Matt’s disappointed. He thinks Obama bombed. Matt is impressed by stats and numbers and McCain did well at citing many of them on his tax plan. Obama, meanwhile offered up more generalized answers. Of course, he also answered the majority of questions.

I, on the other hand, feel that Obama came out on top. His answers, while not fantastic, were clear, enumerated, and dealt with the issues. He certainly had his share of talking points (alternative energy, off-shore drilling, 300 Billion in tax cuts to corporations by McCain), but they paled in comparison to the key word, name-dropping answers that McCain gave.

We’re in the midst of that sad phase of politics in which the candidates run to the center. Of course, everyone’s been saying McCain is just another Bush, but even his stances have shifted from the maverick ones that gained him his name to centrist republican policies for the most part. Matt pointed out that Obama has adopted Hillary’s centrist stance on Iraq, arguing for pulling out at the right time where he once advocated immediate withdrawal, so it’s not as though it’s not happening on both sides.

That would make me sad if it weren’t the way things worked. In the primaries, candidates run to the wings, trying to grab their party with liberal or conservative rhetoric respectively. During the main election, they run back to the middle, trying to grab all the voters who felt alienated by their more extremist views. This often leaves me unable to tell what any given candidate stands for by the time the election rolls around.

The bank panic we’re currently experiencing combined with the incredible unpopularity of Bush means the only thing certain now is that both candidates are running as far away from the current administration as fast as they can. McCain accused Obama of supporting Bush’s bills and Obama accused McCain of supporting the Bush regime.

I was actually surprised by the amount of mud-slinging and name-calling, from McCain’s constant use of the word cronyism (a political issue not seen since O Brother, Where Art Thou?) to Obama’s repeated accusation that McCain’s in bed with Bush. They attacked each other’s plans, McCain claiming Obama will fine small businesses and working parents (an accusation he denied) and Obama claiming McCain will give 300 Billion dollars in tax cuts to corporations (an accusation he ignored).

Overall, it was an unfortunate sight. Obama said early on, “You’re not interested in hearing politicians pointing fingers.” To me, this felt like a call to deal with issues and ignore the partisanship and mud-slinging, but one answer later any hope of that was gone.

In the end, I do think Obama came out on top by a slim margin. He may not have given great answers, but he made a couple of solid points, showed a lot of respect for his audience by actually attempting to address some of the harder issues, and laying out the importance of the tasks at hand when asked. McCain, meanwhile did extremely well when he actually address the issue, especially on domestic issues, but still avoided the questions most of the time. Both sides came off as childish and defensive at times.

After seeing Ben Bernanke, chairman of the Federal Reserve, speak today, I was struck by how confident I was in his abilities despite the negative outlook he gave. Ten minutes later Bush spoke quite positively and left me worried and unsure about our future. Both McCain and Obama are better choices for president than Bush, but neither one is instilling a lot of confidence in me. If the US still exists at the end of the month when I return, I can only hope the election will bring a leader who can save it, cause I certainly have my doubts about its viability.

—

I didn’t get started on my notes until midway through the first question and slowly shifted into good form midway through the 3rd. Early on, I was much more the liberal mouth I am during an argument, but the observations stand.

McCain’s talking points.
Attacks instead of answers.

The second question is what does it mean and yet both candidates are dealing with why they tried to do something and nothing happened.
“You’re not interested in hearing politicians pointing fingers.” Obama’s right.
Brokaw asks the smart question.
Obama outlays general plan for more oversight and a change in culture.
McCain hits his talking points: buy those bad loans! Destroy cronyism in Washington!
1 attack on Obama, 1 compliment to Americans, 1 call to power.
Obama accepts blame and then immediately lays blame on Bush. The deficit is bigger. McCain voted for it.
Healthcare, energy, college affordability, spending cuts, good programs versus bads.
McCain says Washington is broken and he’s a reformer. He’s taken on specil interests.
Sites Fiengold, Lieberman, bipartisanship.
Attacks Obama, brings up records. He’s fought against big spending.
O is voting for big spending. O voted for more spending. O voted for earmarks (planetarium projector).
M has plan for reforms. “Get Middle Americans working again.”
Energy Independence - drilling off-shore. “Stop sending 700B overseas.”

Highest priority? Healthcare, Energy, Social Security/Medicare
M can work on all 3 at once. We can’t give same benefit as today. “I have a clear record of reaching across the aisle.”
Nuclear powerplants = new jobs. New power is possible. 700B is in the hands of terrorists!?!?
We have to do them all at once. They’re national security issues?
Obama says prioritize: Energy is first. Bad for personal budget and national security. Iraq is benefitting.
15 B over 10 years Energy Independence from Mid-East Oil.
Healthcare is two. Makes business less effective.
Education is three.
Records. Earmarks. Wants to go line by line (quote) and eliminate programs that don’t work.
McCain’s 300B tax cut (continuation of Bush) give to big companies.
Make sure cuts working for the common man.

1st Net Question: What sacrifices will you ask for?
M says programs. Reexamining agencies and bureaucracies: defense spending, defense contracts (submarine)
Earmarks (overhead projector). Some good programs will need to go.
Spending freeze: except for defense, veterans affairs and a few other programs.
Full transparencies. “Earmarks”
Back to multitasking. Work together. People without health insurance shouldn’t need to wait.
O quotes 9/11. We came together and worked together. Bush did some smart things at the beginning.
He said “go out and shop.” That was an opportunity missed.
America needs to deal with these issues in and out of government.
Energy: increased oil production, off-shore drilling. clean-coal tech.
Personal responsibility. fuel efficiency in America. Educational programs that will help people learn how to save energy on a personal level.
Help people beyond the military deal with these problems.
Discussion:
O: Washington needs to set an example. We can’t run up debts. “Earmarks” 18B of our budget. McCain’s tax cuts = 700K for CEOs that’s not sharing the burden. We must all share the burden.
Everyone needs to make sacrifices. McCain uses a hatchet, I use a scalpel.
M: Jello to the wall (Obama’s cuts are elusive and false). Compares O to Hoover.
700K jobs gone. 300K small business jobs created (silver lining).
O’s tax increases will raise taxes on small business.
M is not in favor of raising tax rates. Cuts tax exemption for children. Builds windows for middle class. No raising taxes.

