After a delightful time in Germany and our brief forays into Switzerland, Austria, and (ever so briefly & uneventfully) Liechtenstein, we boarded a train and headed for Prague.
Prague, the capital city of the young Czech Republic and the pearl of Eastern Europe, has become the en vogue place for Western Travelers wanting a taste of the East, who visit to bask in the Old World Ambience of this cosmopolitan capital. Yes, it is possible to ‘bask’ in such a place, and we were giddy as a schoolgirl for our time there.
Our journey, however, wasn’t without its own adventures, as we had originally hoped to drive to Prague. Yet the rental car agent in Munich, whose English was actually much better than my own, had informed us that driving into the former Eastern Bloc country was not always the safest thing – referencing one poor bloke who was detained at the border for not having the ‘proper papers’ and taken to the type of prison where you yearn for Siberia in December. “We’ll drop it in Nurenberg,” I replied on instinct, not sure exactly where it was but hoping that at very least it would be better than the alternative.
Trains themselves are an interesting facet of Europe travel that often carry a romantic notion for Americans, who usually feel that the only purpose of public transportation systems (back home) is to double as free places to sleep for the homeless. In Europe, they can be an outstanding method of travel – especially for those taking short, spontaneous hops from here to there. (I must admit, simply avoiding the usual airport security lines/body-cavity-searches and 3-hour pre-boarding arrival time is worth taking the train.) However, the thing you must understand about trains in Europe is they are a lot like Forrest Gump’s Box of Chocolates, “You never know what you’re gonna get.”
Unfortunately for us, the train that rolled into Bin 19 at Nurenburg’s Central Station was a far cry from the silver, sleek & sexy EuroStar trains that crisscross the continent at supersonic speed. (We had the luxury of taking one a month earlier from Pisa to La Spezia, pampered in soft leather seats and power outlets for our MacBooks.) This green monster had (in my own imagination) began its work well before the ‘Second Great War’ and lumbered like an offensive lineman running the 40-yard dash for NFL Scouts. If it was a character in the Thomas the Tank Engine children’s show (where trains have human qualities), it would have been the fat kid who always gets out first when they play dodgeball.
We boarded our 2nd class car and found our seats – again wondering why European Trains used “Bingo” as a method for seat assignments. Seat 64? Yes, that will be right next to 73 and 47… obviously. We were just getting comfortable when a bug-eyed teenager scuttled past our compartment, stopping long enough to drool at my beautiful wife who was quietly minding her own business, fully-engaged in her novel. She was oblivious, I knew he’d be back.
About 45 seconds later, he was – his body odor announcing his arrival as much as his clumsy feet. He wore black socks scrunched over his soiled sneakers, a sloppy t-shirt, and curly hair that had obviously not been combed (or washed for that manner) for a long time. He was, in essence, the Eastern European Napoleon Dynamite. Only, he twitched in a manner that evoked a week-long trip to Amsterdam’s coffee houses, where they don’t actually serve coffee if you know what I mean.
“I seat here?” he asked Christie, in a broken English that was barely understandable.
“Umm… what?” she replied, obviously knowing what he had said yet not wanting to both acknowledge that fact or hurt his feelings. She shot me the ‘DO SOMETHING’ look.
“I seat here?” he repeated, this time a little more drug-induced and urgent.
“Uhh…” Christie was still pretending, a great quality she developed during her days as an aspiring actress, and blurted “These are all reserved...”
It was the best white lie she could come up with, an act of desperation to prevent 5 hours of cramped nervousness and the stench. I was just hoping he would be dumb enough to grasp the fact that, on this deserted train, Christie had just told him the purse to her left and backpack to her right had also bought 2nd class tickets to Prague.
Luckily, a German man sitting to our left broke the awkward silence, explaining to the boy that he could not share a cabin with us. Napoleon nodded, looked us both in the eye, then and shouted loudly in perfect English, “I’m a GANGSTA’!”
With that he was gone, and I was curious as to what rap song taught him his lone English phrase. Such experiences are typical when you travel in Europe, and make both great stories (later) and scary moments. Now that we were headed East, I was expecting such moments to happen with greater frequency.
We rambled East for 5 hours, the names on the road signs growing longer and more unpronounceable until we were no longer in Germany but the now-free Czech Republic. Since communism ended 20 short years ago, the country (and especially the city of 1.2 million inhabitants) has been bursting with an entrepreneurial energy that has produced a fascinating blend of culture. In a 3-minute walk through Prague, one can pass an ancient castle, a Jewish Synagogue, a 4-piece band, and a TGI-Friday’s. Nowhere else does West meet East with such style as Prague, which also produces the best beer in the world to boot! (A claim the Germans and Belgians would argue but I would later attest to… perhaps why the Original Budweiser comes from outside of Prague.)
Welcome to Eastern Europe... and it even has a "Snack Bar!"
After leaving Prague’s Main Train station (a building directly from the communist era complete with a combo sex-shop/internet café, ATM to grab Kroynas – the local currency, and little else that shares any of the cities charms) we walked in the direction of our hotel, necks creaked towards the sky as we admired pastel colored buildings of pink, blue, and yellow. Most often they were ornately adorned with concrete statues acting as pillars, or other forms of unnecessary flattery.
Building decoration...
