Day 6:  Day Trip to Ljubljana

I've been sharing this six bed dorm with a Ukrainian doctor.  He's on a work holiday here in Austria for about a month.  The Ukrainian doctor has two cute little daughters.  He told me he can only have daughters and a friend of his can only have sons.  He said the secret is that his friend keeps a pistol and a knife under his bed, and the doctor said he could never do that so he is doomed to forever have daughters.  I told the doctor that I had some great-great grandparents from Ukraine.  He told me they must have come from western Ukraine before WW2.  I think he assumed I was at least part Jewish.

Yesterday he was going to take a train to Venice, and I was going to take a train to Ljubljana, and we shared a cab at 5am to the train station in Klagenfurt.  We split the cost and parted ways.

I, too, was planning to take a trip to Venice for the day, but I just could not get the timing to work out.  The earliest busses and trains were already full.  The cheapest place to stay in Venice was about 300 Euro a night (everything else was booked).  The travel agent suggested Ljubljana instead.  They had a sale going on for a 20 Euro round trip train ticket.  She also said that you ride through the Alps and that it's beautiful.  Alps?  Mountains?  I'm in!

I fell asleep on the train ride there, but I woke up and the first light of morning was lighting up snowcapped mountains.  Holy crap.  Unfortunately, though, for most of the ride, there was too much fog and clouds to see most of the mountains.  You could get a peek here and there, but I just closed my eyes again until we reached Ljubljana.

So I know some German, and that helps with signs and menus, but I don't know any Slovenian.  Few signs were in English.  The Chicago Classic burger at the Ljubljana McDonald's is called the New York Classic.  (I end up in McDonald's a lot because of the free wi-fi.)  But, surprisingly to me, people spoke better English in the Slovenian capital than here in this college town in southern Austria.  Thank goodness.  I'm sure if I had been in a rural area, I would have had a more challenging experience.

The University of Ljubljana, home to Zizek, is only one (old, majestic) building.  I made it a point to go there and try to sneak in and have a look around.  I had no such luck, though I considered taking a picture with this one homeless man who bore a strong resemblance to the philosopher.

Ljubljana is small, only about 250,000 people, and everything that I wanted to see was well within walking distance.  I checked out the remains of some ancient Roman walls (actually walked on top of it).  I found the Museum of Modern Slovenian Art where I felt like a student, lingering near a group of young adults taking notes on each piece.  A late lunch introduced me to a Slovenian beer called Union.  It's a lager.  It's like almost any other lager.  And then, a bit light and fluffy, I took a little mountain-climbing train to Ljubljana Castle.  The Castle (Grad) sits on a cliff right over downtown.  I had never quite seen a city with such a forested cliff right in its center.

I climbed to the very top where the flag is flying.  You get a spectacular 360 degree view of Ljubljana and the mountains all around, in particular the snowcapped Alpls to the north and northwest.  The clouds broke, and I took many pictures like this one:

It was a long, long day, and about 5pm I got back on the train to head home.  Who did I see when I first popped my head in the train?  The Ukrainian doctor.  It turned out that he thought he could buy his Venice ticket at the last moment, but he met the same fate I did when I tried to go to Venice.  He, too, was also pleasantly surprised by Ljubljana's charm and beauty.  As for the train we were on, not so much.

"You can tell this is Slovenian train.  So dirty, old, ride not steady.  It feels like Soviet Union.  Austrian train so nice.  Clean.  Smooth."

We chatted the rest of the way to Klagenfurt and marveled at the sun setting over the snowcapped peaks of the Alps as we neared the Austrian border.

"So beautiful.  Look at this.  I surprised.  Wow, Slovenia beautiful country."

I could not agree more.

Beer, Geography, and Art

Day 4 and 5:


I've been relaxing and enjoying my time here in Klagenfurt.  Yesterday I got a little tour of the forest and lake from a kind little tour guide, and last night I helped our quiz team tie for fourth place, thanks to my skillz in the Geography round.  Also, I drank a Duff beer.

On the ride home, I ate something like a hotdog or a spam sandwich (from a gas station) with cheese and confusion.  But it had mustard on it so it was all good.

