spiritedjourneys

Obstwiesenfestival

2009-07-22T00:43:00.000-07:00

Ok. So here’s the scene. Slippery, wet, cold, drizzly rain. Mud caked Converse sneakers and dirty blue jeans. Plenty of good beer and festival food. No cops. No bad attitudes. Rockin’ indie bands from Europe and the US. This is Obstwiesenfestival; an independent alternative rock festival held in the middle of a farm field in Southern Germany. WOW! What a party!
Indie bands from the US, UK, Denmark, Norway, Belgium, and Germany played their asses off to the shouts and screams from the mostly twenty-thirty something year old German crowd. Bands with names like The Virgins, Missent to Denmark, Polarkreis 18, Plus/Minus, Bishop Allen, and We Have Band are some of the many groups playing this weekend. The festival began on Thursday night and continued on until at least 4 a.m. on Sunday morning. I say at least because that’s when I finally had to throw up the white flag and surrender to some sleep back at the campground. Actually, when I arrived back at the campground, campers were still going strong, blasting tunes and dancing around their tents.
I attended the festival on a fluke, all because of a German couchsurfer named Martin. Martin had put out an invitation on www.couchsurfing.org announcing to anyone interested that he would be driving to the festival and had room for two people in his car. I rolled the idea around in my head for thirty minutes before giving Martin a call. On her way to work, Michelle dropped me off at Martin’s apartment. We picked up two of Martin’s friends, loaded their camping gear, and jumped on the autobahn in the direction of Munich.
Upon arriving at the campground, located in an industrial area on the outskirts of town, we are immediately taken aback at the amount of mud at the entrance. There’s a lot of it and it’s deep. Ankle deep. Crap. This is how it is going to be for the weekend. We pay our entrance fees, have our bags searched for glass, and tiptoe our way through the mud, trying to find the path the least muddy. Ha! It’s also slippery, so walking around requires constant attention. While we set up camp, several campers come by to introduce themselves. One guy from Austria brings a couple of cans of Austrian lager. Prost! Martin visits several of the tents in our area and introduces all of us. We are all officially friends and good neighbors. I notice from the amount of beer cans shoved into the chicken wire fence surrounding us that we are among campers bent on having a good time.
We chat with a few fellow tenters and start the party rolling. Around 7 pm, we head out to catch the festival bus to take us to the show. We are joined by an eclectic crowd, many of them completely covered in mud. There is no avoiding the mud. After awhile, you just don’t care anymore.
We hike about three kilometers, past wheat and corn fields to the festival grounds. Our first priority is to get a good base going in our stomachs. We eat freshly toasted baguette sandwiches and are ready for some Ochsen Lager, the beer of Ulm.
There are two stages set up: One is under a giant canvas tent and the other, the main stage, is outside. When one band finishes, the next one starts at the opposite side. Back and forth we travel, making stops in between for beer and food. Sloshing, slipping, and sliding through the mud, we all smile to each other. And the more people drink, the muddier they get. It’s chilly out here too. Gluhwein, a traditional German hot drink served during winter, is a big seller tonight.
The crowd is excited and displays their enthusiasm by singing along with the bands, fists pumping the air. Fans have traveled from all over Germany. Several other European countries are also represented, judging from the license plates in the camp parking lot.
The Virgins from New York City were the band that impressed me the most. They played a funky, soulful song called Rich Girl that really got my attention. The singer reminded me of a cross between Mick Jagger and the late Michael Hutchence of INXS. Another favorite of mine was a dance band called We Have Band from the UK. They played bass pounding dance beats, making it irresistible to groove to the sound. Bishop Allen, another US band, put on a hell of a show. They have more of an alternative/college rock kind of feel – kind of Elvis Costello-ish, but their own unique sound. All of the bands were professionals and there to make their mark. There were no hacks in the lineup. Outstanding performances. Outstanding sound. Outstanding attitudes. All were appreciative of the fans and welcomed the attention.
But what impressed me the most about the festival was the behavior from the fans, especially the young ones. Many of them were drunk, as the drinking age in Germany for beer is sixteen. They didn’t get sloppy-falling down drunk and belligerent. They behaved incredibly well, even being fueled by the alcohol. I found them all to be well-behaved, friendly, energetic, and social. There were no altercations, no fights, and no bad vibes anywhere. It was all really good juju happening everywhere. I spoke with many of them and found them to be extremely polite, enjoying themselves, and grooving on the music. Even in the campground, there were no problems as one would expect to have at an event like this in America. Festival security was a minimum. I saw zero police officers at both the concert site and the campground. ZERO! There were more paramedics wandering around than guys in black shirts with securite written on them.
I danced and danced through the night into the morning. There was an after party/rave show in the tent when the last band, a hiphop act from the UK, finished their wild set. I twirled glowsticks, danced, and laughed with Martin until the wee morning hours when our legs finally gave out.
Daylight came too soon, along with tremendous wind that threatened to blow down my tent. Dirty, hungover, and dehydrated, we said our goodbyes to our new friends and staggered wearily to the car for the one hour trip back to Stuttgart.

Obstwiesenfestival: Mission Accomplished

London England, Part II

2009-03-28T04:30:00.000-07:00

London, Part II

We woke up early and wandered down the neighborhood street to meet a double decker bus to take us to the Underground. Our plans were to head to the downtown area for Chinese Dim Sum. Our plans fell through when we saw the Dim Sum was pricey and mostly seafood. We decided to change course and hit a pub running an IPA beer special. After a couple of pints and rich sausage rolls, we meandered along Baker Street, home to Sherlock Holmes. We then decided we needed to hit Borough Market on Stoney Street, which was the highlight of our experience in London.
Borough Market was bustling with activity on this drizzly afternoon. Business men and women in their pinstriped suits joined students, tourists, and a throng of blue collar workers on their lunch break for a pint of ale. The smell of grilled meats and cheeses permeated the air. People stood outside, gripping a glass of ale while sampling one of the many choices of food. Cassoulet, pork sandwiches, chorizo sandwiches, fresh oysters, jamon serrano, manchego, apple and pear ciders, and grilled scallops were only a few of the delicious selections of snacks to choose from. We were overwhelmed at the choices. We attempted to eat one of everything – unsuccessfully I must add. Wandering through the food stands, we sampled a wide variety of meats, cheeses, pates, mushrooms, and drinks. It was foodie heaven. All the food operators were more than happy to offer samples and discuss their selections. All were proud of their stands and boasted about their products. It was very hard to leave the market, but forced ourselves from the mushroom pate served with freshly baked bread to find a pub to rest our legs. We later found out the market area was also the location of a street scene in one of the Harry Potter films.
The streets were filled with camera toting tourists from all over the globe. We strolled along the Thames River near London Bridge, watching the boats motor along the way. We stopped to listen to buskers playing Bach in a tunnel with fantastic acoustics.
That night, we moved our location from the parent’s household to Indie’s girlfriend’s apartment. Indie’s parents were sad to see us go. They packed us off with a homemade hot pepper concoction as we shook hands good-bye. In return, we left them a bottle of our own homemade habanero hot sauce.
At Anocke’s house, we quickly rid ourselves of our backpacks and stormed the town. Indie took us to his favorite Chinese restaurant where we were served a delicious authentic Chinese dinner. We were the only non-Asian people in the restaurant, so we knew we were in the right place. Indie, having lived in China, took great pleasure in ordering in Chinese for us. We had an exciting view of the street where the police arrested a car load of teenagers for car theft. Indie talked about the police in London and random searches of backpacks, especially in the Tubes. I asked him if he had ever been searched to which he unhesitantly replied, “Oh yes!” He said the cop or “bobbie”, before searching his backpack, asked him if there was anything in it that might hurt him. Indie replied, “I’ve got a couple of books in there that you might consider dangerous.”
The next day, Michelle and I continued our exploration of London, checking out Trafalgar Square and Chinatown. After a near miss of Michelle from a speeding taxi cab and bicycle (she looked the wrong way to cross the street), we found our destination Dim Sum restaurant. We ordered 8 different items and happily ate our delicious lunch of seafood noodles and dumplings. Out in the streets, we are surrounded by hordes of tourists and locals. Thousands of people fill the tightly packed sidewalks. Long lines of people streamed out from storefronts advertising cheap theater tickets. We became quickly overwhelmed from being bumped along by the masses and took refuge on a double-decker bus going anywhere. We boarded and climbed to the top of the bus, enjoying the view away from the chaos. The bus came to the end of its route where we quickly found a cozy pub to rest our tired bones. Being the day before St. Patrick’s Day, the special ale was “Spring Green”. A group of young Irishmen sat at our table and chanted Obama slogans to us when they found out we were Americans.
Later that night, we were joined by Indie and Anocke for Indian food at their favorite Curry House…but not before a quick pint at a locals sports pub where I walked in on some blokes snorting white stuff in the bathroom. “It’s all cool” I said when they looked at me in surprise. “Continue doing your thing. Don’t let me stop you.” They smiled and happily continued snorting away.
Back at the Indian restaurant, we enjoyed a spectacular meal of mostly vegetarian delights. The kitchen turned out some incredible dishes. Afterwards, the chef came out to greet us and ask us if we liked our meals. You bet we did! It was a memorable evening.
The next morning, I unfortunately had to begin my journey home, encompassing a long subway ride, a four hour layover in Amsterdam, and a trip with a wild Turkish taxi driver. Michelle decided to stay a couple more nights and celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in Trafalgar Square. She was hosted by a couch surfer named Jane who also hosted another surfer from Belgium. Michelle had quite an adventure celebrating in an Irish Pub and the streets of London. I was bummed not to have been able to stay longer and hang out, but hey, somebody’s gotta pay for these crazy trips.

London, England; Part II: Mission Accomplished.

