How many stairs are there in Dresden? We aim to find out.
Guest blog entry courtesy of Jesse, because I was too busy deleting photos to write one.
We scheduled about two days in Dresden to collect as many castles, museums, and churches into our cameras as possible. Poom’s uncle from Hamburg, Georg, recommends Dresden as the best of all possible collections of these objects–”the Florence of the North” he says.
Over breakfast, as I am typing this, a Hungarian/German couple and I have been discussing the relative merits of german TV (it’s so biased to the left as to be unwatchable, “the opposite of America” says the man “where it is all to the right”). It turns out that Germans have zero high definition stations and still watch analog TV–since they don’t even have digital signals. No wonder CNN looked so odd.
As a side note, while we were in Berlin, one in five of our train rides would find me with either a man selling newspapers, a street musician, or a spectacularly drunk man who would walk in after me and start talking to me in whatever language they thought I might speak. German, English, gibberish, whatever. Usually this also involved asking for money. Poom and I looked out for these folks–and they still found us. Specifically me, to play music to/sell wares to/beg from first. Weird.
On our first train ride this morning, the one from our neighborhood to the main train station, a young man got on the train just as the doors closed, and started singing out that he needed to sell many newspapers for his church, to raise money, and would we help him. Good singing really, but how do they find me?!
En route to Dresden, via first-class cabin high-speed train, we were comfortably seated when an Indian couple came onboard and stowed their luggage next to us. The woman looked very pensive as they walked to their seats. She’d get up every few minutes, walk back to her baggage and just look at it, before going back to her chair three away.
Poom, myself, the English couple in front of us, and the jocks across the isle all notice that something smells very, very wrong. We suffer it for about 10 minutes collectively before the jocks move to the other end of the train car.
Another few minutes and the smell isn’t dissipating. I look at Poom and wonder aloud if it something in the luggage. The English woman replies aloud to the car, “I think it is that rotting flesh fruit.”
“Durian?”
“Yes, my god it is.”
The Indian woman looks very nervous and goes to adjust her luggage. The smell gets stronger, and I decide it is time for Poom and I to move to the other end of the train car as well. The English couple joins us a few minutes later.
The other end of the car has a very loud harmonically-excited vibration that corresponds with about six different speed points. It is so loud I can hear it through my earplugs. It is better than rotting flesh fruit.
We can’t wait to get to Dresden.
Well we got here and what a here it is. I have never seen castles like the ones in Dresden. Simply breathtaking. We got off the train at Dresden Neustadt station and looked to Metro for which train to take. Metro said 7. So we looked for 7. We walked around the station, we walked through the station and wondered if we were at the right station.
We weren’t.
But, as seems to keep happening on this trip, it was lucky we got way from the durian as soon as we did, because we were less than a mile from our Hostel, Louise 20. We hopped two Metros, again doing it the hard way, and landed a half block from a clean place to rest.
Louise 20 is located cleverly at 20 Louisestrasse, NeuStadt, Dresden. It’s the hippier, more bohemian side of town. Our hostel is above a pub located at the back of the firehouse on a narrow street shared with a half dozen kebab shops, a headshop full of hookas, and a couple of the obligatory erotic shopping superstores eastern Germany seems to have in such abundance. It is a charming building and our room was at the very top of about 8 flights of granite spiral stairs; a small yellow room overlooking a small piazza. Perfect.
After unloading our bags, Poom and I grabbed cameras and headed for town. We got to Albertplatz where there is a huge fountain and lots of metros and took pictures. While doing so, a large bunch of happy looking young men wearing “I WILL NEVER HAVE SEX AGAIN” t-shirts and holding boxes of over-inflated penis-shaped balloons wandered over and started talking to me in German (this never happens to Poom).
I follow him well enough: He is getting married in two weeks. This is his last party. He has to do many things that his friends have set for him to do, tasks. Will I, and this is a quote, “have him up the bum around the fountain.” I ask for clarity in English. He repeats the line. I must look confused because he calls to a friend who has better English. The friend clarifies that he is asking for, essentially, a piggyback ride around the fountain. Or so I hope, given the public nature of the request.
