Who knew keeping your shoes on would be such a luxury?

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I am not a gambler. Should there be any doubts of this, note that I was in Vegas for two whole days and the greatest risk I took in a casino was ordering a savory crepe (don’t do it. Cheese is no substitute for Nutella, and anyone who says otherwise is likely trying to sell you something. Probably cheese).

But the TSA has turned me into someone who takes chances, who rolls the dice again and again, because if I win, I get a bit of humanity back. How? Via the TSA’s new PreCheck program.

The TSA’s website doesn’t offer a ton of information about how their precheck system works. But here’s what I learned:

• You must sign up for it beforehand. Rand and I did so via an online form through Alaska Airlines which had virtually no information on it. It wasn’t an agreement by any means. It just asked for our name and frequent flier numbers.
• We were eligible via Alaska Airlines because we both have status on the airline.
• In signing up for the program, we agreed to let Alaska share our flight itineraries with the TSA, along with our frequent flier numbers. (This surprised me, as I assumed the TSA already had access to this information).
• The only airlines currently participating in the program are Alaska, American, and Delta (with plans to add more this summer). They usually only offer the ability to sign up for the program to their frequent fliers. Active service members are also eligible for the program. Or you can apply for the Global Online Enrollment System; if accepted, you will automatically be eligible for the PreCheck.
• In addition to flying a participating airline, you also need to be traveling through a participating gate at a participating airport (Yeah. Lots of caveats there).
• Even if you meet all the requirements and are traveling on a participating airline at a participating airport through a participating gate, you still might not be selected. From the TSA’s website: “… no individual will be guaranteed expedited screening in order to retain a certain element of randomness to prevent terrorists from gaming the system.”
• If you are selected for PreCheck, you won’t know until you get to the gate. The airline will encode the message on the barcode of your ticket. If you are traveling with someone who has not been selected for pre-check, they don’t get to ride your coattails.

Based on all of this, it seems highly improbable that anyone would be selected. But if The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy taught me anything (besides that I should always take a towel) it’s this: highly improbable is not the same as impossible.

And so, on our flight down to Vegas, flying Alaska and departing through SeaTac, the improbable happened, and we were selected. We were sent into a separate, shorter lane (the one folks get to use when they are frequent fliers or first class). Our IDs were checked against our tickets by an agent, and then we headed through security.

There was no line ahead of us – just a metal detector. And that’s when the TSA, for the first time in years, treated us like normal people. Here’s how:

• We didn’t have to remove our shoes (and thank goodness, as I wasn’t wearing socks)
• We could keep our laptops and TSA-compliant liquids in our bags.
• Sweaters and like jackets did not need to be removed.
• We could keep small amounts of metal – such as that found on jewelry or belts – on.

So we tossed our bags on the conveyor belt, walked through the metal detector, stared at each other incredulously on the other side, and that was it. It took roughly 45 seconds, if that. It was like we’d died and gone to 1998. Traveling was suddenly easy. Security was a breeze. I no longer hated the TSA!

We’d hit the jackpot.

We managed to luck out again on our way back from Vegas. And this time, I was gambling big-time. I was wearing a dress.

Why is this significant? Because I am often selected for the full-body scanners. And every time I am, I opt out, and am subject to a pat-down. I was willfully walking into a situation where I might have to be patted down while in a dress. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but I wasn’t going to change.

I mean it’s a really pretty dress. It’s a white dress covered in green leaves, packs beautifully, and cost me $6 at the Goodwill. And according to that dress, I’m two sizes smaller than I actually am. Besides, I’ll admit: I was kind of curious. How were they going to pat me down on my legs? The procedure is that they run their hand up your leg until they meet “resistance” so … were they going to reach up the skirt of my dress?

That sounded mortifying, but better I have it done voluntarily so I can tell others about it, then have someone else get caught off guard. Nope. The dress was staying on. I’d suddenly become a gambler.

But it didn’t matter: we were selected for PreCheck, and breezed through security in Vegas.

Of course, it doesn’t always work so smoothly.

At Newark airport this past Sunday, we were again sent through a quicker line for frequent fliers/first class passengers. I was hopeful that I could keep my shoes on (and I wasn’t wearing a dress), but soon realized we were headed towards the regular queue. And nearly everyone was being sent through the full-body scanner. The line was quickly stacking up as the agents refused to send anyone through the metal detector.

Rand was selected for the full-body scan ahead of me. He opted out, and the agent began telling him – in impatient tones – how it wasn’t dangerous, etc. Rand held up his hand gently in objection and said, “I’m opting out. Thank you.”

We have years of experience: Rand gets a pat-down in London, February 2010.

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The woman ahead of me was sent through the metal detector, but I was selected for the full-body scan. I opted-out, was submitted to the same speech, and then sent through the metal detector before the pat-down.

It’s ridiculously, really. I was no different that the woman in front of me, but because I’d demanded to be treated like her (to go through only the metal detector), I was subjected to more screening. The TSA punishes those who dissent. It’s creepy to think about.

