Never Ever: What Your Parents Told you Not to do

By Cole Butcher

On what was supposed to be a nice, relaxing walk on one of the first sunny days in Paderno del Grappa, I found myself frantically speed walking on the side of the road, sticking my thumb out at every car speeding by. Having eight kilometers to walk before my class started in 10 minutes, hitch-hiking was the only option I had left. Finally a white van with no windows pulled over to the side of the road, and I had to make the crucial decision of whether I should get in or keep walking.

I had always been told to never hitch-hike. From a very young age my mom, like most worried moms, told me never to talk to or take candy from a stranger, and never to accept rides from a person I didn’t know, unless they knew the secret “password.” As I was a kid at the time, my parents told me the secret password was hippopotamus so I would remember it. Once I got my drivers license, they told me to never pick up hitch hikers, as they may carry machetes in their back packs and they are all crazed lunatics and murderers.

Before deciding whether I should get in the van or not, I had gone on a field trip to Asolo with my Italian class to get a brief history tour of the city. After an hour, it was time to hop back on the bus to Paderno. However, it was such a clear, sunny day that three of us decided to stick around Asolo for lunch and some gelato. Michela Marin, our Italian professor, suggested walking back to Paderno, as it was a beautiful day and it would only take us one hour to get back to campus.

However, we forgot one important piece of information: Do we go left at the bottom of the hill or do we go right? After debating for five minutes, we finally noticed a sign that said “Paderno del Grappa” and it pointed to the right. Trusting the sign would lead us in the correct direction, we began the one hour walk back to Paderno.

After walking on the right side of the road for 30 minutes we decided we needed to walk on the left side. This way we could see the Italian drivers speeding toward us. I could then brace myself for the impact and hopefully leave the driver’s tiny Smart Car in worse condition than I would be.

After nearly 90 minutes of walking we questioned whether we had gone the right way or not. We asked an old Italian man how far Paderno del Grappa was. With an astonished look, he pointed down the road and said “Paderno del Grappa, dieci kilometers.” Ten kilometers! I had a class starting in 30 minutes. I left my classmates behind and started jogging on the side of the road.

I soon realized I would never make it in time. Hitch-hiking was my only option. As cars sped by, some nearly taking my arm off, I lost hope and thought I would surely miss my class. Then it happened. The white windowless van pulled over to the side of the road.

Without asking the driver if he knew the password (hippopotamus) I ran to his van and jumped in. The driver was a man in his late 20’s or early 30’s with a spider web of dirty dreadlocks on his head and a dirt stained shirt. He nodded that he understood where Instituti Filipin was, told me his name was Renato, and said he would take me there. I must have told him grazie a million times. Though I couldn’t understand most of what Renato was saying, he was a very nice man. When we arrived at the campus I tried to give him money for the ride. He waved my hand away and gestured that it was not necessary. Although I was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, I made it to class only three minutes late.

Before coming to Paderno, I never would have considered hitch-hiking, especially in a foreign country. The fear of the unknown had always kept me from it. Reflecting upon this experience, I recalled the words of Chris McCandless in a letter he sent to a friend he met while hitch-hiking across America:

“In reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.”

Hitchhiking in Italy while speaking very little Italian is something I never thought I would do. Though I know I will never regret it. I have had so many new experiences while I have been here. But hitching a ride from Renato in his windowless, white van is one of those experiences that will stick with me for the rest of my life.

Cole Butcher, a University of Oklahoma public relations student, studied in the CIMBA undergraduate program in the spring, 2009

Bon voyage to my knife

By Ted Frederickson

One funky piece of art captivated my wife and me during a recent visit to the Pompidou Centre, a modern art museum in Paris. Created by Chinese artist Cai Guo-Qiang, the 29-foot-long airplane constructed mostly of bamboo hung from the ceiling, with four whirring electric fans (where propellers should be) blowing streams of paper backwards, simulating flight.

We were puzzled by its title, “Bon Voyage: 10,000 Collectables from the airport, 2004,” until we noticed light reflecting from pieces of metal embedded in the plane. When we looked closer, we saw scissors, toenail trimmers, corkscrews, box cutters, hunting knives and other forbidden items that the exhibit explained had been seized from passengers boarding flights at the Sao Paulo, Brazil, airport. The exhibit was lacking in color, except for familiar rectangles of red throughout the wings and fuselage—the ubiquitous Swiss Army Knives that many men carry. I felt mine as I stared up at hundreds forever orphaned from their owners’ pockets.

Little did I realize that three weeks later, I would be approaching the metal detector and x-ray machines at the airport in Malta, fumbling through my pocket for boarding pass and passport, feeling instead (to my horror) my treasured Swiss Army Knife. Normally, I take great care to put my knife in checked luggage, where it is legal. I’ve carried the same knife since college, using it to open good beers (they don’t have twist-offs), make quick repairs with its phillips and regular screwdrivers, or cut up fruit and cheese for impromptu picnics with my wife.

With the baggage already checked, and the Ryanair flight that would take us back to the Venice-Treviso airport already loading, I quickly whispered my situation to my wife. She expressed sympathy for my impending loss, then panic when I informed her that I was determined to find a way to slip it through security. She had visions of the metal detector going off as I walked through, or the uniformed woman intently studying carry-on bags as they traveled through the X-ray, nodding ominously to an armed policeman nearby and pointing at me.

I needed a plan to fool airport security—not to smuggle a weapon onboard for evil purposes, but to avoid losing a knife that accompanied and served me well for 39 years. I veered away from the line to the last bathroom outside the gate. I knew I couldn’t keep the knife in my pocket, because even a small belt buckle will set off the metal detector. So I opened my suitcase, took out my metal-rimmed sunglasses, aligned my knife against the thick top rim of the glasses, then slid them tightly back into the case. I carefully positioned the case so that when the suitcase passed through the X-ray machine, the thin edge of the knife matched the rim of the glasses rather than showing the outline of the blades.

When I returned to the line waiting at the security checkpoint, Merrilee gave me “the look” that husbands know means disapproval. This look had an added p.s. with an exclamation point: You are on your own, Bud, and would you please keep some distance from me!

I took off my shoes, watch, ring and belt; emptied the keys, coins and wallet from my pockets and loaded them along with my jacket into the plastic tray; then set the tray on the conveyor, followed by my suitcase—carefully positioned on its side.

As I watched my wife collect her things on the other side of the conveyor belt and quickly walk away, I stepped through the metal detector, then watched from the other side as the woman stopped the conveyor, studied the screen for one long moment —then let my suitcase pass through.

As I loaded my suitcase into the storage compartment above my seat, I couldn’t help thinking about the message the artist sent with his clever piece at the Pompidou. While those 10,000 collectables (including hundreds of Swiss Army knives like mine) never made it onto their flights, they flew again aboard his bamboo plane. My knife beat the odds and flew Ryanair to Venice. It is still in my pocket.


Ted Frederickson, a University of Kansas professor of journalism, taught in the CIMBA undergraduate program in spring, 2009. He now acknowledges that his wife was right. He does NOT recommend that others follow his lead.

The NOT So Rude Parisians

By Alex Dufek

The French are rude. I visited Paris harboring that stereotype, and three days later I left the beautiful “City of Light” and that stereotype behind.

After spending three wonderful days in Paris, I’m stunned I ever bought into the falsehood that the French are impolite. In fact, I was almost foolish enough to let the fear of being treated unkindly prevent me from visiting Paris. Thank God I didn’t. It would have been the worst mistake I made during my – eh hem – studies abroad.

