Next stop: Deutschland.

More specifically, Garmisch-Partenkirchen, which is terrible because it’s hard for me to say “Partenkirchen” in a serious tone—that is, without trying to mimic the German accent in a really exaggerated fashion and then laughing at my own hilarity.

Something tells me the Germans wouldn’t find me that funny.

We came here on an hour and a half train ride from Munich—the views had me “ooooohing” and “awwwwwing” like Meg Ryan in the fake-orgasm scene in When Harry Met Sally. Okay, maybe not that intense, but the landscape here is deserving of such illustrious moans, I must say. We passed blue skies donned with perfect white puffy clouds, beautiful lakes and green fields, wildflowers for days, and what looked like some pretty healthy cows. It was all too perfect.

We arrived knowing almost no German in a town that speaks little English.

My first challenge: ordering a heaping bowl of macaroni and cheese. I decided it was best to simply not open my mouth at all in order to prevent probable embarrassment; instead I went with the pointing technique again and I imagine my face must have looked something like, “I WANT THAT MAC AND CHEESE NOOOOW! GIMME, GIMME!!! GOOO GOOO GAHHH GAAAH”. 

And thus, the low point. I’ve become what I was in 1993—a toddler. Perhaps they could give me a fucking binkee with that.

Challenge #2: navigating foreign streets with all of our shit to the Atlas Sporthotel, which the Garmischites (I made that up) call something closer to “Atlassshhh Shpppourtotel”, but maybe I’m doing that exaggerating-the-accent thingy again.

I’ll tell you, asking for walking directions is a tad bit difficult when the only German I know is “Donka shern” (thank you), the only German Neil knows “Gutentag” (hello), and the only German Dylan cares to know is “dunkle” (type of dark German beer).

Thus, we found ourselves driving—to Neil and Dylan’s dismay—in an air-conditioned Audi taxi toward the Atlasssssh Shhhhpourtotel.

When we arrived, we were pleasantly surprised that this place was niiiiiice. An actual hotel! Eggs for breaky! No athlete’s foot showers and especially no semen sheets! The pillows were even fluffy. Yes, fluffy. And the best part: complimentary apples at the reception desk, of which I indulged in somewhere between ten and twenty times a day. I’m quite surprised I haven’t turned into a fucking apple.

We spent the first bit of the afternoon walking around the “town”—basically it’s comprised of A) an Irish Pub, of which is bartended by a black dude from LA who speaks no German and looks a lot like Sanka from Cool Runnings, B) a surprisingly decent amount of pizza joints, C) traditional Bavarian designs on every building exterior (that is, men in lederhosen dancing, drinking beer, and “cheersing” one another), and D) a storefront window display donning some pretty impressive man knives.

But the point of coming to Garmisch-Partenkirchen was never to hit the town hoping to get hella-disco-fab-up-in-this-bitch; rather it was to do the opposite. It’s the massive, jutting, snow-topped peaks that surround Sanka the Bobsledder and German Little Italy that make this place the truest gem I have ever encountered.

We gave up the whole town exploration stint rather quickly and found ourselves walking down the long, wide streets attempting to locate any kind of a trailhead area. But again, navigating here (a.k.a. being a non-bilingual fuck) = a time consuming BIATCH.

We came upon the ski jumping hill and stadium, which were used when Garmisch-Partenkirchen hosted the 1936 Winter Olympics. The jumps are small compared to modern ones, but the architecture must have been mind-blowing to people 80 years ago. The takeoff areas of the larger jumps are suspended in thin air, so I imagine that the construction of these bad boys was a reaaaaaal pain in the ass.

We eventually found a paved trail through some beautiful German countryside—goats grazed the fields, flowers added a lovely pop of color everywhere you looked, firewood was stacked meticulously, and old wooden shed/barn/house structures sat perched all over the rolling green hills. The creek—which is an interesting turquoise color—ran down one side of the trail and massive peaks looked as though they were touching the puffy clouds.

This place is brilliant, I tell you.

Garmisch is also home to Zugspitze, the tallest peak in Germany. So picture a fucking massive, jagged peak—then picture bigger. Until you see it in person, it’s hard to comprehend the actual girth of the monstrosity that is ZUGSPITZE (duhn duhn duhn). But when you are standing near the base of it, you begin to realize that the small and finite existence that is one’s life begins to look even smaller and more finite when juxtaposed with this thing. I love that feeling. When one can blatantly see how small one’s problems are—and reciprocally how fortunate one really is in the scheme of this world—a sense of perspective is gained. And without that perspective, you simply get lost in yourself.

