The Swiss Miss and Whichtenstein? Leichtenstein!

Switzerland and Liechtenstein: The Small and The Even Smaller

In this Episode, Ryan…

-Cools off in an Alpine Lake

-Flip-flops his way up to a traditional Liechtensteiner farm high in the mountains

-Has a first-hand experience with Swiss first aid

Switzerland

Say the word Switzerland, and what comes to mind? Chocolate, cuckoo clocks, a feeling of neutrality? You might also think about the Alps, and perhaps some skiing or such. Are these stereotypes still truly applicable? Well, let me continue…

At first, I didn’t think I’d go to Switzerland, but I found myself running through my schedule faster than expected, and I couldn’t stay any longer in Belgium (Gilles family was having a reunion of sorts, so I thought it best of me to free up the house for them), and it was the only country I hadn’t visited yet in quasi-firing range, so away I went. Just so you know, if you ever find yourself going from the Low Countries (where much of the land is below sea level) to the Alps, bring along some chewing gum. The massive elevation change is fun on the ears.

My destination of choice was the city of Zurich, not so much because its adept skills at banking (I could always go back to Luxembourg for that), but because it was the largest city in Switzerland, considered one of the highlights, and had good rail connections to Liechtenstein and other places.

Of course, I expected there to be mountains and my map had indicated a lake, but I didn’t realize just how geographically blessed Zurich truly is. Not only do you have a fair-sized lake right in the middle of the city (we’re not talking Lake Ontario sized here, but fair-sized enough for any plethora of water activities you could imagine), but the water is freaking clean (we’re talking crystal blue here). Name me one other largest city of an industrialized country where you can watch half the populace float by on bright yellow tubes on the bridge beneath you. The lake was amazingly clean although Zurichers know how to take full advantage of it. On Sundays the lake is covered in a Swiss armada of pleasure craft, while throngs of heads bob up in down around shore and in the paths going around the lake. At one point there’s even a swimming bar, where you can swim in the river draining the lake while you enjoy your martini.

Naturally I wanted to hop in the water as well, but unfortunately I didn’t get to indulge until the final day. The first day I arrived too late in the day, and decided to spend what little sunshine there was left touring around the city on another free bicycle. Yes, Zurich like Copenhagen offers free bicycles, though the Swiss bikes are of a considerably higher quality (complete with such luxury accessories as baskets, gears, and even brakes!), though the large changes in altitude (ie the mountains around Zurich) were too exhausting for me to tackle so I mainly stuck to cycling around the town site and lakefront, which were surprisingly compact for Switzerland’s largest city. I ended up meeting up with a few local Swiss at an impromptu festival—whose theme of celebration I never truly grasped—which was taking place outside my hostel. After a plate of Swiss cheese coated Spatzle (think pasta if it was invented by people who speak German), they invited me to an “English-style Pub” called Lady Hamilton, which unlike most English pubs I’ve encountered in my travels, seemed more like a hip-hop dance club (then again, I’ve not made it to England yet, maybe they are like that).

So anyways, to make a long story short, the next day I was trying to wake up early to catch a train to Lietchenstein (I was planning to go there just for the day), but I was a little groggy and slept in (this wasn’t a problem, there were many trains to Liechtenstein). At any rate though, I was trying to hurry as I got ready, not wanting to lose a whole day to recovering from the night before, but to my surprise the sink in my room shattered in two when I leaned on it while shaving (there was a large fracture in it that I had noticed the night before, but I underestimated the degree of its lack of structural integrity). Now I had just gotten out of the shower, was wearing little in terms of clothing, and the sink in its death throes had gouged my right hand and my right knee.

So now I’m bleeding somewhat profusely and trying to think of what to do next. I try to stop the bleeding with a nearby towel, but since I have only one, I have to use it for both my hand and knee, which means I’m crouching rather awkwardly. At this point I’m thinking A) I’m probably not going to make the next train and B) perhaps seeking assistance is in order. However, I’m still basically naked, so before I leave my room—which with the mess of blood around the sink is starting to look like a crime scene—I slip on a pair of shorts as best I can over the cut knee with my good hand and begin my stumble out into the main hallway.

By now, I’m starting to attract some attention, but I’m still 3 floors up, everyone’s basically just looking at me in terms shock, so I want to get to the front desk where presumably a first aid kit might be stored. So I push the elevator button—the elevator’s another one of these old European models where its quite narrow and you have to manually open the door, and clambour in as dignified as can considering the circumstances. Gentle elevator music plays during my descent.

The elevator tings, and I stumble out on to the main floor. I’m trying to stop the bleeding as I go, but a few drops here and there follow me like Hansel and Gretel style breadcrumbs. Finally I reach reception and the shocked face of the Swiss receptionist. “Gutenmorgen” I say (this being a German-speaking part of Switzerland), “Sprachen zie Englisch (Do you speak English?)” The girl shakes her head “no,” so I use the internationl distress signal of holding up a bloody cloth to signal something is wrong. She quickly calls her manager, who thankfully speaks English, and aides rush towards me with a first aid kit (this is after all the country that invented the Red Cross). The aide mumbles something in German to himself (Probably “I can’t believe this is how my morning is starting”) but he sprays alcohol on my cuts and bandages them up as best as can be done. They offered to switch me to a different room free of charge, as my old room was closed down as a biohazard, while hostel cleaning staff run around trying to clean-up the mess I’ve made. They were fairly nice to me though, realizing the broken sink was not my fault (and perhaps fearing a liability suit) and fed me free drinks and laundry service.

I of course though, if you haven’t already guessed by reading this blog, am a rather stubborn fellow at times, and I wasn’t about to waste one of my few days in Switzerland sitting in a hostel nursing a couple of cuts. Thus, I decided bandaged-up or not bandaged-up I was still going to Liechtenstein that day. I was planning originally to do some hiking there, but my shoes were now in the wash (they had been under the sink and thus got rather stained. So I threw on my shower flip-flops (the only workable pair of shoes I now had access to) and headed off to the land where the eastern and western Alps meet, but more on that in the Liechtenstein section.

To go back to the earlier point about swimming in Lake Zurich, I believe that its usually considering unadvisable to partake in swimming if you’ve been cut badly, so I could do swimming that day anyway. The day after though was my last day in Switzerland and while I spent some of it in a museum and an amusing “American-style” pizza restaurant, near the end of the day—a very hot and sunny one—and I decided I just couldn’t pass up the chance to swim in this Alpine lake, and besides my cuts were no longer open and had healed a lot more or less, already, so I tried the lake.

Alpine lakes aren’t known for their warmth, and this one was no exception, though on a hot summer day I’d say it was tremendously refreshing, though I’ve never felt more out of shape being surrounded by hordes of ridiculously fit and fine-tuned Swiss bodies. The Swiss themselves seemed to swim out from the shore (there’s a steep drop-off) and then just keep going, often swimming after the tour boats to play in the waves like dolphins (I guess this whole land-locked thing really gets to them at times). I must say it was a tad unnerving swimming in a lake with the snow-covered Alps looming on the horizon.

Anyways, the lake was wonderfully cool and refreshing, but I had decided on a gambit to venture into Rome that night on an evening train (everyone I met on my travels had kept saying I had to go to Italy, so I decided to give it a whirl), so now it was time to leave the Alps and head for the Mediterranean.

