Of course I was in Girona, not Barcelona. RyanAir often flies in to secondary airports, or smaller towns near bigger cities. In these cases though, they generally offer a bus service to the city to which people actually want to travel. The bus from Girona to Barcelona was 9 Euro, which by comparison was cheaper than the train from downtown London to the airport. The bus rolled over sandy mountains peppered with plain square white houses. I also saw a giant race track on a hill, which I later found out was hosting a F1 Grand Prix that day, which explained the cars parked all the way up and down every street in the neighbourhood.
At the end of the ride was the Barcelona bus station, and after a short discussion with a guy at the information desk, I found the Metro and made my way downtown towards Las Ramblas, the main drag of the city that boasts vendors, artists, performers, and cafés. With my giant pack on my back, and weather pushing 30 degrees, I wandered up and down Las Ramblas looking for a street I couldn't find, only to find that I'd walked by it a few times already by the time I found it.
It was about eight feet wide, enclosed on both sides by buildings that shot up five or six floors. When it appeared that 3 people would have trouble fitting through a particular bottleneck, a motorcycle or delivery fan would fly through and let you know that it was indeed wide enough for them, and perhaps a person or two. The hostel was near the end of one of these narrow alleys, and I would later learn that most streets in Barcelona looked exactly the same.
I found the hostel and checked in. Thankfully, my train tickets for the next two legs of my journey had arrived and were waiting for me. I dumped my pack in my room, which featured a different approach to bunk beds. Each bed really had it's own cubicle, with a curtain for privacy, which was actually the most personal arrangement I had seen at any hostel. The down side was that the walls were made of metal sheeting, which boomed and echoed when somebody rolled into in during the night.
I changed into some shorts and a t-shirt, put on the flip flops and sunglasses and headed out to explore. I think at this point, it wasn't even 3pm so there were still a lot of daylight hours left. I went back to Las Ramblas and walked through the markets towards the harbour, which features a huge pillar and statue tribute to Christopher Columbus.
There were a million boats in the harbour and a few giant yachts parked in the harbour, tucked in behind a mall that sticks out in to the water. All around the beach are vendors selling knockoff sunglasses and handbags. When the police come by a marathon breaks out as these guys pack up their wares and make a mad dash for it. And eventually I found the actual beach.
It stretched from the mall by the sea, miles to the west to the Olympic Village and then some. I took off my shoes and walked in the sand all the way down to the shiny sculpture at the start of the Olympic Village, and back. Like the day before, I covered a lot of miles and my legs were a bit heavy by the time I returned to the hostel. I found something to eat, which couldn't have been too fancy because I don't remember it, read for a while, checked my email in the hostel lobby and turned in fairly early, even though there were a ton of people making a lot of noise in a courtyard nearby. And of course, the loud roommates and the banging of the sheet-metal walls contributed to a night of little sleep. Of course I slept in the next morning.
After waking up sometime around 11, I set out on my own to wander around the city. I picked a different narrow alley to walk down and found a nice little bakery/café and picked up some breakfast. I had a croissant and some fresh-squeezed orange juice, both of which tasted great and hit some sort of special food spot because I was amazed at how good it was. I got on the Metro and took it to Placa Sagrada Familia, which is a famous cathedral designed my Gaudi, who is responsible for many of Barcelona's most famous buildings and sculptures.
It has been under construction for more than 100 years, and isn't expected to be finished for another 30. Regardless, it's huge and impressive and the stone work ranges from spires that appear to be melting to chiseled angular sculptures and pillars. This was really the first thing I had seen on the whole trip that made my jaw drop and think, "Holy Cow, this thing is amazing."
I walked around the place for quite a while and took a lot of pictures. I didn't go inside, because I had heard that most of that was still incomplete and not terribly interesting. The outside though, blew me away and I couldn't help but stare in awe.
I got on the Metro and rode it back towards downtown, but hopped off before I got to Las Ramblas. I wanted to see the Picasso Museum that, like everything, was located down a narrow dingy street. Unfortunately, it was Monday, which was the only day that the museum wasn't open. A little upset, I walked south to the beach, and after a brief stroll through the sand and a few steps in the water, not to mention a number of topless women, I had forgotten all about the Pablo guy.
