Destination: Germany

A particular joy of my job is collaborating with people who really love their work. We employ 70 people at ETBD, and they amaze me with the passion they have for their niche in our travel-teaching machine. Russ goes to Asia to be sure work conditions are right for the people making our bags. Dave draws maps for our guidebooks, and in his free time, draws maps to people’s homes so everyone can get to the party. Laura is so excited about the new Central Europe Triangle railpass. And Julie won’t rest until the handouts for our next Turkey class are right up-to-date.

In Europe, I work with people who have that same passion. My guide friends can’t simply walk down the street — they have to explain to me why the plaster is being peeled away to show the old wattle-and-daub, or how the church spire is so low because the Soviets wouldn’t let it be higher than their war memorial. And Alan, who runs the EurAide desk at the Munich main train station (a great service to anyone traveling by rail), can’t wait to fill me in on the latest train news.

Alan is the ultimate rail wonk. For twenty years, I’ve dropped by when updating my Germany guidebook… and for twenty years, he’s been passionately helping travelers, one by one, catch the right train for the right price. It exasperates him that I just drop in unannounced, but that’s how I work in Europe. Last week I popped in, and there he was, patiently getting a Korean backpacker with a German railpass a ticket from the German-Czech border to Prague. He said, “Come back at noon, and I’ll take you to a great beer garden for lunch — one you can put in your book.” (We have an ongoing joke that he only takes me to his favorite places on the condition that I don’t tell anyone.)

At noon, we walk a few blocks to the Park Café beer garden. It’s so hot in Germany that literally no one is eating indoors. If your restaurant doesn’t have outdoor seating, you might as well not open up. The Park Café, with a sprawling beer garden and a little fake beach complete with sand and lounge chairs, is thriving. Alan calls it “Little Berlin,” as Berlin is really into fake beaches. (This is a big trend throughout Europe. Cities with no beaches — from Paris to Copenhagen to Vienna — now have sandy summer “beaches” dumptrucked in. These are a hit for Europeans city-bound in the heat of summer.)

I’m not a Radler (beer with 7-Up) type of guy, but this light refresher is the choice for both of us on this hot day. After we each guzzle about a third of our liter mugs and zip through a little small talk, Alan gets right down to his wonk-ish passion: rail news.

Pulling out a packet of questionable Eurailpasses, he tells me that the big news this year is how dishonest rail travelers may be the doom of traditional railpasses as we know them. Alan holds up one pass and says, “This is the pass of Mr. Chen. He came to me, I looked at his pass, and I knew it wasn’t his. I said, ‘You’re not Mr. Chen’…and he ran out of my office, leaving me with this doctored-up pass.”

Alan tells me that unscrupulous railpass-users — especially Australians and Asians — are erasing and re-writing the dates on their flexipasses in epidemic numbers. The European train officials are trying to counter this by requiring everyone to keep the pass in its original jacket and log each journey on the itinerary page attached. But no one obeys. Travelers in Germany know that cops here — shy about being considered “Gestapo-like” — are reluctant to enforce things too harshly. So in Germany, these new railpass regulations go completely unenforced.

Leaving Alan, I continue my research. My staff organizes and distills the mountain of feedback our readers send us, and I spend a lot of time running down places to eat and sleep that our travelers recommend. I eat dinner at a nondescript neighborhood bistro next to my hotel because someone reported that the food is great, and Youssef and Monika — who run the place — are charming. The place seems unexceptional. Skeptical, I give it a whirl…then the food comes. It’s delicious. Monika has such a pleasant way. When Youssef (the chef from Tunisia) finishes his last order, he sits down at my table and we get into a discussion. I’m loving the place — conviviality-plus. I surprise Monika and Youssef by calling them by name. They wonder how I knew. I tell them about my work, and how someone ate here and recommended them. I get out my pencil to write it up…until Monika says, “But we are closing in two months.” Heartbreak. (If you happen to be in Munich before the end of August, check out Das Kaffeehaus, near the train station at Pettenkoferstrasse 8.)

I’ve had people in the States ask me for reassurance that Europe won’t become Muslim in a generation (as some fear-mongers are saying). I say that’s nonsense, and don’t give it a second thought. But, while at Youssef and Monika’s restaurant, I see lots of extremely conservative Muslim women clad in black. I ask them about it. Youssef says Dubai and Yemen are on holiday, and people there love to vacation in Germany. Two moms — draped in black on this hot evening — drop into the restaurant. They’re making an ice-cream run with their kids. I start up a conversation with the 10-year-old boy and ask him, very clearly, “Do…you…speak…English?” He looks at me like I’m nuts and says, “Of course I do.”

Being on the road humbles me. It connects me with our world. It’s where I get my news. It makes me feel good about humankind.

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I love my times with Munich local guide Georg Reichlmayr — pronounced like a bad guy on Rat Patrol. Rrrrreichlmayr. We got together recently, just after Germany had beat Argentina in the quarterfinal in the World Cup, and everyone was out, going crazy. I enjoy seeing Germans wave their flag, which — with their difficult 20th-century history — they only do for football victories.

