Dachau

I had always dreamed of seeing Auschwitz. Perhaps because I had studied genocide in high school; perhaps because terror, no matter how well-documented and analyzed, never ceases to shock the human system when we see the dark reality for ourselves. It is far too easy to forget, to lie within our layers of comfort and contemporary distractions, to bury ourselves within another part of history. I was never one for the easy path. I seek the remembrance of pain because it feels more real to me, far more real to be hurt than to be happy.

Well, it was snowing in Munich and forecasted to be inevitably colder in Poland. I could barely lift my head, let alone brave a train to the capital of the crematoriums. So what did I do? After sniffling and moaning and fretting the bad luck of getting sick at such an inopportune moment,(although I cant recall of an opportune time to get sick), I gave up a dream. Substituted it rather, with the help of free WI-FI and my trusty sidekick, the ubiquitous IPOD touch (wonderful invention, God bless Steve Jobs). In the haze of a sinus headache and a wet, rattling cough, I booked a local tour to Dachau. Not that one concentration camp could replace another, but I never did make it to Auschwitz.

The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed to see a site of the Holocaust. What is it about ourselves that we keep pushing towards a destination, a goal even if we know we are poorly equipped for it? The hour train ride was torturous, and towards the end I had forgotten that I had elected this. At the stark, iron-wrought entrance gate, I suppressed waves of nausea roiling inside my stomache. I wasn't sure if it was the flu or if I was sickened by imagining all those premeditated deaths, stacked into piles like in documentaries.

Two things truck me about Dachau. How bare the space was, and how small the showers and crematoriums were. How they were reduced to nothing, how life was nothing, only a room and a bench and a shared bunker if they were lucky enough to live. If not, bodies crammed into the showers, smothering together, not that there was any air to breathe in the first place, but that sulfurous poison enveloping the lungs like a parasite.

The wind was frigid, and penetrated through the fabric of my jeans as if they were threadbare, a gust of paralyzing cold. So this is hopelessness. The labor, the cold, the desensitization of death. Except not everyone lost hope. Viktor Frankel, a noted Jewish psychologist and Holocaust survivor, remarked that man's suffering is like a gaseous entity, no matter how much or how little, it always fills up the volume of the container. Enlightened thoughts.

Then I thought of the lotus, how it grows from the filthiest mud possible, the scourge of the earth, to become an uplifted blossom, opening towards the sky. Lotus was Buddha's flower.

Try as I might, I couldn't help but taste ashes in my mouth.

Post Fairyland Castle

I was already sick by the time we left the snow-capped Alps of Ludwig's realm. The winter had come on rather quickly, even though it was only early October, and an icy air blew through Munich like a giant's terrible breath. Temperamental snows dusted the city like flour, although they dissipated before turning to ice. It was the brute, unabashed cold that hit me like a stone. I found myself with the sniffles, then a sinus infection, and then rivers of mucus that clogged my throat. Yes, I was deteriorating in the midst of Bavaria.

There is something about the state of being ill that causes one to feel lonesome, rather acutely. I scampered back from the train to my hostel and while it wasn't literally far, I might as well been dragging through the mud, feeling awfully sorry for myself. I even forgot about Simon, our mutual promise to spend Germany together before heading back to opposite ends of the world. Luckily, Simon hadn't forgotten about me. He followed me back to my room and as he watched me shuddering uncontrollably, he ran out again. So I finally got rid of him after all.

At length, he returned with a cup of hot tea and lemon, and asked how I was doing. I could only raise my eyelids pitifully. He proceeded to give me a massage, and then some small plastic packets that generate heat after we rubbed them for a few minutes. (Ingenious contraptions, those Taiwanese). Then he tucked me in and related that he felt worried and uneasy leaving like this, but his flight back to Asia was already booked. He did seem genuinely concerned, and those long-lashed, liquid eyes blinked at me guiltily.

I was profoundly touched. He had no obligation to me; I was a fellow traveler, transient and forgettable. He would never see me again. Yet, there was something transcendent in the human to human interaction, a sharing of thoughts, experiencing a wondrous event in the same time, that inevitably binds us. That sense of connection, that we affect each other, that we are real and we lived in that moment together is powerful. Even though we have become no more than a memory to one another, it is impossible not to care and not to feel that my life is somehow better because it was touched by kindness.

So Simon departed and I was left to my coughing fits. But I smiled every time my toes touched on the warmers that he gave me, which thawed out my frozen feet and kindled something in more guarded areas of the heart.

