Check, please!

Nothing makes a United States citizen abroad more anxious than uncertainty over how or when the check will arrive after eating out in a restaurant. We as a country have come to expect that soon after our plates are clear—or maybe before—the bill will appear with a curt “Take your time,” an invitation that is rarely made in earnest. We pony up, burp loudly, and move rapidly home so as to not miss the season finale of the Bachelor.

Not so elsewhere, where the expectation seems to be that, as a diner, you will want to linger, converse, digest, and perhaps if the mood strikes order a coffee or glass of schnapps. How then, do you actually go about bringing the meal to an end and settling the business of exchanging money for goods and service received? Most of the time, it involves catching the waiter's eye and simply asking for the check, although the whole getting the waiter's attention piece of the dance can sometimes be a challenge. I am convinced that at some places we have eaten, the staff is involved in a bit of side action with money riding on who can keep his or her customers seated the longest.

I have always liked Mexico, where, as here in Europe, it is required that you ask for the check, done in Spanish with a brief, “La quinta, por favor.” In my experience, without exception, this is greeted with a pause, a slight inward gaze, an internal calculation, the tossing of hands in the air, and the exclamation: “Ah! La quinta! Si, senor.” Unspoken, but carried in subtext, is: “The check! What a great idea! I never would have considered that, but now that you mention it I can think of no better way to bring our time here together to a close. When I return home tonight, I shall light a small candle to the Virgin of Guadalupe in honor of your vision and courage! The check will arrive momentarily, and I thank you for your wisdom!” Soon thereafter, the bill arrives, I pony up, burp loudly, and move rapidly to my hotel to catch whatever tele-novela is on that night.

In Germany, I initially also asked for the bill--”Die Rechnung, bitte”--but have started following the lead of those around me and just saying we want to pay--”Wir wollen bezahlen, bitte.” So I did recently at a beer garden in Lenngries, a small resort town in the Bavarian Alps. The proprietor came over with the ubiquitous leather wallet, used to make change in every place with table service I have ever seen in Germany, settled the bill, and then asked, “Where are you from.”

“Alaska.”

Tell someone you are from Alaska, and you generally get one of two reactions. The first, and more common, includes a widening of the eyes, a slow whistle, and a shake of the head, all intended to let you know that you are crazy for living somewhere so cold, notwithstanding that anywhere north of the Alps probably gets as cold or colder than Anchorage over the course of a winter. The second reaction also includes wide eyes and a slow whistle, this time with a slight nod and various statements about how badly the person speaking wants to go see the place. But the man in Lenggries went off script.

“Alaska? Really! You see my nephew over there? The boy in the blue shirt?”

“Yes.” Indeed, his nephew had just earlier brought me a second beer.

“He thought for sure you were French. Hey! They aren't French! They're from Alaska!”

The nephew walked over. “Really? But the way you ordered a beer: 'May I have another beer, please.' It sounded so French. Alaska, eh? What the hell are you doing in Lenngries?”

Now that was a good question.

We had actually intended to be in another town altogether. Once in Munich, a friend had sent a number of tips for the Bavarian Alps, most involving stays at alpine huts for which we couldn't quite figure out the logistics. But he also sent a link to a hotel on a mountain lake that looked lovely, particularly in contrast to the heat of Munich. C started looking online, followed some links, declared the price south of reasonable, and we decided it was time to head into the mountains. C booked us into a room for a few nights—at a non-refundable rate.

I started looking at train tickets, which is when we started to realize that C had followed the wrong link and booked us into a completely different hotel in a town we had never heard of. As it turned out, though, the place we booked was only a valley or two over, and the original hotel was priced well north or reasonable and not a valid option after all. So, win-win. To Lenggries we went.

Lenngries is at the base of a ski hill, that I gather is a rather large and popular winter destination, but they also boasted summer fun, with, among other things, ski lifts to alpine hikes. And, as luck would have it, Lenngries was hosting a week-long traditional Bavarian alpine festival that started the day we arrived. The festival appeared to draw crowds from neighboring towns, but only a handful of other tourists. The tourists were all immediately recognizable as the ones without lederhosen or dirndl dresses. It turns out that traditional clothing isn't all kitsch in these parts, but still gets worn by young and old when the occasion calls for it. Brass bands played, the locals went on parade, and a giant beer tent welcomed all.

