Bohemian Rhapsody

You already know from my last postscript that I made it to Prague safe and sound. I had planned to explore a bit that night, maybe see a few of the sights, but it was raining and I was exhausted, so instead I asked for directions to the nearest ATM, got hopelessly lost anyway, found my way back, and eventually wound up back in my room with some rice cakes and dried fruit because the hostel, while amazing, is not in the most commercial area.

When I say amazing though, I mean amazing. For less than I’ve been paying for most of my hostels, I had a private room with a closet, dresser, coffee table, end table, mirror, sink, wall hooks, the whole shebang. Electrical plugs to myself. Even a window. These may seem like small things, but for hostel living they are the lap of luxury. Then to top it all off, the room came with free breakfast. That got progressively less amazing, starting the first day with apples and cucumbers, in addition to the breads, cheeses, cereals and yogurt, losing the apples the second day, and the cucumbers the third, but it was still good. And most importantly free. Even the showers were fantastic. Amazing water pressure, always clean.

I think my only possible complaint would have to be the pillow, which was flat, and the bugs. The bugs weren’t the hostel’s fault though. The entire place was spotless, Prague is just teeming with insect life - in this case, mosquitos. I made the mistake the first night of leaving the window open as the sun went down. By the time it was dark out there was a swarm. I closed the window, of course, but that still left me with an hour long hunting expedition to slay every beastie that had found its way into my room. The walls were no longer spotless when I was done, in fact Czech mosquitos are surprisingly substantial, but I only got two bites over the course of my stay, so I would say victory was mine.

I should have gone to bed early that night. In fact, I should have gone to bed early every night. Instead, I think the room to myself went to my head and so I took advantage. The wifi, contrary to what my attempts at wifi calls indicated, was fantastic. I caught up on the latest season of Big Brother, because it was mindless, and I needed some of that. I finished booking all my hostels until I get back to France. I even planned out sights to see in most of the cities I have left. Only Brussels and Munich remain, but I have time to figure those out yet.

Even with the late night, however, I woke up early the next day. It might have had something to do with not wearing my ear plugs even though that train station was right next door. I didn’t feel like I’d been woken up, but I definitely wasn’t fully rested. Maybe I was just excited? Regardless, I got up, had breakfast, and took the half hour walk into the old town to begin seeing Prague properly.

My first stop was the Old Town Square, complete with the famous astrological clock above which the twelve apostles admonish sinners at the top of every hour. I had planned to wander until my walking tour started, but I got lucky as I wandered past the Klementinum and wandered past a tour there just as it was about to start. The Klementinum was an old Jesuit college that was later converted into an observatory and then concert hall. The tour encompassed the Mirror Chapel, where they hold all manner of events, as well as the breathtaking Baroque Library and the old Astronomical Tower. We ended at the top of the Astronomical Tower where I, for once, was completely taken with a city view.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I like views, but I don’t think I hold them in as high a regard as many. The view of Prague though might be my favorite to date. There’s shape to it, and character. It’s visually interesting, and not at all the same from one slice to the next. It was lucky that the only other people on the tour with me, a German couple from Columbia and their friend from Berlin, were content to stand and stare and photograph with me. I couldn’t stay too long though, as I did have the tour to get to, so I took some pictures and down we went.

As opposed to just the one walking tour, I actually did two, one on each side of the river. The first, led by an Austrian from Munich who had moved to Prague to escape compulsory military service, included much about the history of the city as a whole - the old kings of Bohemia as well as the political turmoil of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The various tributes to Kafka spattered around the city even inspired me to begin reading The Metamorphosis. Advance warning to anyone considering doing the same, avoid food while you’re doing it. I started the whole things over breakfast the next morning, and there is nothing less appetizing than a story about man who has suddenly become a cockroach.

The second tour was one of the castle district, led by an Australian Englishman named Callum. He took us up the castle hill by tram where we started our walk at Strahov Monastery. In addition to a library museum that, horror of horrors, I didn’t get to see, the monks of Strahov are known for making some of the best beer in the world. It wins international awards and everything. I decided, therefore, to try some despite my aversion to beer. It wasn’t half bad? Not that I would drink it on a regular basis, but for beer it was actually quite good. Plus it was called St. Norbert’s Special Beer, and I have been quite partial to the name Norbert ever since Hagrid named his dragon in the first book of Harry Potter.

The best part of the tour, however, was definitely the guide’s rendition of the World War II assassination of Reinhard Heydrich, the Butcher of Prague and one of Hitler’s closest friends. You see, Callum had just finished an entire book on the assassination, and so he sat us down on a curb in front of the Foreign Ministry and proceeded to act out the entire thing in great detail, including the fallout that led up to a paratrooper shootout in the rafters and basement of an old church. It lasted forty-five minutes, but it felt like five at most. Or maybe that was just me and my love of history.

The castle itself is really more of a palace now, reengineered by the Habsburgs when its defensive functions became obsolete. It does feature the lovely St. Vitus Cathedral towering over the inner courtyard though, and a man who had been protesting the government seizure of his house for more than a thousand days. He had a counter and everything, and had clearly made friends with the tour guides he sees on a daily basis.

I was lucky over the course of the tour to make friends with an Israeli girl studying in Austria and visiting Prague with her friend from Barcelona. The friend, for obvious reasons, was on the Spanish tour, which meant Iris was, like me, alone. We began chatting over our St. Norbert’s beers and by the end of the tour she had invited me out on the pub crawl with them that night. Now, I wasn’t feeling quite up to a pub crawl, but it was nice to have someone to wander with for a bit after the tour. And when her friend joined us I even got to practice my Spanish!

Together we went to visit the Street of Gold, where one of the old kings had housed the world’s preeminent alchemists in the hope that working together they could find the formula for turning metal into gold. Then we wandered back to the town center via Charles Bridge where, my mother will be happy to know, they offered to take my picture.

At the town center we parted ways. I was enjoying the city so much, however, that I wasn’t quite ready to call it a night. If I wasn’t going on the pub crawl with friends then I definitely wasn’t going drinking alone, but it was Prague, a city known for its cheap alcohol and, especially, absinthe. So I stopped by one of the many absintheries for a taste. It wasn’t enough to have much of an effect, but the whole experience of watching them melt the sugar and then sipping at the strangely tasty yet toxic drink was a good one. I even made friends with a friend of the bar tender who found my fascination with the fire absolutely hilarious. That felt like a good end to the day, so I made the half hour trek back to my hostel for another late night of Big Brother and travel plans.

The next morning started at the Church of St. Michael, a church we’d passed on the first walking tour the day before while it was closed for lunch and apparently the most haunted building in Prague. Our guide had co opted several members of the group for an impromptu reenactment of a theif, caught by a statute of the Virgin Mary inside the church and forced to saw off his own arm - an arm that still hangs in the church. It didn’t look much like an arm from where I was standing, but neither am I an anatomist.

The rest of the morning was left to the Jewish Quarter of Prague. I visited three synagogues, a cemetery, a ceremonial hall, and a museum. The first synagogue was a memorial to the Jews of Prague who lost their lives in camps in World War II. More than 77,000 names were inscribed on the walls, sorted by location and family. Attached to the synagogue was a museum of children’s drawings from Terezin Camp about fifty kilometers northwest of Prague. A Jewish Czech artist had been teaching them and cataloging their work until her transfer to Auschwitz, before which she managed to preserve all of the work in two suitcases that she left behind at Terezin. It was certainly a moving exhibition, even with the tourists packed in like sardines.

After the synagogue, I headed around back to a cemetery overflowing with gravestones. Because the Jews were not allowed to build outward, even for the dead, they were forced over the years to start building up. The cemetery was twelve layers deep at some points, holding a mind blowing number of bodies for such a tiny space. I forget the number, and I don’t have wifi at the moment to check, but it was impressive whatever it was.

The cemetery was followed by the ceremonial hall with exhibits on the Burial Society, the second synagogue with exhibits on Jewish traditions, and finally the Spanish Synagogue, which was my favorite. They’re not sure who built the Spanish Synagogue, but it is so named for the obvious Moorish influences in the architecture and decoration. It was an amazing sort of mix between a synagogue and a mosque and had a few interesting exhibits on the history of the Jewish community in Prague besides.

Once I’d finished with the Jewish Quarter, I crossed the river again to explore the areas of the other bank that were not the castle. This included a stop by the John Lennon Wall, the Church of Our Lady Victory, and Petrin Tower. I’m not really sure about the story behind the John Lennon Wall. As far as I could tell it’s just a wall with a few murals of John Lennon’s face, but it was certainly attracting a lot of photoshoots. The Church of Our Lady Victory, however, was more interesting.

So the Bohemians won a battle ages ago that the king attributed to a doll they had taken with them to the front lines. Now, the doll is called the Infant Jesus and has its own church. It’s a Catholic church, but the people were kneeling around the altar clearly worshipping this doll. It’s become something of a cult with people making and sending the doll elaborate dresses from all over the world. They’re on display in a museum on the second floor of the church. It was by far one of the creepier things I’ve seen on my travels, but… you know, to each their own.

I didn’t spend long in the church before I headed around the corner to Petrinske Park, where I set out to climb the hill up to Petrin Tower. Petrin Tower, built by Gustave Eiffel, is like the little brother of the Eiffel Tower, unless you ask the Czechs. You see, they claim it is taller than the Eiffel Tower, but only because they include the height of the massive hill on top of which it is perched as well as the fact that Prague is something like a hundred meters higher than Paris.

It took a lot longer to get up to the tower than I expected, mostly because the path kept winding, even with the shortcuts I kept taking through the trees. But there were a lot of trees, so at least that was nice. No sooner has I made it to the top of the hill though than it started to rain. I had checked the weather report and brought my umbrella, so it wasn’t such a hardship, but it did mean I didn’t stay long, picking a random path and starting to make my way down.