2nd Net Question: A date certain to fix Medicare and Social Security?
O: Entitlements. Can’t guarantee two years. We can;t fix those until we understand the rest of the tax laws.
“I want to provide a tax cut for 95% of Americans. If you make less than 1/4 million dollars a year, you will not see your taxes go up. If you make 200K or less, you will see them go down.”
Majority of small business will see them go down. 50% tax bonus. (McCain smiling).
300B to big business, 100B to CEO from McCain.
Get the tax policies right for the middle class. If, then we can deal with Medicare and Social Security.
M: It’s not hard to fix Social Security. It’s been done before. (Reagan and Tipp O’Neil)
Obama hasn’t taken on his party. I have.
Medicare is tougher. It’s complex. Have a commission. Come up with suggestions. Too many lobbyists.
O has voted 94 tims to raise taxes or against tax cuts. He never once fought to cuts taxes.
Look at the records. “Our best days are ahead of us.”

How will you make sure congress moves fast in relation to environment and ?
M: Big issue, children and grandchildren. I disagreed with Bush. I traveled. Kept discussion open.
Nuclear Power. Safe, clean. Military subs.
Obama is into “clean energy.” It’s not enough. (missed a bunch, thanks Matt)
We are the best producers.
O: It’s a challenge and opportunity. New energy economy can create jobs.
We need to invest. Computer allegory. This is a national security energy.
We need to invest in Nuclear power as one component. We need to look at the rest.
For 30 years, congress has done nothing. He’s been there 26 years. Voted 23 times against alt fuels.
We have 3% of oil reserves and use 20% of oil. Can’t drill our way out. Can’t fix it with fossil fuels.
We need alternatives. We can sell innovation
M: Fund it governmentally and turn it over to the private sector.
Bush made bad bill, Obama voted for it, McCain voted against.
I vote against the bad bills.
Oil drilling is a way to bridge the gap. “National Security issue.”
Supply and demand. We have to drill off shore.
Nuclear power: Obama has voted for storage of nuclear fuel.

Healthcare a commodity?
O: Big issue. Breaking budgets. Premiums doubled. Copayments/deductables go up. Small business can’t handle it.
Moral commitment and economic imperative.
If you have it, keep it if you want. We will work to lower your premiums. Invest in prevention and IT.
If you don’t have it, you can get federal insurance with senators and congressman.
McCain says tax credit. Tax those credits at the same time. Block States from helping with mamograms and maternity.
US Chamber of Commerce says that plan will cause health care to unravel.
M: Costs and copayments go up. We need to do everything necessary. Health records online, community health centers, walk-in clinics, impose efficiencies.
Differences between us: Government. Mandates.
Obama will fine small business; will fine working parents if they can’t provide coverage.
5K$ tax credit (refundable) good across state lines.
Do the math: 95% will have increased funds for insurance and to shop around.
Everyone will be covered except for high priced cosmetic surgery like hair transplants.
Small business and working parents want insurance, 5K credit is a start.
Discussion: Privilege, right or responsibility?
M: It’s a responsibility. Gov mandates make me nervous, but it’s my responsibility. It’s small business responsibility.
Nervous by Obama. He’s never mentioned how much his fine is.
O: Even the bankrupt should be covered. Mom died of cancer at 53.
Keep the good plans, lowered premiums.
Small businesses won’t have mandate, but 50% tax credit.
Children should have coverage (cheap and easy).
McCain voted against child health care bill.
Gov should crack down on insurance companies, make sure they’re not lying.
If we go state by state, they’ll go where it’s best for them. Everyone will be in Arizona.
No protection for the public.
McCain wants deregulation.

On the Military
M: Strong military needs strong economy. “America is the greatest force for good in the history of the world.”
Peacemakers and peacekeepers. Is military worth bloodshed? Preventing genocide and spread of terrorism proves yes.
We are a nation of good. My record and my judgment can stand by.
Obama was wrong about Iraq; wrong about Georgia. We don’t have time for on the job training, my friend.
O: I don’t understand some things. Iraq versus Al Queda. That was McCain’s judgment.
McCain is a Bush cheerleader. Iraq has put an enormous strain on the troops. Rah Rah troops. and on our budget.
700B dollars in Iraq. Keep going and it’ll rise about 1 trillion.
Iraq has 79 billion surplus. We need our 10B a month.
This is the greatest nation, we are a force of good.
This problem is impressive. We no longer have the resources or the allies to prevent a genocide anymore.
We need to change at the base.
Discussion: Non-national security issues - Rwanda and Congo
O: Moral obligation. If we have the ability, we need to act.
If we stand idlely by, it diminishes us.
It must be part of our interests if it’s possible to help.
We can’t be everywhere, so we need to work with our allies.
Darfur - peace-keeping force is there. We can do a lot, but only if they supply the troops.
M: If we set a date for withdrawal from Iraq, terrorism would’ve won. Obama would’ve declared defeat.
I will bring them home with victory and with honor.
We must do whatever we can, but tempered with our ability to indirectly affect.
We don’t have the capabilities always. Somalia - peacekeepers ended up peacemakers and we failed.
Troops security is top priority… after nation’s security.
We have to say never again, but we need to make sure we don’t EXACERBATE the issue.

