Graffiti and Street Art from Around the World: Munich , Germany

My Top 10 Stew/Nick/Mike in Europe Moments

[these moments exist in no hierarchical order. They're all the same level of peachy-keen.]

1. One liter beers in the Munich beer hall.
2. “The Castle”: checking it out with Nick on the scary bridge that he led me to.
3. Stew driving 184 on the autobahn, making good time to my Mackers break.
4. Wandering up the Parliament dome with Nick, “[Mike] it's like you're talking to the machine, who's also addressing me.”
5. Eating far too many types of food in the Prague main square.
6. Greeting Stew and Nick as they arrived at the Prague hostel.
7. Eating at the restaurant in Munich – the waitress really was fabulous.
8. Far too many conversations about science fiction, comics, and video games.
9. Stew's use, abuse, and overjoy with his tripod at the Nuremberg castle. (great shots.)
10. Obtaining of new media from laptops, and thumb drives.

If you are Stew or Nick, feel free to make your own list, and I'll amend them to this entry. Mind you – who knows when you'll have time, rocking England, and then going back to the “real world.” Danke for the visit! Much appreciated.

Neschwanstein Schloss

Wake up, head to breakfast, drink a terrible amount of juice and newly discovered hot chocolate, then head out to rent a car. The math that had been done told us that we needed three days. I'd like to say I never checked the math, but I think at some point I must have? It all seemed to make sense. Needless to say, we only need the car for two days. Oh well – the prices were two or three days were close enough.

We'd met a guy in the hostel who was headed for a quick two hour stop in Prague before going on to Berlin. This may seem like a wacky waste of money, until you realize that he was gifted a eurorail pass that would provide him with two free days of travel so long as no one checks his passport and realizes that the pass doesn't exactly belong to him in a literal sense. Or in any sense at all really.

Maybe we'll meet up with him in Berlin? Maybe he'll be thrown off a moving train? All possibilities seem interesting and potentially engaging.



It's strange to be in a car again. It's nice to have the ability to stop and look around the countryside. Not that we did, mind you – but we could have, and doesn't that make all the difference? I mean if your forehead is itchy, you don't need to scratch it, but put yourself in a situation where you actually can't, even if you wanted to – then you'll be able to think of nothing else.

It's worth noting that I now need to scratch my forehead. Do you? Yawn. Did that make you yawn? Strange how these things work. But without this miraculous thing Dr. Seuss' “Sleep Book” would never have existed.

Our mission for the day? Head to Neuschwanstein Schloss. It's the castle that Disney may or may not have based their castle on. It's relatively new too – younger than Canada. We made our way to the parking lot, and then began to mull around, unsure about what our next steps should be. I could feel a pressing of my bladder which I knew would ultimately compel me in one specific direction – but the toilets, they cost money. Money! But what was I to do? I bit the proverbial bullet, being careful to chew around the delicate butterfly wings, and then deposited my thirty cents allowing me access.

I found on the way out, that the exit turnstile freely moved both ways.

But – I did end up down by a lake, which was overlooked by mountains. And had I not paid my thirty cents, then I would most likely not have had the chance to appreciate the view that displayed itself before me. So there's that. Look – I just need something to justify the fact that I paid thirty euro cents admission for a washroom. Europe? Really. I mean – come on. Scam on someone else. One of these days a terrible terrible thing will transpire.

Armed rebellion! People will take to the streets. Buildings will be burned to the ground! Fires will be set ablaze, only so people can douse them with their freely flowing urine of destruction! And then – then Europe – you will understand that there is no one to blame for this but yourself! You have instigated the amber rebellion! For too long people have been too quiet! But the time to act is nigh! Freedom for the bladders! Give free urine a chance!

Thirty cents.

Next we were faced with a choice, wait forty minutes for the bus to take us up the hill to the castle, or walk up the hill which would take about forty minutes.

Look – I like travelling with people. I do. And you know what? I used to be really good at being lazy. I had a sofa chair in front of my computer for ease and comfort while streaming videos, playing ten day free trials of World of Warcraft, and doing all manner of other things that are best accompanied by a two liter bottle of Mountain Dew. But something happened. I can not wait around. I can not be inactive. And after spending all day in a car, to this point, I was no prepared to sit around, only to sit around on a bus. I took to the trail.

Stew joined me. He blazed past me, but then stopped to take pictures, and I passed him, but then he passed me. Eventually I got to the top first. Now you can say it wasn't a race, and that no one was trying to get to the top before the other, but if the words that begin every epic message board flame post (FIRST!) didn't ring through my head – well then.

