Istanbul, not Constantinople

This time with apologies to They Might Be Giants.

It seems that not-even-remotely-current chronicles of my life are becoming the New Normal around these parts. While I'd like to apologize (I do) and say it has been unavoidable due to the increasingly hectic and stressful nature of the way my separate endeavors are bearing down on me (I will), let me also, before we go any further, disavow myself of the responsibility to write about my life here more than actually living it (I have). My days have been jam-packed since I returned to Bulgaria, and next entry, I'll spin a yarn that will have excuses jumping right off the erstwhile electronic page. But for now:

It boggles my mind that with as much as I've had to do, I've kept my goal of visiting another country every month in some part of my mind other than the deepest, darkest recesses thereof, let alone intact. But when my friend from LA, Carrie, swung through this part of the world on her way south from Poland, I couldn't resist the chance to come along for the ride, considering the ultimate destination of her travels was Istanbul, a town I've heard so very much about and has been highly recommended by nearly everyone in the universe. So we went.

Carrie got into Sofia one cold, bright Saturday morning (last Saturday morning, in fact), and I belatedly picked her up from the train station. After a few small business items back at my apartment, we set out so I could give her the tour, one I've given numerous times by now, of my city for the nonce. After we returned, chilled and snowed on (but extravagantly culturally enriched!), we took the opportunity to rest up, engage in various frivolities, and prepare to head out to dinner.

Dining out has generally been a genial and pleasant experience here in Sofia, and this would prove to be no exception. The act of getting to the given arena of consumption has likewise typically proven to be of minimal tsuris, but on this fateful night, all sorts of precedents would be broken, this last one first and foremost among them.

We saw the restaurant on the map, got verbal directions, and despite the gnawing pit of uncertainty in my stomach telling me to be extra sure of where we were going--since I had never been in the neighborhood--we left amid much fanfare and hailed a cab. 15 minutes later, it dumped us out on an unmarked street, the two of us having good company in failing to know where the hell we were going. So we walked. And walked. Eventually, I tried asking some passing souls for directions, receiving as many different answers as questions asked. Phone calls to the rest of our party proved to be minimally fruitful. After having a protracted conversation in German with a more-or-less kindly old gentleman, we walked some more, had more conversations with the now-frantic other members of our party, and generally grew colder and hungrier out there in the night wind, nary a sign of civilization about.

To cut an abjectly long remainder of a story short, we ended up finding a second cab, had my friend Alberto tell the driver where the restaurant was three times, and eventually found ourselves in what appeared to be Nebraska, replete with rolling fields, barns, and still no sign of civilization. Assured by our driver that the restaurant we sought lay behind the nearest of said barns, we uncertainly trudged down the long, icy driveway, and an hour after we set out, were greeted by the blast of warmth and noise one typically finds in a restaurant on a Saturday night.

Dinner passed comparatively uneventfully, save for the kitchen forgetting my order, a spate of karaoke as we were all beginning to settle into the thought of leaving, and the heretofore unanticipated charge for same. Carrie and I, exhausted from our day, elected not to join everyone else at the club when the time for leaving truly was upon us, and we instead headed for home.

The next day dawned much too early for either of our tastes, but we weathered it the best we could by concocting an overlarge batch of pancakes that somehow, to our exultant surprise, turned into crèpes in the pan. Aside from taking care of some more business (including the almost-overlooked task of going to the bus station and buying our tickets ahead of time), we spent much of the day at my apartment in preparation for traveling, also venturing out to secure some banitsa, which Carrie had never before encountered. When the appointed hour rolled around, we were ready, and at 9 PM, we set off for Istanbul.

I struggled to sleep on the bus, and when we got to the border crossing, I was awakened from my fitful slumber to the most absurd border crossing I have ever experienced. For those of you who are not familiar with intra-European travel: It is easy, fast, low-key, and, best of all, free for those traveling within the EU and countries friendly thereto. But no matter how hard I set my mind to it, I simply cannot find any way to justify using such adjectives to describe this particular crossing. At 2 AM, we filed out of the bus, showed our passports to the Bulgarian exit officers, and were more or less quickly on our way. To make it as stark as I possibly can, I'll simply state that crossing into Turkey took our busload of 5 people an hour and a half in the middle of the night.

