Tales of travel from the old continent
Greetings, idle reader. Feel free to jump around this travelogue... hope this map of our grand route across Europe helps some. For those who haven't the time for the verbiage that follows, I've uploaded a photographic record of our wanderings among my albums. But if you've nothing better to do, pray do start at the very beginning...
Prologue
Rite of Passage: Tales of Backpacking 'Round Europe' read the title of one of the many travel books we consulted before embarking on our 3-week backpacking jaunt through the highlights of Western Europe. From being an idle fantasy wistfully mentioned at dinnertime, to thinking and writing about it now in retrospect, it would make a quite suitable case-study in how, suddenly (actually over a period of 4 months of planning), dreams become reality.
“A small step for me, a giant leap for... well, me again!” I couldn't help saying drolly to myself, as we disembarked from the slightly uncomfortable Alitalia flight. But I suspect MY first steps onto a new land were far more pleasant when compared to those of the originator of that now famous phrase, since Brussels’s swanky Zaventem airport could easily be mistaken for a huge, slickly designed shopping mall. Walking through beautiful, dull gray, post-modern architecture and clusters of shopping havens connected by endless corridors and escalators, it took us the greater part of an hour to find our way around them. Following the exit signs, we wandered in search of the immigration counters and the concomitant long queues. But eventually, we found ourselves facing the main exit gates leading out into Brussels city. A bit perplexed, we meekly enquired at the information office, ”Excuse me, could you tell us the way to immigration and the exits?” The chap on the other side of the counter looked at us, equally perplexed, pointed to the exit gates, and said in a thick French accent ”Zere. Go”! That was our first glimpse into how open and unrestricted International travel is with the EU.
A picturesque big-little university town about half-hour from Brussels, Leuven was to serve as the base camp for our journey through Western Europe, as that's where my co-traveler Vishal's ex-college mate and friend, Murali was living and working towards his PhD. Walking into town, our orientation to the European way of life had already started, as Leuven, like any self-respecting European habitation, was complete with winding cobblestone streets, tree-lined avenues, beautiful architecture, and a spacious town square, lined with cozy cafes and restaurants. Pretty soon though, my romantic notions about the centuries-old cobblestones were shattered on learning that they were actually dug up, smoothened and re-laid every few years! But as if to make up for this loss of authenticity, Leuven boasted of its own medieval castle, situated at the banks of a river, in the middle of verdant, beautifully maintained grounds. Apparently, the excellent location of the castle wasn’t lost on university administration, as it had been modernized to house one of the many department buildings scattered around town.
Gastronomia: ”They're actually Belgian”, claim the Belgians, referring to the world-famous French fries, referred to locally as Fritturs. Nativity non-withstanding, the Belgians serve their fries the best: A large helping drowned in copious, gooey, warm mayonnaise. Another feather in their culinary cap is the waffle. Crunchy and slightly roasted on the outside, soft and mushy on the inside, they made for a delicious and memorable snack. Belgian fries, along with some piping hot waffles, and a wholesome cup of rich, frothy hot-chocolate, made up our first junk-food meal in Europe, quite accurately presaging our eating habits over the rest of the trip.
“Its costlier than flying!” warned Murali, when we told him about our plan to take the Thalys train from Brussels to Paris. But nonetheless, take it we did, and I suppose it was worth the hefty €20 reservation fee we were charged, in spite of having a Eurail pass. What’s more, we traveled first class (!), taking in the all the luxury, while speeding to Paris at 320 kmph all the while. The Thalys is a modified version of the French TGV (expanded Train à Grande Vitesse, literally 'Train of Great Speed'), one of the fastest trains in world, and it ate up the distance of about 370 km between the two cities in 1 hour 25 minutes flat.
Once in the famous city, we promptly got down to the formidable task of sightseeing, and dumping our bags in the luggage lockers at the Gare du Nord station, we headed straight for the Louvre. Stepping out into the hustle-bustle of the city from the Musee' de Louvre Metro station, I got my first whiff of the Parisian air on a gloriously sunny day. Trying to take in the world's largest museum was no mean task, and, as we had been well advised, we started our journey through the Louvre in the most popular of its three enormous wings, the Denon. This section, spanning multiple floors, houses magnificent Greek, Roman and Etruscan sculptures, counting Venus de Milo, and Winged Victory among them. Continuing on to the hall of Italian and Renaissance art, we took the time to stand, stare and poke our thumbs at many of the great masters, including Raphael, Botticelli, and Da Vinci, showing off his most famous creation, the Mona Lisa, sealed away deep in the wall. For the artistically impaired, all rooms have multi-lingual plates with brief accounts of the famous works in the room, with an introduction to the context involving the creative process of the artifacts. Wandering on, we ventured into the Egyptian antiquities room, the Napoleon apartments, and the hall housing the crown jewels. Eventually, we finished off our tiring, yet exhilarating tour with a contemplative view of two of Michelangelo’s famous slaves, who are apparently still struggling to break free.