[editors note: Stew claims that he was in the castle first. This is true. He feels the need to insure that all are aware of this fact. But – I'm just saying, top of the hill? First? All me. P.S. This is not propaganda of a white man trying to claim glory as Stew attempts to throw off my victory – even though we weren't racing. Nor do I consider myself the master race that Stew says I am. Apparently this has nothing to do with me winning the “race” but i in fact meant to imply non-positive meanings. G-Louse much?]

But I did not stop at the top of the castle, no. I headed off to meet Nick at the bridge where the bus lets people off. I had a sneaking suspicion that if the bus let people off at a bridge rather than at the castle itself, when I had just hiked up a paved road, well there must be something amazing about it.

And something amazing it was. Nick had just come from it, speaking of how terrifying the bridge was to stand on. But – he claimed that the view was fantastic. I would need to rush out and see. But I made him come with for moral support in case I feared falling to my death. And if you were to fear such a thing? Well, I would not hold that against you.



The bridge was a little rocky, quite high up, and the boards did indeed give way beneath your feet – but only just a little. Anyway, the second you get out to the middle of the bridge and see the castle in its natural habitat, rather than surrounded by tourists or clouded by autumn trees, well then – that's something amazing. There's seeing the castle, but unless you're on the bridge, with the warm sun making the exterior glow against a blue sky, well then you haven't actually Seen The Castle.

And blue the sky was, and warm too was the sun. It was the perfect day for this trip, and worth any monetary gripes I may have had. Making this trip to see that view, and take those pictures? Completely worth while.

However the castle didn't end with that view – no. We had purchased the nine euro tour. Which seemed like a good idea at the time, but would instead deliver us into the waiting arms of the son of some long forgotten vampire.

Our tour guide was lanky, pale, and spoke with a high pitched voice destined to send a chill down anyones spine. I at any rate was terrified. I was motioned to not say anything, lest we become a target of our undead oppressor. He gave off no reflection in the walls! This might be less shocking though, as few people reflect in walls. In fact if you do see your reflection in a wall, it's probably best to call for immediate medical attention. Someone may have laced your drink, and you – my friend – may be at risk of serious danger.

The tour went through many rooms and ended with a Multivision movie (I don't know what this means – but it was so terrible, mixing stills with construction paper sleds leading across the snow.) It was like a Monty Python sketch that never hit the punch line.

But after that we were free – and relatively unscathed by the demonic guide.

Now it was time to stock up on groceries, then hit the road once more. Off to our hostel in Nuremberg. For dinner I had a liter of ice cream, a jug of juice, a pudding, and a Duff Beer (yes, that Duff. And to be honest, it was smooth and not offensive.) I'm back! Terrible super market meals are upon me once more! The ice cream flavour? Afrikan Safari. It was basically triple chocolate. It didn't taste much like Africa or Safari to me – so I'm not sure what the Germans are up to with this one.

I ate my ice cream at one hundred and eighty kilometers an hour.

You have to understand this is all perfectly legal. There is no speed limit on the Autobahn, and we were being passed even at that speed. Terrifying, I know. For most of the journey we cruised at about one fifty, which seemed rather tame by comparison. It's strange how what seems reckless in some cases seems perfectly normal in others. I refer to this as “The Tetris Effect” but others call it by its proper name, velocitization.

The road trip was punctuated by moments of singing Hotel California, and other such hits that were played on 99.7 HitsRadio, with a whistle noise like that from Mario Kart, between every tune. No one joined in with my rocking out to Katy Perry though.



Aside from a detour that wasn't marked, and construction blocking us from our hostel, the trip was without incident. Sure we had to drive down a closed road, and over some pedestrian squares, but we made it in the end, and that's all that matters.

Mission first, safety second – that's the best advice, yeah?

Also – for those who may have missed it earlier – I got to the top of the hill first.

Even though it wasn't a race.

Munich: Hey, why not?

I'm sitting here in breakfast, trying to comprehend the fact that my buddy – the driving force behind the creation of the Snorflog – could not sleep last night. And why? Why wouldn't he sleep last night? Because someone was snoring too loud for him. I know this culprit. He was in the bunk right beside me. I heard him snore woke up, and immediately fell back to sleep. But no – not for he who keeps up awake. Ironic? Perhaps. Fantastic? Of course.

