First Night in India

As my plane skidded to a stop on the runway, I took the chance to glance back through the cabin. It’s interesting being the minority. Everyone has a look on their face like, “What the hell are you doing here?” When the plane attendants bid me farewell in German, I couldn’t help thinking, “Oh boy, now I’m not just one, but two parts removed from America…The US seems a long way off.”

When you enter a really foreign place, you immediately notice the smallest things…the fact that no one has cleaned the glass on the doors for a long time, the brown dinginess that inhabits corners and crevices, the lack of décor, or a haphazardly placed Buddha in the corner of a surgically lit hallway.

I had been to Germany in the last 10 days, an “infected” area, so I was greeted by a finger ushering me toward a group of masked government workers eager to take my little green form that I had diligently filled out on the plane. They didn’t even check me. I could have just lied about having the flu and they wouldn’t have known. One success!

As I walked away from the masked crusaders, I had the familiar feel of purpose come over me as I walked to the passport counter. But I was shot down! The man looked at my little white paper and said in a very Indian accent, head bobbing from side to side, “you didn’t fill everything out; where are you staying?” I explained that I didn’t know where I was staying and that all I knew is that I was going to meet someone outside the glass doors, hopefully gripping a paper with these 8 letters: “ETHAN WOODS.” That wasn’t doing it for him, though, so he told me to go use the free telephone to make a call and pointed in a seemingly arbitrary direction. His directional led me to a long counter against a wall with a single telephone sitting atop it. Above it was a laminated piece of white paper that said “free telephone.” I think I made that sign in third grade.

As I picked up the receiver, I had another familiar feeling come over me…failure. I realized that no sound was being emitted from the telephone speaker. “It’s a different country with new rules and laws,” I thought to myself. “Perhaps there is no dial tone here,” came the follow up. So, I plowed ahead anyways laying a heavy finger on each successive button, the feeling of purpose returning to fight against inevitable failure. One…two…three…four…no sound…five…failure.

“EATAN!,” a voice came from behind. “God, is that you,” I thought—no one knows my name in this country. I did an about face and was greeted with a smile. I recognized the man from the plane, but had not talked to him at all. He was wearing a white winter cap, hardly appropriate for the hot, humid conditions in India. After realizing that my face must be clenched with the lines of deep thought forming above my brow, I said hello. He then explained to me that he had heard me talking to the flight attendant on the plane about my trip around the world and my “shooting in the dark” approach to India. He said that he had talked to the man at the passport counter and told him I was staying with him. I was confused and a little taken aback at his openness and forwardness, but I readily handed over my pen to let him write in his address on my form. If it got me past step 1, I knew I could handle steps 2, 3, 4, and 5. Success two!

It turns out that the guy is a software engineer and was recently working for Ferrari in Italy. He said he was returning home to surprise his wife, whom he’d recently married. Apparently she wanted him back in Chennai with her, but he had a year contract in Italy. I guess he had figured out a way to break it and was quite excited to surprise his wife.

I proceeded to the conveyor belt full of bags and boxes, all eagerly waiting to be snatched up by their owners. So I looked, and I waited, and I waited, and I waited. The thing about having the last name Woods is that you learn what patience is after having been called last in anything that was ever alphabetized, However, my patience was wearing thin, especially because I knew that my new friend was waiting behind me checking his cell phone for lack of a better thing to do. I looked down at the scratch marks on the steel belt and decided that my bags were in fact going to come…and that they did. Success three!

When you walk past a line of frantically waving Indians waiting to receive their family members, partners, and business associates, you kind of feel like a piece of meat on display. It’s like you’re the fish at the outdoor market that everyone keeps asking about, because you look different and out of place. Or maybe it’s just because you’re twice the size of everyone else around you and you’re naturally the landmark for watching the flow of traffic…who knows? All I know is that straight ahead, I found what I was looking for: a white piece of paper with “ETHEN WOODS” written on it…close enough. Success four!

The man who greeted me is called Raghavendra and he is the business associate of Arvind Nayak, who helped to arrange my stay in India. Raghavendra is one of 150 employees in Arvind’s freight shipping business (www.nayakaviation.com) and runs the operations in Chennai, one of the seven offices in India (there are two more in Hong Kong and Singapore). Arvind and I have yet to meet, but I know that he is a kind and caring man who has decided to help a wayward traveler who just so happened to graduate Dolgeville High School about 35 years after he did (as an exchange student). He has graciously set up places for me to stay in Chennai, Bangalore, Cochin and New Delhi and found me very wonderful places to learn about the cuisine, the first being a five-star hotel in downtown Chennai. You’ll learn more about him, as will I.