I have a bad back you see, so sorry. They are all very sad. We shake hands, they go off to assault some other poor fellow. All of this is captured on the very same high-end Sony video cameras I just bought at work. Odd.
Poom and I wander on, down through the central walking plaza, arrayed with flowers, shops, benches, and fountains. We walk to the river, across which is the first of many simply breathtaking vistas. The is a full panorama of castles from the far left to the far right, hemmed in just a little by Soviet-era highrises in depressing colors.
We walked across a massively carved stone bridge to the AltStadt (old town) and I simply cannot convey the massiveness, denseness, and grandiosity of the buildings. The pictures will have to. We were astonished.
And we had not seen the big castle, only the outbuildings. The castle is the one with the water-works-and-carved-lawn-courtyard-the-size-of-three-football-stadiums, the ornamental forest planted on the second floor, the river-sized moat, and the massive gold domes sprinkled around the perimeter–which we found because Poom was following the cleaning lady.
Seriously.
It’s all quite nice.
Hungry and thirsty, we decided on a place in the AltStadt Platz, a well known local haunt where they serve Bohemian and Saxon cuisine (separate menus, of course) and Czech beer. On Saturday nights, they have live music, and we were seated within 20 feet of a fabulous 8-piece band ripping though old American Jazz standards in the style of Jazz at the Pawnshop. Two Oboes!!! Two!!! It was brilliant.
Walking back to the metro through old town, a gaggle of women ambush us and the lead girl explains, in German, that she is getting married soon…
I tell her I met her groom, and while he’s pretty good looking, he is asking for weird favors. She laughs. That is not her groom. She only wants me to sing her a love song. All this is captured on the very same type of high-end Sony video cameras.
Poom and I are at a loss for words–we were just listening to a stiff German Michael Jackson sing Fatts Dominoe’s Blueberry Hill and can think of nothing else. We demur and wander off. We speculate that this is a new kind of German reality TV show.
How do they find me?
Day 8 – Dresden
We thought we woke up early. After the ridiculously salty meal the night before-feasting on mushrooms, potatoes, and glorious pork roast bits–Poom and I found ourselves donning our flip-flops a collective five times en-route to the WC during the night. So when the churchbells gave their 45-minute warning at 9:30am, we were, um, surprised to find we’d already missed the morning.
It was also, judging by the weather, the first day of autumn. We’d had cold and wet moments before, but this was an actually, full on, cold day. Like ripping through three layers cold.
So we wore four.
Our first order of business was to forage for breakfast. We found a bratwurst stand under a stone bridge in old town, in the shadow of a cathedral, and that seemed like a good sign. I germaned at the wurst-junge and ordered curried bratwurst for Poom, regular wurst for myself, and a couple of locally-famous large soft pretzels. The tab came to 7 euros.
We had a 50 note as our smallest bill. He didn’t have change. So I took the 50 and headed into the local shops. Now, I have no idea how to say, “Do you have change for a 50?” in German. None. But somehow I managed and, at the first shop, she said she didn’t have that much. Sigh. Second, same deal. So I went to the high-end antiques-store-and-cafe Antiques NeuMarkt Cafe and begged for change.
The manager came out. They emptied two change pouches and had 48 euro including coins. So they gave me a coffee to make up the difference. Works for me. I thanked them and ran back to Poom who looked like he had spent a long time sniffing hot bratwurst on the grill while very hungry.
We gave the kid money, took our bounty up a small stone staircase leading to a small wind-shielded piazza which we shared with a few tables, some chairs, two potted trees and a coke machine. We relished a bit of sausage and pretzel in the relative warmth…
…and then we were ambushed by thousands of small birds who wanted my bread roll something serious. So we ripped off a few dozen small pieces and distributed them like fish food over the pond.
And more birds came. So we tossed out more bread.
And more birds came. Soon, the entire courtyard, composed of cobblestones 2” x 2” square, was a quilt of moss and moving tiny feathered tiles chasing bread bits in the wind.
From there we decided to brave the tallest spire in Dresden, the Staatliche Eintritt Turm, which roughly translated means, “My Dome is Taller than Your Dome.”