Bang opposite the Louvre is the excellent Tuileries garden, erstwhile hangout of the French aristocracy. Today, though, the bourgeois fill the place during the more pleasant evenings, taking walks, dining, picnicking, and of course, getting naughty in public. What with all the street performers, cafes, ice-cream stalls, and take-away joints vying for the public's attention, we succumbed to the temptation and tucked into a rather rich evening snack of chocolate waffles. Licking our lips clean, we hurried post-haste to one of the high points of the day, the Tour Eiffel. Even after more than a century since its erection, this majestic metal monster never fails to awe the first-time tourist. Its four legs arch beautifully towards a single point at the top, endowed with structural beauty that even the naked iron girders fail to diminish. At the highest of the three observation decks, the views of the City of Lights, the graceful Siene meandering its way through it, and the perfectly symmetric gardens on both sides of the tower, quite surely cause delightful upsets in the tight schedules of most tourists. Accordingly, it was after a late sunset that we descended to ground level at around 9:30 PM, with an aim to make a beeline for the luggage locker and our youth hostel, before its closing time. But the Eiffel had other plans, because come nightfall, it was all light up and shimmering in the dark, and quite simply, the gasps emanating from the crowds of gawking Chinese/Japanese/Korean tourists on beholding the glittering display were worth the additional delay. Eventually, we broke free and sped towards our hostel on the efficient Paris Metro. It was 12:30 PM when, heaving our backpacks, we reached the Clichy Metro stop near our hostel, and started wondering how the hell we would ascertain the directions to the place. We finally wound up in front of a night-shop whose owner apparently spoke French, Italian, and Spanish, but not English (of course!). But that didn't stop him from reverting to vigorous gesticulation and sign language to point us in the right direction, heading towards which, we found finally stumbled into the youth hostel at around 1:00 AM, to be rewarded with a couple of cozy bunker bunds.
Our first sightseeing stop on our second day in Paris was the Notre Dame cathedral. Built in the 12th century, this church of 'Our Lady' (Notre Dame in French) boasts beautiful, detailed, and depictive architecture both inside and out, (in)famously grotesque gargoyles, beautiful stained-glass windows, awe-inspiring acoustics, and of course, Quasimodo. After a leisurely hour of walking in and around the church, we set off on a self-guided tour of the nearby Ile de la Cite, or Old City. This area encompasses lively and colorful section of Paris, and made for an enjoyable sunny-day city-smart walk. Eventually, we perambulated towards some other famous Parisian landmarks nearby, including the Hotel de Ville, the Palais de Justice, and finished off with lunch and a short respite along the banks of the Siene.
Next on the list was the part of Paris I had heard the most about: The Champs Elysee; and we strolled through the stretch of this famous boulevard connecting the Place de la Concorde and the Arc de Triomphe. This much glorified, and rather wide footpath is home to many of the 'last words' in style, quality and luxury, but above all, has a that distinct air of 'ooh-la-la' that impressed, and at the same time made me feel a wee bit tacky. We finally wound our day down with another evening trip to the now endearing Eiffel tower. This time though, all I did was to stretch out the lawns facing the tower and gaze at it in between 40 winks, for the greater part of an hour!
The last thing on our 'checklist' at Paris was something of a jaw-dropper, though I didn't quite expect too much at first. I guess it isn't called the mother of all palaces in Europe for no good reason. A half-hour train journey from Paris on our last day there, the Palais du Versailles was the home of the French royalty (read Louis XI) up until the time that they had their heads in place. The main palace itself is situated perfectly atop a little hill, with the town of Versailles on one side, and the unbelievably huge jardin (French for gardens) stretching away till the horizon on the other. Built using half of France's national GDP at the time, the opulence and grandeur of this one structure might as well have triggered the revolution. Though the all the rooms and halls of the palace proper are quite ostentatious in themselves, the most popular attraction by far is the Hall of Mirrors, a lavishly decorated boardroom overlooking the gardens, with the facing wall and doors covered with mirrors, supposedly a rarity at the time. Built to impress, this hall was where the Treaty of Versailles was put to ink.
Finishing off a tour of the inside, we ventured to walk through the exquisitely maintained gardens, which take half-hour to cross by foot. Understandably, we gave up halfway, had a snack and a nap instead. It was early evening by the time we beat a hasty retreat back to Paris, to catch the night train to Torino.... and Italy!
“You should sit on the other side of the compartment, so that you can enjoy a view of the coast...” said the chap who also confirmed that we hadn't gotten onto the wrong train. We were naturally careful, as the little village where we wanted to get off, Manarola, wasn't on the list for many of the express trains heading south from the port town of Genoa to La Spezia. But in spite of their relative remoteness, the five villages comprising the Cinque Terre (which literally translates to 'Five Lands') are very popular among in-the-know tourists and backpackers looking for a perfect getaway spot on the Italian Riviera. Monterosso, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola and Riomaggiore together form the Cinque Terre, now declared to be a National Park by the Italian government. Hanging on precipitously to the steep hillsides and wind-blown cliff tops of mountains that stop short right at the Mediterranean, the Cinque Terre villages seem to have the ability to slow down the passage of time as one meanders along the narrow winding paths and steep staircases, and eventually make it unnoticeable. It was after quite some huffing and puffing that we gathered from a souvenir storekeeper that rooms (Camerata in Italian) could be availed of in a house nearby. Another flight of steep stairs later, we knocked at an anonymous door, and were presently graciously hustled in by a friendly lady, to a cozy little double-bed room overlooking, well, the staircase! Thanks to aching soles and empty stomachs, even the relatively costly price tag of €50 and a landlady who spoke only Italian weren’t able to deter us from dumping our backpacks right then and there, and giving our grateful feet a much-appreciated rest.
“There’s not a museum in sight”, our guidebooks had assured us of the Cinque Terre, so we assiduously set about doing what most tourists who come there tend to do: nothing. In between eating and drinking, it was hitting the beach and taking hikes along the rugged coastline that kept us occupied during our stay there. The small little mountain roads that curve around the hillsides facing the sea afford some excellent vistas of the brightly colored villages from a multitude of viewpoints. Of all the villages, only Monterosso sports a small, resort-like beach, where all that most beach-goers do is sun themselves endlessly. I understood why after that first numbing shock and loss of breath that one experiences after diving into ice-cold water… and haven’t forgotten it ever since!