London England, Part 1

2009-03-28T02:57:00.000-07:00

London, England

I arrived in London via express train from York. It is a little over a two hour ride in comfort and style. The train has free wireless internet on board which allowed me to check up on emails using my iTouch. I also downloaded a Google map of the area in London where I was headed; Hammersmiths. I arrived at my station, donned the camouflage backpack, and put rubber to road. I stopped outside the busy station to check my iTouch map when I was approached by my first beggar. An old man with kind eyes and a lust for a pint, softly asks me for 50 pence. I slowly dig into my pocket and pulled out a bunch of loose coins. “How much do you need for a pint?” I asked.
“Only 50p more”, he quickly responded, extending his outreached hand closer to my chest. “Here ya go, man”, I said, giving the thirsty, red faced man his much needed money.
“Thank you!” he smiled, showing me his yellow teeth, then shuffling off to the nearest pub.
I chose Hammersmiths as my initial spot of debarkation for a reason. Hammersmiths was home to the Andover Arms. While to most people, this means nothing, but to me, it means the favorite watering hole of Michael Jackson. No, not THAT Michael Jackson, the man with the freaky nose and one white glove. I’m talking about Michael Jackson, the famed beer connoisseur and writer of all things beer. Michael Jackson, God rest his beer drinking soul, listed Andover Arms as his favorite place to get the most perfect pint of ale. Michael’s favorite was Fuller’s Chiswick Bitter. I wasn’t about to pass on the chance to try one of these beers in the recommended establishment.
I arrived at the Andover Arms at 11:30am, Thursday, after walking 20 minutes from the train station. I knew the pub didn’t open until noon, but thought I’d try the door anyway. I pushed down on the latch with my thumb and swung the door open! I’m in! I lean in a window in the kitchen and yell, “HELLO! HELLO?” An Indian man in his forties looks up from the stainless steel sink, where steaming water pours from the spicket.
“YES?” he yells back, glimpsing up to meet my eyes.
“Can I get a pint or is it too early yet?” I ask.
“One second sir. I will get someone.” He shuts off the water and disappears. Two minutes later, a young man wearing a soccer t-shirt and apron appears. “Can I help you?” he asks me in a thick British accent.
“Yes. Do you think I can get a pint of the Chiswick’s Bitter on the cask, or is it too early?”
“No mate, it’s never too early for a pint”, he says grinning. “You’re starting off with a real winner there. Where ya from?”
I tell him that I’m on a beer pilgrimage to Michael Jackson’s favorite spot. We talk for awhile before he heads back to the kitchen to prepare for the lunch crowd.
Ok. So there is a bigger plan than me just hanging out at the Andover Arms all day. In actuality, I’m waiting on Michelle to meet me here. She is flying in to Heathrow from Stuttgart this afternoon. I am waiting for her cab to arrive from the airport.
In the meantime, I’m having a great time, yacking with the landlord. I order lunch and am served a large piece of fish, battered with London’s Pride Ale and a side of chips. It was the best fish ‘n chips I have ever eaten. I would go back again, all the way there for another piece of that fish and a pint of Bitter. I was relaxed, almost euphoric to be sitting in that pub. It was quiet, relaxing, and historical, set in a sleepy neighborhood. The landlord greeted everyone by first name: The mailman, the retired man, the meter reader, the food delivery man. He knew them all, and they knew him.
I think it was around four that an old black cab roared up to the pub, and a disheveled, excited Michelle emerged. With suitcase in tow, Michelle entered the pub door to find a slightly buzzed me, sitting on the barstool, engaged in a conversation about hot sauces. She grinned, parked her suitcase, rushed up to me and grabbed my beer for a sniff. “What’cha drinking here? Any good?” Michelle asks with enthusiasm. She chugs down a swallow and says, “Damn, that’s good. I’ll have one of those.”
We are both excited our plan came together and we were able to meet at a pub in a small neighborhood on the outskirts of London. Michelle orders a tender lamb sandwich and chips, and tells me about her adventures of getting to the pub. While we are talking, one of the locals tells us about another pub called The Dove. He says we absolutely must check it out. After a couple more pints, the landlord calls us “punters” a cab to The Dove. Before calling us a cab, I call our friend Indie to tell him we are in town and will be arriving at a train station near his parent’s house. We are staying with Indie’s parents on the first night, and his girlfriend’s apartment on the following two nights. Indie is an Indian guy we met in Seoul. He was teaching English in China and needed to come to Korea to get his visa re-newed. He and three other English teachers came to our apartment, using www.couchsurfing.com and hung out for eight days. Indie welcomed us to London and made sure we had a place to stay. More on that later.
The two buzzed punters, Michelle and I, loaded the suitcase and backpacks into the cab parked in front of the Andover Arms. “We’re off to The Dove”, I tell the cabbie. He’s an attractive European looking gay man who fails to turn on the meter. He shifts into second gear and slides around a corner. He is cordial, thespian-like, telling stories about him and his partner. I’m wondering what this ride is going to cost. We arrive at The Dove and aren’t overly charged as much as I thought we would be. The Dove is one of the oldest pub in London, being built around the 1600’s or something. It sits along the Thames River, giving pint drinking couples a beautiful romantic view. The pub also holds the Guinness Book of World Records award for having the smallest bar.
We drink a few cask pints before deciding we needed to get on the Underground and head for Indie’s place. After a jaunt through a dark park along the river while looking for the giant Coca Cola sign that we can’t miss, we find our station. I call Indie from a payphone at the station and he tells us he’ll be right over to get us. He also says over the phone, “Man, am I stressed.”
“Breath dude”, I tell him. “Breathe. And come get us”.
Indie shows up in a road-worn car with his “business associate”. Michelle and I pile into Indie’s car and drive towards Indie’s parent’s house. Indie informs us that he just got his driver’s license last week and is a little nervous. Michelle, sitting in the passenger seat says, “oh, well then, let me help you.” She turns on the window defroster to clear the windows that had become completely fogged over from our breath. “Thanks” Indie says. “I don’t know how to work any of these things.”
“How re-assuring”, I laugh. It’s weird enough to see the driver on the right hand side of the car while motoring in the left lane.
We make it to Indie’s parent’s house where his mom and dad are waiting to greet us. Indie’s dad comes bounding down the stairs wearing a well-weathered “I speak Swahili” t-shirt. His mom rushes to greet us at the door.
“Welcome” they both say smiling. Mrs. Shah begins warming food on the stove as we take our places around a crowded kitchen table. “I hope you like curry”, she tells us.
No complaints from us. We love curry. Mrs. Shah serves us food that is completely homemade. Everything – from the breads to the curry – Mrs. Shah made. They belong to a religion that lives by the philosophy of making light footsteps on the environment. They do not disturb or kill anything – not bugs or plants. They do not eat root vegetables for fear it will disturb their environment. No garlic or onions. They are strict vegans as well. We ate without fork, knife, or spoon, and used our fingers to scoop up the curried beans and rice. I think food tastes better when you use your hands.
After dinner, we spoke with Mr. Shah while Mrs. Shah watched her Indian soaps in another room. He wanted to know what we thought of John F. Kennedy. He told us what a great man he was and how he felt on the day he was killed. “I’ll never forget that day”, he said.
We retired for the evening, exhausted, in an upstairs bedroom. I was awaken early the next morning by the sounds of gargled chanting…like someone singing with a mouthful of Listerine. This lasted several minutes until I heard what I thought was a washing machine. I could hear the steady splashing of water accompanied by a monotonous singing chant. That evening I asked Indie about his father’s morning routine.
“What the heck was your dad doing in the bathroom this morning”, I asked my friend.
“Oh. That”, responded Indie. My dad prays in the bathtub to the goddess of wealth every morning. He lies in freezing cold water and spins around in the tub while chanting. He’s been doing it for seven years now. It doesn’t appear to be working”, Indie laughed, shrugging his shoulders.