The Turkish government, wise to the value of the desirability of their largest city, have levied a €15 entrance tax, disguised as a visa, on visiting tourists. Before you get the wrong idea, this is not a visa that you go through any trouble (that is, any official trouble) to obtain. Told that we needed such visas to cross the border, Carrie and I walked a tenth of a kilometer in the freezing cold over to what looked like a border post. Told that the office we actually needed was another few meters past this one, we set off again directly for it, all the while afraid that our bus might somehow leave without us. When we got to appropriate office, we were greeted by a large, surly man, demanding our money for what turned out to be a sticker--direct from a ream of hundreds of other such stickers--that he placed on the last page of our passports. Background checks? Nope. Picture ID's? Please. Feeling stranger about the experience with every passing minute, Carrie and I raced back to our bus, which was thankfully right where we had left it, got on, and waited another hour for the geologically slow machinations of Turkish border security to deem us fit to enter their country.

After a few more hours, I was awakened yet again and told that we were in Istanbul. The time was 5:20 AM. Disembarking, we found ourselves in a seemingly-abandoned Central Bus Station and contemplated committing the cardinal tourist sin of waving down a cab, but we decided to stick it out and try our luck with the Istanbul metro.

In attempting to buy metro tokens from a machine that was completely devoid of any English whatsoever, we encountered the first instance of a phenomenon that would prove to be ubiquitous in our stay here: People being insistently friendly and helpful. Not that I've never experienced friendliness from locals before, but over the course of the next two days, we would be treated to myriad displays of kindness from complete strangers on a scale I have never before witnessed.

The destination of this particular anecdote is that we bought our tokens and took the light rail system (akin to Germany's S-bahn) to our changeover. As we stepped out of the station, the sky was just beginning to lighten in the east, and a startling call rang out from the mosque to our immediate left. The muezzins called the city to prayer as we spent the next half hour trying to find out where exactly where we were supposed to catch the tram that would take us to our hostel. We eventually found the station by dint of pure dumb luck, and after walking onto the wrong side of the platform, the security guard indicated that he would look the other way while we crossed the tracks to the correct side.

After a short ride to Sultanahmet Square, we debarked and again tried to find our way with limited knowledge of our surroundings. There was a moment, as the sun rose over the Blue Mosque, when I wondered if I was in a dream. But I was roused from my reverie by yet another friendly, helpful stranger who walked us to our hostel, and making a quick executive decision to try to catch a little bit of sleep while it was still possibly justifiable to be abed, I passed out in our room until 9 AM.

Never has a cold shower been more refreshing than the one I took upon waking up for the last time that day. After venturing upstairs (for this hostel, we were told, featured a rooftop restaurant), I sat--completely and utterly flabbergasted, my utterly delicious complimentary breakfast spread before me--overlooking the Sea of Marmara, wondering for the second time that day if I was in a dream and I would wake up to a life in which I would not be refreshed, fed, warm, and in a place with a sea beneath me, the towers of a mosque to my left, and another continent to my right.

Needless to say, our stay had gotten off on the right foot. From there, it was all just a matter of sightseeing.

Istanbul, straddling two continents, is essentially divided into three halves. Though we didn't get to cross to the Asian side (more on that later), we spent the two days that I was able to stay exploring almost the entirety of the European side, which is bisected into two parts by the Golden Horn. Our first day, we ventured around the Old City, in the southern half of the European side.

Our first stop was the Blue Mosque, which is, in my novice opinion, the second coolest mosque in the city.

It's blue inside.

 In the immediate vicinity thereof are the Hagia Sofia,

Right next door.

the Egyptian obelisk,

That's just the top third of it.

and the Basilica Cistern, a creepy-cool underground cistern that used to be a church.

Seriously.

After drinking in these sights, we headed up the hill to the area of the Grand Bazaar, a massive indoor marketplace (The Ottomans invented malls. Who knew?). It was there that we experienced, in full force, the juggernaut that is a Turkish sales pitch. Yelled at from every angle with "special deals" and greetings that would make the person with the lowest self-esteem in the world feel valued, we made our way through, around, and between a maze of shops selling anything and everything imaginable.

Mall.

Finally making our way out of this delightfully treacherous labyrinth of merchandise, we found ourselves again on the street, and hungry. Stopping for a lunch of the most delicious döner kebab I have ever had (though it is ubiquitous and quite delicious here in Sofia, the döner in Istanbul was just the best thing ever) at a streetside truck, we then made our way to one of my favorite things on this trip, Süleyman's Mosque.