Gastronomia: Italy is relative haven in Europe for Indian-style food lovers, with spices being generously deployed in some delectable cuisine. During the more-than-frequent snack times, we helped ourselves to lots of Foccaccia, a locally made, hot, herb-flavored bread covered up with Pesto (a paste of Basil and Olive oil), black olives, veggies, and of course, tons of cheese. A sizable full meal in Italy consisted of an Insalate (salad), a Primi Piatti (first course), a Secondi (second course) and a dessert, the whole thing served along with local wine brews. Sciacchetrà is an exquisite, high-end wine endemic to the Cinque Terre, brewed from dried grapes. Savored with almond biscuits, it’s a delight better tasted than explained…
“My name is Don Deva”, said the friendly chap whose cabin we invaded on the train to Pisa. As it turned out, he was a devout Christian hailing from Tamilnadu, and was now the head of a small parish in small town near Torino (Turin). Most enthusiastic about our Indian origin and our backpacking trip, he insisted on paying for our coffee, and obliging us to tell all. And chat away we did; we couldn’t lie to a man of the cloth, now could we?
A political capital whose power once rivaled that of neighboring Florence, Pisa today is left with only claim to fame left almost standing. Actually, all the monuments in the Piazza del Miracolo lean to a certain degree, with the Leaning Tower topping them at 10%. What I found more interesting at the site, was the number of people enthusiastically posing for the camera appearing to do their might to prop it up with their bare hands. We even bumped into a Canadian engineer who came upon on a bright idea to solve everybody’s problems: “Why don’t they jack it up and set it straight again?”
“Watch out for pickpockets” we had been alerted beforehand, about common tourist traps in Italy. It was on a wet, chilly day that we embarked into Florence, and made our way from its architecturally beautiful Duomo (Church Dome) in the town center, towards the Accademia art gallery. The birthplace of the Renaissance, Florence has a burgeoning amount of art accumulated as a result of the prodigious output of the great masters of the time. The Accademia houses quite a varied collection of Florentine art, from relatively crude Medieval paintings, to awe-inspiring Renaissance sculpture, to musical instruments that had their genesis at the time. The well-known highlight of the museum is the gallery of slaves, housing more of Michelangelo’s unfinished slaves, and of course, the impeccable David. Most would agree that few other sculptures come close to the anatomical perfection that David arrogantly boasts of. Another high point among the exhibits at the Accademia is the only world’s only complete Stradivarius violin on display in the Musical Instruments section, along with some weirder instruments of the time, like the intricate and interestingly named Hurdy-Gurdy.
After a morning wasted away in art, we managed to find some time for another museum, equally rich in content, but less popular: the science museum. Florence was also home to the venerable Galileo Galilei, and lots of his instruments, apparatus, and his thumb(!) are on display here. But it doesn’t stop there: rooms full of old-world maps, atlases, globes, chemistry equipment, medical models, nautical equipment, telescopes, bicycles, and to no less extent the excellent documentation provided to visitors made this museum well worth our short visit.
Thankfully though, Florence wasn’t all museums and beautiful architecture. Come evening, its shopping districts near the city center came alive, with shoppers and gawkers alike. The Ponte Vecchio is one of the oldest bridges spanning the Arno river that cuts through the city, and has been banned for non-human traffic, and is home to an extravagant boulevard packed end-to-end with jewelry houses. Though lightly loaded as far as finances go, we found the walk through the place more than satisfying, for the glittering displays that it had on offer.
Gastronomia: Florence professes to be the birthplace of one mankind’s greatest inventions, ice cream. Served with a dollop of cream on top, Florentine Gelato is an irresistible temptation of fruits, nuts, and a million other flavors, which, after a couple of regular helpings, left our teeth a bit numb. There are also other dishes quite famous in Florence’s numerous cafes and eating joints: Bruscita is a olive oil and herb-flavored bread roasted to a crisp. After ordering it for lunch, we found that Caprese is an odd sort of dish consisting simply of chopped tomatoes and lots of Mozzarella cheese. I really wasn’t able to appreciate the fact that it could make for a proper meal, though the Italians seemed to rather enjoy it. Of course, safe refuge existed in the form of Pizzerias that abounded everywhere, offering a satisfying array of vegetarian options for us beleaguered travelers.
“Too many tourists connect Florence and Rome with a straight line.” lamented our guidebook on the understated elegance that is Siena. In keeping with our urge to do more than the usual tourist, we decided to spend some quality time in this bewitching Italian town on our way to Rome. Nestled in the fabulous region of Tuscany, the enchantment started long before we actually got to Siena, as the rolling hills, the generously sprinkled hilltop villa houses, and the wine yards of the Tuscan countryside assaulted the mind’s eye with more beauty than it could handle. In the old part of town, lined with tightly packed buildings on both sides, all the narrow winding streets (an all too common feature of Europe) suddenly pour into the main town square, the spacious Il Campo. Though the town square is a topological feature native to almost every European town (called varyingly as Place in France, Piazza in Italy, Platz in Germany, and Plein in Holland), my favorite by far was Siena’s, where the square and all the buildings around it have a red-ochre shade that lend it a wonderful hue in the evenings. In keeping with Tuscany’s undulating landscape, the floor of the Piazza itself slopes gently towards the town hall and clock tower at the lowest end. As everywhere else, it’s a popular public space, and on pleasant days like the one on which we landed there, the local folk and tourists alike mill about endlessly, eating, sleeping, strolling, and feeding the pigeons. A short but steep walk away from the Il Campo is Siena’s church and Duomo, which, though not as impressive as Florence’s, has a particular small town appeal. In simple terms, Siena was a quintessential Tuscan town experience, pretty much unblemished by the otherwise ubiquitous encroachment of the modern age.