London, England; Part I: Mission Accomplished

York, England

2009-03-22T06:42:00.000-07:00

What a non-stop whirl-wind adventure this trip turned out to be. One week later, I’m still tired. I burned myself out on this trip and let myself get sick and run down. But hey, that’s the price to pay when there’s only a short period of time and a lot of activities to accomplish. No time for sleep. Gotta Go! Go! Go!
I flew into Leeds Airport on Sunday evening, March 8th, via Amsterdam. I had a four hour delay in A-dam and spent it drinking cold Heineken, eating a Whopper Royal with cheese, and chatting with Kim. Kim is our speech pathologist at several schools in Stuttgart. She was attending an Autism Conference along with me and a dozen others from around Europe. We were all meeting in York.
Eight of us arrived in Leeds at the airport and piled in a taxi van to York, about a 30 minute drive costing $120. Our Iraqi cab driver talked about how much he disliked England and how much he wished to return back to Basra with his British wife. “Good luck with that, dude”, I thought. I wonder how his wife will like living in the Iraqi desert?
After checking into the hotel, I tossed my backpack on the bed, re-applied the Old Spice, and made a bee-line for Brigante’s Bar & Brasserie. I did some research on pubs in England and found two of the top rated ones were located in York. Brigantes and and another pub called The Maltings were located within a 5 minute walking distance from the hotel! I walked directly from the front door of Brigante’s to the bar where I spied four cask-conditioned ale tap handles. The was a bitter, an ESB, a stout, and an IPA from Acorn Brewing. Salivating all over the bar, I asked the bartender or “landlord” for a pint of the IPA. It was a taste of pure heaven for me. This IPA was my first one in two years. It was creamy, bitter, and bursting with fresh green hop flavor. My eyes brimmed with tears as I set down my glass and nodded my head in approval to the man pouring my beers. This was one nicely made beer - exactly what I needed. He told me that beer was one of their best sellers. I tried the other cask beers, enjoying one in particular called Oyster Stout. Rich, dark, creamy, with a hint of toasted malts. Very nice. I ended up returning the following night, having dreamt about IPA’s, only to find out the IPA was all gone. “Everybody really luved ‘at one”, the landlord told me in his thick British accent. “It went quick as you please”. Seeing my disappointment, he quickly began describing the new ale taking the place of my formerly new favorite beer. It was an ESB from the local brewery, York Brewery. I made a note to be sure to visit the brewery in the next three days. I wish I also would’ve made a note describing its location as being right around the corner of Brigante’s Bar. I wound up getting some unwanted exercise, in my quest for fresh brewery ales. The following night, I returned to Brigante’s and dined on a truly wonderful leek and cheese potato pie, served with beef gravy and a side of boiled vegetables. The crust was thin, flaky and rich. It went perfect with any of the ales being served. The vegetables were English – a medley of boiled turnips, carrots, and cabbage. I enjoyed myself so much; I went back a third and fourth night. I couldn’t help myself. I ate a big plate of fish ‘n chips on another visit and drank a new IPA on the cask. My dining companions ate chips (fries) and grilled steak. (A little side note, Brits call French fries, “chips” and potato chips, “crisps”). Both companions, Chuck and Carol reported the steak as being excellent and perfectly cooked to their liking…which looked to be bloody rare.
I hit The Maltings Pub on two separate occasions; once to sample the beers and ambience and the second to check out the live music. They hired an excellent two man band playing mostly Bob Dylan tunes. I met up with a few teachers at the pub and shared a few pints as well as a few laughs.
The Maltings also pours fabulous beers from local microbreweries, including a Kriek Lambic and Whitbier. I opted again to go initially with the IPAs, and then sample some of the other ales on cask. The landlord was well-versed in the beers being served and was quick to offer me free samples from anything I chose. I found the British to be generous in their offerings of free samples from the kegs. In fact, every single pub I visited in England gave me a sample if I asked or even if I didn’t ask. It never bothered them and they never acted like I was a pain in the ass. Even when the bar was crowded, they didn’t hesitate to pour me a sample and wait to hear my review. I really loved it!
If you are in York, I highly recommend those two pubs.
I mentioned earlier about York Brewery. They have won a few gold medals for a number of years at the British Brewing Industry Awards. Centurion Ghost Ale is their big flagship beer and is excellent. It is no wonder why it has received several gold medals. It is a dark, bitter ale, with a roasted malt taste. Very easy to drink. The brewery is relaxing inside, sort of like being in someone’s living room. Everyone chats to each other while sipping pints of top quality cask ale. The night I went, the brewery was holding a quiz night, the main prize being a free tour of the brewery. The place was filled with locals. The teams were mostly comprised of forty to fifty age something friends, all laughing and joking loudly, obviously enjoying each other’s company. The questions were geared towards Englishmen in this age group – questions like, what was the price of an average home in England in 1970, stuff like that. It was a good place to drink in some British culture.
York is the most haunted city in Europe…or so I saw somewhere on a “ghost” brochure. The city has several “haunted” walking ghost tours and a real haunted house which had been the source of a TV ghost investigation. Unfortunately, most of the tours don’t start until the end of March, when the tourists start arriving. York is a world heritage Unesco site, which means it’s loaded with cool history and architecture. It has castles, cemeteries, museums, Viking stuff, and a huge cathedral.
On one of the nights, before tackling a pub crawl through the city, I joined a group of teachers for some fabulous Indian food at the Viceroy Restaraunt. Travel writer Rick Steves had written a glowing recommendation of the place, enticing us to seek it out. Rick was right. The food and service was excellent. It was a semi-rowdy meal, as loudness is usually the theme when a group of American special education teachers get together. Everyone in the restaurant heard our presence. After dinner, a few friends and I did a slow pub crawl back to the hotel. Young, twenty-somethings staggered through the dark city streets in search of hot love. Most girls wore skimpy club dresses, while the boys sported teased, spiky hair. They all carried beers and cigarettes, laughing, arm-in-arm. The cold did not seem to bother them as none wore jackets in the 35 degree F. weather. I’m guessing they don’t have coat checks at the clubs.
We found several cozy pubs on our crawl. One of them was like being in cave, with low ceilings and mold growing on the ancient brick. All the pubs were filled with “regulars” who welcomed us in every time. I found the British to be exceptionally nice, polite, patient people. A friendly pub across the street from our hotel had an open mic night on Wednesday, attended by several teachers. I decided to join them and wound up jamming a couple of tunes on the guitar to the delight of both the teachers and the British patrons. I borrowed a guitar from the open mic host, and started with Squeezebox, Pete Townsend’s tune, followed by Fogerty’s the Rain and the Kinks, Lola. People kept saying, “One more! One more!” I really had a great time playing on stage. I was followed by an elderly man who recited strange poetry about his garden shed. One of his poems was about WW II and the affect the war had on York and its surroundings. It was an interesting poem to hear. It was pretty magical to listen to this man speak of the war while sitting in a small early 1920’s era pub in England.
I fell in love with York immediately. It is easily one of my most favorite cities. The people really make the city. The food, drink, and hospitality are first class. I’m glad to know a city like York exists.
York, England: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

Liege, Belgium

2008-12-07T02:01:00.000-08:00

Freedom.
The ability to pack up and leave for God-knows-where at a moment’s notice. No kids. No dogs - only a couple of plants to water before scrambling out the door. The opportunity to jump in the car and be in a country like Belgium in four and half hours is what I’m talking about.
Michelle and I made arrangements to spend Thanksgiving in Liege, Belgium. We were to spend the first night with a couch surfer (www.couchsurfing.com) and the second two nights at a Youth Hostel. Plans were in place until we received a phone call from Michelle’s dad saying her mother was very ill and had to be taken to the hospital. We discussed her going back, and then the next day we received another phone call, this time from Michelle’s mother. She tells us that now Michelle’s dad is ill and also needed to be hospitalized. That made our minds up for us right there. I bought Michelle a ticket to Montana and she left within two days.

And me?

Well, I wasn’t about to cancel the trip to Belgium.
I threw a backpack and a sleeping bag in the car, and headed Northwest to Liege.
I set directions in my GPS for an address in downtown Liege for a local couch surfer, a Belgian girl named Francoise. The plan was for me to meet her at her apartment at 5:30pm. She would be arriving after finishing work as an English teacher.
I found a parking spot across the street from her place on a busy city side road along the Meuse River. I got there around 2:30pm, and decided to take a stroll around the city. Taverns and pubs decorate every corner, all advertising either Jupiler or Stella Artois beers on tap.
Oh yeah!
Liege is also home to Jupiler Brewery.
I peeked in the window of a few watering holes, searching for a spot where I would feel comfortable. I passed on the ones filled with old men, men in suits, and ones filled with people who generally didn’t look like me. I eventually found one on a busy corner, a serene location on a barstool with endless people watching opportunities. I sat at the bar and ordered a Stella beer on draft, in French. The bartender immediately heard an accent and wondered where I came from.
Canada perhaps?
I listened to the conversations of everyone around me and wound up joining in a food discussion about strange foods, in particular, the taste of cow brains. The men all liked brains, including me. Our sole female bartender detested them.
I hung out there, trying to tune French into my head until it was time to disappear and meet Francoise.
Arriving at my host’s apartment, I searched through the French names on the buzzers and pressed the one marked Ghyse, Francoise’s last name. I took the elevator to her floor and was greeted by a smiling, jovial woman who immediately gave me the customary kisses on the cheeks; one, two, three of them. She gave me a quick tour, where I tossed my backpack on her spare bed and joined her in the living room for introductions and travel stories.

She had a spectacular view out her window of the city and the river. The bridges are lit in neon blue at night, casting an eerie glow over the water.

I find out that Francoise has traveled all over the world as well.

She has only been a guest of couch surfers a few times, choosing instead to host couch surfers at her place. Francoise’s latest travel adventure had been to a small town in Thailand where she had volunteered to teach English to the poor village children. A Thai family had volunteered to host her during her eight week visit.

Unfortunately, the family was headed by an abusive father who treated Francoise terribly, causing her to return to Belgium after five weeks in a depressed state. She said she knew she was in trouble when she found the floor of her new bedroom to be covered in dead bugs. When she asked for a broom to sweep up the tiny insect corpses, she was chastised by her family, saying she had insulted them.

What left an impression on me about Francoise was her love for America and New York City. She had a large-framed photograph of the NYC landscape, the Twin Towers standing proudly in the middle of the shot. Other pictures of NYC, in black and white, surrounded the Twin Tower photograph. Francoise told me it was her shrine.
Many people I have met in my travels have been to NYC and feel a deep connection to it.
All wept when the terrorists crashed those planes.

Francoise called another friend and couch surfer, Sonia, a young Belgian woman who worked for a refrigeration trucking company. She was also a world traveler and couch surfer, having many friends and stories from around the globe.
Sonia joined us for dinner at the restaurant, Maison du Peket (maisondupeket.be), specializing in traditional Liegoise cuisine and beverage. I managed to devour a delicious meal of two large meatballs, covered in a sweet pear sauce, surrounded by French fries.
Of course the meal was washed down with a Blanche bier and several shots of Peket; the booze of choice in Belgium. The shots come in an assortment of fruit flavors, the more famous one topped with a fiery blue flickering flame. The bartender fires up a gas torch and dances a hot blue flame across the shot glass, waving the torch back forth with a flick of the wrist.
The trick to drinking this fiery beverage is to slam down the burning party fuel by using a straw - fun party tricks!
After dinner, we headed to a bar with a three ring binder beer menu thicker than the bible - pages and pages of top quality Belgian beers.
Because it was December, there were pages of special Christmas ales. It was an incredibly tough decision. I opted for an Orval and was naturally not disappointed.
A table of young college-age students from France sat next to us while a soccer game played on the TV overhead.
Francoise and Sonia told me about what was happening politically in their country and the problems that were surfacing between the north and south. I was embarrassed not to know more about their country, politically. I mentally made a point to learn more.

After our drinks, my new Belgian friends took me for a drive around the city before heading back to Francoise’s apartment where I slept soundly.