Turns out it was a good path. It still took forever, but once I was out of the park proper it started leading me past various embassies, which is always fun for me, and eventually past the KGB Museum. I had seen the KGB Museum on Google maps, but it had looked a bit out of the way to make it worth planning a visit. Now that I saw it in person I realized why it was so out of the way. The ‘museum’ wasn’t more than a tiny shop front, clearly privately owned. I didn’t go in at first, a bit disconcerted by the unofficial quality of the place and the fact you had to enter by guided tour. I didn’t want to be the only person on a tour. I’d only gone a block further though when I saw a nice looking American couple enter the place, clearly excited. I figured as long as there was going to be a tour for them anyway, I might as well join, right? Well, I’m definitely glad I did.

The tour wasn’t any more professional than the museum itself, but the man who gave it more than made up for that. He was Russian, probably ex-military if I had to guess, but so passionate about the subject matter that all of us on the tour, eventually seven in total, couldn’t help but keep glancing sideways at each other and trying not to laugh. The museum was his own personal collection of weapons, gadgets, uniforms, gifts, and other memorabilia - and quite impressive for an individual to have accumulated. The personal touch also made the museum that much more enjoyable, allowing us to really engage the items on display. I learned a great deal about the technical details of twentieth century Russia, which is always good to know.

The rain had lightened up a bit by the time I finished at the museum, just a few sprinkles here and there. I made my way back to the city center where I poked my head in the window of the Church of Our Lady before Tyn, which was closed, and moved on to the Sex Museum, because it was cheap and very Prague. Despite being fairly small, the museum was actually fascinating - particularly the exhibit of 1920s pornography that had all sorts of interesting cultural implications for gender dynamics.

On my way back to the hostel, figuring I could use some protein, I stopped for some of the best fish and chips I’ve had in my life, and eventually headed back for yet another late night. I told you it was a trend.

My final day in Prague I took a day trip out of the city to the tiny town of Kutna Hora, home of Sedlec Cathedral and Ossuary. The Cathedral, while a UNESCO World Heritage Sight and all that, wasn’t particularly noteworthy. It was pretty and old and they let you up in the attic, which was cool, but the main draw of Kutna Hora is definitely the ossuary.

For a number of reasons, including consecration with dirt from Palestine and lot of nearby battles during the Hussite Wars, there were a lot of people buried in Sedlec. At some point, however, they had to shrink the size of the cemetery, leading them to dig up a number of the bones and store them in cemetery chapel. Before long someone thought it wise to use them as decoration and over the years they have been rearranged a number of times, drawing tourists from all over.

Honestly, it felt like a smaller, more elaborate and less respectful version of the Paris Catacombs. That and it drew a much larger crowd of what I am going to call ‘undesirables.’ Now, I don’t know that they were Satanists, but they made me uncomfortable, and as far as I’m concerned that’s enough.

It was still a nice experience to get out to the countryside. The train station I ended up getting off at was literally a shack in the middle of nowhere. It was nice waiting for the train back though!

Upon arriving back in Prague I decided I didn’t need to do much more with my day. I wandered through a park by the train station, attempting to eat a sandwich at the feet of a random statute of Woodrow Wilson before I was driven away by a crowd smokers. I ended up having the sandwich while watching a pair of buskers on a guitar and flute before heading back to the hostel to make some phone calls, wash my hair, and pack up for my early train.

I’ve almost reached my destination, Dresden, Germany, and as usual it has been a pleasant journey. The train tracks run largely along the river, which was a lovely view. There was even a castle! Once the old Czech couple in my compartment got off at the first stop, I’ve even had the compartment to myself. I have taken advantage of that fact, along with the electrical plugs in the compartment, to put in my headphones and have a bit of a private dance party. I do not think I have been listening to enough music on this trip. That will have to change.

We are pulling into the main Dresden station now. I won’t be getting off for one stop more, but I shall leave you all here anyway. Hugs and kisses to all!

Chrono-Gastronomy in Austria-Hungary

In some or other ephemeral poll of which I have been told by multiple sources, Vienna is consistently ranked among the world’s most livable cities. Not to disparage the rich history and old world beauty of the place, but… really? I spent five nights in Austria, and as my semi-unfair rant last night to a generously sympathetic friend can attest, I have had quite enough.

I should begin with a disclaimer that my opinion may not be entirely unbiased. My main complaint about the city is its plethora of cigarette smokers. By my estimation, three out of four people in the rather crowded street are smoking, and the for whatever reason, that smokes seems far thicker and more irritating than any smoke I’ve had to deal with before. With that ratio, its only natural that they stop looking out for the non-smoking minority. Even inside, most place reeked. I tried to avoid it as much as I could, but by day three, I had progressed to a coughing, sneezing, choking allergy victim who couldn’t take a breath without wanting to vomit or cry. So… I didn’t like Vienna.

This misery may or may not have been exacerbated by the hostel I stayed in. A little ways out of the city center, I got a good deal on a bed for the duration of my stay. Actually, a rather fantastic deal when you consider that I had the six-bed dorm room and en suite bathroom to myself for the first three nights. Sometimes, while traveling, I forget how much I need my space. Not just alone time with my thoughts. I have plenty of that. But alone space, where I’m not constantly aware of any and everyone around me.

But then there were the issues with the hostel.

First was the mattresses and pillows, which I’m pretty sure were full of dust mites, which couldn’t have helped with the allergies. By night four I had to stop wearing my mouth guard to bed because I couldn’t breath through my nose, which then led to even worse headaches than I would have had with the allergies alone.

Second was the neighborhood. It got a bit better after the first day, but when I arrived Sunday evening it felt a bit like a flash back to Egypt. I was tired, and intended to get something to eat and go to bed, but it being Sunday evening, everywhere was closed. I wandered for a bit and eventually found a pizza place, but the wandering itself was horrid. Stares everywhere, exclusively from the large number of Turkish and Arab men populating the streets. It being Austria though, I was determined not to let it get to me. So I tried to eat my pizza in the park.

I’d barely sat down when a man sat down on the bench right next to mine, taking surreptitious glances at me out of the corner of his eye. It was about two minutes later that he asked me something in German which I didn’t understand. From his miming, I am fairly certain he wanted to know if I had a phone. Since he had his own phone in his hand though, he either wanted my number or was out of pay as you go credit and wanted to make a call. My pessimism assumes that if it was the latter, it was probably that heinous Arab tactic wherein they use your phone to call themselves and then have your number whether you wanted to give it to them or not. Either way, I was not happy. I tried to brush it off as not understanding, but he was insistent, so I eventually glared at him, said something angrily, and stormed off to eat my pizza in peace at the hostel, furious at being excluded from enjoying public spaces because of my gender. Again.

The neighborhood did get better once it was the work week again. There was a train station nearby and a large shopping center that seemed to do fair business with not creepy people who didn’t stare at me. I even ate in the area a couple times, though never again sitting in the park. I’ll get to those later, I expect, but as the title is meant to suggest, this post will probably be a lot of jumping around.

The final issue with the hostel was the other people who were staying there. Most of them seemed to be friends or family of residents in the area, who would come in to the lounge and hang out like it was their living room. That meant we had large groups of loud, drunk, Turkish and Azerbaijani men taking up the common areas most evenings. There was also another creepy old Italian man who started mocking me to the others in the room when I refused his slovenly offer of beer. Alas, there was no where else to escape to with my roommate (singular that night) asleep and my laundry in the machine. I ignored him as best I could.

Then there was the matter of my roommates on the fourth night, the only other night I wasn’t alone. This was my first night without my mouthpiece, and also the worst night for my allergies by far. I had attempted to go to bed early, failed through my sniffling and sneezing, and eventually nodded off around one in the morning. A few hours later, I was woken by the slam of the door, the lights going on and off, and a lot of loud shouting and laughing in rapid, clearly slurred German.

My first roommates, after three nights alone, were a pair of veeeery drunk German girls. Well, to be fair, they might not have been German, but they were speaking German. To me, as it were. I didn’t realize at first, seeing as I was 1) still waking up and 2) assuming they could see I had been asleep to begin with and 3) not understanding a word of German even when fully healthy, awake, and coherent.

I eventually drug myself out of my half comatose state to see a half-naked large German girl sitting on the bed opposite me, elbows on her knees, staring at me intently as she rattled on in that warp speed German.

“No German,” I mumbled, burying my face in my pillow. Why couldn’t they just let me sleep?

“Phone connection.” She responded with that same intensity. “I can use your phone connection?” And she picked up my phone from where it lay charging next to me on my bed, pointing at the place where the charger met the phone. I was too tired to argue, or talk around it, and really what did I care? So I mumbled another, “sure, whatever,” unplugged my phone, and threw the charger at her so I could go back to bed. Or at least try until they finally settled down what felt like ages later.

This was three in the morning, according to my phone. At five, I woke up because I had to use the restroom. I still wasn’t terribly coherent, but I did notice enough to see that neither girl had made her bed with the sheets provided, opting instead to curl up on the bare mattress with uncovered pillows and duvets, which helps explain the dust mites. At six in the morning, they left as noisily as they had arrived and I was finally able to lay there for an hour in peace, interrupted only by my own sniffling and frustrated sighs.

And all of this even before I start telling you what I’ve been doing. Whoops. Let’s rewind a bit.

So on my way from Ljubljana to Vienna, I had opted to take a slightly longer route than was strictly necessary. By adding an hour to my journey, I could cover two of the three legs of the Alps tour from Vienna I had planned later, thus possibly saving me a sightseeing day. There was a tiny problem with this plan, however. Namely, people.

My planned route was Ljubljana, Slovenia -> Villach, Austria -> Salzburg, Austria -> Vienna. On the first leg, while finishing my last blog post, I shared a six-person compartment with two Turks and a Slovenian. Due to a rushed transfer, I ended up boarding the first class car out of Villach, intending to walk through to the second class seats, but was soon stopped by the Slovenian man from the train before, coming out of one of the first class compartments. He wanted to know if this train stopped in a teeny-tiny village whose name I’ve already forgotten. I didn’t know, but I was sure the rail planner app on my phone did, so I ducked into the compartment to lend my assistance.

It did, in fact, stop there, allowing the Slovenian man to relax into a first class seat for which I was sure he didn’t have a ticket. No one had come to claim the compartment though, and a passing conductor hadn’t seemed to mind, so I settled in to first class too, figuring if worse came to worse I could always move. The other window seats were probably full up by then anyway.