Raghavendra said some words to me in English, I thought, but it was very difficult to make it out through the Indian accent, so I just followed. The sidewalk was a veritable hotel of homeless people stretched out on pieces of cloth or just face on bare cement, some engaged in conversation and some with just a vacant, lifeless expression. I pressed on. Analyzing the flow of traffic, I saw Land Rovers, Tatas, tiny cars, and auto rickshaws wildly competing for the next chance to push forward. I would liken it to a dangerous game of tetris, where everyone was trying to fill the next spot…no blinkers, just honking. I was very confused in my new surroundings, and I had just spent 16 hours in transit starting at 4 a.m. in Vienna and ending at midnight in Chennai, India. My brain was so shot up with holes that it could have been a stop sign in a redneck village. But I followed Raghavendra’s motions, climbing into a tiny car, the driver positioned on the front right. Air conditioning…phew! I was so glad to be out of the oppressive heat and humidity that first struck me as wading through a pot of luke warm hot dog water, when you add the smell. The traffic was moving slower than molasses and the road looked like a war zone. And, if I thought Turkey had chaotic traffic, you should see India! Hit the accelerator hard and hit the breaks fast, honk when not spoken to, and hold on for dear life! Those are the rules of the road in India.

I looked over to analyze my only friend in the world, Raghavendra, as the car windows began to condense with water droplets jealous of the cold on the car interior. I said the only thing I knew to say, “Thank you!”

He smiled and said, “no thanks, no thanks.” That’s when I remembered what I had heard about Indian hospitality. Always a smile and always a helping hand.

The car ride was long and the traffic was unbearable, even at 1 a.m., but I took the chance to acquaint myself with the man sitting beside me as well as his Indian accent. I also surveyed the surroundings through the mist on the windows. From what I could tell, it was India…I wasn’t dreaming. The streets were dirty, the curbsides were high to battle against flooding and lack of drainage, the people were everywhere in the streets and, to reiterate, it looked like a garbage truck with it’s back hatch open had dispersed its garbage all over the road.

As we pulled onto my corner, as I now know it, the road was a puddle of stagnant water and garbage from the recent monsoon rains and flooding. My white blood cells recoiled with horror, the malaria pills in my bags just begging to be swallowed. We rounded the next corner and pulled up next to what looked like a house. Raghavendra said, “come, this is the guesthouse.” I obediently followed.

He rang the bell on the front door and a taller Indian looking guy dressed in jeans and a button up shirt answered the door, feet bare. Raghevendra and the young man exchanged some words, and then the young man flashed a smile and bobbled his head a little from side to side and ushered us in. He led us up a narrow staircase decorated with some carpet and Indian decorations, then opened the door on the right. “This is my home for a while,” I thought to myself. Here goes nothing. I stepped in and the young man flicked a couple switches, causing a fan to start whirring above my head and a fluorescent tube to lazily spring to life. The fluorescent glow revealed a large room with white granite floors, two standard looking beds, a nightstand, an armoire, a brown wardrobe, and a small table with a tv atop. There were two doors on the other side of the room. To my surprise, I heard the familiar sound of an air conditioner rumbling to life. I felt like I’d just won the lottery! It all looked pretty normal, I thought. There were towels, blankets and sheets neatly folded at the bottom of each bed with a small bar of soap topping the neat stack. The clock in the upper right hand side of the room seemed to say that Indians were not one of those timeless cultures that only meet based on positions of the sun in the sky (that was a joke…I knew that). The decorations and curtains were pretty standard looking. I walked across the room and opened door one, after having slid the large silver deadbolt to the “heel boy!” position. It was a balcony with a view of the neighboring building, a staircase extending out of sight above. I closed the door. That only left one thing: the other door. I eased it open to reveal a white tiled bathroom. There was a sink and mirror directly in front of me and some faucets to my side protruding from the walls. I looked down to see a couple of dingy buckets, one that was very large and the other dangling from the side of it, a handle facilitating its grasp. I thought to myself, “well, you can’t have everything.” Little did I know that there was actually a shower above my head, I just didn’t notice it because my gaze was fixed on the buckets and faucets below. I really thought I was going to be sponge bathing for a while. I noticed a drain in the corner on the completely level bathroom floor, which no doubt was supposed to drain the flooded post-shower bathroom floor. And then I saw it…the vestige of western civilization that I thought would totally vanish…a porcelain throne!! Success five!!!

