For last week’s homework assignment, I decided to build a simplified zoetrope. My zoetrope was going to be a dodecahedron made out of twelve divs. Each div would contain one frame of a simple animation. Once the dodecahedron was set spinning in the browser, the frames were supposed create the illusion of motion. Sounds easy enough, right? Not if you have my brain. 3D animation in HTML5 requires inputting coordinate values for  x (left to right), y (up and down), and z (in and out), as well as rotation values along those axes. I knew that I would have to create twelve rectangular divs (taller than wide) and place them around a center point of a flat plane (like standing playing cards in a circle on a table). I also knew that each div would have to be rotated 30 degrees to create the circle (30 * 12 = 360). Because I am a foremost a visual learner, I started by building a top-view model in Illustrator so I could better understand how all the pieces would fall in 3D space. My mind gears seized when I realized that each “card” would not only have to move in 30-degree increments around the outside edge of the circle, but also rotate a few degrees each time so that they would remain perpendicular to the radius.

I sketched out several diagrams and tried a few—probably incorrect—mathematical formulas before finally enlisting the help of a friend. We passed HTML code back and forth over email to little avail. He got a little closer than I did, but the result, while interesting, was still incorrect. A plea to the Facebook community yielded nothing helpful. Queried co-workers were equally confused. After nearly a full day at-task, said friend and I decided to pack it in and give your brains a rest, agreeing to meet up and figure it out in person later that week if I was still unable to figure it out. Just before bed, I decided to check Facebook one last time. Another friend had replied to my earlier plea: “Should just be a combo of transform-origin: 50% 50% [-radius of your zoetrope], and transform:rotateY( [rotation for the div] ), rotations being 0deg, 30deg, 60deg, etc up to your 12th div.” Heartened, I plugged in my jump drive and loaded the file. Voila (make sure you are viewing in Safari)!

So, after all of our mathematical tinkering, it was never a matter of math, but of CSS code. I also discovered that HTML is a dirty cheat. Just goes to show you … something. I’m not really sure what. In the end, it doesn’t really matter because I decided to scrap the zoetrope idea altogether and build a map of the solar system instead. My solar system is pretty, but doesn’t really DO much because I am still trying to wrap my head around the nomenclature and syntax of JQuery. This week, we learned to develop simple iPhone web apps, so my hope is to get a better handle on JQuery so I can build my app, then maybe improve my solar system.

My HTML5 class is a nerdy adventure. I’ll keep posting in the coming weeks as I learn more!

* * * * *

“Fortune favors the bold,” the bellhop reminded us as we rode the elevator at the start of our second visit to the McKittrick Hotel. The doors opened and again I was off on my own through the dark twisting corridors.

Sometime later I caught up with Heather in the nightclub as a slinky blue-eyed redhead in flowing red dress—Hecate, played by Careena Melia—dined on a rare steak, alone at a small cloth-covered table. Beside Hecate at her table was a single empty chair. She stopped chewing to pull a brass ring from between her teeth, which she wiped clean before placing on the finger of one of the hotel’s many masked and anonymous guests. After moving to the stage to perform a creepy lip synced rendition of “Is That All There Is?” Hecate swept out of the club, unlocked a black door, and slipped into an inaccessible room. The other guests shuffled away. I waited. Heather waited with me for a time, then waved goodbye and melted back into the dark.

Alone, I wandered back into the now-empty nightclub and took a seat at Hecate’s table. Some of her effects lingered; a peacock feather fan, a half-empty wine bottle, three empty shot glasses, and her bright red lipstick. Another guest entered the nightclub without noticing me and pantomimed playing the piano. Then, Hecate returned. She approached the table like a spectre and immediately saw me there. Leaning in close, she held my gaze for a few seconds, then smiled and extended her hand. The guest at the piano turned and watched as Hecate led me out of the nightclub, back to the locked door through which she retreated earlier. Her perfume penetrated the air as she pulled herself to me and whispered in my ear, “Wait here. I have something for you.” Once more she disappeared behind the locked door.