Traveling has made this very apparent to me.

I feel so fortunate to be able to have no set agenda for two months, to be traveling wherever, whenever, just because I feel like it. I love the fact that I am able to escape the incessant movement that is every major city if I want to, to be with people who make it a priority. I love that I am just one train ride away from the natural movement of life—the way the creek flows over large rocks; the way to clouds slowly but recognizably drift in the sky; the varying sways of the grass. After so many monuments and gothic churches and metro lines, you really start not giving a fuck about how and why Wenceslaus built a bridge for his wife Judith. Instead you can just sit and stare at fucking goats for an hour, which seems equally as interesting.

Garmisch is beautiful, yes, but moreover it came at a much-needed time. It gave us a taste of what we were dying for: simple living. Simple food. Simple fun. Fresh air. Stillness for just a moment in time. A place to rest our bones.

We spent the following days exploring some of Germany’s wild and wonderful places.

We took a tramcar to the base of Zugspitze (it was a fuck ton of euros to go all the way to the top) and stared oogly-eyed at just how ominous the thing really is. There is also a lake at the base, which is the most pristine thing I’ve ever seen (I say that about a lot of things, but this really was brilliant). We rowed into the middle of the lake and ate on a little island, staring at some truly magnificent scenery. We soon realized that we weren’t technically allowed to land the boat (a.k.a. there were three bold-lettered signs in English that said: DON’T LAND THE BOAT ON ANY SHORE), so we got back in before Mr. Boat Nazi came to conquer us.

We hiked around the lake. It rained but I did not care.

The next day, we found this slot canyon/gorge called Partenklaam where the turquoise river ran through these tall and narrow walls. I looked up and waterfalls were coming down every which way. My voice echoed for miles. I was soaking wet. The sunbeams lit the dark crevices of the canyon. I hooted and hollered and laughed and was absolutely amazed. This may have been one of the best moments of my life.

When we finally made it to the end of the gorge, we sat in the sun next to the creek, eating sandwiches and laughing in amazement about the beauty of this land. At that moment, it didn’t matter that I feel like a mute idiot 98 percent of the time; it didn’t matter that the previous day I had ordered a grilled ham and cheese sandwich to a non-English speaker and was given bread with cucumbers and tomatoes on it; it didn’t matter because these fucking brilliant wild places no know human boundaries. Everyone there—no matter the age or gender or nationality or whatever—shared my same smile that day. We were all happy little fucking clams.

We left Garmisch with a feeling of renewed health and spirit and plain excitement for life. We left with the feeling that we could in fact learn about Judith and Wenceslaus and the rest of the dysfunction that is European history once again. We left knowing we would be eating less apples and sleeping on luxurious skeet sheets. We left there as the three little amigos who spent evenings watching The Notebook (Neil’s idea) and The Holiday (Dyl’s idea); and days seeing some of the most beautiful shit in the world.

I’m currently writing in our little dark German hotel room, while Neil sleeps on a bed to my right and Dylan is passed out on the floor.

Snoring is coming from somewhere in the room.

We spent our final afternoon in Amsterdam yesterday, walking through a really cool flea market and eating pizza. I got two old purses for 5 euros and also a handmade journal. Neil bought socks, which he may have left at Nelly’s by accident.

Then we spend the night drinking and laughing on the patio of a place called Trinity Cafe, where insanely drunk British men (one of them wearing marijuana-plant patterned underwear and nothing else) taught us obscure drinking games in almost unrecognizable English.

We all walked the streets one last time together and called it a night.

This morning Gav and Kirsten headed to Paris and we caught a train to Munich.

The route took us through the most beautiful green countryside and miles of dense forests. The trees were tall with abnormally skinny trunks and were all positioned very closely together. Yellow flower fields popped next to endless expanses of green grass. Solar farms and quaint German towns passed us on either side.

I could really get used to this whole train thing.

It’s hard to form my impression of Munich, since we are here for such a short time. We are a just few blocks from central station, but there really isn’t much going on over here. Either we are in a weird part of the city or there’s really nothing to see. I like to think it’s the former. But, we do have an obscured view of Saint Paul’s Cathedral from our window—a massive piece of architecture that had me in awe when we walked closer to it after lunch a few hours ago.

Annnnnndddd the snoring persists….

