We entered in the indoor portion of the baths, separate rooms filled with pools of different, very specific temperatures, and of various shapes…and with people of interesting tastes in bathing suits. I quickly scanned the crowd, searching for a familiar face. Not seeing anyone, we flip-flopped outside and played, “who -can-find-our-friends-first?” (a riveting game, I tell you), and, of course, I lost.

Where’s Waldo?

I shed my flip-flops, stepping gingerly on the wet cement with the only the outsides of my feet, applying the faulty logic that if I walk this way, foot fungus will be averted. I continued my awkward, penguin-like walk until I reached the edge of the water and attempted a graceful, swan-like glide into the water. Ahem, “graceful”.

The water was quite warm, too warm for such a hot day. I watched the sunblock I had carefully applied earlier form unctuous pools on the surface of the water. As I treaded the water, I thought back to fifth grade swimming lessons, where we learned different ways to tread water and little 12 year-old me imagined, in my worst case scenario mindset, how I would use these techniques when I was stranded in the middle of the cold ocean after the ship I was on sank (I swear I’m not dramatic). I tried scissor-kicking, the egg beater, and doggie paddle, before admitting defeat.

The mineral baths…clientele representative of those whom I saw on my visit. (source)

We headed to the much-cooler indoor pools, selecting a mineral filled bath that made my skin tingle. There was no need to tread water here; I happily stood, flat-footed, like a normal member of society. We were clumped in the center of the pool, feeling a bit like the center of attention on the dance floor. Being the center of attention was the absolute last thing I wanted in this situation, so I was relieved when someone quipped: “Anyone up for the sauna?”

Wanting to try it, I fell in rank as we marched over to the steam-filled inferno. And was it ever an inferno. Dark wooden benches lined the sides of the small room, as a smoking, charcoal pit-like oven spewed hot steam. Almost immediately I was hit with what felt like a hot, wet rag. I tried to breathe, but the hot air burned my mouth and lungs, a slow tingle I desperately tried to fight. My skin wasted no time in turning on the faucet, as streams of sweat ran down my body. I had the feeling I was being steamed alive. This was nothing like the relaxing sauna I’d experienced in the U.S.; it was like comparing a mile to a marathon.

Just as I felt I couldn’t take it anymore, one of the girls headed out, and I scurried after. I was instructed to jump into a shockingly cold pool of water and feel my “heart jump” from the sudden change in temperature. Yes, just what I wanted, a self-induced heart attack! Instead, I eased myself into the frigid pool, sinking up to my neck before calling it a day.

I spent the next hour flitting from pool to pool, feeling like Goldilocks as I deemed the pool “too hot” or “too cold,” before settling on a “just right” 34C. As I hung by the edge of the pool, I people watched, observing the Hungarians in their natural element. “You’ve got to go in this sauna,” my friend prodded, “It has menthol in it!” I hesitated, as I was pretty sure I wanted to continue living after today and not be steamed to death, but the menthol did sound intriguing. Besides, my favorite chap stick was the tingly mint kind, and the sauna would surely be the same thing, right? I assured myself with this heuristic and confidently nodded my head.

“Here goes nothing,” I thought as I pulled open the door and was greeted by warm, minty mist. Huh, it wasn’t terrible. It reminded me of standing in a mist of my favorite peppermint tea, albeit surrounded by strange people that I could barely make out through the fog. Apparently my tolerance for saunas is quite low, as I twiddled my thumbs waiting for my friend to be finished. My sinuses were sufficiently cleared, and I felt awkward standing in the middle of a foggy room, so I stepped out and into the vestibule, which held showers to rinse off. I quickly twirled under the showerhead, toweled off, and headed back to the locker room. A private changing room and dry outfit later, I stepped out the door from my Hungarian bath christening.

The lemon-yellow entrance/exit to the baths

“That was fun, ” I thought, not regretting my decision. My skin felt significantly softer and refreshed. I could see myself doing this regularly, minus the first sauna and plus some gym time. As the bright afternoon sun created abstract art on the sidewalk through the trees, I smiled and thought, “This is the life.”

And I’m happy to report, three weeks later, not a spot of foot fungus to be found. Must have been all that precarious walking on the sides of my feet.

Thermal baths.

I looked up from the Budapest thermal baths’ website and rolled the idea around in my mind, already filled with horrible images of clothing-optional areas and the foot fungus I’d potentially contract from sharing the wet, bacteria-breeding bath floors, not to mention the fact that this required me to wear a bathing suit in public.

