Alice's Restaurant

 

Kudos to the impressario

Harvesttime is best for remarking on what we have.  Perhaps our earth-dependent ancestors instilled in us the feeling of gratitude during this season of sustenance.  That or it’s a genetic guilt trip about life  “back in the day”.  Whatever the rationale, this year it was especially vital for me to recognize Thanksgiving; I have been not only living, but also thriving off the myriad opportunities available to me of late.  What’s more, being away from home, the creation of Thanksgiving was one way to bring America closer to one group of temporary expatriates.  With these mantles firmly festooned, my fellow American students and I commenced the arrangements for a shindig usually spearheaded by our elders.  (I came away with renewed respect for my parents – there are many variables to consider!)  Everyone was to bring something, and something was to bring everyone.  Space was reserved, cooking accoutrement procured, guests invited (“Thanksgiving with the Americans” was never so fitting) and apprehension built.  Certain groceries remained elusive; full turkeys are not sold in the average Hungarian supermarket.  Neither are cranberries, it seems, and sweet potatoes are few and far between.  We received Black Friday as a day off classes, but took our exam Thanksgiving morning instead of parade watching.  Afterwards, everyone began the real day’s work. 

My team was responsible for making stuffing, so we tackled the dish early to free up kitchen space for others.  There were four kitchens at our disposal, but none of them was large enough on its own and – as we would soon learn – none of them was in tiptop shape.  With five pounds of stuffing set to cool (think of the number of breadcrumbs), I went to check that the room was ready.  As I arranged tables and chairs, it occurred to me just how many people we would be serving that evening.  In addition to the 20-some people in the program, we expected our headmaster, coordinator, other teachers and Hungarian friends.  I certainly hoped we would have enough food.  With this worry creeping steadily into view, I went to kibitz with the other chefs.  Luckily, everyone was working away on his or her respective tasks.  What about the turkey?  We had found cutlets of the Thanksgiving bird and one group was working on their preparation.  Somehow, though, the ovens were not quite hot enough to cook them thoroughly.  Intensify panic. 

photo credit: the lovely Katrina Carlsen

Ignoring our pleas otherwise, the clock continued to march forward and with it came the arrival of our guests.  Since last I had assembled the room, it had been transformed with tablecloths, candles, table settings, centerpieces and the like.  With flickering flames against dimmed lighting reflected in happy eyes, the atmosphere was the right degree of sentimental and comforting.  Though the main course was still underway, all the appetizers, side dishes, and desserts made their way to the buffet.  We took our seats and the worry ebbed.  Everyone, hosts and guests alike, had the opportunity to speak specifying how this night differed from traditions at home or about emerging first impressions of this festival.  We ate, we celebrated, we talked, we laughed, and there was enough of everything.  The turkey did make a belated appearance in the end; perhaps she was just offering not to overshadow the other table stars.  Spiced pumpkin soup was a hit, green bean hot dish made a true Midwestern appearance, our stuffing hit the spot, and the salad, the lovingly stuffed cabbage, the dependable macaroni, and all the carefully crafted deserts were devoured with abandon. 

Being away from home and having to explain the significance of the holiday to our guests forced us to consider the purpose of giving thanks. I think we silently agreed: the world exposure opportunities at hand are exceptional, but even more uncommon: the collective identity we had created along the way.  In the absence of the familiar, a new entity was borne of the shared experiences in the classroom, on the road, and in the heart.  Comfortably fed with nourishment for the soul and stomach, we began the laundering and the leave-taking.  While the entire affair was far from traditional, it will remain forever memorable.

Before these crowded streets

And so, after celebratory pancakes, I consulted with Ondrej and Ondrej for some last minute advice about their hometown to which I would so soon be voyaging.  To be honest, their words were disheartening – they thought badly of the area where I would be staying and seemed convinced of my impending mugging/kidnapping/general downfall in the face of debauchery.  Despite their confidence, I met my bus and rolled into the night.  Then, I got off the bus and did not get lost finding the hostel.  The hostel was clean, safe and friendly.  Then next morning, they even gave me breakfast.  So far, Prague was proving a most hospitable city.