That is some crazy princess and the pea stuff. And speaking of the princess and the pea – I don't understand that story. What is desirable about a wife that can feel something as small as a pea through twenty mattresses? Let us for a moment pretend that these are straw mattresses - assumedly common in the time of Hans Christian Anderson – and not new aged memory foam made by NASA. Still, one pea – if I ever dated a girl who could not sleep because of such a tiny obstacle that would be it, she would be out my door so fast, not headed right to the alter for a quick, and painful wedding.

I mean – honestly – does this princess not go camping? I once spent a night on a lot of spiky red rocks in northern Ontario. True story. It was not the least painful night I'd ever had. But it wasn't a sleepless night either.

Good friend DeeDub sent me an email with a quote from Douglas Coupland in it. First, I want to take a moment and state that I love Douglas Coupland, regardless of the fact that half his books are pretty terrible. And I know. I've read the all – and I am also quite excited that his new novel came out a month ago, when I wasn't looking.

But enough of this, back to the quote:
“I believe that you've had most of your important memories by the time you're thirty. After that, memory becomes water overflowing into an already full cup. New experiences just don't register in the same way or with the same impact. I could be shooting heroin with the Princess of Wales, naked in a crashing jet, and the experience still couldn't compare to the time the cops chased us after we threw the Taylors' patio furniture into their pool in eleventh grade.” -Douglas Coupland

Now, it's important to keep in mind that most of his characters are cynical creatures who are strung out on far too many drugs, and that might also be the reason that their memories are impaired. But – that doesn't take any of the truth away from this statement. The older I get, the less and less things register to me.

I've always thought it has more to do with the fact that we get the passion knocked out of us. We are taught not to care as much, and we start seeing people who do view the world through that overly indulgent lens as being strange, odd, people to be cast to the sidelines. I mean, honestly, imagine someone filming a plastic bag blowing around in the wind, and claiming it was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen, at twenty six. That just doesn't fly. If you're fourteen? Sixteen? Fine – but not twenty six.

I think back to a cold winters night, a loud pop, and the pounding of feet on snow-covered asphalt. This is my strongest memory, and wandering the canals in Amsterdam, strolling through Auschwitz, or stepping out of the plane into Helsinki can't even begin to hold a candle to it. Maybe, just maybe, standing on the Eiffel Tower with she who Never Learned To Swim, can come close. But still – it's no night with a string of red spots, trailing being a group of delinquent teenagers.

But, when I reach the age of thirty five, will I look back on this trip in the same way? The memory is always better. Distressingly, I'm already starting to view high school as some of the best years – despite screaming they were just to opposite, and scrawling those words in many books – during the days themselves.

But that's how memory works, yeah? It all becomes disconnected – and much like with child birthing, skinned knees, and god awful dental surgeries, the pain is forgotten in time. And that's for the best – except when you're trying to tell one of those people in the situation that it will get better. Telling someone with a soldering iron in their mouth, being used to burn away excess gums, that the pain will be all but forgotten – well that probably won't help much. I imagine the results are the same telling a fifteen year old that life goes on – despite the hells of the secondary school halls.

Munich would need some exploring. And here's where travelling with other people gets interesting: you can't just think “I want to go here,” and then go there. You have to put it before the committee. And then everyone has to mull it over, think about it, weigh the pros and the cons, and eventually decide that “yes, this is a good plan.” But this takes twenty minutes.

And when considering how to get from point A to point B – well that's another matter too. We need to rent a car. On my own, I would go to the website, look it up, rent it, and be done with it. But now there is need for a committee – reasons need to be explained why renting an economy over a BMW is the reasonable choice, even though we are in Germany. Yes a Volkswagen is just as good. Then where to pick up, where to drop off need to be decided. And then, thirteen hours later the car is still not rented. Our captain is now off on a pub crawl. He swears he'll rent it when he gets back. I'll bet.

But – after our company meeting we did head out for the day, and it was good. Everyone needs a meeting now and then – it just works to extend breakfast. Which was awesome. And there was unlimited juice. Though I did get a strange look for downing four cups before filling a fifth and walking it back to the table. Hey – UN-LIMI-TED. I don't make the rules. I just abuse them.

We headed back down the shopping street – because that's how you get everywhere in this town. Well everyone in the inner city. Our mission, to head under a giant arch, make a right, and end up in the large park. Entering the park, there was a large wall covered in some not so terrible graffiti. Nothing that compared to what I saw from the train as we neared the station (I wish I knew how to get back there) but some good stuff never the less. The only real problem? The best piece caused me to stand precariously close to the riverbank to take a shot. Odd of me falling in? Ten percent. This may not seem like a high percentage, but when the mud is slick from the rain, it's still a very real likelihood.