Back at the hostel, I talked to a guy from Denmark named Christian who had been in town for a couple days. We went to the store around the corner and grabbed some food to cook in the hostel kitchen, and some drinks to consume before heading out on the town that night. We sat on the hostel patio with two girls from Winnipeg and had some drinks, then to a bar down a narrow dingy street. The place was fairly deserted except for the six of us, which now included Joe and another guy whose name I forget. Most of this stuff was written down in my notebook, however, that was lost somewhere between Paris and Austria.
After a drink or two there, we went down to the big mall by the harbour. Christian said that there were a number of bars on the top level of the mall, and it turns out he was right. It was still early by Barcelona Party standards, but we drank and danced until about 4am. I slept in my clothes and apparently mumbled something to two girls from Michigan when they were leaving the hostel in the morning. Of course, I don't remember this because I slept until noon.
Christian and I had plans to climb up Montjuic, to see the fort at the top of the mountain which overlooks the city and the harbour. It was a hazy day, so the view wasn't the greatest, but it was still impressive and I was glad we did it. The climb itself was a little tiring considering the heat and the hangover, but the between the view and the castle itself, it was well worthwhile. There was also a famous Gaudi sculpture up there, which we promptly made ourselves a part of.
The afternoon was reserved for the beach. So we went to the beach with some snacks and some beer from the mini-mart. Again, the casual drinking laws took me by surprise, but sometimes you just have to look at yourself and say, "When in Rome..." Eventually, Joe caught up with us and we enjoyed the sand, sun, water, and girls. I sunburned my shins, shoulders, and wrist (but only the part normally covered by my watchband). The prospect of carrying a pack for the next week suddenly became much more painful.
The evening festivities had been the subject of much anticipation for pretty much everyone mentioned since this story arrived in Barcelona. The hostel pub crawl had been advertised and pumped up since we had arrived in the city, and Tuesday night was the night it was supposed to happen. For 15 Euro, there was a free beer hour at the first bar, then a drink or shot at 4 more bars, and then 2 for 1 tickets at the last bar.
I have a feeling most of the bars would have been pretty lame if not for the 50 person party we brought with us. There was drinking, and dancing, and talking, and laughing, and meeting a ton of new people. There were a lot of Canadians, many from Quebec. The girls from Michigan were there, the girls from Winnipeg were there. The Spanish guy who organized the whole thing was there. We played some foosball, and I borrowed a guitar from a street performer.
Around 4am the Michigan girls asked me to walk them back to their hostel (they had moved to a different place the day I spoke to them in my sleep), which I was happy to do because I was pretty wiped out. So after brief stop by the Merry-Go-Round, we walked through the narrow sketchy alleys of Barcelona back to their hostels, and then wandered back to mine alone.
I slept in pretty late again, and couldn't find Christian for quite some time. I had to check out of my room, so I sat in the lobby on a couch and read for a couple hours until he showed up. He had stayed at the bar for a couple more hours after I left, and was in rough shape. We decided to take a little walk to St. Joseph's market which featured everything from fruit to meat to candy. We ate baguette sandwiches, wandered back to the hostel to pick up my bags, then walked to the Metro one last time.
I said goodbye to Christian, climbed down the steps to the subway and rode it to the train station. I was really early as usual, so I read my book and waited for the train to be called, while I prayed I could recognize what they were saying when they made the announcement. The train pulled into the appropriate platform and I boarded what appeared to be a commuter train. I was assured that it was the right train, but I couldn't help but wonder how this was going to get me close enough to France to catch another train to Paris.
Sure enough, it plodded along stopping every 15 or 20 minutes for almost three hours in places like Girona and Port Bau, which is actually in France. The last stop was Cerbere, a beautiful town on the Mediterranean where mountains meet water. It was here that I was to board the sleeper train to Paris, and fortunately or otherwise, I only had an hour and a half to kill before that train left. I couldn't really leave the station to look around, although I wanted to, but waiting it out wasn't too bad either.