Built for Süleyman the Magnificent and finished in 1558, it was meant to be the grandest thing in the city, and I have a hard time believing it wasn't, if it isn't still. The architecture is ridiculous, ornate on a monumental scale, and the whole thing has been incredibly well-maintained. The grounds house several smaller domes, which serve as mausolea for Süleyman, his wife, and the architect that designed the mosque. Check it:

Just exquisite

And beautiful

From the courtyard

Our last sightseeing stop for the day was the Spice Bazaar back down the hill. While it bore more than a passing resemblance to the Grand Bazaar, it was entirely dedicated to food, and, of course, spices. It smelled delicious.

Really delicious.

When we emerged, it began to flurry, and then to out-and-out snow, so we decided to head back to the hostel to warm up, rest up, clean up, and get some dinner, after which we retired, having been joined in the dorm by a couple of ERASMUS students from France and Romania.

The Blue Mosque in the snow

That night, I slept hard, having pieced together barely more than five hours of sleep the previous night and topped it off with kilometers and kilometers of walking the previous day. When I awoke, awash in sunshine, the dorm was deserted, but I once again ventured upstairs and found Carrie at a table, and we proceeded to repeat the delicious morning festivities.

That taken care of, we planned our day, I checked out of the hostel (for I was to be returning that night), and we ventured out. After securing my ticket home, we decided to spend the day on the European side north of the Golden Horn, the New District. Stopping to appreciate some of the sights we had missed the first day, we made our way to the Galata Bridge and crossed over the water.

Our closest and most trusted companion on this trip was Rick Steves' guide to Istanbul. I had never been exposed to the magic that this series of travel guides represents, but I quickly became a believer. After crossing the water, we decided to travel--backwards--one of the routes he recommends. So to get there, we made our way through narrow alleyways and up tiny streets, past Italian-built (!?) towers, little synagogues nested into the rows of houses, and an inexplicable number of music shops, to Istiklal Caddesi.

Seriously. The Genoans built a tower right in the middle of Istanbul.

The most inconspicuous synagogue ever

We spent the next hour or so moseying on down this shoppers' paradise, swarmed even at the midday hour, pausing only to try some new Turkish food. We eventually emerged, unrelieved of any money save for that we had spent on lunch, and went ahead with what had been our plan all along - to head to the bridge across the Bosphorus and cross into Asia.

Though it was not incredibly far to go, the walk still took us the better part of two hours as we lacked any definite idea on how to get there and what to do, other than to walk towards it and then walk across it.

At least, it didn't look far away

We eventually found ourselves in the shadow of the bridge, but discovered that we would have to climb away from the water for quite a way to catch the beginning of it. So, again haphazardly, we followed small side streets towards what we imagined was the entrance to the bridge. Eventually finding ourselves at the top of a Long and Winding Road with the motorway close to us but no entrance in sight, I browbeat Carrie we decided to climb the steep, snowy hill up to the roadway.

Emerging onto the shoulder of the highway, our goal was in sight, and with about 15 minutes of daylight remaining, we decided to go for it. Alas, 10 seconds into our jaunt onto what turned out to be a maintenance-access walkway--and not, as we had thought, a pedestrian sidewalk--we were halted by frantic whistle blasts issuing from a police car. Our desire for completing our goal being outweighed by our desire not to get thrown into prison in a country whose language we spoke not one word of, we turned back, and settled for some picturesque, though disappointing, photos of the Bridge to the Other Side.

Below the bridge

Looking across

Steeling ourselves for the long return walk, we headed back down into town, stopping for some baklava along the way, and caught a bus back to Istiklal Caddesi. Walking back down the way we came, we found a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant where we got a three-course meal for 5 lira (coming out to US $2.50). We then headed back into the Old City, where we finished our day at a hookah restaurant, relaxing and getting a private show from a Turkish folk band who serenaded us until they figured out that we weren't lying when we told them we had literally no money left to tip them.

With that, though Carrie stayed for another few days, my stay in Istanbul was over. I headed back to the bus station, barely making my bus in time, and once we were past the border crossing, I was down for the count, waking up in my seat as the bus crawled through a whited-out Sofia.

What an awesome trip. I have seen some very cool places in my time here so far, but Istanbul is definitely at or near the top. It was an overwhelmingly positive experience in almost every way, and I am going to try to go back one more time before I have to leave this wild continent.