None of which, though, did I tell the nephew. I just said it got hot in Munich and we decided to come to the mountains for a few days. Then I burped, and C and I went back to our hotel to watch Freiburg play in the Second Bundesliga match on TV.

(Just, you know, out walking the dog and the kid in my lederhosen.  That's just how we do here in Bavaria.)

(Follow the horses on parade at your own risk.)

(Let us take a moment to recognize the real heroes of the Alpine Fest.)

Orbital Cycles

A sure sign that you are over-nighting with a scientist is that the evening's entertainment consists of a glass of wine on the balcony, watching the International Space Station interactive location map.  We were waiting for the ISS to appear on the horizon and pass in an arc across the sky only to disappear with a promise to reappear in another 90 minutes or so.  Frankly, the night suited us well.  But we nevertheless got pulled into the station's orbital wake and were yanked from the quiet of Reutlingen and tossed to Munich.

Our arrival into Munich was inauspicious. We had not known when—or even if—we would be going to Munich, so had not made any housing arrangements. We disembarked at the hauptbahnhof, and wandered to the Tourist Info center to book a room for the coming days, a strategy that had worked well for us in the past in other cities. This being peak vacation time in southern Germany, the lines were long, and we cued at the back. More people filtered in behind. We could overhear conversations up at the counter.

“Every room in our system is booked.”

“But where will I stay?”

“You can take this list of hotels in Munich and try to call them, but there is nothing on our system and nothing I can do.”

C and I looked at one another and decided there was no point in standing in line any longer.  The man at the counter looked shell-shocked.  We stepped out of the TI office and into a Le Crobag at the train station that had WiFi, deciding it would be more efficient to do some searches online than take the TI's collection of phone numbers. It was hot in Munich, way hotter than it had any right to be, and the Le Crobag (like all of Munich) had no air conditioning. Across from us a couple of (suspected) junkies nodded off to sleep, snapping awake from time to time to scan the room with eyes that never seemed to track one-another. Next to us sat two girls from Japan texting, crowded by a man from Spain talking loudly on the phone who had, for some reason, decided to forego the numerous empty seats for a seat at the same table as the girls.  It looked like their shoulders touched. The man started to get agitated, speaking louder and unintelligibly into the phone.  At least he was unintelligible to me. Presumably, the caller on the other end could make it out. But maybe not, which may have led to the agitation in the first place. The girls got up and left, but not as quickly as I would have expected. A pigeon wandered in to join the fun, and I'm pretty sure one of the junkies tried to score from it. We did not research hotels long and hard. There's a hostel with space? Take it and let's get the hell out of here.

Once in the hostel, we arranged an Air B&B stay for the remaining nights in Munich, settled in, and wondered what to do next. A guide book we are carrying in electronic form—convenient for its weight but not particularly functional if you actually want a guide—stated that Munich is a city of art and beer, and I cannot really argue with that description. There was plenty of both on offer. There was also stifling heat raining from the skies in a relentless siege on all that is good and right on this Earth. As such, we spent most of the time trying to keep C alive by browsing shopping centers, the only buildings in all of Europe (apparently) that were constructed or remodeled recently enough to have included AC as part of the design. I looked at women's clothes. I looked at kitchen wares. I saw shoes and scarves enough to fill a lifetime. All in the name off keeping cool.

Between sale racks, we learned a little about Munich's history and its rise to wealth and prominence, including its role in the rise of the Third Reich. We saw Satan's footprint, preserved under the onion domes the Frauenkirche. We saw a small fraction of the art available city-wide for viewing. And, yes, we drank an even smaller fraction of the beer available for consumption. But most importantly, we stopped to pay homage to a great historical figure who changed the world with his message of peace and declaration that Billie Jean was not, in fact, his lover, spending the better part of two days in quiet meditation at the Michael Jackson memorial.