It’s also disturbing to consider that, with the new TSA PreCheck, those who are eligible are usually the upper class. Think about it: if you travel a lot, you likely have the finances to do so. Most of the folks who are frequent fliers are also first class passengers (one of the perks of flying a lot) – so a strange dichotomy is created between the haves and have-nots. The three-child family who takes one trip every few years is sent struggling through security while the businessman who travels all the time breezes through.

If you fly first class, you are treated better, even by security.

Don't fret: if we ever fly first class, it's usually by mistake.

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We ended up making it through Newark fine. We are often patted down, so it was no big deal. But I’d seen what it had been like to be treated humanely by the TSA, and I was having trouble going back to how things were.

Is the TSA PreCheck worth it? Absolutely. There’s nothing to lose, really. If you don’t get selected, you’re treated like everyone else – a shoeless nobody getting their nether regions prodded by a stranger in latex gloves.

But if you do get picked for PreCheck? You get treated like a person by the TSA. Which, really, is like hitting the jackpot.

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This is a photo of my father. SMILING. Let’s take a closer look, shall we?

This, for him, is pretty much grinning maniacally.

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You’re probably thinking, “Meh. No big deal. I mean, lots of people have fathers who don’t smile that much, right?”

At which point I would say, no, no, no. You don’t understand.

My father does not smile. Not on my wedding day. Not on his wedding day. Not when he’s eating ice cream. The man is a fantastic scowler (I know, because I got it from him). But there he is. Smiling. 

And goodness, here’s another one where he almost is:

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Somebody buy me a lotto ticket and keep an eye out for bigfoot, because at this point, anything goes.

I become snappy and irritable and overly-sensitive. In a town like Munich, this can be problematic, because German isn’t exactly a delicate sounding language to begin with. Even when folks are being courteous (which they often are in Bavaria), I want to respond to them in one of two ways, depending on my level of hunger:

1.) Weep.

2.) Scream, “OH, YEAH? Well ‘ENTSCHULDIGUNG’ TO YOU, TOO, ASSHOLE.”

(Turns out “entshuldigung” actually means “excuse me.” But try telling me that when I’m peckish. Actually, nevermind. Don’t try that.) The point is, unless I get food in my stomach at regular intervals while in Southern Germany, there is a very good chance that an international incident might go down.

” … At which point, officer, I’m told I began throwing sausages at people while screaming, ‘YOU GUYS ARE THE WURST.’ And then, apparently, things got ugly.”

Because Rand made me promise not to get deported (STUPID RAND WITH HIS STUPID TRAVEL RULES), I have made a point of noting my favorite places to get lunch, dinner, or just a snack in downtown Munich. This list is by no means exhaustive, but it will get you out of the “I’m so cranky, I might accost someone for a pretzel” category.

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Schuhbeck’s in den Südtiroler Stuben

An Platzl 6-8

I didn't go inside because I was busy. And definitely not because I incurred a lifetime ban by yelling, "COME HERE LITTLE PIXIE!" to the waitstaff.

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This place is somewhat intimidating. It’s full of attractive, mature diners in expensive shoes, who finish their meals promptly before (I imagine) going home and having some nice, efficient German sex.

Alfons Schuhbeck, the Bavarian celebrity chef behind this and several other restaurants,  is a culinary madman and a genius. His cuisine is basically traditional Bavarian fare which has spent a couple of semesters abroad and comes back sexy, tanned, and worldly.

The one time we went here, we were guests of some of Rand’s colleagues. They graciously covered the bill, and we gorged ourselves (I didn’t take photos because I was busy stuffing my face, and besides, I didn’t want to appear tacky). The rest of the night was a fog, but I swear, the waiters are pan-flute playing pixies, and I saw a delivery man carrying a huge pink bag labeled “UNICORN MEAT” into the back.

Simply put: it’s magic. If you want to splurge, go here.

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Guido Al Duomo

Frauenplatz 12

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Italian food? IN BAVARIA? What is this madness?!

Allow me to explain: Bavarian food is already awesome, right? So just imagine how good an Italian restaurant in Bavaria would have to be in order to be successful. THE ANSWER IS MAD GOOD. The noodles are actually made from the hairs of angels, and that the tomatoes were harvested by newborn babies (for their weak little hands cannot bruise the delicate fruit).

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If you sit outside, you can drape yourself in animal pelts and pretend to be a marauder while daintily swirling fettucine around your fork. Is it pricey? A wee bit. Lunch for one set me back about 24 Euros. But I keep going back.

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Ludwig’s

Heiliggeiststr. 6

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This is one of the few places in downtown Munich where I can get fresh vegetables (“Thank you” – my colon) and so I return time and again. That being said, I usually also get a heap of fried meat to go alongside it. One step forward, three steps back.

This stuff is the schnit.