I will get us all caught up next time (finally!), and there is a lot to tell. So until then -

Back to Bulgaria

All good things must come to an end, especially vacations, which seem designed, when their last moments are slipping through your fingers, specifically for the purpose of breaking your heart. And though I had two glorious weeks to squander on things that weren't really obligations as much as experiences, the time still seemed far too short.

On a blisteringly cold Münchner day, bags in tow, Laura and I headed to the airport, said our goodbyes, and I, for the (how many times has it been this year?) time, hopped the country. Stepping off the plane into a blisteringly cold Sofiiski night, I caught a bus and eventually made my way back to my desolate, lonely, abandoned apartment, pining away for somebody to live in it after standing empty for two weeks.

I made the executive decision to spend the rest of the week getting my business back in order, and it's a good thing I did, because there was plenty of it. While in Munich, I heard back from the first of the grad schools I applied to. Things on that front didn't get off to such a hot start; the first email I received (six years after my last applications to institutions of high learning, six years after receiving packet after bulky packet in the mail, these processes have finally been digitized, truly bringing Academia into the 21st century) was my rejection letter from Michigan.

Good news was on the way, though - a few days later, I got the enormously relief-bearing email that I was in at USC,--my alma mater--no audition necessary. So I was going to Grad School.

I'm going to Grad School.

I could, at this point, delve into a theatrical account of all the anticipation and emotional ups-and-downs to which I've been subjected as the very nature of my future has changed and hung in the balance, but I won't; that would be silly and obnoxious. Or maybe I just did.

To make what would otherwise be short, insubstantial stories even shorter, I have, as of this writing, auditions at Westminster Choir College and, to my tremendous and happy surprise, Yale. I have yet to hear back from UNT, but all things in due time, I suppose.

What has ensued as a result of these pieces of news has been a mad scramble to prepare. I'm in a moderately precarious position - not currently engaged in choral activities, the music I need difficult to obtain in this corner of the Balkans, primitive piano skills more or less laying dormant, efforts to revive them sure to be a struggle. As I see it, I'm at several disadvantages relative to all the other applicants eying the same openings I am, and the only way I can possibly compete with them is to work harder than all of them.

So I will.

Anyway:

January 3rd was the day I dove, for the first time in my life, into the unrewarding, chaotic primordial swamp of tax returns - qualifying for Federal Aid means filling out the FAFSA, and filling out the FAFSA means doing your taxes, and as close to January 1st as possible. Seven (!) hours later, I emerged, mostly triumphant, having filled out the first 1040 (and Schedule C, and Schedule SE) of my life. And though it put me in the mood to unleash my accumulated wrath by devouring something unsuitable for being devoured (someone's head not being entirely outside the realm of possibility), it was another uplifting--for lack of a better word, as this subject has caused my adjectival vocabulary to fail me--sign of my impending Independence and Adulthood (Complete).

A few more days into the New Year, I had to bid farewell to fellow Fulbrighter Greg and his family, his grant being only a half-year affair, terminating on January 5th. We had one last ukulele-guitar-trumpet-clarinet session in the Sofia Metro, had dinner, and with that, that particular chapter of our collective stay came to a close. Come Monday morning, I was back on the research horse.

The New Year marked a slight shift in how I'll be carrying out my research. For the past four months, I've been living in the library several hours a day, studying books of venerable age and unsatisfactory readability, some in archaic Bulgarian. Now, my intention--being armed with a thoroughly basic basically thorough knowledge of my subject--is to actually get out into the field and watch Shopski Folklore being made by real people, a turning point as momentous, I suppose, as any academic shift can be. I have my attendance at several festivals lined up in the next few weeks, and perhaps a few personal interviews as well, if I can swing it. It could turn out to be, perhaps, both a good time and a good story.

So my time, it now appears, is at a premium. My days, for the past week and a half, have gone something like this: Wake up, eat breakfast, shower, go to the library, head out for a coffee and some studying, come home, answer emails, go to the gym, come home again, take a shower, work on audition repertoire, fin, repeat. This is a positive development, if viewed the right way. I'm certainly not bored--not that I ever really have been this year-- and I've found more than enough things to fill up the whole of my day. 

The flip side of this coin is the stress that comes with it. The Westminster and Yale auditions are--and will continue to be, right up to the moment they're over--big, important, nerve-wracking affairs, and I will never forgive myself if I fail to prepare to the fullest extent I can. Life Goal Mode has most certainly been engaged, Life Goals demand a lot of time.