As much as I wanted to look out the window and enjoy the Alps though, the Slovenian man had other things in mind. Clearly unimpressed, he just wanted to chat, and I didn’t want to turn down a chance to learn more about Slovenian people and culture. It turns out he was a migrant worker digging holes for warmth in Switzerland. I’m not entirely sure what that means, but that was the only way he could explain it in English. He’d been to visit his family for the weekend and was not back to work in Salzburg.

It was interesting, to see a side of European migrant culture, but it wasn’t the most fascinating discussion I’d ever had. The man, Mihail, didn’t seem interested in much more than smoking and making money. Nevertheless, by the time he realized his stop was approaching, he started making the most unsubtle of overtures, asking me to go to Switzerland with him, either on that train or when I was done in Vienna. Despite the idea being completely ridiculous, and me not being the least bit interested, he was actually rather polite about it. At the very least, he wasn’t creepy, old, or Italian. I declined anyway.

The train from Salzburg to Vienna wasn’t as Alpsy as I had expected, making me grateful I hadn’t taken a full day out for a tour. I still got to sit by the window and enjoy the view, but by the time I arrived in Vienna all I wanted was a good meal and a comfy bed. Alas, I was to have neither. Because it was Sunday.

I chalk up what I have dubbed the Bahn Disaster of Vienna to poor planning on my part. You see, Vienna has two metro systems, the U-Bahn and the S-Bahn. My Eurail Pass allows me free travel on the S-Bahn, but the U-Bahn I still have to pay, and the prices in my opinion are quite exorbitant for a metro. I wasn’t bothered though. I’d just take the S-Bahn, right? There were fewer stations, and fewer trains, but despite a lack of posted schedule on line it sounded like the trains ran frequently enough that it wouldn’t be a problem. Well, it wasn’t. Except on Sunday.

On Sunday, you see, the trains that usually run every five or ten minutes slow to running no more than once every hour. I didn’t know this, however, and so I hopped one train to a connecting station at the far end of the city only to realize I had missed the train I needed from there by a single minute and the next didn’t come until ten o’clock. Well, I was far too tired to wait for ten o’clock.

So I paid for a U-Bahn ticket, but then that ticket needed a transfer ticket, and by the time I reached the station by my hostel I was exhausted and grumpy and in a fair bit of pain. But remember what I said about the hostel neighborhood? Yeah, that just made it worse. Anyway, I tried to brush it off, sure that the Vienna city center the next day would make up for it. And I mean… I wasn’t entirely wrong?

I woke the next morning and took the forty minute walk to the city center, enjoying the elegant Austrian architecture on the way. The feel of the city changes drastically as soon as you pass north of the local train station, so it was actually a pleasant walk. I passed the State Opera House, the City Hall where they’ve been hosting a summer music film festival, and Hofburg Palace, the sprawling winter residence of the Habsburgs now housing government offices, a library, and something like a dozen museums.

Note: This is the back, but I didn't photograph the front, so... eh.

I purchased a ticket to tour the State Rooms, which also included entrance to the Imperial Silver Collection and the Sisi Museum. It was all quite impressive, and I especially enjoyed learning about Empress Elisabeth ‘Sisi’ of Austria, who has become something of a cult figure in Austrian history.

Following the Hofburg I stopped by two important local churches, St. Peter’s, where I was just in time for a lovely free organ concert, and St. Stephen’s Cathedral. Then I was off in search of one of those kitschy touristy symbols of the city, the Riesenrad ferris wheel.

I expected the Riesenrad to be a smaller version of the London Eye, which I suppose it more or less was. The ferris wheel was located in what I read as a quaint little park themed with Austrian cultural heritage of the schnitzel and lederhosen variety, but then I kept walking, and walking, and walking. And it wasn’t a tiny park at all. Turns out there’s a massive theme park called Praterstern smack dab in the middle of Vienna, no entrance fee required. Most of the rides cost between four and twelve euros a go and overpriced carnival games abound, but the food is reasonably priced, and I think each individual attraction is privately owned. I’d never seen a set up like it before, but it was fascinating to experience, especially when I didn’t have to pay to get in.

By the time I was done with the park, my feet had started to hurt. Considering I was wearing my new shoes though, and it had taken a full eight hours and a bit of swelling in my feet for it to happen, I thought that was pretty good. The Danube wasn’t too far away though, and I thought this might be my only chance to see it from Vienna, so I decided to keep walking.

The view of the river was lovely, though I declined to cross into the park on the other side. It was getting late, and you know how I get when the exhaustion sets in, so I headed back to the hostel for an early night.

The next morning I was up early enough for a lovely day trip to Bratislava, but for the sake of coherency I’m going to move on to the day after, which was once again spent in Vienna. That ticket I’d bought at the Hofburg was good for another palace and collection too, so I thought to make the most of it and set out for those on Wednesday.

First came Schonbrunn Palace, the summer residence of the Habsburgs, where I was happy to discover a more detailed history of the dynasty as a whole. The Schonbrunn is also hosting a summer film festival in the gardens, and quite nice gardens they are. It is unfortunate, however, that the weather was rather drear that morning, and I declined to stay and explore. This was also the onset of the worst of my allergies, so I didn’t want to exasperate them with pollen if indeed it wasn’t cigarette smoke or dust that was the problem.

After the Schonbrunn came a tour of the Imperial Furniture Collection, accumulated for those palaces which weren’t furnished year round (i.e. most of them). By the time I was done there, my allergies were getting so out of hand that I had no choice but to stop and buy medicine. It was expensive, but it definitely made a difference, if not enough of one to stop the misery or even help me sleep. After three times the recommended dose though, I finally wasn’t sneezing buckets of snot on everyone and everything, so that was good.

From there I took the long way home, giving me a chance to stop by the last of the major palaces in downtown Vienna, Belvedere Palace. It’s an extremely expensive art museum now, so I didn’t go in, but the views from the outside were lovely as well and the walk there led me past some stunning monuments.

Over the course of these two days, I also made a point to try out some of the local cuisine. Viennese food, like most European food, is fairly meat heavy, but I think I’ve found my gastronomic calling in the sampling of desserts. First there was palatschinken, the Viennese answer the crepe, then Almdudler, an exclusively Viennese soft drink, and finally Sachertorte, a Viennese chocolate cake made with apricot preserves. I paid far too much for that last one, but it was at a lovely little cafe that made for the perfect place to relax after a long day, so I’m going to call it worth it. The palatschinken, on the other hand, was made by a kind old Turkish man whom I only realized was Turkish after I’d mimed my way through the ordering process. At least I was able to thank him appropriately in coherent human speech.

Now! For the days trips.

My first day trip out of Vienna was destined for Bratislava, Slovakia. I was surprised, upon my departure from the train station, that the entire city looked so obviously communist. As I mentioned in Slovenia, there were certainly areas with communist flair, but old town Ljubljana had a charm all its own. Well, as it turns out, so does Bratislava. I was just lost without realizing it.

After walking half an hour in the wrong direction from the train station, I eventually realized my mistake and turned around. The city is still less pretty than a lot of places I’ve been, but there have been some efforts in beautification, not least of which is the smattering of statutes strewn about the town.

Even with my minor delay, I made it to the old city center for my free walking tour with plenty of time. We learned a lot about Slovakian history and culture, including the communist legacy, the intense rivalry with the Czechs, and the Slovakian penchant for hockey. I was also interested to learn about an Easter tradition of dumping buckets of water on young girls and smacking their rear ends with sticks for luck, a tradition straight out of ancient Rome. I mentioned as much to my guide, but I don’t think she understood me, let alone knew what I was talking about.

It was the rivalry that actually consumed most of the tour. Our guide was adamant about stating and then restating all of the events or traditions attributed to Prague that were actually born in Bratislava. It was clear that Bratislava, or at least this tour company in Bratislava, is trying to boost tourism. The guide even lamented Bratislavan appearances in Hollywood movies like Hostel and Eurotrip that drove tourism down by 75%. To be fair, Hostel was an entirely inaccurate representation. Eurotrip on the other hand… wasn’t quite as far from the truth… You see, the communist rulers of Czechoslovakia decided amongst themselves that Prague was going to be the classic, historic city while Bratislava was going to be “modernized.” So basically, they knocked down everything pretty and threw up giant metal monsters to herald in “progress.”

After the tour, the weather was getting gross again, and I didn’t want to linger in the rain. I stopped by a local restaurant to splurge on a plate of traditional potato dumplings in a sauce of goat cheese, which was delicious, and then headed south for the train home from a different station than the one at which I had arrived. That walk south was possibly more informative than much of the rest of my walking.

The guide had mentioned the neighborhood through which I would pass, Petrzalka, as the prime example of communist architecture in Bratislava. I couldn’t help but laugh then when I crossed the Danube to find a neighborhood that reminded me of nothing so much a the urban fringe of America. Shopping malls, decently maintained cookie cutter apartment buildings, and a complete unfriendliness to any and all manner of pedestrians. I was forced to wind back and forth across the same highway no less than four times on my journey to the train station, heading ten minutes out of my way only to come back fifty meters from where I’d started. It was a good thing I’d left the city center early, because while I didn’t beat the steady light showers that had caught me without my umbrella, at least it gave me the extra time I needed to make my train on time.

The second day trip on Thursday, to Budapest, was a little more eventful. My morning train from Vienna was crowded - more crowded than any train I’ve ridden thus far. Because I was riding without a reservation, I was kicked out my seat twice before realizing that there weren’t any seats left and retired to an empty little niche in one of the spaces between coaches meant for baby carriage parking.

It was comfortable enough sitting on the floor, especially considering I only had my purse with me at the time. The downside though was I hadn’t any windows. I got a lot of reading done though, and the compartment all to myself on the way back more than made up for it.

As for the city of Budapest, it is firmly on my list of places I need to go back. First of all, the city is gorgeous. The banks of Danube shining in the golden midday light are especially awe inspiring, and I could have stared at them for ages. I didn’t have ages though.

Most of my time in Budapest was taken up by the walking tour I did there as well. Our guide did a lovely job of summing up the history of the Kingdom from the first settlers arriving from the vicinity of modern day Mongolia up through the fall of the Soviet Union and Hungary’s increasing integration into the European Union.