By the time the train was leaving the station, I was in my sleeper compartment, which included three beds on each wall. All the other beds were empty, so I put my headphones on and tried to doze off, some time around 10pm. Damien Rice and Jack Johnson sound the same in France on a train, as they do in Toronto. Who knew? Over the next few stops, the other beds filled up, and by the time we got to Paris all 6 cots were occupied, but I had managed to sleep through all of it. We got to Paris-Austerlitz around 7:30 am.
PARIS
I really didn't know what I was supposed to do once I got of the train. It wasn't yet 8 am, I had a big fat backpack, and I knew I wouldn't be able to check in for hours. I grabbed a coffee and a croissant and sat in the train station pondering my options. Ordering a coffee in Paris, for the record, will actually espresso and I don't care if I ever have another demi-tasse of the stuff in my life. The croissant was good though.
After paying 50 Euro cents to use a bathroom, I decided I'd try to find my hotel and at least dump my bags. I got a three-day metro pass and switched to three different lines until I found Abbesses, which is in the heart of Montmartre, just around the corner from La Butte De Montmartre and Sacre Coeur Cathedral. It was a short walk from there to the hotel, and for once I didn't walk past it 4 times before going inside.
Had they let me, I would have checked in, taken a shower, and napped for a couple more hours, but I knew that wasn't going to happen. Check-In wasn't until 2pm, and at the moment it was about 8:30. They did let me leave my bag though, so I wandered out to kill six hours on the strangely familiar streets of Paris. It was an odd sensation, but there wasn't anything threatening about the whole city and I felt like I had been there before.
I figured I'd start at Sacre Coeur because it was the closest. I think it took me five minutes to walk there. With no directions, I just kept going up hill until I found it at the top. It's a gorgeous domed cathedral overlooking all of Paris, except most of the landmarks you're looking for are obstructed by trees. I was surprised to find that it was actually open to the public so early on a Thursday, but I wandered through checking out the pillars, the domes, and the stained glass. It's a beautiful building with an amazing view of the city, and about ten minutes later I decided to descend les escaliers de la butte.
At the bottom of les escaliers was a guy weaving little bracelets out of coloured strings. After politely declining several times, somehow I got roped in quite literally while he wrapped some strings around my fingers and made conversation about all the touristy things in Paris (in English) while he braided and wrapped strings into a yellow, red, and purple pattern. The whole time I was irritated with this guy because I didn't want the thing anyway, but was too nice to be rude. And of course, after I say I don't want it about five times, he ties it on my wrist anyway, and says it's a gift.... but could I please give him something for it.
I fished into my pockets and gave him a bit of change, but was so mad for the rest of the day because I didn't want the damn thing in the first place. How rude do you have to be before these people leave you alone? Now I had a stupid bracelet I didn't want, and I somehow ended up paying for it. Talk about being rubbed the wrong way.
All that behind me, I decided the best way to kill a few more hours was to visit the most notorious time-consumer in Paris: The Louvre. Everybody always says you can't see it in less than a few days, so I figured a few hours wouldn't be too hard to pass. Using the metro again, I found my way to the right stop and to the bottom of the underground upside-down glass pyramid (which has been featured heavily in all the Da Vinci Code commotion, for obvious reasons if you've read the book).
For some reason, I had it in my head that the museums were supposed to be free, but apparently that only applies to certain people on certain days. Either way, it cost me 8 or 9 Euro to get inside and before long I was walking along the base of the original castle's walls, which were preserved underground. Moments later, I found myself looking at the Venus de Milo along with a hundred other people. Listening in on a tour group, I learned that her left toe had been stolen at some point.
Around the corner from Venus, there were more Greek and Roman statues which I found to be far more impressive, including a famous one of Diana the Goddess of the Hunt and her little deer. The detail in this one and others like it, the texture, and the fact that they still have their limbs made me enjoy them more than Venus, and made me wonder why it was such a big deal when there were nicer things in the same room.
Next I toured the great hall with the Italian paintings, including the Mona Lisa. Hundreds of people were huddled around it. I guess you could say that I was pretty underwhelmed. I think once you've seen a picture of something a thousand times and had copies of the image pop up in every conceivable place, seeing the original image doesn't blow you away as much as you might imagine. I was far more impressed with The Wedding at Cana by Paulo Veronese, which takes up the whole wall opposite La Joconde. It's far more colourful, has way more going on, and stands about 20 feet high and 30 feet wide.