What has been mildly astonishing to me is that I haven't felt bad about being so busy. There was a time in my life when I would curse the Universe, the Establishment, or any other Power for dumping so much on me and keeping me so busy. But now, while I may not be enjoying having so much to do...I don't mind it so much. It's kept my mind off of petty things and given me little time to engage in some of the unhealthier habits in my life, Facebook being first and foremost among them. I am engaged and absorbed, to use affirmative, uplifting language, which, of course, we don't absolutely need to do. It's rewarding, not necessarily in an Utterly Fulfilling sort of way, but in a step-back-and-look-at-what-you're-doing sort of way. I am breaking the mental chains of my own laziness - out of necessity, yes, not quickly or efficiently, no, but it's happening all the same.

But before I devolve too much further into self-aggrandizing back-patting (which has been a regrettably common occurrence around these parts, and for that, I apologize), let me just say that there is no shortage of things I'm shooting for right now, and it feels, at once, both good and stressful.

Thus has been the substance of the weeks subsequent to my German Adventures. 

Next post: The tale of my spontaneous trip to yet another wicked cool city of Europe. Keep reading! (Please?)

Christmahanukwanzika, Part 3: Munich-Salzburg-NYE

Seeing as how I may be the only Jew in the history of the world to go on a road trip specifically to go to church, I promptly inoculated myself against apostasy, upon our return to Munich, by setting out the menorah and lighting the candles for the seventh night of Hanukkah. Only after that were we able to move on to other things.

The week between Christmas and New Year's was an interesting one for the city of Munich. There was an element of anarchy to the whole thing that is generally lacking in the States, and I kind of liked it. So while Laura and I repeated in our endeavors of the first week, this time with different destinations and attractions, the city slowly disintegrated into chaos around us. Like I said, interesting.

The day after we got back, we went to see the Munich Camerata perform a concert of music for chamber orchestra--Vivaldi, Handel, Telemann, and the like--courtesy of Laura's host family, the tickets being their Christmas present to her. It was a nice affair, the music was good, and we were, of course, dressed to kill. Spurning the Hofbräuhaus for dinner, we settled on a small, hole-in-the-wall indigenous restaurant, and there we began to hatch our plans for the coming week.

The Peterskirche in Munich has the cool distinction of having a balcony at the top of the church to, affording spectacular views of the city and beyond, to which you can climb. So one cold, overcast winter day, after visiting the Viktualienmarkt (a large, outdoor, year-round food market the likes of which you would not believe - exotic and quotidian food both exerting their inimitable power over helpless passersby), we each paid our euro and climbed the long, long staircase to the top, pausing only to allow the odd gaggle of rude American tourists to shove past us, and, occasionally, to photograph some of the best graffiti therein. When we got to the top, we were rewarded for our efforts:

Big City

The Frauenkirche and Rathaus, looking north

That scenic experience behind us, and thwarted in our attempt to secure a steak dinner (a long and harrowing tale that is still too raw upon my heart to relive), we headed over to the North Gate of the city.

Not pictured: The Korean tourists standing directly behind me, taking the exact same picture

This particular week, in truth, turned out to be a bit less productive and a tad more lazy than the previous one. While we did see some cool things in addition to the ones you see above, and we did eat at some places I would not have expected (including a ridiculously good Mexican restaurant that, to my utter delight, uses real jack cheese on their burritos, something that is apparently rare here in Europe), the memory thereof is now so hazy with its distance in the past that I can't quite remember specifics. What is essential to the tale is that we spent the week having cultural experiences and planning our New Year's. So when the weekend rolled around, we were prepared.

One of the better impulse decisions we made on this trip (and one of the better ones I have ever made in my life) was to take a day trip to Salzburg the day before New Year's Eve. It was a confluence of circumstances that made this possible: It's only a two-hour train ride from Munich, it is right across the border from Germany, and Bavarian Transit offers a round-trip, multi-person ticket for €29. Why not go? we asked. No reason, we replied. So let's go, we resolved. We went.

The train ride was comfortable enough (train travel in Germany is, I can say without fear of reprisal, far superior to its counterpart in Bulgaria. Ah, the wonders of a high-income economy), but when we got to Salzburg, it was cold, with a capital COLD. Braving the elements--including hail-like snow--like the determined tourists we were, we set out and saw a great many wonders of the city:

The scenic views,

Apparently, Anonymous is in Salzburg, too

the 961349 monuments to Mozart,

Handsome fellow.

and a museum of classical art that we inadvertently snuck into, not realizing that admission was €6.