Playing the tourist can be fun and challenging.  Of course, given the nature of my recreational visit, I was indeed a tourist, but no one wants to admit this.  I did my best not to share the appearance of the wide-eyed elderly couples with whom I shared the sidewalk en route to the Old Town Square.  The amazement aspect of their expressions was difficult not to adopt; the proud buildings strutted on all sides with impressive confidence.  Around the gothic–looking fountain, many free tours were advertised in a variety of languages.  I sidled up to the English speakers and let them lead me through the Jewish Quarter.  All the synagogues and the cemetery here make up the parts of one of the largest collective museums.  It was here that the Jewish residents of Prague were relegated in the centuries of yore.  Here, the mythical Golem was born of the Earth to protect against crusaders outside the ghetto walls.  Here, the Synagogue perhaps bearing my name resides.  The Old New Synagogue, Alt-Neu Shul is still an operational place of worship – in fact Shabbos services kept me from peeking inside.  Luckily, there are many beautiful Jewish buildings to sample.  I thought the Spanish Synagogue was a gem of architecture.  The existential statue of Franz Kafka right outside the Spanish Synagogue was also neat, though somewhat unrelated to the rose windowed palace behind it.  Despite the segregation of the Jews in Prague for several centuries, they prospered and so did the area.  Today, the finest boutiques are found along Parizska Street, so named for its resemblance to a French boulevard. 

It was only after an hour of educational tourage and our return to the Square that the guide sidled up to me to inform me that this, unlike the others, was not actually a free tour.  Therefore, independently, slightly embarrassed, but also content in that I had seen all of that area I had hoped to see, I set off.  I was evicted just in time to see the famous clock tower show in which the hour is celebrated at the historic church with live action music and performance from the top of the tower.  Now engulfed by the mass of the tourist crowd I had so expressly disavowed, I was ferried toward the river.  Prague, you see, is much akin to Budapest in its construction.  A river separates two halves of a city once divided.  A flat commercialized half is now accessible to a hilly castle-bearing half by a series of bridges.  In Prague, one such of these connective structures is the historic Charles Bridge traversable only by foot traffic.  Originally the only method of crossing the mighty Vltava River, the bridge is now it a popular destination and purveyor of vendors.  Among the Baroque statues,you can find caricaturists, street musicians, and amateur jewelers.  Merchants peddle their wares there where bicyclists pedal.  On the far shore, I walked along what is actually an island, delineated by a thin offshoot of the River.  Kampa, as is it known, hosts some small shops and a sculpture garden.  After a needed stop-off in a quaint (and centrally heated) independent bookstore, I was on foot again. 

The subtitle of my journey abroad should have been something about ascent or heighth.  In addition to moral improvement, I have repeatedly pursued the highest point from which to view the places I have been and perhaps the destinations I will be reaching.  This adventure would be no exception, for while not planned, I had come to the park containing Petřín Tower, observatory and highest point in all Prague.  The tower itself is not enormously tall, but it stands on an impressive hill, giving it the leg-up it needs to survey the city skyline.  Up this hill I climbed, sweating in the cold, glad I had left my roller-skates at home.  Petřín resembles the Eifel tower, but is quite different in its conception.  Octagonal rather than square in base, for instance, Petřín winds upwards.  There are two alternating staircases and an elevator running through the core.  For reduced cost and added punishment, I elected to take the stairs, and my climb continued.  The clear afternoon offered an engaging vantage point and the opportunity to plot the remainder of my course. 

I descended through the gardens, and then scaled still higher to the castle beyond.  Looking out over the vista spilling out before me, the sun setting with the coy blush of a first date departure, I realized how lucky I was to be alive and exploring the sights of this world.  After I wandered through the grounds and made faces at the stony expressioned guards, I followed the path back down to the river.  The colors of the sky slowly drained as if sipped by a thirsty giant just over the horizon.  Just when I thought it could not get darker, all the lights of the city ignited simultaneously.  The streetlamps were of the older design that gives off an insufficient golden yellow light in isolation, which somehow shines bright collectively.  This illumination was reflected in the eyes of the passerby as I ambled back among the crowded streets.  Just as I thought to look for provisions, I came upon a little Czech restaurant with a promoter out front.  I could tell his spiel had gone unspled, so I accepted his invitation inside.  So validated, he told the hostess to give me a discount.  This only gave me license to enjoy all the more.  The food was delicious and I went back to the hostel happy to seek some shuteye before the ride back.

