Dresden Surprise

By Megan
The train ride from Berlin to Dresden was a snap; we arrived at the station and followed our hand drawn map to a hostel that we thought would have plenty of space.  I remember that it was early evening (the train was a tad late) and we walked down a street that ran parallel to the tracks and gave both of us the creeps.  Needless to say, we high tailed it, pretending to understand the German street signs.
Just our luck, the hostel was packed.  A large group had descended upon the building, and my travel bud and I started to formulate another plan.  Suddenly, as if out of some weird dream (or a horror movie) the hostel owner offered us a room in a recently renovated two-bedroom apartment down the street.  THE CATCH: We would have to share a bed as, the other room was occupied by two very quiet chaps from down under.  It was cheap enough, and since it was late, we took his offer.  He handed me the key and gave us directions.
We came upon the building, and alarm one went off; the front door was propped up against the wall and a cat came flying through the hall as if escaping from some hidden evil.  Alarm two might have been the general abandoned nature of the complex, but I shrugged it off, ignored the cobwebs and hit the stairs.  We came to the door and tried the key.  The door opened up an IKEA wonderland of brand new everything sat directly before our eyes.  It was such a stark contrast to the building that the Kiwi and Aussie might have actually said something (but I don't think they actually did).
We put our bags down and headed out for a good meal paired with a Riesling.  The next day was filled with sight seeing; all we really knew about Dresden was that it had been destroyed by the Allies in WWII (I knew more about Dresden, Ohio, "Basket Village USA") .  Everything that we were about to see had been reconstructed.  We paid to take the stairs to the top of the Lutheran Dresdner Frauenkirche, the Church of Our Lady, which had only  been rebuilt, in the past ten years or so, as an exact replica of the structure that was destroyed during WWII.

The view was gorgeous.  The church was impressive, and yet odd to sit inside of a structure that was a replica of something lost.  In fact, most of Dresden seemed haunted by the past.
A visit to the Grünes Gewölbe (the Green Vault) was sparkly and enchanting- it is a museum of with the largest collection of gold, silver, jeweled and other ridiculously expensive looking treasures in Europe.
(For a good article with pictures and an overview of the sparkly treasures, head here --> http://www.theepochtimes.com/n2/content/view/25312/). Who knew that such intricacy and detail was possible?  I've never been so scared of breaking anything so sparkly in my entire life.
On our final day, we visited the VW plant and enjoyed soggy weather before catching a train into Prague.  Dresden was a city filled with surprises- the hostel, the view from the church, and the Green Vault.  I may never be back for a second visit, but I surely enjoyed my time there more than I ever expected.  More stories on Prague coming next year!  Don't worry- 2010 is almost here.  You won't have to wait that long.

"I'm a Jelly Donut" and Other Berlin Adventures

By Megan

Berlin was so good to me- from the funky hostel (see my previous hosteling post) to the bicycle tour, hippos at the zoo, and of course the Tiergarten.  My faithful travel bud and I organized a jaunt north starting in Berlin; the plan was to start in the famous capital, then work our way down to Vienna.

Germany was an entirely new concept to both of us.  All we could say was Gesundheit, küsse, and 'I speak English', even worse than our Italian, but we had few communication difficulties.

I was excited as a five-year-old as we headed toward the zoo, and furthermore, I was equipped with a camera and the know-how to use it.  The hippos were comical, the rhino quite serious, the giraffes awkward, and Knut the famous polar bear was in isolation (it seems that the more famous you are, the less likely you are to play well with others... just saying).  I actually didn't expect to enjoy/exhaust myself as much as I did running around the zoo.  In any case, a triumphant evening at a bier garden was in store.  They didn't have any vegetarian brats, but the baked potato was delicious and the Berliner Weisse (beer with raspberry syrup added) would have won over even the most serious of beer aficionados.

The infamous wall

With a desire for speed, we decided to take a bike tour of the city and got to the Fat Tire tour station early.  There was a Spanish tour available, but we decided to wait and see how full the English tour was- 70 or so other riders later, we went with the more intimate tour in Spanish, which included just me, my bud and our Valenciana tour guide.  She showed us all of the city's most famous sites, and via bike was a lovely way to see so much history in such a short amount of time.
Something from the tour that struck me much so was Bebelplatz; it's a memorial to a Nazi book burning that took place.  A piece of glass allows visitors to look down on empty shelves, representing the loss of understanding and knowledge.  "He who burns a book is capable of killing another."  It's a strong statement, but the idea is that by burning a book, you lose the knowledge of the book, effectively killing the right of someone who wants to learn.