As I sit here at almost 4:30 in the morning, I realize two things: one is that my throat is really dry and I don’t dare drink the water, and the other is that this is going to be an awesome experience!

New Location in India

India

Population: 1.2 billion
Capital: New Delhi
Number of States: 23
Current State: Tamil Nadu
Current City: Chennai
Population Chennai: 4.5 million
Population Bristol Fellows in Chennai: 1






In the pictures on the left hand side of the page, you can see where exactly I am staying until January 5. The pictures zoom in to my exact location at the Guest Inn located at:

No. 1, 3rd Street, Habibullah Road,
T. Nagar, Chennai - 600 017
Telephone number (office):
+91 44 28341691
Telephone number (res):
+91 44 2834 1272

I also have my own cell phone number which I acquired today. It is:
+91 9789075200

If you want to call me from Skype, it will cost you about 10 cents a minute.


The 'A' is my location within the city.
















To give you more information, I will be working at the Le Meridien Hotel (I know the 'Le' and 'the' are redundant, but not everyone speaks a romance language). It is a five star hotel and it would remind you of something straight out of a movie where a handsome looking guy arrives in a cream colored suit at an exotic location and checks into a hotel that's the size of the Oklahoma Panhandle and has servant's bustling everywhere, opening doors and such. Here is the website for the hotel: Le Meridien Hotel, Chennai. The image below shows my guest house as a red 'A' and the hotel as a purple blob. The hotel has three restaurants: one with international cuisine, one with Indian fine dining, and one with seafood. Can you guess which one I chose to work at?























As far as Chennai goes, I can tell you more as we go along with wacky updates, but all I know about it now are a few juicy tidbits that I have gathered here and there. This wikipedia page is also helpful: Chennai, India. Here's what I can tell you...Chennai is quite pungent, lacks the English language (what ever happened to the effects of British colonialism...just kidding, that's insensitive), and produces a lot of cars. In fact, there is a Ford and Hyundai factory here as well as parts manufacturers for names such as BMW and Mercedes. It produces 60% of India's auto exports and is called the detroit of South Asia...Go GM! (too soon?) The food here, as far as my tongue can discern, is very spicy, but luckily I frequented enough hot currywurst stands in Germany to accustom my stomach to the heat. I'm actually getting used to the joint crying/feeding sessions after my first 24 hours here.

Bolognese Sauce ala Ethan

Here is a recipe that I learned in Turkey and then perfected in Italy. It's a very delicious
Bolognese sauce with some of my own touches. I never work with measuring cups, so you'll have to bear with me on the measurements.

Ingredients:
1 1/2 lbs. ground beef or meat of choice
1 can of broth to match meat
3/4 stick of butter
1/4 cup olive oil
5 cloves garlic
1 red onion and 1 yellow onion (chopped)
1 green pepper and 1/2 green chili pepper (chopped)
6 capers and a splash of caper juice
6-8 vine ripened tomatoes (or equivalent in beefsteak tomatoes)
2 stalks celery
1 carrot
1/2 cup red wine
1/2 cup whole milk
1 handful grated Parmesan cheese
oregano
basil
1/2 bouquet parsley (some dill optional)
allspice
nutmeg
pepper/salt

1) Chop all the vegetables to approximately the same size. Crush the tomatoes after having chopped them.
2) Over medium heat, add butter, oil, onions and garlic and brown for 1-2 minutes.
3) Next, add the peppers, carrots, celery, pepper, salt, a good amount of oregano, and an amount of basil that is less than the oregano you added and let simmer for 6 minutes.
4) One by one, add the red wine and the milk, letting each evaporate off.
5) Add the stock, Parmesan cheese, tomatoes, nutmeg (to taste), allspice (to taste), capers and caper juice, and let simmer over low heat for 1-2 hours. You should not need to add very much nutmeg and allspice (each less than a teaspoon).
6) Add the parsley and dill directly before serving and serve with fresh Parmesan cheese

*For best results, let the sauce sit in the refrigerator for 24 hours. This is pretty much the rule with any Italian sauces you might make. This recipe seems to be a hit everywhere I make it. You know when people go for their third plate.