After what felt like hours, she emerged, took my hand again, and pulled me into the room. Smiling, she gently lifted the white mask from my face. “I knew you’d come back,” she said, escorting me to an ottoman as she took a seat on a small couch. Turning my hand over in hers, she traced the creases of my palm as she spoke. (I told myself I would remember every word, but of course I didn’t.) Her story was about two lovers who took a sea voyage together. Without breaking eye contact—she never broke eye contact—she placed a white saucer in my hand, then a tea cup which she filled with clear water from a silver kettle. From her breast she pulled a small paper boat and dropped it onto the surface of the water. Her left hand still held over my right, the little boat bobbed as we rocked the saucer gently side to side. She spoke of waves and an approaching storm. “Of course you know what happened, then, don’t you?” she asked with a smile. Her face turned grim and suddenly the clear water turned red. “They sank.”  She pushed the paper boat beneath the surface before pulling it out and pressing it into my other palm. “But you and I know what really happened, don’t we?” she said. “I saw devils climbing the masts!” Then, with a mad laugh, Hecate leapt up and pulled me into another secret room, this one pitch dark and completely empty. She danced around me, cackling, as a misty rain fell from above. A door opened. Light seeped in just as my mask was coming back down over my face. With a final laugh, Hecate shoved me back out into another gloomy hallway, slamming the door behind me.

At the end of the evening, when we shuffled back into the hotel lounge, I removed my mask and noticed that it was not the same one I went in with. The knot I tied in the headband was gone, and there were now two red lipstick kisses on the face. Fortune favors the bold, indeed.

It was fun to work on something a little different. Below is the final result!

June 10, Amsterdam
“We Amsterdam … Again”

Above image: Heather and I pose in front of a calliope in our last full day in Europe. More images in the gallery at the end of the post

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Back in the Netherlands, we decided that Amsterdam didn’t get enough love the first time around, so we set out to see more of the city this time, bike-tour-style. First, though, we walked from Amsterdam Centraal to the Anne Frank house where we met up with Tami, one of Heather’s old friends who is now living and working in Amsterdam. Tami took us to a little coffee shop called Screaming Beans where we had the best appleflap (pronounced “AH-pple flop”) in the city, along with some pretty adorable coffee. I also made fast friends with the shop cat.

After delicious beverages and conversation, Tami headed to work and Heather and I made our way toward the Museumplein. It started to rain while we walked, and we wondered how fun it would be to take a bike tour in the pouring rain. Rather, we wondered how fun it would be to have soaking wet jeans in our luggage (we were flying home the next day and Ivo does not own a dryer). The rain was coming down hard by the time we reached the Rijksmuseum. We made a restroom stop and agreed that, if it was still coming down hard when we were finished, we would skip the tour. Almost as if God had accepted the dare, the skies were clear when we stepped back outside. A few hundred meters away, we spotted Allison from Joy Ride Bike Tours standing alone next to her bright orange bicycle. Would we be the only ones taking the tour? “You must be Heather and Mike!” she said with a wave. “Glad you guys could make it! My other reservations bailed because of the rain.” So, yes, we would be taking a private bike tour of Amsterdam. Sweet.

Heather’s Flickr set tells most of the story but, in short, Allison took us around and showed us why Amsterdam is worth knowing for more than its prostitutes and legal drugs. She told us all about the history of the city and lead us past several examples of beautiful architecture. We learned that a forward-leaning house is good—better to hoist things in through the window and avoid getting your chamber pot contents on your doorstep—but a side-leaning house will probably need some expensive foundation repair. Heather ate some fish she didn’t hate (nieuwe haring, a Dutch specialty), and we tried a native Dutch liquor, jenever (which is served in an overfilled tulip-shaped glass and must be sipped while bending over at the bar before it can be picked up) at Wynand Focking (say it phonetically for a giggle). Also, while Amsterdam IS more than its hookers and weed, no trip to the city is complete without a jaunt to the famous Red Light District.

We parked our bikes under an unlit neon sign that read “Sexy Land” and Allison gave us a task. “Walk this way and keep an eye out for two things: diversity and a kindergarten.” The former was pretty easy to observe. The district was generally divided into noticeable sections based on client tastes. At one end were Barbie-doll-looking Caucasian ladies—trim, pneumatic, and covered in makeup. Then, the Asian district. Next, full-figured black ladies. Then, full-figured black mature ladies. And so on. “Kindergarten” was harder to spot, but we found it. Allison pointed out a preschool in the heart of the area and told an anecdote about a friend who had grown up nearby and went to school there. Citing the difference in cultural attitudes, she said that her friend never knew—or really cared—what went on in the houses by his school. All he knew was that kind, pleasant-smelling, pretty ladies would often give him candy on his way to school. In total, our tour lasted nearly three hours, and by the end we felt like we had made a new friend. We dropped our bikes off with Allison near the Hard Rock Café, thanked her, and headed back toward Amsterdam Centraal where we would meet Ivo before going to dinner.