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Ludwig’s cuisine is great if you need lunch, a casual spot to dine with friends, or if you want other gastronomical options besides schwein, schwein, and more schwein (they’ve loads of vegetarian entrees on the menu, too). That being said, once you start veering away from Bavarian food, things get a little … weird. And not good weird.

Our friend ordered nachos here.

That was a mistake. Let’s just leave it at that.

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Any one of the numerous candied nut stands that line the city

So, pretty sure that "mandeln" means "manna of the gods." Or maybe it means "almonds." Whatever.

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The smell of roasting almonds and caramelized sugar has lured me to these kiosks of nutty transcendence time and time again. These aren’t simply sugar-coated. Oh, no. They are rolled in every decadent topping imaginable. Cocoa. Cinnamon. Coconut. Pixie dust.* SPRINKLES OF PURE MAGIC.*

*based on availability

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You may find that you will devour the entire cone of nuts over the course of an afternoon.

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At some point therein, your husband may look at you and say, “Are you still eating those? I thought you said you were feeling sick from eating too many.” Feel free to respond by pelting him with a rogue almond while screaming in fake German.

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Augustiner

This is hands-down my favorite place for traditional German food in downtown Munich.

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Do not be frightened away by the tacky, touristy vibe this place gives off. Do not run screaming from the pretty waitresses in dirndls. They are very competent, and every one I’ve ever met has spoken English with better grammar than me. (<— OMG, see?)

Nor should you scoff at the presence of the oompa band (instead, say hello to the dude playing the tuba, because I think he used to be my dad’s neighbor).

Yes, Augustiner has all of these seemingly-touristy accouterments, but it also has some of the best traditional German food in downtown Munich, and comically large beers.

Warning: there’s like, a dozen locations all over the place, so if one of your friends tells you to meet them here, specify which one otherwise WE WILL ROAM THE CITY FOR AN HOUR LOOKING FOR YOU, BOB.

Err, sorry.

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Schlemmermeyer Sausage Stand (also sometimes spelled “Schlemmermaier”)

Viktualienmarkt 3

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On warm days, the Viktualienmarkt is filled with people downing beer and munching on wieners (Geraldine paused to reread that last sentence. She wondered if she should rewrite it, but soon decided that she’s not too old to laugh at the word “wiener.”)

Hee. Wiener.

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It’s a veritable sausage fest, and that’s okay. Because the wursts sold here are plump and juicy (“This is getting ridiculous,” she thought to herself), the beer is cold, the wooden stools forgiving, and the double entendres plentiful.

PENIS. (She had to get that one out.)

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Okay, folks. I know that this list isn’t exhaustive. That some of you are already slapping your hands against your forehead and saying, “SERIOUSLY? IS SHE INSANE?”

To which I will respond, “OH YEAH? WHY DON’T YOU SUGGEST SOMETHING, BUDDY?”

At which point Rand will run in and wonder why I am yelling at my computer.

But really – please do share your favorite places to eat in Munich in the comments section below. And if you know any place stateside where I can get those candied almonds, I’m all ears …

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“Their hooves grip like high-priced tires.” – The amazing physiology behind the gravity-defying stunts of mountain goats.

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Short and sweet, this confession from a writer at Salon reminds me of a line from The Breakfast Club: “You’re every mother’s wet dream.”

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No biggie: JUST A CONGA LINE OF BEAR CUBS LICKING EACH OTHER. Yeah. (via my pal @ruthburr)

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Can entrepreneurship be taught? Richard Branson’s mom think so.

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A fascinating tale of American Airlines, and the frequent fliers who flew too much.

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Just another reason to love the Marx brothers.

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This is the best worst website I have ever seen.

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In a homage to Where the Wild Things Are author Maurice Sendak, artist Hannah Friederichs created this portrait of the Avengers in Sendak’s style.

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And speaking of Sendak (who passed away earlier this week), be sure to check out his interview with Stephen Colbert (which is INCREDIBLE) as well as his obituary in the New York Times.

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Kale of Duty: this article about our weird obsession with kale had me in stitches. And you know how I can’t resist a punny title.

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See you next week!

This is how it begins.

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I have a bladder the size of a chipmunk’s.

No, no – stop praising me on how amazing this is. How it’s so ladylike and really quite Hollywood to have a bladder so svelte and small. That Angelina’s or Gwyneth’s is probably barely bigger than my own.

Because despite how glamorous it sounds, let me tell you: having an itsy-bitsy bladder is NOT as amazing as movies and TV would have you believe. It means that much of my and Rand’s travels are interrupted with side-quests to find toilets. That before we go anywhere – a flight, a drive, a short walk, or even if we are simply moving from the dining room to the living room – I need to run to the bathroom.

“Hold on a sec, babe, I have to pee,” is a phrase uttered in our house even more often than “Dear god woman what is wrong with you?” (-Rand) and “I’m pretty sure that idea will get you arrested.” (-also Rand)

As such, I take note of places that offer wonderful restrooms. High-end department stores are usual great, as are giant fancy hotel chains (Hilton, Hyatt, etc.) But there are perilously few such places in downtown Munich. The square is full of biergartens and open-air cares, all free of toilets. It’s a recipe for a disaster if one has a wee bladder.