“Nope,” I quickly decided. “Not for me. Maybe I’ll just get a massage or something…” I immediately retracted my statement when I found out that my American modesty was no match for the Hungarians’ lack thereof on the massage table.

Still, it seemed like I was being urged left and right to go. “Oh, you’re going to Budapest? You must visit the baths and the ruin bars. So cool.” I smiled weakly, still imagining the anti-fungal creams I’d be soon purchasing at the pharmacy. Soon it became a non-question. My trepidations stood against the enthusiasm of the others, a David vs. Goliath where Goliath won. Like it or not, we were going, foot fungus and all.

A few days later I begrudgingly packed my bag for the baths, slumping around and dropping each item, flip-flops, sunblock, towel, bathing suit, in slow motion into the bag. I was not especially looking forward to the changing rooms, after reading a particularly harrowing experience involving old women and the lack of a private changing room. I played out all the worst case scenarios in my head as I ticked away stop after stop on the subway, whose somber, industrial screechings stood in as the soundtrack to my impending doom. (Was I being too dramatic? Let’s not answer that…)

The train jerked to a halt and spewed garbled Hungarian, indicating the stop. Listening for something that resembled “Széchenyi Fürdő” (the Széchenyi baths), I was unsatisfied with what sounded like “shechosngoidgiu-do” and looked out into the station. Yes, this was it. I took a breath and stepped off the train, bravely, walking my plank.

Aerial view of the baths (source)

For 3,550 florints (or the equivalent of 10 euro…or the equivalent of $15 USD), I was handed a clothes hanger and a plastic watch-like apparatus that resembled one I may have gotten as a child. I marched into the changing rooms, prepared for the worst, but when I saw separate, private changing rooms, the waters of my fear receded a bit. Whew.

I placed my things in a locker and used the watch to lock it, by pressing it on and into a button on the locker. “Fancy,” I thought to myself. Things were already looking up.

I rejoined my friend, and we set off to find our other friends, located somewhere in the labyrinth of the baths.

…to be continued

The sky was grey and threatening, smothering smiles and casting a haze over the landscape. It was our first day in Brussels. I adjusted the straps on my purse, aware of the pressure cutting into my shoulder. “Wanna get a waffle or something?”

We had been walking all through Brussels on an empty stomach, since our arrival hours before. Our hollow stomachs, coupled with the overcast skies, contributed to our listless trudging and general annoyance with the world. Getting waffles seemed like the appropriate thing to do, as we were in desperate need of a pick-me-up.

We located a vendor packed with locals and took our place in line. (At this point I was regretting not taking French in high school, as everyone around us chatted comfortably in French.) I reached the counter and, determined to use what rudimentary French knowledge I had, I stammered, “Un gaufre vanille,” not sure if that was even remotely correct. It seemed to be close enough, as the woman behind the counter demanded two euro in payment. I took the receipt she gave me and headed around the corner to the counter around which the mass of people were huddling, vying to hand their receipts to the workers, like traders on the floor.

I stood in the mass timidly, observing the locals before I embarrassed myself, and when I was ready, I confidently handed the woman my receipt, nodded when she said, “Vanille?” and held out my hands to receive the steaming waffle, fresh from “oven” and wrapped in a sturdy triangle of paper.

Though I’d been warned it was hot, I took a nibble from the corner anyway. I found it rich, yeasty, and filled with pockets of sweet sugar. I didn’t want it to end.

You know those pictures, where they print the original picture next to a doctored one and you must count the number of ways the doctored picture has been changed? (Please say yes.)

Yes? Great. Then let’s play a little game, with a twist.

What’s the same between these four photos?

Exhibit 1a

Exhibit 1b.

Exhibit 1c.

Exhibit 1d.

If you said, “iamsterdam,” then you’ve probably been told you’re “Captain Obvious” multiple times.

Let’s try one more before the answer.

What’s the same between these three photos (this one’s slightly easier)?

Exhibit 2a.

Exhibit 2b.

Exhibit 2c.

Did you catch it?

Take a look at the answers:

Answer 1

Answer 2

The pictures in both Amsterdam and Brussels were taken in the timespan of 20 minutes, yet the same people are in the picture. Granted, both art pieces are rather touristy, but I just wanted a picture with out any obstructions (or photobombs, depending on how you look at it, haha).