It started to rain again, and by the time we reached the station it was pouring to a point of near unpleasantness. Luckily, dinner was nearby, so the last leg of our walk in the rain would be short. The restaurant Ivo chose was a delightful French bistro. I had escargot and a succulent pork tenderloin, which were both exceptional. Heather had an uncannily light white asparagus soup with truffle oil and a substantial salad. Ivo’s enormous artichoke was proclaimed delightful, and we all enjoyed the rich molten chocolate cakes with raspberry coulis for dessert. After dinner, at Tami’s insistence, we stopped by her apartment for quick after-dinner drinks before catching our 23:30 train. The ride back to Utrecht was pleasant, full of good conversation and the memory of a delicious dinner. Our flight back to the United States wasn’t until 13:00 the next day, so the three of us allowed ourselves to stay up late and chat on our last night of vacation.

***

New York City welcomed us home with warm rain showers and a ride in a clattering cab with broken seats and no air-conditioning. Heather and I held hands and exchanged half-hearted smiles, happy to be going home to our own beds and cats, but already missing the beauty and hospitality of Europe. As we rattled through Jamaica, Queens—past housing projects, road detritus, and dilapidated  strip malls—I closed my eyes and tried to recall hillside vineyards, mountain vistas, and the taste of smokebeer. “Well, I’m back,” I thought. “When can I leave?”

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More pics via Heather’s Flickr here.

June 9, Frankfurt, Köln (Cologne)
“See Ya in Hell, Frankfurt!”

Above image: Köln Hauptbahnhof. More images in the gallery at the end of the post

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Hotel breakfasts in Germany—at least at the hotels in which we stayed—are all identical: a selection of bread/rolls, cold cuts, cheeses, hard- and soft-boiled eggs, yogurt, a variety of cereal grains, butter, jam, two to three varieties of fruit juice, and tea. We ate our sixth and final such breakfast at the Hotel Topas, packed our things, and waved goodbye to a Frankfurt we hardly knew (we’ll always remember it for its tiny packets of gummy bears).

Ivo mentioned to us several times that Köln was worth seeing for its massive Roman Catholic cathedral. Because we trusted his opinion—and because we are fans of symmetry—we thought that seeing another historic cathedral would be a fitting end to our German adventure. The drive to Köln was painless and we were able to switch off the TomTom almost immediately after arriving within the city limits. “Do you think we’ll be able to find the Dom?” I glanced out the window and saw two massive blackened spires dominating the Köln skyline. ”Yeah, I don’t think we’re going to have a problem.” The Kölner Dom is absolutely massive; the largest Gothic cathedral in Northern Europe. At one point in the 19th century, it was the tallest building in the world. Once a clean, cool gray color, chemical reactions in the stone have permanently weathered much of the exterior to make it almost black, further adding to its imposing appearance. “Holy crap,” I said. “I think I understand why Ivo wanted us to stop here.”

Our plan was to take an official tour of the interior at 14:30. There was some time to kill, so we ate a quick pizza lunch and embarked on Rick Steves’ quick self-guided walking tour of the city. We discovered that Köln was once a bustling major city of the Roman Empire, and still held dozens of artifacts from that period. We saw the ruins of a Roman archway and an original tile floor—presented exactly as it was discovered—around which a major museum was erected. Our walking tour also took us past the busiest train bridge in the world, City Hall (where a wedding was happening), and a statue of some tough-looking historical figure who may or may not have been Kaiser Wilhelm II. Back inside the cathedral, we discovered that the tour had been canceled, so we used Rick Steves once again to do our own self-guided tour. Among many beautiful and impressive religious things, the Kölner Dom houses what are widely believed to be the remains of The Three Magi (as in the actual gold-frankincense-and-myrrh Three Kings of “We Three Kings” fame). As my father-in-law might say, “HOW COOL IS THAT?!” Answer: Pretty damned cool.

Alas, as all good things must, our trip through Germany was about to end. Once we had seen our fill of Roman Catholic grandeur and Christian history, we loaded our things back into the car and entered our final destination, Ivo’s home address, into the TomTom. A little more than two hours later, we passed our last “Ausfahrt” sign and crossed back over into the Netherlands. That evening, we would devour fresh poffertjes, regale Ivo with our stories, drink some smokebeer, and fall fast asleep in a familiar bed.

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More pics via Heather’s Flickr here.

Tomorrow: “We Amsterdam … Again”

June 8, Bamberg
“Smoke ‘Em If You Got ‘Em”

Above image: Fresh Märzen smokebeer at Schlenkerla (delicious beyond reason; my new favorite beer). More images in the gallery at the end of the post.