Toulouse, France

Let me describe Toulouse for you as best I can. I am sitting at an internet café right now, the remnants of a croissant scattered across the table, an empty coffee cup begging for a refill. To my front is a steady stream of traffic, the sound of heels clicking upon the cobblestone street. The people here are more fashionable, especially when it comes to the eyeglasses that they wear. The fall fashions are out.

The most persistent color in this city is red. The stone that carpets the city is a muted gray/red, the buildings are a brighter, brick red (probably because they are brick). Everywhere I look, there are iron-wrought railings, especially those that border the old balconies above. My friend, Sara Feuerstein, calls it charming, and she’s been here in France for two years. I’ve decided that this is the most encompassing word to describe the places that I’ve traveled in the last few months. There certainly is not a lack of fountains or churches. It seems that everywhere you go, there is an angel, a lamb, or a mythological creature spitting a steady stream of water into an oxidized bronze basin or stone bowl. Perhaps the most interesting to me at this point, though, are the churches. After reading “Pillars of the Earth,” by Ken Follett, I can’t help but think of the history behind these structures that took sometimes centuries to erect. It’s so interesting to me to think that a man would devote his entire existence to building one church. Day in and day out, he would breath stone dust trying to leave a legacy in a bleak time (the Middle Ages). It’s no wonder that there is so much to marvel at when you consider that a small army of men’s collective life creativity went into creating the structure before you.

As you raise your eyes away from ground level, you could very well be in another century, except for the few television antennae that are scattered on the rooftops. If you really want to find a place in this city where you’re in a different century, it can be found. More than once have I found myself winding through a back alley, most times at sunset, sidelined by small, squat doors whose purpose are not apparent to me. The stone facades and the shuttered windows do not look as though they’ve been tended to in centuries, the cobbles below certainly showing their age. If you listen closely, you hear the faint sounds of…nothing. Exactly how it used to be. If ever I’ve felt like I’m living a scene from Les Miserables, it was here. Where the candle snuffer is, I don’t know.

People bike everywhere, although not quite as smoothly as on a blacktopped surface. You can see the jowls of older people shaking as they ride about on the brick and cobbles. Little baskets adorn the bikes, leeks and baguettes emerging from their wickered confines. You can see the bikes parked along the narrow streets, the owner sipping on a café au lait in a cafe or ordering a baguette from the bakery. Everyone nibbles the end of their baguette as they walk.

It is sunny right now, the temperature perfect. I’m sure the milling about is accentuated by these conditions. Fall is certainly one of the best times to people watch, I think.

The shops in Toulouse are small. There are lot’s of bakeries and lots of cafes, but there are also specialty food shops like the bustling Italian one by Carmes. There are tea shops, organic stores, little clown stores (odd, I know), bars, butchers, the list goes on, the charm never ceasing to be apparent. Even the one Mcdonalds in town is classy. The inside has classy dim lights extending tableward from the ceiling. In lieu of French fries, you can get potatoes, which are seasoned and lovely. As you can tell, I’ve tried the Mcdonalds, but only because I heard the food is a much higher quality. I had to see and it’s true. They don’t allow crap into these Mcdonalds.

If you head to the riverside, you will find magnificent brick bridges adorned with antique iron-wrought lamps. At sunset, you can see a perfect reflection of the bridge on the mirror-like water. The underside of the bridges rise from the water in brick arches that are lit up different colors at night. My night runs through this city could possibly be as exhilarating as those through the streets of Istanbul.

Although not as prolific here as in Germany, the doner kebab stands are plenty. The Turkish influence pervades Europe. If only they knew of the other kebabs that Turkey offers. Someone needs to introduce Adana and Iskender kebabs over here.

I can’t feed you all the good without the bad, though. That’s disillusionment. Very often will I find myself stepping over a fresh stream of liquid running from the side of a building. A Frenchman has urinated here. It’s pretty common that people pee in the streets, whether day or night, it doesn’t matter. There really aren’t any public restrooms and this could be one of the reasons for the leaky Frenchman, but I think it’s just something that’s ingrained in the culture. Another observable thing here is the use of drugs. The bridge down the street from me serves as a quiet place for shooting up. If you come at the right time you can see the man with the belt wrapped around his arm…I’ll go no further. Apparently the cops don’t crack down as much here as in the U.S.. There are also homeless people everywhere. On a 10 minute walk, expect to see 5 people. The difference is that these homeless people look a little more classy. Damnit France! Why so classy?