Bier Garten? Yes, bitte.

After a long day of bike riding, we decided to relax in the MASSIVE Tiergarten and we weren't alone.  Our wonderful guide told us that public nudity was allowed in some parts of the gigantic park, but who would have thought that the two of us would end up smack-dab in naked central.  At least two gentleman visited the park seeking to catch some rays sunny side up.

It was time for us to move on to Dresden, but one more note- Ich bin ein Berliner- the famous quote, did not make JFK  a supporter of Berlin, but rather, a jelly-donut... and people still chuckle at the grammar mistake 40+ years later.

Lerner aus der Ferne

5 November 2009
Dear Diary,
It's a pause-time in my paperwork process for the impending move. There's not a whole lot I can do right now- licensure paperwork won't be available to me until January, the cat can't get her final checkup until February, and I won't be able to job-hunt until closer to March- so I've decided that it's high time to start learning about this fabulous new place I'll be moving to.
Kaiserslautern, Germany is unique for many reasons. According to Wikipedia (and we all know how accurate they can be), human settlement of the area dates back to 800 BC. It's within relatively easy access of Paris, Frankfurt, and Luxembourg, which is convenient today but has also meant that much of its history has been fraught with violence. It played home base to several key members of the Protestant Reformation, was practically obliterated during the 30 years' war, spent much of the 1th and 19th centuries under siege and occupation from the French, and was partially destroyed in Allied bombings during World War II.

Kaisterslautern, as seen from one of its five Rathauses. Image courtesy of Wikipedia.

Since then, the city has rebuilt itself and is now considered to be the Silicon Valley of Europe. It claims the largest swimming pool in Europe, an enormous botanical gardens, and the University of Kaiserslautern. It also has an art museum, several libraries (including one that specializes in Palatinate history), and a variety of sports complexes throughout the city. It is also in easy reach of the Rhineland's castles, wineries, and, of course, Munich's Oktoberfest. All of the websites targeting foreign nationals living in the area repeatedly stress that you will never run out of places to go, things to see, and culture to experience.
That's the other interesting thing about Kaiserslautern: its relationship with foreign nationals.
After World War II, the Allies set up permanent military bases in Germany and Japan, whose responsibilities include "deter[ing] aggression by maintaining combat ready, forward deployed ground combat forces" according to the US military website. The US bases in the Kaiserslautern region are, as a result, the home of some 50,000 US citizens, making it the largest population of Americans outside of the US. Ramstein Air Force Base and Landstuhl Medical Centre are both in this area- the former being the entry point for most of the US soldiers in Europe, the latter being the primary treatment centre for soldiers injured in the Middle East. In slang, because Americans have historically had difficulty pronouncing "Kaiserslautern" (hint: leave out the Rs), the city is also known as "K-Town." The large numbers of Americans in the area also means a direct economic relationship: Americans contribute approximately $1 billion annually to the local economy.
In the process of doing the paperwork for his work visa, Nick spent a lot of time in the Rathaus (town hall). He, like me, speaks English and French but no German, and discovered that the employees of the Rathaus, while helpful, either didn't know languages aside from German or would refuse to speak it to him. He managed to win them over after he used Google to translate a series of notecards with phrases such as "I'm sorry, my German is terrible" and "I need to find the person who can sign this form" written on them- apparently, holding up one card after another and looking apologetic made the entire administrative staff laugh and got him the help he needed.

Nanzdietschweiler, where Nick is currently living. Photo courtesy of panoramio.com

I've always believed in learning as much as possible about local language and customs before spending time in a new place, if for no other reason than the fact that I think it's respectful. But in this situation- with the military occupation, the history of destruction and combat, the economic role that the US plays in the area- it almost seems imperative. And that raises new questions about where my research should go next and what it's possible to learn without actually being in Kaiserslautern.
Nick has been helping me by passing along the words of wisdom he hears from his friends in the area, as well as his own observations. Some of what I've been able to pick up on includes such gems as his current apartment being adjacent to what he refers to as "the Scary Road of Death," which features narrow lanes, hairpin turns, and Germans going at rubber-burning speeds. Culture lesson the first: 160 km/hour- or, in American parlance, about 99 miles/hour- is a common driving speed. Culture lesson the second? Be prepared for second-hand smoke. Kaiserslautern residents apparently love their tobacco, and many restaurants feature the sort of smoking vs. non-smoking separation of the US in the late 80s (read: opposite sides of the room). Culture lesson the third: while Germans do have a word for vegetarian (vegetarische, if Google is correct), the concept hasn't translated very well to their restaurants. I, a vegetarian for thirteen years, need to get ready to drop the "dinner" part of "dinner and a movie" date nights while we're in Kaiserslautern.
So at least I've got a little warning. Limited food, lung cancer, and life-threatening road trips will be some of the cultural adjustments I'll be making in the near future, and I really should lay off the Google translate- or at least exchange it for something like Rosetta Stone products. Above all, I should be ready to spend my first few months in Germany adjusting to the fact that, no matter my intentions and desires, I'll technically be part of an occupying force and will feel the need to compensate for that. Negotiating what aspects of local culture to participate in, and which to leave out, will be determined in part by that power dynamic.
At the very least, I should invest in some notecards and practice my pathetic face.
-Erica