In the middle of the park in a Chinese tower. Made as good a reason as any to go there. What the authenticity of this Chinese tower is, I do not know. But it was a destination, and in this journey – as is so often the case – the destination hardly mattered at all. It was just an excuse to walk that far out.

From the tower we headed to a restaurant suggested by the woman who worked at the hostel. It was said to be an authentic Bavarian restaurant without many tourists. Sounded good to me – better than the campy beer hall from the night before. I like my passersby in Germany speaking German – and being authentic citizens, not tourists on the lookout for people wearing costumes from times that may never have existed at any rate.



There was just one stop on the way. A grocery store. Where I found chocolate. It was to be the highlight of my afternoon – and the focus of my video of the day. I don't normally like chocolate, but I've had a hankering for it lately. It may have been from my growing love of Nutella.

I saw a bar of 70% dark lemon chocolate. It's not the 100% dark I so desperately crave, but I love lemon, and I love dark chocolate – so why not. But – as I was checking out – I saw a seasonal bar. Winter Chocolate. I don't know what that means. At least I didn't at the time, so there was but one way to check it out. Buy a bar. Two bars in hand, I found my change purse contained just the right amount to buy them both. It was clearly fated, or some such other nonsense.

And let me tell you? Winter Chocolate? Amazing. Like some sort of gingerbread man made in chocolate bar form, with spices, and tasty treats hidden throughout. The lemon would have been equally as good, but when placed side by side – well, even the most beautiful girl in your town looks a little frumpy next to a supermodel. Unless she doesn't. In which case you're probably in love, and that's sweet, and you should totally ask her out – or at least offer her your number. Don't be intimidated. Remember, pretty girls so often get over looked because people think that they're not good enough – and as such, he who has the courage may just be rewarded. And if she says no? Well – that's ok too. But in my case the girl in question is actually a delicious candy bar, and lemon flavoured, and I didn't need to wine and dine it before it was eaten. And for that, I consider myself blessed.

But chocolate can only last so long – oh look, a pretzel, the purchase of which was forgotten, has just been found in a coat's breast pocket. Good for it. I'm told it's still chewy and delicious.

The restaurant was quaint, and delightful. Upon entering and seeing the menu at the door, however, I realized a problem that may exist from eating at a real local spot. This problem was overlooked looked by others. Until the moment the waitress came up to us:

“Hello gentlemen, great to see you here, anything I can do for you? I hope to fulfill all your culinary delights on this rainy day!” is what I assume she said. In reality it sounded more like “Ich werde Ihre erste Kind geboren zu verschlingen, und höchstwahrscheinlich bringen ein auf Ihr Haus Pest.”

We stared blankly, looking at each other, looking at the wall, looking at the table. I looked back, “Menu?” a soft timidness in my voice. The type brought on when often talking to the aforementioned most-beautiful-girl-in-the-town.

“Ah yes, you are not speaking the German. I'll get you menus.” And from that point on the fear was removed, and the lunch turned from potential disaster to fantastic cultural experience.

The waitress suggested I try a specific beer, which was to be the largest and most potent, filling me with virile energy and a great sense of manliness, another – who may not be the best with a big beer in him – was suggested a half coke half lemon-aid mix, and the final with nothing to prove to anyone had a coke/lemon-aid. It was pretty delicious.

[authors note: the Australians call 7UP and Sprite Lemon-aid. Do they not have the real stuff there?]

Before ordering the drinks we were offered taster cups. Basically a 75ml sampling. Look, I don't know about you, but in Canada that's the normal size for a soft drink at some restaurants. And here it was the “just see if you like it, and if not, don't worry” sample. I wonder if Baskin-Robbins has foregone the tiny spoon and just hands out a one scoop cone here.

My lunch was the authentic version of what I should have had yesterday – pork and dumplings swimming in a two millimeter deep pool of gravy covering the entire plate. This. Was. Heaven. And if that weren't enough the meal also came with a sauerkraut salad. I can say with all honesty that it was the best salad I've ever had. And I've had some good salads. I've had wonderful Caesars, homemade Greeks, and fresh Gardens – but nothing, no salad ever, has won me over like this one did.

With drinks downed, meals polished off, and me being requested to take an awkward picture which may or may not have included one of my party members with the waitress, we headed out. To be sure though, in this picture the waitress didn't have a dead smile on her face, as the one in the touristy beer hall did. She seemed rather to enjoy or quirky American (...no... We're Canadian. Our beer is strong. Honest. I know you don't believe me miss, but it really is.) ways. In fact, she even came running down the street to catch us, to inform us that an Advil bottle had been left behind.