“Metro Strike!” we were informed, when we landed in Rome at about 10:30 PM that night, and were trying to get to the suburban campsite where we intended to stay. Hitching a taxi-ride with a couple of Estonian co-travelers, we had little clue that the ‘S’(trike)-word was going to play a significant role in wreaking havoc on our travel plans.
Our initial sightseeing ventures in the eternal city started off fine enough, and like the diligent tourists that we were, our tour started off right at the beginning, at the ruins of ancient Rome. This part of the city, covering an area of about a couple of square kilometers, contains most of the Roman relics of the age, including, most famously, the massive Colosseum. Located alongside, today a walk-through museum dedicated to the Roman empire, is the Forum, an area littered with ruins of key buildings and monuments from the time, including the Senate house, a couple of arches, Roman temples, and the tomb of Julius Caesar. At one end is the impressive Rostrum, apparently the podium from which oratorical geniuses of the time swayed the masses with mere words. The modern Italian government, in apparent deference to Rome’s illustrious past, has chosen to house their Capitol building near the Forum area.
As evening drew near, we moved from the past to the present of Rome. Of the many public hangouts in Rome, the Trevi fountain, and the so-called ‘Spanish Steps’, are immensely popular. Both host grand shopping districts near them, where the big names in haute couture display their chic wares, to be lapped up promptly by the fashion conscious Romans. Completing a rather long stroll through these decadent districts of Rome, it was quite late at night by the time we got back to our dorm rooms, and some wholesome Pizza dinner.
Starting off on an otherwise normal Day 2, we headed for a good look at the seat of the Christian faith, at the Vatican. The St Peter’s Basilica, including its impressive dome, is the tallest building in Rome, and has maintained this distinction due to an unwritten rule among the city’s architects – “No building in Rome shall be taller than St. Peters” One passes through, and pauses to admire, the massive Piazza in front of the Basilica, circumscribed by a wide hemispherical aisle supported by parallel columns. The insides of the Basilica hold more than enough architectural splendor to almost dwarf its religious significance. Michelangelo’s magnificent Pieta is on display inside, though behind bulletproof glass. Below the dome, the famed Dove Window high above the central altar creates a beautiful halo effect around the seemingly radiant body of a white dove. Adjacent to the Basilica is the huge Vatican museum, hosting many long hallways of artifacts, beginning with those from the Egyptian times. A walk-through of the museum ends with a spectacular climax, at the Sistine Chapel, the ceiling and walls of which Michelangelo frescoed end-to-end, depicting various scenes from the Bible. Most prominent among these renderings, covering an entire wall above the entrance is The Last Judgment. Portraying his vision of the day of reckoning, with more than 300 individual figures of saints and sinners, in heaven, hell, and purgatory in between, it’s probably awe-inspiring enough to put the fear of god into most adherents of the Christian faith.
Heading back in the evening, Vishal got the bright idea to confirm our travel plans for the next morning at the train station. After a couple of hours of standing in different queues to ask about trains to Venice, we ended up in front of a booking clerk, who, after some effort, gave up, pointed to his computer screen, and said ‘Strike!’ Already a bit wary of that word in Italy, we asked him to try some other options, later in the following day. In response to that query, his system decided to hang, and it was not before considerable effort was expended and outside help sought, that things were working again. After another couple of hours of more waiting, endless gesticulation and deliberation, we finally managed to wrangle two reservations for a late afternoon train to Venice. Moral of the story: “When using Italian public transport…. better late than never!”
“Watch out for Pigeon Poop!” our guidebooks had put us on the alert, giving us a heads-up, literally, on a common problem in watery Venice. During the evenings, the main square therein, the Piazza San Marco is choc-a-bloc with thousands of them, tourist-smart, and looking for an easy meal of the €1 pigeon feed abundantly sold there. Quite interestingly though, as dusk falls, all of them mysteriously disappear somewhere, leaving the Piazza to the late strollers and live bands in the adjoining restaurants, to belt out some great classical music to top off the truly romantic atmosphere that Venice swamps every visitor with.
But to be fair to the pigeons, they were the only locals who kept us company everywhere as we spent a day wandering through Venice’s shaded, narrow streets. A good part of the city’s magic lies in and along these streets, and strolling through them, we used to frequently bump into a bakery, or a tucked-away café, serving great eats, and of course, excellent hot chocolate. Wandering through Venice, it was almost impossible not to gravitate towards its main landmarks, one of the most historic among which is the Ponte Rialto. The oldest bridge across the Canal Grande, the central waterway that loops through the city, it permanently blocked off bigger ships from entering the city, and today hosts an intensely busy shopping district, packed with all kinds of miscellanies up for grabs, including, surprisingly, fresh coconuts! After dusk, with soft, yellow lighting adorning the facades of most waterfront houses and restaurants, our night boat ride along its canals proved to be a relaxing experience. Vaporettos, Venice’s boat equivalent of a public transport system, run up and down the. For budget travelers like us, who couldn’t afford the €66 gondolas, they provided a most suitable platform for sightseeing tours of the city’s landmarks, and for standing in the front and enjoying the water spray in our face.
But along with all the glamour and exotic allure of all that is Venetian, the rotting fact is that Venice is, albeit slowly, sinking. Lower parts of many prominent buildings, built on waterproof stone foundations, are already underwater, reclaimed by the murky waters. Even its beautiful Piazza San Marco is not exempt, and gets annually flooded by the rising water levels. Despite the best efforts of the local government and interested parties, Venice today seems to wear a sort of mellow, worn-down look, that is dilapidated, yet enchanting at the same time.