Not only would I have missed out on one of the most charming cities in the history of western civilization, but I also would have never met a multitude of kind-hearted Parisians. From the handful of strangers who helped us while we were lost on the subway late at night, to the warm and petite hostess at a restaurant near the base of Sacre Coeur to Henri the most genuine taxi driver I’ve ever had the pleasure of riding along with.

Before and during my time abroad, a few individuals advised me that the French were viciously mean and cruel. I was tempted to never step foot in the country and to write the French off as a nationality completely. Stupid! I would have maintained a false stereotype possibly forever had I chosen to do that.

I’ve learned that how people treat you when you travel depends on how you treat them. It’s no different than in the United States. If you show manners, courtesy and respect to others they will in return show it to you.

When I arrived in Paris I was nervous. I didn’t want to upset the “Stuck-up Parisian” I had falsely painted in mind. I wanted to fool people into thinking I spoke French, but in reality I knew only a few words. I grew a mustache for the trip and purchased the first beret I saw. I did my best to blend in.

I also tried to separate myself from the “Rude American,” a stereotype my friends, unknowingly, lived up to on a few occasions. I would slip into a distant seat on the subway when they became loud or obnoxious. However, it didn’t make any difference. Parisians are used to tourists.

Paris has been a major tourist destination for centuries and grew tremendously in popularity with the construction of the Eiffel Tower for the World Fair in 1889. I wondered why a city so famous for tourism supposedly had such rude citizens.

My very first encounter with a Parisian exploded the stereotypes.

We took Ryan Air, a budget airline, to Paris. The ticket is cheaper, but you have to deal with the hassle of landing at an airport 70 km outside the city in the late evening. If you don’t mind taking a 12 Euro shuttle into the city it’s worth it to fly with Ryan. When our shuttle dropped us off in Paris at 11 p.m. we weren’t sure where we were and our Rick Steve’s book informed us that the subway stopped running in 30 minutes.

After 20 minutes of aimlessly searching we called it a night and hailed a cab. Lucky for us, it was Henri who drove up.

A Frenchman in his early 50's, Henri, spoke English better than most of the cabbies you’ll find in New York City. We were skeptic about getting hit with a huge cab fare. We had all gotten ripped off by cabs in other cities. However we were far from our hostel and desperately needed a cab.

Before we got in the cab, Henri kindly managed our interrogation about prices and extra fees for bags. He told us it would cost six euro for four people. We gladly agreed. He warned us not to get into any cab without a glowing sign on the top. However, ones with signs, like his, are “Always fair – Always!” We couldn’t help but laugh a little about how sincere he was. He responded, with even more zest, saying, “I’m serious – in Paris – we are all very fair, very fair!”

The ride turned out to be an educational experience. Henri gave us tips on where to eat, where to drink, where to dance and what to see. For every question we raised, he had an answer. He tuned the radio to find our favorite music. Most importantly, if any of us weren’t already excited to be in Paris he made sure we were, describing the city as only someone who lived and loved in Paris for 32 years could. He told us he’d lived in Amsterdam and other cities throughout Europe, but could never pull himself away from Paris. “It’s the BEST!”

Unfortunately, the cab ride had to end, and when it did the damage was only six euros – as promised. He was very fair! We enthusiastically thanked Henri and then he drove off. Thinking back, I wish I would have tipped him, because he broke a stereotype that could have ruined my entire trip. It probably wouldn’t have mattered – he wouldn’t have taken the tip anyway.

Throughout the trip, when we appeared lost or confused in a foreign land, which we often were, a Parisian would approach us with no personal gain at stake and offer a helping hand.

In Sacre Coeur we planned on eating at a well-known fondue restaurant, but they would not seat us without a reservation. We had no back-up plan. A hostess from across the street spotted our lost pack of tourists and came to the rescue. She showed us an affordable deal on the menu (12 euro for three courses) and pushed some tables together to accommodate our group. I never saw her stop moving or smiling. She served all the tables in the restaurant but never failed to serve the food in a prompt manner.

Another kind Parisian I could never forget was the “I Phone Guy.” He was the only reason I had a fun Friday night in Paris. We were lost on the tram late at night and many metro lines had stopped running. After about an hour of tram hopping all hope seemed loss. We huddled over a map for minutes trying to find our way.

A passerby stopped, out of the goodness of his heart, and spent 15 minutes working his I Phone to get us to a bar to meet our friends. He found the exact address of the bar for us, told us what tram lines to take and even gave us an alternative route in case something went wrong. We would have had a disappointing night if it weren’t for him.

I arrived in Paris with a bad attitude about Parisians, but I took home a beret, a mustache and a new stereotype I intend to spread – The French are some of the nicest people I’ve ever met.


Alex Dufek, a University of Kansas journalism student from Green Bay, WI, studied in the CIMBA undergraduate program in spring, 2009.

Do As The Germans Do

By Clair Wenzel

This was my first visit to Munich and I had one motivation: to find good German beer. I wanted to experience the German culture first hand. I knew exactly where I could do it, the most famous beer hall in the world, The Hofbrauhaus. I was traveling with my boyfriend who had similar intentions. Shivering in my light jacket, I smiled when I stepped into the warm beer hall.

I was taken back by the size of it as the beer hall covers nearly a whole city block. Its high ceilings supported by massive wooden beams run along the ceiling. Old wooden floors were worn down by years of drunken traffic. Despite its massive size, the Hofbrauhaus manages to have a cozy, intimate feel. Thick wooden tables line up end to end throughout the restaurant. Smells of comfort food wafted out from the kitchen. The plump waitresses hustled up and down the aisles delivering mugs of beer to thirsty customers. Suddenly, it came to my attention; nearly all the tables were full! It was a Tuesday night in Munich, yet there was no lack of willing beer drinkers. We had certainly come to the right place.

In the center of the hall, a small band assembled that consisted of five men, dressed in lederhosen. They sat with their instruments: horns, accordion, drums and bells. “Oom pah pah, oom pah pah” The band set the tone for the night.

As we walked through the main room we encountered a large wooden staircase which led us to the next level of the hall. The second floor was just as lively as the first. People moving around toting their oversized mugs filled with various types of beer. We stumbled upon a medium-sized room. As we made our way inside, overweight German woman approached us and muttered something in her native tongue, unrecognizable to our foreign ears. She wore a long, flowing denim skirt. Her flowery blouse was covered by a cream colored apron. She wore her hair in a tight bun with not a single hair out of place. She led us to a long wooden table. The back of each chair was intricately engraved with the HB symbol of the Hofbrauhaus. We quickly realized we had found ourselves at a German buffet! It was my version of heaven. All the sausages and sauerkraut I could want.

As we sat down, I instantly noticed the oversized pretzels sitting in a basket on our table. Warm to the touch, they were the best pretzels I had ever tasted. Warm and salty, they would perfectly complement the beer. Scanning over the extensive beer menu, the options were endless. Who ever knew there were this many different varieties of beer? Without hesitation, I selected the Hofbrauhaus Original beer. As the waitress brought our drinks to the table, I was convinced she made a mistake. “Oh no, this huge mug of beer could not be for little old’ me!” However, I was wrong. It is one size fits all here in this historic beer hall. They only serve beer by the liter. If you want to drink among the Germans, you must learn to drink like one. The beer was transparent and amber in color. A white cap of foam topped the mug. I flexed my small arms as I struggled to bring the giant mug to my lips. The beer was light and ice cold. I was pleased to find out it was one of the lighter beers they offered. It was the perfect thing to wash my pretzel down with.