Pakistani Sovereignty and Al Queda cells
O: Difficult situation because we made a bad judgment in going into Iraq before Al Queda was dealt with.
If we had taken care of them, they wouldn’t be there. They’re raiding Afghanistan.
We need to reverse course and aim for Al Queda.
The war against terrorism began there and will end there.
Get out of Iraq, put pressure on Afghan, deal with drugs there.
But we must deal with Pakistan. Encourage democracy, expand non-mil aid, insist they deal with Al Queda.
If we have Bin Ladin in our sites, we will act. Biggest Nat Seciruty priority,
M: My hero is Teddy Roosevelt. Obama wants to announce he will attack Pakistan.
If we want support, we need to get them on our side. We can’t announce an attack.
We drove the Russians (Afghan Freedom fighters) out of Afghanistan. Then Al Queda came back.
Get the support of the people. We need to help the Pakistani people.
Coordinate our efforts. Use force with care. “Talk softly and carry a big stick.”
O: If Pakistan is unable or unwilling, we will.
McCain says I want to invade. He called for annihilation of Korea, bomb Iran. Called for attack on Baghdad before Afghanistan was done.
We lost the people of Pakistan because we supported Musharaf’s dictatorship.
M: Not true. I supported the efforts the US needed to do and opposed those it didn’t.
“I was joking with a veteran.” I know how to handle these crisis.
Obama wants to attack Pakistan. I know how to get Bin Laden, but I won’t telegraph my punches.
–Afghanistan? How do you reorganize?
O: Make the Iraqi gov take more responsibility for themselves so we can move troops.
We need more help there. We’re targets. We’ll need to work with the Afghan gov.
M: It’s the same overall strategy. We need to double the size of the army, work close with Pakistan.
We need to keep the same strategy. Obama wants to change and won’t admit he’s wrong.
I have confidence in our current plan. (”Stay the course?”)

Pressure on Russia?
M: We won’t have another cold war. Their behavior is outside the norm.
I warned people about Putin. (KGB?!?) Suppressed liberties. Been aggressive.
Ukraine is in his sights. Wants to rebuild the USSR.
We have to make them understand there are penalties for aggression.
We need to bring international pressures (NATO, G8).
They must understand this is not acceptable.
Use leverage: economic, diplomatic, and others.
Not the cold war.
O: I agree with McCain on much of this.
Moral support is not enough. We need to support Soviet Satellites too.
We need to assist them: financially and economic.
Anticipate. April, I said the situation was unsustainable/unstable.
We haven’t anticipative. We’ve been reactive.
We rushed into Iraq, McCain, Bush, cost us.
We must be more strategic.
Energy is key. Reduce energy consumption, reduce Russia’s money.
D: Russia is evil Empire? Yes or no.
O: not the same, but similar.
M: Maybe. Depends on how we respond. It’s not yes or no.
Energy is big factor. It’s in our interest to protect Georgia and Ukraine as gateways of energy.

Israeli war? Support them or UN Security approval?
M: We would not wait for UN approval. Russia and China would be opstacles.
Iran is a threat to the Mid-East. If Iran gets nukes, they all will.
We need to put pressure on Iranians with sanctions.
Join with allies. Should discourage them.
At the end of the day, we can never allow a second holocaust.
O: We can’t let them get nukes. Threat to Israel and boon to terrorism.
I will do everything to prevent. Military actions will always be an option.
We can’t let the UN delay us. We need to prevent it if possible.
If we can work more effectively diplomatically, reduce energy reliance to lower money, we can change their options.
We should have the right to deliver a message. It may not work, but that approach is a better outcome.
Bush didn’t talk and it didn’t work.

Net Q3: What don’t you know and how will you learn it?
O: The nature of the challenges are immense. It’s never the challenges that you expect.
I wouldn’t be standing here with opportunity. Single mom, grandparents and scholarships gave me chances.
Despite all that, I went to best schools and succeed. Can we pass on this dream?
The dream diminished. We need fundamental change.
A new direction.
M: I don’t know what will happen. Challenges are unprecedented. Americans are hurting.
New countries will rise. I served. single parent family (father gone), I know what it’s like to fight.
I know support. I beleive in the greatness of this country.
I’ve always put my country first.

It is pure happenstance that I’m sleeping across the way from an old man. Across the aisle, he slips his suitcase beneath the bed and pulls out a bottle of Pilsner.

“Smart man,” I say, smiling and nodding at him. I’m still a little bit buzzed from Oktoberfest.

“Just a few sips before bed,” he says. His German accent is heavy, but his speech is clear. “It helps me sleep.”

His name is Christophe Rhine and he’s an amateur violinist. He’s returning to Berlin from a friend’s 70^th birthday party where he played in her honor.

Christophe is 80 years old. He doesn’t look a day past 70. Perhaps it’s good genes. Perhaps it’s a healthy life. Or perhaps, as he contends, it’s the violin.

“Playing with vigor can do a lot,” he says. He doesn’t have to tell me. The evidence seems pretty clear.

Christophe is a beautiful man. His eyes sparkle as he speaks to me. There’s a lightness to his step that I didn’t expect and though he asks if I am tired, I am rapt by his story. I have more questions than I will be allowed to ask. It is already past eleven PM and our train was scheduled to leave on the hour.

Though he is German, he grew up not only in Germany, but in Jerusalem, where his father was an official. There, he took violin lessons from a fellow Berliner 20 years his senior by the name of Wolfgang Schocken. At age ten, he returned to Berlin.

Like every musician, Christophe has stopped playing and picked up his instrument multiple times. He’s never played professionally from what I gather, though perhaps he could have. He was a soldier and a prisoner of war during last days of World War II, when he was still but a child in body.

I want him to elaborate. I want him to tell me what it was like, why he fought. His father was a diplomat and worked for the Nazis. Is that why he did too?

I don’t ask. I want to hear the rest of his story. I caught a glimpse of regret in his eyes when he mentioned he was a soldier. I think he knows the question is on the tip of my tongue.

