but for the moment we are still engaged. From friend to fiancée in three hours. Some would say “Only in Vegas,” but I'd add “or with Brits around” to the end of that. We left the bar, and exchanged a few more glances. The night was too much to put into words. We just laughed.           

Dicks Ahoy/Self-Loathing Tourist

          It might be because there are ten girls in the room, and just two guys. It might be because we're learning Czech for four hours a day, five days a week. Or maybe it's because everybody seems to be taking this class so damn seriously. But whatever the reason, somehow I became the class clown.

          It was definitely new for me- I don't think I'm really cut out for the role, either. I tend to be more of a quiet/focused/just-get-shit-done type of guy. In college, I haven't been the best at any subject, but I've always tried to be. Here, not so much. And it's strange how quickly things can turn. I could feel myself becoming a different person, and I embraced it. I stopped paying attention. I laughed everything off. Soon enough, I found I was one of the worst students in my class.

         Everything seemed out of my control, too. I figured out what was expected of me, so I subconsciously played to that. Not to mention, I had fun doing it. A typical incident: One morning, I was told to read a dialogue aloud with a partner. We start reading, and I'm mumbling my way through it. Then, my partner gets to the last sentence, which is something like, “Diks ahoj.” In Czech, the “j” sounds similar to our “y,” so when he said it aloud, it came out as, “Dicks ahoy!” I thought it was the funniest thing ever. If there's a better way to end a conversation, I haven't heard it. Yes, I have the maturity level of a twelve year old.  I began to laugh uncontrollably. I tried to muffle it, but that only made it worse. I got teary-eyed from laughing so hard. And the best part was, the rest of the class was completely silent. It may as well have been a funeral. This made it even funnier to me. Nobody's saying anything. I'm cracking up and shaking and trying not to look anybody in the eyes. I think my classmates just assumed I was mentally ill. After about thirty seconds, the teacher said, “All right,” and attempted to move the class along. I quieted down, but I didn't stop giggling for about five minutes.

          Granted, we've only been in class for a couple of days, and just as quickly as things change, they can change back. We had a quiz earlier this week, so I actually took some time to study. Within twenty minutes I was caught up. I ended up doing fine on the quiz. I'll still be happy when this class is over, though. There aren't many things I would want to do for four hours a day.

          On the touristy side of things, we visited Prague Castle. I'm not big on going to places like this. I don't care about history or architecture very much. I also don't like going to the same spots as everyone else and taking the same pictures as everyone else and saying, “Wow! This is amazing!” just like everyone else. It feels like I'm living in a script. The pictures are nice for the memories, I guess, but it doesn't even seem like its my memory when so many thousands of people have been ushered through exactly like I was. God, I'm such a buzzkill.

          Anyway, the castle was massive. There were so many buildings there that it felt like a small town more than anything else. It made it difficult to get perspective on the whole thing, because we were just walking down streets, surrounded by these buildings. I will say one highlight was the cathedral (pictures are in the previous post). It was giant and pretty. Can't ask for much more than that. And back outside, there was a spot on some stone steps that offered a panoramic view of all of Prague. I took in the city alongside French and Japanese and Russians tourists, and I thought it was kind of nice, in spite of myself.      

For People Who Don't Read Good

I figured I'd post a few of the pictures I've taken so far up here.  In the future I'll try to incorporate them into normal posts, but right now I'm too lazy.  I'll probably have something with more words (and pictures) tomorrow.

                                    One of the main squares near our apartment                                          

      Pretty normal looking street in Prague...The city is a maze of these.  Whenever I'm alone, I'm guaranteed to get lost.

                              Tall, pointy, old building.  Probably important.

                                                      Prague Castle

                                              Cathedral at Prague Castle

Inside the cathedral is pretty swanky

                     Inside the cathedral.  I must be saying something hilarious.  

                                                      Last one inside

                                              Back out in the cold

                                            Changing of the guard        

A government building

King of the castle

                                             Bird's eye view of Prague
                                           

A Hunger Artist/First Is The Worst

          Kafka once wrote a story called “A Hunger Artist.” The main character is a Czech man who goes days without eating. He becomes so good at fasting that he's actually able to turn this “talent” into a job. When I first read it, I thought Kafka had chosen to write about this man because he was an exceptional character. Upon further reflection, living this way seems pretty commonplace in Prague.

          OK, I may be exaggerating a little, but it's still different from anywhere I've ever been. This afternoon, for instance, after a long walking tour (and a longer powerpoint presentation), our program director told us that we were taking a break so we could get a short lunch at a place called Tesco. I was starving by this point. We headed over to the store, and it turned out to be a glorified gas station. They had bread, cheese, and fruit, in addition to a bunch of snacks and sodas. You've got to be kidding me. In America, even if we only have a few minutes, we will gorge ourselves. A Chipotle burrito? No problem. Three item combo from Panda Express? Sure, why not. I'm used to eating until I'm full and then some. Honestly, I've planned entire days around meals. But for Czechs, it's an afterthought. Who needs a sandwich when you can have an apple, right? I bought two pieces of bread and a water from the store. I fully expect to look like Christian Bale circa The Machinist when I get back home this summer.

          Later that night, after a more hearty dinner (goulash), my roommates and I decided to go out. We had bought phones earlier in the day, so we got in contact with a couple girls, and went to meet them at the bar. We went into the bar and walked downstairs, and we were greeted by about ten other students from our program. I walked up to a table of them. “Noah!” a girl said. “Drink this!” She handed me a tall glass of something that looked like shit. I took a sip, and found out that appearances weren't deceiving. It was disgusting. I tried handing it back to her. “No!” she said. “You have to chug it. It's an Irish Car Bomb.” It wasn't just any Irish Car Bomb, though. It was a completely curdled, extra large one. Who knew how long it had been sitting out? Eh, what the hell. I “chugged” the drink for about 45 seconds before finishing it. My first drink at a pub, and it might've been the worst drink I've ever had.

          Apparently some other people in our program were at a place called Irish Bar, so in hopes of finding a better Car Bomb, we set out to join them. It was only a block or two away. We came into the bar and there were at least ten more ISA people there. The owner moved all of us to the back of the pub, giving us license to be obnoxious, loud Americans. And we were.

          The Irish Bar was awesome. We talked and drank and had a great time. The owner was a hilarious woman who indulged us in being our stupid selves. She cheered along with the rest of us as people chugged their drinks. She did have rules (“Hey! Ain't nobody throwing up in my pub!”) and unfortunately, she closed at 2 AM. Overall, though, lots of fun. I know it probably won't stay this way, but there's something really cool about all of us sticking together. Cultural assimilation is worthwhile, but so is making friends with a bunch of kickass Americans. I don't think many study abroad groups are as close as ours, and we've only been here for two days.

          After that, we all went to a club. There weren't many people there, so we basically took the place over. And we definitely didn't have to worry about being too loud. As I'm sure everyone already knows, I'm an incredible dancer, and I got to show off some moves there. Or I jumped around like an idiot for a couple hours. One of the two.