As I swallowed my beer, the waitress escorted a large German couple to our table. Although we were seated at the end of a very long, empty table, they were seated directly next to us. I scanned the room, realizing there were numerous other vacant tables available. However, the waitress brought them directly next to us. I later learned this was an experience of the German culture. Here, it is not uncommon for strangers to be seated together. We were more than willing to spend our night learning first hand from the locals.

Shortly after the waitresses began preparing the buffet, a line formed. We made our way to the back. I was the smallest person there. We were surrounded by buffet veterans. Plump and serving themselves two plates at a time. As I passed through the buffet line, I discovered an array of classic home-style comfort food. I had been craving this cuisine ever since I left home more than two months prior. It was also a nice variation from the pasta and carbohydrates we are smothered with in Italy, where I had been studying abroad.

The Bavarian Buffet offered a large variety of fresh vegetables and makings for a salad, sausages, different versions of sauerkraut, rice, macaroni and cheese, and mashed potatoes. We filled out plates and headed back to our table.
As we sat down, a small group of men entered the room dressed in classic German attire. Embroidered lederhosen and German hats, complete with a feather, gave the impression they were straight out of a German history book. They assembled behind their instruments and began to play for us. The live music completely changed the environment of the room. We were tapping our feet as we stuffed ourselves. Everyone in the room smiled and clapped along with the music. It seemed to bring everyone together. I felt completely immersed in the local culture.

Suddenly, two couples also dressed in classic German attire danced their way into the room. The men making their appearance known clapped and shouted as they entered. The couples put on a show for us as the women twirled in circles and danced to the music in front of the room. Throughout the night, their performance turned into a variety show as they introduced other talents such as bell ringing and yodeling.

The combination of beer, pretzels, sausages and classic German entertainment was the perfect storm for an ideal cultural experience in Munich.

After dinner, an elderly man approached us and introduced himself as Wendell. He had a hint of a German accent but spoke fluent English. His rounded belly and plump cheeks gave him a jolly appearance. He sat down and was eager to share his story with us. As we ordered another round of beer, we found out Wendell was born in Munich but that he and his wife had moved to the United States to raise their children. They were now back in their homeland of Munich to retire. After we all introduced ourselves with a brief history, he invited us on a tour of the Hofbrauhaus. He explained his wife was related to one of the owners and we would receive our own personal tour. Without hesitation, we grabbed our mugs and were on our way.

We walked through the halls, peering into each room. This made me realize the magnitude of this huge place. Our guide informed us that average attendance on a weekday here in the Hofbrauhaus is 2,000 people. On the weekends, the beer hall can expect upwards of 20,000 people. This was easily apparent tonight because the tables were filled with people. I stumbled as I attempted to calculate the annual revenue of the hall. With each beer costing at least six euro, I had already had two, not to mention the costs of food and merchandise. It was incredible.

Walking through the halls, we learned the Hofbrauhaus has an extensive history dating back to the 1600’s. This hall is where locals of Munich have gathered to hold meetings and socialize for centuries. In fact, Hitler started the Nazi revolution in this beer hall. He continued to hold meetings here for years, spreading his ideals over liters of the Hofbrauhaus lager. Because of this, the hall was bombed several times throughout the war and most of it had to be rebuilt.

We continued our tour of the main hall and I noticed a floor to ceiling rack of locks. After questioning our tour guide, I found out the regulars of the hall have a special place for their mugs. Someone can gain the title of a regular by attending the Hofbrauhaus at least two times each week. Once you earn the title of a regular, you can put your name on a waiting list to lock your mug up here. With this, a German beer lover has the ability to come to the beer hall and unlock their personal mug and drink out of it whenever they come. However, at this time the waiting list is at least five years long.

“If there is such a long wait list to lock up your mug, how come there are so many empty spaces?” I questioned our tour guide. “That’s because they’re all here drinking right now!” Astonished, I realized how frequently these men must attend.

For centuries, the Hofbrauhaus has brought people together over the German pastime of drinking beer. The warm atmosphere serves as an ideal way to escape the cold German winters and experience the quintessential culture of Munich as it has been for centuries.


Clair Wenzel, a University of Kansas journalism student from Minneapolis, studied in the CIMBA undergraduate program in spring, 2009.

Florence Frenzy!!!

By Meaghan Hinder

Infused with infectious energy, Florence ticks to an upbeat rhythm your heart can’t help but parallel. The moment my friend Mary and I exited the Santa Maria Novella Train Station, Firenze became my favorite city to date.

Tall pines straight out of Dr. Suess’ Hooville keep vendors cool and shoppers comfortable during the daily bustle of Florence’s outdoor street markets. Bargains are negotiated while arms reach one over another to sift through displays of brightly colored leather purses, notebooks, money clips…etc. I buckled and bought a navy tri-fold wallet stamped with the enchanted Fleur-di-lis symbol to replace a shabby cloth one given to me for being an outstanding nanny in the summer 2007. Additional purchases included a striped pashmina scarf shaded with lavender to deep violet tones, a plethora of postcards, and 30 leather bracelets at one-euro a piece to give as the perfect gift for girlfriends back home.

The perpetually popular Yellow Bar was recommended to Mary for our first night in town. The menu was cramped with creative salads and mouth-watering pizza combinations. The place was crowded, noisy, and fun; we snatched a table as soon as we spotted one. The paper placemats and piano player set the scene for an arousing Thursday evening in Florence.

Charming Piano Player

After the Yellow we walked along Via del Proconsolo toward the red-doored Duomo, which can be seen from any corner of the city. The moonlight reflected off the hunter green and white marble, creating a mystical aura around the masterpiece. We stopped for a minute just to soak it all in.

When strolling in the direction of the Archi Rossi Mary and I stumbled upon J.J.’s Cathedral, a hole-in-the-wall pub packed for a weekday. We decided to order their famous sweet and sour Snakebite cocktail. Three ‘bites’ later and lounging on a tiny balcony small enough for two, I inhaled the March air slowly: hoping to never forget what it was like to breath in Florence.

Friday began with a 10 am free walking tour provided by The Archi Rossi. The Santa Maria Novella Church was our first stop. Built in 1279 it is white and hunter green marble, much like the Duomo and almost all Renaissance architecture. I learned that baroque stylistic designs used in Prague and Rome would not be found here; Firenze’s buildings were less fanciful and more simplistic.

Next we passed the Medici Palace. Huge and exteriorly simplistic, I pictured horses and carriages lined and anchored to the sturdy iron rings along the palace’s outside walls. Just around the corner stands the Davanzati Palace. Free entry provided answers for curious minds. The medieval foyer housed the royal family’s small army in the event that an invasion took place. By day, ‘peep’ holes in the high ceiling allowed the Davanzati’s to see who was coming and going.

With the Trinity Bridge a close distance ahead, the group reached the Arno River. Down in the fast moving current, we spotted otters swimming below. I felt like it was my first visit to the zoo. The tour ended at the Pitti Palace and backyard Boboli Gardens. Mary and I decided to hit some hot spots before spending hours there. A straight shot from the palace, we crossed Ponte Vecchio (ancient bridge lined with gold and silver vendors). We learned that it once housed all of Florence’s butchers before the Pitti’s complaints about the stench turned it into a scentless bridge for jewelry only. I loved seeing the Arno through front doors and far windows of the tiny expensive shops. Uneven terre cotte roofs and mismatching flowerpots lined the zigzag borders of each shop.