Today the skies have opened up on me for the first time since Ireland.  I suppose my run of great weather could only last so long.  I took advantage of the rain and went to the modern art museum here in town.  The highlight of the museum was an artist named Inge Dick.  I sat in a dark room with a projection of the color red on one of the walls.  In the bottom right hand corner was a time clock counting up.  I stayed in the room from 8:55:17 to 9:01:55 and while I'm pretty sure the red never changed, I couldn't be 100% sure.

The other highlight was an artist named Manuel Knapp.  It was like Wolf Eyes meets low quality instructional videos and another projection, this one with black and white shifting images.  I could find no pattern, but I left the room before my eyes exploded.

MOUNTAINS

Day 3:  Berlin to Bonn and Bonn to Klagenfurt, Austria

There are mountains to the south and west of this town.  The Alps.  Die Alpen!  As it is not every day that I see mountains, this gets me excited!

I walked about ten minutes west of my hostel, and I came to a lake and beyond the lake, gently rising into to the sky were the forested foothills of the Alps.  I took some pictures and in some of those pictures there are dogs faithfully retrieving tennis balls thrown into the lake by their owners.  It paints a nice picture.  And I'd upload those pictures if it weren't for leaving my camera cord back home.  Patience readers, photos will be in sight soon enough (too soon).

On my way back, I saw a little girl with a mullet.  Oh, Europe.

Apparently I bring the good weather with me as it has been gorgeous not only in London, but now in Berlin and Austria.  I suppose that makes up for the first three weeks in Ireland where it only didn't rain at least a little bit for three of those days.  Tomorrow I plan on doing a little hiking, a little nature-frolicking, with the assistance of a kind tour guide.

If your math is as good as mine, and it probably isn't, that's four flights in three days.  What this means is that I finally get a chance to sit and relax and actually enjoy a destination.  I love the adventure of traveling, of the airport grind (the airport bars), and the challenge of trying to get somewhere in a huge city on each city's own version of public transportation, but I also enjoy sitting in one place for a little while to get to know it.  I have a hunch Klagenfurt will be a nice little place to do just that, a nice little place to spend the last days of my freedom before I start my whirlwind journey back to somewhere where I'd rather not be.

For now, though, I've got a little of this:

Deutschland Uber Alles

Pardon any slurred words or irritating typos because this is serious.  One euro fifty for beer.  Self service.  On the honor system.

Day 2:  Dublin to Berlin

I rised and shined before the sun did, departing Dublin for a third time (a fourth is scheduled).  As the plane was taxiing, the sun peaked its head above the horizon.  I closed my eyes and woke up in Deutschland.

In case you were wondering, my great-grandfather Otto Scheive was from Germany, so I am still getting in touch with my roots over here, one euro fifty at a time.

My nap sadly took up most of the afternoon.  It was much needed, but it cut into my daylight sightseeing. Saw the Brandenberg Gate, das Reichstag, und Alexanderplatz where I overpaid for ein nicht so gutes bier.

Two more flights tomorrow.  Where do I end up?  Tune in to find out!

Nine Flights in Nine Days

or How to Be a Terrible Planner-Aheader

or How to Be a Fiscally Irresponsible Traveler (and not give two fucks about the money)

or How to Live as if You'll Never Get Another Chance to Travel to Europe Again

or Kyle Brown Wants to See Some Snowcapped Mountains Fuck Yeah Hey Hey

Day One:  London to Dublin

The initial plan was to come back here to Dublin and just chill and finish the novel, but fuck that.  Let's see some more Europe!  Let's go where I can show how little conversational German I can understand!  When will I get another chance to up my country count as easily as now since I'm so close the Continent?

Who knows.

So here it goes.

There is a crossroads of sorts in Kyle's life.  Where will he end up?  Which of the myriad of forks will he take?  What will he do there?  What will he do when he gets back?  If he gets back?  

I've been asked, "Are you homesick?"  No, I'm the opposite of whatever that is.  Sick of home.  In love with not being there.  In love with doing something else.  So hopefully with all of my time on planes (trains and automobiles), I can live these final nine days like that sappy, sappy cliche:  like there is no tomorrow.

But there is a tomorrow.  And I will fly to Berlin.