Dear Diary

Musings by Erica
10.11.2009
Dear Diary,
My partner left last week to begin a contracting job of indeterminate duration with the US Army. The decision to contract was one we'd made several months ago, but it wasn't until last weekend that we knew where he was going and how long we had before he was expected to board a plane out of Philadelphia International Airport. When the word arrived on Friday afternoon, the answers were "Kaiserslautern, Germany" and "Monday morning."
Emotional trauma at the short notice and sudden physical absence of my partner aside, the whole affair marks the beginning of a strange period of transition and travel in my day-to-day life. Contracting jobs are interesting creatures: they have a minimum lifespan of one year, and are subject to renewal or cancellation at what often appears to be the whim of mysterious government forces. As such, Nick will be employed in Germany until the end of next September and, unless the mysterious forces change their minds, will continue to be so until the force is no longer with us. As I'm planning to finish my master's degrees in May, the plan is to pack up, send as many resumes as possible to the Kaiserslautern-area Air Force base sexual assault counseling team as possible, and move myself, my cat, and my giant pile of textbooks to Germany.
Here's the thing, diary. There's quite a bit of paperwork to be done between now and then, since not only do I need all kinds of permission slips and special licenses to move to Germany for any amount of time, but I need to learn the local language and customs. Oh, and I will be bringing a cat with me.

She prefers to travel by basket, or not at all.

That's right, a cat. A fuzzy, sweet little thing with sharp claws and a strong, well-verbalized dislike for her carrier, moving, and anything associated with removing her from her current home.
Travel, for me, is a force of habit. I didn't have to think twice when TSA started setting up security lanes that were intended to sort experienced from inexperienced travelers- I already knew I was an expert. It's instinctive for me to pack necessary items- clean underwear, contact lens fluid, toothbrush- in my carry-on bag, because at this point I'm way too familiar with the "lost baggage" phenomenon (ask me about my 30 hours in Atlanta sometime. Go on, I dare you). I can handle layovers, terminal transfers, customs, lugging bags around endlessly, and last-minute changes to departure gates.
But flying with a pet? This one's entirely new to me, and the fact that I'm flying her across the Atlantic Ocean and planning to leave her in a foreign country makes it all the more challenging to learn what I gotta do. So far I've called the embassy, two different airline companies, the vet-in-charge (of what? no idea) in Harrisburg, and the nearest Air Force base, and still no one has been able to give me a solid story. It sounds like there will be paperwork. And blood work. And much ado about ground air temperatures and microchips. And, if the airline companies are right, there will be no sedatives. For either of us.
So, diary, this is going to be one hell of an adventure. Already I can tell that the cat's needs will be the most challenging to meet, and will require the most preparation- nobody wants rabies, and they want to keep it out with extended-release rabies vaccines. Next time I write, I hope to be able to shed some light on what international pet travel will demand, just in case anyone else is ever crazy enough to try this. Eight months from now, I hope to be sitting in Kaiserslautern with Nick, drinking German beer, watching the cat relax in the window of our German apartment, and discussing the day's events in passable German parlance. At the very least, I hope to be in Germany with the cat, not lost and not starving. We'll see which of these goals I'm able to attain.
Let the preparations for international household moving begin!
-Erica

Older German men, younger Thai women: An Inside Investigation

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com


"How old do you think zat man is?" Hans hissed at me, pointing to his equally white-haired, equally German chum. "Um, fifty?" I guessed politely. Hans threw his head back and cackled. "NO!" he hollered, "Fritz is seventy-five! And he is living viss a twenty-eight year old Thai girl!"
What else could I do, being the only young, female, American guest here at this party, but smile and coo: "That's wonderful!"
I had accepted Hans's invitation to his Thai ex-wife's massage parlor party with a peppy journalistic spirit. "Lillie--" warned my Muay Thai boxer buddies from the hotel, "You realize this is going to be a bar packed full of seventy year old German men and their young Thai girlfriends, right? You realize you are getting yourself into a really creepy situation, don't you?" I smiled and hopped on the back of Hans's mo-ped, clinging to his puffy waist as we revved off towards the massage parlor slash cocktail bar.

