Day 7 -- Munich, Germany

Munich, A.K.A. the city that never sleeps.

Okay, I'm making that up…I have no idea what Munich is called, other than the very Germanic-sounding "München."

First off, I will speak on our hotel. We're staying at a place called the "Hotel Uhland." Now…going from the dark, stinky alcoves of the Hotel Horse d'Or (oh, wait, I get it now – Odor of the Horse! I was such a fool!!!) to the wondrous clean of the Hotel Uhland was enough to make a man wrap a sandwich in foil and put it in the fridge for 2 days, then after that 2 days was up, take the sandwich out and eat it, because he was really going to enjoy that sandwich.

Which is another way of saying that the hotel is awesome. Clean. Bright. Full buffet breakfast included. Friendly staff. Spacious bathroom (relatively). German television with German channels (full of grodey childbirths, apparently). A mini-bar with reasonable prices (I don't think that Europe has caught on to the "mini-bars are only there to bilk your guests" craze that's rampant in the US). And Mirrors!

Okay, I'm getting carried away. The point is, if you ever happen to find yourself in Munich, do yourself a favor and stay at the Hotel Uhland. And tell them Tyler sent you. They probably won't know who Tyler is, but I've always wanted someone to say "Tyler sent me." Seems very classy.

Our room at the Hotel Uhland. Small...sure...but everything is small in Europe, apparently.

After our free breakfast (I know it's not really free, since it's included in the cost of the hotel…but I'm going to call it "free"…since our hotel budget and our food budget are two separate columns on the Excel spreadsheet) we did our typical first-day-in-a-new-city tradition. We went on walkabout – Dundee style.

First stop was the Glockenspiel, in the Marienplatz. The Glockenspiel is on a big ol'…I'm gonna' say "building" (even though it looks like a church from the outside) in the middle of the city. One of the towers contains a bunch of little...statues?, that spin in a circle several times a day. That show, which is a marvel in medieval engineering (actually finished in 1908), was attended by, probably, several hundred people...all craning their necks to see the little things turn in a circle. More fun for us than the actual "show," was the reactions of the crowd. When one of the jousting knights was un-horsed, there was a gasp of approval from the crowd, followed by a smattering of applause. It was adorable.

This is what everyone was looking at.

Next to the Marianplatz were two big ol' churches. The first is the Frauenkirche, which is German for "Kirch of the Frow." It's notable because there are two big towers that (Sharla, plug your eyes here) look like two big ol' boobies. Or, at least the tops of them do. Or maybe I'm just imagining things. Or maybe I should just stop talking.

Anyhow, our first stop was the sanctuary itself. Very pretty – it's always interesting, because you feel a bit sacrilegious popping into an active, catholic church and snapping photos of the cool artwork in the different naves (representing the different saints that are prayed to by Catholics…or some-such…I'm not totally sure how it works, being the Protestant scum that I am). Plus, occasionally there will be a mass going on, as tourists rotate around the outskirts of the cathedral…taking pictures…gawking…et cetera. It's very strange.

In the back of the cathedral was something very interesting – photos of the church from 1944 to 1949. See…apparently the Allies pretty much bombed Munich into oblivion. I read that 71 air raids hit Munich during the war…and much of the city was destroyed by allied bombs. Munich was one of the birthplaces of the Nazi party, and the allies seemed interested in blowing it up. The two main churches in the square were no exception – they were pretty massively devastated…and the photos showed the rebuilding efforts, ending in the restoration of the church to its original state. At least, I think that's what happened – my German isn't all that great.

So, underneath the main pulpit (my church terminology is not so great – would that be the sept?) was a little shrine, and I saw the best painting I'd seen since my trip to Europe. It was another retelling of the passion (we've probably seen several dozen at this point…one thing about European artists – they loved painting the Jesus), but it wasn't the expression-less retelling that the Romantics seemed to favor. It was almost done in the style of "The Scream," where the picture was abstract…showing the massive suffering and ugliness of the event. It gave a tragic humanity to Jesus (because he was "made man," as I recall), and to those around him…and it really moved me. This was the kind of art that really reaches me – something shedding the banality of stoic heroism and showing the true gut-twisting fear of real heroism.

But I didn't get a photo…because I was in a church…and some guy was praying…and it just didn't feel right. Maybe if we swing by there later I'll get something…I just really liked the painting. That's all.

After our tour of the sanctuary, we went up in one of the boobs – sorry, towers – to have a look around. Something the Germans don't seem to have figured out are the intricacies of doorways. The French discovered some time ago that you have to let people off of the elevator before you can push yourself on. The Germans? Not so much. The French also discovered that those narrow stairs leading to the towers of cathedrals were not built for "up and down" traffic at the same time. Again…Germany must have missed that lesson. Also, the French know not to stand in doorways…because people use those to enter and exit buildings. Not so the Germans. I could go on…but portals seem to confound the proud German people. At least, that's been my experience.

The view from the top was all right – Munich doesn't have the famous landmarks of Paris, but it's got a pretty skyline. We didn't linger long, because we had a long day ahead of us that was only beginning.

View from the boob.

Our next stop was lunch…and Munich again scores a knockout against the weak Parisians. I had a bratwurst with mustard on a Kaiser roll…Erika had some kind of liver cheese sandwich, which contained neither liver nor cheese. What it does contain is a mouthful of magic in every bite. I would walk 500 miles to eat either one of those sandwiches again – in fact, sitting here in bed, I'm seriously contemplating sneaking out, breaking into the booth where it was sold, starting up the grill, locating cooking instructions, and firing up another one of those bastards. I'm totally serious. It was that good.

Lunch

Bellies full of sweet, sweet German food, we dashed over to the Deutsches Museum, which, I believe, is German for "Rabbit Squirrel Dinner on a Rose Rabbit Sparkplug." It's a huge museum full of technology, and "what-not." I could try to explain the what-not, but instead I'll leave you with an impression.