Hungary isn’t part of the Euro Zone yet, still using Hungarian Forints, but that’s a good thing for me. Things in Hungary were dirt cheap. Like… dirt. For my few hours in the city I took out the equivalent of about €13/$17. After buying far too much langos (the Hungarian answer to pizza with lots of goat cheese and onions) and ice cream in the most touristy area for lunch, plus tipping my tour guide generously, I had only spent about a third of that. Since the tour had run over and I’d missed the train I wanted, and it really wasn’t worth changing €8, I decided I might as well start walking to the far train station, spending indiscriminately on the way.

My first purchases were local food. Hungarian strudel, stuffed with roasted poppy seeds, chimney cake, covered in cinnamon sugar, and this little candy bar our tour guide told us about that’s more or less chocolate covered cheesecake. With the exception of the cheesecake, I bought the others at highly inflated prices, and still I had two-fifths of my forints left. This seemed like the perfect time to buy a skirt.

I wandered in and out of a few shops that were actually too expensive. Not because they were actually expensive, but because they cost more than the €5 I had left. Then I found a shop with a second hand black skirt for €3, after the exchange rate. It wasn’t a flowy peasant skirt like I’d wanted, but it was knee length and fit and was €3. So I took it up to the counter where the lady proceeded to insist it was not three euros, but one.

Well, by that point it was time to catch my train, and I still have nearly a thousand forints left. So, the moral of the story is you can’t give money away in Hungary. Well, I’m sure I could have given it away, but… It was a nice change, not to be watching my pennies. And I have a skirt!

Despite getting back late from Budapest, I took the opportunity to do my laundry that night so I could just pack up and leave in the morning. I was ready to be well shot of Austria. Now I’m on the train to Prague, and yet the excitement isn’t over.

Having found the perfect window seat for my journey in the far fron carriage, I’d just settled in to start writing this post when a group of no less than a dozen death metal enthusiasts smelling of smoke, booze, and the unwashed dogs that were accompanying them, filed in to sit a few rows down. It was the smoke that most bothered me, paired with the fact that they were blaring their death metal. I expected someone to tell them to turn it down. Might have myself if I spoke German. I was very seriously considering moving despite my perfect seat on an otherwise full train. I couldn’t have handled that all the way to Prague. But it was the conductor that got to them first.

I’m not sure what was said, but the conductor seemed unamused, and I overheard one of the metal heads telling his friend in English something about the next station. Well, the next station was certainly important, because that was where the police got on. I would say “oh, to be a fly on that wall,” but I was better. I was a person in that carriage. But fly or person, it didn’t do me much good without the German.

As best I could tell, the metal heads didn’t have tickets. Or maybe they had too much alcohol? Whatever it was, no one seemed angry, exactly. The police checked their passports, and got on and off the train a couple times, and then the metal heads groaned a bit, and then they were escorted from the train, still swigging from their liquor and beer bottles. It was rather a longer process than I would have expected, resulting in a thirty minute delay, but considering how much nicer the ride has gotten since, I don’t mind in the least.

The Czech Republic is beautiful so far, by the way. Lots of trees and rolling hills, like a more developed, less extreme Slovenia. And I can breathe again. And the people on the train, metal heads excluded, seem very nice. I think they were German anyway though. It sounded like they were headed to Hamburg.

Also, a few small notes that I think I’ve missed:
1. I definitely got that job on the French canal boat in August. I will have to reserve my train ticket down when I get to Germany, and then I will be working on the canals for a few weeks until I head back to London and on to my cruise. I even bought a French Dictionary & Grammar Summary from a university book store in Bratislava in preparation, which I feel was a very good investment. Unfortunately, there is no wifi on the canal boat. I even had to mail a letter to my future boss to introduce myself. I will still be available on my phone, but posts may be few and far between. There will, however, be a new blog with the url ‘laurenonaboat,’ spanning the time of my cruise as well.

2. I failed my Foreign Service Exam by 3.3 points, which is less than a quarter of a percent. So if anyone has any bright ideas about what I might do for the next year until I can take the exam again, please let me know.

3. I feel like I’m missing a number three, but I can’t think of it, so…. bye?

(3.5. Just before I post - I've arrived at my hostel in Prague and I think it's going to make up for everything. Everything. I have a private room, with my own sink, and it's all clean and perfect and there's a kitchen and free breakfast and the internet is fantastic and it's raining but I think I'm going to go explore and try to find something to eat, but in the meantime, stay safe everyone!)

Don't Balk at the Balkans

I am realizing as I pull out my computer that everything I own could use a good scrub. I will have to get on that soon… but anyway.

Last we left off I was on a late train from Venice to the former Yugoslav Republic. Slovenia, to be exact, which is the nicest one. When the war broke out in 1991, they were able end their part in the conflict in just ten days, declaring independence and beginning to build a society that would allow them to join the European Union and adopt the euro long before any of their neighboring Balkan states. Now, I got a lot of concerned silences and nervous questions when I told people I was going to the Balkans, mostly, I think, because the war is still the freshest association in many people’s minds. They needen’t have worried though, and I hope after this post you’ll understand why.

In the same vein as my love for Switzerland, I am going to go ahead and call Slovenia magical as well. The Alps in the country end just twenty five kilometers north of Ljubljana, the capital, where I spent most of my time. Even beyond the Alps, however, Slovenia is the third most densely wooded country in Europe, and there are lush towering trees everywhere. Whether on the train or in the city, you have no doubt that the forest is never too far away. Indeed, views from the train windows often reminded me of those scenes in fantasy films where the heroes are running through those forests that are too beautiful for words.

It helps the Ljubljana itself is barely a city. The population numbers something like 250,000, with the whole country coming in at a spare two million. Even with such tiny numbers though, the city looks like a capital. A Slovenian architect by the name of Plicnik, back in the country’s communist days, whole heartedly believed that Ljubljana should and would become the capital of an independent Slovenia one day. As such, he began designing public works for the city free of charge. Bridges, churches, and even a sprawling market populate the town center with structures that that inspire visual awe.

When I arrived at a little past eight in the morning then, too early to check in to my hostel, I dropped off my bag and set about exploring. At eleven, there was a free walking tour that I thoroughly enjoyed. Some of my favorite stories included those of the national poet and hero Preseren who consolidated Slovenian identity with his work, and the dragon mascot of Ljubljana, said to be the dragon that the mythical hero Jason defeated on his journey back to Greece with the golden fleece.

After the tour, I hiked up the mountain in the center of the city to visit Ljubljana Castle. Unlike many of the other castles I have visited, this one was destroyed, rebuilt, and renovated so many times that it resembles a modern fortress more than anything else. As a public space though, it was lovely. There was a spectacular museum on the history of Slovenia, as well as a movie about the history of the castle itself. My favorite part though was probably the outdoor reading space.

Far from being a castle specific attraction, these spaces peppered the city on weekends, showing up in squares and parks - anywhere with shade really. I don’t know if the program is private or public, but it consists of a bunch of folding lounge chairs scattered about a series of boxes holding books in a handful of different languages. The idea is to invite people to sit and enjoy a book, just because, because that is a lovely way to spend a few hours on a weekend if I do say so myself. I didn’t join in because I had other things I wanted to do, but the very idea made me happy, and I was definitely tempted.

As for those other things, it turns out I had arrived in Ljubljana just in time for the final weekend of the International Street Theatre Festival, similar to Busker Fest in Toronto, but scattered all over the city. I had picked up a program and wanted to see some of the shows, but the I seemed to have more trouble finding them than I expected I would. The first show I saw, an inexpert juggler from Venezuela with almost no sense of showmanship and some pretty disturbing attempts at jokes, nearly turned me off the festival all together. I concluded later that he wasn’t actually affiliated with the event, but everyone watching him in the main square seemed to think he was. I suppose that’s clever on his part, using the festival to draw large crowds.

When I did finally find a festival sanctioned show, it was much more what I expected. A comedy duo from Australia named Oskar and Stroodle put on a fantastically funny performance. I followed that with the tail end of a Slovenian act about undertakers that was on my way home. I didn’t understand much, but everyone was laughing and it was enjoyable regardless. By the time that was finished though, I was beat from what more or less amounted to an all-nighter, so I called it a day and went back to the hostel for a lovely shower. Sometimes, there is nothing more relaxing than simply washing one’s hair.

The next morning I had planned a day trip to Zagreb, Croatia, based in part on the many diplomatic cables I had read out of the city and in part on a lovely group of Croatian girls I had met in Istanbul. The problem with the trip, however, was that the trains rain at such infrequent intervals that I had a choice between one hour in the city or eleven. The eleven hour option, as you might expect, did not get back until late, and I didn’t think I could handle another late late night. I considered cancelling the trip altogether and then thought, “eh, what the hell. It includes a train, right?”

And so, in the ever comforting mindset that the train ride itself is something worth doing, I hopped the train to Zagreb, power walked the city for an hour, and hopped the train back. On the train, between involuntary naps, I decided Slovenia is prettier than at least the north of Croatia. I’ve heard lovely things about the south and the beaches, but from the train it was almost as if the tree line ended when we crossed the border. A border at which, I might add, border control gave me a passport stamp. =)

Zagreb itself was a sight to see. I would have liked to stay longer, but certainly not all eleven hours. Since it was a Saturday, almost always the best day to see a city and its people in their natural element, the parks were teaming with concerts and dancers and revelers and carts. I passed through the main square where a group of elderly Croatian men and women were performing traditional dances in front of the jumbo tron that I’m sure plays all the World Cup games live. There was also a trip through the market, teaming with life as most markets are, and a stop in at the Cathedral. The only thing I wanted to see on the walk and missed was the Stone Gate, a ruin of the old city, but I didn’t exactly have time to go searching. Another time, however, I would like to go back and see the museums. Zagreb is full of them, including all of the usuals like history, nature, and archaeological museums, but also some fun ones, like the Museum of Broken Relationships.