Fear not, though: I found a great place to pee in Munich.

It’s even in an actual bathroom. And it is lovely and clean. I didn’t take any actual photos of it or its patrons (See the “arrested” quote from Rand, above), but I can tell you precisely where it is.

If you are looking at the Rathaus – the giant town hall in the center of Munich that houses the glockenspiel – you will see an information office somewhere near the center of it.

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Don’t go in.

Instead, you will see a small entryway just to to the left of it. Walk through there.

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The entryway will lead to a small interior courtyard.

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On the right, under a dark overhang, you will find the best public bathroom in downtown Munich.

This is where the gods would pee, if they needed to pee. But they don't. Because they're gods.

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Be warned: it will cost you. Half a Euro, to be exact (bring change – you can’t get through the turnstile without it).  But the extravagance is worth it, it really is. Inside, you will find a brilliant white bathroom, smelling strongly of disinfectant and faintly of flowers, with smooth tiles, and stalls well-stocked with toilet paper.

Do your business, feeling somewhat like royalty (for surely this is how they must urinate).

Tip the dutiful attendant, if you have any change left. And then head off to enjoy the rest of Munich, for at least a good twenty minutes (or whenever it is that you will need to pee again).

Or just wait until Oktoberfest and pee wherever the heck you want.

Bavarian food is the guy at the gym in the tiny muscle tee who’s lifting weights so heavy, the veins in his neck and head (and other parts of the body that you didn’t even know HAD veins) start to pop out.

Bavaria‘s cuisine is a monster truck. It crumples the delicate-by-comparison culinary offerings of Spain, Italy, and France like tiny little Fiats and Peugots in its path.

Do you want to eat Bavarian food? OF COURSE YOU DO. It is rich and doughy and filling and is the only thing on the planet that can soak up German beer. Every other fare will simply hide in the corner of your stomach, petrified at the sheer awesomeness of the brew that resides in there with it, and it will never get digested.

In short: if you don’t eat Bavarian food while in Germany, you could die. Here are some of my favorites. They will turn your tastebuds into receptors of SHEER ECSTASY.

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Pretzels

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Have you ever had an enormous pretzel? I’m not talking about the ones you get at the mall or the movie theater, sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. Those aren’t pretzels. Those are doughnuts that took a yoga class.

Real Bavarian pretzels are hearty, doughy twists of bravado, studded with salt. They are meals unto themselves. They are not served in delicate little paper sleeves. They are handed over in giant wooden baskets along with a few steins of beer and a grunt. Tear into one with your bare teeth and suddenly, you will be able to speak German. Try it.

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Weisswurst

Bavarians are so badass, they eat sausage for breakfast. And I don’t mean those little tiny breakfast sausages that we get here in the states. No. They go for these:

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That is a weisswurst (literally, “white sausage”) – made from ground up pork and bacon. There are many smart-ass remarks to be made here, but since I am a lady, I will leave them up to you. (Okay, fine, here’s one: “GERMANS DO IT WITH BIGGER SAUSAGES.”)

You pair them with the aforementioned pretzel, and maybe a dab of sweet mustard.

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And then you run outside and pull a plow across a field in the middle of winter because THIS IS the breakfast of champions, no matter what Wheaties tries to claim.

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Schweinshaxe

The Germans have a dish called schweinshaxe that is particularly popular in Bavaria. It is a roasted pig knuckle, and it will punch you in the mouth with its gastronomical awesomeness.

And yes, it often comes to the table with a knife sticking out of it.

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The still-attached skin on the outside of the schweinshaxe becomes a crackly and delicious pork rind, while the meat becomes fall-off-the-bone tender. It comes with a enormous potato dumpling, which probably weighs somewhere between 5-10 pounds.

Don’t ignore the dumpling. It will help you to soak up the delicious pork juice that has filled the bottom of your plate. It is nectar of the gods. Drink it, and you will LIVE FOREVER. Probably.

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Schnitzel

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Germans can schnitzel the hell out of anything. First, they take a slab of meat and hammer it flat.

That’s right: they are so damn badass, they beat their food after it’s dead.

Then they batter dip and fry it up, because if there’s one thing that makes hammered meat even better, it’s a crisp, golden crust.

I mean, it’s like fried chicken – which is already one of the greatest things in the world – with an EVEN BETTER MEAT (usually veal, sometimes pork). You can ask for no more out of life.

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Spaetzle

Noodles are wimpy. You can’t feed a noodle to a German, because if you do you run the risk that they will scream at you IN GERMAN and it will be the most terrifying thing you have EVER encountered.

Instead of noodles, they have spaetzle, which are little chewy dumplings of HELL YES. They are often served with cheese and fried shallots on top, and if you are very lucky you can even get them with bacon.