It seems that we are all too tired to really explore the city since we have another train to catch in the morning. Either that or those half-liter beers at lunch really got the best of Neil and Dyl.

I was a smart girl and opted for a salad and water instead (though the beer was fantastic). My salad included but was not limited to: lettuce, flank steak, strawberries, grapes, corn, peppers, and melon. An odd mix but fucking delicious. Neil got traditional sausage and sauerkraut (when you order sauerkraut here, it seems like they expect you to eat 2 pounds in one sitting—Neil did not and got lip from the waiter). Dyl opted for apple strudel or something. He polished that thing preeeeetttyyy quick.

Other than what I’ve just written, I can’t say much else about Munich. I suppose they sell a lot of shoes near the train station. Really questionable ones. That and I have no idea how to speak German, so the next four days should be interesting.

We are going to a mountain ski town called Garmisch tomorrow. We’ll be hiking all of the beer/bread/cheese off and enjoying some spectacular views along the way. I’ll be implementing the two-year-old pointing method all weekend (see Lugano post to make sense of this reference) in order to eat.

A German phrase book might be a smart purchase this evening—if we ever leave the room—so that I don’t spend the weekend eating spiced pig hooves thinking they’re bratwurst.

I never thought I’d be washing my underwear in a laundromat next to the red light district in Amsterdam. But here I am waiting for my Bob Dylan t-shirt, a couple pairs of jeans, and too much lacy underwear to dry while the rest of the city does what it does.

And it does a lot.

The smell of marijuana lingers in the air and the hookers in the windows don’t seem to sleep. “It’s not derelict, it’s just dirty.”

Today, it seems a little funny that I came halfway across the world to sit with Neil and watch my underwear dry. Oh, the beauty of life.

Neil is currently sitting next to me sketching a man in sunglasses with the blue charcoal he bought at an art store a couple days ago (this particular store was established circa 1864, which seems sort of contemporary over here).

I notice that we are both crossing our legs like my mother does—my right is crossed over the left and his left is crossed over the right. That’s funny to me.

The sounds in here—the purring of the washers, the clanking of metal buttons in the dryers, Bob Marley’s “Could She Be Loved”—are lulling me into contemplation:
i.e., how the fuck did i end up in Holland for five days with four cohorts from Utah? And not just Holland in general, but fucking Amsterdam—a city that thrives on mushroom trips, libidos for dayssssss, skunk beer, and surprisingly enough a shit ton of french fries.

I couldn’t have even dreamt up this scenario—but here we are, and I’m glad.

I arrived in Amsterdam after a marathon 16-hour train ride from Lugano. I will admit, I felt a little like Harry Potter for the first three hours of the journey, but by hour 12.5, my trek to Hogwarts felt more like that scene from Wayne’s World when Garth happens to be getting dental surgery at a Kenny G concert.

Despite the hours and the back cramps and the sleep breath, I got to see some of the most beautiful landscapes imaginable. The part through the Swiss mountainside almost had me in tears. At one point, I came around the bend to this massive lake adorned with a rainbow. The snow-topped mountains were misty and towering. Rock faces stared me in the face. Waterfalls peaked out of crevices. Rivers followed the bends of the tracks. Grass really was greener over there.

But then night fell and I got to “sleep” (sitting upright) in my unibomber sleeping bag position again (see arrival post to understand this reference). When I “woke” the next morning, mountains had been replaced by canals that were filled with industrial boats and surrounded by industrial buildings.

When I stepped off the train there was a light drizzle coming down, which ended up fogging my glasses to the point of embarrassment. I ducked for cover in some restaurant near the water, ate some breakfast (a pancake with bacon cooked inside of it = best thing ever), and listened to Dutch people speak some sort of English-monkey-combo language.

Given my awful sense of direction, I felt pretty accomplished finding the hostel with no problem. It’s called Durty Nelly’s, an Irish Pub that happens to have a few beds upstairs. It’s located on the edge of the Red Light District—that is, a bunch of alleyways with half-naked women posing salaciously behind glass doors—and draws an eclectic mix of humans into the bar. A plus: they’ve mastered a pretty mean cheeseburger.

My first day in Amsterdam was met with a lot of walking around and a fair share of gawking at the fake tits in the windows. Gavan and Kirsten arrived at Nelly’s shortly after I did, so we went to the market for some meat, cheese, fruit, and bread. We sat in the main square of the city, which is surrounded by old towering buildings (think Marie Antoinette period and you’ve got it) and thousands of bikes. We ate and people-watched. A guy was playing songs that reminded me of home. We walked down narrow cobblestone streets looking at weed iced tea and weed lollipops and leather strap-on penises in the windows.