After being ushered through a secret passageway guarded by shockingly handsome guard-person-boy with blonde hair down to his shoulders, we entered a demolished courtyard lined with ancient ruins, hogwire boundaries, and a being-restored-castle 10 stories high on all sides. Wow.
Inside the Turm Tower, we discovered that the climb was 221 steps to the museum level. The sign didn’t mention that the mezzanine level was another 200+ past that. So we climbed. And took pictures. And climbed. Until we reached the museum, which featured a bunch of coins from throughout the ages.
I took a picture of the coins.
Another blonde uniformed guard started babbling at me in a shocked voice, trying every language I might speak. It was fun.
Takeway: No pictures on this floor.
So we climbed on. To the floors housing the INCREDIBLE gold and brass and chrome complications for the town clocks–and the beautiful gearing that ran around the entire tower ensuring that each side of the tower had an accurate clock all sharing one movement–8 in all. Incredible.
Finally. Wheezing, we reached the highest point in Dresden and the view (and wind) was insane. INSANE. We could see EVERYTHING around, until the world bent at the horizon line into a Soviet-built row of high-rises.
Poom’s camera battery immediately gave up the ghost, resulting in a not-so-happy, “OH FUCK ME!” being heard all around Dresden.
After descending the 400 plus stairs, we looked at each other and thought, what next?
Well, there is this delightful little town, the Napa of Saxony, called Radebeul, about 40 minutes outside town. So we took the metro out not knowing what we’d find. It was a Sunday so we weren’t expecting much.
Surprise!
HOLY EFFING SCHEISS.
On the way from Berlin to Dresden, we trained through this gorgeous patch of mountains lined with castles and hillsides of grapes. We tried to get pictures then, but the train was going too fast and the trees were always strategically positioned in the way. It was very annoying.
Imagine our delight when the little town described to us was the one we were trying to photograph. We got off the train and landed in a Soviet-era brick building. Modest to a fault and covered in vines and graffiti.
Not much to say other than we were not in Kansas anymore.
Busting out my best German and Poom’s handy Metro software, we hopped a train to the Schloss–and went the wrong way into town. At the main town stop, surrounded by spectacular mansions, we decided to try to walk another route to the narrow-gauge train track that went up the steep-steep mountain to another town at the top. Yeah great views and small trains.
Boo Sunday.
So we looked at each other and decided to try to walk the train tracks up the hill–just a ways–to see how far we could get. It looked like rain and was winding like hell, and we were not sure what we would find–could someone get us back home? Would there be a taxi? Would we need to walk home in the rain and the dark? Would the grapes be ripe?
We walked. And we found ourselves winding through a glorious neighborhood lined with beautiful trees, huge iron fences, and lined with the latest from Mercedes Benz.
Three streets converged on a small ivy-covered gate with a small sign. Walk Stair to Turm. Sure, why not?
Poom: “How hard could it be?”
Jesse: “OMFG, LOOK!!!”
Poom: “Oh”
The hill was about 3000 stairs straight up, scaling the very steep mountainside of grapes.
And yes, the were ripe. Delicious too. I ate lots. A bit sour, a bit sweet, and very flavorful. I surveyed the types, a red varietal, a gewerts, and a green-red-orange variety that was quite bitter-yet-luscious. A pound maybe? I ate a lot of them.
Fortified with grapes, we powered up the hill past wineries, WeinGartens, and palatial mansards, 2000, 1400, 600, 200, 100, 10-flights to go… And boom, we were at the highest point in Saxony.
Wow. Wow. Wow. (look at the pictures)
Somehow we got down, had a glass of wine at WeinGarten Meissen, and took the train home along the Elba river.
Well, not quite home.
In Dresden, just outside our little town, VW has built the worlds most advanced car factory with walls all of glass. And it was open till 8pm–so we had an hour plus to enjoy it.
From the train, Poom wondered aloud how we would find it from the metro stop. When the train stopped, I pointed to the HUGE 14-story glass tower full of $100,000+ sedans and said, “Right there.”