Another interesting phenomenon is that many young people where hoodies and shirts donning emblazoned with “Franklin and Marshall,” which is a little boutique store downtown. However, they have no idea that this is actually a little college in Pennsylvania. Apparently someone took that name, brought it here, and then marketed it as a cool boutique brand. Why Franklin and not Hamilton? Maybe I’ll start a boutique store with Hamilton hoodies.

Speaking of school pride, there is none here. The socialized educational system definitely does not produce individuals who love their school or have a fun time learning. I visited the local university and it is completely utilitarian and bleak. The only upside is that you can get a master’s degree for about 500 Euro. It’s a piece of shit, though…so I’ve heard. Whereas I look back on my college days fondly, these French students will not. Sara and I have had numerous conversations that center around how much we love Hamilton College. The stories are endless.

The Gayest cheese in France

Above is a slide show of some of the sights in southern France. You will see shots of Toulouse, St. Affrique, Roquefort, and Millau.

Here is an interesting passage about the role of the cheese workers in the Roquefort caves from the English-translated tour sheet:

"Using a special probe, they scoop out minute samples of cheese from a selection of loaves chosen randomly from each fermenting room. The ease or difficulty with which the probe enters the cheese gives them an idea of the texture of the paste. On removing the probe the master-ripener examines the distribution of the internal cavities and the bluing, sometimes touches the cheese to check its suppleness, and finally smells it to inhale its aroma. The cheese is not tasted at the stage and the probe is replaced."

That is all for now.

October 10, 2009 (Hamburg)

I am on another train from Hamburg to Cologne at the moment. Trains seem to be the only place that I can find time to type.

I’ve found that touring so quickly is a very stressful life. There is a lot of waiting and a lot of unknowns. But, of course, this was the part I knew would exist. It is also very difficult to learn about a place in a few days. There is a lot of time that needs to go into meeting and greeting with people and getting to know them. There is also a lot of time that is spent lost, or as I like to think of it, misguided sightseeing. All of this makes it hard to get to the core of study and research, as you might imagine, but I think for right now, the memories that I am amassing as I hop all over Europe are not to be regretted or even curtailed in favor of some deep study. Books are always available and I am quite certain that seeing each place and experiencing the food, sight, sounds, and smells is much more important at the moment. On a very excited note, I would like to report that I am the proud new owner of an Amazon Kindle, which was a birthday/Christmas present from my family. I can now carry limitless books with me without the fear of a sore lower back or steep bill at airport weigh-ins. Ok, it’s not limitless, but I can store 1500 books on it at only 10 ounces. I can also get my subscription to the Economist and newspapers so I can keep up with new Nobel Prize winners, among other things.



From the 6th of October until now, I have been in the house of Peter and Nicoline Krup, who were unbelievable hosts. Not only did they give me a very large space to occupy, but they also looked up all the information for every train I needed to take, and fed me breakfast, lunch, and dinner in only the most German of ways (except for the last night; we ate South American food…but hey, it’s meat right?). The first day they toured me around the city of Hamburg, showing us St. Peter’s Cathedral, which is actually just a monument now after having been destroyed in a bombing, St. Michael’s church, the Hamburg warehouses, the harbor, the opulent-looking town hall lined with Holy Roman Emperors, and all the little streets and bridges that make Hamburg…well, Hamburg. Hamburg has been and continues to be one of the largest shipping ports in the world and boasts the largest network of harbor warehouses anywhere. It also has more bridges than Venice. The city is very charming with its stone streets, its chic clothing stores, its shoe boutiques, its post-war reconstructions, its miniature train museums, and its large squares lined with white arcades. I found it to be more charming than Berlin, which may or may not be fair considering that Berlin is a sprawling city and I did not get to see it all. The other part that really appealed to me is that it is a bustling, growing city. If you take a ride over to Hafencity on the waterfront, you will see a modern architects playground. Glass and cement abound and uneven lines are the norm in this architectural microcosm. Seeing all the fresh building with the busy harbor as a backdrop gave me the feeling of being in an industrial age American city…a concept I’ve always learned about, but seldom seen. Of course, it is a German town, so perhaps we’ll call it my ideal of an industrial age German city, although I did not learn much about that in school.