Guinness for Strength

I've been putting this off and putting this off and putting this off, and here I find myself on the last night of the Irish portion of my trip, and I need to squeeze this necessary blog post out of me like dirty water from a dirty stone.

The saying is that the Guinness is better here at the source, and if the Willy Wonka-like factory is any indication, I am certainly as close to the source as I can get.  They will tell you the stout tastes better here, smoother, that it's better balanced, even sweeter.  And, you know, they are certainly right.  To an extant.

The bottom line is that I have grown up on stouts that are two and three times stronger (ABV%) than Guinness and its measly %4 (listed as %4.2 here).  Imperial Stouts, Russian Imperial Stouts, even Baltic Porters.  Stouts that taste of coffee, that taste of chocolate, that pour like motor oil, that pour with a brown head, that leave brown residue all over the glass.  And because I grew up on these bigger, more powerful, and massively flavorful stouts, I still have little good to say about Guinness.  I suppose here it is drinkable.  I've had more than one.  I've probably had a half dozen to, you know, really put it to the test, to see whether or not it's just a question of an acquired taste.  But, no, it's not.  I'd rather have a lager like Carlsberg, even Heineken, before Guinness.  Right now I'm even sipping a Beamish, which is an Irish stout, too, but is a little thicker and more flavorful (and only two Euro fifty at this hostel).

So I really do hate to break it to you, Ireland--you've been a wonderful host to me--you have a beautiful country here and friendly, helpful citizens, but your national beer/icon, one of your most well known exports, still isn't good.

Lisdoonvarna Matchmaking Festival

I've hinted at its ridiculousness, its underwhelming, geriatric clientele, dancing to Lawrence Welk-like champange-country hits of yesteryear.  These are your grandparents, divorced and/or widowed.  Your farmers who only get out of town once a year--to the Matchmaking Festival.  Your anyone European who still does not have the Internet.  As I so eloquently said on facebook:  "it's like Internet dating for people who don't have the Internet."

Perhaps I sound a bit frustrated--poor single Kyle had to settle with matching up with your grandma (who is a real gilf btw)--but, no, that is not the case at all.  The west of Ireland, while rainy and windy as shit, is beautiful.  The Cliffs of Moher were obviously breathtaking, and looking out most of the windows in this hostel, you can see large hills, small mountains off in the distance, rolling toward the ocean.  Besides, I did not come here to find a match--I really hope no one comes here to find a match, but sadly I know that's not true--I came here for a once in a lifetime opportunity to find out and observe just what the hell a Matchmaking Festival is.  Next time, though, I'll just stay at home and make a new profile on OKCupid.  Stay tuned.

Not only is Lisdoonvarna home to the human mutation of the Pillsbury Doughboy, it's home to donkeys.

A town with a population of not more than a thousand people receiving an influx of close to 40,000 is a sight to behold.  Everyone parks on the sidewalks.  Thankfully I have yet to see any tan Buicks.  I had seen enough of those over the summer.  The reprieve from the Buicks and Chevy Impalas is more than welcome, but I still can't escape the old people.  At least these grandmas and grandpas are still healthy enough to get down and break a hip.

I talked to a local musician named Dermot, 33, and he told me the Matchmaking Festival is "a fucking joke."  And the the hotels around here are trying to seperate themselves from the "absolute fucking joke that is Willie Daly and his assinine Matchmaking book.  "The sad part," he continues, "is that Willie is so clueless that he really believes in what he does.  His magic book, his magic matchmaking ability.  He fucking believes all of it.  It's pathetic."  But he rakes in that dough.

You see, Willie Daly, a fourth-generation matchmaker, charges 20 Euro for you to fill out a one page form giving your information and interests.  He reads through all of them and matches people up and gives potential matches each others contact information.  For a mere 50 Euro, Willie will meet with you one on one to get a better idea of what you want in a match. (Fire, I want fire in my match.)  If you're truly lucky, you'll be able to touch his book, which guarantees that you'll meet your spouse within six months.

Also, he looks like Kenny Rogers.

"I really hope against all hope," Dermot concluded, "that Willie is the last generation.  This generation all around us will hopefully be the last that participates in this matchmaking debacle.  We can only fucking hope."

We can indeed only hope.