Back in Ljubljana by the early afternoon, I had time to see the Street Theatre Festival’s grand finale. In a park some ways away, there were to be nonstop back-to-back performances from four to eleven. I didn’t think I could last until eleven, but I did want to see a few, and so I set out walking towards the other end of town.

Being such a tiny place, I imagined walking wouldn’t take to long. My estimation put it at forty-five minutes, which didn’t seem too bad. As such, I decided to take the long way to pass by a park I’d planned to see the following morning, which would allow me to take an earlier train to Vienna and hopefully get in before it got late. In what had turned out to be the scorching heat of the day, however, I was tired and thirsty even before I got to the park. As such, I didn’t explore as much as I had planned too. Supposedly there’s a castle way far back by the forest on the other side of the park, but I hadn’t seen it mentioned on any tourism websites, and while I would have liked to see it anyway I just didn’t have the energy. It was a big park.

I assumed, on the other hand, that if I made it to the festival there would be shade and water and, because I was getting hungry at that point, food. (I should probably mention in an effort not to take out any Croatian kunas from the ATM I didn’t buy anything in Croatia, including sustenance.) Surely I could last the hour it would take to get to the festival grounds though. Well, an hour and a half later I wasn’t lasting very well. You would think the smart thing to do in that situation would be stop along the way for food and water, except Slovenia would not cooperate with your idea of the smart thing to do.

You see, Slovenian culture tends to close up shop on Saturday afternoons so people can go out and enjoy nature, not just in the parks, but all the way out in the forests and mountains. As such, nearly everywhere was closed. When I finally found an open pizza place, I was so excited I forgot to buy water. Luckily, the festival grounds ended up being right around the corner, but even then water was too expensive for me to afford more than a bottle. That was sad too, because most things in Slovenia were quite pleasantly cheap.

Nourishment issues aside, the festival finale was quite a treat. I saw shows by Slovenian, Australian, Italian, French, Polish, and Russian performers, all of which were stunning. Well… maybe with the exception of the Russians. They did a sort of puppet show, in Russian, and everyone just kind of stared and didn’t understand what was going on. It was kind of sad.

At this point, I should probably mention a note about language in Slovenia. There is an official Slavic language called Slovenian and spoken by the people, but English is also one of the four official spoken languages, and as such perfectly acceptable to use as well. Anywhere I went in the city, tourist area or not, I was usually greeted in Slovenian, but as soon as I said “hello” instead, I always got perfect English back without so much as a second glance. The only person I met who didn’t speak perfect English was a little old lady at the theatre festival dressed in traditional garb and selling clearly homemade food out of her own kitchen crockery, and even she knew the important words like “zucchini” and “two euro.”

Thanks to this ubiquitous knowledge of English, it wasn’t a problem for the international performers to use it in their shows. Even the kids knew a fair bit when Oskar and Stroodle had interacted with them the day before. As such, it was only the Slovenian acts that ever tripped me up, and the only one I watched at the finale, the story of three treasure hunters and their calamitous journey to a place called Tadam, was done mostly in grunts and bilingual exclamations.

I stayed much later than I intended at the festival, especially considering I wanted another early night, but every time I went to leave another performance started and I found myself drawn in. I just enjoy live theatre, I suppose, and when it came to street theatre these were some of the best. Well, it was that and the fact that the atmosphere was infectious. Street performance has apparently become an important form of expression to the Slovenians since the end of communist rule in the early nineties. While I don’t have any authority to claim the same about the rest of former Yugoslavia, even my short time in Croatia made me think that might extend to other Balkan states as well.

I finally made it out of the festival around eight, just before a joint Slovenian/American group went on with a show called Identity Card. That left me an hour long walk back to the hostel (which was closer than the park) along which I bought another bottle of water an some burek. Do you guys remember borek from Turkey? That cheese filled filo dough? Well, they have it in Slovenia too, and they claim it as their own. I don’t know or care who had it first, but for the record, I like Slovenian better. Don’t tell the Turks.

That night, I valiantly pried my eyes open long enough to finish my long over due Italy blog post before crashing into a nice solid sleep for not nearly long enough. This morning, I woke to a free hostel breakfast, and another delayed train. It was only twenty minutes this time, but that gave me enough time to start this post, and starting enough impetus to finish it on the train. We’re just getting to that part of Slovenia where the Alps become literally breathtaking again though, so I’m going to go stare like a three year old with shiny objects now. Love to you all!

An Evening (and more) in (not quite) Roma

So I suppose I’ve made you wait for Italy long enough.

My first stop in the country was Pisa, because despite having visited most of the major tourist destinations in Italy on a trip in high school, we never made it out to the Leaning Tower. I was ready for another of those tourist free-for-alls, where more people speak English in the streets than Italian, and yet I was pleasantly surprised. Despite the Leaning Tower of Pisa being one of the 7 Wonders of the World, it seems like most people come out on day trips or guided tours, leaving the city itself relatively calm and undisturbed.

I’d arrived at the hostel too late for the buffet dinner they offer every night, but that gave me a chance to answer some emails and get a good nights sleep. The following morning I awoke bright and early to head off to see the sights. It only occurred to me later that I should have taken the opportunity to sleep in. The area around the tower was going to be swamped regardless, but I guess I’ve gotten used to waking up early, even when exhausted. I like to be out and doing things before it gets too crowded and hot. Sure, it doesn’t make for a very active nightlife, but as I’ve mentioned before, I’m not exactly looking for one of those anyway.

It was a Sunday, so the walk through town was quiet, only the occasional shop opened by an enterprising businessman. I passed a few tents in a main square that drew my attention, but it was still too early to tell why they were there, so I continued on to the Piazza dei Miracoli, Plaza of Miracles, a grand green lawn comprising the Cathedral of Pisa, its baptistery, a museum, a monumental cemetery, and of course the leaning tower itself. It was crowded, as expected, but still lovely. I opted for tickets into everything except the tower, because it was more than twice as expensive to climb the tower as it was to see everything else together, and as far as I could tell climbing the tower was a bragging right more than anything. The beauty of the tower is the architecture from the outside, and the fact that it leans. I learned as much in a long video at the museum about the construction and restoration of the tower, as well as the myriad problems they’ve run into in trying to keep it from toppling over.

I finished with the complex earlier than I expected I would, leaving me with a nice long afternoon until my relatively late train to Florence. I wandered the streets a bit, taking in the city. It’s older and more run down than I lot of the cities I’ve been too thus far, but I liked it, tourist centers excepted. And when I liked it the most was when I got back to that square with the little white tents. What was going on, you ask? The only way I can think to describe it is a miniature Renaissance Festival.

Yes, you read right. A Renaissance Festival, in Italy, home of the Renaissance.

It was tiny. Maybe a dozen tents selling medieval food and weapons and clothing. But it was epic. I wished I could speak Italian well enough to engage them, but I contented myself with observing for a while before grabbing a falafel sandwich and heading back to the hostel to travel plan.

Side note on the falafel sandwich bit. Do you remember when I said an inordinate number of Turks spoke Italian? Maybe I didn’t blog about it, but I have brought it up with a great many people. Anyway, that large number is directly proportional to the number of Turks in Italy. It feels like everywhere I turn someone is speaking Turkish, and sure enough, the kebab places on every corner are authentic to the core. And thus delicious.

I spent the whole evening working, but my train was so late that I was there this time for the hostel’s dinner buffet. Having grown hungry again I joined in only to find, to my great delight, that it was not just any buffet. It was a vegan buffet. There were so many vegetables!!! It was fantastic! So I had like… three plates of carrots and tomatoes and mushrooms and cucumbers and chickpeas and olives with watermelon for dessert. It was the best meal I’d had in ages. There was pizza and pasta and rice too, but I tried to limit my take of the all too ubiquitous carbs.

As if that wasn’t wonderful enough, my fantastic, unparalleled, super healthy and yet delicious dinner even came with a show. Holland was playing Mexico in the world cup, and not only was the hostel hosting a large and rather loud group of Dutch youths, but there were a few Mexicans present as well. So there was much shouting and cheering and general revelry. And when Holland came in with a goal to win towards the very end the building went wild. Sports with fans are always better than sports without.

Anyway, I did eventually board that train to Florence, and the timing was perfect. No sooner had I gotten off the train and completed the ten minute walk to the hostel than it began to downpour. The hostel was a bit dirty and rather run down, but the draw was the architecture; its located in an old converted monastery. So imagine and epic thunderstorm complete with torrential rains in the cavernous halls of an old monks’ dwelling. It gave me chills, which was difficult considering how hot and humid the weather was.

Florence was one of the few cities in Italy I’d been too before. As such, I decided I could skip the Uffizi Gallery where they display the David. It’s expensive, and I had seen it before. I’ve started trying to avoid all but those museums I’m most interested in, or the ones that are free. I feel like it’s a good strategy on the budget side of things. What I did instead though, and what we’d missed the last time I was there, was drop by Florence Cathedral, Santa Maria del Fiore in the Piazza del Duomo. I didn’t really have any desire to pay to climb the dome or see the crypt, but I did wait in a sizable line to see the inside of the church. It was pretty? At this point I’m running out of things to say about churches. This is Europe. There are a lot of them.

My plan after the church was to go cross the river and relax in Boboli Gardens, the grand gardens behind Pitti Palace. They were inspired by Luxembourg Gardens in Paris, and if you’ll remember I loved those, so I was quite excited. As I approached the palace it was quickly apparent that the structure was closed. This wasn’t a surprise, because it was Monday, and things always seem to be closed on Mondays. Only as I got closer did I realize that things meant the gardens as well, and then I wanted to cry. You can’t close green spaces! But they had, so I pulled out my phone and quickly found another one.

The next nearest garden was about a twenty minute walk away, which wouldn’t have been so bad if the Italian sun didn’t have it out for me. Even the sun wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t arrived to realize it was a private garden, showing up on my map and yet cordoned off and locked from the public. And even that I could have lived with if the same things hadn’t happened with garden number three.

I retired to a park bench next to a municipal basketball court to eat the lunch of sandwiches I nicked from the hostel breakfast and stew about the fact that Florence has no green spaces to speak of at all. Then I made it up to myself by eating far too much gelato, buying a cheap pair of shoes to replace the black suede ones that hurt my feet, and heading back to the hostel for a buffet dinner that was equally as veggie filled and delicious as the one I had in Pisa. And it came with creme caramel for dessert.