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But perhaps you should just stay away, because they will ruin you. The next time you have mac n’ cheese, you may find yourself screaming at how pathetic they are in compared to spaetzle.

“NEIN!” you will holler at the top of your lungs. “Ich möchte Spätzle!” (Which in and of itself will be amazing, because you didn’t realize you spoke German. THANK YOU, PRETZEL.)

And everyone who hears you will run in fear, taking their weakling noodles with them.

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Sauerkraut

You know who are badasses? Pirates. Pirates are totally badass.

But even pirates can’t stand up to scurvy. You know what can? Sauerkraut.

WHICH MEANS SAUERKRAUT > PIRATES.

I hated this stuff as a kid, but that’s because I had only known what we have in the states – a nasty, soggy, shredded concoction that is plopped on top of hot dogs. But German sauerkraut laughs at that impostor-sauerkraut’s face.

It is vinegary and salty and crisp, studded with rye seeds. Eat it, and your immune system will become the Hulk. This is why German people live to an average age of 165, and why their children wrestle bears at summer camp.

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Kuchen

And this is just the cake that they had at Starbucks. IMAGINE WHAT BAKERIES HAVE TO OFFER.

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In recent years, there’s been a culinary trend toward itsy-bitsy, tiny little hand-crafted desserts. I say screw that. So does much of the country of Germany. Cakes in this part of the world are ginormous.

It doesn’t matter what kind you get: order a slice, and be prepared for a piece of cake the size of a child’s head. Two servers are required to carry it out, and it will contain enough sugar to put an elephant into a diabetic coma. Don’t ask a friend to split it with you – that’s the coward’s way out.

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That’s it. My favorite Bavarian (/German) foods. If you eat them, you will grow hair on your chest and you will never need to call a tow truck because if your car breaks down you will be able to PUSH IT HOME. Gender equality being what it is, I’d say that’s a pretty desirable outcome for any man or woman.

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I am terrified that one day, I will be either 1.) abducted by aliens or 2.) frozen in some sort of cryogenic state and thawed out thousands of years in the future.

This is not the terrifying part. No. The terrifying part is when I am asked (by either aliens or mankind’s tentacle-y descendants) about the world in which I lived, and I have NOT A SINGLE ANSWER TO GIVE THEM.

I mean, I have no idea how things work. Like, not even remotely. I don’t really know where computers come from (elves, maybe?) or how they operate (wires have something to do with it, I think. And then you push electricity through the wires and – voila! – INTERNET.)

I know that paper comes from wood. (Please don’t ask me any follow up questions on that one.) And the first time I saw brussel sprouts still growing on a stalk, I may have wept a little, because it so rattled my understanding of things.

I would be of no use to aliens or to whatever creatures will appear on this earth after man’s reign is over. I cannot explain this world. But dude, the Deutsches Museum? It totally can.

The museum is located in Munich, and is basically the German equivalent of the Smithsonian. It’s the largest museum in Munich, and the largest museum of technology and science in the world. It’s located on an island:

Note the entrance on the very far end. I approached nowhere NEAR it.

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This is probably good, because it means that the people who work there can easily survive a zombie apocalypse by blowing up that bridge, and they’d have loads of useful tools and items with which to start a new civilization.

In fact, they’d have the museum’s entire collection – of more than 100,000 objects – at their disposal. The collection is not restricted to any range of topics, or any time period. It spans from Stone Age to present day; from mechanical looms to astronomy. And while that sounds rather awesome, as a visitor with the attention spat of gnat, it’s somewhat horrifying. I was actually relieved to see that large portions of the museum were closed for renovations.

After all, when reviewing one’s own ignorance, there’s a limit to how much a gal can take.

Here’s a quick rundown of some of the exhibits I visited, the limited knowledge I had beforehand, and what I learned while at the museum.

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Maritime Exhibit

Everything I know about boats can be summed up thusly: like poop and rubber duckies, they float.

The most notable piece in the exhibit is The Maria, an enormous deep-sea fishing boat. She sailed from 1880 to 1950, before coming to rest at the Museum.

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Her side has been cut open so you can see what life was like below deck.

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She smelled of old wood and salt, and I really wanted to grab a knife and stab it into the sail, tearing my way down to the deck while screaming, “HEY YOU GUYS!”, but Rand keeps insisting I not do anything to get myself deported.

At this point, I’ll have you know that I was feeling rather cocky – I totally get boats. I was ready for my alien abduction. I’d tell them all about boats. I’d come off as a genius, provided no one asked me about density and water displacement and buoyancy.

And so, in order to knock myself down a peg, I headed to aeronautics section.

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Aeronautics Exhibit

Other than one piece of sage advice that I repeat time and again on my blog (“NEVER go to the lavatory without shoes on.”), I know squat about planes.

Despite how much time I spend in them, I still have many unanswered questions. How do they fly? Why are snacks on European flights so much better than the ones in the U.S.?