Intending to leave Venice for Innsbruck before the inaudible crack of dawn the following day, we headed to Venice's Santa Lucia station to inquire about potential train connections. To our surprise and amusement, what we got in addition was a lesson in cross-cultural communication. Vishal, after poring through a detailed train schedule booklet with a complex set of legends, confronted the lady behind the counter with a lengthy query intoned in that characteristically voluble and intonation-deprived drone of Indian English that is inscrutable for most native English speakers, let alone Italians. I suppose it was understandable that the bewildered woman, taken aback by the burgeoning flurry of words, replied with a reciprocative blabbering sound signifying total incomprehension. Doubling over with laughter on beholding such an in-depth conversation, we tried and remedied the situation by explaining things using more hands than words, and finally were handed a printed schedule of all the trains heading to Innsbruck the next day, probably in order to obviate any further need for conversation. As we left Venice the next day, I couldn't help but remember with a wry smile the exasperated shrug and roll of the eyes the lady had given her colleague after our little dialogue had ended.
“It’s snowing!” I exclaimed, as the train pulled into Brenner station. Prior to that, we had entered a long tunnel with green valleys at one end, and to our ecstatic surprise, exited right into a snowstorm at the other end. I lost no time in getting off the train and reveling in my first memorable snowfall. Later we were to learn that the train from Venice to Innsbruck, cutting through some utterly beautiful sections of the Italian Alps, passes into Austria through the snowy reaches of Brenner Pass. Located in a large valley nestled among towering snow-capped mountains all around, Innsbruck is a alpine town with the peaks at seemingly touching distance. From any street in town, one has only to look skyward to be immeasurably dwarfed by the misty giants. Once there, with only a couple of hours to check out the place before heading to Vienna, we lost no time in hopping on to a tour bus that took us through worthy areas of town, and then to a funicular railway line which climbed up to a viewpoint of the valley below. But given the fickle weather in and around the Alps, the snow-covered peaks were continuously playing hide-and-seek with our cameras, and precious little was visible from behind the shifting clouds to capture at any given time. Resigned to our fate, we headed back down to the city, and reached the train station with about 20 minutes to spare. But as luck would have it, Nature decided that it was time I called her, and I rushed off to find a suitable place. I eventually found the loo, but also found that I didn’t have the exact change to be doled out for entering. As luck would have it, on the wall nearby, I spied something that looked very much like one of the change vending machines I had seen near public toilets elsewhere. Given my situation, I strode up to it and shoved in a €2 coin without further ado. A moment too late, I realized that there were none of the usual buttons I expected to find on the front. Instead, there were some levers at the bottom, which I duly depressed, and lo and behold, out came a shiny new condom! In my embarrassment I almost forgot why I had come there, and walked off, leaving my €2 gift for somebody hopefully luckier than I, and actually in need of it.
“Vienna waits for you.” was the slogan of the slick marketing campaign launched by Vienna’s tourism authority to attract Europe’s tourist hordes to the city. And attracted we were, to this, by far the most beautiful city in Europe. A showpiece of the erstwhile Hapsburg Empire, Vienna is replete with statuesque buildings sporting baroque architectures, public parks, lakes home to multitudes of feathered fauna, and the best of the western classical music tradition. The main central ring of the city encloses the Alstadt, or old town, comprising the Hofburg palace, the Opera House and their likes. Hopping onto a slow-coach tram that encircles the ring, we got a eyefuls of the main city attractions, and moved on the first order of business: Classical music with the Vienna Philharmonic, which plays almost daily at the Musikverein, with standing room tickets priced at a very modest €5. With the powerful crescendos ringing in our ears, we walked over to the Stadtpark, a beautiful green lung space in the center of town, and then over the main drag in Vienna, Kartnerstrasse. This is the place for spending a delightful evening, with numerous street performers and artists entertaining the crowds with a quite a varied show, from Jazz to Spanish Guitar to Puppetry. As the evening drew close, another unforgettable cultural experience awaited us, at the Wiener Staatsoper, Vienna’s main Opera House. I had never felt more out of place in recent memory than till then, with our slightly worn T-shirts and Jeans a rather prominent foil to the tuxedos, tailcoats, evening gowns and Eau de Cologne. But being the culture-vultures that we were, we persevered and were relieved to find a the €3.5 standing room filling with junta more in tune with our state of attire. In the schedule for the evening were a couple of short operas, one in German (Schönberg), and the other in Italian (Puccini). Aptly chosen for their remarkably contrasting themes, amid deep baritones and soaring sopranos, the two shows brought home for me an acute awareness of the emotive power of the operatic form. After that beautiful conclusion of our evening, we emerged into and spent some time walking a brightly light city block bedecked for the night, and eventually found our way back to our hostel, after going through a couple of Subway sandwiches.
Gastronomia: Austrians are cake and pasty connoisseurs, creating works of art using eggs, cream, and chocolate. Of the most famous of these sinful preparations are strudels, constructed with a sweet filling ensconced in a flaky exterior. These sweetmeats usually go along with Kafe mit Milch during a relaxed evening. But the Pièce De Résistance is the Sacher torte, a chocolaty delicacy first concocted for the royal Hapsburg palate by the master confectioner Sacher. Though available throughout Austria today, the purportedly original Sacher torte, embellished on top with the Sacher emblem, is still crafted only at the Hotel Sacher in Vienna and Salzburg.