I had four nights available to me in Hamburg, which left ample time for tasting some of the Hamburg specialties. We’ll start with the side dishes. It may not come as a surprise to some of you, but Germans love potatoes and cabbage. They eat their potatoes boiled, mashed, baked, fried (in all different shapes), au gratin, twice baked, with curry, with mayo, in a salad…the list goes on. They also eat lots of different cabbages with as much diversity of cooking techniques as with potatoes. My particular favorites are Rotkohl, which is a red cabbage cooked in a vinegar base, and just plain old sauerkraut, which can’t be beat on a bratwurst. They also like their fish up north. I tried some different fried fishes with potatoes and cabbage, a dish of pureed potatoes, fish, cabbage, beets, corned beef, and some tasty almond-trout.

In Germany, meat is king, and that holds for the city of Hamburg. One night I visited a restaurant that had the feel of a raucous German hunting lodge, without the raucousness. I sat with Peter and Nicoline in a raised booth with a stuffed marten directly above me, a wild boar to my front, a stuffed falcon following, and then other various wild things adorning the walls opposite. Unbeknownst to me, everyone else had ordered the smaller platters (I thought for sure that Peter had ordered the large one). I, however, ordered the large Hunter’s platter. After about 5 minutes or so, I was delivered a large pewter-looking tray about the size of my left-leg, with potato croquettes (x8), a large helping of red cabbage, a healthy serving of sautéed mushrooms, two types of venison, wild baby boar and a saucer of gravy--my heart stopped in anticipation. Seeing all this, I did only what I know best. I took a long swig of my Hefeweizen (beer) and then inhaled the carnivorous man platter. It turns out that I have taken my shrunken Turkish belly and turned it into a voracious German endless pit. I’m proud to say that I have gained back about 7 lbs. since Turkey. My clothes fit a little better now.

On a different night, the Krups took Lauren and I to a restaurant that used to be a horse-changing pub (since the 1500s, I think). Men would bring their horses in through the large, dark-brown doors, and then seek refreshment in a fire-heated room. Here, I ordered a wild duck with cranberries, sliced pear, gravy, and red cabbage. Peter had an equally delicious looking duck in front of him that was a little bigger than mine as a result of it being farmed. Nicoline had some very delicious goose livers which she let me try. All delicious, fatty and very filling. Beer stands no chance at getting one drunk when heaps of food are included. This is the secret of impressive German drinking I think. Just eat half a cow or pig, and then you can drink as much as you want. It’s easy!

Each morning, I awoke to a find a wonderful display of foods on the table, which I gladly devoured over some interesting, insightful and educational conversations with my two (former teacher) hosts. Our settings were a dark brown cutting board, fork and knife, a coffee cup, a juice glass, and a cloth napkin. To the top left of the cutting board was a knitted chicken sitting on top of a soft-boiled egg in an egg cup. They served us strong, black coffee (just like I like it now) apple and pear juice, fruits, 6 types of cheeses, two types of liverwurst, speck (a German bacon that is cured, not cooked), salami, assorted rolls, pumpernickel bread, black bread and two types of muesli. My favorite was the heart-stopper sandwich. This consists of a roll slathered in butter on one side, egg yolk and chopped egg white on the other, then two types of cheese in the middle with either liverwurst or speck. This has become a common breakfast for me in Germany and probably contributes to my weight gain…well that and the whole animals that I continue to consume. If I continue to work out, I hope that my weight is going to my muscles and not my belly.

Another highlight for my visit to Hamburg was the Miniature Wonderland, a museum of model trains and cities that is extremely detailed and intricate. There are hundreds of thousands of people all over the landscapes, and trains run by track across the waters and snow of Scandinavia, the mountains of Switzerland, the farm dotted landscapes of Central Europe, the red stoned Arizona landscape. They also run through multiple city streets, including those of Hamburg and Las Vegas. Everything is moving and everything is lit up. Even the model cars that navigate the city streets have lit up headlights. There are model fires that take place, there are Ferris wheels, there are roller coasters, there are live concerts, there is a running chocolate factory that produces chocolate…there are elevators, there are ski lifts, there are cement factories…there are, monasteries, monuments, and churches…the list goes on. There is no possible way to see everything, which makes this place great. You can keep on visiting and it won’t get old. The other thing is that it’s not completely innocent. It’s very obvious that adults designed this thing and were often bored when doing so. Some of the miniature people are having sex in fields, filming pornography in the high rises, or nude bathing on the beaches, but these things are not caught by the children I think. It takes the intent eyes of an adult to find such things in the exhibit.

