So making a concerted effort not to test my luck (we all know how good it is sometimes) I get up early and head out to the Olympic Village, the site of the 1972 Games. This was a rather strange looking place; everything covered with tent-like canopies making it look almost like the campgrounds at a Boy Scout Convention. This was the site of the trouble back in ’72 where the terrorists killed the Israeli athletes (maniacal minority-oppressing murderers in Germany? Never...)
I see the apartment buildings where that all happened (remember the balconies from the famous pictures showing the masked terrorist looking down?) in addition to the swimming, basketball, and main arenas. They’re bordered on one side by these giant green hills and a wonderful lake, which I decide to stroll through for a spot and a huge tree-filled park on the other, which I meander through to return to the Metro station.
After waiting for trains, being on the wrong platform, and getting on trains going the wrong way (seriously, their Metro system has to be the most confusing I’ve been around. It takes all day to figure out, but that’s OK – by that time maybe a train will have arrived. Trains going opposite directions are in different buildings (unmarked, of course, so all you see is the proper line number and you go to that building, wait ten minutes or more for a train (they take FOREVER to get there – I think each is used only once, and you spend your life waiting for them to build a new one...) and then realize you’ve been waiting for a train going the wrong way, but now that you know this, you don’t know how to remedy the fact because the platform you need is down the street in a building you don’t know exists. Sheesh!) The only thing the system has going for it is that you really don’t have to have a ticket to ride. Oh, you’re supposed to, but no one I watched bought them, so I didn’t either. Good thing, too. If I had to buy a ticket each time I took the wrong train, I would have gone apeshit on these krauts...)
I finally sort all this nonsense out and get to Marienplatz, the main square in town. Here I watch the famed glockenspiel go off – a big animated clock full of spinning German statues, jousting matches, etc., I buy lunch in some crazy German deli (I don’t know quite what I’m ordering, just basically making like a mouse and pointing and clicking (the turkey sandwich with cream cheese I get is good, though)) I wander around some more, taking in various churches and plazas before making my way out to Dachau. This is really quite an unsettling place. It was the first Nazi internment camp (it wasn’t an extermination camp like Auschwitz, but that doesn’t mean loads of people didn’t die here.) Taking the bus out to it you pass through all these quaint little suburbs, full of tiny houses, green lawns, etc. -- the veritable picture of normal life. And then all of a sudden, you’re there; the camp lies right in the middle of all this normalcy. It’s not out in the middle of nowhere like I imagined, it’s not surrounded by desolation and rugged, barren terrain, it’s just like some big factory that the town revolves around.
This is all a little unsettling, and then when you walk in the front gates along these barbed wire fences and guard towers, things really get unpleasant because I can picture the people being shuttled through here into this ungodly place. It’s really quite depressing.
People from 26 countries were held captive here, as were 2000 priests (something I didn’t know). Walking around you get to see the sleeping quarters (though how anyone ever slept here is news to me), the ovens for cremating the dead, the gas chambers disguised as showers (these were installed but never used – no one is sure why), and all the various memorials erected over the years. It’s quite a disconcerting place – very interesting and sobering, but not the most pleasant of ways to spend a sunny afternoon.
Sufficiently depressed, I head back into Munich and walk around the English Garden, the biggest park in Europe. This is absolutely huge – I wander around for over an hour and I still don’t see more than a third of the park. I pass through various beer gardens in its interior, watch the dozens of dogs running around and playing, and cool my heels in a stream that flows through the center. A bit more chipper and relaxed now, I head to St. Peters (no, not that St. Peters) to climb to the top of its belltower (the view is spectacular and I’m taken aback by how much prettier this city is than I had expected. There’s not too much to do here, but it’s wonderful to look at. I can even see the Alps from up here...)
A long day at my heels and now bordering on ravenous, I stop at Hofbrauhaus, the notorious beer garden, for dinner. This has to be, bar none, the greatest drinking atmosphere I have ever seen. There’s a brass band in the middle dressed in authentic German clothing (green suspenders, tan shorts, nifty feather hats, etc.) playing all this music, people are sitting on these long wooden benches eating their food (I have schweinsbraten, a big ass piece of fatty pork, and reiberknodl, a dumpling the size of a baseball – quite good, despite its appearance) and drinking their giant steins of beer (each one holds a liter of beer and the waitresses can carry five or six of these mammoth things per hand!) So everyone is getting drunk, singing these songs at the top of their lungs, stomping their feet, clapping their hands, etc. It’s insane, but like I said, it’s by far the best place in the world to drink.