Erika and I spent a good 45 minutes learning about the history of metallurgy. Yes, the two lily-livered (is that the second time I've used that phrase? Blast!) Theater Arts majors read up on how medieval craftsmen separated gold and silver from raw ore (hint: they used a furnace). I know…it doesn't sound interesting…but durg-labbit, it really, really was.

All you will ever need to know about medieval met

Now, because we were crawling through the museum, reading up on way too much interesting stuff to ingest in a single day, we got about a little less than a third of the way in and realized that we were falling asleep on our feet. Not out of boredom, but out of good old fashioned exhaustion. So Erika sat on a bench as I got my "war history" on, and cruised through the airplane section of the museum. Too much cool stuff to go into, but the point is – if you're in Munich, leave a day to spend here. You'll learn a lot – there's English translations for nearly every exhibit that we saw (except, oddly, for the oil drilling and refining wing). Very cool.

An actual Me-262 -- my favorite WWII airplane. Can you feel my excitement?

We walked back across town, I got us lost (and I blame the map, because an awesome handyman blames his tools) but we found our way eventually, and I forced a nap into our dwindling itinerary.

Our dinner was at the world-famous Hofbrau Haus. Which, apparently, is German for "I'm Tired Of Translating German For You Tyler, Please Go To Bed." We had two one-liter beers each, and some more meat and bread – I'm sure Munich is giggling with Bavarian pleasure about the severe hit our "healthy eating plan" has absorbed. Full of a liter's worth of beer, we staggered around the Marianplatz a bit more, stopped in some restaurant somewhere and ate some Apple Strudel, then staggered back to our hotel and slept in a staggered fashion.

It was an amazing day, for sure. Tomorrow we go to the "Cinderella Castle," which is German for "Neuschwanstein." Should be fun – we'll see if we can actually follow through on our nightly pledge to "get an early start tomorrow." Until then…

Day 6 – Traveling from Paris to Munich

This is what the professionals call a "traveling day." And for Erika and I, it was completely terrifying, because we got to (unwittingly) recreate an great little movie moment. I'm not sure which movie it's from, but it's the one where: "the guy gets off the train, then looks back to help his wife off the train, but the train door closes before she can exit, trapping her on the train. They frantically search for a way to open the door, but the train starts moving down the track, and the guy runs along next to the train, freaking out, because he has no idea where it's going, or when it's going to stop."

But I'm jumping the gun. Before I get to that excitement, I must remember -- as far as you all know, we're still in Paris. Must...stick...to...the...narrative...

So, rewind to France. There were things we didn't get a chance to do in Paris. Erika wanted to do some more shopping, and we both wanted to see the Roman Baths in the Musee Cluny. But the imposing "11:24 AM in a train station we've never been to" section of our itinerary made us both very nervous. Never having ridden (rode?) a train in Europe before, we didn't quite know what to expect…so we thought we'd give ourselves plenty of time to get to the station, get adjusted, get aboard, and get the hell out of town.

Unfortunately our waiter at breakfast didn't know this, and we had another one of those annoying experiences where we asked for the bill, and the waiter did everything he could think of to do instead of bring us our bill. Jimminy…that's one thing I will not miss about the Paris.

Eventually, we paid our damn Euros, and got out of the place. We bounced over to the Gare l'Est…which…I believe, means "Gare le East." We were a little worried about catching our train – we got to the station with only 20 minutes to spare – but we needn't have worried…there were no security line to go through, no bags to check, no tickets to buy. Just a train with multiple doors, and reserved seats. We just needed to get on the bastard, get rolling…and let the Rail Pass take care of the rest.

The train was very cool. Like a plane, except it took longer, was less cramped, and didn't fly. Erika slept through the first leg, from Paris to Stuttgart, and I slept through most of the second leg, from Stuttgart to Munich.

What do Erikas dream of when they take a little Erika snooze...?

We switched to a new train in Stuttgart. As we were boarding the new train we noticed a big ol' fat suitcase, with the handle fully extended, sitting in the middle of the aisle. Next to the suitcase was a woman…probably in her early 40s, resting her hand on the bag that was blocking the aisle. I gave my German a shot, and said, "Enschultigung bitte" (excuse me, please) and waited. She didn't move. In English I said, "Excuse me." Nothing. I figured that I'd given her plenty of multi-lingual warning, so I shouldered my way past her...as roughly as possible without being violent.

After we'd both pushed our way past the aisle blocker, she got the hint, and put her bag up above our seats…with the "pull handle" fully extended. Fine. Whatever. Now, at least, the aisle was clear for when we had to get off the train.

And holy freaking crap. Sorry, I'm sitting here in our hotel room, writing this, and I'm watching a woman giving birth of German TV right now. They're showing everything. Everything. Holy crap. It's 1:00 AM, and…oh, yep. That's a vagina. Eww…NOOO!!!!! NOOO!!!!!! What the hell? Make it stop!!!!! What is that!!!?!?!?!? That's not a …..uggh….that does not look…is she birthing an alien? Oh my God it's a face. Blood. Everywhere. What the…?!?!?! Is that a hand!? You're going to crush it! Ewww!!! No!!!!! It's all bloody!!!! Oh, thank god, it's out. Umbilical cord. There's so much blood! Gross!!! And now he's pulling a bag out of her – oh Lord, it looks like turkey giblets. Just snipped the baby's umbilical cord. Gross…more blood. That was maybe the grossest thing I've ever seen. God, I hope it's over. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH GERMAN PEOPLE?!?!!

I'm sorry…I was right in the middle of something. I'm just….I'm a little shook up. Ew. They're…never mind. It's really gross. This is the grossest thing I've ever seen – I'm not kidding. I mean, most of this "birth" stuff is done in a tight close-up, with soft lighting, and comforting music. This gore-fest was shot in a wide angle, in a harshly-lit room. It showed that puddle of blood and afterbirth, the episiotomy, the bruised aftermath...everything. On regular television. Ick.