Liechtenstein

But before I talk about Italy, I know you’re all absolutely dying to here about little Liechtenstein, quite possibly the most romantically named principality on the planet. Even the name itself evokes ideas of crazed scientists on gothic castles on mountains trying to “play God” by creating monsters out of copious amounts of false teeth and dentures (Liechtenstein is the world’s largest exporter of false teeth and dentures—guess everyone needs a hobby or a GDP). There is actually a gothic castle on a mountain on a hill overlooking the country, and what I mentioned earlier could be going on there for all we know (its not open to the public), but what I do know goes on there is Prince Henri and his family, the monarchs of Liechtenstein who—unlike most present-day monarchs but not unlike their old-time predecessors—actually do rule Liechtenstein with an iron fist. I’m not kidding. A few years ago, the royal family demanded to have the power to write and reject laws, as well as overturn democratically elected leaders in the parliament and replace them with appointees, and threatened to bugger off to Austria if they didn’t get them. The reforms were controversial, but the population supported the family in referendum, possibly fearing a loss in tourism revenue if Vaduz Castle sat empty. In return for their support, the Royal family has all Liechtensteiners over to their place for a beer once a year. Welcome to one of the craziest places on Earth.

For the most part—like most tourists—all I saw of Liechtenstein was its tiny capital Vaduz, with a whopping population of 5500. Many people in Toronto think Brandon is tiny, but it’s a frick’n megalopolis compared to that. That said, Vaduz has way too many services in comparison with its size (probably feeding of the tourist market or the slightly under-the-table banking industry), and has way fancier museums and art galleries than I’ve seen in any small town in Canada.

Liechtenstein—Lindsey Vodarek would be glad to hear—is also on the Rhine River (That’s right Lindsey, I did actually do more with the Rhine than cross it in a train). Of course this is near the source of the Rhine, being up in the mountains, so its actually quite small, but the scenery of the valley—and of Liechtenstein itself—is rather beautiful. What it lacks in urban sophistication, Liechtenstein excels at in nature. There are countless hiking trails going up the mountains and in-between towns—or perhaps villages is the more appropriate term here, and much of Liechtenstein remains rural. Indeed after hiking up the mountain with the castle on it in my shower flip flops and bandages—again, not the brightest thing I’ve ever done, but I’m stubborn—I got some great views of the castle, the town, and the valley surrounding (practically the whole country really). After hiking a little further up through the forest, watching it change from deciduous to boreal—thereby suggesting you’ve entered another climatic zone and have climbed to a significant height—I finally came out on clearing where I found a traditional alpine farm, complete with an old woman in semi-traditional clothes threshing hay and a guy in suspenders pushing a wheel-barrow around. This farm was on the side of a mountain, and was one of the steepest fields I’d ever seen, and I don’t think it was touristy, because the people generally looked at me as if I came from Mars (well I guess I was wearing flip flops), so all in and all it was a righteous experience.

Liechtenstein was definitely worth the visit, I haven’t seen another country quite like it before, and I doubt I will again. Things though will probably change there soon, the young are definitely feeling the attraction towards more sophisticated realms. One girl I met on the train back, who was fashionably stunning enough to be from Milan or Paris or somewhere, admitted—somewhat reluctantly—that she was in fact a Liechtensteiner, reminded me a lot of the girls back home who would dress like the ones in the bigger centers, but then I suppose I can’t blame them. Even I only saw fit to spend a day in Liechtenstein—though what a day it was.

Holland, Belgium, and Luxembourg (ie. The Low Countries)

Holland, Belgium, and Luxembourg (ie. The Low Countries)

In this episode, Ryan…

-takes a sip of Amsterdam’s liberal culture

-gets lost in a Luxembourgeois fortress dungeon

-gorges on chocolate in Belgium

Holland (aka That Nether Region)

Holland is one of those places in the world with different names that sound nothing a like. Some people call it Holland, some The Netherlands, some the Low Countries, and the people are called Dutch, which makes it seem like they be from Germany or somewhere (by the way, don’t call them Germans). I find the term Netherlands sounds particularly interesting, as if you just “lands” to “world,” Holland suddenly becomes the Netherworld, or if you change it to “regions,”the Nether Regions. In other words, using a simply geographic wordplay, I can turn this country into the realm of the afterlife—where demons and vampires walk among the cursed dead—or I can make it a slang term for private parts. Both ideas are probably appropriate descriptions of Amsterdam.

Of course, the walking zombies in Amsterdam, generally wear oversized backpacks and speak with American or Australian drunken accents (you can tell them by their mating call “AmsterDAMN….”. Like Prague (and I’m thinking every major European city during the summer), Amsterdam is flooded with tourists while the locals escape to the suburbs. I actually stayed just outside of Amsterdam, in a neighbouring commuter town called Zwanenburg, home of the International Airport, noticeably different from the Amsterdam Centraal.

One thing I should say about the Dutch language, it is likely the closest foreign language to English that I have encountered (not that I understand it any better). Like a cross between English and German, written Dutch often appears like misspelled English (like “Centraal” or “Appel,” or “Nederlands.”)

Anyways, Amsterdam. Yeah, to be honest I found this city a tad tiring… as once you see all the prostitutes, marijuana “coffeeshops,” and the Anne Frank House (an odd combination package if ever there was one, “let’s screw some hookers, smoke some dope, and maintain a solemn vigil of one of the worst genocides in human history.”), its basically just museum after museum of Van Gogh or Rembrandt paintings, which are all fine and good, but they don’t look that much different than the image you saw in your guidebook and can give you a headache after the first couple hundred.

In Amsterdam, I met up with an old friend of mine from Shanghai named Phoenix. Now Phoenix has been living in Holland for over a year now, but she still got ridiculously excited about the Red Light District (why do so many girls get like this?). For me, it just felt like a strip show on the street, no big deal really and the girls weren’t really striking a chord… but for Phoenix, not sure what’s going on there. Some people are embarrassed to say they’ve been to the Red Light District in Amsterdam, but unless you somehow manage to spend all your time in art galleries and get to them through subterranean tunnelling, I don’t really know how you can avoid it. It’s right outside the train station, and takes up half the old city.

Even if you somehow miss the Red Light District, you’re bound to hit that other pillar of liberal Amsterdam culture, that is to say “the marijuana shops,” innocently dubbed “coffee shops.” Here I made my attempted venture into Amsterdam’s freedoms, (I was only there a short time, so I couldn’t do anything terribly exciting as I had to catch a train), so I tried to order a glass of Absinthe, the famed bright green intoxicant that allegedly ruined Vincent Van Gogh, driving him ultimately to his ear-slitting descent into depression. Good times.

Oddly, liberal as Amsterdam is, I had a helluva time finding this drink. The coffeeshops are literally overflowing with fumes of the Mexican brown, but serve alcohol…? That’s illegal.

Even the pubs didn’t have it. I went to one place near the Red Light District (like everything else in Amsterdam) that was hidden in an alleyway beside a canal. It said on the sign it had been running the taps there since 1647, so I imagined it had been tucked away so as to avoid problems with the local authorities. Anyway, liberal times or not, it was still closing at 10 pm on a Saturday, so we drank a couple glasses of half and halfs in the alleyway and went on our way.