PS: Just as I was getting up to catch the bus (circa 5:30am), my hostel roommates were just getting back from their nighttime revelry.  Pesky meddling kids. 

Cave of Wonders

 “What is caving?” you may ask.  According to the email description invitation, it would be an underground hike.  Sure, we would have to wear headlamps and might get a little dirty, but nothing strenuous.  False.  Headmaster Gabor is of the hard-core variety of fella and the spelunking expedition he led was no exception. Spelunking has long been a life goal of mine and the evening's adventure fulfilled my every wish.

After making our way out into the Buda Hills, we suited up and trekked to the cavern mouth.  The professionals come to guide us actually had suits appropriate for the conditions, while we amateurs simply assumed our dingiest garb.  Though it was a frigid autumn evening, with temperatures outside in the single Celsius range, the cave maintains a constant climate of comfortable earthy scope.  Our “moderate intensity” experience began by splitting into smaller groups, assigning guides to each and descending the long ladder into the depths.  While I consider myself a seasoned purveyor of the wilderness, what followed was anything but moderate.  We climbed up and down, winding deeper and deeper into the abyss.  At times on hands and knees, else flat on stomach or back, we wound through crags that did not seem large enough to permit passage.  The ground was not always level, but could be bypassed by exerting pressure on both walls and working one’s way forward by hook and crook.  Some ledges needed surmounting others begged to be alighted.  Progress was attained single file at an inching pace, which was fast enough for us.  Our guides were very encouraging and optimistic, though I bet they were laughing internally all the while; we stumbled like the blind, or rather worse, for it is common for blind spelunkers to excel in the caves.  I took the benefit of battery-powered flashlights for granted until I knocked mine from my helmet and plunged myself briefly into the all-encompassing darkness (relax, I found it again).  Along the way, our guides challenged us to feats – climb onto that shelf and clap your hands and feet, wiggle through this hole, etc. – making the experience a struggle for both body and mind.  The hardest part, I think we agree, was a v-shaped gully wide on top but too thin to climb along the bottom.  The key was to attack it sideways, one arm supporting the body, and worm through.  We felt quite related to our nematode neighbors afterwards – and likely resembled them too, given the coating of earth and clay we took with us.

Against anyone’s better judgment, my camera followed me into the darkness.The need for longer f-stops also leads to some blurriness. Apertures are finicky that way.Forgive and enjoy.

There is a Hike

There is a ridge.  Nothing special, maybe: a rise in the earth, over which one may traverse.  Over this ridge, there is a bridge of weathered concrete and corrugated metal.  The bridge stands sturdy, but the surface is vaguely concave from the worn pattern of travelers that have crossed this way in time.  The bridge permits travel over the sort of creek that is neither forbidding nor treacherous, but requires bypassing all the same.  There is a fork of the Robert Frost variety offering three tines: to the left along the tree line, to the right along the adolescent creek, or forward and up into the hills.  Loyal reader, I know I need not tell you which direction I took, but nevertheless, I took Yogi Berra’s advice and the fork before journeying onward. 

There is a time.  Not an exact hour or an occasion worthy of calendar marking, but a series of fleeting moments that must be encountered and not captured.  There is a time late in the day when the light is reading over your shoulder surreptitiously.  There is a time in the greater half of autumn when the pigments of the natural world gain enough confidence to flirt coyly from across a crowded forest.  There is a time when life seems to neither sprint away nor drag burdensome on your untied shoelaces.  There is a time when the synchrony of all other factors blend together more pleasingly then diligently tuned bass fiddlers wearing matching tweed vests.  The amalgamation of moments of comfort and beauty as I ambled along the woodsy paths delighted me, but also grounded me.