When the morning sun began to rise, I stared out the window at the frantic pace of the cars as they sped in the morning commute, thankful I was not out on the highways, sharing the road.

I explore a quiet park, taking time to notice the local flora and fauna. Walking out of the park, I spy a small common-looking tavern, the perfect spot for a black coffee and flaky croissant.
After breakfast, I arrive at the apartment to find Francoise awake and ready to take me to a Belgian chocolate factory. The factory is located in the middle of a neighborhood - not where one would expect to find a chocolate factory. The room was buzzing with French and Belgian tourists alike, sampling and buying special Christmas chocolates. I bought a kilo (2.2 lbs) of chocolate rejects for ten Euro ($13). They were unbelievable good! Francoise then drove me to a local grocery store where I bought some killer Belgian beers and Trappistes cheeses. It was super nice having a chauffeur and local to show me around the city.
I left Francoise’s place in the afternoon and drove across town to find the Youth Hostel of Liege where I checked in, stashed my backpack, and again strolled about aimlessly, stumbling upon a Christmas market. I walked around the market, looking at all the different foods and drinks. They have fresh oysters from Zeeland in Holland, sea urchin, mushrooms with truffle cream sauce, rotisserie smoked ham sandwiches, foie gras, extensive wine lists, beautiful brown beers, gluhwein, and Peket. I wanted to try everything, and I just about did. There was a marching band playing, French fries sizzling, and couples kissing. I had such a good time; I went back again the following afternoon which quickly evaporated into night. I met loads of people and held all kinds of conversations, jumping in and out of both English and French. Everyone wanted to toast to Obama as the new American president once they found out I was American. I clinked a lot glasses! I met a Polish lady who was a Polish/French interpreter for the Belgian government, married to a psychologist whom she met on the internet. I met a guy traveling from Quebec, who once he heard my last name, became my new best friend. “Vive la Quebec et les Separatists!”
The police came in to the Chimay Chalet (my absolute favorite stand at the market) and tossed down a few Chimays while I was there. They were in complete uniform, guns, everything. They slugged down a couple of beers, partnered with Trappiste cheese, chatted, and then went back to work, I guess. Our bartender, Fred, a truly animated man and a colorful story teller, proceeded to tell the cops stories about bar fights, and the punches he got in at the other guy. We found ourselves in food discussions and the varieties of different pates and cheeses. I can talk about food all night and so could they!
Francoise texted me on the cell later in the evening that she would like to meet at the market, where I already was happily tossing down Trappiste beers….she was meeting several friends for drinks and conversation. We had a table of about eight people for most of the night, drinking, eating and talking. The Chimay flowed like tap water and the food just kept coming. People took turns going to the stands to get food and bringing something different back to share. Cured sausages, potato soups, smoked hams, cheese, you name it, I ate it. I was so full by the end of the night; I thought my stomach was going to burst.

I made plans to meet a new friend, Elias, who arrived from Lebanon a mere four months ago. We were to meet at the big Sunday Flea Market, held downtown along the river. Everyone I met in Liege told me it was mandatory to check it out - It would be a crime if I skipped it.
“Yoo can get any-zing, from uh apple to uh goat!” one guy told me, stumbling from another table to give me his advice when he heard I was American. He was right too! Chickens, lingerie, boots, rabbits, fish, winter jackets, club gear, vegetables, its all there - several kilometers of stuff. University students were scattered throughout the market and the city, dressed in decorated white lab coats and armed with empty beer glasses. The lab coats are covered in quotes and drawings of cartoons, like SpongeBob, Mickey Mouse, and Homer Simpson. They approached anyone and everyone asking for loose change, even begging through the open windows of cars at stoplights. A tradition among the Belgian university students at this time of year is to beg for money in order to go drinking. The more money they are able to accumulate, the more drinking that can take place. Some of the boys wore lab jackets, dirt and vomit stained, from previous years.

Elias and I found out we had a lot in common. He had studied in India, searching for a Kundalini/ meditation guru and was now in Belgium working as a computer whiz. Elias specialized in computers and technology, showing me all kinds of neat tricks he could do with his iTouch phone as we shopped the busy market street. He was also a couch surfer and had interesting stories to tell about his travels and his home land.

One thing he said that impacted me was when he told me he grew up in fear of Israel. I’m still thinking about that.

Before leaving Liege, I discovered a French fry restaurant, specializing in the perfect fries. If I see Belgians standing in line in the cold for fries, I’m standing in line too.
The line ran out the door.
The owners had perfected the art of French fries and took their work seriously. It looked to me that they were using a three oil cooking process, with big buckets of oil set at different temperatures. They offered a variety of sauces to accompany the fries, from curry sauce, mayonnaise, ketchup and American ketchup to herbed sauces. The difference between European ketchup and American ketchup is that European ketchup is sweeter with a nutmeg taste and American ketchup is more vinegary and not so sweet.
Sitting in their drafty upstairs room, I found the French fries to be perfect; soft and tender on the inside with a nice crispness on the outside. They were perfectly paired with a can of Jupiler.

When I checked out of the Youth Hostel on Sunday morning …by the way, I had a room with four beds, but no one showed, so I had the room to myself…I was sad to leave. The people of Liege were beyond wonderful to me. I met so many fantastic, friendly, interesting friends. On the snowy drive home, I started mentally planning my next visit.

Liege, Belgium: Mission Accomplished.

Plzen, Czech Republic

2008-09-01T06:01:00.000-07:00

Here we go! Czech Republic!
After spending four fun, relaxing, totally chill days with our friends the Castleberrys at their place in Vilseck, Germany, Michelle and I pack it up, and hit the road for Czech Republic, which is fun to say with a thick Slavic accent. We decide we’re not going to drive too far and stop at Plzen for a night or two. This is after finding out that the following night, Iron Maiden is playing in Prague. I wrestle around with continuing on to Prague to see one of my favorite bands, but decide against making the trek. There’s a relatively inexpensive hotel in Plzen, Hotel Sloven, that Michelle and I have stayed at in the past when we attended the Pilsner Beer Fest. For $50 a night for two, it includes a secure parking area. Car theft continues to be a problem in many of the former Eastern Block countries, so it’s something to consider when driving around. Hotel Sloven is famous for having hosted General Patton back during World War II. It’s an old hotel with creaky floors, drafty windows, and noisy water pipes. It also has lots of charm and, according to me, plenty of ghosts. It’s spooky at night, walking the halls lined with giant eight foot wooden double doors. Every door has a grimacing devil staring down at the guests carved over the header. The rooms do not have toilets or showers, but do have sinks. Communal bathrooms are located in the hallways, a short walk from the rooms. It sucks when you have to pee in the middle of the night, but hey, its fifty bucks a night. On our previous visit, the maid came into the locker-room style showers to clean, only to find me stepping out of the shower with nothing but a smile. Michelle had already dried and had a robe on in the bathroom when the startled maid entered the shower room. She opened the door, looked at me, gasped, and took off running down the hallway to her maid closet. Michelle stepped out into the hall and yelled back after her, “DON’T WORRY!!! HE DOESN’T CARE!!! IT’S OK!!!! REALLY! HE DOESN’T CARE!!!” We had a good laugh after that one. She didn’t make eye contact with us as we carted our luggage to the elevator upon departure.

Plzen is an interesting city with lots of history. Plzen’s biggest boast to fame is that its home to Pislner Uruquell, the makers of the world’s first Pils Beer. They have a massive brewery near the downtown area, frequented by tourist busses. There is also an informative Beer Museum that is built over the original brewery. There are loads of taverns, pubs, cafes, and restaurants serving traditional Czech food and of course Pils beers - the food is heavy and the beer is cold. In the center of town lies a beautiful church which must be experienced. I was able to climb the 300 stairs to the bell tower to take some pictures of the city down below. There are no bells that ring in the church for several reasons, but the one reason that sticks in my mind was thanks to the Nazis who took the bells during the war. I left Michelle at an outdoor biergarten in the center near the church and took off to climb the stairs. They are extremely steep and only one person at a time can climb the different sections on the way to the top. Once I got to the top, I wiped the sweat from my head with my hand and took out my camera. I turned on the camera only to hear it beep, signaling for me to change the batteries….of which I had no back ups. I had used the backup batteries and hadn’t replaced them.

“SHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!”

I wanted to hurl that damn camera as far as I could into the horizon. I didn’t even get to take one picture.

Disappointed, I navigated back down the stairs, found a store with camera batteries, repurchased my church ticket (the old lady wouldn’t let me use my old ticket even after I explained the battery story) and climbed back up into the steeple. Here are some of the shots I took on my second journey into the church. Phew.
Plzen also has the second largest Jewish Synagogue in Europe, a truly magnificent house of worship with a sad history…thanks again to the Nazis.
Near the downtown area, there is a dark medieval restaurant which was formerly a prison where thousands of people were tortured for any number of crimes. It feels like medieval King Arthur Europe in this place. It is lit by flickering candles placed on the wooden tables and warmed by a giant stone fireplace. Even in the hottest days of summer, this place is cold. Eerily cold. If there was ever a place to be haunted, this is it. Michelle and I drink deliciously hot mead and chat with another couple at our table. People are eating massive portions of food…cheeses, smoked meats, and potato dumplings all while pounding beer and mead out of clay mugs.