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Heather and I stood on the stairs at the Hotel Uhland in Munich, studying the large map that hung on the wall. I was fiddling with a panel of small buttons on the right. “Too bad none of these buttons work anymore.” “They work,” Heather said. “See? Push it again.” I pressed the button for the Marienplatz, and an LCD bulb glowed beneath the faded paper. “Oh! Neat!” The manager stepped out from behind the desk. “Can I help you find something?” “Oh, no,” Heather said with a smile, “we were just admiring the map.” “Ja, my father built that himself. He wanted to update it, but my mother wouldn’t let him. Said it would be more trouble than its worth.” We spoke with the manager for a while, and she told us all about the history of the hotel; how it has been run by her family (Hauzenberger) since 1955, how her young daughter is being groomed as the next manager, and how her father maintains all of the IT stuff (he bought all of the computers and set up the wireless network). Mrs. Hauzenberger at Hotel Uhland was another example of the kind of people we had encountered in Germany so far: friendly, warm, and eager to help in some way. Embarking on the final leg of our trip, I reflected on how humbled and impressed I was with the country, and how difficult it would be to leave.

Last winter, Heather and I attended a beer tasting at a beer den in the Lower East Side. Chef Wolfgang Theil traveled from his restaurant, Schlenkerla, in Bamberg to prepare dishes that would accompany samples of Bamberg’s world-famous smokebeers. Prior to that night, a friend of Heather’s—who lived in Bamberg for several years while in the military—strongly recommended that we make the city a stop on our trip. If his glowing recommendation was the step toward the cliff, Chef Theil’s Bamberg Onion and smokebeers were the push over the edge. Bamberg would be our next stop after Munich.

We were on the road by 10:00 and, after an uneventful drive, arrived in Bamberg by 12:30. Determined to let the TomTom take us all the way to our final destination for once, we soon found ourselves thwarted by construction. Turning around, we ended up creeping down a one-way street and across small a pedestrian-only bridge. “Are we allowed to do this?” “I THINK so. That’s what I thought the sign said.” “Then why are people giving us such funny looks?” A thin, blonde-haired college student approached the car and leaned down to Heather’s open window. “You can’t drive here,” he said kindly, “you’ll have to go back.” “OK, I’ll just—” Heather started. “There’s no room to turn around up there,” he interrupted, pointing toward the other side of the bridge. “You have to just back up the way  you came.” “In reverse?” Heather gulped. “Ja.” So, backward we crept, 300 meters along the narrow, cobbled slope. Pedestrians stepped out of our way right and left—almost always at the last moment—with bored, puzzled looks on their faces, like cattle encountering the first Model A.

“OK, we’re fine. Let’s just take some deep breaths before we continue.” We rested, safe and unscathed, in a modern parking garage beneath the tourist information building at the center of town. “I wonder how many surprise traffic tickets Ivo will get in the mail,” I chuckled. Heather’s look shut me up. After a stop in the restroom, we grabbed a map at the TI and walked back through the city to Shlenkerla, passing the picturesque Altes Rathaus (the town hall, which was built in the middle of the river as a compromise between the church to the west and the farmers to the east) and several adorable shops. After fumbling through the all-German menu, we were relieved to decipher “Bamberg Onion,” the same dish we tried NYC. “Zwei, bitte,” we said to the friendly waitress, “und ein Märzen Bier.” The onions were delicious—a little bigger than the ones in NYC—and the beer was phenomenal. (It’s amazing how much better beer tastes when it is brewed literally a few meters from your table.) We bought two six packs—to thank Reinier and Ivo for their TomTom and hospitality, respectively—dropped them off at the car, and continued to wander around Bamberg. It started to drizzle, but we donned our raincoats and pressed on, undeterred.

The rest of our short day in Bamberg was spent wandering near the Neue Residenz, taking photos of its lush rose garden and nearby cathedral. Wandering through town on our way there, we encountered a bizarre little playground and an armed green gnome. We wound our way back to the car, walking along the river, bellies full of delicious food and beer, a little sad that we did not schedule more time in this wonderful town.

We arrived in Frankfurt around 19:30 and pulled into the Hotel Topas, a completely unremarkable urban hotel near the train station. Tired, and not terribly willing to wander around an iffy and unfamiliar area of town in the late evening, we decided to venture out for dönor kebab and then call it an early night. We planned to take Rick Steves’ walking tour of Frankfurt early the next morning but, after reviewing the schedule, decided that our last day in Germany would be better spent entirely in Köln.

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More pics via Heather’s Flickr here.

Tomorrow: “See Ya in Hell, Frankfurt!”