Having absorbed all these wonders, we ventured up the hill to the Salzburg Fortress; basically, your standard castle on top of a mountain. But oh, is it scenic.

Seriously

The mountain to which we sung excerpts from Mozart's Requiem. That's right, I brought my score.

Did I mention it was cold? Well, let me mention it again, because we were eventually forced to take refuge in a Chinese restaurant and subsequently forced to order dinner while waiting for the hour to come when we could catch our train. Salzburg, for all its visual virtue, is not a very big town, and we were sufficiently cold to decide that we didn't really need to see too much more of it. So we passed our time in the marginally-warmer-than-the-elements restaurant, caught the train, and returned to whence we came.

The story of New Year's Eve:

In the course of our down time of the previous week, we had entertained many possibilities for how to spend our New Year's, including our original plan of going to Vienna (nixed for lack of money), outdoor concerts (nixed for lack of clothing warm enough to withstand several hours of intense cold), and a Goth Club (nixed for lack of eyeshadow and tight jeans). We eventually settled on a run-around-in-the-streets, make-it-up-as-you-go plan. We began our evening innocently enough with a big, cozy pasta dinner, and for comedic effect, I'll simply fast-forward to the part where we stood outside in the rain, fireworks going off six feet behind us (and in front of us, and on either side of us), pyrotechnics bouncing off windows in the Marienplatz, yelling at--and being yelled back at by--a group of drunk Italians, asking strangers to take our picture, shoulder to shoulder with thousands of other people. And thus we spent the first minutes of 2012.

We would, in the course of our evening, make quite a few friends (including, but not limited to, a young couple from Hof, a 26-year-old Cheshire lad who was leading a pack of girls from North Carolina, and several odd Frenchmen), be paid into a club by two of them at 2:30 AM, leave at 3:00, join the innumerable, inebriated, incoherent crowd on the subway at 4:00, and be forced take a cab back home after the subway dumped us off with nary a bus in sight. But all in all, a satisfying way to spend New Year's Eve in Europe.

New Year's Day 2012 dawned warm and overcast, and as it was my last day in Germany, we decided--along with half the city of Munich, since there is apparently nothing else to do on January 1--to take an easy walk around the city, which gave us the chance to see a few more things that we had theretofore missed. We finally got around to see the Landtag building, as well as another Gothic-y church that I had been wanting to see up close. The word(s) of the day was (were) taking it easy, and this we did, not having the energy to do much else.

Palatial

Flying High

The Boulevard from above

At the waning of the light

Idyllic

Exhausted, we headed for home, and the next day, I was back to Sofia.

It was a rather nice trip, and a monumentally satisfying two-week hiatus from all the stress I had been accumulating. I was glad to have the time and the experiences. All of them.

The last two weeks' tale will be forthcoming tomorrow, or perhaps Sunday. Thanks for sticking with me, so far, and adios.

Christmahanukwanzika, Part 2: Leipzig

I love Bach. Bach-y Bach Bach.

It hasn't always been that way. But in college, once I was exposed to more of his music, I grew to like it. And then love it. The man was undeniably a genius, contending with some of the other giants of our Western Classical idiom for the completely arbitrary and subjective title of Greatest Composer Ever. 

He knew how to put some notes together.

Which is why, whilst in Germany, Laura and I unhesitatingly took the chance to travel to pay our tribute to The Man. After a six-year tenure in Köthen, Bach moved to Leipzig in 1723, directing the choirs at, and composing for, several of the city's numerous churches. His home base, the Thomaskirche, still regularly programs his music, and since 1950 has housed his remains. Of course we were going to go. And what better occasion than Weihnacht?

Waking up altogether earlier than we had grown accustomed to, burdened with bags of food to be consumed over the course of the weekend, we made our way to the Munich central station on Christmas Eve morning. Our train travel went off without a hitch, and six hours later, we made it to Leipzig.

Upon leaving the Leipzig central station, we found the appropriate tram and took it over to the stop that should, in theory, have been right next to our hostel. After getting lost down some questionable alleyways in a desolate, not-exactly-well-lit, abandoned part of town, we began to feel a little nervous, but we eventually found the appropriate door. Exhausted from the double ordeals of traveling and feeling nearly certain we were about to be mugged, we paused to catch our breath, Skype our families, and get settled in. We finally ventured out at 9 PM and headed over to the Thomaskirche for a service that would, disappointingly, turn out to be nothing more than a Christmas play, although hearing the whole story in German was not an uninteresting experience. 

