"Dude, I don't know if I can afford a hostel right meow," says I.
"Me neither," says Max.
"Yeah... And this place looks too nice for hostels. It's all fancy-shmamsy hotels," says Grant. "Let's just go threesies on a locker and rock the night in the station. Copenhagen style." We're in. It's something like four euros total for the night, and we shove all our bags into one of the deep station lockers, squeeze the door shut and turn out the key.
[stop]
Munich, mother fuckers. Drink it in like a hefty German brew. But chug it because the sun's already low on the summer horizon and we have to be in Zurich tomorrow. If there's one thing I learned to do in Santa Cruz though, it was to gulp down beers. Relax the jaw and open the throat, but get your tongue in there to get all flavors as you pour it into your gullet. Ladies, take notes because that's definitely what she said. We've got about eight hours to kill in this rich city, but there's no rush. The less time we spend sleeping on the grit-grimy station floor the better, so we take the place at a casual stroll.
Stroll right into some glitzy hotel we do, near the station, and pick up a city map, get our bearings, and stow it, heading towards the center on foot. Through a not-too-old looking castle gate with battlements on top and, voila, it's a wide pedestrian street straddled on both sides by boutique shops, department stores, and grossly overpriced restaurants. It reminds me, strangely, but quite strongly of the Promenade back in Santa Monica, and I chuckle a little. "So this is Munich, huh? Super old-time-y German, this place."
Max and Grant laugh a retort. The spirits are high and light, in part, I think, due to that fact that our shoulders also are without those cursed packs on. And we point and giggle at funny things, and side-hand comments and quote movie nostalgia to one another, and get giddy in the legs at the prospect of Mike's so-soon rendezvous.
Into another square, Marienplatz, and ohh, ahh, the town hall. Finally, something that opens my eyes to this capitol city, that arrests my attention after being unceremoniously courted by the mundane open-air Munich mall walk. It's a menacing building, especially with the dreary cloud cover, overtly gothic and medieval, all pointy, stone-framed windows and prickly spires and a bell-tower. Not unlike Prague. But at the same time, markedly different. Not so ominous, and with a definitive tint of Bavaria that tastes rich to the eyes like dark chocolate.
From the middle of Marienplatz, there's a pair of bell-towers looming not too far behind the town hall and, well, I love bell-towers, so we romp in their general direction. We amble past an old-looking building or white walls and old, glass windows that shone unclear with a yellow from within. It said HOFBRAUHAUS in bold letters, and a thin metal street sign hung off the side with the initials HB and a crown all in gold. We had a sneaking suspicion that they served beer inside and when we came around to the front it was quite obviously a bustling, rambunctious beer hall. "Ohhh! Say what? We should def get dinner here," says Grant. And Max and I agree. But first, the bell towers.
There's a lurch in the stomach and a tick of the head because across the skinny walk-street from the Hofbrauhaus is that silly staple we've seen now in every city of our journey. No, not a kebab joint. And it's not a McDonald's, but that's certainly closer. "Oh, hey look. Another Hard Rock." It's the Hard Rock Munich, and it gives me a moment's pause, probably the first Hard Rock to do so, because it has been in every city. We've stumbled upon each one, starting with original in London. It's that something so American, like hearing the same pop songs on the radio over here, listening to the same music and I guess that's what it thrives on. A universal love of music. That attraction to rock legends' guitars on the walls, to be so close to a thing so timeless, whose strings echo with distortion through the ages and, for better or for worse, probably always will. The good, the bad. The bands we loved, and the one hit wonders. Served up with chicken wings and hamburgers. Now who wouldn't love that? Who cares what country your from. What a tourist trap-looking kind of a place, and there's some fat boys coming out with their Hard Rock t-shirts.
We'll pass though, walking past, down skinny streets and through tiny, old squares and courtyards to my lovely bell towers. They're at the head of some grand cathedral called the Frauenkirche. It's simple brick and baroque-Italian. No spires or prickles here. Just a red tile roof we can barely make out, tall windows, and green plumes (of bronze, I'm guessing) at the tops of the towers. "This thing looks old," I observe with a guise of inflection.
"Mmm, indeed." And we stand at the entrance and ponder it for a while, necks craned to put the whole thing in perspective. There's some ancient stone-carved cartoons on the side, and I'm no historian, but the general theme of it seemed to be rape. Got to love religious fervor.
After a minute or two Max chimes in, "So is it Hofbrauhaus time yet?" And the trance is over and my stomach makes it's presence known.
"Yeah, dude. I'm ready for some beer and bratwurst."
"Bratwurst!" So fun to say in a German accent.