Arrival: multicolored lights, balding silver hair, long dark hair, smiles. Hans's ex-wife, Nok greeted me warmly, her tight red dress sliding along her curves. She showed me to the free Thai food buffet in honor of her daughter's birthday and poured me a Coke. Plate heaped high, I squeezed between Hans, Fritz, and Peter. Just one of the middle-aged German men! That's me.
German jokes flew fast and furious, as did hugs with the Thai women, and refills of "bier". Hans glowed increasingly red, and began belting out every song the Classic Rock guitarist strummed. "Brown sugar, how come you taste so good? Brown sugar, just like a young girl should!" I sang along too, because really, who can resist Classic Rock?

The story began to trickle out. As a young German sailor, Hans had seen the world, and all its women. Thirty-seven years ago, he decided to settle down and wed a German woman. They had a son. Two years later, he could no longer stand the endless quarrels, and fled the country. "I don't know what happened viss my son," Hans admitted, looking away. "Maybe his mother told him that I am a bad person, but now he will not talk to me. I try to call him always but even though he's grown now he won't think for himself to forgive me. I could have taken him around Thailand, shown him so much, but he won't forgive. For this I say I have no son."
So Hans arrived in Thailand, wealthy and unencumbered, and soon made his way to one of the massage parlors infamous in Phuket. "Behind zee glass," explained Hans, "were women paid to sit for twenty four hours to offer massage. They got paid for massage if they got hired, but if no massage zey still have to sit behind the glass all day for no pay." Here, Hans met/hired Nok, and started to love her. At last he said, "I don't want you to do massage here. It's not a good place. I want you to have your own massage parlor, viss your name on it." Nok, one of many children from a poor rural family, was overjoyed.

In just a year, Nok's life was completely transformed. Hans found and bought a tract of land in Nai Han beach and ordered construction of a clean new massage hall, with a roofed outdoor restaurant/bar adjacent. Nok's name appeared on top in blazing red letters, and glossy business cards went with it. "Soon I say to her," Hans remembered nostalgically, "I love you, I love your young daughter, and I have a big house. Why do you not both live viss me?" And so the wedding and move-in occurred. "Two hundred thousand I paid for the party," said Hans, shaking his head. "And I pictured us growing old together. But she had other ideas."
Hans had lived a jolly long life of excess and hedonism, so he told Nok, "I am sixty-eight and you are thirty-five. I cannot always keep up with you, so if you want to stay out late and enjoy, do it." But this began to spin out of control. Nok got home later and later, drunker and drunker, and began to say she was sleeping at the house of a female friend. "Just tell me," said Hans. "Don't give me stories. I just want to know." One night Nok came back late and drunk and revealed that she had just bought a bar in a town fifteen miles away without consulting Hans. Hans knew he was losing her, and in a few months she asked for a divorce.

"Here is zee stupid thing," Hans growled. "I married her because I loved her, but also to give her my pension. When I die, vich is ten years, fifteen years, maximum, she would have gotten 60,000 Baht every month, just for doing nothing! She gave all that up when she divorced me! That is so stupid."
"And now this idiot," Hans laughed, pointing at the white-haired German gazing worshipfully at Nok across the room, "Now he thinks HE loves her and zat she loves him. HAH! I give it less zan one year before she takes all she can from him and it is still not enough. You cannot blame either one of them. Zey are both good people, but this is what happens."

Suddenly the smell of gasoline filled the air. "Fire show!" squealed the audience, and five Thai boys sprinted in with blazing torches, spitting gasoline out of their mouths and bursting them into flame balls. The spectacled German man near me slid his hand down the back of his Thai girlfriend's skirt, and she stared at the twirling fire.
These fire dancers spin torches along their young skin. These German men love and pay. These Thai women love and exchange. Fire play, flame dance, and the glow of possibility and risk!

At this point a German voice shouted, "Oh no! The motobikes!" and we all realized the pyramid of fire-twirlers were inches from the thirty gas tanks. But the show went on, and ended with a flourish and a hat out for money.
"She has found a new sponsor," said Hans, sipping his Tiger Beer, "and for me, I say never again. Now I make sex viss the young girls each night, and zen live the rest of my life alone, happy. Vee all stay friends, and vee all still love each other, but for me and her, never again."
At this point I thanked Hans for the kind invitation and bribed one of the Thai women to drive me home through the pouring rain.