Ferdinand Piech, ex-CEO of VW wanted the peoples car company to make th worlds best cars, so he bought Bentley, Lamborghini, and Bugatti. Then, after looking at everything they did, he asked his engineers to make something better, faster, and more comfortable. The result, the W-12-powered Pheaton, is a made to order super-sedan built in an all-glass factory just outside of Dresden.
It’s a nice place.
Tightening the belt without any notches left in Berlin.
“Did you use the address in my notes for your map of the Alexandra Hotel Pension?” asked Jesse.
“Nope, I Googled it and took the first result that came up,” I replied.
“Uh oh. That’s not good. Hotel Alexandra and Alexandra Hotel Pension are two different places on different sides of the city owned by the same people. There are even two websites,” pointed out Jesse.
“Oh. Crap.”
As it turned out, my travel karma held up and I had printed the correct map, much to our relief. We had been carrying around our giant packs and took the most backwards way humanly possible to get to our initial destination (we took half an hour’s worth of trains and walked a metric shitload for a route that should have taken about 12 minutes if we hadn’t been clueless).
We arrived in Berlin assuming our first day there would be taken at a leisurely pace. That idea promptly went down the tubes after we wandered around Wednesday night taking in a variety of sights, including the Sony Centre at Potsdamer Platz, Brandenburg Tor, the Reichstag and the Hauptbahnhof, not wrapping up our night photography and general awe of Berlin until after midnight. Not a long haul by any stretch, but a bit more than we had intended. Our “how hard could it be?” logic and wandering around has led to me tightening my belt to the last notch after less than a week, much to my shock. I might need to go belt shopping again before this trip is over.
The next day was more of the same hectic pace, starting with the locations above in reverse (and drenched in sunlight), and adding the Memorial to the Murdered Jews, a fascinating arrangement of giant blocks, the meaning of which is left for the visitor to discover. Jesse’s rather unexpected obsession with Dunkin’ Donuts continued before we took a U-Bahn to Checkpoint Charlie. The place that triggered my interest in WW2, the photo exhibit fencing in the two lots immediately across from the checkpoint was still there and the lot still unexpectedly unoccupied. We visited the Museum at Checkpoint Charlie, which provided a great deal of insight and made it abundantly clear just how despised the Mauer was. I also find it amazing how much history tends to repeat itself; you would think those in charge would be well-grounded in history, but you’d be dead wrong most of the time. I may have expressed this thought in a previous travel blog entry, but it still rings true today.
Our final-ish destination for the day was Prenz’l Burg on the recommendation of our trusty Rick Steves’ guide. Rick managed to procure an “utter fail” from Jesse as we hopped off the tram. Spit out in the middle of an avenue completely devoid of personality aside from a massive amount of grafitti and some rundown buildings, we couldn’t figure WTF Rick as referring to when he said it was an up-and-coming, lively area. Fortunately a short walk around the neighborhood gradually revealed what he was referring to. What started as a rather rough district transformed into a nice residential area lined with trees and many, many sidewalk cafes and drinking establishments. Rick pointed out that the “ruffians” from a previous time in the area’s history have become responsible parents resulting in the drastic changes, which was very apparent from walking around and people watching. I left it to Jesse to pick our restaurant for dinner, and he chose…Indian?! Um, okay. It was quite a tasty meal though, including Jesse’s strange green beer concoction and obnoxious accordian band at the end aside.
I’m now writing this blog entry at a laundromat surrounded by mostly English-speaking people trying to figure out how the washers and dryers work. Thankfully Jesse managed to get everything working and we’re now working on getting our clothes dry.
I was going to end this entry with our laundry escapades, but it turns out that we just had the best. Greek. Food. EVER. Jesse and I were both being indecisive when I suggested the little Greek restaurant about a block and a half from our hotel would be a nice change of pace from the currywurst overdose I’ve been enjoying. A very cozy atmosphere, an owner who gave me an extra piece of lamb mignon because he thought the two wonderfully cooked pieces on my plate would be too small (darn Americans), and two shots of Ouzo on the house made for a very happy Poom and Jesse indeed.
Next stop is Dresden on Saturday, preceded by lunch at the Greek place again.