Marveling at the chaos in the streets, Georg says, “We won the game…lock up the cats!” I joke that people who were patriotic in the 1930s might be rummaging around in attics and basements, muttering, “There must be a flag around here somewhere.”
I’ve got a long list of restaurants to check for my guidebook. Post-Fussball victory, it’s not a great night for that, as everyone’s partying and it’s tough to get a fair gauge on the normal energy of the place. I complain that I have an imbalance of restaurants, with too many beer gardens and beer halls. Georg admits that’s a problem in Munich — it has an abundance of great beer halls and a shortage of fine restaurants without the noise and suds.

We pop into the Heilig-Geist-Stüberl — literally the “Holy Ghost Pub.” I always read my description before entering a place, then stow the book and see if it rings true. In my guidebook, it’s described like this: “Heilig-Geist-Stüberl is a funky, retro little hole-in-the-wall where you are sure to meet locals (the German cousins of those who go to Reno because it’s cheaper than Vegas, and who consider karaoke high culture). The interior, a 1980s time warp, makes you feel like you’re stepping into an alcoholic cuckoo clock.”

Georg cracks up about the last three words. Stepping inside, it’s perfectly described. It’s hard to get out, but I have to be very disciplined — one drink can kill your research momentum.

We pass an Apple Store — open late and thriving, just like those in American malls. Then we see a bookstore with big reading lounges. Georg says these are all the rage here. I say, “Bookstores providing a ‘third place’ have long been popular in the US.”

A few blocks later, a guy at a curbside table hollers at me. He’s a US soldier stationed at Grafenwöhr. He says they give everyone landing there from the States a copy of the Rick Steves issue of Smithsonian magazine as a welcome gift and encouragement to get out and see Europe while they’re here. I tell him sales have been great (Smithsonian thinks they will sell out of their double-sized print run), but I didn’t realize we were getting distribution at US military bases in Europe. It’s a great bit of news.

Talking with the soldier gets Georg going on Germany’s involvement in Afghanistan. He muses, “What are we doing in Afghanistan? Let’s give the baby a name” (a wonderful German phrase for our “Let’s call a spade a spade”). I say, “You’re there to make America your friend.” He says, “Of course. We’re not defending Oktoberfest. The Taliban is no concern of ours. This last Oktoberfest came with extreme security — the most I saw. Why? Because Germany is in Afghanistan.”

A bit later, seeing someone walk by with a T-shirt reading, “Costa Rica: no army since 1948,” Georg says, “I think America would be more a super power without an army. With no army at all. Think of what you could do with your money instead.” I explain to Georg that you cannot seriously discuss that issue in the USA. He says, “Yes, I know. We have a long history of important families like Krupp making vast fortunes on armaments.”

With our work about done, we stop by Georg’s favorite beer hall, Der Pschorr. At the Hofbräuhaus, they have a big wooden keg out on display, but draw beer from huge stainless-steel dispensers. At Der Pschorr, every few minutes you hear a whop! as they tap a classic old wooden keg. Hearing this, every German there knows they’re in for a good fresh mug.

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In a beer garden, you’re surrounded by big women in uplifting dirndls. Georg confirms that German men don’t favor petite women. These famously low-cut outfits seem designed for German Rubenesque tastes. With the euphoria associated with the World Cup games, there are flags flapping everywhere. A beermaid with German flags painted above her cleavage joins us to take our order. I can’t resist saying, “Nice flags.” I don’t think…it just comes out. Nice flags. She looks at Georg and says, “Warum sagen alle Männer das Gleiche?” (Why do all men react the same?). Georg says, “Weil du sie genau dort trägst” (Because you put them right there).

I ask if they sell half-liters. Georg says, “This is a Biergarten, not a kindergarten”…and he orders us each the standard full Mass, or liter glass (about a quart, nearly what we’d call ein pitcher — but for one person).

Conversation flows like the beer in these beer halls. I mention that Austria just went smoke-free in restaurants this month. Georg thinks they’ll fight it. I marvel at how many people still smoke despite the comically blunt “smoking kills” warnings on cigarette packs. And he can’t resist commenting on America’s love affair with guns. “In European eyes, this America and private guns is something very funny. In the supermarket, kaboom, you defend yourself with a gun.” He doubles over in laughter. Recovering, he admits, “In a different aspect, we are mad, too. In Germany, every man has the right to go as fast as he wants on our roads. All Europe has a speed limit except in Germany. That’s our gun. Not even the Social Democrats dare to have speed limit discussion. Only the Greens do. It’s guns for you, speed for us, and smoke for Austrians. And Italians…they vote for Berlusconi. Berlusconi just bought a Botticelli. Like Mussolini owning a Rafael. They shouldn’t let it happen.”

To Georg, having guns everywhere and the death penalty seems incongruous. He marvels, “You have the death penalty and you give people the right to have a gun. To join the EU, you can’t even talk about the death penalty. It is so fundamental. The state does not kill people. That’s one reason why Turkey can’t get in to the EU. But we kill ourselves without guns. On a night like this, when Germany wins a World Cup match…tomorrow we read about more dead on our roads. The Autobahn is safe. It’s the countryside roads — they are suicide.”

Then, whop! Another keg is tapped as this night of German flags, high-volume conversation, and Georg’s favorite beer seems to be just starting.