Around that, there are countless other works by French, Italian, English, and Spanish artists. I recognized some of them, but was generally not too blown away. For some reason, classical paintings just don't excite me much. I much prefer impressionism, surrealism, and modern art. So in the grand scheme of things, I understand the historical significance and the value of these pieces, but the vast majority of them were pretty dull, with a few exceptions like The Raft of Medusa (Gericault) or Liberty Leading the People (Delacroix).
I spent quite a while looking at art, then moved on to the historical wings to look at ancient Egyptian stuff, African stuff, and after a couple hours my feet started to hurt. I decided I'd had enough ancient art and walked out into the square where the upright glass pyramid stands. I took a few pictures, walked over to the Seine for a minute, then got back on the Metro at Louvre-Rivoli which actually looks like an extension of the museum that the subway happens to run through.
At this point, it was probably about noon and I had been at the Louvre for two and a half hours. Sitting down on the Metro was a nice way to get off my feet for a bit, so I picked the farthest destination I could think of. It really wasn't that far at all, but the Arc de Triomphe was the next stop on my Thursday morning tour, when really all I wanted to see was a shower and a bed.
So I got of the Metro, took some pictures, and walked around it a bit. Ten minutes later, I was back on the Metro heading for the Eiffel Tower. While it sticks out of the landscape so obviously, it occurred to me that I hadn't seen it yet. As the Metro went above ground to cross a bridge over the Seine, I finally got my first glimpse of La Tour Eiffel, and frankly it was far more impressive than I had anticipated. It was a bit of a walk from the Metro stop, but eventually, I turned up a street to see it framed between two buildings.
It's huge. For some reason, who knows why, I didn't think it would be that big. After the disappointment with Big Ben in London, maybe I just didn't want to get my hopes up. Or maybe because I live in Toronto, and we have the biggest tower, I thought every other tower should be tiny. Maybe it just looks big because everything around it is small. I don't know why I didn't think it would be big, I just didn't.
So anyway, it's big and impressive and cool. It's hard to be rigid and curvy at the same time but Mr. Eiffel managed to pull it off. So a similar sensation befell me as when I saw Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. I was pleasantly surprised and borderline giddy because I had seen a brilliant piece of architecture. I walked the length of the Champs de Mars and along the Seine up to Hotel des Invalides, where I caught the Metro back to Abbesses, even though it was only still around 1:00.
I had been in town for less than six hours. I had seen most of the landmarks on my to-do list, seen priceless works of art, and still the only things on my mind were lunch and a shower. My feet were hurting too. With a little less than an hour before I could check in, I walked around looking for a place to eat something. There were a lot of cafés, a lot of bakeries, and a lot of market type places, but as I walked around the streets of Montmartre, I knew instantly where I had to eat when I saw Café Des 2 Moulins, which, if you've seen Amelie, is where the title-character works.
I sat on the patio and had a burger (I know, how French!) and fries (French, of course) and a Le Coke. The burger was a little pink for my tastes, but not so bad I couldn't eat it. By the time I had finished eating and paid the bill, it was exactly 2:00 pm, and I practically ran around the corner back to my hotel and checked in, more excited than you can imagine.
A bit of that excitement died when I found out I was on the 5th floor, and there were no elevators. By the time I dragged my bag to the top and pushed the door open, I was ready for the cliché "I'm so tired, I'm going to collapse on the bed" scene. So I did it.
I don't know how long I was lying there for, but eventually I collected enough energy to have the shower I was craving. I don’t think I actually broke down weeping from happiness, but I'm sure I was close. It was a great shower. With a refreshed body and clean clothes, I called my friend Becky and left her a message to let her know I had arrived in town, and promptly fell asleep. Sheer bliss.
A couple hours later, Becky called me back and we made plans to meet for coffee the next day. Unfortunately, she was busy that night, so I was left to fend for myself. Still somewhat exhausted, but not wanting to waste my time in Paris, I went for another little walk, went by Sacre Coeur again, picked up some snacks at a grocery store and found a place to check my email.
I went back to the hotel, browsed through pamphlets and maps, snacked on my purchases, and watched French game shows... which I loved. After an episode of Millionaire, then Deal or No Deal (which isn't what it's called in French), I watched a horrible Colin Firth/Annette Benning movie called Valmont which was the only thing on in English then went to sleep.