Munich hovers near the top of lists ofthe world's most liveable cities. It may be, but it is hard to judge under the twin oppressions of crowds and heat. We only scratched the surface of the city's museums, and could not fall into the city's rhythm on the tourist trail. Rather than admire a high quality of life, we seemed to spend our time trying to hydrate, cool down, and dodge rental luxury vehicles driven by the monied visitors who seem to have come for the high-end shopping on Maximillian Strasse rather than the collection of ancient Greek sculpture in the Glyptothek. As such, we again cued the ISS interactive map and grabbed hold on its next pass, letting it pull us out of the urban and into the (hopefully) cooler Bavarian alps.

Some photos from Munich:

(It is still called the "New" Town Hall, even though it was built in 1867.  How does your town hall measure up?) 

(C... and crowds)

(Beer garden, quiet before the storm.)

(The iconic view of Munich, available on every post card.)

(The junkies we saw in the Le Crobag?  Some picture I took after too many house in the heat?  Our Air B&B host watching our every move from the shadows?)

(Munich has a surf scene.  Really.

(Beating the heat.)

Don't Start Asking Questions

You could do worse as a 15 and 17 year old boy than to choose an all girls school in Germany to attend as an exchange student. Of course, I never actually made the choice. That decision was made by virtue of the school my high school, Albermarle High School, partnered with as part of the German-American Partnership Program, St. Ursula's School for Girls in Freiburg, Germany.  But still, all girls.  So of course I went on exchange twice, both times for approximately a month, staying with different families each time. Unfortunately, I was an ill mannered youth who failed to keep in touch with his hosts, which is too bad because we just passed through Freiburg and it would have been fun to have friends on the ground.

I did find the school, although it did not look at all like I remember it. It wasn't even where I pictured it relative to the rest of the city. There are two possibilities: 1) the school has been renovated and/or moved; or 2) my memory is shit. I'll leave it to you to guess which is the more likely.

C and I met our good friend Tina in Freiburg, who had travelled over from France, and immediately went to the doctor's office. That is what you do in a new town, right? To get to know the people? And the culture? No? Well, it is what we did, but mostly because Tina's arm was starting to blister and swell from an insect bite. The doctor wrapped her up good and prescribed a steroid. So fortified, we explored the town for two nights and one day before heading into the countryside to stay with the family of a mutual friend from Fairbanks.

As we continue to make our way through Germany, we've been puzzled by the volume of bottled water we (and everyone else) consumes. Unlike other countries—the U.K., France—you cannot get tap water in restaurants. It is only served sometimes (I've seen it twice) as a very small glass on request to accompany espresso. I've seen no drinking fountains. Although the water is safe to drink, everyone relies on bottles at home. No doubt the bottled water tastes good, but all of the packaging and transportation comes at an energy cost, even if the Germans reuse or recycle all of the bottles. And in every other facet of life, the Germans are fanatics about sustainability. It doesn't add up.

I asked Margret, our friend in the rural Black Forest, for her take, but I'm not sure she understood my point and I didn't press the issue. Because the bottled water—from springs—tastes better, has not been treated chemically, and has minerals that are believed to be healthful, she equated drinking bottled water as an extension of sustainability. Clean living = clean environment. While there may be the perception of purity with spring water, that seems to me independent of any question as to the energy costs of transportation.  I wonder if the added energy costs are worth the benefits.

I raised the same question with another friend we stayed with in Reutlingen, Olaf, a professor of ice physics who I first met in Fairbanks. He understood my point, but didn't have a good answer. He pointed out that most of the water is transported a short distance—towns and regions have a “local” water of choice. Germany has plenty of water. And, again, there is the perception that the spring water is much better for you than tap. At the end of the day, it seemed tradition trumped sustainability, at least in this instance. Probably for the best. If you start looking too hard at sustainability you start to question beer. I've read that anywhere between 8 and 24 gallons of water is required per pint of beer once you take into account water used to grow the ingredients, etc. And any analysis that questions the reasonableness of beer, particularly as we move east to Munich, is an analysis best swept under the rug.

(Seen in a shop in Freiburg, the REAL reason we come to Europe at all.)

(Freiburg Munster.)

(Wall detail, Freiburg.)

(Wine detail, Freiburg.)

(Blogger detail, Freiburg.)

(Path through the Black Forest.)

A Short Walk in the Vines (Mosel River, Part 2)

When you travel with two sisters, you never lack for interesting and topical conversation. I suppose it is the shared experiences of youth coupled with shared genetics—no need to bet a dollar on nature versus nurture when both are at play—that allows sisters to talk for hours on all subjects with nuance and eloquence.