Where was I? God…how do you recover from that? This story is going to pale in comparison to what I just watched. And am still watching, for some messed up reason.

Okay. Good. Yuck. No. Focus, Tyler. Focus.

Anyhow, with about 30 minutes left on our trip, the woman stood up, reached over me, and pulled her stupid bag down – that stupid handle still fully extended. I didn't think much of it, other than to be annoyed that she'd basically rubbed up against me to get her stuff. But whatever. It's Europe -- people are bumping into each other all the time.

But this woman…wouldn't you know it; the dumb bastard left her suitcase in the middle of the aisle...again. And, inevitably, the conductor called the "Munchen" stop. Since we were not in any real hurry, we decided not to get our bags until we absolutely had to – to avoid the crush of people.

Big mistake. After the train pulled into the station, we waited a bit, and then I got my bag down and started wheeling it down the aisle. But as I was doing so, I noticed that the stupid woman was still blocking the aisle with her suitcase. I gave her a loud "Enschulegung Mir Bitte," waited a beat while she didn't move, and then roughly shouldered my way past her (again) toward the exit.

And I hopped off the train to the platform, only to look back and see that Erika was not able to get past the woman (I thought my violent hint had been enough for her to move the bag, but apparently not). Erika got to the door just as it closed in front of her.

Yes. The door closed. I was standing on the platform, and Erika was still on a train to…God knows where. The stop prior to that was an hour earlier…so who knows where the hell she was going to end up. And I had the train tickets in my bag.

But stuff like this must happen all the time, rigth? Well, there were two buttons on the door – red and black. And a handle. I pushed the red button. Nothing happened. I pushed the black button. Again, nothing. I pulled the handle. Then I pushed the red button and pulled the handle. Then the black. I looked through the window and saw Erika doing the same thing. Frantically, I just started pushing buttons, and pulling the handle…but nothing was happening. Then the train started to move. I was out of time. Erika was leaving the station...without me.

Luckily, I remembered that Erika had her cell phone, and it worked in Europe. So I made the international "I'll call you" sign, and ran along the train as it sailed away.

This was our worse-case scenario: getting separated in Europe. I can't imagine what we would have done if one of us didn't have a phone – hopefully meet up in the hotel. But…in a foreign land, knowing only a little bit of the language, with only a vague notion of your location…it was pretty scary.

I looked around the platform to try to figure out where the hell I was. I saw a sign that read "Munich, Pasing." I wondered what, exactly, Munich was passing?

I soon found out that "Pasing" wasn't the silly English gerund I was familiar with, but the name of a town on the outskirts of Munich (one might call it a "suburb"). We had wanted to get off at the "Munich Hauptbahnhof" stop, not to "Bahnhof Munich-Pasing" stop. As I would later find out, I'd gotten off one stop too soon.

So I found a pay phone and called Erika. It took me some time to figure out the "international calling" rules, but I got a hold of her, and when I did she told me she was in the Munich Hauptbahnhof, and that she was walking to the hotel. I asked her if she knew where to go, and she told me that (luckily) she'd grabbed one of the print-outs that had a map on it, while we were on the train. So she could find the way. I told her I'd meet her there, and that I was going to "have fun" figuring out how to navigate my way through the city...using just my tenacity, smarts, rudimentary language skills, and a pocket full of Euros.

The game was on. I got the chance to have my first real German conversation, since my sophomore year of college (where I got a "D" in German, and got placed on academic probation). I asked a woman (in broken, probably hilarious German) which train to take to get to the city center (aka the Hauptbahnhof). She told me platform "vier oder funf" (four or five). I thanked her, and walked to the corresponding platform.

However, once there, I couldn't figure out how to buy a ticket from the machine – there was some strange terminology (1 zone, 2 zone, all-day pass, etc) that gave me absolutely no context. So I decided to ask the pleasant English-speaking man at the DB (Deutsche Bahn...the guys who run all the trains in Germany) ticket counter.

He set me straight. I needed the "local" train, not the "international" train. Got it. Much cheaper, and far more frequent. It loaded on platform four or five. Good. That first lady was right...and, more importantly, I understood her. The ticket guy also sold me the ticket I needed, so I didn't have to figure out those accursed machines.

So, in no time at all, I was cruising on the S-Bahn into Munich. This time, I paid attention to the damn stops, and I got ready to exit the damn train well before it pulled into the station.

Eventually, I made it to our hotel...and met up with my wife after a terrifying 2 hour separation.

To ease our stress (and our crippling hunger) we decided to get some dinner. There are a bunch of "German Beer Halls" in Munich, which are basically huge restaurants with rows of cafeteria tables, served by dozens of waiters and waitresses, who bring big steins of beer, and plates full of meat.

This is the beer hall we chose. It was a good choice.

So we sat down. The waiter was quite friendly. He spoke a wonderful amount of English, and brought us both enormous beers. I ordered a "suckling pig," which I can only assume was a cute widdle baby piglet. Erika ordered flesh of a cow, boiled in cabbage and what-not. Good, wholesome, Germanic faire. And there was a wonderful "not crappy like American potato salad" potato salad also on Erika's plate.

This was my meal. Holy damn hell, it was tasty.

Now, please forgive the vegetarians among you out there…but it was…probably…the best food I've ever had. I actually briefly considered licking the plate clean it was so good. Nothing personal, Paris…but your food completely sucked in comparison.

The contented aftermath. I did not lick the plate clean, as you can clearly see here.

Nursing a healthy beer buzz, Erika and I stumbled back to our room and lapsed into an overdue, and heavy sleep...thick with excellent German beer, and even excellenter German meat. Tomorrow, we see exactly what the hell this crazy little "birthplace of the Nazi Party" is all about. But tonight, we sleep.