Best, restaurant, ever. It's a shame I can't remember what it was called. But it is near the Lehel subway station at the corner of R. Kochstr. and Tattenbachstr. I'm not sure what the real street names are, as these are just the NewEurope map short codes, but if you look it up, it shouldn't be too hard to find. If you go, tell them the bearded Canadian sent you. They'll have no idea what you're talking about, and you'll probably look like a fool. It'll be great! Well – for me. I like when other people come across more foolish than me. It lowers the bar, makes my standing seem a bit higher, relatively speaking.

After food, it was just a straight walk back to the hostel, passing over the Munich River (blocked off and drained in one large section for construction work), down the tourist street – were sporting good store offering all number of football scarves, and electronic stores (Saturn) were explored briefly.

And then we're back. Well we headed to the train station first to look into renting a car. And then we didn't rent it. Because we were going to do it online. But then our captian headed off on the pub crawl I mentioned earlier. One wonders if he'll ever return. If I had a magic eight ball it might reply outlook is grim, but here's to thinking positive. If he doesn't return, I get a free netbook upgrade! Nice.

[authors note: Nick and I just spread the gospel of Doki Doki Panic / Mario Brothers 2 to our fellow travellers. No word yet on Stew. Presumed missing in action, or dead.]

Train Day to Munich

Today was a train day. No way around that. It was all train, all the time. I woke people up at seven, as they foolishly had not packed the night before. But these are things you learn. Actually it's really personal taste. But I prefer the extra sleep – so at seven twenty I dragged myself up, grabbed my pack, and the three of us checked out and grabbed the subway for the train station.

And then we waited. And waited. I though it would be the perfect time for some three player chess – but Nick was not enthused. He purchased the set at a gift shop last night, and I've been quite stoked to play it since then. But no – waiting for our train to display its track number was not the right time.

Our train was named Franz Kafka. I've not been on a train, or travelled a route, that has a name before. And any time I think of Kafka I am immediately drawn to the musical of The Metamorphosis. Are you unfamiliar with such a thing? Then you have not experienced the joys of the animated show Home Movies – and are also most likely equally unaware of a character named Geshy from another show – but equally as entertaining. His cry of “Candy!” in a high pitched squeal has become a rallying of sorts these last few days.

Track three.

Very well. We all got up, rushed to the train, secured our own room, spread out enough that no one else would bother us, and watched as the high school students who would also be riding in our car cliqued off into their own Harry Potteresque compartments.



Most of the journey was spent by sleeping. Nick passed time playing the Nintendo DS Wizard of Oz RPG – which, I will admit, has some of the best touch controls out there. Fantastic virtual trackball action. I passed the time by eating one of my pre-made sandwiches every two hours, on the hour. Stew – well, Stew slept too.

But after 3 sandwiches we finally arrived in Munich. Welcome to Germany: Land where singing songs from The Producers is probably not the best of ideas.

Checking into our hostel, we threw our gear in the lockers, and headed out to the HB beer hall, where for sixteen euros (my budget is different now) I grabbed one of the giant German beer – one liter of amber ale – and a large hunk of pork. The hair was still on the crackle in some point. This made it far more distressing than delicious however.

Munich to me, as of right now, is nothing more than a train station, a hostel, a shopping street, and a beer hall. And – you know – perhaps that is all Munich really is. But I'm thinking not. I have the desire to head out to the giant park and see the Chinese tower, but it really depends on the weather, and the other guys, and just how delicious the free breakfast here at the hostel is. Because as we all know, free breakfast is the best breakfast. I've heard rumours that some hostels have eggs and bacon. I don't think I believe this. I think this is a travellers fantasy, but you hear a rumour so many times and you start to believe it. Maybe, just maybe, I've landed in that mythical hostel this time. But probably not.

Ahh – it's also worth nothing that the Snorflogs have taken form. Aside from sleeping and eating on the train I designed their appearance. It distresses just how much life these creature have taken on in my mind. It's distressing in a Tolkienese way.

Well – as I said – not all that much today. Most of it was spent on the train, and that's just how it is sometimes. Tomorrow's a bright new day. A bright new, said to be terribly rainy, day. What fun!

Ah yes – there was also a Peruvian flue band, who I can only assume has assembled to save us from the giant costume wearing hamsters. It's best not to enquirer too deeply into this one.