Let’s delve a bit deeper into the stories behind the pictures:

Amsterdam, 11:32 am

“Hey, there are the ‘iamsterdam’ letters! Let’s take a quick picture while no one’s there.” I looked around. Peace and quiet. Perfect. We scuttled over to the sculpture, and just as I was casually posing near the “i,” I heard a low rumble. As the rumbling grew louder and changed into the eager excitement of tourists, I squinted in the sun and saw a massive crowd heading towards the sign, like a tsunami wave. I tried to wave on my friend to take the picture, but the wave was just too powerful, quickly overtaking the sculpture.

I jumped away from the sculpture just in time, as the masses were crawling over every imaginable part of it. “Oh well, I’ll just try to get a picture of the whole word,” I said dejectedly. So I waited. And waited. And waited. Just when I thought someone was done taking a picture, they would run back to the camera, check it to make sure they looked good, and run back to do the whole photoshoot over again. Like the moles in Whack-a-Mole game, people were popping in and out of the holes of the letters.

So I gave up and embraced the random strangers in my photographs. Readers, meet Mr. Backpack and Sunglasses (let’s call him “Randy”), found in exhibits 1a and 1d. Favorite activities include sunbathing and sitting cross-legged on large art-sculptures. Not to be missed is Miss Timid (let’s go with “Sandy,” for congruity purposes), found in exhibits 1b and 1c. Favorite activities include, well, actually, she just tries to blend in.

Brussels, 12:10 pm

“Woah, cool, letters just like in Amsterdam!” I was secretly pleased because “welcome” contains a “c” (the first letter in “Claire”), making the perfect photo opportunity (is that hypocritical?). This time I was determined to get a clean photo, i.e. no random people. I stood back, camera at the ready, waiting to snap a picture just as the last person was out of view. Unfortunately, my earnest efforts were thwarted by the even more earnest efforts of Miss Red Backpack, whose mission it was to deeply document each letter.

But the good of all of this?

She wasn’t interested in the letter “c” for long:

Has something similar ever happened to you?

Czech Strudel

Sprawled out on the floor, school uniform still on, eyes captivated by the television. Scenes from Rick Steves, Samantha Brown, or nearly any program on The Travel Channel burned in my memory. A typical after-school routine in grade school that laid memories, all nestled up and waiting for the opportune moment to emerge.

Fast forward 15ish years. A small comment left somewhere on the Internet. One of those memories, yawns, stretches out, and stumbles out of its nest, jostling a few other memories in the process. The light bulb goes off in my head, making the connection between the episode I had watched so long ago and my current trip planning, as my little memory stands impatiently tapping its foot, annoyed with the relatively laborious process it took for me to realize this.

“Of course, I have seen this episode before,” I thought, as a vivid picture came into my head. It was shot from the right hand side, the host smiling and handing money through a tiny window with iron bars guarding the top. A few moments later, a very long, steaming hot strudel emerged. The host smiled, showed the strudel to the camera, and took a bite, leaving the viewer eager to see his reaction. Eyes closed, head nodding, the host confirms the deliciousness.

My memory had failed in keeping close the vital information of where that strudel window was located, but the rogue Internet comment filled the last piece of the puzzle. Of course. In Prague.

*****

“Are you sure about this?”

I had dragged my friends through two trams switches, deep into the suburbs of Prague. It was obvious that we were no longer in the touristy section: stern and unsmiling Czechs stood rigidly, waiting for the tram. I noticed they all seemed to be looking with disapproval at my shoes. I looked down at nude-colored flats I was wearing, adorned with a bow, and without hesitation, decided they were fine. The Czechs would just have to deal with it.

We walked up the quiet and sad street, the grey and worn walls reflecting the precipitating sky above. There was no sign of a strudel shop, only many-storied residences with the wash hung out to dry.

I gave a little laugh, nervously. “Of course, guys, it’ll be just up here on the left.” I tried to sound more confident than I felt; my fingers were crossed.

We crossed the street and suddenly, there it was. If there were ever a hole-in-the-wall strudel shop, this was it. The image in front of me matched the image in my brain perfectly, like tracing paper over an image. The bars over the window, the tiny hole for your money, the scent of sweet and yeasty perfume permeating the air.

The menu (N.B. this was not my knight in shining armor, haha)

“So, I’m buying. What kind do you want?” I motioned the others to the menu, handwritten with white chalk on a blackboard. I knew they offered three varieties: poppyseed, quark (cheese), and apple. But the question was, which was which?