Day 5 - Paris, Bastille

Versailles. Or, as the French say: "Verr Sigh." Today was another of those clichéd type of touristy days where we were going to pack a lunch (baguette, cheese, orange, macaroon), and hop a train out to the western end of Paris to see the itty bitty little wonderful palace. Then we'd head back to Paris proper to climb the Notre Dame, wander around the Palce de Vouges, eat some crepes, then get back to our hotel to pack.

And we did exactly that, damn you. And I have pictures to prove it.

First up, Versailles. Turns out, Paris public transportation is incredibly, terribly, quite, very easy. Listen up Seattle and Los Angeles – it doesn't have to be this way! You know all that shitty traffic you're always sitting in? You don't need it! A good transit system can be done. It's going to cost money, yes…but damn you all, it's worth it! You've got to do something! I'd pay 20 times the taxes I pay now just to have a frigging usable means of getting around town that doesn't involve me dropping 40 dollars for a tank of gas every week. Mon Dieu!!!

Wife on train...looking like a sweet secret agent.

Sorry. Distracted. Anyhow, we took the train straight over to Versailles, and walked up to the palace. Finally we got to experience the "waiting in line" part of Europe that we'd (somehow) avoided all this time. But…really…the line was not so bad. I'd say, about 30 to 40 minutes…no more.

We got inside, buyed our tickets, then ventured around the grounds for a little bit. They were pretty -- but before we got too far out into the garden, we thought we'd go into the actual palace.

Look how pretty these trees are. Those French know how to do trees.

The Versailles palace was a bit of a…hmmm…a bit of a bastard, really. There were a lot of people at the Louvre, yes…but there was also a lot of room to move about. At the palace, it was just packed full of foreigners, jostling each other, taking pictures of everything they could, talking loudly, smelling awful, and making life generally uncomfortable. On top of this, since the palace is fairly roomy, the operators took the brilliant step of roping off the majority of a room you'd go through…so you'd end up with a little narrow corridor packed with irritated people, all pushing each other to either get through the mob, or get forward to the cordon to take a picture of…whatever it was they were looking at (usually furniture and paintings).

Typical Versailles Palace scene. Do you like smelly, tightly packed crowds? Then you'd love this...

On top of this all…the absolute worst thing I've seen so far in Europe. In each of the rooms (and the reason why so much floor space had been roped off) were displays of "modern art." Now, don't get me wrong -- I don't mind modern art. As much as I disliked the "modern" Louvre pyramid, it wasn't completely appalling to me. But…holy crap. The artist (whose name escapes me now) had a bunch of giant metallic balloon animals scattered throughout. He love them metallic balloons. And in one room – blocking a beautiful, huge painting displaying a scene from antiquity – he'd hung a giant [gall darn] inflatable lobster pool toy on a chain. In this beautiful, amazing palace…surrounded by the most gorgeous scenery in all of France, some [dumbo] decided that the only thing missing was a big red inflatable pool toy.

There it is -- an artistic kick in the babymaker.

So on top of all the idiots pushing each other, flashing their cameras, talking loudly, and stinking, I got to see a disgusting modern "art" display. Needless to say, the palace itself was a bit of a dud. No, strike that, a big ol' flop. If you're going...see it, but just be ready to be annoyed.

But we still had the grounds to see – I mean, who actually goes to Versailles just to wander through the palace anyway? I guess…a lot of people…but that wasn't why we were there. We wanted to look at some damn trees, statues, fountains, and grass!!!


A good example of said trees, statues, fountains, and grass...

Which we did. So interesting, because when you're out looking at all the statuary you forget that they're not cheap plaster or concrete knock-offs – they're the actual marble statues that have been standing for at least 100 years. Pretty cool.


This seagull is not impressed, however.

None of the fountains were on…which was a bit of a bummer…but I suppose keeping those running all day would be a bit of a drain (please forgive the pun…or don't…whatever).

We decided to sit and eat. Upon opening our bag, we were treated to a pungent whiff of merde. Perhaps dog merde. Turns out, we'd purchased Muenster Cheese…and for whatever reason, the rind smelled like poop. Merde fromage. Luckily, the creamy stuff between the rind tasted all right…but you had to wipe the baguette chunks between the two slices of poo-smelling rind. Not too pleasant. But we did it, dagnabbit. We had a picnic lunch of cheese and baguette. Check another "thing to do" off the list.


That cheese done stank up the joint.

After our lunch of bread and near-poo, we went to see where Marie Antoinette stored all of the delicious cake she kept from the peasants (hint: it was in the kitchen). Marie's little mini-palace was definitely the highlight of Versailles…and perhaps the entire trip thus far. The crowd was very thinned out (because access to the mini-palace cost more, and it was a good 30 minute walk across the grounds to get there), and the set-up was very personalized. Much of her original furniture was there (including her bed, sofa, toilette, etc), and you could get much closer than you could in the big palace. You really felt a connection with her, which was a blessing really.


Marie Antoinette slept here.

And now I'm going to go on another jag. A museum jag. I hope I can explain myself well…because I feel quite strongly about it. Okay. Here goes. Jag time.

I have a bit of a problem with museums. See, I love museums, because I'm a huge fan of history – not that that sentence means a whole lot…many people love history, or, at least, some aspect of history. But…for me…I love the personal stories. The best, most engaging pieces of history I've been able to experience are the historical novels by the author Bernard Cornwell. Bernard writes about (primarily English) conflicts, from the point of view of a soldier. He doesn't write from the perspective of generals, nations, and the aristocracy…but from an individual soldier, living in a time of monumental upheaval. It's riveting, and he's a master of it.