Because Plzen is a big beer town, there are lots of great beer snacks on the menu. No, you won’t find jalapeno cheese poppers, fried mushrooms, or onion rings. But you will find pickled sausages, fried camembert cheese, blood sausage, venison pates with horseradish fresh rye bread and pickles. I love these kinds of tasty treats with a fresh cold beer.
Wandering the evening city streets looking for dinner, we stumble upon an American-themed cowboy restaurant. We can’t believe our eyes at seeing the Stars and Stripes flying on a flagpole out front, complete with an old western horse ‘n buggy and communist era industrial brick smoke stack. Inside, the theme is Cowboy America: Buffalo Bill, Harley Davidson, Jack Daniels, and Annie Oakley. The menu is entirely in Czech. I can’t figure anything out on this thing other than the word “…steak…”. Michelle and I discuss the situation and decide to ask the bartender what he recommends. I saddle up to the bar, menu in hand, and ask the bartender with a sheriff’s badge pinned to his blue dungaree shirt if he speaks English. He looks at me like I’m from Pluto. It doesn’t appear like a lot of non-Czech speaking people eat here.He’s eating some kind of sausage/potato thing out of a tin plate. He says something back to me in Czech. I re-ask the question.
“No” he answers.
Okey dokey.
I think we’ll take two steaks. I point to the “…steak…” listed on the one-page menu. He gives me a semi-smiling-thumbs-up and says something to the fat guy in camos working in the kitchen.
Returning back to the picnic bench to Michelle, we discuss the “How can you go wrong with steak” order that I placed. Steak is steak, right? You put steak on the menu in an American themed cowboy restaurant; you serve a side of beef, right? Wrong. After several beers, the Sheriff finally arrives with our silver steak trays and serrated steak knives. We hunger for beef only to be greeted by a poached, seasoned and sautéed chicken breast surrounded by an unseasoned array of corn, carrots, cabbage, and beans. We have a good laugh at our expectations. Next thing we know, we’re hanging with a couple of German business men in their fifties who are on a mad escape from reality. Insanity ensues. The rest is a blur.

There is a rose filled park in the town where musicians play according to a schedule in the evenings during the summer. Along the sidewalk are pictures of World War era tanks and military personnel. It’s surreal to see the pictures from this time frame and walk the same cobblestone streets they rumbled across sixty five years ago.
The Czech people are grateful to Americans, thanking us on more than one occasion for the sacrifices made by our grandparents. They haven’t forgotten. It is a warm feeling to hear the gratitude and thanks in their voices.

Plzen, Czech Republic: Mission Accomplished.

Destination Oberammergau & Ettaler Monastery/Brewery

2008-08-18T08:06:00.001-07:00

Driving on the way to Oberammergau, another gorgeous German village, we pass by the Ettaler Monastery, Brewery, Distillery, and Cheese Factory to find out they are having a beer fest on Sunday! YAH! The monks are not only famous for their spectacular Dunkel (a dark lager) and Pils, but also fruit based schnapps. With flavors like honey saffron, herbs, strawberry, and plain old bitter, it’s amazing enough stuff to make any heathen want to re-find their roots in the church. It was neat to see the monks in their robes carry glass liter mugs filled with beer and sampling schnapps at the beer counter.

For our last night in Garmisch, we rented a cabin on the Army base for one night. Normally, the cabins are booked a year in advance, but they had a cancellation and we didn’t hesitate to take it. The cabin was rustic although it did have a TV and DVD player…something totally unnecessary in such beautiful country. We had breathtaking views of the Zugspitze…one of the German Alps. I never tire of looking at the Alps!

After leaving Garmisch, we drive through Hollertau Hops fields on our way north through Munich to stay with a teacher friend, Carol, and her family in Vilseck, situated closely to the Czech Republic border. She has a quiet basement apartment which suits us perfectly. We crash at their place for several days enjoying their company and entertainment before heading east to our next destination, Plzen, Czech Republic.

A German Kloster Beer Fest, A night in a cabin, and a vist with close friends.

Mission Accomplished.

Destination Bavaria

2008-08-18T03:15:00.000-07:00

BANG…BANG…BANG! Hammer. Hammer. Saw. Saw. Ah. The head pounding sounds of an apartment tear-out and reconstruction that began at 7:00am on a Monday morning. We are surprisingly awakened and told that the apartment above us is being renovated over the next three weeks….only now we are into week six and the construction continues. I have a complete freak out over the noise, throw some camping gear in Michelle’s Twingo, and we hit the road, planning to be gone for three days. Three days comes and goes and suddenly becomes four, then five, six and upwards adding up to fourteen days total. Michelle only packed one pair of pants while I brought one pair of shorts. We were clothing minimalists, only having to buy underwear and a few toiletry items along the way. Our fourteen day journey covers two countries; Southern Germany and two cities in the Czech Republic. Our mission? To explore the beer scene in these two countries and experience the local culture.

We have no plans, reservations or schedules. No laptops or cell phones. There is no need to get anywhere fast. We have a full tank of gas, the GPS, survival gear, and a desire to explore and stay away from home.

We take off and hit the southern German back country roads of Bavaria, Bayern, and Badden Wurtemburg. The scenery is gorgeous. Luscious fields of wheat, corn, and hops greet our senses. Fruit orchards whiz by, trees full of apples, plums, and pears. The air is fresh and clean. Ninety minutes into our journey we pull off the road in a sparsely populated town for schnitzels and spatzle at a small local restaurant run by a cute old lady. We are the only customers.

Well fed and back on the road, five minutes later we run into the town of Zwiefalter, famous for their monastery and brewery. Originally brewed by monks, their hefe-weizen beers are some of the best in the region. We stop in for a couple of cold beers….Michelle as my designated chauffeur unfortunately has to stick with the non-alcohol beer. We marvel at the enormous portions of food that go by on trays carried by traditionally dressed women with heaving cleavages. Plates of schweinhaxe (pork knuckle), bratwursts, kraut, spatzle, rouladen, and cheese spatzle are brought to tables of hungry Germans. Everyone is drinking beer. After sampling the local beverages, we meander to the monastery across the street and are struck with awe at the beauty of their church. It’s absolutely stunning. We are both overwhelmed at the artistry. We both shed tears at the beauty and amount of work that encompasses the church.

Back on the road again another 90minutes, we pass by a sign that says “Kaserei”. Hmmm. Kaserei? I think that means cheese factory. We drive into the small parking lot and as luck would have it, they have a cheese store and it’s open! We purchase three unbelievably good cheeses: A chunk of Emmanthaler from a big cheese wheel on the counter, a German Burg cheese, and a Biercheese. All three are fresh, creamy, and delicious. Unfortunately, they won’t last long, so we have to eat them right away. German Burg cheese gets a funky smell quickly and breaks down quickly in heat.

Arriving at a campground in the town of Tettnang, famous for Tettnanger Hops, we set up our tent in a quiet area of the campgrounds. A short distance from the camp is Brauereigasthof Schore, (http://www.schoere.de/) a small, family owned brewery who grow their own hops. They don’t bottle and the only place to find their beer is at their brewery. Their beers are some of the best I have sampled in Germany. The freshness of the hops in the Pils is heaven. I don’t ever want to leave, it’s that good. We snack on marinated camembert cheese with wurst salad and incredible onion rings. The onion rings are so good, we wind up ordering another round. They are the perfect accompaniment to the bitter lagers.

The next day, we tour the Hop Museum, explore the local countryside and visit the town of Tettnang.

The Hop Museum is located in a barn in the middle of enormous towers of hops. It’s a little hokey, but informative. They have a movie in English that we get to watch by ourselves. It’s also children’s day at the museum, so they have all kinds of hop games, like tabletop fooseball, except you use a hop cone for a ball and a squeeze bottle to blow air and propel the “hopball”.

After a couple of nights of sleeping on the wet hard ground, Michelle has had enough of spiders, bees, and flies. We decide to go to one of the most beautiful towns in Germany, if not the world; Garmisch. As luck would have it, Garmisch is having their annual beer festival! It is a fest not to be missed! Now we just have to find lodging. We strike out at the first guesthouse run by a little granny as I’m a little scary looking in a demonic rock t-shirt and several days worth of growth on my face. I hide behind Michelle at the next place and we score a relaxing room where our hostess serves us breakfast in our room everyday at 10am. We are a short walk from downtown Garmisch and the festival tent! Wahoo! One night, we stumble across a parade of the locals and their children, heading to the tent to dance, eat, laugh, sing, socialize, and drink fresh Lowenbrau Bier by the liter. It is a crazy good time. We attend the festivities for two nights. The first night is rock night and filled with teens and twenty-thirty somethings as well as a few forty-somethings. The second night is traditional night with Umpah Umpah music and lots of toasting and prosting. We meet kind, interesting people and have the time of our lives on both nights. Make sure you check out the video of the parade and the fest in the pics below!

Tettnanger Hop Country, A Hop Museum, The German Alps, A German Beer Fest. Mission Accomplished