I think I woke up around 11 am the next day, fairly hungry. I was supposed to meet Becky at 1pm, at Saint Michel, which was down by the Seine and Notre Dame and like everything else, right on the Metro line. I left the hotel around noon, wandered by the Moulin Rouge then hopped on the Metro to Le Depart Saint Michel, at which there is a giant fountain with winged lions spewing water. I was early, so I wandered around the block for a few minutes, then waited for another 10 or 15 until I found Becky, who had just finished a class around the corner.
We sat down at a café across the street from the fountain and caught up. Considering she'd been in Paris for almost a year, I'd been back in Toronto for that same year, and I'd been in five countries in the previous two weeks, we had lots to talk about. As we finished our coffee (which was awful tasting coffee #2 for me), it started to rain a bit, so we had to pull our chairs in under the awning. We talked until the rain passed, which was really only a few minutes. Becky had to catch a train back to her "family" (she was working as an au-pere while studying French), but we made plans to meet up that night for dinner.
After parting ways, I wandered up the Seine towards Notre Dame, which was only a short way up the river. Like so much of Paris, it's instantly recognizable and almost familiar because everybody has seen it and can recognize it. Still, it's fun to see it in person, and borderline surreal. Just like the Mona Lisa, The Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, etc. I looked at it and said "I know what that is, I've seen it a thousand times... oh wait, this is actually the ONE. This is the thing that all those other things are just a picture of." It's a weird North American mindset, but if we see a little shoppe on a narrow cobblestone street, we think "This is just like that amazingly artificial recreation of one of these at Canada's Wonderland!" I think we're twisted.
Regardless, Notre Dame was very pretty. I toured around the inside and managed to get some decent pictures of the stained glass, some candles, and a few to show how big the place actually is. My favourite part though, was architecture on the back of the building. There are points, and arches, and gargoyles and it looks fairly scary actually... like somewhere that Dracula might live.
Across the street from that, there's a memorial to Holocaust victims, which was sobering and interesting at the same time. There was a long chamber with tiny lights lining the walls, one for each victim. There were quotes on the walls from famous people, narrow passages designed to make you feel claustrophobic, lots of bars and plain walls to give you a sense of confinement. It's not an obvious stop for tourists, in fact, I'd bet that most people don't know it's there, but I was actually quite glad I saw it.
Shortly after that, I found myself at the Musée D'Orsay. There were a number of sculptures in front of the building, including an elephant, and one representing each continent. The museum was about to close so I didn't actually go in, but at least I know where it is for next time. I hopped back on the Metro towards my hotel, and stopped to get a snack before heading upstairs to my room. I read my book for a bit, watched some more French game shows, and relaxed until it was time to meet up with Becky at the Bastille.
It was fairly late to have dinner by North American standards, but it didn't really bother me to be eating at 10pm. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I generally eat dinner later than most anyway, so I didn't care that much. That, and the fact that I was starving all led me to believe that it was a good time to have dinner. Again, I arrived early and had to wait a few minutes until Becky showed up and led me to Havanita, Spanish/Cuban restaurant down the street from the Bastille Metro Stop.
Dinner was great. I had some sort of chicken and rice thing, and Becky had something vegetarian. After a couple glasses of wine, and an amazing dark chocolate and banana tart for desert, the bill was paid and we wandered across the street to another Spanish place, continuing with the night's theme. We had a couple mojitos each at a pretty smokey place, and chatted some more before Becky had to catch the last train out towards Versailles and the neighbouring town where she was living. We walked back to the Bastille Memorial took a couple of pictures and said goodnight.
The next day, I bummed around for most of the morning then found my way to the Arc de Triomphe and took a little climb. 50 metres straight up, in a spiral staircase puts you in a gallery at the top of the Arc where there are some statues and a giftshop. A few more steps, and you're up to the roof where you can see all of Paris from the middle of the Etoile (which also happens to be the location of the most ridiculous traffic circle you'd never want to navigate). Though the sun was out for my first few minutes on the roof, it quickly turned from sunshine to sideways blowing rain.