But when I'm in a museum, I don't see individual stories. There's no specificity. Wars are laid out on topographical maps, with lines, squares, and triangles denoting battalions, divisions, and defensive fortifications. Arrows denote the movement of armies, and still photographs of generals signing treaties denote the outcomes of the conflict. Again, I'm going to get a little preachy here, but is it just too difficult to tell individual stories? I know the French were pretty well wrecked by the Germans in the "Franco-Prussian War" of 1871…but what was the conflict actually like? There's a famous painting of a dying French soldier at Musee l'Armee. In fact, here it is:



He's handing his "last cartridge" to another soldier…but it begs so many other questions for me – what is the guy on the left shooting at? What did it look like over that rise? How was the dying soldier injured? What were they fighting for? What did they think of their enemy, and what did their enemy think of them? And where was their commanding officer?

And this painting is a better example than most of the "war paintings" I've seen; it shows some pretty horrific, yet courageous action in battle. But, even this moving example leaves me wanting.

I mean, I love looking at all of this stuff…but we have the technology now where we should be able to make history come alive, right? Who can forget the breathtaking first 20 minutes of Saving Private Ryan? Or seeing the (admittedly non-historical, but still fascinating) pitched battle of Helm's Deep in Lord of the Rings? Why can't my museum – the holders of the actual artifacts – find some way to bring these things to life? And I'm not talking about a corny recreation…I mean…I want to see the carnage! The struggle! Smell the gunpowder! Feel the fear and the oppression! Bah!

Whoa. Okay. You can tell I've done a little thinking about that. Anyhow, as I say, museums are very cool…but they could be so much cooler. Instead I just get to look at the artifacts, and use my feeble imagination. Maybe some day I'll curate a museum somewhere, and see if I can inject a little passion into my history.

All right, where was I? Hmm…Versailles. Okay…after walking for 1200 miles around the Palace (huge, huge place – I know everyone tells you that, but I've verified it for you all – the place is gigantic. Picture a garden the size of downtown Seattle or Hollywood, and I think you've got the idea), we decided to get back into Paris. On the train I did something I rarely ever do – I fell asleep within the first 5 minutes of sitting down. Amazing. Erika slept too, so it was a good thing I woke up abruptly as we cruised through the shadow the Eiffel Tower, or we might very well have ended up in Romania (the next stop, I believe).

Thanks to the sweet train-board nap, we didn't need to recharge at the hotel room. So, it was of to the Notre Dame. Or, so as not to confuse it with the super-fun university, the "Notre Dame de Paris." It was, as advertised, very cool. It's fascinating to me – things were so ornate back in medieval Europe. It seems on some structures, every inch of space had some kind of sculpture, inscription, painting, or…something. Inside and out. Nowadays you'll never see that precise attention to detail – it's function over style. I guess it's a shame...or maybe it's great. I don't know. I'm a moron who just likes to say stuff.

But, seeing the ridiculously detailed firearms in Musee d'Armee from the 17^th century, versus the sleek, unadorned firearms of the 20^th century strike a very severe contrast. At a certain point, people must have just stopped decorating stuff (I blame you, Mr. Ford), and started pumping it out en masse. Again, I'm not sure what to think of that…it just bears noting.

Either way, the Notre Dame was very cool, and it offered a great view of Paris. The gargoyles adorning the structure were also breathtaking.


Pictured -- two gargoyles, and two angels.

The only problem with that place was – again – the people running it, and pushing their way through it. Our first stop (and it was a forced stop) on the way up to the towers of Notre Dame was a gift shop. They made us stop there for about 10 minutes before we could continue on. Very annoying. The place had been totally tourist-ized – not like the Sacre Couer, which was mostly open, and (comparatively) empty.

After Notre Dame we had a quick stop a the hotel for a nap (guess we needed it after all). Then off to drink and carouse on the Ile St-Louis, before finishing the night with two crepes and the coolest waiter we'd had in our entire stay in Paris (maybe through the rose-colored hue of our beer goggles…but I'm pretty sure he was as cool as I remember from that night).

Can't remember the name of this place...because I was drunk...but it was a good'n.

For the second night in a row, I was asleep before my head hit the pillow (which is why I'm writing this entry the day after it happened). But tomorrow (today), we're saying "Bon Voyage" to France, and "Guten Tag" to Germany. Until then…

Day 4 - Paris, Bastille

I'll say it again…Vive le Revolution! Today will be the completely clichéd and touristy portion of our Parisian adventure, where we go to the Louvre, Eiffel Tower, and stroll gaily along the Seine.

It's even more clichéd, because we had a couple of excellent run-ins with some sweet, tasty, French-style rudeness. Or, as the French say, "Le Rudeness," because they all generally speak pretty good English.

Turns out, the folks in Montmarte just happen to be a little cooler than their uptight neighbors in the tourist-heavy portions of Paris. We crossed the length of Paris, from Montmarte to the shadow of the Bastille without incident.

And the "Le Rudeness" reared its ugly head. The man at the front desk in the hotel was being difficult. No outright hostility, mind you, but he managed to turn what should have been a fairly simple transaction (Bonjeur. Reservation por Tyler Rhoades. [he gives the key, and I pay] Merci) into an awkward, fumbling, drawn-out mess. Apparently, our room was not ready, which meant that we had several hours to kill before we could rest our weary bones, unpack our weary suitcases, and kick off our weary shoes and take a well-deserved weary nap.

So we started our "tourist-a-thon" a few hours early. All right then.

Our itinerary included a quick walk around the area, to acquaint ourselves with the sights, sounds, smells, and scuisine of the 4^th and 5^th Arrondisments. We got breakfast from a…not unfriendly, but not kind…bakery worker. A far cry from the incredibly pleasant woman who sold us Chocolate Croissants and Café au Lait every morning in Montmarte. This new bakery worker also had an annoying habit of allowing our halting French requests to dangle in the breeze without rendering any kind of assistance. I mean…dammit…at least we're making the effort. Couldn't you meet us half way? You don't have to speak English (because French people hate that), but...just try to get the jist of what we're doing, without pretending to confuse "Water" (l'eau) with "Diet Coke" (Coke Light).