Finally though, I found a pub named “Absinthe” and I’m like “If this damn place, doesn’t have it, I give up.” Opening conventiently at 10 pm, it did indeed have the green monster. Phoenix didn’t want any, and we needed to catch a train in half and hour, so I basically just chugged down a glass of the wormwood wine—tasting like ouzuo (a Greek liqueur, something like black licorice) with a hint of hemp. There was a heavy alcohol content, and I got a slight buzz, but other than that it seemed to be a rather docile drink despite the reputation.

So that in a nutshell, was Amsterdam. I means its not a bad city, got lots of canals, but really the tourist-ness can be a bit much (finding accommodation is difficult and there’s line-ups everywhere). Also, a lot of people, street performers in particular had horrendous egos and attitudes, spending half an hour talking about how we all better give them 5 Euros each for them to juggle flames for 30 seconds. I mean I understand it takes a serious effort and lots of training, and there is some risk involved, but no one does this kind of thing unless they love it and if you’re doing it just for the money, you’ve picked the wrong profession (maybe you should consider accounting).

That said, I did enjoy some other cities I stayed in Amsterdam, places like Rotterdam and Den Haag (The Hague, a colorful name for the Dutch Queen’s hometown if you think about it) provided a much more personal connection with the everyday Dutchman (or Dutchwoman).Leiden, a small university town near Den Haag, has just as many canals as Amsterdam, and frankly they’re more beautiful here (and less overwhelmed with drunks), while Delft is a great place if you like blue china sets, although they also had interesting museums on William of Orange (the guy who liberated Holland from Spain so many years ago) and the former Dutch colony of Indonesia. I also met a few new friends in this part of Holland, including an Argentinian roller-hockey player, a pianist from Szechuan, and a Dutch beach volleyball squad. Probably one of the coolest things I heard about Holland—which unfortunately I only heard about it after it was too late to see it—was that in order to combat global warming’s rising sea levels (somewhat of a problem for a nation with hundreds of hectares below sea level), the Dutchave apparently developed floating cities, complete with buildings and floating roads you can drive cars on. It’s like something out of a grossly over budget Kevin Costner sci fi film, yet here it is in the land of windmills and gay marriage (the originals). Intriguing, eh?

Now though, I’m on a bus to Belgium, to meet up with an old high school friend (who came to Canada back then on exchange, and I haven’t seen him since). We’ll see how this goes.

Luxembourg

Considered to be the biggest of Europe’s mini-nations, Luxembourg basically—and barely—survived the centuries by being a giant fortress on a hill surrounded by canyons. The old city is still perched upon this hill, and even today—with modern roads and expressways cutting through—its an impending place to march into… even if its only for tourism purposes.

In Luxembourg city (yes, there is more than one city in this country) the mixture of rugged landscape, ruined fortifications, and late colonial age European architectural development makes for a rather picturesque town, though its recommended you don’t stay around the train station. These days though, there are many uber-modern structures as well, as the city which once secured its existence by becoming a military stronghold now secures its existence by being a financial stronghold. Banks a plenty dominate the streets (no problem finding an ATM), and many wealthy folks in fancy suits waunder the streets (or at least waunder to their waiting BMW).

I went to Luxembourg with my Belgian friend Gilles, the day after arriving in Belgium. I was still rather tired from the journey from Holland, but Gilles having never visited Luxembourg (despite it being 3 hours from his home in Liege, Belgium) was eager to see what was there. So away we went.

Like I said, Luxembourg’s top selling point in my opinion—I’m sure the bankers have an alternate one—is the beauty of the old town and fortress perched upon a hill and surrounded by decaying fortifications. This place has been fought over so often, that I don’t know any European power that hasn’t conquered Luxembourg at some point (except maybe Liechtenstein). Gilles and I explored the most famous remaining fortifications, the Spanish Bock Casemates (built to guard the entrance to town during the early colonial period when Luxembourg fell under Spanish rule). Basically they are seemingly never-ending series of caverns carved into the rock cliff—with occasional openings for cannons. Even with the modern electrical lighting installed and in broad daylight the place was darker than the heart of a foreclosure specialist, which makes me wonder what it must have been like in days of only torchlight. Also, many of the caverns lead different directions, branch off many times, and go up and down random staircases meaning it is very easy to get lost. I know, I did.

After escaping the Bock Casemates, we walked around the old town for a bit, and checked out the Luxembourg City Museum (Which had interesting exhibits on Luxembourg during Medieval times, under Nazi Occupation, and the treatment of “gypsies” in Europe. There was also an exhibit on plumbing, but I found it less interesting for some reason. The décor of the museum, which was built on a cliff face of the old town, was a mix of rocks rising up high and the type of new-smelling fancy wood paneling that only a world banking capital could afford.

Belgium

Now, I did spend some time in Belgium itself, a few days in fact. Basically, these were spent between 3 places, Liege (the largest city in Wallonia, French-speaking Belgium, and the hometown of Gilles), Brussels/Bruxelles (the largest city in Belgium and the capital of the EU), and the Ardennes (a forested region in the southeast corner of Belgium).

Liege was described in my book as an “industrial town,” but for an industrial town, it still has some rather attractive neighbourhoods and buildings. Unlike many parts of Holland and Belgium, it also has hills and—dare I say—dynamic landscapes. It generally rains a lot there—or at least it did while I was there—but then so does all of Belgium, being so close to Britain and all. Gilles showed some of the bars and sights around town, we even had a drink called “Pekinte” or something, and his family cooked this absolutely excellent dish which involved chicken wrapped in pork with mozzarella cheese inside, all seasoned with sage leaves and wrapped in baking parchment. Good stuff.

Gilles’ family was interesting, especially his mother who couldn’t speak English, but wouldn’t hesitate to bombard me with a storm of French. She’d constantly ask “Est-ce tu’apris ce nourriture?” and talk about how in Europe you have to appreciate quality of foods, while she criticized the North American tradition of speed and convenience. She even insisted on quality when it came to laundry, suggesting that I must hang my clothes instead of using a dryer because of the “bon odeur.” I laughed, and told her when it came to my stinky old backpack “bon odeur” was the last thing I was worried about.

Gilles though seemed to want to show me outside of Liege more than inside, though, so we spent little time there (Liege is said to be an ugly industrial city, but from what I saw of it, its actually quite nice). The first day we went to Luxembourg, as mentioned earlier, but we also went to Brussels the next day, and he was talking about even taking me back into Holland before I insisted on at least seeing some part of Wallonia, the most celebrated Ardennes Forest. But first we went to Brussels, whose culinary traditions have given us Belgian beer (yay), Belgian chocolate (double yay!), and the Brussel Sprout (not so yay, surprisingly there is little tourism advertising this cultural gem).