The Black Forest, Germany

2008-07-28T04:14:00.000-07:00

Black Forest
Bad Wildbad, Germany

It started in Seoul, Korea on a cold winter day in December. Michelle, while walking to the Vietnamese Embassy to secure our visas for an upcoming Christmas trip to Saigon, suffers a horrible ankle break by slipping on ice on the sidewalk. She winds up having nine pins/screws and a metal plate put into her ankle. We spend countless hours in the orthopedic department and become fast friends with several of the army medics who work there. That’s how I met Rich; an avid rock climber and thrill-seeking adventurer. As destiny would have it, Rich winds up retiring from the Army and moving to Stuttgart to work as a civilian at the base hospital.
Rich gives me a call last week and suggests taking off for the weekend. Michelle does a little research and suggests camping in the Black Forest. Rich and I are both totally down with the plan and load the gear into Rich’s Honda on Friday evening. We take all the back roads, missing the German traffic jams, and arrive at our destination a quick ninety minutes later.
We check in with the camp owners, getting the lay out of the premises. Camping in Europe is not camping in Montana or Idaho. You have to camp at designated campgrounds. A campsite for a tent, two adults and a car cost around $30 per night. It’s not cheap. As I reported in my Hallstatt, Austria Blog, campgrounds have showers, sinks, toilets, community kitchens, and are normally close to restaurants, pubs, bakeries, and other conveniences. As we enter the tenting area, the first observations we make are the size and quality of the tents. They are big expensive canvas houses staked out for a serious length of time…like weeks. These are the kind of tents one finds at the base camp in Nepal. Rich comments that he could run a medical clinic in the mountains in one of the tents. In European fashion, we greet everyone in the tenting area as we cart our gear on borrowed children’s wagons from the parking area. Almost everyone is from the Netherlands. We help each other set the tents up, and in a matter of minutes, are relaxing, cooking Bubba Burgers on the grill and drinking Bitburger Pils. We meet a few of our neighbors and find out they are in fact staying for several weeks. Almost everyone has young kids. To our right, we have a British couple with two children, ages 8 and 10. To our left, we have a Dutch couple who also have two children, ages 2 and 4. We are camped directly across from the swing set. It’s not exactly the camping paradise we had envisioned. Its camping heaven for European families and not so heavenly for two American guys who want to blow off steam by getting drunk, cooking hotdogs, and howling at the moon. We crash hard that night. When morning comes, we fix breakfast of Korean noodle soup, hot tea, bread, and cheese. Everyone at the campround, after fixing breakfast, take off to explore and sight-see. Rich and I hang out at camp, drinking beer, enjoying the stillness and fresh air. I stroll around the town and along the creek, loving every breath of mountain oxygen while Rich naps in the afternoon. Saturday night, the families come back just in time for a major cloud burst, complete with booming thunder and lightning. Rich and I hit a German restaurant for Hefeweizens and some great grub. I have a jagerschnitzel and Rich goes with a venison dish. We walk back in the drizzle, hang out for awhile until it’s really raining hard, and then hit the sleeping bags. I love sleeping in a tent in the rain, especially when it doesn’t leak!
Sunday morning arrives with a hot sunrise that dries the night’s moisture from our tents and gear. We decide we have had enough kids and families for the weekend, especially from the crying two year old next door, and pack camp up. We decide to hit a thermal bath for a nice soak and toxin-cleansing sauna before getting back to my place. A Greek restaurant in my small village of Mittelstadt is open on Sundays, so we chow down there on some soulvaki, gyros, french fries, and grilled lamb cutlet. Rich winds up calling in sick Sunday night and crashes at my house where we continue b.s.ing with Michelle until the wee hours of the morning.

Camping in the mountains of the German Black Forest
Mission Accomplished

Halstatt, Austria: Dental Road Trip: Part One

2008-07-15T11:25:00.000-07:00

Hallstatt, Austria July 2008

Oh no. No sooner had we returned from our trip to the Netherlands, when Michelle’s crown on her tooth falls out of her mouth into the bathroom sink as she’s brushing her pearly whites. With hands like a cat, Michelle makes a frantic swat for the piece of fake tooth as it rattles around the porcelain sink. Luckily, Michelle latches on to it before it continues its spiral path down the drain. Phew – A nearly avoided catastrophe. It’s not easy finding dentists in a foreign country who speak English. It’s nearly impossible to find a reasonably priced dentist in Germany. Sure, we have insurance - we pay a ton of money for it. Unfortunately, like most insurances, it only covers part of the cost. Even with insurance, dental visits add up quickly to the tune of thousands of dollars with all kinds of charges.
Germany, along with quite a few other European countries, is an expensive country for dental work. Michelle did some research on the internet for dentists in former communist block countries, primarily Czech Republic and Hungary. She located a dentist back in March and went to see him during spring break in April. She found Dr. Szorba in a small retiree health resort town, named Heviz. Heviz is famous for their natural hot spring lake; a huge mildly radioactive lake said to cure all kinds of aches and ailments. It’s the second largest natural hot spring lake in the world, the first being somewhere in New Zealand. The aged Western Europeans flock here like pilgrims on a retreat to Mecca. They walk around with orange water wings inflated around their bingo-flabbed arms, big straw hats, Bermuda shorts, white tank-tops, and black socks in brown sandals. Many of them display pasty skin, dangerously close to becoming a painful red. They remind me of the movie Coccoon as they ease themselves down the steep stairs of their silver tour busses in search of the cure to pain-free longevity.

Michelle explains her latest dental dilemma to Dr. Szorba and schedules an appointment for Tuesday. We just got back from our seven hour trip to the Netherlands and the Mosel River in Germany. It’s now Friday in Stuttgart, a minimum of an eight and a half hour drive using the Autobahn through Germany, Austria, and Hungary to Heviz. We leave early Sunday morning.

Driving on Sundays in Germany is a thrill! Big semi trucks aren’t allowed to operate on the Autobahn. The rest areas are filled with pot bellied truck drivers playing cards and drinking beer next to their rigs. I smile as I blow by them traveling close to 100 mph on the legal racetrack. Sunday roads are free and wide open: BMWs, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Volkswagens, and Mercedes all jockey down the road for the pole position, some traveling at speeds in excess of 200 mph. It’s insanity, the speeds that are attained. Motorcycles pass me like I’m the tortoise and they’re the hare. Swoosh and they’re gone, nothing but a speck on the horizon.

In Austria, we stop at a gas station and buy a Vignette: a sticker for $12 that allows us to travel the Austrian roads for ten days. We drive for about seven hours, later opting for a side road off the highway in the Austrian Alps. The scenery is breathtakingly gorgeous. Huge mountains with snow covered glaciers. Sparkling clear blue lakes scattered throughout the valleys. Brown and white spotted cows and sheep graze peacefully in the lush green meadows. I can’t believe I’m driving through the Austrian Alps. Michelle and I pull over and snap a few shots before continuing on our way. We have packed the tent and sleeping bag in the car and hope to stumble upon a campground. We drive around twists and turns, climbing and descending, passing farm tractors on narrow mountain stretches. We are tired of driving and more than ready to chill out with a cold beer. I begin considering knocking on the door of one of the many guesthouses we pass. Then, as fate will have it, we arrive at a campground in Hallstatt, Austria. It’s beautiful with few tents on the grounds. We pay for a night, park the car, and return back to the camp office for our much awaited cold draft beers. Draft beer? Yes. European campgrounds are civilized. They have hot showers, sinks, toilets, mirrors, kitchens, pubs with big screen TVs to watch the latest European soccer match and cold draft beer. We make small chat with the Austrian owner and drink our beers on the outside picnic table, watching the yellow sun set behind the majestic mountains. After setting up camp, we wander the quiet mountain village, learning that the village is famous for the oldest salt mine in the world…a youthful 7,000 years old. Now that’s old. I mention to Michelle I would like to tour it in the morning.
We are both starving and stop at the first restaurant we stumble upon; an Italian pizza joint – the worst pizza we have had in Europe. Yuck. The dough totally sucks, the sauce has no flavor or seasoning, and it’s covered in a massive pile of cheese. The pre-game show of Italy vs. Spain is blaring on their television inside the restaurant. I ask them if they are Italian and rooting for Italy.
“No. We don’t care about this game. We’re Turkish.”
Oh, I think to myself. That would explain the pizza.
After eating and wandering around a little more, we stop back off at the campground bar to watch the Italy/Spain soccer match along with several other campers and locals. The soccer game goes into several over-times before the game is decided in a shootout. Spain wins, one to nothing. We all cheer for Spain, then stagger back to the tent for some drunken sleep. We awake feeling like we spent the night sleeping on the dirt ground after drinking mug after mug of Austrian beer. We shower, eat some road fruit from the tailgate, load the gear, and then cruise to the parking lot of the salt mine. Michelle, terrified of gondolas after having had a nervous-breakdown riding one in Malaysia (now there's a story!), chooses to explore the area on her own while I ascend in the gondola to get to the entrance of the mine. After arriving at the top of the mountain, I have to hike up another kilometer or so to reach the entrance. I take lots of pictures and learn about the history of the mine while listening to a self-guided tour on a rented iPod. There are skeletons of ancient warriors and tombs around the mountainside, dating back 7,000 years ago – that’s a long way back in time. I reach the entrance where I figure out with my terrible German that I have to put on special clothing to tour the mine. I don the clothing along with a Japanese couple, an American couple, a dozen Germans, and twenty five or so energetic Austrian school children. We walk way down into the darkness of the mountain led by a gorgeous blonde haired, blue eyed Austrian twenty-something woman. We watch a bunch of short films in German, hear a speech from a robot miner in German, and slide down a long wooden slide that has a mounted camera which photographs us skidding on our butts. A display screen at the end of the slide displays our picture and speed (I was 26.6 km/hr). We are later given the option of buying the photograph (No way!). We end the tour by taking a ride on a small train that runs through the mountain.

I learn more than I ever want to about salt. I'm ready to get off this mountain. I'm sick of elementary school kids and race by them to get to the gondola before they do. I spent hours in a cave with them, I wasn't about to share another enclosed space. I hike down to the gondola and ride to the bottom where I meet Michelle four hours later.
After driving for an hour, we stop at a cozy Austrian guesthouse for some garlic cream soup, schnitzel and potatoes. We marvel at the Alps as we enjoy our lunch, then back on the road for another three hours. We stop once for gas and to purchase the Hungary Vignette which cost $15 to drive the Hungarian Highways (what highways?) for ten days. After surviving life on the road with the insanely crazy Hungarian drivers for a couple of hours, we arrive at our apartment in Heviz, hungry and exhausted at 8pm, Monday night.

