Mozart in Munich #4: Le Nozze di Figaro

Pride comes before a fall, as we all know, and it was with great and terrible pride that I ventured into the shower having replaced my broken shower gel, only to realise that I had left my conditioner in Slovenia. Oh dear.

I was right in the middle of the complicated dress-getting-into routine, hair dripping, when there was a knock on the door.
“Danny?” I yelled. A vague response I took as a yes. “Just a minute!”
Poor guy. About five minutes later I opened the door to find him sitting in the corridor, doner kebabs in hand. Hopefully the prospect of the opera made him feel a little less like a glorified delivery boy. After identifying which sandwich was “ohne salat”, and once Danny was eventually convinced that the yellow handtowel tucked into my dress was for cleanliness and not a fashion statement (there was some confusion) we ate. And what a fabulous doner it was, and a true Münchner experience, or at least Danny’s Münchner experience.

Danny went to change, and I tried to stick my feet together. After stepping into my shoes, I suggested we leave at 6.25 instead of 6.30. “That’s in four minutes,” Danny pointed out incredulously. “Can you be ready in four minutes?” Of course I could, I declared, and applied my makeup with due expediency. Eschewing foundation and starting to put on sun cream, Danny mocked in a way I felt was unworthy of him.
“The sun is going down, Kathleen.”
“I have sensitive skin,” I protested.
The thing that held us up was my ridiculous necklace, that was all tangled up. Eventually I just put it on knotted and continued to untangle as we walked. We descended the stairs, with me trying to highlight the different artistic themes of each flight. “I really like this modern one,” I gushed, and stuck my arm in a cactus.

Outside… well, fine then, yes, the sun had gone down enough that sun cream wasn’t really necessary. And I was all sticky. We found our way back to the opera, and took the requisite pictures demanded by Mariam (though I wish I wasn’t doing quite what I am doing in them – I had the envelope with the tickets out, then stuck it back in my bag for pictures, then didn’t want to have it fall out, so I’m clutching my bag before me in both hands, like Miss Marple). Then began the challenge of finding our “seats” – “Stehplatz”, now there’s a word I should have looked up. We were standing with a not wonderful view of the stage, on the end of a row, so we spent a good few minutes climbing up and down the steps to let people past. Sorry, Danny.

But he took it in good spirits and as soon as the overture started, I had forgotten the inconvenience. You can’t be in the Munich opera house, listening to the Marriage of Figaro, and not feel somewhat fortunate. Likewise, to be in an auditorium with so many great performers on stage, live! The countess sticks out in my mind – played by Anja Harteros, a fact that had escaped me before as I know of very few current opera singers, and didn’t pay attention. Her aria in Act III, E Susanna non vien!...Dove sono i bei momenti, captivated me, and my goodness how the auditorium erupted at the end. I’ve never seen anyone actually stop a show before. But numerous cries of Brava later, things continued. Se Vuol Ballare, the Cavatina, was great fun. People jumped out of windows, horses didn’t see things, gardeners complained (the gardener was great); it was a riot! Danny particularly liked Figaro’s aria, Tutto è disposto...Aprite un po' quegli occhi, about all women being evil and only using love for their own ends, while I liked the same aria because it began “Open your eyes, you stupid men”. A primordial conflict given contemporary restatement through the classical era? It was all over too soon, though possibly not too soon for our feet, as we both spent a lot of time stepping in and out of our shoes – barefoot at the opera; what would Mozart think? Also, our knowledge of what actually went on was patchy, but we got the gist. We think. Since I was struggling to see the German supertitles under the silly little fringy curtains they dangled from the balcony, I was fairly confident that it would be even worse for Danny, who is some inches taller. Sure enough, we found that we had only a vague understanding between us – he understood pretty much everything he read but didn’t risk his spinal alignment following all supertitles. I, meanwhile, was reading everything and getting about eighty percent. Curtains – bad idea. I bought a programme with libretto (in German), so I can look stuff up later.

Once Danny had picked up his stuff, we had to part painfully. He admitted he would probably cry later, and through his brave front I could tell he would be incapacitated till Monday. Wouldn’t you? Really, I don’t know how some of you get through the day without me. I have this effect on people.

Before bed, I remembered to take a few pictures of the cafes below, since they looked pretty in the evening.