As the capital of the European Union (being sandwiched between a variety of surrounding European powers), Brussels is a fairly attractive if rainy city. The old town and palace are among the nicest to observe. Watch your pockets like a hawk though. Gilles really wanted to see the palace, and while we there his sister called. At this point, a series of old gypsy women (in Europe, no one calls them Roma) surrounded us and started asking us for money. Now I don’t mean to generalize or perpetuate a stereotype, but this was exactly the thing I was warned about in Prague and other places (basically a beggar, often a poor old woman with a child, will be insistent about asking for money, while another sneaks behind you relieves you of your wallet) so I panicked and immediately shoved my hands into my pockets where all my valuables were and desperately tried to get Gilles—distracted by the phone call—to move on to a different street. Finally, I convinced him to move and we lost the gypsy women, and I felt like a dirtbag for presuming them to be pickpockets based on what Europeans had told me, but as it turns out there was now a gash in my pants by my right back pocket—that was too straight cut to have come from a tear—so it appears unfortunately that the stereotype was right in these circumstances. I never even felt the tear in my pants and only realized it after Gilles told me “’ere is a ‘ole in your pants.” As a rule, I never keep valuables in my back pockets because (A) they’re easier to steal from there and (B) you have to sit on them all the time, and that’s uncomfortable. So luckily the only thing lost out of the experience was a pair of pants, although it was shocking that they were able to make such a cut without my knowledge. As for the Roma people themselves, I’m sure there are plenty that don’t resort to pick-pocketing to compensate for their marginal position within European society—the “untrustworthy pickpocket” stereotype definitely doesn’t help with that, but as a rule if you see anyone, Roma, gypsy, or whatever, being too aggressive in trying to get your attention (this was the same problem with many Chinese peddlers in China) say “No” or nothing, keep track of your valuables and move around, and just get out of there as quickly as you can. While I lost little this time, I know plenty of travelers who have lost much more.

That said, it wasn’t just pickpockets in Brussels. We also saw an intriguing museum on bande dessinee (French language comic strips, think Tintin), and tried Belgian waffles (which in Belgium are more an afternoon snack than a breakfast food) and of course Belgian chocolate. According to my Lonely Planet, there was Belgium’s original praline shop in this old 1875 covered shopping arcade, so we checked it out, and I got many treat filled with caramel, orange bitter, cocoa, and whatever else I could taste. It seems in Belgium, however, praline just means chocolate, so chocolate I had.

The national symbol of Belgium—for some inexplicable reason—is a statue of young boy pissing into a fountain (Manneken Pis). The statue is less than a foot tall and sits on a non-descript fountain that you can easily walk past without noticing, but the entire neighbourhood is surrounding by Manneken inspired chocolatiers, souvenir shops, and other trappings of a thriving tourism industry drowning out the original reason for their presence there. In another part of the old town, in a less descript alley near the butcher’s market, there is Brussel’s attempt at gender parity in Jeanneken Pis, a statue of a young girl in pigtails pissing into a fountain. What can I say, with over 900 types of beer widely available, Belgians really know how to urinate.

On the last day, basically on my insistence on not venturing so far away for the 5^th day in a row, we ventured into the Ardennes, Belgium’s famed natural region. Know the English word “spa?” It was named after the city of Spa in this region, where there are hot springs and well medieval “spas.” While most of the hiking trails were clogged with water from the recent rainfalls, Gilles did know of one place where they wooden planks so the trail was slightly less swampy. The landscape was something comparable to Riding Mountain in Manitoba—not overly tall, but beautiful nonetheless, but with more human activity around and therefore less animals—although we did see a couple of salamanders or lizards, which Gilles called “lezars.”

Now though, I’m on a train to Switzerland, and I’m sure there will be plenty of hiking and landscape to see there. Talk to you soon.

Denmark and Sweden (and West Germany kinda)

Denmark and Sweden (aka Scandinavia south) – oh and a snippet of (West) Germany

In this episode, Ryan…

-Rides a crappy bike through a hippie commune in Copenhagen

-Lays on a beach on Sweden’s Baltic coast

-Has a cocktail in a bar made of ice

Hiking up the Viking

Denmark

Here’s a trick question for ya. What’s the largest Scandinavian country? Well if you include Greenland, its definitely Denmark (who technically still governs the island)

So after spending a few days in Berlin, I needed to head over to Amsterdam to meet up with my friend Phoenix there. Now, I was already in northern Germany, and it just so happened there was a country called Denmark not far away. That was interesting enough, but then I also figured out that the capital city of Denmark, Copenhagen, was connected by bridge to another city, Malmö, in another country called Sweden.

Generally speaking these are places I never thought I’d set foot on, but seeing as how they were so close, temptation got the better of me, so I ventured off to Copenhagen and Malmö for a couple of days, before continuing on to Amsterdam. The hostel I was staying at first seemed nice; it was in a large building, overlooking the harbour, with a shiny, stream-lined design which could have been ripped right out of an IKEA catalogue. As I soon would discover to be a common trend in Scandinavia, however, they make you pay for everything and nothing comes cheap, and when there was a miscommunication as to how long I was staying (I thought I had booked 3 nights, but they had only booked me for 2, and had promptly booked my bed, and every other damn bed, in the freaking building). What this all meant was that at 1 am I was off searching for accommodation in city where everything was booked solid, and let’s just say I ended up paying too much for a hotel room, not having a good sleep, and screwing up on a train ticket which cost me more yet. In other words, the end of my time in Scandinavia was quite hellish, and I’d rather not talk about it.

But before all that chaos began, I was having a good time. Copenhagen might mean “Merchant’s haven” but it might as well also be called “Cyclist’s haven”—and Malmö too for that matter—as I have never seen such well developed bike lanes, separate from both the road and sidewalks although running alongside both, complete with their own traffic lights (for bikes) and people who actually do things like hold out their left arm in a right-angle salute when they turn to the right. This is the type of place Andrew Bieler, my ballistic-for-bicycles buddy from Toronto, would drool like Pavlov’s dog over.

I hadn’t done any cycling yet on the trip, and my feet were getting tired of pounding pavement. I heard a rumour that for a 20 crown deposit (about $4) you get a Citybike, a cheap bicycle that are hooked up like shopping carts from Superstore at various stations around the city. The only problem is these bikes are so cheap and popular that they have a tendency of disappearing early in the day (it took me about an hour to track one down, and I basically bummed it off of a guy at the train station). Actually that’s not the only problem. They do also generally speaking, in terms of mechanics, kinda suck, but then what do you expect for free? People also tend to abuse them (for example, I saw a number of bicycle frames lying at the bottom of the canal). Basically the problems were no gears, pedals tough to push, and they were a tad small and hard to steer, but they got me from point A to point B and all the sights around the city fairly quickly. Granted for the first half of the day I had no idea the thing even had brakes (there’re no handlebar brakes, only backpedaling—which also often jammed). So basically I was barrel-assing my way through Copenhagen’s cobble-stone streets on a shaky little red bike that I had to break with my feet. Needless to say I was kind of awkard, slightly out of control, but still relatively slow like a tractor going down the highway. There are thousands of other regular cyclists in Copenhagen (here its mainstream transportation) and I soon learned that road rage does indeed translate into more eco-friendly forms of transportation, though instead of a horn its verbalized more with a gentle but angry “ting ting”

I also got myself good and lost and somehow ended up—I’m not exactly sure how, as it basically meant I biked over the main harbour—on an island called Christianhavn where they have a famous hippie commune called “Free Christiania.” Now I’d never seen a hippie commune before, and I don’t really count Kensington Market, and I wondered how authentic this place still was (it had apparently been here since the 70s), but it was getting in trouble with the authorities and was apparently in danger of being forcibly shutdown any day now, so there sounded like there was a degree of legitimacy here. Also it had cheap food.