But we made it out alive, with some mediocre French pastries to give us the strength to hit up our next destination. We were heading to the "Latin Quarter," named after the famed people of Latinia. We tootled about the Latin Quarter a bit…gazing upon (but not entering) Notre Dame, as well as a few other very neat-looking cathedrals and churches. Erika dutifully read descriptions from our trusty guide book, while I farted about and took pictures of birds.


The guide book says this is a "really small street," or something. You know it's true, because my wife is about 15" tall.


Of course, while Erika was busy being "educated," I was taking pictures of a cat stalking pigeons in front of a Chinese restaurant...because I have ADD.

After a few hours of walking and puttering, we returned to the hotel and finally got to enjoy our inexcusably delayed nap.


This is the kind of picture we took when we had a lot of time to kill.

Now, let's see. Our hotel is…well…you're going to hear the phrase "Not as good as [x] in Montmarte" quite a bit…and the hotel will be the first victim. "The Hotel de la Herse d'or is not as good as the Hotel Bonsejour Montmarte in Montmarte." Wow...that was wonky. Hopefully that will work better as this entry continues.

The hotel isn't all bad. I mean...we have a bathroom to ourselves…and it's relatively clean. But the room has the vague musk of cigarettes and sweat…the street is terribly busy and loud…the walls are pale yellow and bare…the bed is rock-hard…I could go on, but what's the point? It's functional, but "Not as good as our hotel in Montmarte."


The Hotel de la Herse d'or.


The balcony at the Hotel Bonsejour Montmarte.

After a nap, we went for lunch. Here we had another unsatisfying encounter with a different bakery lady…this time on the left bank ("Left" is, apparently, French for "South"). We had a couple of sandwiches, then skedaddled off to the world-famous Louvre.

As I mentioned in an earlier entry, I'm not going to spew about art…because I honestly don't know a hell of a lot about it. I enjoyed the Louvre. I got to see some gorgeous Roman, Grecian, and French sculptures, the code of Hammurabi, some coronation jewels, and a butt-load of paintings featuring Jesus, the Saints, Monarchs, and What-not (apparently those were the hip things to paint in the 15^th, 16^th, and 17^th centuries).

And I saw the Mona Lisa. It was…well, actually, I'd heard it was very small…but it seemed pretty regular-sized to me. Not as big as those Napoleon paintings in the room behind the Mona Lisa, but still decent-sized. Unfortunately, the museum didn't allow people to get very close, and there were (generally) about 30 people clustered around the painting, waving digital cameras and pushing their way forward to the cordon.

This was my favorite picture from the Louvre.

So it was hard to really connect with the piece…but…I dunno'. Looked all right to me. I can now say that I "Saw the Mona Lisa," but I'll also say that it was "Not as good as the Mona Lisa in Montmarte."

Something I noticed – and maybe those of you out there who understand this stuff can help me out – why is it that facial expressions didn't seem to exist until the 19^th century? Every damn picture of the saints, angels, and aristocracy seem to portray people looking "stoic" and "reverent." What happened to passion? Where's the anger, the bared teeth, the fear? These are some pretty turbulent times, and there are tons of battlefield pictures, executions, revolutions, et cetera. Yet, everyone's got the same bored expression on their face.

You see what I'm saying?

And, speaking of which, why are all of the battle scenes completely bloodless? I mean…the famous painting of Leonidas at Thermopylae shows a nearly-naked king holding a spear while people around him…I don't know…show off their spears and swords to each other? Did ancient painters just not get the concept of the nasty nature of war? I mean…how did you kill a man before the invention of gunpowder? You took a weapon, and either chopped him up, stabbed him, or beat him to death. That involved (I would imagine) quite a bit of gore…yet in every painting the soldiers looked so dag blasted "stoic" and "reverent" as their friends were dying around them. Does this bother anyone else?

Anyone want to compare spear lengths?

Sorry…I promised I wouldn't do that too much. Anyhow, at a certain point our bodies decided to shut down. "Great masterworks of art" transformed into "Paintings that make me think about how much my feet hurt." It's a shame, but we'd already experienced a good deal of that feeling during our spin through the Musee d'Armee...so we came equipped with a plan of action. Once we began to forget how awesome the stuff we're looking at is, we'd go get food and coffee before the pain overwhelmed the excitement of our surroundings.

Unfortunately, the Louvre is enormous. Every person who has been to the Louvre will relish telling you this. I choose not to relish it, but I will confirm…it's huge. So we had to walk through several trillion dollars worth of art to find one of three cafes in the place.

We just wanted some bread, coffee, and a place to sit for 20 minutes. What we got was a sit-down restaurant, with the worst waiter in Paris. First off, we stood at the sign that read "Please wait to be seated." We made eye contact with several different waiters. And we waited. For a good 10 mintues. Finally, another couple arrived, and asked the waiter (au François) if they should seat themselves…and the same bastard who made eye contact with us multiple times, and ignored us, told the new arrivals that they should just seat themselves. Bastards.

So we followed the French-speaking couple, and seated ourselves at one of the tables. After a good deal of time, a waiter arrived wordlessly with menus and left immediately. We decided to get two espressos and a croissant. The waiter eventually returned. Using our impeccable command of the phrase "Je voudrais," we ordered our meal. The waiter wrote everything down, then left again without another word. Ten minutes later, the waiter returned with the two coffees, and told us they were out of croissants. Quickly I scanned the menu, "Pain du Chocolate?" "Non." "Umm…" "Only we have pineapple cake." And, without checking to see if we wanted pineapple cake, the douche left quickly. We never saw him again, but the cake probably sucked anyway. Douche.

We finished our espresso on an empty stomach and returned to the "art part" of the Louvre…which was open until 9:30 PM. We stayed until sunset…which gave us about 4 hours, from 2:30 PM to 6:30 PM. I'd joked for a long time about breezing through the Louvre in one day, and every time I'd mentioned it to a Frenchophile, they'd gnash their teeth, rend their garments, and proclaim in an outrageous French accent "Non! Non! Zat weel never do!!!" To those people I say, "Feh!"