“It’s older than Rome!” we had been told of this, one of the many small towns perched precariously at the edge of one of the many lakes in Austria’s very own lake district, the Salzkammergut. But in spite of its relative isolation, implying a milk-run train ride followed by a half-hourly boat ride into town, Hallstatt, once the summer retreat of Austrian royalty, is literally a jewel in the crown of the Salzkammergut. Its claim to fame have been the salt mines located high in the alpine mountains surrounding the town, which have been in use for the last 3200 years or so. But owing to the weekend, when most establishments, including the tourist office remain closed, it was quite empty and sleepy the day we got there. After some roaming around, we heeded our guidebook’s advice and set forth on a short trek to a waterfall an hour away, known locally as the Waldbachstrub. The hike took us through some marvelous alpine trails, a forest floor littered with pine cones, and a plethora of associated sights, smells and sounds, eventually ending at a sheer cliff facing a medium height waterfall spraying ice-cold water all around. Happy about the first time we had worked up quite a sweat in the cold European climes, we headed back to town for whatever frugal vegetarian victuals we could lay our hands on, the variety of which was more than adequately compensated by a lakeside view of the placid Hallstattersee. By early evening, we had finished feeding our leftover bread to the swans that reside in the aforementioned lake, and bade goodbye to Hallstatt, congratulating each other on a day well spent.
“Hello there. Here is the key to the house and your room. Breakfast at 8:30 AM.” said the Post-it note near the door of Haus Lindner. It was late at night as usual, and pitch dark when we arrived at the home of the Lindner family, one of the many Privatzimmers outside Salzburg that let out rooms in their houses to travelers. Armed with our own key to their home, and a bit surprised at the trust they placed in total strangers, we entered our room to find a delightfully cozy setup, plus a huge picture window with a view of the Alps. Located in a countryside setting seemingly taken right out of Sound of Music, complete with lush green farmland and meadows carpeting the gentle slopes of the hills all around, and priced at €16 with breakfast thrown in, it indeed proved to be the terrific housing option that the guidebooks had promised.
Salzburg is beautiful city-town home to many greats, not the least of them being Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the Sound of Music, and to our serendipitous surprise, Christian Doppler, whose innocuous little house is right opposite that of Mozart’s. The Salzach river winds its way through the town, the banks of which are lined with lovely classical architecture that are best appreciated on foot. Taking a stroll through town, we encountered another of Salzburg’s claims to fame, the excellent Mozartkugeln, the now famous filled chocolates named after the boy genius. The morning of our day in Salzburg was spent walking through his life and times in the museum located at the Mozart Wohnhaus. Housing very detailed exhibits, it painted a picture of a child prodigy with more than his share of musical talent, troubles, and oddly lewd tendencies.
As the day drew on, it was time for a bit of the ‘Hills are alive’ experience, with a hike to Monschberg hill, for some beautiful sights of the surrounding Alps and the Hohensalzburg castle, which overlooks the whole town. Built at the highest point in the hills around Salzburg, this huge and foreboding structure looming high over the region apparently discouraged all attempts to besiege Salzburg, which used to be located on key medieval trade routes in Europe.
Eventually, it was late evening by the time we wolfed down some gratifying junk food at the Burger King outlet near the railway station, wound our tour down, and headed back to our home away from home at Haus Lindner.
“Are you into cricket?” was the first question Vishal posed to Dougal, the New Zealander we happened to meet on the train heading from Salzburg to Munich. From then on, we hardly noticed the time fly by as we chatted away heartily with him about matters common and uncommon about our two nations. In the short time that it took to get to Munich, he impressed upon us many interesting insights into the New Zealand way of life, and the essential differences between Rugby and American Football. After job-hopping in through a wide spread of countries, he was currently selling ski packages in England, and was touring Europe on a break. After our goodbyes and email ID exchanges at Munich, we hopped on to the next train to Fussen, a town close to the famed Neuschwanstein castle. It was after a 2-hour train ride, a short bus journey, and a 20-minute hike that we found ourselves gaping up at a dull-white castle, crafted in a fairy-tale fashion, perched perfectly atop a cliff, surrounded by the Alps, and overlooking the verdant Bavarian plains on one side. Purportedly the inspiration for the castle in Disneyland, this grandiose structure is an unfinished construction project embarked upon by the Bavarian King Ludwig II, known more popularly as ‘Mad King Ludwig’. Complete with an artificial grotto, chapel and water supply from the mountain stream, the extravagantly decorated rooms are plastered with scenes from Wagner’s operas, apparently a close friend of the King. Even though only a third of the castle’s construction was ever completed, owing to Ludwig’s premature and mysterious death (he was found dead in a nearby lake), it was a surreal yet enchanting experience touring the castle’s interiors, gasping at the astounding views that its windows offered. But the fairy godmother of all views was awaiting us at Marienbrucke, a small bridge spanning a gorge and waterfall behind the castle. The 20-minute steep climb up to it was disproportionately rewarded by the privileged viewpoint of Neuschwanstein on one side, the soaring Alps on the other, and the straight drop of the valley right below. After spending some time on the bridge, and picking up our jaws from the floor, we headed back to Fussen, hitching a ride to the train station with some rather friendly Americans we bumped into earlier, catching the next train back to Munich in the very nick of time.
“This is like a WWII Bunker!” I exclaimed on setting sights on the dark, gloomy interiors of the 10-bed mixed dorm at our hotel in Munich. Compared to our luxurious abode in Salzburg, this Spartan accommodation, consisting of a dozen bunker beds in a sparely furnished, lightless underground basement of some anonymous building near the train station, felt like a rip-off because of its relatively higher pricing. But choice was something we didn’t have the luxury of, and we settled in for two nights in overly warm, communal sleeping quarters, which implied being woken in the middle of the night by boisterous co-habitants dressing down for the night, or others getting ready for a new day!