“jablečný”  ”tvarohový”   “makový”

I decided “makový” was “poppyseed”, as it bore similarity to “mohne” the German word for poppyseed. As for the other two, I couldn’t deduce anything other than “jablečný” kind of looked like “apple.” And by the process of elimination, “tvarohový” became “quark.” I decided to take a gamble, as I would have enjoyed any of the flavors.

“What are you having?” I turned to the others inquisitively.

“Apple, please, but I don’t know if I can eat the whole thing.” Hastily, we assured her we’d gladly finish her portion for her.

“I guess I’ll take apple as well.”

Having already decided on poppyseed, I stalled a bit on ordering, as I had no idea how to pronounce them. My very limited Czech consisted of prosím (please), děkuji (thank you), promiňte (excuse me), and není zač (you’re welcome), none of which were helpful at the moment.

My knight in shining armor arrived not a moment too soon, to rescue me from certain embarrassment. He was close to my age, and had been waiting behind us, most likely  shaking his head at the ensuing production. I gave a little wave of my hand to let him know he could go ahead, secretly smiling on the inside for my good fortune. I watched him order and saw the relatively simple process. I’d just have to bite the bullet.

I walked up to the window and rested my hands on the ledge. “Ahem, um, one makový and two jablečný.” I held up my fingers to indicate the number, burning with embarrassment at the fact that I could not say the numbers in Czech. The man behind the window said nothing, but reached  for the strudel resting on sheet pans.

The inside of the shop was barley wide enough for the man to turn around in, between the counters that flanked either side of the shop. It was spotless inside, save for the dusting of flour and powdered sugar.

He pulled one strudel off the tray, and, with a quick flick of the wrist, spattered the top of the strudel like a Jason Pollock painting. A few origami folds and two deft twists of the brown wrapping paper later, he handed it to me with a gruff, “makový.” He repeated the process with the two remaining strudel and grunted what I could only imagine to be the price. I handed him 200 koruna, took the change, and attempted a děkuji (thank you).

The skillfully wrapped strudel

Still hot, the wrapped strudel was as long as my forearm. We each took the strudel in our hands, cradling it like a child. My knight in shining armor, with a bite in his strudel, turned to us and said with a wink, “Of course you can eat a whole one!” He smiled and went on his way, leaving us with our own prizes. I laughed a bit in my head. “He knew English,” I thought. “We must have given him a good laugh, then.”

But the strudel was waiting.

“Ready?”

We eagerly unwrapped the packages, revealing the crispy yet tender pastry. The first bite revealed an inside plump with poppyseed paste, and a slight taste of sweet almonds. I had guessed right. I looked to the others, hoping that I had struck gold twice. They shifted the ends of their strudels towards me: apple. I smiled, revealing poppyseeds that had wedged their way in between my teeth.

“Was this worth it or what?”

City Planner 1: “Boys, we need some kind of catchy program for Brussels next season. I’m pretty sure when people think of Brussels, only the sprouts come to mind.”

City Planner 2: “Yeah, true. I mean, I don’t even like Brussels sprouts, so I can totally see how people would turn up their noses.”

City Planner 1: “Maybe we should promote the gourmet side of Brussels…you know, all those fancy restaurants we have.”

City Planner 3: “Hmmm…yeah, totally man. I could see this going somewhere. We’ll get the restaurants to organize special menus and stuff.”

City Planner 2: “We should do some cool cultural events, too.”

City Planner 1: “Yeah. Francois, why don’t you get on that and report back tomorrow.”

City Planner 2: “Okay, boss. Tomorrow, same place, same time?”

City Planner 1: “Great, now go get busy.”

City Planner 3: “Peace out, guys.”

*****

Brussels – The next day, same time, same place

City Planner 1: “So, Francois, what did you come up with?”

City Planner 2: “Thrilling idea. May I direct your attention to this photo?”

(source)

City Planner 1: “This appears to be a large, painted bovine. I see exactly how this fits in with Brussels! Not.”

City Planner 2: “Oh, but just take a look a few more pictures, sir.”

(source)

(source)

(source)

City Planner 1: “Francois, these are simply atrocious. A cow wearing heart boxers? A green two-headed cow? A personified cow wearing sunglasses, a  Tommy Bahama shirt, and a  rucksack? Please tell me your grand plan for all of this.”

City Planner 3: “Yeah man, these are a little weird.”

City Planner 2: “The concept was born in Zurich with lion statues, but took off in Chicago with cows. It was such a hit with locals and tourists alike that other cities adopted it.”