He’s a good man. At least, my judge of character seems to say so. I can’t tell if it’s an apology for his participation in things, or a matter of pride when he says that there is documentation that his father helped Jews escape during the Holocaust.  I prefer to think it’s the latter. He beams as he mentions it, but it’s a small aside to the story.

“And never did I forget my violin teacher from Jerusalem,” he says with smile. The war, the holocaust, the trials of being a soldier, they are all less important than music, learning and his relationship with his teacher.

Fresno State University, which wasn’t always as prestigious as it is now, hosted Christophe for a year or two as he studied. His English is impeccable. His time in the states certainly shows. There’s so much I want to know, but, above all else, I need to hear the end to this story.

Christophe travels much. He goes to Israel. He leaves. Never does he track down his teacher, though forever is the man in his mind.

When he is 60, he goes to a performance of the Berlin Philharmonic. The violist is divine, and, according to the playbill, from Tel Aviv. Christophe goes backstage, complements the performance and inquires about his teacher. The violinist, one of the best Christophe had ever heard, puts his hand on his shoulder and says, “Wolfgang was my teacher too.”

“Who was the violinist?” I ask, interrupting with my first question.

“I don’t remember. It might’ve been Itzak Perlman. It might’ve been someone else. He was one of the greats, I know that.”

I offer Christophe a seat. He’s been standing this entire time, the train rocking back and forth, his beer in his hand. He tries to decline, but I’m young and strong and won’t take no for an answer. Seeing my interest, Matt offers me his seat. He needs to make his bed, he says. I’m too fascinated to say no with any amount of veracity.

The violinist gets up from his dressing room stool and pulls a book off his shelf. The spine of the book reads (in German of course) “The Elements of Teaching the Violin: An Introduction to Instrumental Pedagogy.” The author is none other than Christophe’s lost mentor, Wolfgang Alexander Schocken. The violinist tells him that Schocken moved to Tel Aviv and taught him. He’s there no longer, having moved to the United States, married a nice Jewish girl in Cambridge and found a good life there. Christoph is overwhelmed by this news. I can see the excitement of the news in his eyes even now.

I want to ask him if he contacted his mentor right away, but I choose not to interrupt. It seems he didn’t. I don’t know why. He doesn’t say. Instead, he jumps ahead.

In the mid nineties, Christophe is contacted by an academic by the name of Barbara Von der Lühe. She is studying at Humboldt in Berlin and working on a paper called “Die Musik war unsere Rettung!: Die deutschsprachigen Gründungsmitglieder des Palestine Orchestra” (”The Music was our Salvation!: The German founding members of the Palestine Orchestra”). He tells her his story, the story of Schocken, his teacher and mentor whom he’s never forgotten. Weeks go by. Unbeknownst to him, this reporter has been talking to Schocken. Out of the blue, a letter arrives.

“Dear Christophe,” it reads. “It is a pleasure to know you remember me so fondly. I, too, have not forgotten the little violinist I taught in Jerusalem.” With those words, the relationship is rekindled.

Over the years, Christophe visited his professor in Boston several times. They became fast friends. Schocken died in the mid 90s (96 or 97 Christophe says), but to this day, he has an impact on Christophe. Though he doesn’t say it, I know Christophe is thinking that Schocken had an impact on everyone Christophe has played for. It’s a beautiful thought that floats in his eyes.

It’s late. The train is moving faster. Christophe’s beer is half gone, though he only intended to drink a few sips. It’s bed time for him.

This story of his, that I never in a million years would’ve heard were it not for circumstance and luck, weighs heavy on me. Tomorrow, I will wake up and ask if I can buy him dinner. And perhaps, if I’m lucky, I can record his story. It’s one worth telling and one I’d give nearly anything to hear in full.

Oktoberfest glows far below the grand church steeple, its carnival secondary only to beer.
For more blotto pictures of Germany, click here.

“Oh man, I love Germany,” Matt tells me. The trains are flowing like beer at Oktoberfest: quickly, freely, and with a regularity that’s both beautiful for its efficiency and scary for its monumental size. Matt eyes are strafing the platforms, shooting back and forth, wide eyed and fascinated.

“German ingenuity at work,” I say.

“German efficiency at work,” Matt corrects. It’s the same thing, in my mind. Ingenuity and efficiency in this case go hand in hand. One without the other would make both lose their luster. Together, however, they make even the most mundane discovery seem incredible.

I hear a freight train slowing to a stop at the end of Munich’s main hauptbahnhof (train station). I haven’t been watching the trains. I’ve been watching the people. It’s kind of hard not to. The station is thrumming with footsteps. Heeled shoes clatter and clack, echoing across the massive space. Everyone is moving at New York speeds, only with smiles and beer goggles on many of their faces. It is, after all Oktoberfest.

A trio of girls dressed in the traditional beer wench garb wander by beneath us and I try to snap a picture. My hands are shaking. Despite being inside the station, it’s all connected to the outdoors and it’s freezing. Matt and I spent several hours wandering outside in the rain and I’m soaked through and shivering. He wanted to find the DeutcheBahn museum. We found the DeutcheBahn regional headquarters, but no museum. We ended up right back here at the station, huddled around cups of coffee on the balcony.

Three hours later, we’re sitting in the Augistiner restaurant near Marienplatz, Munich’s city center. Unlike our first day in Munich taking in the sites, the tables out front are folded and hidden, the chairs gone, and the clientele hiding inside. I don’t blame them. Despite having ditched my soaked 1190 sweatshirt for my dry fleece jacket, I’m still cold.

With us for dinner are Florian, one of our prospective hosts from couchsurfing.com, and Krista, his Canadian guest. Damien and Marina, two of his other guests, had to catch a bus back to Lyon. Florian’s newest guests, an Austrian couple I haven’t met yet, have been at Oktoberfest since the early morning despite not getting in until 2 in the morning. That’s dedication.

