Abel's Day 2 Journal Entry

//Journal Entry 1. Day 2
Right now I am in Munich, Germany. It is a city of over 1 million people, and at least four times as many BMWs. Any attempt to express the number of bicycles would be an exercise in futility, culminating in a gross understatement. From my top-bunk (score!) perch in my hostel room, the sounds of Munich come in through an open, screenless window. I considered using the cliche "drift in on the breeze through the open window," and in doing so would have soundly thrashed the last gasping breaths of life out of a phrase which I am quite sure melted hearts back in its prime. But I did not, for the sole reason that that is just not what Munich sounds do.

Munich sounds do not drift. Munich sounds stomp with iron-shod feet up and down the narrow cobblestone streets in bloodthirsty search of an open hostel window. Spotting mine, they take a running leap for the ancient stone wall that leads to my 2nd story window, scrambling over each other in race to be the first to commence assault on my serenity. In the famous Munich Sound Scramble, the contestent we shall refer to as "Yelling in German" finishes first. At least I assume it is German, since I am, in fact, in Germany. If I were anywhere else and heard such a racket, I would assume it to be a primitive pre-cursor to Vulcan. To put it more frankly, German spoken with any amount of fluency sounds like someone who is coughing up a lung while at the same time slurping a bowl of Ramen noodles through their lips at a tremendous rate. To be sure, my friends, that is a rare gift. Spoken German is rigid and intense, yet also very sloshy. My conjecture is that this combination must somehow be a direct result of another German combination, that of beer and sausage, respectively. Maybe a higher sausage intake increases intensity. And more beer increases the slosh. Imagine trying to give directions, to someone wearing a suit and driving an Audi who is in a great hurry, from a train station called "Garching-Forshungszentrum" to another train stop called "Hohenkirchen-Siegertsbrunn." Now imagine doing it very shortly after consuming two sizeable Bratwurst and three liters of a stout local German hops beer.

I have tried and failed to reproduce some of the sounds that I have heard manufactured by Germans, much to the bewilderment of my hostel mates. I cannot decide whether the bewilderment is due to my sudden utterances of Vulcan, or that I cannot perform this feat without spitting profusely.

Now that my hostel mates are convinced that I have tuerrettes AND rabies, I can move on to say what I really do love about Munich. There is food everywhere. I am not talking the go-to-a-ballgame-and-can't-escape-the-cotton-candy-vendors type of "food everywhere." I mean that every city block has at least one of three culinary delights: An open-air roadside vegetable and fruit market, a meat market who's tantalizing aromas will stop you dead in your tracks, or a bakery with every possible shape of loaf in every possible shade of brown. So here we have dapper businessmen in BMWs speaking rapid (or rabid?) Vulcan, speeding past roadside peddlers trying to sell you a half-kilo of fresh ripe cherries (which, I was kindly informed, are just coming in to season). New meets old.

The interesting thing is that the sounds of the peddler and his cherries do not make it up the stone wall and through my hostel window. They are much too drifty for that, not to mention they lack the necessary iron footwear. So instead you must go out to meet them. This means walking. Novel, eh? Walking around the city of Munich is inspiring. With an Beamer ratio this high, one would not expect jovial beer gardens in the middle of town or ornately sculpted architecture towering above cobblestone streets. Yet this clash of worlds each make the other stand out all the better. Although hip and modern, Munich looks much more hip and modern because it has an absolutely gargantuan Supreme-Court-of-Mount-Olympus type building in the town square. Although certainly quaint, quirky, and c(w?)ozy, Munich appears to be on the same plane of cheer as your neighborhood Irish pub (the kind where Guiness is free to anyone who can imitate an Irish accent), simply because suits, cell phones, and sedans hustle around the beer gardens.

So basically this journal entry served three purposes. One is to emphasize that the sights of Munich are altogether awesome, and is an altogether different sight than its sounds. The second is to lash out at the infernal racket that is currently laying a blistering seige to my hostel. The third is to record the results of the esteemed Munich Sound Scramble, in which the contestant that finishes second (and third, fourth, and so on up to 4 million) is of course the "Honking of an BMW."

That is Munich during the day. It is awesome and I love it. Munich at night is better.

The town transforms when the sun starts to sink. The businessman have cashed in their suits for jeans, khakis, and a casual shirt. What makes the town suddenly quiet and peaceful, even romantic, is that they traded their BMWs for a pair of sneakers. Not to mention that all those who use the German language no longer feel the need to shout. On a 70 degree evening like tonight, everyone is out, strolling in hordes like a twisting river at the bottom of the canyon formed by the mountainous spectacles of architecture that flank the cobblestone street. There are cafes spilling into the street, with the hip crowd enjoying a drink and having a light snack or dessert. I have found that as a rule, German girls are downright gorgeous, and German guys are downright very awkward looking. Therefore you walk around in constant amazement and self-pity at the apparently low standards of very pretty girls.

A herd of about 40 teens mingle in a courtyard by a fountain, which is, by the way, nothing short of dazzling in the sunset light. But the horde of adolescents commanded my attention when they simultaneously migrate en masse to another downtown location. What marvels me is that they did it without a word or without a leader. They must have an internal "cool sensor." When they all have been standing around in one location, they soak up all the coolness in the area. When it they haved sucked it dry, it is time to graze in new and greener pastures. That, or they just have no idea what they are doing and they are wandering randomly just because.

There is a pair of street performers in a doorway, one playing a catchy chord progression on an acoustic guitar, and the other coaxing a soulful jazz melody from a clarinet. In these narrow streets with mile-high ornate stone buildings on each side, the sound bounces around like a superball in a low-ceilinged basement. It is not unlike Surround Sound. However, I am still going to have to recommend Surround Sound over Ornately Carven Medieval Castle, considering the comparitively absurd cost of labor these days.

Our hostel is called the Wombat's City Hostel. It is apparently Australian themed, although the only Australian thing I have encountered is the accent of one of the desk clerks. As with all themed venues, there is an overbearing abundance of puns. My favorite is the bar/pool room/discoteque-where-no-one-dances-but-the-bass-is-cranked-up-to-an-absurd-level-anyways room on the lower level of the Wombat, entitled the WomBAR. At this convenient watering hole, a young hosteler can get anything from orange juice to Jagermeister to an authentic German lager (available in liter mugs). I chose the latter and am enjoying it thoroughly. Overall it is a first-rate hostel as hostels go. Clean, efficient, and lots of security accommodations for those certain items of your luggage that you a) don't want to be lugging around town during the day but b) would also prefer to still have present in your room when you return. The shower here even performs like it belongs in a century not too far removed from the current one. From what I have heard of hostels, I expect it to go downhill fast from here.
One of my hostel mates, a young fellow from Australia, seems like a pretty cool guy. This just goes to prove the unfairness of life, because his name is Laim (yes, it is pronounced like how you are thinking it is pronounced). And I cannot imagnine he has done anything to deserve it. Some people have awkward names and you snicker with glee inside (and/or outside) when you hear it, because you just know that they deserve every bit of it. Laim is not so. He is a victim of parents with too much creativity, who were very possibly under the intense and sloshy influence of German sausage and beer.

Tumbling into bed after my first day in Munich, I cannot help but think that if Barcelona is half as attractive as this, I just might not return to the U.S. Ever. Provided, of course, that they don't have a raging infestation of Beamers in Barcelona, and that the pretty local girls/homely local guys situation is about the same as it is here.