After successfully ignoring temptations to buy everything we liked, Mary and I made it back to the Duomo. The cathedral was massive and offered free tours from Antonio, a hunched-over charming Italian well into his 70s. Although he was closing shop, Antonio agreed to give a quick tour of his favorite facts. I learned about the cathedral’s medieval clock that still ticks on a 24-hour clock. Therefore, roughly 5 pm our time was 1 am their time. Four pm our time would be the start of the 24^th hour.

It was perfect timing to climb up inside Brunelleschi’s famous dome for sunset over Florence. Mary and I pointed out everything we’d seen that day and all that we planned to see Saturday- Accedemia, Uffizi Gallery, Santa Croce church…etc. Each picture we snapped included the beaming sun disappearing into Tuscany’s rolling hills.

It was a weekend I will never forget in an unforgettable city. I cannot wait to return.

Meaghan Hinder, a Virginia Tech student communication student, studied in the CIMBA undergraduate program in spring, 2009.

A Date With Eiffel

By Clair Wenzel

To the rest of the world, the Eiffel tower is the international symbol of Paris. It is visible for all to see during the day, but in a sense the tower is sleeping. Only at night does it come alive. This is the ideal time to experience the Eiffel.

On my first visit to Paris, I traveled with a group of students who were also Paris virgins. I had one thing foremost on my mind--the Eiffel Tower. Our first day was spent briskly walking from museum to museum in a vain attempt to see everything. As I passed the Eiffel, my eyes remained fixed on the giant structure, having only moments to stare until I was forced to catch up with my fast paced group on the way to a museum. However, as delighted as I was to see the Eiffel during the day, I was unaware that later that night, I would literally see the new tower in a different light.

We planned our busy day of sightseeing to conclude with the grand finale, the Eiffel Tower. That evening, we all dressed in our best. The women wore dresses, in spite of their wrinkled appearance, a result of being tucked away in backpacks. The men wore slacks and ties to impress the women they would be accompanying for the evening.

From our hotel, there was no need for a map as the top of the tower was always in sight and served as our guide. After a short walk, we turned a corner and found ourselves face to face with the illuminated tower. My face decided it would smile whether I wanted to or not.

Suddenly, the tower came alive. Thousands of flashing lights made the tower sparkle. Every night, the tower puts on a light show for five minutes at the top of the hour. As we stood and snapped pictures of the flashing tower, it appeared as if thousands of people scattered throughout the tower were taking pictures of us. Hundreds of flashes went off as each second passed by. As quickly as it began, the tower’s performance ended. We wasted no time and moved closer.

We headed under the tower to purchase our tickets. Zigzagging through the empty ticket line, we made our way to the front almost instantly. Because it was nearing the end of the night, we didn’t have to wait. It was 10:28pm and we were the last people who would be allowed up the tower this evening. The tower closes at eleven, but the last elevator to the top departs at 10:30pm. It is open later in the summer.

We were faced with a decision. For four euro, you can tackle the stairs and climb to the first and second levels. On the other hand, the elevator provides easy access to all levels and is the only access to the top. It costs 4.80 euro to go to the first level, 7.80 euro for the second level and 12 euro to take the elevator to the top. Without hesitation, I pulled 12 euro out of my wallet and stepped inside.

As we entered the elevator, I felt my friend Richie grab my hand. “I’m scared of heights,” he admitted. Turning to him, I realized that my excitement had blinded me to his apprehension. By this point Richie was shaking, his palms moist to the touch. I reassured him that everything would be fine.

The operators of the elevator ushered thirty of us in and we crammed together like sardines in a can. Huddled together, we began our ascent. Smoothly and silently the elevator, at an angle, made its way up the leg of the tower.

Shortly after, the elevator slowed and came to a stop. As we exited the elevator, I rushed out and started to make my way to the edge of the tower. I was quickly informed we were only half way to the top. My stomach turned over with excitement as we stood in line for the next elevator.

The second elevator ride, straight up, was longer than the first. After we could go no further, the doors slid open. A strong burst of cool wind swirled into the elevator. Laughing with excitement, my friends and I pressed our arms to our sides to keep our dresses from flying above our heads. Pushing our way out into the gusting winds, we stepped out to the edge of the tower.

Looking down, we saw Paris, dusted with lights. Roads we had been on moments before looked like slender lines of light running across the city. I watched as the searchlight on the tip of the tower scanned the horizon, its beam of light piercing the deep black sky. Just as I was about to snap a picture, the tower came alive once again. This time, we had a front row seat for the spectacular flashing light show. Strobes of light flickered up and down the smooth metal structure. The tower was alive and sparkling.

Each morning as the sun rises over Paris, the tower resumes its slumber, silently resting for its next nightly performance. Because when the sun sinks below the horizon, that’s when the Eiffel Tower comes alive.

Clair Wenzel, a University of Kansas journalism student from Minneapolis, studied in the CIMBA undergraduate program in spring, 2009.

A peaceful vacation

By Niki Thiessen

A cool sea wind whips the hair from your eyes as you look up at the imposing church in front of you. You can hardly believe you have found this hidden paradise, where lemons grow in winter; the air is warm, and the people beautiful. On the door you read “Dear Guest, I welcome you to this lovely place in which the ancient history, the faith, the tradition are a great wealth. We need vacation to rest, to find again the spirituality of our soul.” The truth of that sign won’t resonate until I meet Pasquale, the smart-car driving landlord who lives to make his guests comfortable

Study abroad students often try to make the most of their time abroad by taking a “turbo-speed” tour of the continent they are visiting. Vacations are marathons of four countries in 10 days, 10 beer halls in five days, cultural sights and museums. It is physically and emotionally exhausting. They return to school unprepared for the work that awaits them. Sometimes they can’t even remember highlights of the trip. My traveling companions and I found Sorrento, Italy, near Naples, to be a secret paradise to relax and enjoy the culture and beauty of a place we had never seen.

Getting to Sorrento can be tricky. Lying on the Adriatic coast, south of Naples, the only way to access this beautiful city is by car or the Circumvesuviana, a commuter train running from the Naples train station. When our train stopped in Naples, I immediately wanted to leave. The town was dirty, the people unfriendly, and the station confusing. When we tried to purchase tickets to Sorrento, we found we were in the wrong line. As the train snaked south, stopping every 5 minutes, the sun broke through the clouds, we rounded a cliff and were stunned by the view of the Bay of Naples and the Sorrento peninsula, and suddenly the people seemed friendlier.

When we were booking the trip we took a chance, one I encourage other students to take, and booked an apartment instead of a hostel or hotel. Casale Nunziatina was touted as a remodeled villa originally built in the 1700’s. While we were still in Rome, I received a phone call from an unrecognizable number and answered on a whim.

"Nicole? This is Pasquale!” The voice sounded as if he was my best friend and I shouldn’t be racking my brain trying to decide who Pasquale was.

“You have a reservation in Sorrento tonight, no? Are you still coming?”

“Yes,” I replied, still a little confused.

"Ok, good. When you get to Sorrento, call me on my cell phone and I will come pick you up! Do you have a pen?” Pasquale’s offer to pick us up was just the beginning of his unending kindness and the benevolence of Sorrento residents.

When we arrived, true to his word, Pasquale was there to pick us up. A tall but weathered older man with thick glasses stepped out of a tiny Smart Car. Now if you’ve never seen a smart car, it is about six feet long. Incredulity must have crossed my face as I wondered how we would fit four young women plus luggage into that tiny car. Pasquale quickly explained he would take two of us and the luggage to the apartment, and then return for the other two.