And why is it that on nearly every flight we take, I am always seated directly behind a farter? (Though in all fairness, I’m sure the people sitting behind me think this, too).

Given the mystery that I find normally surrounds planes, I was mesmerized by this cross section of one:

I mean, it's like dissecting a unicorn.

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The aeronautics section covered everything from early flight – like this reproduction of the Wright brothers’ plane – to giant airbuses and beyond.

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And what’s this? A space laboratory?

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WAIT, EUROPE HAS A SPACE AGENCY? SOMEONE CALL THE PENTAGON.

What’s that? They already know? Okay, nevermind. Turns out the European Space Agency actually worked with NASA on lots of projects. The Spacelab on display at the museum integrated into the cargo bay of NASA’s space shuttle Columbia, and orbited the earth for nine days on a mission back in 1993.

Just so we’re clear, this means you can walk around on something THAT WAS IN SPACE. Yes, this is worth geeking out over.

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Bonus: it included a mannequin in a bad toupee.

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The flash on my camera illustrates just how bad:

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I continued to wander around, not knowing what most of the things I spotted were. It didn’t help that many of the signs were solely in German (as one would expect at the Deutsches Museum).

And then, weirdly, I saw one thing I recognized:

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It’s a Fokker plane – or a replica of one, at least – like the one the Red Baron flew. My exact words upon seeing it were, “HOLY CRAP, IT’S A FOKKER.” Which earned me quite a few dirty looks, because it is hard to scream “FOKKER” and not sound like you are yelling something inappropriate.

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Paper Exhibit

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The museum covers the entire spectrum of human technology, so it’s safe to assume that some things are going to be more interesting than others, right? But this hardly seems fair. Other parts of the museum get giant sailboats and spacelabs. The paper section gets old tissue boxes.

No, I am not kidding.

They get old tissue boxes.

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Metals Exhibit

Dude, Magneto would totally have a field day in this part of the museum. It started with examples of early metal work, like this suit of armor:

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And went on to talk about the origins of blacksmithing, and how we cast metal in present day.

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This enormous hand is actually a recreation of one on the famed Bavaria statue in Munich:

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Et Cetera, Et Cetera

Perhaps it was the effect of the jet-lag, or the fact that I was famished, but there were huge portions of the museum that struck me as random. There was a glass-blowing exhibition (full of lovely little creations that I would have gladly bought were I not convinced they’d be reduced to skin-slicing shards in my suitcase) adjacent to a recreation of a Mexican cave in which Stone-Age paintings were found.

Archive photo shows measurements being taken for the recreation of the cave.

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There was an early Apple computer …

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And a bunch of building toys and old Legos …

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A huge start chart took up one wall …

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And a collection of bugs took up another:

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There were giant mechanical looms, used to weave huge reams of fabric. Perfect if you’ve ever wondered where Cosby sweaters come from:

I wanted to wrap myself up in this fabric and run through the museum screaming about pudding pops.

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There was even a windmill.

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Together, the museum’s collection looks random and strange. But it’s merely a very thorough history of mankind’s innovations. We’ve moved from cave paintings to exploring space. Every invention and step in between – from pottery to glass-blowing to shoes to printing presses – helped to make that possible.

And while I seem to take that for granted (traveling in planes while barely understanding the physics of it; wearing a watch whose mechanisms I could never decipher; eating food from places I’ve never visited), it’s nice to know the Deutsches Museum doesn’t.

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The Essentials on the Deutsches Museum:

• Verdict: Yes; the museum is daunting and dizzying, but still worth a visit, especially on a rainy day.
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• How to Get There: Take the S-Bahn train and get off at Isartor (from there, it’s a short walk); the #16 and #18 trams will get you there as well.
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• Ideal for: Rainy days; engineers; science nerds; anthropology geeks.
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• Insider tips: Wear comfy shoes, and don’t try to see everything. The museum is HUGE. Holidays are a bit different in Germany than in the states, so be sure to check the site for operating hours. If you decide to take in a planetarium show, be warned: it is only in Germany. Oh, and leave time to visit the amazing gift shop.
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• Nearby food: There are little cafes throughout the museum.
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• Good for Kids: Yup! There’s lots for kids to see and do at the Deutsches Museum – including the Kinderreich (Kid’s Kingdom) for 3-8 year olds, as well as tours just for little ones.

Sadly, it won’t work out between us. Dan’s already madly in love with my friend Mike, and besides, I kind of want to see where this thing with Rand goes. Oh, well. We’ll always have Astoria, Dan.

(Oh, and psst! If you want to read more of his adventures, check out his blog, Speak of the Daniel).

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One of the things I love about travel is that it’s always an adventure. And like any great adventure, the best journeys are full of exploration, discovery, and surprise (just not the “Surprise! We sent your bags to Tbilisi!” kind of surprise).

It was during one such adventure that I uncovered what was possibly the most delightful surprise in all of my (rather limited) experience as a world traveler.