June 7, München
“Beir Macht Frei”

Above image: Steps of the Bayerische Staatskanzlei (Bavarian State Chancellery). More photos via Heather’s Flickr here.

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“Arbeit Macht Frei” (roughly “freedom through work”) was spelled out on the main gate of the Dachau forced-labor camp. As we walked past the entrance, this bit of black iron hit me in a way that countless movies, TV shows, and books about World War II never could. This was not a set piece on a backlot, or someone’s artistic statement. Less than a lifetime ago, more than 200,000 people were imprisoned by agents of a twisted political regime. 41,500 of them were murdered. It all happened right there where we were standing, on the other side of that gate.

Dachau is the name of small town roughly 45 minutes northwest of Munich by train, within whose borders sat a prison for “undesirables”: political prisoners who were considered enemies of the Third Reich. The camp is now known as the Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial Site. Many of the original buildings had been torn down in the years after the war. In their places remain only their numbered foundations on either side of a wide, tree-lined gravel path. Still standing are two of the barracks, a long row of prison cells called “the bunker,” the crematorium, and the former bath building.  The bath building has since been converted into museum that tells the entire story, in exhaustive detail, of the concentration camp system and Hitler’s rise to power. There weren’t many artifacts on display. The greatest artifact was the site itself and the knowledge of what had transpired there. Dachau was not a primarily a killing camp like Auschwitz or Buchenwald, so we were spared the grisly sight of gas chambers and gigantic crematoriums, but the experience was still humbling and very chilling.

We spent about four hours in Dachau and made our way back to Munich by 14:30. Hoping to make a 16:00 bike tour, we skipped a proper lunch and hopped onto the U-Bahn, headed back toward the Marienplatz (in the center of town). The bike tour was Lenny’s Bike Tour, an English-only tour established by a British ex-pat (another recommendation from Rick Steves). Their website directed us to a particular fountain near the Neues Rathaus (New Town Hall) where we found two representatives waiting for us: John, a thin Australian man in his mid-20s; and Heather, his American cohort. My Heather approached John with a friendly smile and said “Hi! We’d like to take Lenny’s bike tour!”

“No, you can’t,” John replied, straight-faced.

“Excuse me?” Heather asked.

“No, just kidding, mate!”—he actually said “mate”—”You’re in the right place.”

John, as it turns out, was a fan of the “just kidding” school of comedy (wherein almost every misleading statement ends with a corrective “just kidding!”). Heather and I are not fans of the “just kidding” method, especially in a foreign country when we’re trying to learn something. Doubts about Lenny’s Bike Tour were beginning to creep into our minds. At 16:00, we were joined by the other members of our tour group; a guy and a girl from New Jersey, both recent college grads. John corralled us into the center of the Marienplatz, told us that he needed a lot of energy from us, and asked for an affirmative cheer. Heather and I are also not fans of the “GET PSYCHED” school of tour-guiding, so we peppered our cheers with an eye roll before following John to our waiting bikes.

While Lenny’s Bike Tour wasn’t exactly what we had expected, we had a good time nonetheless. John was casual and engaging, even if it was sometimes difficult to suss out real historical facts from his gay jokes and beer jokes. We saw several beautiful and significant historical sites including the Hofbräuhaus, the Munich Residenz, the National Theatre and the Odeonsplatz, where Hitler made his Beer Hall Putsch. Our tour also included a trip through the Englischer Garten, a grand city park that’s roughly five times the size of Central Park. There, we stopped for food and beer at the Chinesischer Turm, where Heather tried her first radler—half pilsner beer, half lemon-lime soda—and I had a liter of Hofbräu pilsner with a plate of sausage and sauerkraut. One of the final stops on our tour was a place on the Eisbach river known for its surfing. The Eisbach is manmade river, diverted from the Isar River to flow through the Englischer Garten. The current at the mouth of the Eisbach is particularly strong, and city planners tried to slow it by dropping large blocks of concrete onto the river bed. This had the unintended effect of creating a dramatic constant wave, which surfers have been enjoying since the 1970s.

After the tour, our fellow riders invited us to join them at the Hofbräuhaus, where I had another liter of beer—dunkel this time—and shared sausage and apple strudel with Heather. Looking up at the apex of the high ceiling domes, I noticed peculiar frescoes that depicted twisted Bavarian flags. During the tour, John mentioned that the Hofbräuhaus was where Hitler had the first official meeting with what would become the founders of the Nazi party and the ceiling domes used to be painted with swastikas. After the war, the Hofbräuhaus was unable to scrub away the swastikas, so they attempted to cover them with the flags.  At the table near us, a man three times my age finished his third liter of beer while I took another bite of strudel and pondered history.

