MUNICH TOUCHDOWN

Our arrival is Munich coincided with the final week of Octoberfest, unplanned but welcome serendipity.  German is everything that Turkey is not.  Clean lines, crisp direction, finished details.  No crumbling curbs and unfinished sidewalks here. Bike paths run parallel to every roadway.  The underground system is efficient and traffic moves predictably (though with frightening speed). The GPS system in our rented BMW anticipated every small detail of our route from airport to hotel. everything in German is engineered, though surprisingly with ease of living as its end goal. Munich is ranked 4th in the world for best quality of city living.

Our touchdown in western Europe felt as if we had slipped into a pair of well worn shoes....comfortable, familiar and not too fussy. After unpacking and getting our bearings, we walked  a short distance to a street lined with an international array of restaurant options. We chose RUAN THAI, and had a wonderful meal along with the company of the restaurant owner, a Thai expat, with an encyclopedic knowledge of fine wines and a working knowledge of five languages.  After dinner, we wisely turned in early, though slept fitfully because of of overfull stomachs.

Our first outing was to Dachau, a small town about 40 kilometers northwest of the city, with the ignominious distinction as the birth of Germany's first and longest functioning concentration camp.  The town itself is charming, the center still laced with cobblestone streets and village shops leading to an old palace that stands guard over a commanding view of Munich and the surrounding countryside.  The fist floor of the palace has been reclaimed by a restaurant that serves both daily visitors as well as attendees for the special events often held on the now empty upper floors.  The architecture was magnificent with huge arched windows opening onto the grounds. The gardens were lush with the last of the fall bloom.  After a quick tour and a walk through the town, we drove to the camp site on the outskirts of the city. I wondered how the residents of this charming village must feel as flocks of people arrived to view the scar of their history.

The visit was sobering.  The sky turned gray and the weather chill as we pulled into the parking lot. We felt less like tourists here, and more a part of a remembering.

The entire complex is awash in putty colored buildings separated by huge expanses of gray gravel walkways and squares.  The sign placards are in greyscale.  Everything speaks of death.  A quiet hangs over the place, despite the throngs of visitors.  Entrance to the DACHAU camp is free, but we elected to purchase a guided tour and we were lucky to get an English expat with a nose for detailed human interest stories along with facts and dates. The camp was constructed as a place to detain and torture political prisoners and dissenters were threatening Hitler's bid  to solidify his power base, and not specifically to eradicate Jews.  In fact, there was a complex  hierarchy at the camp, and while Jews languished at the bottom of the pecking order, blacks, Eastern Europeans, Greeks, and a host of other sub groups were systematically tortured and eradicated at Dachau. It was also interesting to learn that a relatively small SS force supervised the sprawling camp, enlisting other prisoners to do their bidding, by trading on a system of privileges and punishments that tapped into humanities most basic instincts for survival.  The ovens and gas chamber still stand as do several of the barracks which at the end of the war were packed with the skeletal remains of nearly 40,000 desperate and despairing prisoners. Piles of bodies stood outside the warehouse waiting to be burned.  Fuel supplies were low, both for those who needed to fed and those requiring burial.  Museum exhibits have moved into the main building, where showers, meals and punishments were once metered out.  The guard house still marks the boundary of the camp entrance and the prison building hidden from view stretches out like a long walk through hell.  The military layout of camp offered few places to hide.   With with the help of our guide, it was easy to reconstruct the misery of living and dying there.

The day grew colder, the sky darker.  A light rain fell just as our tour guide wrapped up, and the group filtered back to their cars, heads hung low.  Sobering.  Shameful.  And a reminder of the atrocities that are often committed in a grab for power in desperate times.

We drove  back to the hotel in a reflective mood, and showered  to refresh our bodies and spirit. The chandeliers in Il Paladino, a small Italian restaurant twinkled across the square from our hotel and somehow the comfort of pasta seemed like the ideal antidote to our emotionally draining morning.  As the  silky smoothness of the spinach egg soup first course slipped into our bellies, we knew we had chosen wisely.  Food, service and ambience were all perfect, the idealized romantic European trattoria.

Too full to sit, and too early to sleep, we decided to walk, and headed south into the unknown, enjoying the cool October evening.  Within a few blocks, we saw the carnival lights of Octoberfest beckoning.  Of course, we answered the call.  Octoberfest is the South Jersey boardwalk on steroids.  Beer consumption is the primary activity. All else is secondary. The beer tents and gardens open at 11:00 in the morning. A sea of people is packed into each tent, singing and swaying to pumped up bands playing German folk music and American  rock and roll. The last draft is drawn at midnight.

An enormous ferris wheel anchors the complex, which is  studded with a wild  array of dare devil experiences that challenge the drunks to test their balance and bravery. The smell of sausage and sauerkraut, roasted chicken, and pretzels compete with cinnamon buns, chocolate and crepes. Bands of friends weave through carnival games, souvenir stands and strong man competitions, emptying their wallets and occasionally the contents of their stomachs.  Pools of beer and vomit puddle under the high flying swings and coasters.  It is an international party for adults who have never grown up.   The hosts are recognized by their traditional German costumes: the men in short sueded knickers with suspenders, the women spilling their bosoms out of gingham peasant dresses. It was a hoot...and an awkward and unexpected contrast to our somber morning. But then we are used to contradictions.....