The hilarity of the situation increased as we drove through roads wide enough for only one smart car and about three spare inches on either side. Pasquale joked naturally with us and teased us about the frightened looks that contorted our faces. His English was easily understandable and in less than five minutes, he told us his life story and how he learned English by working on a trade ship that ran routes from Alaska to Long Beach.

When people and luggage were safely dropped off at what we thought was the apartment, Pasquale informed us that we would have to walk another 100 meters. He conveniently left out that it was all uphill. Pasquale, who looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies, was in better shape than most people my age and climbed the hill with ease. We practically jogged to keep up.

Our friendly landlord opened the gate to the grounds and led us into a hidden heaven. Lemon and orange trees filled the garden bearing fruit the size of a fist. Pasquale said it wouldn’t be picked until May. The house was a beautiful coral color. The arched doorways were short enough that most men would have to duck and the cobble stone paths that taunted our high heels reminded us of the building’s 18th century history. Our delighted expressions brought a look of satisfaction to Pasquale’s face.

“You like?” he asked, although it was more of a statement.

For the next 45 minutes Pasquale showed us the ins and outs of our apartment including how to use the free washing machine and the automatic windows. The kitchenette even came stocked with spaghetti and red sauce, olive oil, coffee, sugar, and basic Italian spices. He introduced us to his wife Rosetta, who doesn’t speak English, and their five cats who love to sunbathe on the apartment windowsills. Before he left us to settle in, he said “I ask one thing, just don’t break everything!” And with that he left us pondering our luck at finding such a wonderful place to stay.

Two days later, Pasquale’s humor and hospitality were showered upon us again when we tried to make coffee. We decided it would be fun to drink an Italian espresso and thought we were smart enough to work a moka, an Italian coffee pot, but we ended up burning the grounds. We left the pot out to cool before we were going to attempt it again, but before we had the chance, Pasquale was knocking on our door. “I smell something burning, is everything ok?” he asked with legitimate concern.

“Oh, we were just trying to make some coffee,” I said.

Immediately concerned that we had ruined the moka, Pasquale examined it like a doctor would a patient. Satisfied that there was no damage to the coffee pot or the apartment, a glint of mischief appeared in Pasquale’s eyes and he said “Oh my, you burn everything! Here I show you how to do it right.”

Puttering around the kitchen and not caring that he was interrupting us washing dishes, Pasquale dumped the scorched coffee, filled the moka with water and re-started the coffee. He joked with us about how weak American coffee is compared to the shot of espresso Italians drink. As the coffee finally began to percolate, Pasquale turned the heat down, and slipped out the door before we could invite him to join us. He made sure he stayed long enough to help us, but didn’t intrude on our vacation.

While Casale Nunziatina was an extraordinary place, we didn’t stay there all day long. Sorrento and the Amalfi coast have scenic panoramas and tourist attractions. Supposedly it has hopping nightlife in the summer, but very few bars were open during out February stay. We took day-trips to Pompeii, Positano, the Amalfi Coast and Capri, none of which were more than an hour away by bus or train.

Pompeii sparked daydreams of living in the town of 20,000 people and walking along the cobblestone paths in Roman style togas the day it was buried by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Positano and the Amalfi coast offered an opportunity to see the beauty of the Adriatic Sea from a bus. A word of warning for those who suffer motion sickness: bring the Dramamine for the Amalfi coast tour. Buses zip through the narrow switchbacks along the costal cliffs and if you go to Capri you may need it for the 25 minute ferry that leaves from Sorrento.

On our final day in Sorrento, Pasquale loaded our luggage into his Smart Car, asked us if we enjoyed our stay and if we had “broke everything.” We said no, but he checked just to make sure. He drove us to the train station in pairs of course. As he drove away I was unexpectedly sad, as if I was leaving something I had truly come to love. But Pasquale’s kindness prevailed again. He smiled and waved as if we were old friends and would see each other again.

When I returned to school, my comrades had great stories of beer fests and bike tours; museums and castles; getting lost and missing flights. They had fun but they were exhausted. I was tired but my soul was rejuvenated. That little church’s sign rang true in my ears. I felt peaceful about returning to school. I smiled as I recalled my fondest memory of Sorrento; a little old man, pulling up in a smart car, and explaining how he would transport four college women and their luggage to a paradise they didn’t know even existed. In that moment, I knew that because of Pasquale’s kindness, someday I will return to Sorrento.

Niki Thiessen, a journalism and communications double major at the University of Kansas, attended the CIMBA undergraduate program in spring, 2009

Rick Steves, Rain and a Ristorante

By Megan Turner

On our search for the Tuscan sun, Megan and I did not let the persistent drizzle stop our journey. We decided to set out for a seemingly ironic day Under the Tuscan Rain. Little did we know that the rain (and Rick Steves) would lead us to the warmth that exists within the cuisine and culture of Cortona, even when the sun is nowhere in sight.

Sharing one umbrella, we huddled under an overhang to see what attraction Rick would lead us to first. With nearly every activity either a two-mile walk outside of Cortona or closed since it was Sunday, we had to come up with an alternative. What is there to do in a small Tuscan town on a Sunday in the rain? As our stomachs grumbled, the answer seemed apparent. Eat.

With only a few local restaurants open for lunch at noon, Megan and I stumbled across one that we had recognized, a ristorante that offered a 5 percent discount if we brought in our faithful travel companion’s book. Without hesitation, we stepped inside accompanied by Rick Steves.

The stairs led us down into the building, which was clearly an old medieval cellar. The stone walls and crisp air created a dark, yet inviting atmosphere. The simple tables were adorned with candlelight and racks of wine covered the bare walls. Romano, the owner of the restaurant, rounded the corner. His salt and pepper hair was slicked back and he wore slacks paired with a button up shirt and a vest that fit snugly around his belly.

Unsure if he spoke English, we quickly fumbled for the Rick Steves book and pointed to Romano then to the book. He looked puzzled until we showed him the entry titled, Ristorante La Buccicia.

As the realization set in, Romano’s joy illuminated the room. He began dancing around the store in excitement, yelling, “Agostina, Francesca!” His daughter and wife, the chef, came running from the kitchen. With pride shining through his smile, Romano showed his wife and daughter the book. It was like watching an Olympic medalist show off a gold medal.

He motioned for us to sit down in the corner, pulling out our chairs then tucking us into the table. Looking at the menu, I asked about the pasta dishes. He snatched the menus back and exclaimed, “I bring you a taste of my favorite dishes.”

I hadn’t realized by using the plural word of dishes, he was about to provide us a traditional Italian meal. First came the antipasti, a variety of sliced meats and fresh bread. The first primi was Bucaccia-style homemade nastrine pasta in a spicy pecorino-cheese sauce. Just as we finished the last bite, Francesca picked up our plates with Romano right behind her presenting us with our second pasta, homemade chestnut flour Ravioli in a porcini mushroom sauce. The slightly chewy, al dente pasta encased a creamy mixture of ricotta cheese that paired perfectly with the mushrooms. Thinking the meal was over, we scraped the plate clean.

Before we could look up, a smiling Romano held the secondi, or main dish, beef filet cooked in Chianti wine paired with sautéed potatoes and seasoned with fresh rosemary. He placed our dishes down and waited expectantly as we took our first bite. When we looked up, mouths full, to give him the head nod of approval, he smiled and pinched our cheeks. Although he spoke little English, the language barrier was not a problem. The only words necessary for Megan and I to mutter were, “Romano! Molto Bene!”

With a double edged sword of hope, hoping it was almost done because we were so full, yet wanting more because it tasted so good, we were excited to see the next course was dessert. Romano sliced warm chocolate chip biscotti and slid it onto our place mats to dip in a little cup of espresso.