After that, the sun came out and I went to see the Opera House, which again was interrupted by a burst of crazy sideways rain. The weather was still kinda crummy so I went to a mall and poked around inside for a while, which looked amazingly like one of those 3rd tier malls where they have stores like Paper-O-Rama. Seriously, I'm sure there's a mall in Fergus that puts that Galleria to shame. So after being completely underwhelmed by the mall, I picked up a baguette and went back to the hotel to read for a while. I knew I was supposed to meet up with Becky and friends, so I was just taking it easy until I heard from her.
Becky called and I met up with her at The Gare Saint Lazare a little while later. We met her friends at a café a little further south at Place d'Italie. There was a guy who spoke French and English, and was learning Japanese for his fiancée. There was the fiancée who spoke Japanese and French, but not too much English. Then there were two other Japanese friends who didn't speak any English at all, and one other guy who spoke English and French. So really, French was the only common denominator and I had to bust out some of my rusty language skills. I was able to hold my own, and I actually think that my French was better than a couple of the Japansese girls who had been studying in Paris for a year or more.
Unfortunately, Becky couldn't stay too long because she had to take care of the kids, but her friends insisted that I hang out with them and go for dinner. We went to a Japanese place, believe it or not, which was really good. As it got darker, we parted ways and I made my way to the Trocadero Metro Stop to heed the advice of the Australians in London. It was nighttime, and I was told to visit the Eiffel Tower at night. At the beginning of every hour, it sparkles. Then, it just sits there looking pretty against the night sky. I took some beautiful pictures; probably some of the best I've ever taken. I hopped on the metro and headed north back to Montmatre, silently thanking the Australians for such brilliant advice, which I vowed to pass on to anyone who might be headed to Paris.
The next morning, Becky called and we followed up on our tentative plans to visit Versailles. Because she already lived out that way, we were going to meet at the palace and tour the giant estate. I took the train out and found her eventually. Because I had told her that I finished my book, she gave me one she was done with, which I put in my bag. The palace was massive. We toured one little wing of it, and then wandered through the gardens and fountains and the surrounding farms. It was a nice opportunity to chat and the farms were far enough from everything that it felt like I had escaped anything touristy.
We left Versailles and drove through her adopted hometown, where we walked a little tour, and eventually ended up at the train station. Eventually the train showed up, we said goodbye, and I hopped on back to the city. I had already checked out of the hotel and left my luggage downstairs, so I was again in time-killing mode until it was time to catch a train to Munich. Again, I decided to hit up a museum. This time I headed for the Centre Pompidou, which is the place for modern art in Paris.
The building itself looks like the plumbing got built on the outside, and there's a giant courtyard next to it where street performers put on some very impressive shows and crowds of hundreds of people sit and watch. The museum itself had some interesting stuff, but in my humble opinion, was not nearly as good as some other modern art things I'd seen. It was, however, a nice way to pass a few hours. I grabbed a toasted baguette sandwich outside and sat in the courtyard and watched a very funny performer use a couple of his spectators and film a "movie." It was actually genuinely funny, and I felt compelled to toss a couple Euro his way after the show.
I picked up my bags at the hotel and went to the train station. I was still a few hours early, but I didn't feel like walking around anymore. My feet were beginning to kill me so I sat down and read the book Becky gave me, cover-to-cover. "Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress" by Dai Sijie was an interesting little story about communist China under the rule of Chairman Mao, and was obviously a fairly quick read. I snacked on Pringles and a Coke, and eventually got on the train, sometime around 10pm.
There were six seats in the compartment; three on each side facing each other. I got one side, and three seats, to myself, while the other side was shared by a guy and a girl, who didn't seem to know eachother. I managed to sleep across my three seats pretty much all the way to Munich, where we arrived around 7am the next morning. I actually remember very little about Munich, other than the fact that it looked like a pretty standard train station.
I got on another train, this time bound for Italy, although I was to disembark at the Austrian village of Worgl, then switch to yet another train to Kitzbuhel. All that went according to plan except for the fact that I managed to lose my notebook somewhere along the way. I had about an hour to kill in Worgl, so I spent it sitting on the train platform in the sun with my shoes off.