Queueing up at the Hauptbahnhof (train station) Burger King outlet for dinner that night, Vishal wasn't expecting the extra charge for ketchup along with a burger in Europe. As we thriftily dug into our ketchup-less burgers, a young chap, who was in the queue behind us, came up and said, 'You can have my ketchup, I don't want it'. More amused than touched at this 'ketchup kindness', I accepted his gift, getting a bit unsure about the infamous frostiness of the Germans. By the time we finished our dinner and headed wearily back to our nearby hostel, it was pretty close to the witching hour, and downtown Munich had a seedy, flickering-neon-sign look to it.
Short sleep non-withstanding, we were promptly off next morning for a novel sightseeing experience. Munich is home to the Deutsches Museum, one of the world’s largest science museums, with miles and miles of galleries dedicated to every field of sci-tech, from Aeronautics to Zoology, from a full-scale recreation of an underground mine to an Astronomical observatory at the top. But it was backbreaking and mind-bending work, and we were quite drained by lunchtime. Making suitable reparations for our hunger and homesickness, we lunched on Basmati Rice and Palak Paneer at an authentic desi restaurant. Our ills cured, we headed to another nearby must-see, the Nazi concentration camp memorial at Dachau. ‘Arbeit macht Frei’ (Work makes free) – is still emblazoned on the entrance gates here, longest running and most infamous of the labor camps. A truly poignant experience, not to mention a eminently depressing and worrisome one, the erstwhile labor camp’s main building has been turned into a painstakingly detailed museum elaborating on the rise and fall of the Third Reich. A small part of the prisoner’s bunkers and the guard towers are still intact, and face an open-air memorial in the central assembly grounds, where in four languages is etched the simple yet striking phrase: “Never Again”.
As the sun dipped towards the horizon, we were heading back into town to one of Europe’s biggest city parks, Englischer Garten. Covering a king-size portion of the city map, this man-made lung space is where the local folk gather to play, sleep, cycle, jog, feed the birds by the lake, and of course, guzzle beer at the biergartens scattered around the park. But sampling the local brew for an outsider can be a tall order, literally, considering that it’s served only in whopping beer steins of a liter in capacity. Understandably, it took Vishal the greater part of the evening to finish his mega-jug, and by the time he was done, he had wisely decided to hand over the task of finding our way back to hostel solely to me.
“Gegen Nazi” proclaimed the jacket of a pink spiky-haired youth we spotted at a station on our way to Rothenburg. A phrase that made me initially wary, I learned later that it meant ‘Anti-Nazi’, a movement I hadn’t chanced upon till then. That day, we were on a quest to sample some of Bavaria’s best sights and sounds, along the famed Romantische Strasse (Romantic Road), a road/train route that winds its way from Fussen to Frankfurt through some exquisite countryside and representative Bavarian culture prevalent in the towns and villages along the way. Rothenburg ob der Tauber, the much-touted top spot along this route, is a medieval town preserved intact over the ages, complete with the old town walls built for its defense. Arriving there after making a considerable number of train connections, we were soon transported into a world of narrow, old-world streets, little cafes that spill out onto the alley, closely packed, red tile roofed buildings, a little town square, and a chiming clock tower with a colorful history of its own. The day wore on dreamily as we trudged around town and the main landmarks therein, eventually making the claustrophobic climb up the church tower to the highest viewpoint for miles around.
Gastronomia: 4:00 PM in Germany means one thing: Kafee und Kuchen; coffee and cake i.e. The birthplace of the Black Forest Gateaux, which is named after the region where it was first brought to life, Deutschland is famous for this ritualistic interlude practiced everyday. Another interesting snack found we found exclusively in Rothenburg was Schnellballen, which is German for snowball, a sweet preparation of crunchy bread twisted into a sphere, and dipped in the choicest of flavorings and syrups, the king among them being, of course, Schokolade.
By evening at Rothenburg, it was time to move on, and we proceeded to make another sequence of train connections. But this time our haste proved too much even for the notoriously efficient Deutschebahn, Germany’s rail network, and we got into a train coming from our intended destination instead of heading towards it. It was an error that we became aware of soon, but not soon enough, and resulted in a cascade of missed train connections. A quick enquiry later, it became evident that the only set of connections available to our destination would get us there only by 1:30 AM, and involved switching times of 3 minutes between two trains! Biting our nails all along, we eventually did make it to Amsterdam, at 2 in the morning, but without much of a clue which way to head for our youth hostel…
“Are you lost?” asked the slightly shabby looking lady who volunteered to help us find our way to the hostel. After wandering around without much success for about 20 minutes, we were ready to take any help we could get, and followed her dutifully, further into the seemingly labyrinthine alleyways. Finally, she pointed us to our destination, and asked in perfect English, “If its not too much trouble, could I have some money? It’s for some food… I’m homeless you see”. Dole out some change we did, not wanting to incur the displeasure of the natives. Gratefully checking into our Spartan hostel bunk beds, we crashed right in for some much warranted sleep.