When we realized that three hours had passed, we decided it was time to head back to reality. A little nervous at how much this meal would cost, we worked our way over to the bar to pay. Romano rushed over and said, “For you girls,” he then scribbled on a slip of paper 20 euros. We each handed him a ten, promised to tell everyone of our experience and received a big bear hug from Romano with a kiss on each cheek and a pinch for good measure.

As we walked outside, the rain jolted us back into reality. We strolled silently through the narrow street and soaked in our experience. It suddenly became clear that Cortona relied on more than its Tuscan Sun. Locals, like Romano and his family, make sure that Cortona glows year round, rain or shine.

Megan Turner, University of Kansas journalism student, studied in the CIMBA undergraduate program in spring, 2009.

Cooking Lessons:

Romano and his wife offer tourists the chance to discover the typical products of Cortona and Tuscan cuisine. He uses fresh local materials and locally produced olive oil and wines from the region. The dishes are never too elaborate and can be made at home. He says, “we make a lot out of a very little and you can cook for your family in your home our recipes.” Reservations are required.

Ristorante La Bucaccia
Via Ghibellina 17
Cortona (AR)
Te. 0575 606039

http://www.labubaccia.it/

info@labucaccia.it

Champagne Powder: Shredding the Slopes in Innsbruck

By Cole Butcher

Sitting above a snow covered cliff unable to see where I might land, I thought to myself, “I’m in Innsbruck Austria! There is no turning back now!” As I pointed my board down the slope, my heart started racing and I was worried that this may not be the soft landing I was hoping for. Maybe I should have listened to the lift operator when he said, “stick to the trails.”

Innsbruck had been on my mind for two years prior to coming to Italy. It has been called the snowboarding capital of Europe and the Mecca of freeride snowboarding. In addition, the city has been the host of two Winter Olympic Games (1964, 1976). Innsbruck has 30 ski resorts within a two hour drive from downtown that offer something for snowboarders and skiers of all skill sets. However, if you are a beginner boarder or skier, it would be wise to stick to the easy and moderate runs when you start out your trip. It is pretty easy to put yourself in some dangerous positions if you aren’t careful.

Patscher Kofel is a great resort to start with in order to get your legs back under you. The resort is only 20 minutes from downtown and a free ski bus offers rides every 30 minutes. This is a smaller resort and the majority of the runs are blue (easy) and red (medium). Its highest point is 2250 meters and, on a clear day, you can see the entire city of Innsbruck from the Panorama Restaurant at the top.

However, this resort isn’t the best for freeriding snowboarders. Many of the runs turn into cat walks and it is hard to keep your speed up. On a day with very little visibility, 10 to 15 feet, it is very easy to get stuck on the catwalks if you are worried about flying off that invisible cliff. It would be best to visit this resort when the visibility conditions are good.

For the more advanced snowboarders, Stubaier Gletscher (Glacier) is a resort you do not want to miss out on while in Innsbruck. To get to the resort we took the free ski bus which has various stops throughout downtown Innsbruck. The bus takes 90 minutes to get to Stubaier, so if you want to get a full day in be sure to get on at the first bus stop.

Once we arrived at the resort, I was amazed at how big the glacier was. The entire resort is above the tree line and the runs are wide open. Its highest point is 3333 meters and it is the highest point accessible by a lift in the entire Tyrolean region. Stubaier is also the only resort near Innsbruck that offers year-round snowboarding and skiing. Unlike resorts I have been to in Colorado and California, riders have the freedom to go wherever they want. The trails are marked by stakes rather than ropes or trees so it is easier to get off the beaten path. However, first time visitors should remember the warnings. Avalanches, crevasses and high cliffs are the main hazards.

The only terrain open to boarders and skiers is accessible through a series of gondolas that take you above the tree line. Earlier in the day the marked runs had a seemingly endless amount of champagne powder, but they tended to get choppy toward the end of the day. If you are willing to accept the risks, the best powder riding is away from the marked trails. This is precisely how I put myself in the pickle of staring down at a cliff with no knowledge of how high it was or where I would land.

As I rapidly approached the edge of the cliff the adrenaline began to kick in and I knew there was no turning back. As my board carved through the pristine powder I hopped off the ledge not knowing when I would return to the ground. Luckily the cliff was about 15 feet high rather than a deadly 100. It was still the biggest ledge I had ever leaped off of. I hit the ground and nailed the landing. However my excitement was short lived as I caught an edge soon after and had a “yard sale” in a flat section of some deep, cold powder.

Innsbruck, truly the snowboarding capital of Europe, offered the best snow conditions I had ever seen and many challenging runs that allowed me to become a better snowboarder. Putting myself in the position of having no choice but to hop off of a ledge without spotting my landing may not have been my smartest decision. However, I will always remember the overwhelming feeling of accomplishment I had when I landed. Flirting with that imaginary line that exists between exciting and dangerous will always create memories you will never forget.

Cole Butcher, a University of Oklahoma public relations student, studied in the CIMBA undergraduate program in spring, 2009

Rome: Two Pigrimages

By Ailin Darling

I anticipated visiting Rome with what can only be called a reader’s enthusiasm, with the pages of art history textbooks constantly turning in my mind. But from the moment I climbed out of that first metro station, treasure trove museums and sun-filled ruins attacked my senses, replacing my painfully recounted facts with feelings. I quickly became enamored with the echoing sound of my footsteps on marble and the feel of grainy stone worn by thousands of years beneath my hands. Most poignant of all were two brilliant landmarks of Christianity: one a gleaming jewel, worn proudly by the Catholic Church, the other a dank, claustrophobic mess of old tombs. Over the course of our two days in Rome, the four of us became impromptu pilgrims, relentlessly trekking uneven streets and braving the antics of crazy bus drivers on twisting roads, all in search of two very different houses of worship

The Vatican is very clearly marked on any map of Rome, and visitors can reach the attraction simply by following the many yellow signs to S. Pietro. However, on a sunny Sunday morning, the way is somewhat chaotic. Ascending from the metro, we immediately met an immense river of people, all flowing in the same direction. We joined this living throng, filing behind a group of nuns in severe gray habits. After a couple of turns, we reached a long street flanked on either side by every kind of vendor. Sellers of knock-off purses and cheap rosaries called out “Hey lady!” as we passed, making me wish I knew the Italian for “very rude.” Then our human river flooded a new space, a basin bordered by curved rows of massive white columns. These rows form Gianlorenzo Bernini’s colonnade, two immense arms extending from an overwhelming structure at their center. My eyes followed a wide stairway up to the shining façade of St. Peter’s basilica. Morning was the perfect time to view such a place, whose light colored stone radiated sunlight and left me squinting to see more. A fountain near the center of the square was an island in a sea of heads, all pointed upward toward one corner of the colonnade. I turned my own head to match.

The stately building adjacent to the basilica seemed awkwardly placed to me, as if added as an afterthought to the symmetry of the grandiose church and its mighty tentacles. But today, it housed the highlight of everyone’s visit. As we waited, the square turned into a boisterous Babel of languages: Spanish, French, English, German… A cheer rose suddenly from the crowd, but was almost immediately stifled by one motion from the small white figure who appeared in the second window from the right of the Apostolic Palace.

The pope gave his blessing in five languages. His Spanish was better than his English, which he spoke with a strong yet pleasant German accent. During the speeches I couldn’t understand, I let my eyes wander through the jungle of columns nearest to me. Men dressed in dark blue uniforms dotted the space between St. Peter’s and the outside. These were polizia, looking slightly more formidable than the flamboyantly traditional Swiss Guard. At the top of the colonnade, the pope had other guardians: Bernini’s stone statues of saints in shrouds with eyes that peered down into the crowd or up into heaven. The pope said his goodbye, and a gradual exodus from the square began.