After this, it’s off to the train station to kill a couple of hours before hopping on the night train to Venice (and boy is this ever a fun ride. I’m stuck in a car with five other people, three facing the other three. I’m stuck in the middle, I have no window or wall to lean against and my long legs are cramped after five minutes since I can’t stretch them out, so it makes for an extremely uneasy night of sleep (two in a row!) And to make matters worse, they keep coming in to check our tickets every two stops or so. So you’re just about to fall asleep when – click – the light comes back on and wrestles you from the precarious depths of slumber you were about to embrace. By the third or fourth time they did this, I was ready to beat some ass. (They knew all of us in our car were going to Venice, why couldn’t they just, I don’t know, remember that fact and leave us the fuck alone? But that’s just me being silly again...)
I ride the ferry all the way to the other side of town and get off at the Basilica de San Marco, the big church in town. It’s pretty, and it’s 100% indicative of Italy (I don’t know just how apropos it is until the week is over, but once I do...) – you have to pay for everything. Want to see the cupola? 5000 lira. Want to see the Pala d’Oro (the gaudy altarpiece of gold that is covered with more jewels than Liberace’s G-string)? 5000 lira. Want to climb to the top of the belltower? 10,000 lira. Hell, if you want to fart you have to shell out 3000 lira. It’s frigging ridiculous.
Not wanting to blow my entire budget in one place I step outside again and decide to climb the church’s belltower across the way. It’s 99 meters tall and is pretty much the tallest thing in town, so when you get to the top you can see the world revolving around you completely unobstructed. It’s great – you can see how intricate the system of canals really is: off the main Grand Canal (it’s a giant 4 km long S that ranges from 40meters to 100 meters wide) are endless amounts of little canals, almost like tiny alleys.
I clamber down from the tower, troll around the Piazza San Marco, the plaza around the basilica, and then go to the Palazzo Ducale, the big palace which used to house important government officials and the prisons (those Italians, always thinking ahead – the minute the politicians go corrupt, all they have to do is leave the posh upper levels and go to the basement rather than traipse all the way across town...) This is your standard royal palace, but some things of note are the giant paintings by Titian and Tintoretto (including the mammoth Paradise by Tintoretto. This thing is 22 meters long and seven meters high. It’s on the wall of this huge open room and is just awesome.)
After winding my way through the basement prisons, I wander around town some more, getting cut off by the endless canals (there are 410 bridges connecting the 120 islands in this town, but you’d be surprised at how they’re never there when you need them. I hit more dead ends than the career path of a non-college grad...) and finally stop for lunch – what else? Hot ham and cheese sandwich, but this time on olive bread (this stuff is frigging great! I have to make some back home...)
Filled up, I walk around some more, passing through the store-ridden Rialto and Accademia sections of town, stop now and again to eat some tasty treats – Sicilian canoli (basically just a regular canoli with pieces of fruit mixed in with the pistachios) and more gelati (they call it a million different things in this country – gelati, gelato – but whatever they call it, it’s 100% good. It’s their ice cream and it’s unbelievable. It has 30% less cream (so it’s better for you) and is made fresh daily. Outstanding. If I stay in this country much longer you won’t be able to tell my ass from Rush Limbaugh’s...)
About finished with Venice, I realize there’s one thing I haven’t done yet, so I take an overpriced gondola ride through the canals (it cost about $50 bucks, which is a ton, but I figure when am I ever going to do this again? Plus, I talked him down from an even higher price, so it was OK.) Despite the high price, I had a great time. The gentle rocking motion and the snail’s pace we took were completely relaxing – the guy even sang to me while he rowed! They were laughing at me for paying so much, and I was laughing at them for charging me so little for such a cool time. Outstanding.
Now finished with my itinerary, I head back to Santa Lucia and hop on a train for Florence...
A bit relieved and completely famished (that ice cream only lasts so long) we go out for some grub – a yummy calzone and more gelato (of course). After this we wander around some more, checking out some of the umpteen street vendors (apparently daylight doesn’t dictate their hours of business), walk around the Duomo, its baptistry, and the Uffizi art gallery before turning into bed.
After this exercise in patience, we head across the plaza to the Palazzo Vecchio, and since there are no ticket takers (we must have caught them on a shift change) we sneak upstairs and see the big painting-filled room before being discovered and booted.
We stop for lunch after this – my European staple meal (this time I get the sandwich without ham, just mozzarella and tomato. I’m such a rebel...) and then head over to the baptistry of the big cathedral. It’s Palm Sunday, so we expect a crowd, but thanks to a favorable shine from Fate, we get in unimpeded (and another sign that Fate likes me today, we are the last people let in before it closes. Score!) This octagonally-shaped building houses the beautiful mosaic ceiling depicting scenes from Genesis on this inside, and the famous Gates of Paradise by Ghiberti on the outside (these are a series of gilded relief sculptures with scenes from the Old Testament on them and are so named due to a comment by Michelangelo regarding their aesthetically pleasing appearance).