Neuschwanstein

Neuschwanstein was a disappointment at first. Romanesque style, with byzantine accents, it was the most romantic castle I had ever seen, whitewashed limestone, glistening turrents with cobalt roofs that matched the somber azure skies, perched in an isolated cliff in the midst of the Alps. Unfortunately, there were rows of iron scaffolding on the castle, a caged, bridled beauty unable to manifest its glory.

Nonetheless, as Simon and I walked inside, we entered the utopia of a shy, reclusive king. He commissioned Neuschwanstein to be the builted in the style of German knights' castles, and financed his idyllic venture from his own personal fortune and some heavy borrowing. Ludwig II's portraits indicate a delicate, fine-boned visage with earnest eyes, eyes that dream and roam the official affairs of state with the yearnings of fantasy and imagination. Inside was a Hall of Singers, a green and ethereal fairy land in homage of Lohengrin, Richard Wagnor's opera of Swan Knight. I remember the vibrancy of the light and opalescent colors of damsels in distresses and magical animals, King George slaying the dragon and the twelve-toned robes of Jesus' disciples. Here was a man who was an artist, a poet, and musician, who possessed such a passionate nature who was bound by birth and law to be a politician.

Something told me that he didn't quite fit into his life and his pre-determined calling, the struggle that he endured to remain authentic to his most intrinisic sensibilities. Perhaps that was basis of his friendship with Wagnor, an appreciation for those intangible things that stir heart and imbue the senses with an indescribable, almost unbearable duty. Thanks to his faithfulness to his own heart, we walked into the reality of this whimsical monarch, the visions he kept in proximity and perhaps more alive to him than the procedures of constitutional government.

I too, did not fit into my previous life. That was why I had come, to see how others carve a sanctuary of authenticity within the worlds they inhabit, within the vulnerable spaces of the mind that the world never ceases to intrude. To maintain the self, the sacredness of the self, the divinity of the self, as you truly are.

Ludwig was never considered a great king, but I sense an immeasurable peace, a joy that pervades that castle, even though the operas and fairy tales do not necessarily have happy endings. He was a boy who materialized his dream, even though it was never finished. Perhaps it was not about ending, or the happiness within the end, or even if there is a true, finite ending. Perhaps it is about the journey, the honesty of the journey, whether it is about self-discovery or staying true to a revelation of the self, who we truly are and what is life-giving to us. Perhaps it is our ultimate truth. Perhaps it is no more than a fleeting moment.

Oktoberfest

No, I was not in Munich during Oktoberfest, although I had my share of German beer in the beer gardens, where the buzzing of intoxication was accompanied by the rowdy chatter of Bavarians, providing much better entertainment than performances of any kind. The best entertainment, by far, however, was the Australians. In general, Aussies are ubiquitous wherever there are interesting sites and good drinks to be had. Apparently, Aussies comprised nearly 30-40% of Munich's population during the two week-long festivities of Oktoberfest, frequenting its beer tents "Bierzelte" with laughter, smooth accents, and good old inebriation. So inebriated, in fact, that the majority of the Aussies lost their passports and the Australian embassy aptly set up a temporary, make-shift embassy (in a tent) during Okoberfest so that the drunkards who lost their documentation did not have to take the 6 hour train ride to Berlin, where the official embassy was situated. True story.

I lived vicariously through Simon, who shared the experience of paying nearly $30 for a mug of beer during the celebration, as well as shacking up with roommates for meager accomodations and shelling out $150-200 for a third of a room per night. Wow. Now I am just not that committed to beer. Half grinning and half sheepish, Simon assured me it was worth it for him to see his typically uptight friend completely lose it. "Drunkenness with trusted company" was the way he put it. Simon seemed so young to me, guileless and with big, double-lidded eyes unusual for those with Han ancestry. A Taiwanese friend once told me about the ethnic differences between the indigenous Taiwanese versus those who later came with Chiang Kai Shek after WWII. Chiang's cohorts were unmistakably Han, but the indigenous people looked a bit more exotic, with wide eyes and darker skin. I guessed Simon belonged to the "original" Taiwanese, but it is inevitably a sore subject to raise, as the indigenous Taiwanese and their intelligentsia/scholars were massacred by their Han counterparts. Sigh...