When we returned to the Vatican the next day to visit its museums and the basilica, we found the square nearly as crowded as the day before. This time, visitors formed a coiling snake of a line, waiting to enter the Vatican’s buildings. The line moved quickly, and we soon found ourselves crossing beneath an arched doorway edged with comical signs bearing cartoon examples of inappropriate dress.

St. Peter’s is itself a living museum. In every nook, every corner of floor, wall and ceiling are artistic flourishes worth exploring. Enraptured angels and saints seem ready to fly out of ivory panels, while statues of the popes look on with stern expressions, or kindly ones, perhaps mirroring their temperaments in life. The floor is a marble chessboard of deep red, sky blue, rosy pink and sunny yellow. Groups of tourists near me gasped with surprise as they discovered displays containing the preserved bodies of dead popes, somber tombs surrounded by golden cherubs and polished Madonnas in flowing stone gowns. Michelangelo’s Pieta is now safe from the hammers of madmen behind its wall of Plexiglas, one of a few modern amenities that seemed dreadfully out of place.

After making several circles around the long aisles, I reached the papal altar beneath its colossal baldachin, a larger-than-life bronze canopy I had found unimpressive in textbook pictures. Its four twisting posts guide the eye up to an off-center view of the dome. The presence of an altar reminded me that this opulent palace was actually a church. I tried to picture a silent congregation before this altar, listening to mass or bowed in prayer, but each splendorous monument seemed to command attention, calling over its neighbors like the street vendors of the day before.

I was the driving force for our group’s visit to the Catacombs of St. Domitilla. They were out of the way, with limited hours of operation that cut our day in half. Armed with instructions from my travel guide and a map, I led my companions to one of the farthest metro stops from the city’s center. We ascended again, this time to a seedy urban neighborhood. The bus stop in front of us was covered in graffiti. I couldn’t find our bus on any schedule. I crossed the busy street to question a man in a newsstand, narrowly dodging a speeding bus. Our bus left from another stop a few blocks away. One of my companions was already glaring at me.

The bus took us down the seemingly endless Via Appia Antica, and dropped us off in front of the Catacombs of St. Callisto. After peering around the next road, I pointed with a triumphant “aha!” at a sign indicating St. Domitilla. We followed an old highway for at least a mile until another sign beckoned us up a hill. The entrance to our destination was obscured by a bus-filled parking lot, and the antechamber of the tombs is a gift shop. We purchased our tickets (5 euro), and were told to wait for our guide in the adjacent gardens. We sat at wooden picnic tables, enjoying a few minutes of silence in the afternoon sun. A manicured garden surrounded by pits of white pebbles and sandy-colored stepping stones gave the impression of a rustic Italian villa.

We were soon greeted by our guide, Kacia, a cheerful woman wearing stylish buckled boots. She led us down into a sunken church, the gateway to the longest catacombs in Rome. The rotund little chapel was cluttered with bits of old statues and columns with simple wooden chairs pointed at a modern alter. Kacia’s voice became reverently soft as she told us that this church was dedicated to two martyrs, both warriors who had been killed after confessing their faith. She went on to describe the “beautiful myth” that led to the building of the catacombs. The early Christians could not have their bodies burned or thrown in the river, as was customary in ancient Rome, because they believed that Christ would return to resurrect them very soon. As Kacia explained, “for them the second coming was tomorrow, or, if not tomorrow, then the next day.” They needed their bodies to be able to rise from the grave. The tombs also became a blessing for early Christians in times of persecution. The plain underground church was a place to meet in secret and share what they dared not share outside its walls.

The grimy tunnel smelled like damp earth. It got warmer as we descended in our single-file parade. Niches had been carved along every wall on either side, too small to accommodate the body of a modern adult. We ventured deeper and deeper, viewing ancient trinkets such as the tiny oil lamps used to light the tunnels and seashells used to mark specific graves for those who could not read. Kacia explained that Christianity accepted people of every social class, accounting for the wide range of materials and languages used to construct grave markers. After a few winding turns, we reached a cavern with larger holes under carved arches. These are the family graves. Generations were buried, one body on top of another, in a single big hole. In the dim, shadowy light, I could picture the completion of their “beautiful myth,” with fathers, brothers and sons leaping out of these holes to join the angels. Only one of the arches still bore a decoration: a crude fresco, probably painted by grave diggers. It depicts a balding St. Pau and a white-haired St. Peter surrounded by rows of faded saints and bright strokes of red, yellow and blue paint. Compared to the regal embellishments of St. Peter’s, this looked like a child’s finger painting. But the simplicity of the monument gave it an air of sacred silence; it was real. Here, deep underground, surrounded by dust I felt I had touched the roots of a faith. It was easy to pray.

Ailin Darling, a University of Oregon journalism student from California, studied in the CIMBA undergraduate program in Paderno del Grappa in spring, 2009.

Hofbrauhaus: A College Student's Disneyland

By Megan Sayler

When I told my family I would be visiting Munich, I got empathetic advice from my grandfather, who left Germany for the United States at age three, and from my parents who had visited the Bavarian capital. They all said I should eat, drink, dance, sing, and celebrate my German heritage at the Hofbrauhaus, the city’s celebrated beer hall.

With Hofbrauhaus beer drinking in my genes, I led my seven college friends to an evening of drinking and dining at the famous beer hall. Little did we know that ahead of us was consumption of too much sauerkraut, dumplings, sausage, and schnitzel, washed down by liter mugs of German beer, all to be shaken up by polka dancing, and crowned by an embarrassing self-invitation to sit down at a table with the most important person of the evening.
As the grand double doors opened, we stepped into what looked like an adult Disneyland. We saw waiters and waitresses costumed in green leather outfits that stopped mid-thigh, called lederhausen, accessorized with knee-high socks, suspenders, vests, and hats. They were delivering mugs of German beer, in shades ranging from light amber to very dark brown, to long wooden tables packed with thirsty guests sitting on wooden benches. Sounds of conversation, laughter, and music bounced off the burgundy and forest green painted walls until the polka band in the middle of the room hushed everyone for a toast. Everyone held up their one-liter steins, called a Mass, when the lead singer of the band proposed his toast, after which everyone clinked their mugs together and took a big swig of beer. Our crew watched with anticipation, knowing we would soon join the happy beer drinkers. We knew that the only way to conquer Munich’s Hofbrauhaus, as many had done before us, was by consuming German food and big beers. We were ready.

First, we dined upstairs in the Festival Hall, which is the third room known for its traditional Bavarian dance and folklore entertainment. We hurried up to the top floor and paid the 20-euro admission fee. The smaller hall had large vaulted ceilings with pink and blue Bavarian coats of arms lining the room, as well as arched windows adorned with flags of the Bavarian districts. In the center of the room was an all-you-can-eat German buffet line, which came highly recommended. In the back of the room, an Oompah Band played upbeat music that got our feet tapping. The place was bustling with tourists attempting to reach the buffet, dodging the lederhosen clad waiters and waitresses who were balancing 5 beers in each hand. After sitting down at one of the wooden tables with my food and beer, I set out to do what would make my Grandpa Bernard proud. I used two radler beers (a lemonade and beer combination) to wash down potato dumplings, wiener schnitzel, apple strudel with vanilla cream, a large pretzel, egg noodles with cheese, and a veal sausage dipped in sweet mustard. Never in my life had I felt so full. I had been warned about the German comfort food, but I was too stuffed to feel comfortable. On stage, the Bavarian “Schuhplattler” dancers swung each other around, the alphorn players played, and the yodelers sang.