Before I move on from Florence though, I should mention a funny coincidence that took place that last night in the hostel. Upon my return, while washing up for dinner, two new girls arrived in my room, one from Florida and the other from Canada. For those of you who don’t know, two of my best friends live in each place respectively - the two friends I’ve been most keeping in touch with throughout this trip in fact. That would have been a coincidence, but the icing on the cake was where these two new girls had met: at a miniature university down the street from my parents that has about a dozen majors and probably fewer students. Small world, ain’t it?

Anyway, the next morning I was up bright and early for the first train to Verona. I was very excited about Verona as the fictional setting of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. It’s kind of like Harry Potter nerds visiting London, you know? Besides, they have this theory that the Capulets were actually based on the Capellas, and they’ve turned the family’s old house into a Romeo and Juliet museum, complete with art work, manuscripts, and costumes and furniture from the films. There’s also a museum built around Juliet’s Tomb. It’s more or less a stone block now because the church turned it into a watering trough ages ago when it started to draw pilgrims of a secular nature, but I liked seeing it anyway.

I didn’t go into to any of the other major sites in Verona, but I did walk by many of them. This included Castelvecchio, an old castle turned art museum which you could still get a lovely taste of from the adjoining bridge, Piazza del Erbe with its famous Lamberti Tower, and the Arena di Verona. The arena in particular was of particular interest to me. A miniature version of the Colosseum, it puts on regular concerts, usually featuring opera or classical music. In fact, my all time favorite version of Carmen was performed at the Arena di Verona in 2004, and they were reprising the show for its hundredth anniversary in the city during the Verona Opera Festival. I tried valiantly to fit it into my schedule, but there was no way I was going to be able to make it back without cancelling the Balkans completely, so I resigned myself to staring longingly at the outside and once again promising myself that I will see Carmen live someday. (Note for those counting: this is the fourth time this trip I have just missed seeing Carmen live.)

While the sights were a lot of fun, invoking my nerdy glee despite the crowds, I think the nicest thing about Verona was that it was finally a bit green. I was only in Florence two days, and it was beautiful and all, but even with all the lovely architecture I found it a bit oppressive. Verona, on the other hand, is a series of tree lined streets and grassy little piazzas with a much cleaner river and all around look. It was refreshing, if not enough to make me want to settle down and stay. In fact, not going in to some of the places saved me enough time that I was able to take an earlier train than I had planned to Venice, putting me in the city in the early evening.

Venice is another of those cities I had been to before, but this time I had the very best reason for deciding to go back. For those of you who remember my Turkey blog, Anna, my friend from the Italian Embassy in Ankara, lives in a smaller city just outside of Venice. I had emailed her to try to meet up and she had not only responded positively, but contacted her friends studying in the city who then offered me a place to stay. I couldn’t accept. My train times were inconvenient at best, and the offer came a day too late for me to cancel my hostel. It was a nice thought though, and we still met up with them, but more on that later.

My first night in Venice was more or less relaxing. The hostel, as I found with most hostels in Italy, left a bit to be desired. The biggest issue I’ve had is that hostels in Italy don’t seem to believe in hand soap. I’m quite capable of carrying my own to the restroom, and I’m well aware that not everyone washes even when there is soap, but I do like being able to pretend on occasion. Apart from the filthy bathrooms and creaky mattresses though, at least the people in the hostel were nice. We had a cheap pasta dinner with wine together around a big central table that first night. It was a lovely chance to chat and get to know each other that bled into us watching the US lose to Germany in the quarterfinals of the World Cup. Alas, now I suppose I will just have to cheer for Brazil.

The next day I slept in, getting up at a leisurely hour to dress and meet Anna at the train station. It was great to see her again, and we proceeded to wander the alleyways for hours just catching up and enjoying the ambiance. The thing about Venice is it’s not about seeing the sights. Venice itself is the sight, as myriad artists and poets have attested. We even made it out to an almost solely residential area with a park on the ocean, which was gorgeous. All the sun had already left Anna a bit pink by the time we called her friends in the late afternoon.

Living in Venice, they had a far better handle than us on the pulse of the city. Natalie, whom Anna had known from high school, led us to see the Bovoli Steps, a grand spiral staircase just plopped in an old piazza never to be mentioned again. Then we all stopped in to see the university and went for spritzes (a tasty Italian cocktail) on the sea. Following drinks, the girls took us back to their place for dinner, which I must say was more fun than I’ve had in a very long time. Yoko, who is half Japanese, made us Japanese rice with a vegetable stir fry and tofu while Natalie baked a vegan chocolate cake. The best part of this is that this was the menu even before they knew I was vegetarian, and they even let us help.

Conversation was, in what should have been an impossible turn, even better than the meal. I realize the point of staying in hostels is to make new friends and not get lonely, but even in hostels it is rare that I meet someone with whom I can have an honestly good conversation. These girls, on the other hand, were all right up my alley, discussing language and architecture and sociology and art. Clara even subscribes to the New Yorker.

In case that bit about the New Yorker wasn’t an indicator, their English was spectacular. They would frequently devolve into Italian, with Anna only occasionally prodding them back into English, but I found myself enjoying the Italian often as well. In addition to being a beautiful language, it’s close enough to Spanish that I could usually follow along. Also, it made the entire evening all the more authentic. Traveling the world is all well and good, but sometimes you just need a night of laughing over stoves and cutting boards and breaking out into motown hits when they start playing on the radio.

We went for a walk after dinner that, whether by coincidence or design, led right past my hostel. I thanked them all for what is sure to be one of the highlights of my trip and headed inside for a shower and bed.

I met Anna and Yoko the next morning to hang out for a bit before Anna had to catch the train home. Yoko took us to the most spectacular used bookstore I have ever seen in my life, a little sign out front announcing it “The Most Beautiful Bookstore in the World.” It wasn’t lying.

The little shop, organized around an old gondola, is wall to wall books, piled several stacks deep and filling the entire space between the shop front and the canal. There were books in every language on every subject packed in every nook and cranny one could find. It is lucky I made that no buying books promise to myself or I might have bought them all. Instead I settled for more pictures than was entirely necessary, but at least there’s one of me on the staircase of books out back to make my mother happy.

After the bookstore, in which we spent far more time than we’d planned, we stopped in at a nearby library for bathroom breaks and to get Anna a membership card. That was another invaluable part of having the girls around - they could always point us in the direction of the illusive free toilets. Then, with Anna’s departure time approaching, the girls finally deposited me in St. Mark’s Square, the major tourism hub of the city, where I planned to spend the rest of my day. Main draw of Venice or not, there were a few things I wanted to see after all, not least of all the giant Astrological Clock there.

The afternoon started with a tour of the Palazzo Ducale, the grand palace of Venetian Republic where all state business was carried out. I was so excited to see it I even sprang for the audio guide, which I’m proud to report I enjoyed very much. The ticket to the palace included the three museums in St. Mark’s Square though, so following the palace I went and saw those too. One was a series of state rooms from the time of Napoleon, one a museum of Venetian archaeology, and the last an exhibit of the history of eyeglasses housed in the stunning salon of an ancient library. They were all nice, but nothing particular to write home about.

That only left the last major tourist destination, St. Mark’s Cathedral, which I am happy to inform you was free. Or it was supposed to be free. Turns out that after carrying my scarf around Italy for days just in case, I had finally found myself at the one church that wanted me to wear it the same day I’d decided to leave it at home. It was only one euro for the disposable shawl to cover my shoulders, but still… it was the principle of the thing.

When I left the cathedral, I was all ready to head back to the hostel, get some dinner, and hunker down to travel plan and write this post, but then I got distracted. In a stray text conversation with Laura the day before, she had mentioned that the Architecture Biennial was in Venice and she’d heard good things. Well, I hadn’t planned on seeking it out, but when I passed a sign at the entrance on accident announcing that it was free, it seemed a bit silly to continue and pass it up. It was a nice exhibition, if a bit preachy in parts.

My favorite part by far was the top floor of the building which had been given over to a project called “Who’s Afraid of Architecture?” They were in the process of constructing… well, something. Artistic renovations perhaps? But what I liked was the fact that it was more or less the chance to wander undisturbed through the empty rooms of an authentic Venetian home. The views from the windows were spectacular. I might have stayed all evening if closing time hadn’t snuck up on me.

Once the exhibition closed though, I continued on with the original plan of a quiet night at the hostel until I had to catch my train at 1:30 in the morning. Problem there was it didn’t actually show up until an hour after that. I’m not sure why there was a delay. I don’t speak loud speaker Italian. But I’m still recovering from the lack of sleep brought on by frequent stops and a five am transfer. Well, that and the fact that I’ve stayed up far too late the past two nights trying to finish this post. And plan for Vienna. Because really, until last night I had no idea what I was doing.

Point is I’m sitting in Slovenia and should be starting my next post, but it seems I’ve fallen behind. I’ll try to get that one done on the train tomorrow, but it’s another Alps day, and I’m a bit terrified I might fall asleep and miss it as it is. Anyway, I’m not off to bed, with only… six hours to catch up on what would take at least twelve. Mer sleep deprivation.

Children, Trains, and Chocolate - Switzerland

I have spent the last few days of my trip in a fantastic, wonderful, magical place. It’s name is Switzerland. I cannot impress upon you just how spectacular it is, but throughout this post I will certainly try.

My adventures in Switzerland actually started out on a sour note, funny enough, though by no fault but my own. You see, I woke up nice and early in Valence, had a nice, leisurely breakfast of yogurt and muesli, and crossed the street to the train station with a reasonable ten minutes to spare before my train was to depart at 6:56. I certainly could have gotten there earlier, but what was the rush? I was hardly going to hit traffic walking fifty yards door to platform.

When I arrived at the station however, I noticed something strange. There was no train leaving at 6:56. There was a train leaving at 6:46, and… oh look! It was going to Geneva! But that didn’t make any sense. Surely I hadn’t…

Oh, but I had. I had copied down the time wrong when I was writing out my travel plans and reiterated it so many times in my itinerary, my calendar, and so on and so forth, that it had never occurred to me it might not be right. It took me a moment to get over my disorientation. That one moment that meant the conductor blew his all-clear whistler mere seconds before I reached the platform. And so I had to stand and watch as my train to Geneva pulled out of the station without me.