City Planner 3: “So there were like, random cow statues all over the place? Weird, man.”

City Planner 2: “Well, sort of. Local artists painted the cows, which was a boost for the local economy. I was thinking we could do the same thing.”

City Planner 1: “Cows have absolutely nothing to do with Brussels.”

City Planner 2: “Right. I was thinking we could do…food.”

City Planner 1: “Food?”

City Planner 2 : “Yeah. Statues of food.”

City Planner 3: “Hey man, I kind of like that. Food, yeah…yeah.”

City Planner 2: “Right. So, what do you say to fries, mussels, and chocolate?”

City Planner 3: “And don’t forget the Brussels sprouts.”

City Planner 2: “We can spread them throughout the city as a scavenger hunt!”

City Planner 1: “Francois, you’re a good man. I knew you were on to something. Agreed! Now get to work.”

*****

Brussels – One year later, fruits of his labor realized

Frites, anyone?

Shoes!

"Lighthouse" Brussels Sprout

Belgian Chocolate

"Newspaper" Brussels Sprout

Close up and personal

Mussel

She's a beauty queen, ain't she?

I love chocolate

Pop, soda, milkshake...take your pick.

*Apologies to the real city planners of Brussels. I’m 100% positive this is not the exact way it went down. Close, maybe…

Have you experienced any of these “cultural phenomenon” around the world?

Research. A rather dull word, right?

It conjures up images of poring over mile-high stacks of books, feverishly typing notes, hands permanently stained with highlighter and pen marks.

But just add a simple adjective to “research” and you’ve got something terribly exciting: travel research. It’s one of my favorite parts of traveling; finding those “hidden treasures” in a city, like a sculpture, or the best waffles, or a local festival.  I can spend hours standing at my desk, clicking away on my computer, finding the best tips from forums, blogs, or city websites.

So, when I was researching Vienna, I knew I had to try the Sachertorte, a chocolate cake originally created at Hotel Sacher in Vienna. I turned to the web for suggestions, which people had strong opinions about, such as:

• insisting on only trying it at Hotel Sacher; apparently anywhere else it wasn’t as good,
• denouncing it as “dry” and “tasteless,”
• swearing by the Schlagsahne (unsweetened whipped cream) on the side to mitigate the dryness,
• complaining about paying nearly 5 euro for a slice of cake.

My excitement in trying the apricot-jam sandwiched chocolate cake was quickly waning. “Dry? Tasteless? I don’t even like whipped cream!” But wanting to “cross that off the list,” I decided to take one for the team.

Off to Hotel Sacher we went, though slightly confused by the opening times. It read, “8:00 – 1:00.” “That’s odd,” I thought. “Why would such a well known cafe only be open until 1:00 pm?” It was around 12:45, and we didn’t want to miss the opportunity to try it.

Hotel Sacher

We asked the hostess standing outside the cafe if it indeed closed at 1:00, and she confirmed. I started to mumble something about being disappointed and going elsewhere, when I looked up and saw the confused look on the hostess’s face. Then, it hit me: it was open until 1:00 AM, not 1:00 pm, as I had thought. Whoops. The 24 hour clock will get you every time.

A bit embarrassed, I asked for a table. Compared to my last Viennese cafe experience, I was less than impressed. The cafe seemed more like a moneymaker than a place to relax over coffee and cake. It was all bustle-bustle, with waitresses banging against your chair as they delivered slice after slice of the fabled torte.

I proudly ordered by torte in German (which honestly isn’t that commendable, haha) and was rather dreading the supposed dryness of the cake. Not three minutes later, the cake arrived with a sharp plunk!, as the waitress set the plate down upon the table.

I surveyed the pastry. I was presented quite beautifully: a white and gold paper napkin, the Hotel Sacher logo facing outward, folded gently as a border to the cake. A plain silver fork anchored it to the plate.

The cake itself looked perfect: two soft layers of chocolate cake, a thick stripe of dark apricot filling, a robe of firm chocolate ganache, with cleanly cut edges. A large puff of white whipped cream garnished the side of the cake, like a white flower adorning a woman’s dark hair.

Bravely, I cut into the edge with my fork and tasted the cake sans whipped cream, to test if the cake really was dry. I was expecting a cake that crumbled in your mouth and left you parched from the lack of moisture, but as I chewed, the cake was definitely not that. It was soft like a sponge-cake, with just a touch of dryness, which was definitely improved by the whipped cream.