My first time in Italy was also the first time I ever heard of a place called Cinque Terre. It happened two summers ago while my boyfriend Mike and I were vacationing in Florence. Mike had assumed the task of putting together a list of potential daytrips. Having spent a college semester in Florence, he was fairly well acquainted with the city and surrounding region. I, on the other hand, was clueless …

Dan: “Hey, Mike, is Florence very far from Tuscany?”

Mike (with a sigh): “No, Dan. Not very far.”

Dan: “Cool. Maybe we can check it out while we’re here.”

Mike (to himself): “Well… at least he’s handsome.”

Pictured: Florence. Also pictured: Tuscany. Mind = blown.

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To me, “Cinque Terre” was just another Italian-sounding name on Mike’s list. I vaguely recognized the other names on the roster. There was the place named after the brownish crayon. And the other place from that movie with Cher. (I know. The culture just oozes out of me). But the name Cinque Terre failed to ring any of my oh-so-worldly bells. All I had to go on, really, was Mike’s cursory description of “five picturesque coastal villages linked together by a series of scenic hillside hiking trails.”

Great. Sounds lovely. Sold.

Now, even though the words “hillside” and “hiking” and “trails” were right there in the description, my imagination conjured a slightly different image. I envisioned something akin to a long, leisurely walk along the sea; a village-by-village stroll down some gently winding path that played the role of charming alternative to paved road and rigid walkway. We’d meet carefree couples on tandem bicycles, playful pups chasing tossed rubber balls, and barefoot children racing each other to the next gelato cart (that’s a thing, right?). The idyllic serenity washed over me just thinking about it.

But, in a manner predictable to no one (except, you know, anyone with access to a weather report), this sunny fantasy began to dissolve the morning of our departure. The heavy rain clouds that chased our train all the way from Florence to Monterosso were threatening to wash away any hopes of an enchanting outdoor excursion. Not a promising omen, but we pushed forward anyway.

Arriving in Monterosso around lunchtime, and in the midst of a drenching downpour, we ducked into a small cellar-bistro for both food and shelter.

We just followed the blue arrow.

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Resigned to the nasty weather, we reluctantly prepared to scrap our day of breezy seaside exploration. The disappointment was palpable, and the rest of our afternoon looked pretty gloomy. But it wasn’t all folly – the food was outstanding.

All kinds of awesome.

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A mere hour later, Mike and I emerged from our windowless eatery squinting in the glare of a newly clear sky. Suddenly, the street was teeming with sunglass-clad villagers. From seemingly nowhere, dozens of sunbathers and surfers had taken to the nearby beach. The grey, cloud-draped surface of the Mediterranean had turned deep blue and now stretched all the way to the horizon. For Mike and me, it was a gay-cation miracle. “Game on,” we declared.

Monterosso, lookin' pretty sexy after the storm.

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Our ensuing hike – and I do mean hike – began much as I’d imagined it. As we strolled toward the outskirts of town, everyone seemed to be making the most of this picture-perfect summer day. But as we started up the trail, we began to realize what we were getting ourselves into: “Um, where are all the bikes? And the dogs? And the children? And why is this trail getting so narrow? And rugged? And steep? And when did it get SO DAMN HOT today?”

Neither of us was prepared for what soon felt like a treacherous expedition. Ninety-plus minutes of slippery rocks, muddy slopes, prickly overgrowth, ancient and near-vertical stairways, and sparse shade from the unforgiving August sun proved an unexpected challenge. I know. We were hardly scaling Kilimanjaro. But this hike was a far cry from the graceful waltz down the beach I’d anticipated earlier. It was like expecting a side salad and then being run over by a produce truck. But on the plus side, the coastal scenery was breathtaking. Also, Mike took off his shirt.

It was at the end of this trek that we stumbled across my incredible surprise. Having burned through every carb absorbed at lunch, we approached the next village, Vernazza, sweaty, exhausted, and parched (because some fool decided that lugging clunky water bottles along the trail would be an unnecessary burden). But I found myself instantly revived by the sight I beheld from the hillside overlooking Vernazza.

A bit of preface: A year or so before our trip, I was thumbing through some random magazine when a full-page ad caught my eye. I have no idea what it was advertising, but it was the image that grabbed me: A tiny, picturesque village nestled on a rocky seaside outcrop. A cozy, boat-filled harbor lapping at the town’s central square. And a pastel rainbow of quaint facades softly glowing in the setting sun. I’d never seen the place before, and had no idea where it was. But I remember being amazed that such a place existed somewhere on Earth. It looked, for lack of a better word, heavenly. But it seemed so small and obscure and unattainably perfect that I couldn’t imagine ever actually finding the place. Part of me even doubted the place existed at all – just a Photoshopped mirage, perhaps. This enchanting image escaped my consciousness soon after.