There is a haze.  It isn’t a fog exactly, but a thickness of the air that magnifies distance and transmutes every scene into a Luminist work from the later mid 19^th century.  A haze hangs over Hungary in a way unlike any other principality or air vapor system.  This haze is practically tangible and it is especially apparent when you surmount a final bluff and make a turn overlooking a clearing.  This haze catches the low sunlight in striations, lazy crosshatches on the horizon.  The air is just thick enough to become a screen onto which you may project your imagined focus, a scrim concealing what actually dances casually on the stage of possibility. 

There is a chill.  Not necessarily a very cold, shiver-causing sort, but a deep-rooted shake inducing kick.  There is a chill that sneaks up on you like a forgotten realization, an irksome deadline, or a mischievous younger brother.  This chill originates just above the small in your back, tickling outward in small rivulets of vigilance.  At first, the onset of this convulsion may seem without cause, but time will reveal this is the harbinger of change.  Just as every pot has its lid, so too every moment has a potential corresponding connection if only it can be found.  Maybe, when this cosmic connection comes to fruition, the body is overcome with fulfillment; the overflow is expressed through a brief inexplicable augural motion, departed before it is welcomed.  I stared into the haze, a brief tremor passing through me, at the figures in the clearing below me.  I could not make out exactly what they were doing, why they were gathered, or the purpose of it all, but I was resolved to learn.

There is a force.  It isn’t brazen or lauded like some, but it is unrelenting it its constancy.  Modesty is its anthem, for this force keeps all things grounded.  Merit should be awarded to the defiant, but the lofty have furthest to fall.  Imagine my surprise, then, when upon closer inspection I discovered the small band of ruffians I had spied from on high were in fact organized for just such a revolt.  With gaudy costume and ornate equipment, the first took his position, jettisoned forwards, and took to the skies.  A brief chill ran down my spine as I looked up just in time to see the man steer his hang glider into the haze and disappear over the ridge.

There is a story.  Not one reserved for bedtime, though those can be most enjoyable.  There is a story of background behind every shared experience.  Such stories need not be spoken upon, written of, illustrated, or recorded.  They thrive in a shared glance, a subtle touch, and a knowing smile.  But pictures never hurt.  Peruse a few after the break, dear reader.

Revelry on the Ramparts

I do not mean to pick a fight, but throughout history, Hungary has struggled to find themselves on the winning side of a battle.  My experience with stubborn vendors in the market may suggest otherwise, but consider if you will with whom this nation found themselves in the last two world wars.  Slim pickings.  There is, however, one notable exception: in the mid 16^th century, a small band of haughty Hungarians held off the mighty Ottoman Empire forces while the city of Eger was under siege.  Despite superior numbers and firepower, The Turks were repelled, and though they waited, even putting the castle under siege, never breached the walls.  Obviously, they did not think to take the train – when my fellows and I travelled to Eger last week, it was a relatively simple jaunt by rail.

While the city may be small, its rich history is reflected in the small details – the narrow alleys, the cobbled streets, and the higgledy-piggledy layout.  Eger represents a collision of times and cultures.  Modern Hungary here rests on the foundation of the many peoples that occupied the space before.  Several churches of various denominations and constructions dot the landscape – far more than the humble population requires.  There are some architectural relics of the Ottoman occupation still.  Just off the main square, you can find an ancient looking minaret.  The hewn stone edifice rises proudly above the surrounding tiled roofs, as would have been beneficial to usher fellow townspeople to mosque.  Given that the subtitle of my journey has been to surmount every apex I encounter, it was only natural that I made the perilous climb up the steep stone steps scarcely wide enough to permit my humble frame.  Combining a pristine view of the historic castle with the emanating vineyards beyond, the vista was reward enough.  A delight indeed, but I stand by my conviction that the Egerians should install a slide for the downward journey. 