Our first order of business the morrow morn was to get ourselves some transport, Amsterdam-style. Bicycles are THE way to wander free in this city, where cyclists, I found out gleefully, have the right of every which way. Picking up our set of wheels from a recommended rental store, we pedaled off for a tour of the city’s sights, weaving through narrow canal-side streets, and across the innumerable little bridges that span them. By lunch we had found our way to Dam Square, a prominent city square in Amsterdam. As we appeased our stomachs, the street performers and musicians regaled and amused tourists, all for a quick buck. Next up on our agenda was to get a glimpse of Amsterdam’s diamond industry. We headed out to the Gassan diamond house, for a very informative, and free, walk through of their production rooms, an introduction to the four C’s of diamond discernment, and finally, a sample of their best wares. With stars in our eyes, and uncomfortably cognizant of the precious little moolah in our pockets, we walked out of there for a stroll on the Damrak, Amsterdam’s main drag. An important, and rather involving attraction on this road is the Damrak sex museum, home to a very elaborate collection of art, artifacts, and artifice, detailing man’s favorite obsession. Enriched with the knowledge of our sexual history from Mesopotamia to Marilyn Monroe, we tottered out towards our next stop, for a more practical understanding of the topic, at the (in)famous Red Light District. ‘Europe’s most touristed ladies’ as they’re referred to, offer a most shocking yet fascinating perspective of the world’s oldest profession. What’s worth observing is the business-as-usual attitude of all parties involved in this business. After spending considerable time walking along streets and alleyways lit ubiquitously by the garish red light from the display windows behind which the ladies display their wares and beckon one for a more detailed interaction, I finally tore away by late evening for some relaxation at Vondelpark, a not-too-big public park in the south of Amsterdam. After idling away the evening pedaling around the pathways meandering through this green refuge, I headed back by nightfall, in time for sampling something else Amsterdam is famous for.
“Nothing’s happening…” I pointed out to Vishal, feeling quite sober after more than 5-6 puffs. And all of a sudden, as I moved my head from left to right, I felt as if it was falling right off my neck. About 15 minutes had elapsed since we had found our way to Abraxas, one of Amsterdam’s many hip Coffee shops for a cautious introduction to the much-hyped Cannabis experience that the city offers. With Marijuana and Hashish, both derivatives of this much-maligned grass, being legal for private use in the Netherlands, places like Abraxas provide locals and tourists alike with a completely open and state-sanctioned way to ‘free their minds’, entailing as many hassles as drinking coffee. Entering the joint, we were supplied with a complete menu, detailing all the varieties and intake options on offer. Being first-timers, we opted to try the basic, tobacco-less, pre-rolled joint, with about 0.4g of Marijuana. The intensely interesting experience that followed the mind-altering effect of the stuff was definitely worth the €4 it cost us, though was accompanied by a distinct set of irritating physiological symptoms. I amusedly watched myself slipping away, as the acute short memory loss became compounded by a dryness of the mouth, redness of the eyes, and of course, the apparent ‘grooviness’ of the trance music. It was about 2-3 hours later, that we wore down the fuzziness with some coffee, and felt capable of carefully treading the way back to our hostel beds, for some of the soundest of sleeps that we experienced during our trip.
Next morning was a surprisingly pleasant, hangover-less experience, confirming the ‘clean high’ that we had heard Marijuana results in. To further clear up the smoke haze we set off on a cycling trip in the clean, green, and effortlessly flat countryside just outside of Amsterdam. Wandering quite aimlessly through leafy suburban roads, branching off into the narrower paths, posing for snaps at windmills, we completed a small circular route ending up back in Amsterdam by lunchtime. Post-repast, we were on a train heading to Haarlem, a town north of Amsterdam, which happens to have lent its name, though misspelt, to the well-known NY borough. Our plans there were put into a bit of disarray though, owing to some other visitors in town. Probably shooting for Ocean’s Twelve, George Clooney and Brad Pitt, whose sparsely forested scalp I caught sight of, were in Haarlem, and the local authorities ended up closing off a part of the train station for it. In compensation, the two stars being driven up by a motorcade for the entire 100 meters from their Hotel entrance to the train station, the gaggle of girls going ultrasonic on sighting the stars, and their exasperated boyfriends standing behind and mocking their cries, provided, at the least, a most interesting social phenomenon to behold. Somewhat satisfied about the fruitfulness of our short trip, we headed back, to Amsterdam, wound up our stuff, and caught the evening track back to base camp, Leuven.
“I’ve never seen it so crowded!” exclaimed Murali, at the sight of the hordes of tourists who had descended on the coastal town of Brugges in northern Belgium that Sunday. Having hired a car and driven up to it on our last day in Europe, we were entirely unprepared for the onslaught of people, mostly Britons, who had probably hopped across the channel that sunny day, for a weekend getaway. Yet wading around this beautiful old town, we couldn’t but gawk unabashedly at Brugge’s best produce, chocolates. Called pralines, Brugges is world famous for these filled chocolates, crafted with a chocolaty exterior hiding a delightful variety of exquisite liquor based fillings inside. After lunching on subs, fries, waffles, and chocolates, we headed away from town to the nearby beach at the English Channel, and later the mellow countryside around Brugges. Damme is one of the better-known villages in this area, where we discovered a roadside café overlooking a canal waterway, and settled down for some evening drinks and a long chat. By the time we had tried out the many colorful beer brews that Belgium is renown for, the sun was dipping in the sky, and a relaxed, sleepy feeling had set in over the three of us.
As night approached, we finally pointed ourselves back to Leuven. Bringing our travel experiences to a close, we signed off our backpacking adventure with a memorable finale, in keeping with the spirit of a beautifully diverse and modern Europe, with dinner on town, at a great Thai restaurant.
Epilogue
Between landing back at home, giving our travel-weary selves a rest, and getting back to eating something more than bread, cheese and chocolate, I’ve spent considerable time thinking and talking about this trip to many, ranging from those who furrow a bewildered eyebrow at the mention of ‘backpacking’, to those who express their appreciation with an ‘Awesome, dude!’ Now that we’ve pretty much closed the book on our expenses tally, I suppose that in marrying our pristine, idealized notion of a true backpacking experience with the sometimes oppressively pragmatic nature of reality, we’ve come off quite well, ending up, at best, with an emptier wallet, and a fuller photo album.
Labels: travel, writing