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Tomorrow: “Smoke ‘Em If You Got ‘Em”

June 6, Schwangau/München
“Under Mysterious Circumstances”

Above image: Schloss Neuschwanstein nestled in the foothills of the Alps. More images in the gallery at the end of the post.

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I was born in Aurora, Colorado and spent the first eight years of my life romping around the Rockies. When it became too tough for my dad to find work, we picked up everything and relocated to Lake Mary, Florida (40 minutes northeast of Orlando) where I spent the next 13 years of my life. Florida can be lovely, but it doesn’t even have hills, let alone any majestic mountain ranges. Moving to New York put me closer to the Catskills but, with all apologies to the East Coast of America, its mountains are generally bullshit (comparatively). I miss my Rocky Mountains. A lot. So, imagine my joy when we encountered …

“ALPS!” I screamed.

“What?”

“Alps! Look!”

“Wow. Holy smokes.”

You wouldn’t think that mountains are able to sneak up on people, but these wily German mountains found a way. Driving south from Rothenburg, the vista was all blue skies (again), rolling pastures, and dramatic hillside vineyards until we crested a large hill and—BAM!—mountains. Have I mentioned how much I love mountains?

The 12th century Knights of Schwangau also loved mountains, which is why they decided to build a fortress right next to one (or because a mountainside is a strategically defensible location, but whatever). Sadly, conflict, time, and the elements can wreak havoc on a medieval fort, so when King Maximilian II of Bavaria came upon it during a hunting trip in the early 19th century, it was little more than a ruin. Maximilian fell in love with the location, however, and decided to built a cozy hunting lodge on the foundations of the ruined fort. Thus, Schloss Hohenschwangau (High Swan Country Palace) was born. King Maximilian made Hohenschwangau his summer home, along with his wife, Marie of Prussia, and their two sons Ludwig and Otto. Ludwig also loved mountains, and had dreams of one day building a castle of his own on a nearby peak. King Maximilian died in 1864, and Ludwig succeeded to the throne to become King Ludwig II of Bavaria. Five years later, he began construction on his dream castle, Schloss Neuschwanstein. Neuschwanstein was a grand Gothic Revival palace, meant to be a retreat for the reclusive King Ludwig and an homage to his favorite composer, Richard Wagner. Unfortunately, Ludwig didn’t live long enough to enjoy the completion of his fairy tale palace. He died just 17 years later “under mysterious circumstances.” Almost immediately after his death, the unfinished castle was opened to the public.

Online ticket reservation print-out in hand, we wound our way through the foothills, set to tour both Hohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein. In a long line of lessons on how we should trust the TomTom or street signs but not both, we ended up in a parking garage in Füssen, a short bus ride from the castles. Still stinging from our experience with our hotel “in Heidelberg,” we decided to follow our instincts and road signs to a parking lot in closer proximity to the castles (i.e., actually IN Schwangau). Our second parking attempt a success, we picked up our tickets and made the 10-minute trek up to Hohenschwangau, where we learned all about the castle from a clean-cut young man with a lady’s voice, excellent diction (“Hoh-Hen-SCHWAN-Gowwww”), and a penchant for adverbs (“original” features of the castle were always “originally,” e.g. “This is all originally furniture”).

Neuschwanstein was a 40-minute walk up a steep hill, so we chose to take a bus (where Heather delighted in being able to eavesdrop on a man speaking French with some other tourists and then translating it into Dutch for his companion). The bus would take us slightly higher than the castle to Marienbrücke (Mary’s Bridge) from which Rick Steves promised we could enjoy spectacular views of the castle (it did not disappoint). Rick promised even more spectacular views to those daring enough to hike past the bridge to an even higher plateau. Heather—seasoned hiker and former camp counselor that she is—climbed even higher while I steadied my camera and waited for passing clouds to shed just the right amount of light on the castle below. Her boldness paid off as three large elk crossed the path right in front of her and scampered down the mountainside. Wary of nature’s lack of guardrails in extremely high places, upon her return I suggested we make our way back down to the castle.