Photography was strictly prohibited here by the hippies (I still find it odd to think of hippies strictly prohibiting anything, I could swear I saw a 10 year-old smoking up like it wasn’t no thang)—a shame because it was such a colourful marketplace with a carnival junkyard feel to it. Free Christiania claimed some degree of sovereignty from the EU (or even Denmark for that matter)—though I doubt its recognized—and red flags with 3 yellow circles dominated the square, along with adages like Free Tibet or Free Greenland. The food unfortunately wasn’t that free (and I’m pretty sure capitalism and the exchange of money is still rather important here, especially with so many tourists plowing through). Nevertheless, I will say some elements of its hippie origins still reside.

Later that night, my hostel had a special with a Pool/Spa place (which translated into $8 Canadian, a bargain by Scandinavian standards), and thinking I didn’t have much else to do anyway, I thought why not check it out. My back was killing me from hauling around that big backpack anyway, and I heard Swedish massages were relatively reknowned.

They didn’t offer massages at this time, but they did offer a sauna, steam room, and køltväder bath (I think I spelt that right)—the idea being you sit in the sauna or the steam room, warm yourself up, and then dunk yourself Polar Bear style into the frigidly cold køltväder bath Scandinavian style (something akin to the Canadian combination of hot tubs and rolling in the snow). With the soothing music and the warm sauna and steam room I was getting all relaxed almost to the point of sleeping, but dunking in the køltväder bath fixed me up good. Suddenly I was alert, somewhat chilly, but alert—like a

caffeine shot on ice.

The pool itself, which I presumed to be a rather large rectangle filled with water as per traditional swimming pools back home, was not the case. Like I said earlier, Scandinavia is the land from whence came IKEA, and its quite obvious that the people are absolutely wild for minimalist modern interior design. Minimalist might be a misnomer however, as I figure a rectangular pool requires minimal design input, and this thing was like a Stockholm nightclub on water. Swedish electronica music blared over the speakers, while accent lighting made the water glow crystal blue. There was a small square pool, but it was few metres above a much larger swimming oval with people in colourful scuba costumes walking around. They also had a Jacuzzi, a warm pool, a rocking climbing wall, a plethora of diving boards (including a trampoline one) and even a rain shower every 10 minutes in one part of the pool. Intense.

The next day I went to Malmö, but more on that in the Sweden section.

In terms of what else I did when I got back to Copenhagen—other than the hostel/train disaster—well I saw the Danish National Museum, which had interesting relics from the once-extinct medieval Viking colony in Greenland (including an arrowhead from the Mik’maq of Labrador found in a Viking graveyard in Greenland—one of the few physical proofs of contact between the Vikings and Aboriginals, and possibly a good indicator of why the Vikings didn’t stay). On the exhibit on the Inuit, just how much our “modern” spring jackets are exact rip-offs of Inuit design (just replace the seal leather with synthetic materials). I hope someone paid them some royalties.

Having just got back from Sweden I had a few leftover Swedish krones which I couldn’t get rid of easily (and thinking I needed a drink), I checked out the Ice Bar (which was run by Absolut a Swedish company, who accepted Swedish money) as one last Scandinavian thing to do (Granted its probably more of a tourist think to do, but whatever). The bar was made entirely of ice, except the floor (which I was disappointed about, but then, I suppose it would be a hazard to walk on) and kept in a big freezer (basically, its an offshoot of the famed Swedish ice hotel). The ice structure of the bar was interesting enough, and we all had to wear blue parkas for –5 degrees (a bit excessive in terms of clothing I thought, but the Californians were talking as though their fingers were going to fall off due to frostbite). What really struck me was that the mugs they served the drink—basically a cocktail using Absolut vodka, surprise surprise, and various other mixes—in were actually just huge ice cubes from a river in Northern Sweden (so if you held your glass too long it would melt, but then again you didn’t need any ice). Needless to say, I couldn’t take the mug back home, but it gave me a cool idea for a party this winter.

Sweden

I only really spent a day here, in Sweden’s most major southern city Malmö—aka, at least by me, as Sweden’s California. Malmö is one of the most major cities in Sweden, its gateway to continental Europe, and the home of Sweden’s tallest building, the Twisting Torso, a stylistic of “just cause we can” architecture where by the top of the building twists a full 90 degrees from the bottom to the top (my spine aches just looking at this place). This is as tropical as Sweden gets, and while the Baltic Sea is no Mediterranean its just as salty and I’d say in August, in the shallow waters off of Malmö is something akin to a dip into a large lake in the Canadian shield country this time of year (kudos to the kooks though that do the køltväder thing here in winter.

Now I know Swedish beaches are famous for things like bikini squads and well liberal Scandinavians, and while there were many bikinis, the beach was more populated by families than anything else. Besides, I was more a person for swimming anyway than lying on the beach, so I walked out to the end of the pier and swam out to the floating docks. Of course, I’m used to swimming in freshwater lakes, not salty seas, and while the weeds here was equally unpleasant to deal with, I was more concerned by the large grayish fish-shaped objects that seemed to be moving beneath the waves (granted these were probably more or less just reflections of the bottom in the clear water, or at the very least dolphins).

Before the beach, I checked out an old replica of a Danish medieval vessel (a step up from a Viking raiding vessel) which seemed rather cramped, likely would have made me feel seasick, but had a nice wooden finish and I was rather tempted just to sail off on her (it might have been a better way to get to Amsterdam)

(West) Germany

Okay, I feel kinda silly even mentioning this one. Originally I was supposed to spend a night in Hamburg, but since I ended up spending more money than I wanted to in Copenhagen, I decided to drop Hamburg from the agenda, but my friend Lindsey Vodarek from Windsor really was excited by the Rhineland and would be disappointed with me if I didn’t visit the region. So I am visiting it, sorta. I’m taking a train across it, and granted I don’t plan to leave it until I reach Amsterdam, I can at least see it out my window. So Lindsey Vodarek, this entry is just for you. Western Germany seems nice…

Poland and (East) Germany: Bestest Buddies

Poland and (East) Germany

In this episode, Ryan…

-Meets a girl on a train in the Polish countryside

-Employs Nineteenth century virtual reality to return to the Polish battle of Raclawicka

-Gets the good stuff flowing at an all-you-can-drink wine-bar in Berlin

Poland: That country you feel sorry for

Poland tends to be one of those countries that gets invaded a lot, and since I was relatively close—or so I thought—to the Polish border, I launched my own personal invasion. While I have some Canadian friends of Polish descent, I didn’t know anyone in the country of Poland itself, but I thought like a Hungary-style mad dash into a completely foreign land might be just want the doctor ordered. Unfortunately getting out of Prague proved to be somewhat of an ordeal, as while Wroclaw (the city I was targeting in Poland) looks only a few hundred kilometers away on the map, the trains don’t seem to like to go there directly and so I spent many hours changing trains and dicking around in Eastern Czech Republic (Moravia) before I finally crossed into Poland itself.

You might not expect it, but you can notice a difference when you cross borders in Europe (not that anyone really checks you). For one, the trees suddenly became more closer to the track and I was beginning to wonder if my attempt to get off the beaten path was leading me down into a labyrinth of non-English-speaking despair. But my fears were in vain, for once I finally got on the right train to Wroclaw, I encountered a Polish girl named Kasia who works as an English teacher and once lived in Britain (Even now, she speaks English with a cute British accent, something akin to a cross between the Queen’s English and the BBC, with a slight Polish lilt on certain words.) As it turned out, she was also going to Wroclaw—where she works—and offered to be my local guide once she finished work, an offer I happily took her up on.