The first bite

I ate it slowly, alternating bites of the cake and filling with the whipped cream with pieces of the chocolate ganache, with tasted like a thicker version of the icing on Texas-sheet cake: super sweet and slightly gritty. Nevertheless, it was my favorite part of the cake.

The verdict? It was good, but not great. I probably wouldn’t get it again, but it was nice to have tried it.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some travel research to do.

I’m wondering:

What’s your favorite pastry you’ve tried?

We were giddy with excitement. There was just a half hour to go until noon, when the Ankeruhr (Anchor Clock) was set to reveal all 12 of its Viennese personalities, complete with music to match. We were still in Stephensplatz, in the heart of old town Vienna, so with a twist and turn of the map to face the correct direction, we were off to find Hoher Markt.

Unsure of what it would look like, I was slightly taken aback to see it hidden between two buildings (on what I would later learn was a bridge that connected the two) and smack dab in the middle of a construction site.

I pleasantly cropped out the construction site for you; you're welcome.

I thought it was cool that the hour was displayed on the top of the figure’s head, in Roman numerals, and an arrow at the top of the numeral indicated the minute, which moved as the figure crossed from one side of the clock to the other during the hour.

Checking my watch, I saw that it had taken us a whopping 5 minutes to reach the clock. Seems we were there slightly early (a trait inherited from my father; the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree). Surveying the area, I saw a group of people standing with their backs against an adjacent building. Where they there to see the clock “show?”

Sunglasses – check. DLSR cameras – check. Backpacks – check.

Tourists it is.

We dutifully took our places next to them, giving each other silent high fives for our luck in staking out a prime location. Just as we were setting our cameras to the “continuous picture” mode, I looked up in horror to see a large construction crane swinging metal right in front of the clock.

“No, please, no!” I breathlessly whispered, “They couldn’t have done this an hour ago?”

The rest of the waiting crowd shared my sentiment, as the consternation jumped from group to group and swelled as the time ticked closer and closer. Waiting seemed doubly tedious with the stares and annoyed glances from the Viennese, eager to get on with their day and away from the tourists.

I  glanced at my watch: 11:59. 

“This thing better get a-moving. Any minute now…” Just then, in the nick of time, the crane delivered its load and backed away, leaving us tourists to breathe a sigh of relief.

The digital flash of light on my watch showed 12:00. We collectively leaned forward, cameras at the ready, waiting.

This was the time when you could have heard a pin drop, had there not been a cacophony of construction and traffic noises.

12:00:30. Nothing.

12:01. Nothing.

12:03. Nothing.

I was beginning to doubt whether I had gotten the time right. “It was 12, right? Not 1? Maybe they only do shows in the summer?”

12:04.

“Oh gee, this is going to be very disappointing if nothing happens,” I thought with such drama reserved for job offers or other such important things.

12:05.

Creeeeeeeak.

Bing.

Bing.

Bing.

And 5 minutes after 12:00, the show began. (Evidently this apple fell very, very far from the tree) The mood in the air was such that a chorus of applause could have rang out at any second, but we were too busy focusing our cameras.

Thanks to my settings, my camera was happily snapping continuous pictures in rapid succession, only the clock wasn’t moving so rapidly. Had the figures been whipping across the clock at the speed of a pitched baseball, the pictures would have turned out great. (I had assumed it to move a little faster than literally a snail’s pace, but you know what they say when you assume…) When I realized I was taking 50 pictures of the same figure, I turned off continuous mode in defeat and accepted my fate of manual mode.

12:00 - Joseph Haydn

1:00 - Marcus Aurelius

2:00 - Charlemagne

3:00 - Leopold VI and his wife, Theodora, Princess of Byzantium

4:00 - Walther von der Vogelweide, Medieval poet

The first five figures were great: different music for each, shiny costumes, the excitement of what the next character would be. But after the first five, things began to get a little old. It was more of, “I’ll wait till the figure is in the middle of the clock, snap a picture, then wait a full minute for the next figure.”  (prepare yourself for a slew of pictures)

5:00 - King Rudolf von Habsburg

6:00 - Meister Hans Puchsbaum, architect of the Viennese cathedral, Stephansdom

7:00 - Emperor Maximilian I

8:00 - Mayor Johann Andreas von Liebenberg

9:00 - Graf Ernst Rüdiger von Starhemberg, war general in the 1680s

10:00 - Prince Eugene of Savoy

11:00 - Empress Maria Theresa and her husband, Emperor Francis I of Lorraine

After a quarter of an hour, the 12:00 and 1:00 figures appeared on either side of clock, resuming their positions as the clock went silent. Though I was happy to have “crossed it off” my list, I was more happy to get the heck out of there.