Knowing that there would be a Midnight Mass (one that actually took place at midnight, something I've never witnessed in the States), we stayed after the play was over, which was definitely worth it - we were rewarded with a manageably short (given the lateness of the hour) all-chant service featuring the Thomanerchor, the boys' choir that Bach himself directed nearly 300 years ago.

Though the night was freezing, and we again found ourselves having to walk for a bit longer than was comfortable through what proved to be another scary section of town, we made it back to the hostel alive and in one piece, slept for all of six hours, and got up early to get to the Christmas morning service (again, something I've never experienced in the US) back at the church.

On the program for Christmas morning? Cantata #1 from Bach's Weihnachts-Oratorium. And it was good. 

Being churched out for the moment, we went out to see Leipzig and to try to have some semblance of a normal Christmas. We made friends with some rather large Christmas trees, 

It was bigger than it looks

saw Leipzig's enormous City Hall,

Also bigger than it looks

the Gewandhaus,

Nice.

and opera.

Majestic

Our Christmas dinner? Indian food, if you can believe it, at a nice-ish place in the middle of town. Full of this unconventional Christmas dinner, we went home, Skyped our families some more ('tis the season, you know), and went to bed.

Our last day in Leipzig once again dawned a bit earlier than was preferable, and we manically packed to check out of the hostel, culminating in Laura's throwing the remainder of our payment, in cash, through the retractable window of the hostel's office's door. Waving our arms like maniacs in front of the oncoming tram in an effort to get it not to run us over to stop and let us in, fortune, and the tram's driver, smiled on us, so we were able to get to the Thomaskirche on time for the service. This morning's music was Cantata #2 from the Weihnachts-Oratorium. After it was over, the church silent, and the people gone, I finally got the chance to (metaphorically) kneel before The Man.

There he is

The rest of the church was cool, too.

My homage paid, we set off into Leipzig to see a few more things before it was time for us to leave. Cool, serious things included the Mendelssohn-Haus,

Who knew he lived in a mansion?

the rebuilt Paulinerkirche (an interesting note about the Paulinerkirche: It was originally constructed in the 1400's, survived World War II--not something many buildings in Germany can claim--and was then tragically demolished by the Communist government of East Germany in 1968. Who would do that? A replica of it--what you'll see below--began to be constructed three years ago, except that this incarnation of it is completely fronted by glass, top to bottom. Ridiculous),

How cool is this?

and a museum documenting the history of East Germany from the end of the war up through reunification, which was fascinating, chilling, and insightful, all at the same time.

Slightly wackier things that we saw included an abstract monument to philosophy

Yes, those are naked dudes holding power tools

and an office building that looked unsettlingly like a face, right down to its beady little eyes, doubling as windows.

A little creepy

At four o'clock, our driver--as we had booked a rideshare--came and picked us up, whisked us down the autobahn at 180 kmh (!), and dropped us off safely back in Munich, all for the low, low price of €20. And so ended our Christmas Getaway.

It was, by far, the most unusual Christmas I've ever had (not that I make a habit of observing it, though my life has somehow conspired to always put me in the position to do so), but a fun and satisfying one. The one thing I had really wanted to do, I did, and though neither of us could be with our families for it, Laura and I got to spend it together. All in all, a good trip.

Tomorrow we'll conclude our whirlwind tour of my vacation, glossing over many important details, as has been, and must continue to be, my custom herein. Thanks for reading, and I hope to continue not to completely disappoint you. Until then -

Christmahanukwanzika, Part 1: Munich

That's probably enough of a break, now.

Despite my best intentions, and promises that a dark, troubled corner of my mind knew it probably wasn't going to keep, I have once again failed to bring you the bolging you thirst for and deserve.

My bad.

The nature of my "breaks" (read: slovenly vacations) has been such that I haven't had the inclination time to write while they're happening for reasons including, but not limited to, having too much fun, relaxing, refusing to think about anything remotely of import, willful irresponsibility, and gross negligence. But, here I am, back in Sofia for over a week, and I've continued to leave you hungry. But here, come in out of the cold, have something to drink, and lose yourself in the latest of my yarns:

I flew to Munich on the 19th, where I was greeted by subzero (Celsius) temperatures and a blanketing of snow. As it happened, Laura and I would continue to be snowed on almost continuously for the next two weeks.