“Amaretto is almond. That drink was hazelnut, so not amaretto.”

“Right. Amaretto is almond flavored.”

“But you called it amaretto and not hazelnut.”

“Did not. You brought up amaretto, not me.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

And so on. Luckily we were on the Mosel, and I had the landscape to suddenly distract me from the need to weigh in on the amaretto or hazelnut debate (a debate that was tabled by agreement).

We choose the Mosel as a good place to start the non-London European leg of our trip for a number of reason. We found reasonable and affordable lodging for three. The towns looked rich with half-timbered buildings and narrow alleyways that the locals called “roads” and on which drivers still assumed they might fit their cars as if by right, notwithstanding that the village predated the internal combustion engine by some 1,000 years. And access to hiking trails.

A quick search online shows that the Mosel is popular as a bike-touring destination, with bike trails tracing the contours of the river on both banks. People ride from town to town, camping or staying in hotels along the way. [As an aside, camping on the Mosel appears to have little to do with what I think of as camping, and much to do with large RV parks on which people set up elaborate homes for the season.] Less discussed, at least in English, are the hiking trails that dissect the hills. It looked very easy to pick a town, walk until tired, then catch a train or a bus and return to your starting destination. To facilitate, we picked Cochem as a central location, a tourist town in the heart of what most people characterize as the most beautiful segment of the river.

The plan worked well, although five days was too short to really start to explore, particularly where we also needed time to visit castles and sample wines. But we hiked to Eller, up out of the river valley and through the region's agriculture, coming to rest in a biergarten where we practiced the fine German art of consuming coffee and cake and, for good measure, beer. We hiked through vineyards and across shale slopes with signs warning hikers of the need for good footwear and sure footedness. We went up steep climbs and down loose descents, which we again finished with a cup of coffee and cake on the deck of a guest house with a Mosel river view. We hiked into a winemaker's garage, and drank a glass of cold Riesling on a hot summer day, shaded by grape vines and followed by runs through an impromptu water park constructed by village kids with a faucet, a hose, and something with which to poke holes in the hose. The Mosel was everything we hoped.

Thereafter we shuttled to Frankfurt for the sole purpose of putting C's sister on a plane. Her trip through Europe came to an end a few days ago, and we miss her guidance already. Unfortunately, though, the amaretto or hazelnut debate never reached closure, and I now expect to hear about it at family get-togethers for years to come.

Some pictures from hiking on the Mosel:

Always Room for Cake (Mosel River, Part 1)

I noted last post that London was something of a way point, a convenient entry to Europe thanks to mileage ticket availability. It was also something of a soft-landing, offering an easy transition to other cultures. I do not say that because of the language, although a (mostly) shared set of vocabulary and shared grammatical structure do ease the stress of travel. Rather, I say it because of the bedding.

A sure indication that you have arrived in “real” Europe is the prevalence in bed rooms of triple-folded feather comforters in lieu of sheets. I'm not sure what Germans have against the simple bed sheet, but I have yet to find one in use. I was first introduced to the comforter as an exchange student in 1987, when I was shown my room and left to stare and wonder whether I was supposed to sleep on, under, or in the damn thing. I climbed underneath, afraid to unfold it to cover the full length of bed or body, and as a result slept cold and fretful. I've since grown bolder and decided that the blanket should be unfolded for use. I now sleep with more than 2/3 body coverage, but such a heavy blanket is of no use on warm nights when I would, nevertheless, appreciate a thin sheet. I'm sure there is a reason to shun the sheet—Germans are, after all, a practical people—but I have no idea what it might be.

A second indication that we have left the United Kingdom and landed on the Continent is the reintroduction of the cigarette, something I've managed to all but forget about in the normal course of my life. I cannot speak for the U.K. as a whole, but tolerance for smoking in London seems to be on par with that of the States. Public buildings, including pubs, are smoke free, which is why, I suppose, there were always groups of bankers huddled out front of the bars rather than inside. Germany, in contrast, appears to abide smoking to a much greater degree. Our hotel here in Cochem, for instance, bans smoking in the guest rooms, but allows it in the lobby, permitting smoke to drift in thick clouds up and into our room. This was not a problem until a group of prolific smokers checked in. Their actual number is something close to six, but the passion with which they practice their habit gives the impression of a great host numbering in the thousands. We have also been struck by the number of cigarette vending machines lining the streets, date or production circa 1950. Somewhere Phillip Morris is sitting back and smiling.