Road Trip to Heviz, Hungary
Mission Accomplished

Arrow Rock Festival, Nijmegen, Holland 2008

2008-07-10T00:45:00.001-07:00

Arrow Rock Festival, Nijmegen, Holland

Saturday morning, June 14th, our little red Mini Cooper was packed, gassed, and ready to burn down the stretches of the German Autobahn, destination: Nijmegen, Holland. Three months earlier, I had purchased tickets to the Arrow Rock Festival held annually in Holland. It is a huge rock event attended by thousands of people from all over the world. I’ve been waiting all year for this show, my second one since attending last summer. This year, the headliners is KISS. Also on the bill are Motorhead, Whitesnake, Kansas, REO Speedwagon, Journey, Def Leppard, and Twisted Sister. What an incredible line-up!!! I’m totally jazzed for the show!
After driving 5 ½ hours, we decide to stay in the beautiful town of Arnhem, one train stop from Nijmegen. Michelle finds us a beautiful bed ‘n breakfast to stay at….a gorgeous wooden yacht moored up on the Rhine River. We get there around 5pm and see that the boat has been taken out for a cruise down the river. We park the car and walk a short 800 meters to the downtown area of Arnhem. It’s a small cozy town filled with restaurants, cafés, pubs, taverns, and coffeeshops. We wander in the drizzling rain, exploring the side streets and window shopping. We return around midnight to check in and meet the friendly, quirky Dutch couple who own the boat. They are gracious hosts who prepare a nice breakfast for us in the morning in the ship’s galley. We share the galley with an older couple from Spain.
After filling our bellies, we walk a short distance to the metro station and get our roundtrip tickets to Nijmegen. There are a few other long-haired rockers on the train heading in the same direction. When we get to our station, we off-load and merge into a sea of black leather and denim: Chicks in tight jeans and black boots. Guys in AC/DC and Metallica t-shirts. Lots of balding, long-haired guys in their forties. I fit right in with this motley crew. I feel like I’m being called home. I’m on a rock pilgrimage to Metal Mecca. As an added bonus, we find out the festival has provided busses to take us to the concert grounds and will be bussing people back and forth all night. This is great news as we had found out earlier that the city busses were on strike.
We walk about one kilometer with the swarms of rockers and lineup outside the entrance. It takes about 90minutes to get through the gate. Security is not allowing any outside beverages or umbrellas. There are thousands of confiscated umbrellas littering the ground and under the security table. They do a quick search of our backpack and we’re in. Now it’s time for a cold Heineken…except, uh oh, everybody else is thinking the exact same thing. The beer areas are swamped with people; Giant Dutch rock fans have surrounded the beer stands. We wait another 45 minutes, bumping and nudging our way to the front. Finally, I’m able to squeeze my arm through and grab the counter. I’m in! I order four of the biggest beers they serve and make my way with Michelle in tow back through the crowd where we can breathe again. Mind you, this is an outdoor festival, so there are tens of thousands of people. The food areas aren’t as bad, but a long wait as well. As I’m ordering curry chicken noodles for both us, the clouds decide to empty their baggage and give us a good showering. The noodles get good and soggy fairly quickly, which isn’t bad since they’re pretty undercooked. Throughout the day and into the evening, it’s either raining and cold or sunny and warm. Sweatshirts are on, sweatshirts are off. Back and forth we go, putting them and taking them off.
There are at least a dozen tents selling all kinds of rock memorabilia, cd’s, t-shirts, caps, hats, belts, and the like. Lots of older t-shirts with Black Sabbath, Bon Scott, or Blue Oyster Cult emblazoned on the front. People are buying the stuff up.
I love to people watch, and this was some great people watching. There are guys ‘n chicks here who dress exactly as they did in 1985 and earlier. The KISS ARMY was alive and in full battle gear for the show; Levi jackets loaded with buttons and patches proclaiming their allegiance to the loudest band in the world. I even saw one long hair in red spandex pants and Converse high tops. There were a few fans that have been living the rock ‘n roll lifestyle since the early eighties, and it showed. I thought, hmm, I don’t look half bad, all things considered. Chicks in tight leather pants and stilettos, dudes in leather biker jackets, tattoos, and piercings; denim and leather, rock on together!
Food stands are located in two different areas of the festival grounds. No one will starve as long as they have tokens in their pockets. Hamburgers, sausages, pizza, noodles, roasted chicken, and kebabs are a few of the food selections.
There are two stages, one really big one and a smaller one. KISS, Whitesnake, Journey, and Def Leppard play on the large stage while Motorhead, Kansas, REO Speedwagon, and Twisted Sister play on the smaller one. It didn’t matter what the size of the stage was. All the bands kick total ass, some more than others, but all kick ass just the same.
REO Speed wagon was the first band to take the stage. I’m not really into them, but I thought they sounded good. I didn’t get a chance to see them up close other than on a giant screen. I was stuck in a thirsty mob, trying to get beer. Next up was Journey. They sounded spectacular with their new singer from the Philippines. The boys had begun to get popular again, having had one of their songs played on one of the final episodes of The Sopranos, and they were itching to tour. Steve Perry had a falling out with them, so Journey needed a new lead singer. Neal Schon found this new guy while surfing YouTube and flew him out from Manila to tryout. This new guy, Arnel Pineda, is the perfect replacement and sounds AWESOME!
Kansas took the stage next. They sounded great! I sat in the grass and listened to them play Dust in the Wind. To finally hear the band play that song live is pure magic.Def Leppard took the stage next. I was dying to hear them. The last time I had seen them was in 1982 when they were the opening act for Billy Squire. I have been a big fan for years. I really like the new album, Songs from the Sparkle Lounge. We maneuvered our way through the throngs of concert goers to get a good spot to see the lads from Sheffield. They played at least one song from the new album and lots of their older tunes, especially from Pyromania and Hysteria. I have to say that I was not blown away by their performance. The band didn’t seem to communicate…they were just kind of there. No real fire or excitement ever came out of them. Joe didn’t communicate with the audience. Truthfully, I was disappointed in their performance. Joe’s vocals are torn up from years of shrieking. They had to use some vocal digital magic to make him sound decent. I had the impression that they didn’t really want to be there. Phil Collen was the only one who seemed to emanate the rock ‘n roll persona, complete with bare chest, leather pants and battle axe.
Twisted Sister was next, and man oh man, were they fun to watch and listen to. Dee Snider was in killer form, cracking up the audience on several occasions. There was no question they wanted to be there and were excited to rock Holland! The bands nearly missed their allotted time slot because of plane delays and were flown by helicopter from the Amsterdam airport to the festival grounds. It was cool to see the helicopter hover in and drop the Twisted Sisters off. They raced from the helicopter to the stage, having no time for clothing changes, make-up, or as Dee Snider told us, “No time to take a shit!” Dee chastised the Whitesnake fans that were waiting at the other stage for Twisted Sister to finish and Whitesnake to come out.
“It’s an empty fucking stage, you assholes!”, yells Dee, flinging his curly long blonde hair. “The show’s up here! Twisted Sister is up here!” He is charismatic and charming. A true rocker to the core. The crowd pumps their fists and chants to the Sister’s anthems, “I Wanna Rock” and “We’re Not Gonna Take It". Dee works us into a lather, screaming for more. Jay Jay French also has a few things to say, telling the crowd that every band at the festival had been together for at least thirty years! He trashes American Idol, mimicking an Idol saying, “I’d like to thank all my hard core fans for staying with me for the last seven weeks.” He is not a fan of the show and thanked all the Twisted Sister fans for staying with them for the last thirty years! Dee had such a great time, he winds up coming out to do some headbanging with Motorhead on Killed by Death, which brings me to the next band, Motorhead.
Lemmy Kilmister and Motorhead rocked!!! The crowd was fired up and ready to be decimated by decibels and were appropriately rewarded. Ace of Spades got the masses shaking and begging for more. I love them! Lemmy still has the distinctive gravelly vocals and knows how to use them while pounding on his bass.
Whitesnake was true to the music. David Coverdale still has the pipes. Doug and Reb played spectacular guitar solos. Incredible performances. For me to see and hear Whitesnake perform Still of the Night, it’s simply soul penetrating. I teared-up on more than one occasion.

Then it’s time for the final act! You want the best, you’ve got the best! The loudest band in the world! (SEE MY POST, KISS)

KISS Alive Nijmegen, Holland 2008

2008-07-09T23:50:00.000-07:00

KISS!

KABOOM! Down drops the black KISS stage curtain with a fiery explosion! Gene, Paul, and Ace descend from the top of the stage riding the stage elevator, complete with smoke blasting from the bottom like a rocket. The crowd erupts with a roar! Fans have journeyed a long way, myself included, to see the legends. I learn that KISS is re-creating the entire 1975 KISS ALIVE concert tonight! Wow!!! I’m freaking out! The band begins their rock ‘n roll assault with the crowd-pleasing song, Deuce! From then on, it’s one spectacular display after another. Paul Stanley is in perfect form, as are Gene, Ace, and Peter, ‘cept, Ace & Peter aren’t really Ace & Peter. They’re Tommy and Eric. But just the same, they’re wearing the same spaceman and cat costumes we’re all familiar with. They rock the park with a thunderous storm of classic KISS! What a display! What a sound! What a performance! Ace, a.k.a. Tommy, shoots rockets from the neck of his guitar during his solo. Gene becomes the Demon, spewing a blast of fire from his mouth. Paul, Starchild, jumps and struts his sex appeal all over the enormous stage. And Peter (Eric) atop his drum riser like a cat on a perch, pounces and pummels us with skillful drumming. All are true rock stars. True artists. True performers. It’s magical to see these living legends perform – to take a trip in a time machine to 33 years prior – a totally different world. The majority of the dancing, singing, clapping fans at the spectacle remember that era and their involvement in it. They remember the joy of pulling that KISS ALIVE album out of the sleeve – the sound of the needle crackling into that first groove. Back then, I stared at the album art for hours, marveling at the costumed band on the cover. I used to save ketchup packets from the elementary school lunchroom to later perform my blood spitting rendition of a rockin’ Gene Simmons. My friends would cheer and laugh as the ketchup oozed down my chin on the school bus going home.