Picking up our free palm fronds, we make our way across the plaza to the main church, the Chiesa di Santa Maria de Fiero, the fourth largest cathedral in the world. It’s your standard church on the inside – nothing I haven’t seen, let me see, five hundred and forty seven million other times on this trip – but on the outside is the famed duomo, the big red dome atop the cupola. I wander around for a bit trying to find the entrance to it, but it isn’t there – it’s on the outside and, of course, it’s closed. Splendid.
Apparently back on my usual side of Fate, we head off for the Accademia, the home of the famed David statue. Checking out my guidebook, I see it’s supposed to be closed by now and it won’t be open tomorrow, so the realization hits me that I won’t get to see it. Crestfallen, I talk them into going by, just in case, and sure enough it’s still open (I jump back to the strange side of Fate again). Overjoyed, I come around the corner and – BAM! – there he is, larger than life, perfectly framed by the arching wall. I stand there for a good fifteen minutes completely dumbstruck. I had no idea it was going to be so big and beautiful. I’m very pleasantly surprised, to say the least.
After taking about five or six pictures (that’s a ton for me. I usually take one and move on) I troll through the hall of busts and then head out to the markets surrounding San Lorenzo, the smaller twin of Santa Maria. Not feeling like haggling (I think this is the national sport) I just sit back and watch all the people walk around and buying the little trinkets. It’s kind of funny to see the vendors – the minute they hear the word “carabinieri”, Italian for policeman, they quickly pack up their things and rapidly walk away. Once the danger has passed, they come right back, though, until the next alert is issued.
Everything now being closed in Florence, we decide to head out to Pisa to see the leaning tower. Once we get there, I’m amazed at how much it really leans. In the pictures it looks like it’s got just a slight tilt, but once you are there in person, the angle and the ground form is astoundingly close to 45 degrees, I kid you not. You stand there and are afraid to exhale because that might be the straw the breaks the camel’s back and sends the thing toppling over.
It’s beautiful, and we finally pull ourselves away for a dinner at a restaurant just in the tower’s shadow. We sit outside and I have an amazing Italian meal – mind-blowing cannelloni, some white wine, and tiramisu for dessert. Mmm. The rumors being true – there’s absolutely nothing else to do in Pisa other than see the tower – we head back to Florence two unannounced train cancellations later (got to love public transportation...)
Once my breath is retrieved, I head back down and go to the Bargello, another gallery that has Donatello’s bronze David (much smaller than I imagined) and Mary Magdalene, the ragged depiction of said lass, along with some nice Michelangelo statues.
My tolerance of art galleries reaching critical mass (oh wait. That happened three months ago...) I zip around, see what there is to see, and then head out again, this time to the Boboli Gardens on the north side of town. They’re perty, but I’ve seen a ton of these, too, so I soak it up for a short spot before setting off again.
Next destination is the Brancacci Chapel, a tiny chapel that has some nice frescoes I studied. After this it’s the Ponte Vecchio, the famous bridge spanning the Arno (this was the only bridge that survived the wrath of the retreating Nazis in WWII), which is full of jewelry stores, so there’s no need to stop. Lunch consists of fresh focaccia and a sandwich (if you don’t know what it is, then you obviously haven’t been paying attention to my stories the past four months) and then it’s off to the Museo di Opera, the museum behind the Duomo.
This holds the original panels from the Gates of Paradise (they are gradually being removed from the doors of the baptistry for cleaning, and upon completion are brought to the museum) and Michelangelo’s Pieta – not the one you (or I) are thinking of, though. This is a big one out of brown stone, not the highly polished one out of white marble – that’s in Rome. The one new thing I learn at this museum is that the word ‘paradise’ means the space between a baptistry and a church, another explanation for the naming of the Gates of Paradise (they lie facing said space).
After this, it’s off for a quick stroll through the leather markets (I make sure not to make eye contact with any of the vendors or their products, because if you do, they’re on you faster than a fat woman on a stray chocolate bar) and some more gelati, and then it’s sayonara Florence as I hop on a train to Rome (this entails me sprinting to the train station, picking up my bag from the luggage check, and then sprinting to the platform, which, of course, is clear on the other end of the station, all within ten minutes so I don’t miss the next train. Whew!)