While Kasia was at work though, I ventured out in the city trying to find the Panorama of Raclawicka, which along with Wroclaw’s perceived proximity to Germany was one of the main reasons I decided to come to this city. While I was getting sick of paintings, this one was worth looking at. About 12 metres high and 140 metres around, its no petite Mona Lisa. In fact it has to be stored in a special building (is basically the sole reason for the building) and is designed in such a way that you feel as if you yourself are surrounded by the painting and in fact are taking part in the scene (think of it as 19^th century virtual reality). The scene itself is the Battle of Raclawicka, which is sort of the Vimy Ridge for Poles (It represents a short-lived but memorable victory of Polish forces over Russian and Austrian armies intent on occupation and partition). The sheer scale of the painting, and the quality of the characters painted, is mind-boggling, and I am truly surprised this practice isn’t attempted by artists today as the experience is unlike any I’ve had before.

In the evening, I met up with Kasia and she toured me around the Wroclaw central square, university district, and river corridor. Like many of the squares I’ve seen so far, it was very quaint and beautiful though not as over-the-top restored as Prague or Vienna (this goes for a lot of things in Poland, especially trains and train stations which seem like they haven’t changed much since this area was part of Germany). Still, call me old-fashioned, but I somewhat prefer it this way, as the unrestored buildings are just or even more beautiful in their own way. Wroclaw is a university town though, and Kasia showed me her alma mater (which at 300 years is older than my country). Not far from the market square (everything is so wonderfully within walking distance in these little centers), the campus did have a handful of modern structures, but they were wisely designed to reflect their surrounding buildings. Thus the campus as a whole looks beautiful and merges well with the surrounding city unlike the hodgy-podgy behemoths of the 1960s which so dominate campuses back home (not to say that Poland doesn’t have its fair share of cement box communist era structures).

After the campus, the bar Kasia wanted to take me too was full, so we grabbed a couple of Karmi (Polish caramel beers) and headed to the island park amidst the canals (Wroclaw is called Venice of the north, because it has one of the highest numbers of bridges of any city in Europe and picturesque waterways running beneath them. This was something I didn’t realize until after I arrived.) We didn’t have any bottle openers so I had to improvise and bang the caps against the side of the canal, but in the end I managed to not spill most of it, and we had a rather enjoyable evening watching the sunset on the canals (how like something out of a novel eh?)

The next day we did manage to get into the bar, but she also took me out for Polish food (which was basically a feast) and then off to her favourite pub, a hidden gem of a place with old wall paper, a bar painted by a famous contemporary Polish artist, and olden age Japanese motifs (If this were in Toronto, it would be my favourite hang out too). Kasia herself is a beautiful woman, but like the Poles, she seems to have had a tough life. Not only did she battle her way through cancer, but recently was left at the alter so to speak by a former fiancé who opted for another woman. She’s a very intelligent woman, who speaks 3 languages and now is focused on starting an English language school, though she says she might come to Canada first to explore this interesting dialect which I speak. At any rate, she was very kind to me in Poland, despite the fact she didn’t know me from Adam, and I’m very thankful for her generosity.

Germany (East)

Heading across the border from Poland into Germany, the first thing you notice is that the number of wind turbines in the fields—spinning like those plastic whirligigs my Grandma sometimes keeps in her garden—increases exponentially. The same thing could be said about the borders of Austria with Hungary and Slovakia, and In fact, if the former iron curtain is visible today, its visible through the never-ending line of gently-spinning wind turbines. In fact, I’m going to go ahead and say the darn things spin so slowly I really can’t see how this claim about them killing birds makes any sense—unlike your porch window, these things are giant, white, and standout, so only an incredibly stupid or drunk bird could possibly crash into one.

Anyways, I guess its nice to know at least some part of the world is actively pursuing an alternative energy source (although I can accept that Eastern Europe has had other problems to deal with in the mean time, I still don’t know what North America’s excuse is—of course I still think Ontario needs to swallow its pride and buy hydro power from Manitoba, but then that’s a whole other debate).

Ah… Germany, land of chocolate, leiderhosen, and the holocaust. Of course, anyone visiting Germany today can easily see the country has long since moved past these concepts (except the chocolate), although obviously the Holocaust legacy is a bit tricky to live down. Nevertheless, Berlin is covered in Holocaust memorials, Jewish Museums, restored synagogues—though the present Jewish population is considerably small compared to its visibility. In Canada, I think we tend to automatically associate the word “Germany” with Hitler (an Austrian), leiderhosen (Bavarian only, if you say “Du hast leiderhosen” anywhere else in Germany it means “You have leather pants.”), and beer, but there’s very little leftover elements of the Second World War to be found in the former capital of the Third Reich (though I can’t blame the Germans for wanting to get over it). Of course, most of Berlin was absolutely leveled by British bombing and then Allied and Soviet occupation. Oddly though, one of the buildings the British somehow missed is the Nazi air force command—one of the widest military bases of its time and the location where the bombing blitz of London was planned. You would think they would have hit that one.

Apparently, though bombs dropped out of planes can be amazingly inaccurate, so the British were able to hit some Nazi targets (like Gestapo and SS HQ), but accidentally hit a lot of non-targets, like civilians, the few surviving synagogues, and even their own former embassy.

After the war of course, Berlin was divided between East and West, Soviet and American influenced sectors, and the former capital of the Reich was now frontlines of the Cold War. This was especially problematic for Eastern Germans, who—after surviving for many years under the iron heel of the Gestapo and SS police, now found themselves under the iron heel of the East German Communist Government’s (That is to say German “Democratic” Republic’s) Stasi secret police and their iron heels (Though I got the impression the Stasi weren’t as bad as the Gestapo, though they were not good and just as paranoid). Actually, when I first arrived to town, I was trying to get to a hostel I thought I had booked, which was actually on a boat, but I couldn’t get to the water, because there was this big massive wall in the wall. I remember walking along the wall thinking “Damn, why is this wall so long?” and “Why is there so much spray-painting of political slogans and figures on it.” Then it dawned on me…

On my tour of the city, my guide enlightened us to as to why the wall came down. Apparently it was the result of a miscommunication, a clever Italian journalist, and an impromptu social riot. The story goes that in the 80s, the East German government was desperately clinging to power as more and more East Germans began demanding access to West Germany. Trying to calm people down, they came up with the brilliant plan of allowing people with passports to cross the border in 6 weeks (No one really had passports, so they thought they’d be safe). However, before the plan was publicly announced it found its way into the notes of an elderly spokesman of the government, who at a press conference was asked by an Italian journalist out of the blue about travel restrictions. The elderly statesmen, remembering hearing something about it at the meeting but forgetting the details, skimmed down to the section and read it out loud without thinking and with a stunned look on his face. The Italian asked “So uh when does this start?” and the statesmen answered “Uh, immediately I guess…” Thus, thousands of Germans watching this on TV, hearing they could go to West Germany, attacked the wall and ultimately overran border security. And the wall came down… all because some old guy misread his notes.

Sorry if you’re not into history—as you know I am, and Berlin is full of it—but I’ll try to focus on some non historical materials. Actually, Berlin these days, while it does have a pretty historical downtown core, especially the area around Museum Island, is actually a fairly modern city, and probably has more in line culturally with Run Lola Run than with its previously dark historical epochs. As in Eastern Europe, old socialist emblems have been “capitalized” with a capital C (The East German pedestrian crossing figure, a charmingly plump fellow in a cap called an Ampelman, has now become a tourist souvenir of the city—I know, I bought the keychain).