Since being in Germany, finding water has been hard. It’s not just Germany, but Europe if I’m being honest. Everywhere we go, the restaurants serve beer, soda, and mineral water full of bubbles. I can ask for water no gas, but it’s just as cheap to buy beer, so I do. After all, why should I pay 3 Euros for 500 ML of water when I can pay the same for 500 ML of fine German beer?

It’s beer all around for us. Florian orders a variation on something called a radler. Radler is the German word for bicyclist and is a half and half mix of beer and lemon-lime soda. The purpose is to give nutrition while not getting a bicyclist too drunk for his ride through the Bavarian Alps. Florian orders the Russ, which uses weissbeer (wheat beer, generally called a hefeweisen in the US) instead of the normal pilsner. We all try a sip. The lemon-lime soda adds a sweetness that’s strange, but not bad.

Dinner, as always, is amazing. It’s been a strange shift from the vegetable heavy diet in Turkey and Greece to the meat and potatoes grind that Germany has sent our way, but it’s simply too delicious to resist. Our meal is accompanied by a white cabbage salad, reminiscent of a simple cole slaw.

“This is way better than cole slaw,” Matt responds when I make the comparison.

Our first time at the Augistiner, we ordered meatballs. They came dripping in the most deliciously spiced sauce, almost more jus than sauce. Tonight, we’re eating the most tender pork chops I’ve ever had, drizzled in a devilishly good gravy. This is merely beerhall food. I think I’d die from the quality of a fine restaurant in Germany.

Across the hall, a group who left Oktoberfest chant and cheer throughout their meal. There’s no music here. There doesn’t need to be. The din, the atmosphere, is more than enough. It rubs off quickly on me. I don’t have a felt hat or any of the gear. I look more like a hippie in my Nepalese jacket than I ever did living in Boulder. And yet I fit in.

It’s not raining anymore by the time we wander under that grand welcome sign. We head back to the same small building we were in last night. The lines at the big tents are even longer than they were without the rain. Everyone wants to be inside.

Though they’re called tents, it’s not the right word. Stephan, a guy we drank with last night, explained that they start setting them up in the middle of June, nailing planks in place, wiring lights and heaters. In the course of three months, the tents because these huge wooden buildings able to hold several thousand drunk revelers with no problem. Security waits at the doors and restricts the number of people that get. Even the small tents can hold several hundred.

The “tent” we went to last night, Florian tells me, is too small to even qualify as a tent. It holds only eighty people or so-and that’s if they squeeze in tight. There are 10 tables, each packed, but there’s just enough room for us when we get there. The walls are adorned with animal busts and paintings and the trim makes it feel like a cozy beer hall. Though it’s less raucous than the night before, the crew of dancers and singers replaced by a crew of dedicated drinkers, the atmosphere is much more up my alley than any of the big halls would be. After all, we can actually hear each other talk.

I order a large mug of weissbeer. It is, after all, my favorite. The gentleman sitting next to me, decked out in full on regalia including lederhosen and some of the warmest looking socks I’ve ever seen, leans towards me and smiles.

“Sorry, I don’t speak German,” I say as he reels off a long German sentence.

“You are American!” He’s surprised. “But you have been here before.”

“Yes. Last night was my first night at Oktoberfest.”

“Oh,” he looks a little confused. “I assumed you had been here previous years. Only real Bavarians or veterans get the big mugs of weissbeer.”

“It’s my favorite kind.” All my favorite beers back home are American brewed hefewiessens. It’s much harder to find a good import. Beer does, after all, go bad much faster than wine, especially when it’s unfiltered and not homogenized, as most German beers are.

“Yes,” he says. “It is the best beer. My name is Stephan.” Another Stephan.

“Ben,” I say, extending my hand. In an instant, he’s lost me in explaining the nuances of German beers. The Oktoberfest brews, brewed especially for the event, are higher in alcohol content, but go down like water, similar to an American domestic beer. Beyond that, I’m in over my head.

SIDE NOTE: I love beer. I really do. Not in mass quantities, but in small, controlled doses. I love ales, I love lagers, I love tripels, I love weissbier.  I love beer or bier or however you want to spell it. The Oktoberfest mug supposedly holds 1 litre of bier, though Florian told me it’s more likely to be 850 ML. After all, that’s close enough. 1 litre of bier is nearing the qualification of mass quantities. I’d almost rather get five 200 ML glasses, each filled with a different kind of beer. But it’s Oktoberfest, not a beer tasting. When it comes to American beers, I know more than your average beer drinker. Most likely, this is because I’m rarely drunk or trashed and actually pay attention to the flavor instead of swilling the piss known as domestic beers. But her in Germany, I know shit. Even the slowest six year old could probably talk circles around me when it comes to beer. And you what? I’d love every minute of it.

Two beers, some intense discussion, and a pile of the most delicious sauerkraut I’ve ever had (along with some excellent sausages too), Matt and I are bouncing through the streets, grabbing our gear, and heading to the train. The glass I snatched is tucked inside the pocket of my jacket, my lone souvenir from Oktoberfest.

Two men compare leg hair in a contest as the ladies point and judge.

Munich is a fantastic city. It’s clean, easy to get around, beautiful, and filled with nice people. It’s liberal and has a great university and is home to Oktoberfest. I love Munich. I want to go back and live there, more than Istanbul, more than anywhere I’ve been so far.

The last thing Stephan told me before he left for the night was about this great city: “This-everything you see around you-the beer, the costumes, the food, the party-this is not Munich. This is not Bavaria. This is Oktoberfest. This is two weeks a year. Munich-Bavaria-she is more than just this. Remember that. This is amazing, but this is not Munich.”