As I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, the picture was of Vernazza – the very real village I was now gazing into with unbelieving awe. There it was, right in front of me. I had discovered my vision of Heaven on Earth without even looking for it. It was like suddenly finding that one great song whose name you never bothered to learn, but had spent ages shuffling around in the back of your head. (This also happened to me recently, and it was a genuine thrill. I’m a man of simple joys).

In a near-ecstatic trance, I just stood there, taking it all in. I explained to Mike what I was so worked up about, and fortunately, he had the presence of mind to snap some photos of me and my new special place. We were still thirsty and exhausted, but Mike got it. He gave me all the time in the world to savor this magical moment.

Now, as a world traveler, I’m a relative novice. And I know nothing of the future travel adventures that await me. But fairly I’m certain that this one moment will forever place high among my all-time greatest travel experiences.

Dan and his special place.

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After one long last gaze, Mike and I wandered down into the village for much-needed water and much-craved gelato. We poked around a few of the little shops, and sat for a while on the beach. It was a rejuvenating respite. I was still basking in my surprise elation, while Mike was basking in gelato-filled contentment.

When it was finally time to move on, one of us asked the other if we were ready to make our way down the rest of the trail, and through the remaining three villages.

The look on both of our faces said it all. Not a chance.

We hopped onto the next train, and made our way back to Firenze.

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Vernazza and Monterosso suffered a major landside and significant damage in the fall of last year. The towns have recently reopened, after months of rebuilding (which is still ongoing). The local businesses there need tourism revenue now more than ever to get back on their feet – as if you needed more of an excuse to visit the Cinque Terre. 

On Tuesday, Rand announced some rather big news (and yes, I am stupid proud of him and all the wonder people he works with. Congrats!).

And then we spent two days in Vegas (just to make sure Rand’s head was completely spinning). And now? Home. Home for a blissful five days. I’ve loads of things to do, from blogging to laundry to more blogging (and more laundry). You enjoy these links, while I pray that my hubby has time to catch his breath and reflect on the awesomeness of life.

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My friend Angela sent me this Ultimate Guide to Writing Better Than You Already Do. Not sure how practical the advice is, but, damn, it made me laugh. 

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Seattlites: there will be a Hunger Games-style event at Volunteer Park this Saturday. A bunch of hipsters in shorts and Converse shoes will be running around, trying to steal one another’s flags. And I would totally be there if I 1.) wasn’t terrified of hipsters and 2.) didn’t have a previous engagement. (TEAM PEETA 4-EVA.)

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Um … awkward.

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New York Jets pass rusher Trevor Pryce is comfortably retired. And so damn bored. His essay in the NYT is a delightful confession from a man who has it all and wants just a little bit more.

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In infinitely sadder news, Adam Yauch (better known as MCA) of The Beastie Boys had died. RIP, Adam. And thanks for teaching the world that skinny Jewish boys can rap.

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The fascinating tale of Daniel Suelo: a man who, for the last decade, has lived without money.

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And of a similar vein: Photographer Eric Valli spent several years in the company of folks who “lived off the grid.” The images he’s taken of them – and their lives – are beautiful and haunting.

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It’s Star Wars Day! May the Fourth be with you.

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Courtney Love talks about her eating habits in this somewhat sad, if infinitely quotable, interview.

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Sherlock comes back this Sunday (yes, I am excited. No, I cannot wait.) In honor of the season 2 premiere, Slate asks an interesting question: What was crime-fighting like in London back in Holmes’ day?

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The frustrations of living in a city, distilled.

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Phew. Have an amazing weekend, folks.

Then I’ll you about churros and Spitalfields and neon lights and the rest of it. I promise.

But in the meantime, here are ten pictures from our trip.

1. The Neues Rathaus (New Town Hall) in downtown Munich:

One of my favorite places to pee in downtown Munich also happens to be in this building (relax: it's in a bathroom.)

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2. Painted eggs, found at my dad’s house.

I think they were made of wood. Also fairly certain that my dad's pug, Anton, tried to eat them at some point.

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3. Ettal Abbey, a Benedictine Monastery about an hour south of Munich, near the town of Garmisch.

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4. Papst Bier (featuring the Pope), found at a gift shop across the street from the monastery.

Mmmm ... sacrilicious.

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5. Walking path near King Ludwig of Bavaria’s Linderhof castle.

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6. Swan, at a lake in Linderhof.

Or as they call them in German, "schwannz." (DISCLAIMER: I don't actually know if that's what they call them in German. DON'T SEND ME HATE MAIL.)

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7. Ceiling of the Monopteros at the English Garden.

Underneath the roof a pair of obnoxious Americans were making out. (Okay, FINE. It was us).

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8. Rand geeking out with Wil and Richard, downtown Munich.

I don't remember quite what was going on here, but this photo still cracks me up.

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9. Adorable graffiti, found near the Hilton Munich Park.

I have the weirdest feeling they were made for each other.

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10. Obligatory making out photo, Linderhof castle.

I have the weirdest feeling ... nah, forget it. That's too cheesy.

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