It is somewhat widely believed that the “madness” of “Mad” King Ludwig II was actually homosexuality. If this is true, then he almost certainly had a huge crush on Richard Wagner. Wagnerian operas inspired frescoes that cover nearly every wall of every room. This ostentatious live-in tribute to Wagner was presented to us by a tour guide who was doing his best impression of Loud Bored German Robot. We marveled at the sculpture work of the music room as our guide wasted its perfect acoustics on his droning, monotonous voice. Did I mention that there was a room designed to look like a cave? Not a stylized, architectural homage to caves, but sculpted with paint and plaster to look like an actual goddamned stalactites-and-stalagmites cave! The guide droned on. “DIED OF MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.” Ludwig II was a young, reclusive, bachelor king who spent countless funds during a financial crisis to build himself numerous dream castles. His ministers considered him mentally ill and conspired with his uncle, Prince Luitpold, to have him deposed. Twenty-two years after his ascension to the throne, Ludwig is dead, his brother Otto has been declared insane, and uncle Luitpold has taken his place. Now, I’m no criminologist or expert in Bavarian political history, but I feel like the Sherlock Holmes story “The Case of Mad King Ludwig and the Mysterious Circumstance” would be a two paragraphs long.

After we’d gotten our fill of castles, we decided to take another bit of Rick Steves’ advice and descend via a trail that wound down Pöllat Gorge, behind Neuschwanstein. As promised, it was lovely. We had an excellent view of Mary’s Bridge from below, along with some excellent waterfalls. Near the end, we were surprised by a beach full of carefully stacked rock cairns. After a quick dinner in a fly-plagued hotel restaurant, we were on the road again, headed for Munich. TomTom took us along some of the Romantic Road on our way to Munich which, while romantic, suffers from the speed-up-no-slow-down-no-speed-up nature of many country roads that pass through small towns.

We arrived at the Hotel Uhland in Munich around 17:30, where we collapsed in our hotel room and took ages deciding what to do for late supper. Eventually, Heather chose a vegetarian restaurant in the so-called Soho of Munich. A key difference between the Soho of New York and the Soho of Munich is that the Soho of New York stays open and lively after 18:00.  Much of downtown Munich was deserted and, while we never feared for our safety, the walk to the restaurant was a bit eerie.  After some empty-stomach-fueled disagreements over directions, we located the restaurant. The severity of the E. coli outbreak finally became apparent as fresh vegetables were entirely removed from the menu. My mushroom ravioli were delicious, but Heather’s plate of mixed vegetables with horseradish cream sauce was “limp, flavorless, and drowning.”

On our way back to the hotel, we were intercepted by a hobo with a saxophone from whose quick German I could only make out the word “morgen.”  Scanning my brain for the few German phrases I know, I only managed to blurt out “Uh, no speaka!” as we shuffled past him. Rocking sleepily on a U-Bahn train back to the hotel, I held Heather’s hand, reflecting on rocky mountains and mysterious circumstances.

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More images via Heather’s Flickr here.

Tomorrow: “Bier Macht Frei”

June 5, Rothenburg ob der Tauber
“Who Watches the Night Watchman?”

Above image: Rothenberg ob der Tauber, as seen from the Town Hall tower. More images in the gallery at the end of the post.

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The streets of Fantasy Land at Walt Disney World are lined with charming old-world buildings and shops meant to evoke the feeling of wandering inside a fairy tale come to life. The walled medieval city of Rothenburg ob der Tauber is exactly like that. After a minor GPS glitch that sent us down a farm service road near Schwetzingen, we arrived in the Rothenburg just after 12:30. Our hotel, the Relais du Silence Burg-Hotel, was like another attraction pulled from the pages of a Disney World travel brochure. We dropped our bags in our top-floor suite, then headed back downstairs in search of lunch.

“Do you need any help?” Leaning against the car, we looked up from the pages of Rick Steves as two men approached us. One was a cleanly shaven, bespectacled man in his midforties with soft features and neatly trimmed silver hair. The other was taller, thin, with dark curly hair and a full beard. The shorter of the two men continued, “I am from here. Is there anything I can help you find?” We shrugged and looked at each other as Heather said, “Well, we were just looking for a place to have lunch.” “Ah,” said the man, “well, most of the kitchens will be closing soon as it’s already half past one. However, I know the owner of a restaurant nearby and we were just going for a small plate. You may join us if you’d like.” More looks and shrugs. “Uh, sure! Why not?” “Excellent!” he said. “I am Peter. My friend here is also Peter.”