Yes. Here I am, standing in front of one of the greatest bands of all time. Legendary icons. Wow. It is an emotional experience; a wave of nostalgia swims over me. I flashback to a time when we are all true rebels, sneaking into our parents liqueur cabinets, or taking the first forbidden puff from a cigarette with our friends. I think about all the times I went bare-fisted knuckle to knuckle with the asshole kid across the street. I remember prying my eyes open on a Saturday night so that I could watch KISS at 1:00 a.m. on Don Kirschner’s Rock Concert. I remember waiting impatiently for the movie KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park. Terrible as it may be, it starred The Demon, The Catman, The Spaceman, and Starchild. I thought it was unbelievably cool at the time. I had KISS bubblegum trading cards and would put stickers of them on my lunchbox back in 1975. I was a KISS fan. I played their eight-tracks and albums over and over and over. Destroyer, Dressed to Kill, Hotter than Hell, even Dynasty I loved. Everybody thought KISS sold out with that one. I didn’t care. They were still KISS!
KISS ends the evening by unleashing a storm of fireworks, explosions, smoke, thunder, and lightning, all while a heavy downpour of confetti rains down from the stage. We have all heard Rock ‘n Roll All Night a million times in our lives. It’s THE rock anthem. But to hear KISS play it live????!!!!!! Un-mind-blowing-ly-believable! KISS puts on a show like no other. And like all the rest of us,
they have survived through the years; suffered their hardships. Yet here we all are: A little older; hopefully a little wiser - responsible, tax-paying adults…most of us anyway. Yet, we still know what it’s like to rock! We love to rock! Rock ‘n Roll all night and party everyday!

Don’t try to describe a Kiss concert if you’ve never seen it – Jimmy Buffet, Manana

KISS ALIVE 2008, Nijmegen, Netherlands: Mission Accomplished

Prague Beer Fest

2008-07-06T06:45:00.000-07:00

Journey to Prague for a Czech Republic Beer Festival

My quest for Czech beer began on a Friday afternoon. After working a half day as a high school teacher in Germany, I race home at 95 mph on the Autobahn, grab my backpack loaded with sandwiches, snacks, and three days worth of clothes, and catch the city bus to the local train station. At the train station, I fill my lightweight six-pack cooler with cheap canned German beer and board the train. After travelling ten minutes, I learn of railroad construction and train delays. I miss my connection from Stuttgart to Nuremburg, which means missing my train to Prague. Finally arriving in Stuttgart, two hours later, I walk woefully to the German Train Office. Since I only have the weekend, it looks like my plans for the fest are about to be shutdown. I spend forty-five minutes trying to figure out how to get to Prague. Just as I’m about to have my money returned on my ticket and journey sadly back home, I learn of a train to a small German village on the Czech-German border. As luck would have it, there’s a train from there to Prague leaving at 5:00am the next day. Even better yet, I have a friend living in that village with an extra bed. Yes! I’m back on track to the fest! After crashing at my friends place, I’m delivered to the rundown train station where I catch the regional train, not the high-speed train. This equates to at least thirty stops along the way. As soon as the train starts to pick up speed, it’s slowing down again to pick up or drop off more travelers. This goes on and on for seven hours. I was happy to have fresh beers, salty chips, and smoked almonds for the journey, and especially happy to have a working toilet in the next car. I eventually arrive in Prague where upon debarking the train, I spot a poster advertising the beer fest. It’s a picture of a beautiful Czech woman, dressed in traditional clothing, holding two mugs of beer and a plate of food. I’m here! I figure out how to get a ticket for the metro and two trains later, I’m 500 meters from the International Hostel. I check in, shower, and get directions to the fest. Back to the metro station, two more trains and an electric trolley and I’m in the vicinity. Two guys with long hair and beer drinking attitudes get off the trolley with me, so I decide to follow them. I’m in luck. They head for the festival grounds. I find the ticket booth. The old lady working the booth doesn’t speak English. Someone standing in line helps me get a ticket for 120 Koruny ($8.00). I walk for some distance to the entrance. I’m greeted by a couple of huge, intimidating Slavic security guards. By contrast, upon entering, the festival grounds, I’m immediately welcomed by an attractive Czech girl in traditional clothing who offers to sell me beer/food tokens. Beer tokens are what I need to get the party started. She has an apron filled with shiny new golden tokens, which look a lot like American Sacajawea dollar coins. I get a fistful of coins and wander the festival grounds. It’s 2:30pm, surprisingly quiet and sparsely populated. I’m early. A gentle wafting of private conversations, singing, and violins penetrate the air. There are several tents housing musicians playing Czech folk songs. Everyone knows the lyrics and is singing along in their tents. There’s also an older graying man, strolling around, smiling from ear to ear, and playing his accordion. Good spirits are throughout. I opt for a bench in the strolling accordion player’s area and order my first half-liter of beer: A Pilsner Uruquell. The server informs me it’s the best beer in all of Czech Republic. I smile and hand her my golden token (1 token = 39 Koruny or $2.60). The sun is shining brightly on the festival. The enticing smell of grilled steer cooking over firewood makes me pound my first beer in minutes. Before my beer glass is drained, another server is asking me if I’m ready for another one. “Oh, but of course I am!” I order roast pork with bread dumplings and sautéed cabbage ($10.35) to go with my next glass of Pilsner Uruquell. A man in his late forties asks to sit down next to me. He notices I’m taking notes and wonders what I’m doing. After explaining to him that I’m a raging beer addict and that my sole purpose for being there was to find out what a Czech beer fest is all about, he opens up and gives me great information.

He tells me that this kind of festival is new to the Czech people. They are used to drinking beer in their local corner tavern, not outside with hundreds of people in a tent. He hopes that it will be a success and the tourists will come. I ask him about the beers on the menu. He said the majority of the beers come from the biggest breweries in Czech, although there are several microbrewery ales and lagers at the fest. He points out which beers to try. He asks me where I’m staying. After learning of the location, he pinpoints exactly on my vague tourist map the locations of four small microbreweries, all within walking distance. Looks like I’m going to be doing some microbrewery trekkin’ tomorrow.
In Prague, store windows on every street have bottles of booze on display, sun-streaked and faded. Many of them sell different brands of Absinth/e, all with signs declaring that this is some great booze and it will fuck you up. There were also bottles of cannabis vodka in various sizes, showing labels with a green pot leaf within a yellow circle. I mention my observation to my new friend, commenting that there is some interesting alcohol to be had in Prague. He says, “Ah yes. We Czechs are a conservative people but very liberal with the alcohol.” I laugh and toast him with a mug of beer.

The majority of festivalgoers are fairly reserved. There isn’t a lot of whooping and hollering like you find in many American beer festivals. It’s nothing like the Oktoberfest in Munich and Stuttgart. No resemblance to the Oregon Brewers Fest; don’t expect that sort of atmosphere. It’s more of a “let’s eat, drink beer, and chat” kind of vibe. Most people come with a couple of friends, although there are plenty of families as well, but not a lot with younger children. No drinking contests or gorilla noises.

Things start to pick up around 4:30pm. The bands on the main stage are setting up. To my elation, the music is right up my alley. Two Czech metal bands crank out the jams in the early evening. They rock and rock hard! I can’t understand the lyrics, but it’s all cool just the same. Incredible musicians led by lead singers with power vocals and rock swagger. A big screen displays the stage so that the entertainment can be seen on the path between the beer tents.

Beer token girls wander the grounds, changing money into party coins like magic. Marlboro girls, dressed in red spandex pants, black fishnet shirts, and black stiletto boots sell all things Marlboro to a receptive male audience, both smokers and non-smokers alike. They definitely catch my attention.

One difference I’ve found between most American and European beer festivals is the amount of garbage, i.e. plastic and paper products. You don’t see plastic beer cups, spoons, forks, knives or paper plates at the European fests. They use real glass mugs, with real silverware and real plates. The garbage cans aren’t spewing over with dirty plastic and paper waste. The only wastes you see in abundance are chicken bones, pork bones, and beef bones. At the fests, you pay a deposit for your plate and mug. You get the deposit back from the waiter or from a beer pourer. You can keep the mug if you want. It’s a great way to help the environment and be able to eat without cutting through your paper plate or breaking the tines on your spork while cutting into your schnitzel.

The biggest food vendor line is for the dry, cured, smoked sausages and salamis. They also have beautiful loaves of fresh bread for sale. Hungry beer patrons are lined up for the snacks.
The festival setting is in a park filled with willow trees and lots of shade. It spreads out over a wide area with rows of white beer tents encircling a section of the park. Beer signs are prominently displayed, announcing the brewery and the beers being served. The microbrewery tents are the most popular. In the beer department, the majority of beers are all-malt lager style. Most are Pilsners with differing strengths. There are a couple of Dunkels from the microbreweries, but that’s about it in terms of style. Both Budweiser Budvar and Pilsner Urquell have their flagship beers.

The beer tents also sell food like pickled Camembert cheese, Sinker’s sausage with devil’s sauce, Gulasch soup served in a loaf of bread, Schweinbraten (roast pork) with bread dumplings, chicken steak, pork steak, or grilled steer. All are big heavy foods that go great with beer. Average price for a meal is $10.00-$12.00. Snacks are $2.50-$5.00. There are always bags of potato chips with different flavorings to be had; paprika, ham ‘n cheese, and pizza are the more popular.

After much sun, fresh air, food, and beer, I head out the gate and realize I should’ve pissed before leaving. That always seems to be the case. Michelle and I have a saying, “Go before you go”. I forgot the cardinal rule. I spot a row of Czech guys peeing on a fence and decide to join them at the public urinal in the park. At the end of the park, there is an old man selling braided smoked mozzarella cheese sticks, which I absolutely have to have for the metro ride back to the hostel.

Reflecting back, I find that the fest isn’t about trying out new beers, getting drunk, and singing European soccer team fight songs. It’s about celebrating Czech beer and Czech culture, both the old and the new. It’s a good excuse to get out in the sunshine, drink a cold beer, and eat grilled meats. It’s a time to celebrate friends and families. It’s a time to clink mugs and toast with fellow countrymen, locals, and foreigners alike.

Beer Fest Prague, Czech Republic. Mission Accomplished.