When Neil and Dylan arrived, we all hollered and shared hugs—two months of talking about a plan had actually worked out for once. We walked to the open square again and listened to that same guy play Bob Marley classics (a certain someone from home would have loved his rendition of “Could You Be Loved”). We spent that evening eating pizza/pasta (pesto = nom nom nom), drinking pints at Nelly’s, sipping Heineken next to the canal, smoking a joint (sorry mom), sharing stories about our previous destinations, and once again gawking at prostitutes.

We all got in our little bunks rather early and fell asleep.

The next day we meandered around the entire city, taking photographs and laughing a lot. I was mesmerized by the sheer number of bikes locked up in every inch of this city. Bikers surround you on every block. Bells chime merrily, but really mean “get the fuck out of the bike lane, bitch”. Canals line nearly every street, which is beautiful in theory but it’s safe to bet that what you are staring at is liquid syphilis.

We saw the Van Gogh museum in the afternoon, which has the largest collection of his work in the world (200 paintings or some shit) . I saw “Sunflowers” and the famous one of the bedroom. Seeing his sketches made all of us inspired to become artists, so much so that we found the aforementioned art store and bought pens and charcoal and sketch pads.

We sat in a coffee shop (a.k.a. legal drug dealer gives you weed and espresso) and sketched and wrote and talked with each other about nothing really and everything wonderful. I ate two grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. Later, we drank wine on a bench near a canal and probably more prostitute-gawking took place.

Yesterday, we rented bikes and rode our little asses off. It was a good day mostly because I didn’t A) kill myself and B) kill anyone else. We rode across the city to Vondel Park (Amsterdam’s Central Park) and it was fucking glorious. We sat in different spots—near a lake, on the grass, under a tree—and drew and wrote and climbed trees and found this ominous playground that had a somewhat-gnarly-but-really-fucking-fun rope ladder area that spat you out into a steel slide.

Then I had a prosciutto and pesto sandwich. GOOD GOD is all I have to say to that.

After lunch, we biked to Anne Frank’s house, a museum that has preserved where she hid for two years and wrote that famous diary. This was probably the most interesting/cool/rewarding thing I did in Amsterdam, in a super depressing sort of way. I got to see her room and the area where her family had to hide. It was dark and creaky inside and I wanted to cry for her because I can’t imagine doing all of that and then still dying. I saw her coral-checkered journal and her beautiful cursive and all of the posters and postcards that she herself had pasted on her bedroom wall.

It was hard to believe that I was standing where she had been, but it reminded me that I am one lucky bitch.

We went back to the hostel, where I dreamt of a hot shower but was too lazy and instead lounged on the plush skeet sheets.

I must say, hostel living is very strange. I never had to dorm in college so I imagine this is what it was like, except that hostels offer you semen sheets free of charge (yipee) along with complimentary toast and sweating cheese plates in the mornings (double yipee). Also, you have to be quiet when people are sleeping, which isn’t too hard to do except during my frequent packing ritual, which I’ll explain:

You see, I brought these vacuum-sealed bags to suction all of my clothing together so that I could fit more unnecessary things to lug around. The bags release excess air out of these little holes on one side when you apply pressure to them (imagine deflating a boat). But the problem is, the little holes make this squealing noise that partly sounds like I am murdering a mouse and partly sounds like I am having explosive diarrhea. So, I imagine, when these poor strangers are trying to sleep, they must wonder what explosive-poop-girl ate for dinner.

The joys of traveling….

Welp, the dryer tumble is coming to a stop now, so I suppose I’ll wrap this bad boy up. I have one more night in Sin City before I head to Munich for a night. Then we are spending four days in Garmisch, a pristine ski town in the southeast corner of the Bavaria region.

I’ll be nice to not smell like marijuana sex sheets anymore. Until then….

narrow streets / Lugano, Switzerland

view of the lake / Lugano, Switzerland

workout signs on Percorsavita / Lugano, Switzerland

view from the hike / Lugano, Switzerland

Findings on the hike / Lugano, Switzerland

quaint little street / Lugano, Switzerland

after the skinny dipping escapade / Lugano, Switzerland

Rikki’s new scooter friend / Lugano, Switzerland

custom pasta that i didn’t know how to order / Lugano, Switzerland

views from the lake / Lugano, Switzerland