Cochem is a small town on the Mosel River, a tributary to the Rhein and a region renowned for an altogether different vice than smoking. The Mosel has been a wine producing region since the Romans introduced grapes in... Roman times. Every little town seems to take a turn hosting a wine festival throughout the pre-, mid-, and post-harvest season, and Poltersdorf, a town 10 km upriver from Cochem, came up in the cue during our visit. We rented bikes to go take in the scene.

Wine at a wine festival is a no-brainer, but cake? Poltersdorf offered cake in spades. The Brits can keep their tea time, what with the funny sandwiches and fine china. I'll take the German kaffee and kuchen any time. Poltersdorf approached the German coffee and cake ritual like the Queen herself was about to forego tea for hardier German fare, with cake after cake, all made in neighborhood homes, presented in a buffet of staggering depth and beauty. How do you choose? I found it best to just guess, point, and to try and flirt with the Grandmothers of Poltersdorf to the best of my limited German in order to try and eek out an extra large slice.

“I have no idea what that is, but I would like a slice.”

“The raspberry torte?”

“Yes, it looks delicious.”

“I made it myself.”

“Well, then, I have no doubt but that it is delicious.”

“Oh, I hope, I hope!”

Like an addict forced to chase uppers with downers to maintain some kind of even-keel, we countered the sugar and caffeine with wine. The wine choices, like the cake before, were staggering too, and all sourced from the hills above town, cheap, and delicious. But all things come at a price, and here the toll was extracted by way of long-winded speeches from the festival dignitaries—the mayor, the wine queen, Bacchus God of Wine, visitors to the region being honored for 35- and 40-years of continuous vacationing, people who may have just randomly picked up the microphone. The Germans make a good cake, for sure, but also make a drawn out speech.

C's sister, M, who is traveling with us during this part of our trip, recently had the misfortune of banging her head to the point of drawing blood against Reno's bureaucracy in her attempt to permit a series of local food events in her home town. Among other things, she was required to submit a waste management plan with details for size and number of trash containers. She was therefore surprised to look around and find only a single trash can at the Poltersdorf festival to handle all of the waste for the entire festival crowd. But then a quick look at our table showed minimal waste despite the gluttony we were demonstrating. Cake and coffee were all served on tableware from people's homes, collected to be washed and reused. All drinks came in returnable glass. All wine was similarly served in glassware. In the U.S., the fest would have been billed as a green triumph, with marketing proclaiming as much on anything that would accept print. Here, it is simply the way things are done. The Germans take sustainability seriously. At the end of the day, we threw away a couple of napkins and screw tops, biked back to Cochem in the rain, and settled under confusing comforters to sleep, bringing to an end a successful day on the river.

 

(Looking down river at Cochem with its castle.)

 

(First stop at the Poltersdorf Weinfest: coffee and cake.)

 

(Five short minutes later, we had devoured the cake, downed the coffee, and replaced the lot with sausages and wine.)

 

(Bacchus, on arrival and moments before he started his speech.) 

A Soft Landing in London

After spending time lost in the warren of tunnels that underlie Reno, Nevada, eating cave crickets and subsisting on what ever water we could collect dripping from the ceiling, we finally found an exit and emerged back into daylight. C's family, delighted to once again breathe deep of fresh air and satisfied that we would, in fact, all survive, insisted on joining hands. Afraid that we would once again take a wrong turn and return to the underground maze, C and I headed immediately to the airport to seek safer ground in London. We brought C's sister with us for good measure, and wished C's parents good luck.

London was for us just a way point, not a destination. It was a place with mileage ticket availability. But you could do worse for arrival cities, and we took advantage by staying three nights. Last time we were in London, I was on a work trip with lodging provided. We stayed in Mayfair, in the heart of some of the most expensive real estate in the world. This time, on our own dime, we found lodging in the suburbs. It was less convenient to the city, but much gentler on the budget. We stayed in West Ealing, former home to a thriving film industry and current home to a clutch of quality Indian and Middle Eastern restaurants.