The conductor was very nice about it, using all the English he knew to try to figure out where I was going and if there was another train. There wasn’t. He looked very worried, but I thanked him and returned to the terminal. “C’est bien?” “Oui, bien.”

It wasn’t bien. I had been looking forward to Geneva more than any city since Granada. It wasn’t just one of those cities I studied in class either. It was a city I read about constantly in the news - a major hub of international diplomacy and thus, to me, something of a mecca. So I pulled out my phone and began searching furiously. There weren’t any direct trains from Valence to Geneva until the late evening, but there was a train from Valence to Grenoble, and then one from Grenoble to Geneva. It would get me there around 2:00, a full four hours later than I intended, but it would get me there. So I grabbed my bag and boarded a train.

Grenoble was actually a pleasant surprise. I couldn’t stray too far from the station with my bag, but I took a short walk and settled down in a cafe for an almond croissant and a coffee. I had a few hours to wait, but it gave me a chance to read and people watch. Before I had even say down though, I decided I liked the place. People in that northeastern region of France just seem… nicer: the girl behind the counter who served me with a blinding smile even after I had butchered her language while stuttering my order in French, the fellow traveler who sat down nearby and proceeded to painstakingly translate the fact that he had a long layover, just because I looked confused at his longer than usual greeting. There was a group of young friends we picked up on our way to Geneva as well whom I quite liked, even if I couldn’t understand them. Most large groups of young people get on my nerves, but I found myself actually wishing I could speak French so I could engage them. The one sitting next to me did ask me something, but I couldn’t respond. It didn’t seem to phase them.

The farther North we went, the more beautiful it became, until finally we made it to the sparkling city of Geneva. And it does sparkle. Not just the sunlight on the buildings, but the city seems to pulse with a light all its own. My original plan had been to head to the old town, explore the Cathedral of Saint-Pierre and the International Museum of the Reformation, as well as the surrounding area, before catching a bus north to the UN for a tour and heading back to the train station to make for Montreux.

You see, I had elected not to stay overnight in Geneva because it was just too expensive. Montreux, on the other hand, was the starting point for my alps tour the next day, and had a lovely internationally federated option. This choice, however, meant I now had barely four hours in Geneva. Something was going to have to give.

I’d thought about it long and hard on the train ride, and decided there was only one solution. As some of you know, I’m an absolute nerd when it comes to the Reformation. Just ask Katy who had to endure me grinning like an idiot every time the word came up in St. Andrews. Geneva is considered the Rome of the Reformation, the epicenter, where both Martin Luther and John Calvin completed most of their works. On the other hand, the Reformation has passed. It’s not about to change, whereas the UN I can see today may not be the UN I could see in ten years time. It’s current and constant and changing. It had to be the UN.

The only UN tour I could still make, however, and the last one of the day, didn’t start for two hours from the time my train arrived. Surely that was enough time to pop by the old town and see the cathedral at least? Well, it would have been, if not for the Fete des Ecoles, a parade of literally every school child in Geneva winding its way through the little cobbled streets. I didn’t know what was going on at first, and then I figured it out and didn’t know why, but I didn’t have the heart to be upset regardless. It was joyous and loud and full of laughter and music, parents lined the streets with smiles, waves, and cameras, and I didn’t even mind that it made it impossible to navigate.

So I got terribly lost, multiple times, but enjoyed it, only reaching Saint-Pierre’s Square a few minutes after I’d originally intended to leave it. So I had some decisions to make. Did I go? Did I stay? It had taken so long to get here. Was there even a guarantee I could make it back out? And so I had to let my dream of touring the United Nations, former headquarters of the League of Nations, go. It was a bitter parting, but so great is my love of the Reformation that still it didn’t ruin my day.

Even with canning the UN tour, that wasn’t quite enough time to do all the old town things I would have liked. I started with the International Museum of the Reformation, where the kind man who sold me my ticket and gave me my audio guide was able to answer my questions about the parade. They were celebrating the last day of school and had even rung the cathedral bells earlier. He also advised that I’d come a bit late in the day (as if I didn’t know >.<) and if I wanted to make the most of the combination ticket I’d insisted on buying, I should only spend about forty-five minutes in the museum.

Have any of you seen me in a museum? Recently? With an audio guide? I could be there for hours.

I definitely couldn’t be there for hours though, they closed in less than two. So I set about seeing things as quickly as I could, skipping the items I wasn’t positively enthralled by and finishing tracks early when I felt I’d gotten the gist. It took me an hour, and still felt like blasphemy. The things I could have learned! In a last attempt to assuage my curiosity, I picked up a couple of free books on my way out. At least they looked free. I hope they were free. They were tiny and in stacks by the door and didn’t have prices on them, so… I mean, no one yelled at me when I picked them up and walked out the door? I didn’t have time to worry about it though because part two of my combination ticket, the Archaeological Site, was closing in forty-five minutes.

Geneva is home to one of the largest and most diverse archaeological sites in Europe, buried beneath the Cathedral of Saint-Pierre. It has been excavated to the point that you can descend beneath the cathedral to see the remains of an Allobrogian warrior, the shrine built to him, the Roman shrine that replaced it, as well as a number of different cloisters and cathedrals that followed throughout the ages, all displayed at various levels in the earth’s crust as they were found. It was quite fascinating, though I’m glad I gave the hour to the museum and the forty-five minutes to the archaeology. I still had to hurry a bit, but I finished right on time at five o’clock.

The last part of the combination ticket, the cathedral towers, didn’t have the same strict closing time, so I explored them and the cathedral at me leisure. It was interesting being a Protestant cathedral again. Even compared to the ones I’d seen in Britain though, it was very plain and undecorated. I liked it. It allowed for more admiration of the architecture without seeming to imply that man is worthless and small. The towers, of course, also allowed for some spectacular views over Geneva

I had hoped to at least get up to see the UN building from the outside, but alas, when I was done at the cathedral time was still not on my side. I didn’t even get a chance to stop by the Reformation Wall monument in a nearby park. What I did think I had time for, however, was Geneva’s landmark Jet d’Eau. It used to be a pressure release valve for some factory that shot water into the air, but it eventually became such a Genevan landmark that the city decided to adopt it.

I’d assumed you could see the jet from anywhere around the lake, but the several times I’d passed couldn’t pick it out. On my final pass by, headed for the train station, I actually stopped to hunt for it a bit, eventually deciding it must be smaller than I thought and maybe not worth a look after all. No sooner had I started to cross my very last bridge though then I heard a titter from some tourists behind me and there it was, rising into the sky like the geyser I’d expected.

So I guess it’s on a timer or something, but it was my first stroke of tourist luck of the day and I appreciated it. I was in the perfect spot for lovely pictures and everything. And thus I arrived at the train station on a victorious note, retrieved my bag from left luggage, and boarded my train for Montreux, just a short ride around the lake from Geneva.

The train rides had been beautiful up to this point, but it was on the way to Montreux that they started to become so breathtaking you couldn’t look away. I think the entire experience is best summed up by the image of myself and the British girl sitting across from me, both attempting to read until we emerged from a tunnel, glanced out the window, and dropped our jaws in unison. She kept reaching across the aisle to tug at the sleeve of her friend, Rosie, who didn’t seem quite so impressed as the two of us. I just put my book away because I realized quite quickly that there wasn’t any point. Reading on a train in Switzerland is like trying to have an important conversation during a rock concert. There’s something bigger going on. You will be distracted.

Once we arrived in Montreux, it was a decent hike from the train station to the hostel. It was all along the lake though, so I really didn’t mind. Besides, Montreux is the perfect example of Swiss beauty and quirk. Along with the continuous view, the quai is lined with not only fragrant flowers, but music notes to commemorate the advent of Eurovision, and a strange lone statue of Freddie Mercury.

I enjoyed my night in Montreux. Even wished I’d had occasion to stay longer. According to a girl from North Dakota whom I met in my dorm, I missed a lovely castle just a little further along the lake, which is a bummer. Perhaps it’s just the reason I need to go back, though I’ll probably stay somewhere else. The hostel wasn’t bad, and breakfast was fantastic, but it didn’t really have wifi, which would become a recurring theme over the next couple of days.

The following morning I had a leisurely start to the day, but, a bit scarred from the day before, still managed to make it to the train station well before my departure time. In fact, I arrived so early I was able to catch an earlier train than the one I’d intended. See why not having to make reservations comes in handy? Catching that early train allowed me to catch my next three trains early as well. You see, this was my first Alps tour day, on which I just started taking trains from small town to small town, enjoying the view and ignoring the fact that there was a direct route from my departure city to my destination. And oh boy am I glad I did.

I have never seen anything as beautiful as the Alps. I still can’t quite believe it’s real. I don’t even have the pictures to prove it because none of them would come out through the train windows, and yet I can still see every peak vividly in my memory.

Endless inclines of sunlit green, wisps of cloud clinging to their tips. Every little bit you’d glimpse a tiny mountain stream, a miniature stone bridge, speckled about with the inevitable storybook houses. Now and then they’d come together to form towns, snaking around a sapphire lake or nestled on some high outcropping. Those were always surrounded by rectangle after rectangle of perfectly cultivated fields, built into the mountain without an inch of waste. And all around them, the mountains continue to rise like jagged puzzle pieces, fitting perfectly into the sky, taunting you to glimpse behind them to make sure they weren’t painted there by some master hand.

Snow still clung to the highest peaks. There was even a castle or two. It wasn’t until the last train, however, that the waterfalls started, bursting forth from the mountain face like wellsprings of majesty. That was the word for the whole experience really: majestic. And then we started to climb.