I had just gone to bed when the rain started, as if someone had switched a shower on. It was heavy, and at the same moment a refreshingly cool breeze swept into my room. Lovely. Lightning followed, but the thunder was quiet, and I was soon asleep. About an hour later I was awoken by a deafening thunderclap. As I lay watching the reflected lightning play on the ceiling there was a bright flash, a crack, and the shadow of something falling – followed by a loud clattering, like debris falling from a building site. I was still half-asleep, so I resisted the urge to rush to the window to investigate right away, but an hour later when the chainsaw started up I was forced into alertness. There was a police car outside, a bunch of policemen standing around with a woman in a dressing gown, one at one end of the platz with a chainsaw and another shining a torch around. Between the two more active members of the assembly was a large tree, now lying between the two cages on the wreckage of a few tables and umbrellas.

An unexpectedly dramatic end to my brief but memorable visit to Munich.

Read On: Vienna Waits For You #1: Slow Down, You Crazy Child...

Mozart in Munich #3: Sparkly, Pretty Things

Opera day. I woke and went down to breakfast, hoping to wolf something down before Danny arrived. I had a more successful conversation in German (confidence building) with the waitress, involving Apfelsaft, and got myself a bowl of cereal. When she brought the juice, along with it – on a silver tray, no less – came butter, leberwurst paste (ew), Johannisbeere jam (I had to ask Danny), Babybel and honey, accompanied by a basket with rolls and bread. How do you know you’ve been staying in a youth hostel too long? When you’re overwhelmed by breakfast!

Afterwards, I stood outside until Danny materialised beside me, as I was applying my sun cream and didn’t have my glasses on. We decided to visit the Residenz. Initially it seemed cool inside, but these things are all relative and it remained a bit humid. The first courtyard we came to had an impressive, if slightly weird, shell-encrusted fountain. I was focusing on the prettiness when Danny asked an important question - “Where did they get the shells?” We discussed issues of design and shell acquisition and decided that, well, one really just had to be a pragmatist about some things. The designer was obviously not much of a stickler for detail, as the central statue whom we eventually identified as Hermes had some wings on his helmet and one (only one) on each foot – no shoes. He looked a bit like he was ten-pin bowling, if slightly underdressed, and standing on the wind is probably cheating.

The next main room was the banqueting hall, which – along with some serious sideboarding – had statues of Roman emperors everywhere. And who doesn’t want to look at Octavian over their roast chicken? The overall effect of the paintings on the ceiling was impressive, and it was a very pleasant room in which to spend some time sitting looking up, though we agreed that we liked the decorative touches and the effect more than the individual paintings. There was one I was reasonably keen on until I went over the look at it the right way up, when it turned out to be a mean-looking angel blasting some kind of trumpet at a child’s head. Am still slightly disturbed by cherubs.

The Residenz has some fun rooms and very entertaining china, some like a tour through Art History, some on the theme of death. It was good to find out that Danny thinks death is as much fun as I do. Thematically and artistically, of course. He has pictures of preaching skeletons. That’s pretty cool. We devised an educational teatime game, in which one must guess which picture is on the bottom of one’s soup bowl, receiving extra points for the volume of soup remaining in the bowl when the correct guess is ventured. The rooms themselves were extravagant, and in some cases overpowering, with heavily embroidered wallpaper. I love the white doors with the gold decoration, however, and there were a few dappled bright red sideboards with inlaid designs of silver and enamel that I would have wanted to bring back with me were it not for my already heavy bad. There were also some lovely wooden ceilings. There was an interesting trend for ornate floor-to-ceiling mirrors with small built-in shelves, onto which were placed various small vases. This seemed odd, though no stranger than Danny’s suggestion that they put small military figurines there instead.

We emerged and explored the Schatzkammer, the Treasury. There were many pretty and shiny things, and a few that were startlingly orange. I was concerned that the King of Bavaria’s crown was sort of girly, but it turned out I had missed the “–in” in Königin – it was the queen’s. We also found another St George – now one of my favourite themes in art – aggressively bright and sparkly, with the cutest dragon yet. The horse, however, was so tall that I would question whether the saint’s diminutive sword was quite equal to the task. The horse looked like it was doing most of the work, to be honest.