Simon and I went to the Residenz, the largest palace within the city, home of the Bavarian monarchs that has now become a museum, a concert hall, undergoing immense reconstruction behind billboards of some famous Italian designer like Prada. It boasts some amazing Rococo and classical architecture, among others, and true to the German style, everything was perfectly symmetrical. The Antiquarium, (Hall of Antiquities), was a massive hall covered by a plethora of Renaissance paintings, separated by large beams of wood, which seemed to be the overpowering color in the entire collection. It was the most impressive room and somehow, the coldest. Suddenly, the tears that I did not shed on the train spouted full force and Simon was justifiably baffled. However, he didn't find an excuse to leave that hour, that day, or even that evening. Backpackers are not beholden to one another, and whenever you felt that your paths needed to separate, there was no explanation necessary. Instead, he sat beside me until I quieted and for some reason, there were very few tourists in the Residenz that day. I don't remember what I told him as the reason for my outburst, and I don't remember him asking. Perhaps it was nothing, and perhaps it was the wave of uncertainty over uncertainty hitting me as I didn't know what my next step would be. Nonetheless, it didn't matter. We sat in the silence, punctuated by my occassional sobbing, and then it was over.

And he suggested we have dinner. We went to this folksy, non-tourist and therefore non-English-speaking restaurant where the food was reputed to be authentic. However, we weren't warned on the demeanor. Not to be speaking in generalties, but Bavarians are rude. Particularly in restaurants. They are impatient with you for taking to much time to decide, and then annoyed that these bumpkins did not pronounce the names correctly. I ordered the Weisswurst, a traditional sausage made from very finely minced veal and fresh pork bacon, and Schweinsbratenhe, pork with gravy. Simon had the Nürnberger Bratwurst mit Sauerkraut (fried sausages with Sauerkraut). The meats were hardy, succulent with juices, and utterly amazing. And strudel, of course!

That night, the air turned frigid. As I ate the last bits of my apple strudel with beer and began to sniffle, I realized I was coming down with a cold.

Bavaria Continued

Except that Simon interrupted my flood of tears, pointing to the landscape with glee. There is something about acquaintance, no matter how remote or recent, that obligates you to be on your best behavior. Perhaps it was the fear of being judged, how familiarity with people causes you to care how you stack up in their opinion. So I held back that torrent of feeling which rains salt and water and contorts my face until I look like a red onion. I had no idea what excited him, but Simon had the kind of ebullient personality that was almost contagious. Then he mentioned his sisters, how he learned to detect when a woman wasn’t happy and how to cheer her up. I glanced at him sideways, wondering if he was a womanizer in disguise, but he seemed completely in earnest and had an eager-to-please look reminiscent of a young puppy. He was also about 8 years younger than me.

Simon & I made a pact to meet that evening for dinner after we got settled; it turned out our hostels were neighbering institutions. The train rolled into Munich and like in every station, I headed over to the kiosks to arrange my ticket (via the EuroRail pass) to the next city, Prague. Except I couldn’t read German, so I stood in the information queue for about 20 minutes. They promptly directed me to another kiosk where I stood behind a long line for another 15 minutes to buy my ticket. When I got to the window, I asked about train times and they absolutely refused to sell me a ticket because I did not know the precise time of the train I wanted to take. Instead, they referred me to a glass waiting room where more complicated tasks like purchasing a multi-train pass were resolved. Incidentally, that was also where the timetables were located. I tried to ask a brief question, but was instead instructed to take a number. After 30 minutes, my number was called and I was promptly referred to the large steel fixture of a shelf with multiple pamphlets. None were in English and when I inquired about that, I was told to take another number.

So much for customer service. Germany, the epitome of discipline, efficiency, and standardization; and it took me over an hour to even get a timetable translated into English. Apparently, Germans spoke flawless English, unless you happened to need your visa renewed or any kind of paperwork processed. Then, every utterance of English was indecipherable and you were inevitably misunderstood. Looks civil service was on par with customer service.

I roamed free in the land of BMW Bismarck, Oktoberfest, and origins of the Nationalist Socialist German Workers' Party, otherwise known as Nazi. Ironically, political power and racial supremacy were not the prime dreams of Adolf Hitler, at least not in his youth. He was a foiled artist, or so he believed, rejected from the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts multiple times before he began peddling street paintings and got involved in grassroots politics, along with disbanded members of the German military post WWI. How the course of the world may be have changed if only he was recognized as a painter. Other interesting commonality among some of these totalitarian radicals was that Hitler was Austrian, not German, although he claimed he was "Germanic." Stalin, too, was Georgian, not Russian and perhaps their lack of "true belonging" in Germany or Russia led to a psychotic drive for domination.

I took a free walking tour of the city, exploring Marienplatz and its marvelous medieval, baroque, and renaissance architecture in a variety of stalwart pillars and churches. As the young German tour guide recounted the city's illustrious and sometimes sordid history, it occurred to me he tiptoed around any semblance of German pride, remarking in a deadpan tone about everything that this city stands for. It was a pattern repeated time and again. Conscientiously, they are still embarrassed about the past and the Holocaust, to the point of depriving their future generations of any sense of positive national identity.