After all, we had a Sachertorte waiting for us…

What’s one unexpected thing that’s happened to you on while traveling?

(source)

It’s a curious thing, jaywalking.

In the US, it’s against the law (you know, to save lives and all), but no one seems to follow that. Generally, if it’s clear, most Americans will cross in disregard of flashing neon signs. (In no way do I condone this, but it’s an interesting study in culture.)

Perhaps it’s our spirit of adventure or willingness to take risks, but Americans apparently need to be reminded of jaywalking’s dangers in other countries:

"No jaywalking" sign in Singapore (source)

Sign in Shanghai (source)

"No jaywalking" sign in Malaysia (source)

But apparently it was enough of a problem in America in the late ’30s, as evidence of this WPA sign:

WPA sign warning Americans not to jaywalk (source)

Which brings us to Germany (how’s that for an awkward transition?). Picture this:

You’re walking down the street in Germany and approach a cross street. Wanting to cross to the other side, you quickly pull the grade-school drill: listen, look left, look right, look left again, and if it’s okay, cross. Looks okay to you!

Though the crossing sign is red, you step one foot out on the street, but suddenly notice that everyone else is patiently waiting at the pedestrian crossing, waiting for the sign to turn from red to green.

“Ummmm…okay,” you think to yourself, looking around to see if there’s a policeman or another car coming that would be preventing this people from crossing. Nope, nothing. There are absolutely no cars in the vicinity.

It looks safe, so you begin to cross. You notice that everyone on the opposite side of the road is burning holes into you with their eyes (oh, if looks could kill…). Slightly puzzled by this display of hostility, you continue towards the angry mob, when suddenly one of the old men waiting starts yelling at you in German.

“He doesn’t look happy…maybe I’m not supposed to be doing this.” You weigh your options: a) continue on your path, or b) retreat back to where you came. You’re already more than halfway to the other side, so you nervously power-walk, head down, trying to pretend that if you can’t see them, they can’t see you. You’ve never wanted to be more invisible in your life.

Reaching the other side, you quickly scurry away and keep your eyes fixed straight ahead, in case direct eye contact would incite the pedestrians further. “Next time,” you pant, “I’m waiting.”

Welcome to Germany.

In all honesty, the strict “won’t-cross-the-street-until-the-signal-tells-me-so” occurs in some areas of Germany more than others, and with some types of people more than others. For instance, it’s more likely to occur in East Germany and with older people. I have seem some kids jaywalk, for full disclosure.

In West Germany, the pedestrian signals are simply the figure of a man standing with his hands at his sides in red, and the profile of a man walking in green. However, in some places in East Germany, as a vestige of the DDR (GDR), the pedestrian signals are affectionately called, “Ampelmännchen,” or “little traffic light man.”

"Don't Cross" Ampelmännchen in Dresden

Notice how he wears a little hat, a rather plush accessory for East Germany, don’t you think? (The light above him reads, “The signal is coming.”)

"Cross" Ampelmännchen

There are some variations on the Ampelmännchen, such as one carrying an umbrella or with an umbrella, but the one above appears to be carrying a bird? I was lucky enough to spot the female version of the Ampelmännchen, die “Ampelfrau,” in Dresden a few weeks ago.

"Don't Cross" Ampelfrau

"Cross!" Ampelfrau

It’s a bit endearing.

What interesting street signs have you seen?

If you’ve been to Germany, have you noticed the Ampelmännchen?

“Ah, good morning Wien!” Sliding back the heavy window curtain, she smiled at the sight from her window.

Viennese Sunrise

The yellows, purples, and pinks made the vibrant blue canvas come to life.

Today was the day she had been waiting for: she was finally having a swanky lunch at a Viennese cafe. After all, the Wiener (Viennese) thing to do was to spend an afternoon sipping elaborate coffee and nibbling sumptuous desserts at one of the grand coffeehouses.

She bundled up, the temperature hovering around 5 degrees Celsius. Scarf knotted, coat buttoned, purse secured. She made her way through the windy streets to Cafe Central, a Viennese staple since 1876.