Lunch next. We ended up at a sort of outdoor pub-type place, right below my window, and opposite an improbably tall tree. We had yet more wurst – me, Nürnburger rostwurstel mit Kartoffelsalat, and Danny Müchner Weisswurst, another traditional local experience.

We got our food with pretzels and sweet Bavarian mustard, actually pretty good mixed with regular German mustard, as per Danny’s suggestion, though I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to do that.

Danny had to go off to class then, and I managed to handle the whole bill process in German – go me! I think I was improving. The heat was becoming a bit much, but I had a mission – the Asamkirche, a pint-sized Baroque wonder church. My route took me through the Viktualienmarkt, and if I happened to come away with a new bag (very cute) and a while lot of fruit for snacking, who can blame me?

Then I passed some very modern-looking shops – this really is a proper grown-up city! Walking alone with my ears open, Munich suddenly seemed to be full of Scots, perhaps as a result of Easyjet? A clock gave the temperature - 26° in the shade. Yikes.

Asamkirche even looks ostentatious from the outside.

I was briefly distracted by Lush, though in my defense I only ever go to Lush abroad. I did need shower gel, and settled on the delightful Flying Fox – “Das Honig Duschgel mit Sex-Appeal”, if you believe the hilarious hype.

Inside Asamkirche, it was cool, at least. The small oval entrance had towering statues and stars on the ceiling.

With an ornate grill separating the entrance from the sanctuary, one of my favourite things in the world.

The sanctuary itself is narrow and high, and quite beautiful. Ornate, as one might expect from a Baroque gem, but absolutely spectacular beyond your average.

Gorgeous sunbursts. Amazing frescoes. There was a particularly excellent deathly figure, and in the Harry Potter buildup week I was excited to have found the Dark Mark lurking in a corner. Seriously:

The cherub count was mercifully low. This was my other favourite church on the trip. I sat for a long time, just gazing upwards, as someone practiced the organ not too impressively, though happily they were going over my favourite bits.

I dragged myself away, eventually, to wander some more. I poked around Marienplatz for a bit, spotting the glockenspiel – though the timing on this trip was all wrong to actually hear it play – and the famous fish fountain, in which one is meant to rinse one’s purse for good fortune.

I wanted to say I had at least seen the Hofbräuhaus, so I went in search of it. On the way I found a beautiful, quiet and air-conditioned craft shop in which I was able to buy my mother’s traditional Christmas decoration. I debated the notelets – or what I thought were notelets – but when I opened the box, loud Bavarian folk music blared out, shattering the silence. Suddenly the small group of teenagers who had just walked in all stampeded towards me, and all I could do was smile at the first one, whimper, “Es macht viel Spass, ja?” and squeak as I relinquished the card and retreated. Scary. I did manage to chatter away about my mother’s foreign Christmas ornament collection, though I couldn’t remember the German for “Latvia”, and that boosted my confidence further. I decided I quite liked this language practice, even though the evening before, listening to Danny talk about his classes, I had imagined that I would find nothing more cold-sweat inducing. It was interesting, on returning, to catch up with the articles saying that British people are most likely to go on holiday to countries where they speak a little of the language. While Scots felt the most awkward not being able to communicate well in the local language, I was amused to see that the reason given in most cases for not attempting languages they had studied was “fear of looking stupid”. That’s so typical! I can identify.

When I checked the map, I found that I was not yet lost, and was just around the corner from the Hofbräuhaus.

Having looked and photographed, I remembered I was in the general area of the Hard Rock Café and also had a shot glass buying mission (a family friend collects them and I had it on good authority that Munich was not among them). I got the map out, and was about to try the next street over when it struck me that the brass lettering opposite was not spelling out German but English, specifically, “Love all, serve all”. Inside, I couldn’t see the shot glass but I thought it was worse asking. Success! I walked back up to the English Garden before I decided it was time to go back for opera preparation.

Read On: Mozart in Munich #4: Le Nozze di Figaro

Mozart in Munich #2: What's the Wurst That Could Happen?

Excuse the pun.

On the way out, while waiting to hand in my key, the woman at the desk suddenly turned from the Mancunian guests she was checking in and barraged me with a stream of German that, once I processed it, was roughly equivalent to, “I forgot to tell you, when you arrived, that breakfast will be along the corridor on the left, in a room on the last right, and is served from seven to ten.” Maybe she didn’t think I was that stupid after all.