The first part of my visit will best be described as the misshapen hybrid between a week of pure vegging, pre-Christmas festivities, and a cultural walking tour of Munich. In light of the fact that descriptions of my lazy-day activities would probably not make for very gripping storytelling, let's skip right to the second item on that list.

One of the primary draws for me to come to Germany for Christmas (besides the presence of my beautiful girlfriend) was simply how the Germans do Christmas. A bunch of the holiday traditions we have in the States either come from the Germans or have been completely outdone by them, and they even have a few that we can't even touch. I present into evidence as Exhibit A the phenomenon of Christmas Markets:

Even the Rathaus was dressed up for Christmas

These markets, which, in some instances, can take up 1/10 of a square kilometer, are vast expanses of tents selling all kinds of food, toys, souvenirs, kitsch, and the ubiquitous glühwein, which essentially amounts to hot Manischewitz with spices and fruit. But it is delicious. And warm. And wine.

And it comes in real mugs, which you can steal!

We spent a disconcerting amount of time hanging around these markets, paying exorbitant prices for food and drinks, partly because of the atmosphere, partly because of the crowds, and partly because of the ridiculous nature of some of the larger ones such as Tollwood:

Multicolored tents as far as the eye could see

Nice to meet you

However, on my third day there, instead of hanging out in the freezing cold for hours at a time, we decided to make comfort foods in honor of the season:

NOM

And, after I fried latkes, handcrafted a menorah out of tinfoil, and read Maccabees, we celebrated Hanukkah, as well.

Happy Hanukkah, y'all

But when the fun and games were over, we got down to some srs bsns cultural activities. We made a list, checked it twice, and decided there were 23487645986 things we needed to see in Munich while I was there. We decided to start at the Münchner Residenz, former home of the rulers of Bavaria. It is large.

Incredibly, the only shot I got, the gazebo in the Hofgarten

Across the Odeonsplatz from the Residenz is the ridiculously intricate Theatinerkirche. Almost completely destroyed in the war, it has been rebuilt to be more or less an exact replica of how it once was. And boy, it once was.

Also large.

So much detail

Keeping the church theme going, we also visited the Michaelskirche, this one, interestingly enough, a Jesuit church (What's that?). And also quite magnificent. The interior of the church looked familiar, as it bore a striking resemblance to another St. Michael's - the Serbian Orthodox church we visited in Belgrade. And upon leaving, we found a sign asking us to shut the door - in Serbian. While there is obviously a connection, I have nary a clue as to what it could be.

If you squint hard enough, you can see on the altar a portrait of St. Michael slaying the evil that is Protestantism.

The inexplicable aforementioned sign in Serbian

As the Michaelskirche happened to be a (rather liberal definition of a) short walk from Munich's sole synagogue, and as it happened to be the second night of Hanukkah, we took the stroll, detouring only briefly into the German equivalent of REI. To our disappointment, the entrance is barred to non-Jews. This is something that I can begin to understand in a place with a history such as Germany's, but something I found a little distasteful nonetheless. Judaism is supposed to be welcoming. It's supposed to be inclusive. I've never encountered a congregation that didn't welcome Gentiles among it, so long as they respected its traditions and beliefs. 

Though that got to me, I couldn't help but admire the synagogue anyway.

Impressive

The next day, armed with a combined 20 years out of practice, Laura and I headed over to the Karlsplatz to go ice skating. And I only fell once. Bam.

When those 2 1/2 hours (!) of frivolity had ended, we set off to see one more thing in the waning light, BMW Welt. BMW standing for Bavarian Motor Works, and Munich being the capital of Bavaria, where else would it be? It was pretty cool, with exhibitions of new and concept cars, interesting little diagrams, and even interactive demonstrations. Before I begin to sound like a walking advertisement for it, I'll stop. But here! Pictures!

All futuristic and stuff

Really kind of cool

That will bring an end to my first yarn about how I got to Munich and spent the first four days running around doing all sorts of cool things in an effort to justify my presence there.

Give me a day or so to catch my breath after all this heavy typing and I'll spin you another one about how we made a pilgrimage to Leipzig for Christmas weekend to pay our tribute to Bach and hear all sorts of his music. Read fast.