A little out of breath and extremely hot, I cool my heels in first class until I get kicked out (“Oh, this is first class? I thought all of the cabins had leather seats and air conditioning. My bad...”) Four hours later, and I’m in Termini station in Rome. Determined to beat the impending crowds (it’s Holy Week and I’m coming to the center of European religion, St. Peter’s. Smart move, jackass...) I quickly ditch my bags and continue my insane-o sight seeing tour (I might as well go out with a bang...)
In the few remaining hours of daylight, I see the Coliseum (which, despite its impressive exterior, is a lot more rundown inside than I imagined), the Forum (this is just a series of varyingly sized piles of rubble. I’m not even sure what I’m looking at. (“Ooh. The map said this used to be an arch. Isn’t it pretty kids? Can you picture it? What a pretty ex-arch...”) It just goes to show that if you don’t take care of your stuff, it’ll end up a big pile of non-sensical trash. (But don’t worry – people will still come from miles around to pay and see it. Go figure. Maybe my sister’s room is only a strong PR campaign away from landing itself on the tourist track...))
I see the Arch of Constantine (a big arch, just like the Arc de Triumph. “Haven’t seen one of these before. Better take a picture...”), Trajan’s Column (a big ass stone pole in the ground covered with scenes of Trajan’s victories over the Dacians), Piazza Venetia (a pretty flower-filled square right across from all the museums), and the column of Marcus Aurelius (which looks pretty much identical to that of Trajan)
I see the Trevi fountain (probably the prettiest fountain I have seen. Its sculptures are spectacular, and local legend has it that if you throw a coin over your shoulder as you walk away, you’re destined to return to Rome someday. Despite my present demeanor, I chuck a coin over my shoulder and hope for the best.), I see a Mexican in a little pod car (and if I thought London’s Smart cars were just cockpits with wheels, these really are. Just a one man thing – pretty much a motorized Hot Wheel for adults.) and hear an Italian man playing piano in his apartment (this was cool – the windows on the first floor were open and he was playing some great stuff. I just stood there and listened for a bit.)
These two things mellow me out a little bit and I’m starting to get pretty tired, but I can still see my hands in front of my face, so the quest must continue. I stop at the Spanish Stairs, a big set of stairs covered with potted flowers and people, walk through the commercial district at its base and head to the Piazza Navona, another pretty plaza filled with fountains and people. Then it’s back to the Piazza Venetia (I really liked this one – I had to see it again before I left) and I finally stop the madness (Susan Powter would be proud) by having dinner at a small place near my hostel. I have the best calzone I have ever had here – it is bigger than a football and is stuffed to the gills with spinach. (Seriously, Popeye would take one bite and die from over-stimulation...) – and a fantastically cold glass of beer.
Extremely tired (I wonder why?) I head back to the hostel. One more false heroin alarm later (I walk in to see two of my roomies sitting at the table heating up a white-powder laden spoon with a lighter and think to myself, “How the hell did I get back to Munich?” before realizing that they’re simply doing shots of Absinthe and are heating up the sugar that goes in it.) and I’m getting it on with Mr. Sandman.
After this it’s off to my final destination – St. Peter’s. It’s huge and filled with some amazing sculptures and ceiling paintings, but the true gem is Michelangelo’s other Pieta, the wonderful white marble one that is so famous. It’s behind glass now (some nutter in the 70s tried to attack it with a hammer because it looked like his mother, so now tourists everywhere are forced to take pictures they know won’t turn out through the thick glass), but it is still a vision. I wander around for a bit and then head up to the top of the dome for a great view of the city. It takes seemingly forever to get to the top of this, forcing you to wind through some of the twistiest, most off-balanced tunnels I’ve been through, but once you’re at the top, it’s worth it. The big circular plaza out front sits right at your feet and you can see for miles in every direction.
I soak up the view for a bit, realize that with my visit here I’ve been to the four biggest cathedrals in the world – St. Peter’s, St. Paul’s, the gothic cathedral in Seville, and Santa Maria in Florence – and then set out to the airport for an early departure. The crowds here are already getting monumental, and I’ve seen all I came for and more. I’ve seen the endless canals of Venice, the endless art galleries of Florence, and the endless ruins of Rome. I’ve had enough of not being able to find an ATM (and even when you find one, don’t start the endzone dance quite yet – half the time you can’t use the frigging things...) and enough gelati to make Ben & Jerry queasy. In short, I’m tired of travelling and am ready to go home.
After a frenzied scamper through the airport Home Alone style (I have to run through the entire terminal with my big ass backpack strapped to my backside and sprint to the gate. I’m dodging people left and right, hopping over old folks in wheelchairs – it’s great.) I finally get there and get on the plane, ready to say goodbye to London and hello to America again.