Our hotel is owned and operated by the Fuller brewery, and accordingly came with ready access to a pub, meaning we had available the finest view in all of London: a row of tap handles.

Somehow, though, C managed to pull me away from the bar and we immersed ourselves in the tides of history. No better place to do so than the British Museum, where the plunders of colonial rule are on display. It turns out, we were not the only people to visit the British Museum that day. The Egyptian galleries were particularly popular.

 

I lost track of many of the details, but I'm pretty sure we also saw statues of British royalty, including these nude depictions of King Henry VIII and Hamlet.

 

What's that you say? Henry VIII was not renowned for his athletic physique or prowess with the discuss ? And Hamlet was Danish? And fictional? Well, as noted, the details escape me. Suffice to say, we saw many a fine butt cheek preserved in marble.

I won't say that we had had our fill of bare butts. In fact, I'm not sure that such a limit exists. But our time in London had nevertheless come to an end.  Much like Reno hides danger in its many and varied subterranean tunnels, London threatens all with unpredictable giant marbles that tend to flatten anyone unlucky enough to be in their path.  Having seen one too many small child lost, we decided it was time to leave, lest we fall victim too.  Next stop: Cochem, Germany, by way of four trains.

A few additional photos:

They Promised Me Cheese!

In what appears to be becoming an annual tradition, I once again signed up for and attended the Trail Runner Magazine photo camp. Really, the decision to return as a repeat offender was easy once I heard the camp this year was in Ouray, Colorado. After all, Ouray is the self-proclaimed “Switzerland of America.” Clearly the camp would include cheese. And chocolate. And cow bells. I'll travel any distance for cheese. I won't travel any distance for chocolate or cow bells, but still considered both a bonus.

I should not have been surprised to roll into Ouray and find neither cheese nor chocolate waiting, and nary a cow to be seen. After all, a quick internet search shows that both southeast Tennessee and the Black Hills of South Dakota have, at various times, also been proclaimed the “Switzerland of America.” Maybe the title doesn't carry as much weight as I thought.

So while the camp did not offer Alpenkase, the good people at Trail Runner did, once again, offer the opportunity to shoot some world class athletes in a world class setting. This year Adidas sent its sponsored athletes and shirts, shoes, and other assorted schwag. As a result, I have become a walking billboard for Adidas, which was, I suppose, the intent. Who knew Adidas even had an ultra team or outdoors division? Maybe no one, which again, may be why Adidas sponsored the camp.

One of the campers, Jenn, was herself a sponsored athlete, albeit sponsored by Patagonia. Hiking into Yankee Boy Basin on the second morning to get shots in the alpine at 12,000', she remarked on the Adidas team camaraderie.

“Holy shit, these guys look like they actually like each other. They're nice to one another.”

“What do you mean.”

“Like I was on a trip with a bunch of the Patagonia climbers and they spent the whole trip trying to pee on each other's tents."

Well, then. Indeed, I did not see the athletes pee at all, much less on anyone else's bedding. Which is probably for the best as I'm not sure the magazine is looking for pictures of athletes urinating.

I assume instead that the magazine is looking for pictures of people running on trails, hence the title banner that runs across the top of each issue. And we got trail running pictures in spades. Twelve students attended this year, a number of whom had and/or were developing careers as professionals. I saw some incredible shots on people's laptops and projected during after dinner critique sessions. To the extent you appreciate pretty pictures, it will behoove you to seek out the photo camp issue, scheduled, I think, for October. [And by “you”, I mean, of course, “my Mom,” the sole continuing reader of this blog.]

But three days came to an end, much too fast in my opinion. I borrowed (and now covet) more high end glass. I had the opportunity to experiment with off camera lighting. I got to further practice and try to refine the art and science of capturing motion. And once the scheduled shoots were wrapped and the athletes gone, I packed my bags and prepared to leave as well. But not before peeing on Jenn's van, just to make her feel at home.

[As with last year, you may note the absence of photos, which is odd for a blog post about a photo camp.  But you'll just have to wait until the magazine comes out to get the goods. In the meantime, a teaser photo of Yankee Boy Basin follows.  Just try to picture it with a runner in the foreground.]