I found my way up to Heiliggeistkirche in good time. I, being obsessive in my organization, had found a photo of Heiliggeistkirche on the internet (and not the one in Heidelberg either – first hurdle), which featured prominently a hedge with a bicycle stand. I sent Danny this picture, and expressed every confidence that we might rendezvous there. Being also extremely incompetent, however, naturally the hedge was on the other side of a biergarten, having been brought to Heiliggeistkirche by the magic of the telephoto lens. At the very moment Danny was discovering this, I was circling Heiliggeistkirche looking for foliage. We did meet, though! Turns out I had consistently typed Heilsgeistkirche (a small but significant detail), but luckily Danny has a perfectly functional brain of his own, and was happy to use it in the absence of mine.

The Heiliggeistkirche confusion occurred as the name – which means the Church of the Holy Spirit in German – kept coming out of my mouth as “Heilsgeschichtekirche”, though I knew that was wrong. “Heilsgeschichte” in biblical studies means “Salvation history”, and is a way of approaching books like Chronicles. I could go on, but I would be even more boring than usual. I explained all the to-ing and fro-ing involved in my getting the name right (gerund! Love them) to Alissa on the bus to London, and somehow we decided it made an excellent exclamation, in the vein of Alissa's“Holy Geschichte, Batman”, which is funny if you’re a biblical scholar. Actually, it’s pretty hilarious, though when you dissolve into giggles over it, normal people tend to look at you funny.

Right, so having met Danny, we decided we were both hungry, so before we went very far we found a beer garden and settled in. Wurst abounded, mine with bread, Danny’s with sauerkraut (how German), and beer flowed. Well, Danny had one, and so did a lot of other people, so it counts. It was a good chance to catch up with the life of a foreign language student, especially as it was nearly two months since I dropped Danny and Jeremiah at the airport to go to France.

There was an organ concert at Frauenkirche, and being generally enthusiastic about culture, we went along. On the way, I had my first sighting of Marienplatz, complete with a – probably foreign and mission-trip-related – group of people, in garishly coloured outfits, brandishing large placards in German and English that read “Jesus Loves You”. Love the sentiment, not sure about the design choices – electric green and sunshine yellow. Yikes. They were wearing T-shirts that read, “Will I See You In Heaven?” to which we had definite, if distinct reactions. Danny’s was more about theological questioning, whereas mine was, “Well, I’m planning to be there; I don’t know about you.” I should probably be kept away from well-meaning people.

We reached Frauenkirche, where Danny was able to show off his language skills at the ticket desk (it’s nice to travel with an interpreter). We discovered that being too obliging isn’t necessarily helpful when trying to decide where to sit, but quickly realised that it doesn’t really matter at an organ concert. It was a great performance(details to follow), and we both particularly liked the Elgar. There was a more modern piece called “Kreuzweg” which I found really interesting, especially to trace the theme of the way of the cross through the music.

After the concert we went wandering, back through Marienplatz and all around the centre. I saw so many things! Here’s me approaching Feldherrnhalle, and the building itself, based on a similar structure in Florence – though I’m almost positive that it’s bigger than the real one!

We passed the Residenz, the former palace of the king of Bavaria:

And the opera house!

The garden of the Residenz was all green and shady, what I had come to really appreciate in a park, though as the sun was setting it didn’t matter all that much. We wandered around and happened upon a salsa dancing event of some sort, which provided a few minutes’ entertainment.

Then we continued into the southern end of the English Garden, a cool green place (okay, yes, now that the sun had gone down), and stopped at a bridge over what looked a bit like a large puddle, but had been a raging torrent when Danny was last there – the heavy rain before his arrival and the heatwave before mine clearly having a dramatic effect. Looks pretty, anyway, and who doesn’t love a park by streetlamp? There were these odd newty-type things that I need to remember to look up.