Sufficiently stuffed with German cuisine, the seven of us then paraded down the stairs, beers and belongings balanced in our hands, to join the party on the first level, known as the Schwemme room. While we were upstairs, the lower hall became crowded and an older couple already occupied the only table we spotted with open seats. Reluctantly, we scooted toward their table and asked politely to sit with them. They looked at each other, at us, said nothing, and then scowled. We took that as an open invitation to join them. The woman shifted her body away from us as we sat down, and the man observed each one of us as we threw our purses next to him. Trying to break the ice, we saluted them with our beers and asked if they were having fun, but got no response.
The language barrier between us was difficult, but we began communicating with gestures, individual words, and facial expressions. We learned the men were locals from Munich, came here every Friday and Saturday, had fought in World War II in Hitler’s army, and snorted tobacco they called “snuff” every 10 minutes. The conversation dwindled, until the waiter let us in on a secret we wish we had known previously. He informed us that the table we were sitting at is reserved for the Hofbrauhaus chairman and his guests, and that one of the men we were clinking glasses with was the chairman. Our mouths and eyes opened wide out of fascination and embarrassment. My mind raced back to the questionable looks we encountered when we sat next to them. We were oblivious to the sign above the table that read “Stamm 100 Tilch.” The German guest of the chairman pointed at it and said in his quiet, halting English, “If you finish a beer at this table now, you will live to be 100 years old.” He lifted his stein to each of us, smiled, and we all took a big gulp.

The mix of people gathered in one room was unlike any sight I have seen. Just as New York is the melting pot of the United States, the Hofbrauhaus is the melting pot of Munich. The young, the old, the very old, male, female, locals, and tourists all come to this place for one reason--to enjoy the atmosphere and culture of old Munich, and maybe to see if they can hold four big beers in each hand. While the Hofbrauhaus is known as the biggest tourist trap in Munich, over half its visitors each day are local regulars; the chairman and his friends come here as part of their daily lives.

A visit to the famous München Hofbrauhaus made me appreciate the opportunity to sample the traditional cuisine, music, and companionship of the German culture, that my grandfather loved so much.

Megan Sayler, a University of Kansas journalism student from Kansas City, studied in the CIMBA undergraduate program in spring, 2009.

The Land of Bavarian Cuisine, Polka Dancing, and Beer

By Casey Elliott

Countless travelers enter Munich concerned; Have they reached another Americanized tourist destination? Behind the McDonalds, Burger Kings, and Starbucks, you can uncover one of Europe’s most festive cities and some of the world’s darkest history. A few days in Munich experiencing its activities and attractions can keep you and your stomach satisfied. Fill your itinerary with savoring Germany’s comfort foods, dancing the polka with locals, shopping inside the city walls, and pondering Germany’s dark Nazi history at the Dachau concentration camp.

While German is the language of Munich, English is widely spoken and getting around is simple even speaking little or no German. Take advantage of taxi rides and soak up as much conversation and culture as you can from your driver. Sometimes you find they are a wealth of knowledge that can help you along in your travels. If you want to immerse yourself in this Bavarian culture, walking the city walls would be your best choice. Easy access to all of Munich’s well known destinations can be done by walking, taxis, or streetcars.

Travelers do not need to venture far from the main train station to find authentic German cuisine and beer halls. Augustiner, famous for the Radler, a mix of beer and lemonade, is located within a five minute walk from the train station. The sweet mix is a perfect way to wash down your meal. Their menu is capable of filling any Bavarian craving with dishes such as Wiener Schnitzel, fried and grilled sausage with sauerkraut, and Viennese sausage. If you do not want to leave the restaurant with an uneasy stomach, do not attempt the sausage salad, a plate of shredded slimy hot dogs with onions drenched in vinegar. Don’t ruin your first German meal by ordering this in hopes that you will actually get American sausage on top of a bed of lettuce.

Fruit filled cakes and torts with complete their menu, hold off. Satisfy your sweet tooth in a local bakery. What may seem like an American breakfast is a common dessert for Germans. Treat yourself to a cup of coffee and a German doughnut after your Bavarian meal. The doughnuts (which have no hole) are usually deep-fried balls of yeast dough with jam or other fillings and powdered sugar sprinkled on top. Relax in the bakery soaking up its sugary aroma and sip on a cup of Germany’s strong dark coffee.

Leave your calorie consumption guilt behind and walk the main center strip that winds through the city’s most beautiful scenery. One side of Munich’s downtown roads is lined with stores to satisfy every traveler’s needs and wants. High-fashion shops to small boutiques, the mile-long shopping zone is graced by the sugary aroma of caramelized nuts roasting. The strip encompasses Munich’s vibrant city walls and architecture that is seen for miles.

For a chance to savor a German beer, spend a night clanking oversized mugs filled with some of Germany’s best known beer at the Hofbräuhaus, a beer hall in the city center of Munich. For 20 Euros you can indulge in a buffet of German cuisine and beer. The buffet is all inclusive food and festive entertainment for the night. Travelers must commit to a possible hangover and bulging stomachs before attempting this buffet. A bucket of pretzels awaits your arrival at the table preparing your stomach for the long line ahead. Fill your plates with a variety of German meat including Weiner schnitzel or skip to the end of the line and embrace a homemade apple strudel with custard sauce and red fruit jelly drizzled on top. While feasting on German cuisine, embrace the warm atmosphere and mix with locals and tourists all there for the same reason. Polka dancers, medieval performances and bell ringers assure few dull moments. When your stomach convinces you one more bite may have serious repercussions, head downstairs to the main beer hall.

Midway through the hall is a table under a sign that reads “Stamm 100 Dilch”. You may receive an unwelcoming glare from a group of men who look angry and tipsy but it is worth it. The table bears a myth that all who sit under the sign and drink a beer will live for a 100 years. If you manage to fit another beer into your full stomach, you might as well go all out and try a frosted gingerbread cookie that you can buy from waitresses dressed in polka outfits carrying baskets, but do not be mistaken. At first glance these treats resemble an American cookie cake, there is a distinct difference in taste between the Germans ginger spiced cookie and Americans sugar spiced cookie.

As much as Germans like to celebrate their proud heritage with beer, polka music and sweet desserts, Munich offers visitors a sobering look at its darker history, the nearby concentration camp of Dachau. The camp is about 15 minutes by train outside of Munich. Good weather and a tour guide can make or break this experience. Warmer weather temperatures are a must for this site due to long walking hours in the cold. Guided tours are offered for around 15 Euros and can provide direction, information, and little facts that bring the camp to life. As you enter Dachau a sign in German that greeted prisoners who walked to their death in the 1930s still adorns the front gate: “Work will set you free”. The tour takes you down the path new arrivals to the camp would encounter including the gas chambers disguised as showers where they died. Walk through the barracks to see the sleeping conditions the prisoners experienced on the undersized and overcrowded wooden cots. Finish this somber experience at the crematorium that displays the process of burning the prisoners’ bodies. The end of the tour is marked by a memorial sign that reads “Never again,” in several different languages.

Whether tourists are celebrating Munich's music, food, beer and cultural heritage in its raucous beer halls or learning about its darker history at a somber Dachau, this Bavarian capital is worth your time.

Casey Elliott, a University of Kansas journaslism student, studied in the CIMBA undergraduate program in spring, 2009.