We spent our first evening walking around with our mouths open from amazement. The first jaw-dropper was the “Old Town” square, filled at this time with a giant video screen playing the 2008 Euro Semi-Final Soccer Match between Russia and Spain. In this, the cultural heart of Prague, thousands of flag-waving free Russians and song-singing Spaniards had gathered to support their squads, all ironically corporately sponsored by Hyundai (who was glad to provide the screens and further proof of the West’s influence.) Overlooking the action was an equal number of innocent bystanders, content to partake in people-watching at the plethora of patios lining the outside of the square. Above the pandemonium and providing the ambience stood more “architectural eye-candy” – the spotlighted castle straight out of Disney, the eerily blue statue of local revolutionary Jan Hus, and a large stone church that houses the famous Astrological Clock. It was a perfect definition of ‘sensory overload.’
Past the square toward the river lies the Old Town itself, a collection of pedestrian-only cobblestone streets leading past restaurants, souvenir shops, and dead-ends. If you need an ornate glass chandelier this is the best place in town to pick it up. The traffic soon flows onto the Charles Bridge, perhaps the city’s most famous landmark and quite simply the most romantic place on planet Earth. If our roommate George had a third son coming to Europe this summer, I would suggest this as the best engagement spot (his other two sons chose Paris and Rome respectively.)
Amazing Charles Bridge... the ambiance almost overwhelmed us with the Italian urge to LEAN.
After a night of candlelight patio dining ourselves and as much “Oh My God, Honey Look at this street ‘cause it’s even cuter than the last one!” as we could take, we retired with Prague quickly jumping up our lists of ‘favorite cities ever.’ If you ever visit Europe – East or West – please be sure to not miss Prague!
We finished our trip up the Romantic Road at its featured attraction, the walled city of Rothenburg (translated as ‘Red Castle.’) Going by the full name ‘Rothenburg ob de Tauber,’ the town was even more medieval than Dinklesburl (insert chuckle here) with even more personality. Perhaps that is why it is shaped like a skull.
We walked, talked, and breathed Rothenburg for the rest of the afternoon, pretending to be archers on the city walls and window-shopping in what appeared to be a set for a Christmas TV special. Ironically, the town itself is essentially ‘Christmasville’ – with multiple stores 100% dedicated to the holidays and its many decorations… specifically ornaments. (The best store is Kathe Wolfahrt's , just off the main square.)
Christmas on Steroids! Although I vowed not to use the past phrase aa month ago... there really is not other way to describe it! 
However, my favorite moment in Rothenburg was when we stopped for gelato. Up until this point, I had felt like a fish out of water in Germany, unable to say anything except “Danka.” This was exponentially worse than how I feel in Italy, where I feel linguistically incompetent only 97% of the time. However, empowered by a little positology, I had a full 5-minute conversation in Italian with the gelato shop owner, discovering that she had immigrated to Germany ten years prior from northern Italy and that she both 1) loved Sicily – especially Catania, and 2) thought stracciatella was her best flavor. (I concurred… twice!) It was a vindicating moment for me, proving that all those trips to Quaranta gelato in Piazza Bellini had not gone in vain.
Pretty cool car, huh? 90 miles to the gallon on this hog...
~ J. Twice
Running from Frankfurt to Munich is the “Romantic Road,” a former Roman trade route filled with cute All-German towns turned tourist attractions. We left Zurich early in the morning to reach the medieval ‘Route 66,’ heading north on the Autobahn to join the Romantic Road at the town of Dinkleburg, just past the thriving metropolis of Ulm, and continue on to Rothenburg ob de Tauber, the Road’s central attraction. (I expect you all to have Google Maps open in a separate window as you read this and trace our route with your finger.)
A note on the Autobahn – it’s not really like the Indy 500 with Mini-vans. Americans (especially men) hear the word Autobahn and instantly are mentally whisked away to the moment they first got their drivers license and wanted to drive “AS FAST AS IT CAN GO!” I’m convinced they all think that it would seriously be an all-out drag race where you can finally prove, once and for all, that you are the KING of the Road. Not to burst any bubbles, but it’s actually just a normal two-lane freeway (exactly similar to the AutoStrada in Italy), where people actually drive smarter… using the right lane as the normal lane and only going left to pass. What a novel concept!
That being said, we did pretty much average about 160 km/hr the entire time on the road, which is 100 miles per hour. Oh yeah… and did get passed about twice per minute!
Just after 1pm we reached the town of Dinkelsbuhl, a small dot on any map but a pretty dot at that. We caught a glimpse of its gothic spires jutting over the treeline, and when I saw the main entrance went over a moat and through a guard tower, I had to check it out.
As a basic rule of thumb, any city that you have to cross a MOAT to get into is cool.
As soon as we stepped onto the cobblestone streets, we knew we weren’t in Kansas (or Alberta) anymore. Every building had a bright orange roof and was painted as if the town were one large ‘paint by numbers’ using strong pastels. As long as we’ve wondered Europe, I’ve always had the vague sense that none of this is real. The little towns can’t be THAT cute. The people don’t really where THAT. Eventually the ‘extras’ will go away, and I will look behind a building and see the lumber holding up the façade. But I can honestly say that this is real… and nowhere is this truer than in Dinkelsburl… even if I will always laugh when I say its name. (The same the happens with Regina, Saskatchewan as well… I hate words that rhyme!)