Now, of course we didn't see everything. We saw the big ticket items (Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, Winged Victory), as well as tons of French, Flemish, German, English, Italian, and ancient Babylonian and Egyptian works of art…but…boy…lacking any real appreciation for visual artistry, or any real desire to fully understand and appreciate said visual artistry...I feel the visit was good enough.

So we took off, just as the sun was cresting over the city, casting a beautiful glow over the weird pyramid in the middle of the square. It was the most photo-friendly moment we have had thus far...and all we have to show for it is a blurry photo hastily taken by a young Asian man. Ah well...say-la-vee.

We meandered through the 6th and 7th arrondissements after the sun had set, and eventually made our way to the foot of the Eiffel Tower. It was tall. And made of metal. And it was bathed in blue light. We had no desire to go up, but it sure looked neat up close.

Beneath the tower, looking skyward.

Checking that off the list, we promptly got lost (again) trying to find "The Best French Onion Soup in Paris." Eventually (with an assist from a fish monger, then an even huger assist from a taxi driver who was so helpful that he drove us there…only asking for a little "gas money" – apparently called a "fare" au François – in return) we found the place. It was packed, and we were dressed far too casually for what looked like a "fairly nice" restaurant. Oh well. No time (or desire) to go back to the hotel and get dressed up in our fine threads. We had some goddamn soup to eat.

I liked the soup. Erika hated the waiter (well we both did…but Erika was especially venomous), so she hated the soup as well, and proclaimed proudly that it was (everybody now!) "Not as good as the French Onion Soup in Montmarte." I was poorly seasoned, and had way too much cheese for her liking. I don't know. I liked the cheese. I guess we'll have to just agree to "Not as good as disagree in Montmarte."

We paid. Left (or "south"). Then walked back to our sub-par hotel...where I nursed my brand spanking new "pinky-toe blister," while Erika nursed a giant bottle of water that we'd purchased on our way back to the room. Tomorrow we're off to Versailles, to see if we can figure out how to get to Versailles. Until then...

Bonjeur!

Hi people.

I am typing on a creepy French keyboard, so I will be brief. The keys are similar but different. If I type normal, it looks like this: Hi there; Iù, co,ing to you fro, Frqnce1 Qbout tzo blocks fro, the Bqstille1 ?on Dieu111

Our room is not ready yet, but when it is we have internet...and I will update. Until then, au revoir!

Day 3 - Paris, Montmarte

In the Charles de Gaulle airport, Erika and I saw one of those cheesy MasterCard advertisements:

Dinner: 50 euro

Trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower: 25 euro

Well…all due respect to the good people at MasterCard, but getting lost in Paris costs about 25 euro – which is exactly the cost of the extra food and booze you promise to enjoy once you find your way back to your hotel.

The day started off innocently enough – we enjoyed a quick breakfast on our balcony, then walked from our room in Montmarte to the Hotel les Invalides for some sexy sight-seeing touristy action.

Crossing the Seine, I was accosted by an armed, naked guy

riding a fish...and made of metal.

However, about 30 minutes into our museum visit, I suddenly realized that I was literally dying of starvation (I was still in the very early stages, but still...) All feeling left my extremities, and I broke into a cold, unrelenting sweat. Lesson 56: don't go to a museum on an empty stomach – the glory of history quickly, and easily gives way to the burning, overarching desire for rest and food.

Thus began an epic "I'm-Hungry-Grumpy" mood…which Erika was more than happy to endure, because it's awesome to be with someone who's in a terrible mood. To fix my "tummy grumbles," we hopped over to a street which (apparently) has a very nice open-air market on it (though I don't recall seeing said market while we were there) called "Rue Cler." I got a ham and cheese sandwich, and Erika got a Croque Monsieur (which is French for "ham and cheese sandwich").

Erika's samich. It was better than mine.

Refueled, re-energized, and re-ady to see some historical junk, we returned to the museums…stopping at Napoleon's Tomb to pay our respects to the inventor of the Napoleonic Wars.

This is how I want to be buried -- in a massive, red-marble coffin.

Family: make it happen!

The next stop was the French Wars from 1871 to 1945. Apparently, during that time in France's history, there was a large amount of lot of retreating, surrendering, and bloody corpses (according to their paintings and photographs, that is).

Now, don't get me wrong, I had a blast at the museum. Like all nerds, I'm a big fan of military history…and it was fascinating seeing actual uniforms, weaponry, newspapers, photographs, and archival footage of these monumental times in history. There was the Maxim machine gun – the gun that heralded the wonder of trench warfare. I got to see the a breech loaded Krupp artillery cannon that ended the insanity of "men armed with muskets, standing in formation, shooting at each other" of the Civil War et al. Then there was a WWI trench coat still caked in mud, a vast assortment of grenades and explosives…I could go on…

Erika enjoyed it too…but after a while she told me it felt like "a series of rooms filled with guns, clothes, and maps." I can see her point – as happens with museums, it all starts to blend together after a while.

If you enjoy dressing fancy, I'd recommend the

German military. I mean...how cool does that outfit

look?!

And, as also happens in a museum, time flies. We'd spent most of the day working our way through the 1871 to 1945 wing, and we soon realized we had less than 2 hours to see the immense "Arms and Armor" wing.

So we buzzed through that section. It seems that the museum has collected every piece of plate armor made in the continent of Europe from 1400 to 1600…as well as every gun crafted before the flintlock musket. At one point the museum just gave up, and showed the storage room that housed all of the extra sets of armor that didn't make it into the display cases. Honestly – the Dauphin could have outfitted an entire army with the sets of plate mail in that place. Very cool.

Also, something I didn't realize until seeing them up close – these suits of armor were built for some very small people. I don't have the statistics in front of me, but I've read that people have gotten progressively taller over time – six feet tall was considered gigantic back in the day (for instance, hundreds of years later, Napoleon was considered "average height" for his day, at 5'7). And it seems that the average height in the 15th and 16th century was between 5'3 to 5'5).