So yeah, while I kinda gorged myself on history while I was in Berlin, I did find time to check out some Berlinese nightlife, the most memorable of which was Weinerei (which I think means winery) which was this old storefront redone with weathered secondhand furnishings to look like somebody’s old living room. If that wasn’t awesome enough, get this, here’s their business model. You rent a wineglass for 1 Euro and then you can drink as much wine as you like for the rest of the night, trying as many different bottles as they have available, then at the end of the night you just pay what you feel appropriate (That’s right, I shit you not, their business model is the honesty policy). Frankly, this place was absolutely awesome, I even made some Rhinelander German friends, Eva and Ruwen. I don’t know why we don’t have something like this in Toronto, but then this seems to be a more prominent thing called “trust” in Europe. On the subways for example, there are no turnstiles and while you’re ostensibly supposed to “pay for a ticket” before you get on a train or a tram, there’s nothing actually stopping you from getting on without paying. The system’s great like that, though I can see how people might abuse it when they just don’t feel like paying. I .mean, it’s not like I ever did that, hehe…

Berliners also seem keen on their science fiction. There was this one transformers-esque cocktail place called “Astro Bar” that I checked out, and even my hostel was done-up in a Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy theme (I went here after discovering the boat hostel lost my reservation). Naturally of course I also saw my share of Euro-punks and various extras from Run Lola Run (or Bladerunner for that matter), but as long their wielding switchblades, that’s fine with me. Actually, in spite of—or perhaps as a counter-response to—its history as the capital of oppressive regimes like East Germany, Nazi Germany, and uh Kaiser Germany, Berlin today is considered to be one of the most tolerant cities in the world—next to Toronto of course—and for a major world capital is considerably more friendly than I would expect from London or Paris (though perhaps they shall surprise me as well). Oh well, in the mean time, it’s off to Copenhagen, Denmark with me (I’m on the bus in Denmark as I type this), so next time you hear from me I’ll be reporting on Scandinavia. Until then, as the Germans say over a good beer, Prost!

Czechoslovakia? More like Czech Republic and Slovakia

In this episode, Ryan…

-seeks out a 25 000 year-old naked Slovakian woman

-trips out to Prague’s Black Light Theatre

-canoes over dams in Southern Bohemia

Slovakia

My Lonely Planet tells me that Slovakia is famous for two things, hockey pucks and beautiful women. One look at the tall blonde Slavic waitresses, (in the classy black skirts and the red-sleeved tops…) in the Schokocafe where I’m writing this is enough to tell me that the latter is true, and I’m pretty sure, based on the jerseys I’ve seen in shop windows and posters on the wall, that come winter-time the puck drops and the population shouts “SLOVAK-ATTAK!” or some such cheer that actually sounds less like English and more like Slovakian (like on one poster it read SLOVENSKOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!), but I just wanted to say “the Slovak-attak” in reference to sporting ventures. Frankly, a nation obsessed with hockey is nothing new to me, though this one at least seems willing to celebrate if it gets the bronze, but it is different to see such hockey-fandom without the trappings of the NHL. And hell, and while I don’t get my citizenship revoked for saying this, maybe it would be nice to give little ol’ Slovakia a gold one of these times. C’mon, its not like they’re Russians or anything.

Ah Slovakia, the name itself sounds like something out of a vampire novel, an exotic locale that nobody actually goes to, but here I am, and what’s more there are other people here too, and what’s more, people actually live here, and we call them Slovakians. They call themselves… well, let’s just call them Slovakians. Yes, Slovaks do have their own language (as you might have guessed by that whole Slovensko thing), but all I can say is D’akujem (Thank you), Ahoj (sounds like “Ahoy!” like a pirate, means “hi”), and SLOVENSKOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! (which means Slovakia, I think, though they probably stamp an abbreviated version on your passport). Actually there’s another country in Europe called Slovenia, which is already only 2 different letters away from being Slovakia, so those two must get confused ALL the time.

Okay, history blitz. Slovakia, if you wondering just where the blazes I am, is the eastern half of the former Czechoslovakia. Basically, in ancient times (aka the 1990s) there was this thing called Communism, and it fell. As a result, parties starting appearing all over the place a bunch of countries in Eastern Europe declared their independence, so Slovakia took one look at Czech Republic, and said “Czechy, honey, we need to talk, I think we need some space from each other. I want to start seeing other diplomatic communities.” The Czech Republic was cool with having a more open relationship though, as long they remained friends or at least diplomatic trade partners. So after hiring expensive lawyers, they took a Velvet knife right down the center of the name Czechoslovakia, and the Czech Republic and Slovakia were born!… and like many open relationships promptly went their separate ways.

So yeah its in Eastern Europe, about an hour east of Vienna and just across what was once an iron curtain (no word on where the dismantled iron was sent, all the plethora of Windmill generators on the Austrian side seems to be a good bet). And I came here down the frick’n Danube River! People said you couldn’t take a boat from one land-locked country to another land-locked country, but I proved them wrong! Most of the trip was in Austria, but when we went through these 2 Lord-of-the-Rings style cliffs (okay maybe not that momentous) we had entered Slovakia and Bratislava lay before us.

Bratislava is almost as much fun to say as Slovakia, and was a city I had never heard of until about a month ago. It’s much smaller and quainter than Vienna, but it still has the feel of a capital, mainly because it is one (Capital of Slovakia). The old town, where I’m staying, is dominating by a large castle (Castle Bratislava) on one side and narrow cobblestone streets on the other (I’m beginning to sense a pavement pattern here). The streets are very picture-esque (apparently kings and queens have a habit of coming here to get coronated), and the patio-cafes are absolutely to die for. In fact, I’m typing this in one right now, while I sip a hot Schokolade that tastes like melted chocolate covered strawberries. MMmmm. Though I can’t say the same for the curdy Slovakian Sheep-milk cheese (Slovaks love their Sheep milk) or the wine-soaked Hungarian goose-liver on apples.

I will say Slovakia is noticeably different than Austria and Hungary (the Slavic influence is overwhelming here, Slovakian Easter eggs dominate the souvenir shops while traditional dance show pamphlets line the hostel wall—its like being at Dauphin, Manitoba’s National Ukrainian festival all over again), and you can definitely tell you’ve moved into a post-communist state. While old traditional buildings are the highlight of the town, there’s also a curious amount of communist era land marks (in particular, the cityscape on the other side of the Danube is concrete row after concrete row of block-based construction, the degree of uniformity of which makes North American beige subdivisions look like epitomes of individualism), and I especially liked the KGB bar where you could drink vodka with a doobie-smoking Vladimir Lenin and throw darts at Josef Stalin in between an American and Soviet flag. Lenin’s wooden statue also has an upside down cross engraved into his forehead inexplicably, making him look kind of badass.