I understood. I told him I did. But somewhere there’s a little part of me that wants to believe that this is Munich. After all, it’s one of the best times I’ve had.

The gate of Dachau reads, “ARBEIT MACHT FREI.” It means, “work will set you free.”
For more pictures of Dachau and Germany, click here.

“Not yet. Not yet, Ben,” I tell myself. I can feel the tears welling up. “You’ve still got more to see.”

Only 20 minutes ago did I walk through the gate marked Arbeit Macht Frei, those heinous words that marked the entryway to Dachau. It hasn’t been long enough for me to be crying yet. The tears subside.

Up ahead is a barbed wire fence, a trench, a guard tower and gate that defined the boundary of Dachau. Occasionally it was known as the “suicide zone” because people who couldn’t take the life anymore would walk into the kill zone that marked the edge of the camp.

But after a few steps, I’m not paying attention to the brutal area I’m about to walk into. I’m thinking about why I didn’t want to cry. If anything is worthy of my tears, the death and mistreatment of millions is. I cried when I visited the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. as a child. Why not now? Why not as I walk the same ground in which over 200,000 Jews, Catholics, Poles, Russians, and prisoners of a political sense were systematically broken, tortured, or killed?

The barbed wire wraps lazily in circles, the rusted roof of the guard tower glows the same colors of the beautiful Bavarian fall that surrounds us. The sky has, for the most part, been overcast and down. I appreciate that. It matches the mood. It sets the tone. I kneel beside the trench and tilt my camera. The angle, I know, is more artistic than documentarian, the barbed wire looping lazily across the straight lines of trench. It’s beautiful and terrible.

Why am I doing this? Why am I making art out of this? All around the camp are these stunning pieces of art. There’s a skinny, emaciated man taking a step by the crematoriums. There’s a beautiful wooden chapel dedicated to the Russian prisoners of war killed here. There’s a large piece of metalworking depicting bodies twisted up like barbed wire. And they’re beautiful. And they’re poignant. And they’ve done exactly what I’m doing.

By taking this artistic approach, it allows me to separate myself from the horrors. If I didn’t know what happened here and I looked at one of my pictures, would I be able to tell? Probably not. The items and angels certainly strike with a bit of sadness, but it inspires contemplation rather than outrage. It intellectualizes the entire ordeal. Maybe that’s the only way to do it. Maybe I simply can’t handle the full brunt of reality, breaking me down, leaving me in tears, and shredding a little part of my soul.

I walk through the bunk houses. They aren’t the real bunk houses; they’re recreations. Along the walls are quotes from prisoners talking about the ordeal of living here: the breaking down of the rooms, the incessant cleaning, the tight schedules, the cramped quarters. It’s not hard to imagine, not with the pictures on the walls.

The place has a sterility to it. It’s clinical and detached, just like my photographs. Maybe that’s how the Nazis did it. Maybe my photography is simply another way to dehumanize the event. I cringe at the thought and quickly wipe it from my mind. In one of the washrooms, the communal sinks are filled with coins like a wishing well. Maybe they’re urinals. I suddenly can’t tell. It seems morbid with the gleaming coins flickering in the bowl.

Each room, from the bathrooms to the lockers to the bedrooms, has been designed to fit a specific era of the camp. After all, Dachau was built in 1933. It was originally billed as a “protective custody camp” for political prisoners. The Nazis regularly staged tours for higher ups and the media to show how good conditions were. Despite this, many people knew of the atrocious treatment within a few years, and though word was slow to get out, there was a general understanding that bad things were happening.

A New Yorker in a Yankees cap stops me was I walk down one of the aisles beside the leftover foundations of the bunkhouses. “Could you take my picture?” he asks, his thick accent placing him instantly. He slips off his cap as he poses. I take a couple shots and hand his camera back. We smile and go our separate ways.

“It’s hard traveling alone,” he says with a shrug as he walks off, the dourness of the subject matter once again returning. I feel altogether too civilized. I should have commiserated and traded stories. I should’ve learned what I could about why he came and why he’s doing it alone.

I get the feeling that visiting a concentration camp is something I’d be doing alone even with other people. When our group first got here, Matt suggested we split up. I was grateful for that. I didn’t want to joke or pal around or be social while trying to deal with the depth of tragedy. Though I’ve seen my companions occasionally, we say nothing and merely pass. Even the French couple has divided during their journey.

The Krematorium, as the sign proclaims, is off to the side down a small path that crosses a stream full of long green tendrils that waver in the current. The Old Crematorium is brightly lit and open to the outside, the New Crematorium clinical and enclosed. Off to the right is a gorgeous grove a trees. A path through them takes me by walls and ditches where executions took place. The light filters through the foliage as if rays from heaven were being sent directly. A pile of slate marks where they kept the ashes. Birds are singing. It’s a strange disconnect.

The Crematoriums are clean beyond belief. On one side of the New Crematorium is a set of chambers for cleaning the soon to be dead. Each of the rooms is meticulously labeled:

Here is the waiting room, the windows allowing plenty of sun to make people feel comfortable. My camera clicks as I snap a picture.

Here is the gas chamber. The gas distribution system was never properly used, though a few people were killed with gas in the room. Most prisoners marked for euthanasia were shipped to Hartheim near Linz, Austria. My camera clicks again. I’m starting to disgust myself.

Here are the ovens. The Old Crematorium could only deal with 11,000 people between 1940 and 1943, so they built this more efficient one. To further speed things up, people were hung on the rafters right in front. By the end, they didn’t have enough fuel to burn all the bodies, despite burning 4 or 5 to a tray. My camera takes another picture. I’m not even sure I’m in control of it anymore. It seems to be going of its own volition, my hands moving in time with the cogs of the machinery.

I wander back into the grove, basking in the fresh air. My camera disappears into a pocket.