We followed The Two Peters a short distance to a small restaurant with dark wood décor and an outdoor patio. The shorter Peter (German Peter) was a Rothenburg native who once made a living as a woodworker, specializing in antique furniture restoration. The taller Peter was a Slovenian acupuncturist, in town attending a conference on Eastern and alternative medicine (Slovenian Peter). Over heaping plates of cheese spaetzele and salad, we discussed Germany, history, medicine, and international politics. I use “discussed” loosely, as we mostly listened while The Two Peters practiced their English (German Peter was, in fact, a member of the local English Conversation Club). Between tirades against the pharmaceutical industry and 9/11 conspiracy theories, Slovenian Peter told several priest-in-a-bar–style jokes (in first person, as if they were personal stories). German Peter spoke mostly of his family, his life, and his work as a craftsman in a dying industry. He spoke fondly of the people of Rothenburg, most of whom he knows personally. We mentioned that we planned to take the Night Watchman tour that evening. “He is a friend of mine,” he said. “For 20 years, he has been doing his tour two times a day, charging €7 a head and maintaining almost no operating expenses. He’s Rothenburg’s wealthiest citizen; a literal millionaire.” Slovenian Peter then told the joke about the depressed comedian at the doctor, and we decided that a two-hour lunch was long enough. We thanked them both, said our goodbyes and took our leave, headed to the Town Hall.

At the Town Hall, we climbed to the top of the tower—at 241 steps, a bit smaller than the Domtoren, and definitely more precarious-feeling—and took a few pictures of the adorable town below. Then, we explored The Medieval Crime Museum, which confirmed our suspicions that life in medieval Germany was pretty terrible (gossips were forced to wear painful and humiliating iron masks, and bakers could be nearly drowned if they baked loaves that weighed too little or too much). Our hearts light with the thought of unjust torture, we decided to do a little shopping. Stopping at Käthe Wohlfahrt’s Christmas Village, we admired the hand-crafted nutcrackers and bought our matching 2011 family Christmas ornaments (tiny cuckoo clocks). I also found a totally bitchin’ handmade stein: a modest blue 16-ouncer emblazoned with a pewter eagle and the word “Deutschland” painted in silver blackletter. (I would have gotten a 1-liter model, but Heather sanely reminded me that paying €80 for a fancy beer mug is a bit excessive.)

After dropping our new swag off in our hotel room, we took a walk along the top of the city wall, then headed to dinner at a restaurant that Rick Steves described as “a place where gnomes celebrate their anniversaries.” Candlelit and decorated with dark wood, heavy curtains, and hunting trophies, this was yet another place for which Disney fantasy-seekers would have paid top dollar. Heather ordered a plate of bread and cheese and a large salad which was served, curiously, with a single grape. I had smoked trout and a local pilsner (both of which were delicious). Dessert was ice cream cones from a vendor near town square, which we ate on a bench in the company of two retired Texans in the middle of an epic trek around the world. Nearby, people began to crowd around the town hall steps as the sun sat low in the sky. Anticipation was building. The Night Watchman tour was nigh.

As the chimes of the tower bell echoed through the city walls for the eighth and final time, a man approached from the south. Draped in a simple black cloak, with a tricorner hat atop his long dark curls, he made his way silently toward the town hall, clutching a halberd (which looks like a cross between a pike and an axe) and a candle lantern.  The Night Watchman had arrived! Hushed squeals and murmurs filled the air as the crowed gathered and parted around him like waves diverting around a passing ship. At the foot of the steps, he turned to speak. “If you’d like to take a photo with me, now’s your chance.” After a brief, uncertain pause, a young boy darted forward and stood proudly next to the dark figure. A shutter clicked and the boy moved away with a laugh. Another girl darted in and away. Then two more. Three at a time. An elderly woman. A family of five. For ten minutes, people surrounded the Night Watchman like a flock of pigeons around discarded bread, as digital cameras clicked. At last, he spoke. His cadence was unusual. The last few words of every sentence were always hushed, almost whispered, like tawdry little secrets being revealed for the first time. “Good evening. I am the night watchman. In just a few minutes, we’ll begin our tour.” (Listen for yourself.)

Throughout the day, I thought of Rothenburg as a manufactured attraction, not unlike the Fantasy Lands it had inspired. I thought it was charming, but no more a look into local German culture than Walt Disney World was a look at the American South. As we followed the Night Watchman around Rothenburg and hung on his every word—with about 150 other people—I began to understand that this well-preserved medieval town, while now dependent on tourism for most of its commerce, still had behind it a rich and compelling history. It was easy to understand why the Night Watchmen was the town’s wealthiest citizen. By the end of the tour, we were more than glad to pay the €7 per person. We even bought his DVD. The Rothenberg Night Watchman is a performer and an opportunist, to be sure, but his performance is anchored in genuine love for this little town and he relishes the opportunity to share its story.

Speaking of stories, Two Peters—a German and a Slovenian—walk into a restaurant with an American couple …

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More pics via Heather’s Flickr here.

Tomorrow: “Under Mysterious Circumstances”