Bratislava is also the home of likely the oldest man-made artifact I have seen in my life. The Moravian Venus, a 25 000 year old sculpture made of mammoth tusk can be found in Slovakian National Treasury in the heart of Bratislava Castle. (Just to give you a bit of perspective, history didn’t even officially begin until about 7 000 years ago). Basically this item (which was actually found in Slovakia, surprising since the countries so small) consists of a headless naked female body with rather exaggerated breasts that apparently served as some form of “fertility token” (think Stone Age Playboy Magazine or Cosmo). Regardless of what “purposes” it was originally intended for by its makers, it now it sits in a giant super-futuristic plastic pyramid (pretty damn cool in its own right) and is so small in comparison that I actually walked right by it a couple of times. Nevertheless, Slovakians consider this pre-historic plaything to be a national treasure, in fact their number one national treasure (with the possible exception of anyone on their hockey team who plays in the NHL), and you can even see it engraved on the backs of some of their coins (meaning Slovakians hold it in as high esteem as Canadians do caribou and loons). So next time you’re reading Cosmo, just remember, you could be inspiring future currencies.

That said, Slovakia I’m afraid I’m going to leave you now to pay a visit to your ex. While its been a number of years, I’m sure it’ll be good to see how ol’ Czechy’s doing. What he’s been keeping up to and all.

The Czech Republic

Like Hungary and Turkey, the Czech Republic is one of those countries that lends itself to a bountiful plethora of bad puns like “Czech it out!,” or “Czech into Prague” or “your traveller’s Czech just bounced.” In Canada, the country’s probably most famous (or infamous) for its skilled hockey players who often upset us at International competitions. It’s also that country that people often confuse with its earlier manifestation, with people saying “Isn’t that close to Czechoslovakia?” To which I answer, “Yes, very close.”

If you know any city in Czech Republic, I bet you 10 crowns its Prague. Called “Praha” by the locals, I remember hearing about this city back in the 1990s as this undiscovered gem of Eastern Europe. Of course back then, the wall had only fallen recently and Prague was just opening up to tourists, but anyone who visits the city now would hardly call it “undiscovered.” The city has literally become overrun with American, Canadian, Australian, British, German, and Korean tourists, making me feel somewhat sorry for the Czechs who fought so hard to regain control of their city from communism only to have the Soviet tanks replaced with drunk backpackers. Even the Museum of Communism is located behind a McDonalds and seems to cater towards the tourists with its advertisments filled with matryoshka dolls with fanged teeth or teddy bears carrying Krusknikov rifles and its English posters for purchase reading “You couldn’t get laundry detergent but you could get your brainwashed,” “Communism: Ice Cream for Everyone,” and “Come with us back to a time when America still stood for Freedom (Incidentally, Eastern Europeans tend to take a very negative view of these appropriations of Communist culture.” Nevertheless, as annoying as drunk backpackers are, they are a far cry from putting up with foreign military force—and at least Prague makes a tonne of kronola off its tourism industry.

The city itself is indeed very beautiful (The Czechoslovokian surrender to the Germans in the Second World War meant that the city was not subjected to the kind of mass bombing that leveled many other European capitals). The highlights for me (and for most) being the Charles Bridge (A wide pedestrian bridge built in the late Middle Ages or Renaissance period, with many elegant statues and arches) and the old Jewish quarter (Prague’s Jewish community, incidentally, was historically very large and indeed had its own mythological legends, such as the golem of Prague who was constructed out of clay by a rabbi to defend his people from the onslaught of anti-semites. It is supposedly being kept in the attic of the Old-New Synagogue, one of the city’s oldest, but the attic is not open to the public). There is also a clock in the town square that apparently serves as a giant cuckoo clock, with the 12 apostles marching out following by a drum beating skeleton. I never saw it though, as I went to the building twice on the hour and nothing came out. Apparently the creator of the building was blinded by his king, because the king didn’t want any other town to have such a masterpiece, so the creator cursed the clock in revenge. Apparently, his curse has worked.

While it was ridiculously touristy of me, I also checked out one of Prague’s black light theatres. Basically, black light theatre is what you would get if cirque du soleil smoked marijuana at a glow and bowl nite at the 10 pin lane. Basically black lights—which are actually more dark purple, cause light coloured clothing to appear to glow while dark coloured clothing basically disappears. It makes a fairly impressive display as actors can easily make objects appear to float in the air (Since there is no talking, the plays are more about spectacle than storyline). Since the original black light theatre was not performing while I was in Prague, I was told to check out a rip-off company that catered more towards Prague’s “International visitors.” Nevertheless, it was a fairly intriguing performance, based presumably along the lines of Alice in Wonderland, although it deviated greatly from Lewis Carroll’s original. For one, I don’t recall Alice ever going to Prague, encountering giant Rabbis, shaking hands with flying disembodied white gloves, or dancing topless and almost naked with an Apple ala Eve from the Bible (that last one was of particular surprise to the Chinese family sitting beside me). They also had a gentle magician type character that seemed to be leading Alice (who incidentally was played by a fully grown woman) through this madness, although he seemed to me to be a slightly Michael Jackson-esque Lewis Carroll (which probably wasn’t far off the historical truth).

At any rate, I did not spend my entire time in the Czech Republic (aka Czechland or Czechia or just Czech) in Prague, although I did meet my old Czech friend from Taiwan, Ivana. Together with her boyfriend and some her other Czech friends (and one German guy named Christian who spoke English and was given the duty of talking to me in it), we all went to an area in southern Bohemia (the western half of the Czech Republic is Bohemia) to go Canoe-ing on the Vltava river. The biggest town in this region is a picturesque little villa named Cĕsty Kumlov, but we only stopped there for meals. We even went one night to a small village called Rozemberk where we watched a walk around play about a ghost who lives in an old castle (the play took part in different rooms of the castle). The play was ostensibly meant to be spooky, and the actors all dressed in period costume, and the narrator especially had very chilling eyes, but I think it lost some if its chill factor for me being entirely in Czech language (I was constantly asking for translations from Ivana). Nevertheless, it was a fairly well done play, I think, and while we never saw any actual ghosts and this was the 100^th performance and so they gave us all wine and certificates which was alright by me.

This, however, was a camping trip, and each day we take down our tents canoe downstream. Ivana and her girlfriends really got into the act dressed up from head to toe like pirates (with makeup, plastic swords, and fake rats) as they cruised down the river (they were dressed like this all through the summer heat) and singing traditional Czech songs which often resembled Beatles songs with Czech lyrics. Considering our geographic location, I tried to get them to sing Bohemian Rhapsody, but there were no takers. The Czech men of course sported that quintessential article of European swimwear fashion—I am talking of course of the Speedo, which was barely covering many a man’s genitalia, regardless of his age, size, or degree of body hair.

As for the canoeing itself, the canoe route was very fast, and there were mainly cliffs, forests, and picturesque towns to canoe through. On the otherhand, the river was often very shallow (we were always hitting rocks), my canoe partner Christian had never actually canoed before, and the Czechs have this rather odd tradition of canoeing over dams, which they didn’t tell me about before hand. Granted the Czechs have built special chutes beside the dams which are slightly safer, theoretically, but they still go over these things with no helmets, rapidly moving water, and with little to no hope of avoiding the rocks at the bottom if they tip (in some cases, there’s even a wall at the bottom you can run into). Needless to say, it can be quite fun, although not when you do tip (as happened to us 4 times) and find yourself being thrashed about in rapid water against sharp rocks. That said, no pain no gain, and if you do manage to stay on the dry side of the surface its quite exhilarating. Also, its always nice to know you’ve successfully survived doing something that would be officially banned for safety concerns back home.