So checking out all of that armor up close, you see that the men fighting in them were short, skinny little dudes. God forbid, if we ever got the chance to watch an actual medieval battle up close (through the magic of "time travel," or "a good imagination"), it'd probably be akin to two armies of shiny metallic jockeys whacking each other with metal sticks.

Now, luckily for me, the part of the museum that I was most interested in seeing (the Napoleonic Era section) was closed for renovations. Maybe the French needed a better angle on that whole "Napoleon trying to take over the world" business. But, in consolation, I did get to see a gypsy scam a lady…which was pretty cool.

Actually…I did want to talk about that for a second. A couple of weeks ago Erika read a posting on some online bulletin board somewhere about a new scam being perpetrated on tourists in Europe. What happens is, a gypsy (for comedic purposes I'll use the term "gypsy," even though she may have been a good old fashioned ne'er-do-well) bends down and picks up a sparkling golden ring in front of a foreigner. Astonished, the gypsy asks the tourist standing next to them if they dropped the ring. "No," the equally astonished tourist will say. Reveling in her good fortune, the gypsy then walks away…and turns back to the tourist and informs them "I'm allergic to gold, would you like to have it?" Not believing their good fortune, the tourist accepts the offer…and the gypsy walks away again…only to return at the last second and ask for "Would you mind giving something for my troubles?" At which point the tourist, believing the gypsy to be a generous saint, will give the woman some amount money.

Of course the ring is a total fake, and will turn your finger green if it's worn for any length of time. The gypsy tried it on us first – I saw the woman bend down and pick something up (I think she'd palmed it, though Erika swears it was on the ground as we passed), and…of course, it was a super-shiny golden ring. Immediately we both mumbled "Non" as we passed her…but we stood on the bridge and watched her pull the scam textbook style on a woman across the street (with the "walking away," the "pleading," everything short of the "making a scene"). It was very cool – akin to seeing a celebrity in Los Angeles. An actual European scam artist – our first of the trip.

The gypsy is in the white jacket...pretending to have found a (totally fake) gold ring, which she gives to the unsuspecting "mark." This is the "begging for money" part of the scam.

Where was I? Ah…yes. Our feet and brains aching from so much history, we decided to take in an early dinner in the Latin Quarter…but we still felt a little burned by our mediocre dinner at the Place du Tertre the night before, so we resolved to avoid all possible touristy places.

The problem is every restaurant looks touristy when you don't know the customs or the language. In fact, I figure that if a restaurant features French cuisine, it's almost (by definition) touristy.You think Parisians want go out to a nice dinner and have crepes and baguettes? No, they want Thai food like any good red-blooded American.

So we wandered…and wandered…and couldn't find anything that looked "just right. So we decided to go back to Montmarte…where we wandered some more…and got lost…and ended up walking for two and a half hours straight. Actually, we had our first encounter with a helpful Parisian, who asked us (in English) if we needed directions. So wary of scams were we, that we thanked him profusely and told him we were fine (a gross misrepresentation, but as we were in no immediate hurry, a harmless one). Eventually we returned to the Hotel Bonsejour Montmarte, and…gel insoles or not, 10 hours of standing and walking had made an absolute mess of the soft, tissue-y areas of the lower half of my body.

Which meant I'd need a nap, because lord knows Erika didn't want me to get "grumpy" again. Man, I'm such a pain in the ass. Anyhow, after the nap, we made good on our promise to find a good, non-touristy local place...and found a restaurant offering the best food, service, and prices thus far on our trip (slim pickings…but still remarkable…because I just remarked on it). Don't remember the name of the restaurant (sorry!), but it was a nummy, homey, cozy kind of place tucked away in the back alleys of Montmarte. With a stomach full of French-flavored foodstuffs, we decided to bounce over to catch a show at the Lapin Agile.

I didn't quite know what to expect from that place. It's a famous bar, famous for being a quiet, dumpy shit-hole where a bunch of famous alcoholic smart people drank at one point. I was told there would be a "show," but the only Parisian shows I knew of involved sequins and boobs (or face paint and invisible boxes).

Turns out the "show" consisted of a group of about 10 Parisian folks sitting around a table, singing old Parisian folk songs (in French) while an old Parisian dude tickled the ivory (wow…does that sound like a naughty euphemism or what?). They encouraged the crowd, scattered around the dimly lit bar, to join in. So, I tried to sing along, but the only song we actually knew was "Alouette," which is, apparently, a charming little childrens' song about torturing and maiming a skylark.

It was a little kitschy (okay…it was very kitschy), but it was an experience. I'm sure Picasso would shudder were he to find out the fate of his favorite local dive…but…what can you do.

After about two hours of watching this, with no obvious breaks to make our departure, we decided to just skedaddle as the waiter was ushering new people to their tables. As we were walking back, I realized (to my horror) that I had left my hat (chapeau) behind. Merde. So I returned, made with the "merci" and the "s'il vous plait," and got my chapeau bleu back in one piece...with a good deal of what I believe was "annoyance" from one of the performers.

Now we're about to turn in, for what will be our last night in beau Montmarte. Once again, I must strongly recommend this part of Paris to anyone coming to town for the first time. It's exactly what I pictured when I pictured Europe. In fact, if I may be so bold, I'd recommend any future Europe travelers to make Montmarte their first stop. It doesn't have any of the insanity of the busier parts of town, but it retains all of the old world charm.

We move in to a new hotel tomorrow…one block from the Bastille. Hell, if I get enough of the drink in me, I just may storm the sumbitch. Vive le Revolution! Then again, maybe I'll just drink a Coke Zero and have some trail mix. I guarantee you – one of those two things will happen. Keep your eye on the news (you'll probably have to watch BBC. Sorry) to find out which one it is…