Only the Germans are big enough to admit what they did was wrong. What about the Americans and Native Americans? What about the Japanese, massacre of Nanking, or the Korean "comfort women?" What about the Chinese massacres during the Cultural Revolution, and more recently, Tiananmen Square? None of these superpowers has made an effort towards such humility and reparation as the Germans have done. For that, I am proud of the Germans.

Enter Bavaria

Nothing happened. Or rather, there was no opportunity for anything to happen. I had booked a ticket on the 6am train to Germany the next morning. Timing is everything, the key determinant of success or failure, irrespective of talent or education or credential. And there was no time for anything to happen.

Matthias was still sleeping when I left, in the dark, unholy hours of the morning when it seems the entire world was dormant. I left with the unsettled feeling of things left unresolved and for once, I wished the trains in Switzerland would be late. Indecision mounted: to follow an impulse and stay in Zurich without cause, or to continue on my journey. The train pulled into the bahnhof, the grey mist or maybe just the cold air, congregated under the signs announcing destination and I leapt onto the last car. I closed my eyes, ascribing everything to sleep deprivation and foreign countries, and still I felt inexplicably sad.

Another stop along the German border, perhaps Innsbruck, and thin, Asian man got on. He paused momentarily, and then headed straight for the seat opposite me. Why me, of all people, I wondered as there were plenty of open seats and I was in no mood for company. Perhaps he doesn't speak English. Soon enough, he introduced himself in beautifully smooth and articulate English, with only the slightest hint of an accent. Simon. From Taiwan. Project Manager at a Bank. In Search of Adventure in Europe. Also Headed to Munich. Interesting how we can always get these soundbytes from fellow backpackers in the first five minutes.

I learned that we were staying at adjacent hostels, and that he yearned to see Ludwig's Castle, Neuschwanstein, the fairytale wonder that inspired Cinderella's castle in Disneyworld. I'd never heard of it. For me, Munich was the center of all the action. Oktoberfest. Kristallnacht. Beer Hall Putsch. Dachau. Hitler's rise to power, the sinister and powerful history that defined the course of a war.

Of course, thanks to Simon, I had something happy to look forward to. And suddenly, in that moment, I burst into tears.

Matthias and Me

Upon my return, the illustrious Matthias planned a trip to some posh Swiss spa perched on a mountaintop as a way of welcoming his guest. Upon consideration, he promptly canceled in favor of a hearty hike up one of the neighboring ranges to absorb the great wonders of his native country. Of course, I should have known better than to go hiking with a man who climbed Mt. McKinley.

We took a cable car from the foot of the mountain to mid-range area where most hikers began. The land fluctuated from emerald green of pine to areas of gothic rock formations, non descript grey dominating both sky and stone. It seemed a massive lake of slate, with cracks and jagged edges. I wound up hiking primarily by myself, as Matthias' pace far exceeded my own. He became a remote figure in the distance, pausing and waving to make sure I was still in view. By the way, did I mention that by this point I was fully cognizant that my hiking boots were far too large and they were slipping off periodically?

Then it began to rain. Between the cold, icy rain, and evanescent greyness, everything suddenly seemed oppressive. Time seemed to have passed without us knowing, and dusk was impending. Matthias, overestimating my speed, had gone too far into the hills and even as we headed back, daylight was fading fast. There we were, hopping on slippery rocks in the dark with water pelting on us, which was a simple task for Matthias but somewhat life threatening for me.

At length, we reached the cable car station and it was inevitably closed. So we had to travel on foot for another few hours to reach the bottom. It was absolute black by this point, the only vestige of light was flickering from Matthias' cell phone, which was running out of battery. It also didn't help that he didn't know where he was going. I was exhausted and kept tripping, hobbling after Matthias, who was mere inches away instead of yards. Suddenly, I was angry at being in this foreign place on this miserable night, angry at Matthias and his uncharacteristically poor planning, angry at myself for accepting this hike when I really wanted to go to the spa. In the midst of my somewhat concealed rage, I fell, Matthias caught me, and he never let go of my hand that night.

In a moment, something happened and my insides melted like butter. Being a woman, I overanalyzed the moment. Was this a friendly gesture? The beginning of something more? Perhaps neither or both. It made me think of how much of our lives were situational, things that happened as a result of a coincidence that somehow defined the outcome of what was to be.

It also reminded me of the power of infatuation. Infatuation and love are indistinguishable in intensity; it is only the longevity of the feeling that separates one from the other. Right now, we could only wait and see.