At one point, the city of Dachau was known for art, for its beautiful streets, and for its grand baroque palace. But that was before the National Socialist party made it home to the first concentration camp. Suddenly everything the city of Dachau had to offer disappeared behind the atrocities of the holocaust. Never again would someone say the name and think of the magnificent medieval palace that had been home to dukes and kings. Instead, the beautiful little city would be overshadowed by the small portion of land sown with the seeds of death and destruction.

I pass through the protestant church. It was a controversial move to build a protestant church here, as protestants were rarely, if ever, kept or killed here. The grey stone is cold and morbid, just like every other memorial building. I pass out the back and walk passed a convent attached at the back wall on my left. To my right is a large tower with a cross and a giant bell that rings on the hour dedicated to the Polish men and women who died. Further up is a Jewish memorial topped dug into the ground, a stone menorah standing atop a small open well that drops light into the main cavern. The gates have stars of David wrapped trapped in a network of mock barbed wire. Candles flicker in the light before Israeli flags.

The center aisle of the bunkhouses leads toward the museum. Each bunkhouse is labeled with a stone slab marking its number, its foundation filled with rocks. I hope silently that those rocks were left by mourners, as is the Jewish tradition. Besides several of the bunkhouses are signs telling me the facts. One side was all housing. The Jews were kept separately from the others and always worked the hardest jobs. The other side included medical buildings used for treatment and experimentation.

SIDE NOTE: I’ve always had a strange sense of pity for the Nazis. Don’t doubt for a minute that this would’ve stopped me from taking up arms against them or trying my damnedest to try and stop them when I was alive then, but I also don’t think that they can be condemned on an individual basis. The things their doctors accomplished and learned are benefiting us today, atrocious as the experiments might have been. The people wrapped up in the fervor of the moment occasionally did momentous and important things. Should that forgive them for their sins? Probably not. But on a personal level, I can’t hold it against them. I’d rather concentrate on the good that’s come from it and concentrate on preventing anything of the sort from happening than sit around talking about revenge, penance and punishment. Let them sort out their sins with their gods.

The museum starts at the beginning. The first room is dedicated to the history of the National Socialist movement and its rise to power. It talks about the problems after World War I; the fall of royalty; the end of the old regime. It talks about the economic and political factors; about how Germany was punished for World War I, perhaps more than it should have been. It talks about propaganda; about Mein Kampf; about being in the right place at the right time. It says, in blaring bold letters, “This is why. This is what should never happen again.”

The rest of museum houses collections of documents and audio recordings. It has panels dedicated to SS leaders, to the movement, and to concentration camps across Europe. It has a map detailing where people at Dachau were from, including the solitary prisoner from Angola. It has boards dedicated to the media spin control the Nazis perfected long before the US did. It has board dedicated to the resistance in the camp and the smuggling of materials out. It has a documentary that shows the camp at the end and the liberation, its words disconnected from images at times, distancing itself from the menace. It has plaques and statues dedicated to those who died, those who fought, and those who couldn’t do either.

At the rear of the museum, a sign points to the Bunker. The Bunker was a prison within a prison. Unlike solitary confinement, the prisoners here were usually treated better. The Bunker is dark. Its hallways barely lit. A few rooms contain books brimming with documents and pictures. Cells have had their doors removed and projectors light up walls with quotations and facts. The very last room houses a portable altar for the priests. There are bars on the windows and doors. They were put here by the Americans after the fact. This building was used to house war criminals and interrogate Nazis. My camera has fallen silent. What good is it to liberate a camp only to use it again?

I walk back around front. A raven greets me on the roof top. It seems fitting to me. I walk passed the large marble slab marked “never again” in five language. I pass the colorful chain memorial, a tour group in front listening as the guide explains that it’s missing colors for thieves, murderers and gays. I pass the barbed wire memorial, the human shapes blending into the metal.

The large memorial sign glares at me as I stop between it and the main gate. Its words remind me that Dachau was a concentration camp but is no longer. Forever more, it will be a place of remembrance. “May the example of those who were exterminated here between 1933-1947 because they resisted Nazism help to untie the living for the defiance of peace and freedom in their respect for their fellow men,” it reads. On top sit a motley collection of rocks.

I dig through the yard and find a good sized stone. For the first time today, the weight in my hand isn’t from my camera. I place it on top alongside the others. “Never again,” I whisper to myself, echoing the motto born from tragedy. “Never again.”

Matt says the 1st Athens hip hop festival is number 1. Or it will be when it happens.
For more A-number 1 photo enforcing in Greece, click here.

“If we’re lucky,” I say, “the lines at the Agora will be small in comparison to the Acropolis and save us some time.” It’s the first full sentence I’ve said in a half hour. It’s innocuous, without implication. It’s politically savvy, since everything I say seems to piss off Matt right now.

“Yes,” he responds. Internally, I’m sighing with relief.

When we got off the ferry this morning, the sun wasn’t up and my sleep deprivation had reached a low I didn’t think possible. Matt was chipper, upbeat and excited. I was pissed, tired, and wanted nothing more than a good night’s sleep. But this is our chance to see Athens. I tried to apologize for my behavior, but apologies apparently weren’t good enough.

Breakfast and coffee helped. Seeing the beautiful frescos from Akrotiri in the archaeological museum helped more. Finding out the museum is free today and tomorrow helped even more. For some reason, though, our roles ended up reversed.

Leaving the museum, it was Matt who was curt and angry and me who was upbeat and happy. We bought stamps at the Post Office. We wandered through the Plaka beneath the Acropolis. We saw the edge of the National Gardens and made our way to Hadrian’s arch. And anything I said seemed to anger Matt and incite an argument. I can’t blame him. I was the same way this morning. I think it’s the schedule. We’ve been traveling too far too fast and are both reaching the edge of sanity.