Cafe Central

A rush of warm air swathed her as she stepped in the doorway. She felt right at home amongst the well-tailored waiters, opulent surroundings, and the refined aires. From across the room, she spotted her dining companions.

Kiss.

Kiss.

Cheek by cheek, she greeted them, then took off her outer coat and hung it on the nearby coat rack.

She saw the stack of menus lying on the table and picked one up; its weighty heft a true indicator of the number of menu items, “but also the prices,” she thought to herself. She traced the golden lettering carefully before opening the menu.

First, lunch. She perused the menu, reading the German description first, then verifying her translation with the accompanying English. Her finger fell upon one dish, and after reading the description, her mind was firmly made up:

Tomatenschnitte mit Basilikumgelee und Topinambur-Mousse, Makronen, Baby Mangold, und Pesto. Tomato terrine with basil jelly and Jerusalem artichoke mousse, macrons, baby chard, and pesto.

The sophisticated, fancy lunch she longed to have. “Perfect,” she thought. Dessert would follow, but for now, all the focus was on her company. Her stomach gave a slight growl, and she wished her lunch would arrive. No sooner had she thought this than a starched waiter presented her with her dish.

The first bite brought a burst of flavors: the deep umami-like flavor of the tomato puree, the creamy-tart acid of the Jerusalem artichoke mousse tempered only by the herbal aroma of the basil gelee, the crisp bite of the macaron that provided the textural contrast to the smooth, rich terrine.

The dish more than met her expectations; it was exactly what she had wanted.

After sweeping her plate to catch the last bit of pesto, she lay her fork and knife across her plate; a couple at 5 o’clock, indicating she was finished with the dish. She lingered just a moment before catching the waiter’s eye to ask for a dessert menu.

Drinks first.

The combinations of coffee were endless, and each had their own special name; the “lingo” known by Austrians and puzzled over by visitors:

The Pharisäer:   Großer Mokka mit Rum und Schlagobers. Large espresso with rum and whipped cream.

She remembered reading about the story behind it: it was created by townspeople who had been admonished by their pastor for their drinking habits. They surreptitiously added rum to the coffee, then covered it with a layer of whipped cream to hide the aroma of the alcohol. When the pastor found out, he allegedly cried, “You Pharisees!” and thus the name of the drink was born.

“Cafe Central” Kaffee:   Großer Mokka mit Marillenlikör und Schlagobers. Large espresso with apricot liqueur and whipped cream.

Melange:   Verlängerter mit aufgeschäumter Milch. Light coffee with frothed milk.

Her dining companions ordered Melanges with abandon, as they were the closest to an American cappuccino. She eschewed the coffee in favor of a large pot of Pfefferminze Tee (peppermint tea), a German favorite second only to Roten Früchte Tee (red fruit tea, which leads one to imagine just what “red fruits” this tea contains).

When it arrived, she was pleasantly surprised to see she had a whole silver tray to herself:

The tea saucer contained the sweet surprise of a chocolate almond candy, a custom European coffeeshops are wont to do.

To select her dessert, she rose and walked over to the display case, which was packed with various ornate pastries, each marked with a sign detailing its name and an identifying number. She vacillated over the Sacher torte, a traditional Viennese dessert consisting of apricot jam sandwiched between two layers of chocolate sponge cake, topped with a chocolate ganache and served with a side of unsweetened whipped cream, or the house speciality, the “Cafe Central” torte, a multilayered cake.

“Sieben, bitte.” “Seven, please.” She told the waiter the number of the “Cafe Central” torte, which she figured would be one of their best desserts, as it was their specialty. And she was right.

It arrived on white china, with a small silver fork, a white chocolate disk coated red and made to look like a wax seal with the words “Cafe Central” embossed in gold, and was wrapped up in a thin film of plastic, again bearing the name of the cafe.

"Cafe Central" Torte

As there was no description, she tried to guess what it was made of. First, she tried the cake layers all together. Her fork slid into the cake, breaking off just the tip of the cake, her favorite part. It tasted of chocolate, almond, apricot, and a bit of alcohol.

She tried to guess the anatomy of the cake:

Bottom layer: a thin slice of chocolate cake saturated with orange liqueur.

Middle layer: a dryish yellow cake crowned with raspberry preserves.

Top layer: marzipan (sweet almond paste) enrobed in a thick chocolate coating

She sipped her tea and savored each bite of her cake, happily taking small forkfuls of her dining companions’ desserts, but deciding hers was one of the best.

She sat back in her chair, smiled to herself, and savored the perfect moment.