I’d thought maybe we would just wind between the mountains and not over them. We’d been through a couple long tunnels, and my guide book had warned me that tunnels were the train lines of the future in the Alps. Going over was too expensive, but apparently there were still a few over routes left, to one town at least, allowing us to twine around a single peak, getting a whole new vantage point of the cliff face across. I was giddy the entire time, and it occured to me somewhere along the way that I’m not sure I’d ever seen real, gigantic, majestice mountains like this before. Not that I can remember anyway. I’d decided I wanted to go back before I’d even seen the paragliders in Interlaken.

Now that I’ve made myself nostalgic, let’s return to the story, shall we? Anyway, thanks to all the early trains, I arrived in Lucerne a good few hours before I’d expected too, checked in to my hostel, and still had time to get a head start on some of the sights I’d wanted to see the next day. I decided to start with the Lion Monument and Glacier Garden, mostly because they were right across the street from the hostel. The Lion Monument is a statue carved into a rock face commemorating the contributions of the Swiss Guard to the French Revolution. I actually found it quite touching as a piece of artwork.

The Glacier Garden is a series of geological formations left by the glaciers as they made their way through the Alps however many million years ago. It was uncovered by a Swiss man while he was excavating a wine cellar and he wasted no time turning it into a tourist attraction. Apart from the rocks, there is also a lovely museum with a wealth of information about the climate cycle of Switzerland, including an interesting temporary exhibition on avalanches. My favorite part, however, was the traditional Swiss house for which they had originally planned to dig the wine cellar. It too has been preserved as a museum, all sweeping staircases and squeaky wood floors. I love old houses.

After the Glacier Garden, I ended up making eggs for dinner, because protein! And there was a grocery store just down the street. An expensive grocery store, because Switzerland, despite using the Franc (which is less than a Euro but still more than a dollar) has let inflation run wild of something. Prices are ridiculous. It’s probably because everything has to be shipped through the mountains. But I enjoyed going nonetheless because the Swiss are just so friendly!

I don’t speak any German. It was actually a surprise to me, after I’d gotten by so well with my history of Spanish and smattering of French, but I didn’t even know my pleasantries in German. Had to look them up. And yet I had multiple interactions with people at the store who I clearly didn’t need to understand to communicate with. First was the two ladies, less than a minute apart, who saw me eyeing the half price strawberries and came up to whisper in my ear about what pour quality they were. I smiled and nodded and bought some anyway, because they were half price, and only close to spoiling, meaning not spoiled yet.

The last was a frail, hobbly old lady who approached me as I was surveying the yogurt. She said something in German I didn’t understand and pointed at the case. At my confused expression she pointed again until I understood she wanted help getting a pack of yogurt off the top shelf, which I was quite proud of myself for retrieving for her - not because it was hard to reach the top shelf, but because I had been able to interpret well enough to make myself useful. I think that’s the hardest part about not knowing a language. I often feel useless in public situations where I would like to assist or contribute. Alas, if that’s my biggest problem, I think I’m doing pretty well.

Anyway, I made it an early night and too late realized I needn’t have set my alarm for the next morning. Too late meaning as I was having breakfast and revising my plans the next day. I’d intended to go to the Transport Museum despite it costing a ridiculous 30 francs only because I thought it contained the newly opened Swiss Chocolate Experience. I mean… from the name alone, clearly I couldn’t miss that. I had discovered the night before though that while the museum and the experience share a venue, they are separate attractions with separate tickets, so I ditched the overpriced museum despite it’s reputation as one of the largest and most diverse transportation museums in Europe and decided to save the Chocolate Experience for later that afternoon.

That meant my morning was free, so I decided to spend it enjoying the beauties of the old town. I’d been a bit disappointed upon arriving in Lucerne after my trip through the Alps. It didn’t look nearly as pretty as I had hoped, but I think that was just in comparison. Yes, it was more grey and urban than I would have liked after the quaint beauty of the Alpine cottages, but in the fresh morning sun it had a beauty all its own.

The first stop was the famous Chapel Bridge. If there’s a history to it, I’m not sure what that history is. Nevertheless, it is certainly an important Lucerne landmark, and quite nice to look at too.

The other major site I wanted to see was something called the Nine Towers that I’d read about online. Apparently they were connected by a long stone wall you could walk along with stunning views over the city. I followed Trip Advisor’s map to a tee only to arrive and find… well, not alot. It looked like just another city block, definitely without a tower in sight. There was a steep incline starting a block and a half over though, so that seemed like a decent place to begin my search, and there was a sign in German pointing up the path that, for all I knew, said “Towers this Way,” so…

Turns out that’s not what it said, but at least I had an adventure! I climbed the flights of stairs and vertical paths for the better part of an hour, getting a bright and cheery greeting from literally every person I passed, so at least I had guten morgen down by the end of it. I decided I wasn’t going to find the towers about the time I hit the tree line where the Alpine hiking trails began. I would have liked to go hiking, but I was in a dress, and decidedly non-hiking shoes, so… that will have to wait for another time. I turned around and began my trek back down, intent on heading back to the hostel for lunch before striking out for the Chocolate Adventure. And then, it happened.

I was just about the cross the river when I saw a tower a little further down. It was just one tower, and it was covered in scaffolding, but something told me to go take a look. Sure enough, as I approached, a second tower came into view, also covered in scaffolding, but definitely connected to the first by a wall. Could this be it? I wasn’t allowed to climb either tower and see, but I followed the wall until… yes! There was a third tower! And a fourth! These two weren’t covered in scaffolding, but neither could I get close enough to see if there was an access point, let alone climb them to the top.

It was when I hit the fifth tower, quite sure now that I had found the fabled nine in an entirely different part of the city than I’d been told, that I was finally able to climb to the top. The fifth tower, the center tower, was the clock tower, and the one everyone had been raving about online anyway. It was pretty cool inside, full of clockwork gears and pendulums. I explored for a bit, took a picture, and then decided I had to pee too much to go back and explore the towers I’d missed. Besides, while I was pretty sure I could get there by wall, a sign in the clock tower told me you couldn’t go inside three and four anyway, and as I’d seen, one and two were closed.

So I continued along the wall, rather than backtracking, only to find that the walking path did not continue past tower number six. Thus I descended and made my way back to the hostel for lunch. Oh well, at least the view was as spectacular as I’d read!

I had fondue for lunch. Apparently it’s a Swiss specialty, and there was a sign in the hostel kitchen advising you on how to make it cheap. (N.B. Cheap to them was eight or nine francs, but at least it wasn't the thirty you might have gotten it for at the bottom barrel fondue restaurants.) I made too much, as one does when cooking alone, and at it all anyway because I refuse to waste food. That left me wandering off to the Swiss Chocolate Experience stuffed as a baby bird that swallowed alka-seltzer. I did, however, have a lovely half-hour walk along the lake to work some of it off.

It was a beautiful summer day, with people jogging and boating and enjoying the weather in general. When I reached the park in front of the Transport Museum there were quite a few people sunbathing as well. I’m still on sun strike until my now peeling sunburn heals, but I bet the rays felt fantastic. Switzerland is just high and north enough that it’s not at all too hot, even in the harshest bits of sun.

I purchased my ticket for the Swiss Chocolate Experience, not quite sure what to expect other than something to do with chocolate, and was ushered into an elevator that took me down to a lower level of the building. I quickly gathered that the Swiss Chocolate Experience is an exact replica of the Scotch Whiskey Experience I did in Edinburgh, only with sweets instead of liquor. It’s a ride that takes you around in a little cart explaining how Swiss chocolate is made, ending, I presume, with a sample. I never got to find out.

You see, I chatted with Henrich, the kind ride operator, until my cart arrived, got in, learned all about cocoa production in Africa, how it’s shipped to Amsterdam, the testing process, how the milk and sugar components of the chocolate are sourced, and then was just about to delve into the aspects of production itself when all of a sudden, everything froze. Have I mentioned that the ride is new?

Well, something went wrong, a glitch in the system, and they had to come through and let everyone off manually. I didn’t mind so much. I would have liked to finish out the story, but Henrich snuck me some free chocolate anyway, and then I got a refund, so I’ll consider that a win any day.

Following the ride malfunction I still had quite a bit of time left in my day. I wandered the gift shop for a few minutes, only barely talking myself out of buying a Swiss army knife, and then decided I rather fancied some time outdoors. So I took my book and retired to that park I mentioned, getting a good way through despite the frequent distraction of “oh look, the mountains are still there!” I did eventually have to head back though.

I prolonged it as long as I could, wandering the streets despite my growing exhaustion. Unfortunately, that gave a creepy old Italian man from Zurich the chance to strike up a conversation while I was sitting on a park bench, and then use that conversation as a pretext for hitting on me. What is it with me and creepy old Italian men? I lied for the first time about having a boyfriend, and then felt guilty about it, but really… there’s hints and then there’s hints. It’s not like he took it, and eventually I just had to get up and walk away.

Not wanting to be inside for the night just yet, and knowing I’d be spending most of the next day on trains, I dropped by a local supermarket to purchase some snacks - rice cakes and cherry tomatoes, as is becoming my regular train fare - before finally going back to organize my things and get some sleep. The organizing bit took quite a bit longer than I would have liked. Turns out my shampoo leaked. It wasn’t a disaster though, just took a little cleaning, and I’ve been contending with leaky mouthwash all trip anyway.

The next day saw the final leg of my various alpine journeys. I was excited to see some of the same picturesque landscapes, and though that excitement was not to be fulfilled, neither was I at all disappointed. You see, heading south from Lucerne, into the Italian parts of Switzerland, is heading into the Alps proper. The stunning factors here were height as much as beauty. It was only as we were winding along cliff edges, beneath peaks that reached so far into the sky they seemed to hold up the clouds, that I realized this what what I had expected of the alps. This section, unlike those precious, was wild, full of dense forests and river rapids, and tunnels through the mountain face, interspersed with momentary glimpses of breathtaking heights before were plunged once more into darkness.

I liked it. I liked it a lot.

Eventually we hit Italy though, and while Italy is also beautiful, I would classify its naturalistic noteworthiness somewhere along with France. It’s nice, but there’s only so many fields you can look at before they start to lose their novelty. Which brings us to now, in sunny Italy. This post has taken me so long to write I’ve already been here more than a day, but you’ll have to wait for the next post to hear all about Pisa - for the sake of organization, you know. Ciao bellisimos!