Turning around, we passed the American consulate, or rather the security cordon around it – the consulate itself appeared to be several days’ hike away. Poor Danny had already had to go in there. As it was getting late (not to mention dark) and Danny had homework, we walked back towards my hotel, then round it a couple of times before I found the door (which, of course, we had passed before I realised where we were). As a result of this, Danny suggested that I should perhaps not leave the hotel again until he picked me up in the morning. I think he was joking. He’s had a couple of kind of unfortunate encounters with my sense of direction lately.

I had yet another shower and found an episode of Buffy on the TV – Season Six dubbed into German. I love Buffy in any language, and was amused by the voice they had given Tom Lenk, but I didn’t get very far before giving up, defeated by a combination of Deutsch-fatigue and regular fatigue. Slept.

Read on: Mozart in Munich #3: Sparkly, Pretty Things

Mozart in Munich #1: Through the Alps

Munich-bound!

I packed up – not without some difficulty, even though I thought I was doing well – then dragged my bag down four floors. This encouraged me, as I was pretty sure that the worst part of my day would now be over. It was also nice to think that while I was the only person taking my unique trip, I was leaving two good friends in one country and meeting another in another, though I was sorry to miss Alissa’s paper later that day, which I hear went very well.

I checked out and went to meet the taxi that I had arranged the day before – my first phone call in Slovenia. The taxi, sadly, never arrived, and I tried to flag one down after fifteen minutes. Unsuccessfully – it’s like they don’t want my money.

Though I had left plenty of time just in case something like this happened, eventually I had to start walking – sore feet and all – towards the train station. I got all the way to the Dragon Bridge, outside the university and halfway to the station, before finally two taxis competed for me – typical. Anyway, while both the Rough Guide and local advice had promised an €8-9 trip, it cost less than €2.

I went into the information office to check whether I needed to validate my ticket by machine or not (something one must do with all printed tickets in Italy, for example, but I was unsure of the custom elsewhere). Having found an English speaking gentleman who ushered me to a seat, I launched forth.
“This may be a stupid question, but…”
“No, no, don’t worry. Continue.” He was very reassuring, though he seemed to think one could use the word “lady” in a similar manner as “madam” in the UK. I was a bit taken aback when, having (reassuringly) taken the ticket from me and pointing to the relevant section, he began, “Look, lady…” but I did eventually catch on. It was quite charming, in the end.

With a final, “Thank you, lady,” I was sent onward, to the lift, trying not to smile too broadly when leaving. I was trying not to laugh, but in a very happy way.

Getting on to the train, first class of course (well, there was a special deal for students), two well-to-do American ladies of advancing years were rather alarmed by the automatic closing of the doors on a timer, and began to bang on them and yell loudly. I was able to assist, demonstrating how one presses the green button at the side to open them again. It’s amazing what one takes for granted (especially the European rail network), which on reflection doesn’t actually seem all that obvious after all. Three Italian men materialised from one carriage down to help with their bags, and two were summoned back by the third with – as far as I could tell – seemed to be chastisement for less than chivalrous behaviour in leaving me to lug my own bag up the steep stairs! Italian became my fourth (I really hoped final) language of the trip.

As I hoisted my bag onto an end-of-carriage luggage rack, I overheard the two ladies (the only other passengers in the carriage).
“I’m sorry I lost your contacts.”
“That’s okay. I’m sorry I mixed up the passports.”
I recognised this sort of trip – the sort of appealingly chaotic – from my own “best laid plans”-type scenario that morning. I find this sort of thing incredibly encouraging.

Shortly after pulling away from Ljubljana central station, we were gliding by aquamarine and turquoise waters fringed by a thousand trees, a sheer cliff on the other side, and overhead a biplane. Soon we saw high, rocky Alpine peaks, with wooded church-adorned hills and fields of sunflowers. An overabundance of the picturesque. Made a mental note to ask God why he didn’t save some of that kind of beauty for Cumbernauld, or if we could put in a transfer request. “One Alp, please.” I was sorry to be leaving Slovenia, though ready to move on, should moving on have to occur.

In a worrying insight into my character, my illusions of originality shattered when I realised that my travel diary this time was probably completely inspired (ooh, sudden tunnel) by the writings of Michael Palin. Who is not only funnier than I am, but since he crossed the Sahara on a camel, travelling first class to go to the opera in Munich while listening to my iPod doesn’t exactly seem intrepid.

We went into shadow and the drop in temperature made me shiver. It was a good feeling, and I relaxed into the comfortable seat.