KITZBUHEL
Before long I was rolling through the Austrian countryside which was as green and mountainous as you could imagine. I stared out the window at the beautiful scenery and eventually made my way to Kitzbuhel, Austria where I was supposed to be met by my friend Karina. I got off the train, however, and didn't see her until a few minutes later when she and Alex screeched in to the parking lot then yelled at me for getting off at the wrong stop.
We went back to her house to drop off my stuff, then to the local golf course to have lunch with her brother Andreas, and her dad Deiter. I was told to have the schnitzel, so I did, and it was amazing... and huge. Apparently Karina felt the need to order me the biggest schnitzel you can buy, but I managed to finish it while trying to make conversation and watch golfers on a course I would have loved the chance to play.
So after a brief tour of downtown Kitz, which resembles something between an amusement park street and a ski hill village (which included stops at the World Famous gift shop, and the World Famous Travel Agency, and of course the World Famous Statue), we sat down for some ice cream.
That night we went to Highway's, the bar where Karina works, to play pool with Robbie the manager. We got along quite well, and had far too much to drink, as was evident by the bizarre competition that broke out on the floor of the bar involving a pushup and a beer glass.
The next morning, I was moving slowly, but Karina's mom cooked a fantastic lunch, and we did very little all afternoon. We drove to Innsbruck in the afternoon, and hung out there watching TV until some of Karina's friends showed up to prepare for the evening by mixing hefty quantities of vodka with Red Bull. We went to a place, the name of which escapes me, where the special of the night was six drinks for 10 Euro, provided all six drinks were the same. Believe it or not, many in the party were a little drunk by the end of the evening, including Steffan, a close friend of Karina's who was going back to Kitzbuhel with us the next day.
Back in Kitzbuhel the following afternoon, we still didn't feel much like moving. We took the dog for a walk into town, where we stopped in at the travel agency Deiter runs to try to figure out how I was getting back to London to catch my flight home on Tuesday. I ended up booking the flight online later, which I knew was going to involve a mad dash across London from one airport to the next. After another stellar dinner from Mrs. Toth, we went to Highway's yet again for a tame night before our early morning drive to Germany.
OBERSTDORF
We loaded up the car and picked up Alex, and were on our way to Oberstdorf with the help of the dashboard GPS system. We still managed to get ourselves fairly lost driving AROUND the Alps, because apparently it wasn't a good idea to go through them. I think I had a pretty good sleep on the way, although I really don't recall. I do remember Karina getting a phone call along the way asking us where we were because our game was supposed to be starting. Apparently there had been a scheduling mix-up (apparently Karina's fault) and we were due on the ice two hours sooner than expected. It was sorted out, fortunately, and we were able to play our game on the later draw.
The next three days are really somewhat of a blur. There was some curling. We had a win, a loss, and a tie. The ice was garbage. I made one crazy runback, and missed a lot of other ones. There were people from all over Europe to curl against, drink with, and party with until 4 in the morning everynight. It was highlighted by the borrowing of some blinking construction lights (later named the Modern Bavarian Alarm Clocks) and the banquet at the top of the mountain which involved a crazy long gondola ride. It was amazingly fun and I would go back in a second. I'm working on recruiting a team for next year.
We drove home on Sunday afternoon very slowly and watched Anchorman Sunday night. Monday, we hung out with Robbie and played guitars in the backroom at Highways, then made it a pretty early night.
Karina's mom was kind enough to drive me to Salzburg in the morning to catch my plane to London. On that trip alone, we were in and out of Germany three times. Apparently we were on one of Hitler's roads, one of the positive things he did as a politician before going crazy and doing the whole Nazi thing. During the depression, he commissioned a bunch of public works projects to create work and build infrastructure in that area, which gained him enough popularity to become a psycho dictator.
I did some shopping at the airport shops, and flew to London Stanstead with little fanfare. I caught the train downtown, took the tube across town and caught a different train to London Gatwick, where I was perfectly on time, if not a bit early. My flight to Toronto was less comfortable than the one to London, but I managed to sleep, listen to music, and survive without too much trouble. It was 32 degrees when I got of the plane. It had been 11 in Austria that morning.
Mike picked me up at the airport and drove me home.
| Blog Posts
|
| Recent Lists
|