We reach the Temple of Zeus. Entry here is free too. Entry everywhere is free this weekend.

“The gods must be smiling on us,” I say, giving up any hope of salvaging my forced silence. And then, as we walk past a handful of unrecognizable ruins, my breath is taken away.

The Temple of Olympian Zeus was huge at one point. It’s still rather massive. The dozen or so columns miraculously still standing are collected in a single corner of its footprint. All but one fallen column are gone, lost in time. Each column must be forty feet (13 meters) high, and though no roof sits atop them, I can’t help but be stunned at the sheer size of the columns.

“How did they stay up?” Matt seems incredulous. He’s got that what-the-fuck engineering face going. “And why only those?”

It’s a good question. If I were on the top of my game, I might suggest that the opposite corner got knocked down first, tilting the roof (assuming it’s solid) and relieving pressure from the remaining corner. As it is, I’m not really concerned with the question and hardly know the answer. After all, I’m not an engineer.

“I don’t know.” It’s all I can say. The toppled column is in pieces, each one about 2 feet in height and weighing an ungodly (or perhaps godly in this case) amount. The others seem solid top to bottom.

Through the ruins, I can see the acropolis shining in the distance. Really, that’s what we came here for, like all the other tourists making pilgrimage to its rocky surface. The place is packed by the time we weave our way through the narrow hillside roads and finagle our way passed the Temple of Athena Nike (it’s pronounced “nee-kay,” not “nigh-kee,” according to a classics professor I had). The Temple is completely obscured by scaffolding. The signs say it’s been taken completely down, the foundation has been rebuilt, and they’ve put it back together slowly. It’s obviously not done yet.

We push our way through the crowd, finally coming out beneath the mass that is the Parthenon. It’s a behemoth, a monster. Words don’t do the Parthenon justice. The Parthenon is so big, it only plays arenas. Your mom is so fat, she’s only half the size of the Parthenon. I have difficulty getting the Parthenon fully in a picture without being so far away as to feel like I’m no longer there. The Parthenon is… big. It’s beyond big. It’s huge, humungous, ginormous, daunting in size and scale. It’s very very big. It is, of course, also under construction. I start wondering why so many things built 2000+ years ago seem to be under construction right now. Perhaps they’re not designed to be finished.

The rear of the Parthenon has its own railroad for parts. The tracks lead straight off a cliff. Nearby a water fountain, there are piles of spare parts waiting to go up. Maybe they’ll even finish the Parthenon again someday. If they do, is that being true to the site? Are they supposed to be able to repair a ruin? Wouldn’t that make it a ruin no longer?

I use the water fountain. Despite being on top of a very large hill, the pressure sprays me in the face. Some other tourists laugh. I laugh too. I’m more careful when I try and again, getting a good drink.

I catch up with Matt by the big Greek flag. The parapet is full of people taking pictures of the city and the Parthenon far in the background. Two employees with whistles yell at people horsing around. There are a lot of beautiful women here. I fail at taking our picture with a timed shot. Somehow, the Parthenon ends up directly behind my head every time. It’s like it’s camera shy. Silly Parthenon.

There’s a group of nuns from some orthodox order wandering around. They’re slack-jawed with amazement at the sites. It’s cute, in a very refined and celibate kind of way. I pass them as I head to the Erechthion. Like everything else, it too is under construction. I’m beginning to see a pattern.

Matt decides to walk around the Parthenon again. I try to get a better look at the Temple of Athena Nike. The way my professor had talked about it, the temple is the greatest thing since sliced bread. I’m fully convinced. I can’t even remember if it was my archaeology professor who specialized in Mayan culture, my post-modernism professor who loved art history, or my latin professor from Freshman year… of high school. Regardless, his description alone leaves me sad I can’t get close to the temple due to construction. I sit there and watch the crowd, ogling the beautiful women I’ll never have a chance with until Matt comes back.

Down below we find the theatres. The Roman theatre is still in use today for shows. They have a lighting crew setting up currently, but today’s our only day in Athens, so we won’t be coming back. The Theatre of Dionysus is huge and decrepit with age. It could hold three times the number of people. They’re reconstructing to too, says the sign. Other tourists keep trying to climb past the ropes. They’re idiots. I can’t believe they would think their photo op would be more important than a piece of history.

We grab lunch at a small café. It’s overpriced, but the conversation is worth it. A businessman sits next to us and explains the financial crisis as best he can. I learn a lot. I’m still not sure what exactly is happening.

We head to the Roman Agora. Though the signs don’t say it, our guidebook says it’s also known as the Roman forum. It was a marketplace, a meeting place, and a place to discuss matters of import. The Tower of the Winds sits to one side, it’s carvings of angels lulling me to happy stupor.

We walk up the road to the top of a hill. Many people are climbing it, but it’s not until we check the book that we find out it’s one of the boundaries to the Agora and the edge of the main thoroughfare to the Acropolis.

We climb down into the Agora proper. The place is mostly ruins except for the temple of Hephaestus, also known as the Thession due to the frescos of Thessius. It’s remarkably preserved. It’s beautiful, yet bland. The rest of the Agora is primarily rocks. If it weren’t for the signs, I wouldn’t know what’s what.

The statues of the Titans tower over us. They’re beautiful. Supposedly they demarcate a temple with a gym, but I wouldn’t have been able to tell that. One long market building has been restored and turned into a museum. As I walk through, a cute girl and I keep making eye contact. She blushes as I exit and see her talking to her mom. So much for that.

The Agora done, we head to Hadrian’s Library. As I wander through, I see a dog with a cat hanging from his mouth. My camera runs out of batteries on the fourth shot. I’ve never seen a cat and a dog really fight before. Usually one or the other gets away.

Either way my camera is done. It’s all good though. We’ve seen enough for one day. Too bad one day isn’t enough for Athens.