The man behind me moved to the seat opposite as I composed a limerick about Lake Bled (see, nothing rhymes with “gondola”). He asks if the seat is free in a familiar and very English voice. It’s… Michael Palin? I knew he was working on something in Central and Eastern Europe, but I never expected to run into him. We talked about Doune Castle and arterial sclerosis until he suddenly burst into song, “The hills are alive…” and out came the voice of Julie Andrews, circa 1965.

I awoke somewhere high in the Alps, near the Austrian border.

You couldn’t look ten feet in any direction without some serious neck carnage. It was all stunning. We stopped at Jesenice for passport control, and the German was music to meine Ohren! Austria seemed pretty, at first, but then we disappeared into a tunnel for fifteen minutes.

We hit our first Alpine lake at 11.45 – and how improbably blue.

Halfway up a mountain, looking down on an idyllic valley, the peace of the carriage was shattered by the whiniest family ever. And they had to sit right across from me, didn’t they? They gave the very competent and longsuffering conductor the worst time. At one point the parents actually moved away to get a break from the kids. Not cool.

At length we arrived at Salzburg Hauptbahnhof, which was, sadly, the most glamorous part of Salzburg (long a coveted destination) I could hope to see on this trip – though as I had a good moan about that in my journal, we crossed the river and got a great, if fleeting, view of the fortress and iconic skyline of spires. Sigh. Next time, Salzburg, we meet properly.

I wondered what it is that makes all these rivers cloudy and turquoise. We crossed into Germany under cloud, which was at least promising. Danny had spoken of rain. I earnestly hoped that coolness and not mugginess ensued.

Traunstein looked interesting – apparently mediaeval and compact, a little like a Tuscan town, though I had never heard of it before. Listening to Keb’ Mo’, I started to get squirmy, with only fifteen minutes to go. I was quite ready to get off the train. Then the sun came out. Great, I thought. Now we can die of the heat in Germany, too.

The first clue that Munich was an actual city, and Ljubljana a generously proportioned town, were the miles of suburbs the train travelled through. I disembarked (wrestling with my bag – I hoped I “grazie”d enough to convey my gratitude towards my Italian helpers in Ljubljana) at the station – an actual station! Even Salzburg just had platforms. It was also hot. Definitely hot.

Fighting hunger, I barreled past the many food stalls in the station and found a taxi rank. Despite having looked up the address of the hotel and mentally rehearsed – “Ich gehe nach Hotel Am Markt, Heiliggeiststrasse sechs” – all my German totally deserted me in the moment of truth. “Ich gehe… ich gehe nach Hotel Am Markt-” by this point the driver had my bag in the boot and was reaching for my carry-all, nodding intently “-Heils- um, Heiliggeiststrasse vier… nein! Sechs.” And I’m supposed to speak this language. It’s the only one I’m any good at. Doesn’t bode well.

Despite this, I got there without incident. I noted immediately the multi-laned roads, and some attractive Art Nouveau detailing on huge buildings. Suddenly I remembered what a city feels like! And the guidebook said Munich has a reputation as provincial. It seemed big enough to me.

I tried to redeem myself, linguistically speaking, by attempting conversation with the taxi driver. But I had not yet recovered from the humbling experience outside the Hauptbahnhof, and I resorted to such ravings and inanities as “München ist so schön” – Munich is quite beautiful – which sounds all right, but by the time I regained my composure and was confident in my sentence construction (well, my confidence was bruised), we had descended into the underpass beneath the old town.

Clearly I had made an impression as a linguist, as the driver proceeded to explain in English that one couldn’t get right to the hotel, but it was just round the corner and he would bring my bag and show me. I traipsed wearily along behind, and managed to check in with the clerk, bouncing back and forth between German and English. Feeling a little better, I crammed myself, my expanding suitcase and a carrier bag containing a pair of men’s shoes, two rubber ducks and an assortment of other items into the tiny – seriously tiny – lift. Travel by Rene Magritte. Unbidden, the Mikado rose into my mind and I spent the ride humming – with apologies to G&S – “I’ve Got A Little Lift”. Groan. I know.

My first glimpses of Munich.

Read On: Mozart in Munich #2: What's the Wurst that Could Happen?