Anyways, the museum rekindled my childhood fantasies of building and engineering things and I have decided that when I grow up, my house will be full of living model train exhibits in addition to all the secret passages. You just watch…I’ll do it.

Hamburg could not have been complete without some spice exploration, so I did that too. It is actually a wonderful city to explore for spices, because so many of them came in through this bustling port. I visited the spice museum—supposedly the only spice museum in the world—located in one of the old storehouses. It had old milling equipment, spice sorters, spice grinders, and spice packaging machines. It also had exhibits with pictures of spices in their natural environments and the processing methods of the native people. I’ll actually get to see that later in my journey, though. They had a wide array of ground spices in bowls and oils to smell and feel, but I could tell that they’d been sitting there a long time, because they had lost all their volatile oils and hardly gave off any aroma…I was disappointed with that. One of the things that I found most interesting were the different items they found in the sacks of spices that came from the East. There were lighters, toy cars, tons of tools, batteries, small dolls, etc.. Everything was very interesting, but as usual, there was no English displayed and it was a bit hard to pick up information. Story of my life, it seems.

October 2, 2009 (The Romantic Road)

I am on a train to Berlin and I just finished the Romantic road. There is no way possible to explain all the places I saw between Oktoberfest and now, but I can give you a little taste with a town called Dinkelsbuhl.

Dinkelsbuhl is a fully-functioning, walled Medieval with enough charm and lack of tourists to completely fulfill my Medieval fetish. It is exactly what you would picture a Medieval town to be: cobbled streets, an enormous Gothic cathedral, thick walls with towers, old mills, half timbered buildings, and even a little hole in the outside of the town walls labeled “Mauergeist,” or wall ghost. The lady that ran my hotel told me that it’s for the children and you can ring the old bell that’s next to the little cave to summon the ghost. I love it.

Walking through the town, the scents of wood smoke, freshly fallen leaves, and old masonry hit your nose. The occasional bakery puts off smells of buttery and fruity treats. As you look around, you notice that the walls are covered with moss, lichens, and some small plants poking out to say hello. You can easily place yourself five hundred years ago to see Teutonic nights emerging from the front of their quarters in the middle of the city. You can just see all the workmen scurrying about the street, the farmers wheeling their goods about on carts, and the masons mixing the mortar for the grand churches they’re building. Nowadays, it’s a little more modern, but still retains its charm.


The morning after my stay in the quaint Hotel Palmengarten, I decided that I was going to use the brisk weather for a jog around the city. I actually ran around the whole thing twice: once outside of the walls and once inside. It was absolutely amazing running by the two mills that the towns used to operate under special privileges granted by the king. It was amazing to run through the great gates to the city, to trod over the ivied bridges that traversed the moats and waterways and to see the mallard ducks and swans below. At one point, I looked across the moat to see a few goats grazing amongst small shrubs. I also happened upon one of the antique locks that controls the level of the moat. That thing hasn’t been replaced in a while.

I was also quite impressed with the Gothic cathedral in town. It actually smelled like a church and had real candles lit in the aisles. When you looked up, you could see the dust particles coming through the light that was filtering in through large stain-glass windows. The roof was vaulted with sharp edges and sharp ornamentation around the columns supporting its weight. And a very dark looking pulpit wound its way around one of the center-right columns to look down upon the Bavarian carved wooden pews. The artwork wasn’t special and neither were the sculptures, but I enjoyed the simplicity of it all. I’ve seen a lot of churches in the last year and this one is definitely a stand out.


Speaking of churches, I found it very odd and creepy walking about at night, because there were lit up ivied crucifixes everywhere with a naked and pierced Jesus hanging upon them. There was also a dead Jesus laid behind bars in the back of the Gothic cathedral, right next to the Last supper, and Jesus dead in Mary’s arms. I really almost wet my pants when I rounded the sharp corner to find this. If that wasn’t creepy enough, I turned the next corner to see a night watchmen walking down the street, complete with leggings, leather pants, gold-buckled leather shoes, a little hat, and a glass sided lantern to light his way. This, all without tourists. I actually felt like I was in a Medieval town. It was creepy and awesome! Oh, and on my morning jog I also saw an everyday worker carrying some carpentry equipment along the park with all the same leggings, shoes, leather pants, and hat. He looked to be about 60 years old and there’s no way he was doing that for the tourists at the crack of dawn.