Lunch was delicious, as always, this iteration coming from a small restaurant on the square.  I think the proprietors would have preferred to serve us dishes that were more expensive, but cold afternoons call for hearty soups, not epicurean caviar.  Afterwards, we climbed uphill to our accommodations, a house and a room with a view.  I do not invoke E.M. Forster in vain – I could actually see much of Eger proper from my bedroom window.  Maybe I did not have to go climbing minarets after all.  Following a brief m’nucha, we made like the mighty Turks and headed for the castle.  Maybe it was our lack of heavy artillery, or maybe it was my intimidating disposition, but we just walked through the gates.  Security must not be what it used to be.  Highly fortified walls these days protect some historically accurate activities (archery) and some that most likely were not available during the siege (3-D movie theatre) but all of which contributed to our rip-roaring medieval themed good time. 

Later that evening, we had a taste of a wine tasting, including many of Eger’s most famous libations.  Bull’s Blood wine, or Bikavér, is among the eminent exports of Eger, so named for its profound burgundy ruddiness and purported brawn accentuating characteristics.  As the legend goes, during the siege, the rebels broke open the fruit of their root cellars for strength and fortitude.  The superstitious Turks assumed the beverage was actually the blood of bulls imparting animal strength unto the drinker.  I say it looked pretty wine like and left me feeling no stronger than before but maybe I am doing it wrong.  The wineries are housed in catacombs beneath the vineyard, yielding an authentic wine drinking experience with earthen walls, musky odors, and controlled temperatures for storage. 

Luca woke us the next morning with pastries and tea.  We were headed for another relic of the past, the Turkish baths.  Fed by a natural spring, the baths has served practical, recuperative, and social purposes for residents of Eger for ages.  The baths are comprised of six or so geologically warmed pools of water of varying temperatures capable of washing away qualms with the contaminants.  Although the baths were not historically coed, the facilities were open to members of both genders to consort and socialize among themselves.  Luckily for our multitudinously attributed group, this is no longer the policy.  I found vast placation in the mirror pool, a calm 30° Celsius, but the outdoor children’s pool was an attraction not to miss.  Bouts in the sauna, steam room, radioactive distillation, and Jacuzzi combined to melt the last trace of apprehension from my mind and body.  While they struggled with the whole concept of militant belligerence, they sure knew how to handle leisureliness.

As easily as we entered the city, we departed again with a certain added calming glow, though who is to say if the baths or the wine is to blame?

Just another day

It is unjust that these pages should be reserved for the exceptional experiences, a statement which itself implies the uncatalogued events are anything but.  Take for instance the class our Headmaster Gabor taught on the History of Philosophy.  In this series of text-based discussions, we had the chance to answer for ourselves age-old quandaries on the nature of being, knowledge, and higher powers.  These questions are not inherently based in cognitive pursuits, but they are relevant to any intellectual discussion.  Still, when you put two dozen cognitive scientists in a room after sharing common evocative readings, the discussion inevitably turns to the topics on everyone’s mind.  Gabor is well regarded, cherished even, as our headmaster.  He is the one who acts as our advocate, assuring that we are enjoying the program fully.  I worried, then, if expectations for his class would be overly lofty, if Gabor would struggle to retain his positive regard.  Luckily, having heard our critiques of prior professors, Gabor had everything in his favor from the getgo.  The openness of the topic combined with our professor’s comfort with us and the field led to a learning experience for everyone involved.  Talking about philosophy always makes me reconsider what is real.

the next day, the branches were bare

There is an opportunity to return to reality at the weekly collegium soccer game.  There are few better ways to clear a question-clouded head than with fresh air, I find.  Luckily, I have ingratiated myself with the group of Hungarians in the dorm who host the ritual game.  Running around, even if I make a fool of myself, I know I will feel that much better, livelier, invigorated.  On nonsoccer days, then, I pursue the fresh air through solo efforts, by running to Margaret Island, a few kilometers away.  The brisk autumn air inspires some to bundle up, but in truth, there is no better climate in which to exercise.  Running along the river’s edge, I am greeted by many pedestrians, the wind off the water’s crest, and innumerable vistas of both shorelines.  Running along the same path every couple of days throughout the last month allows me to monitor seasonal progress.  Something like the ratio of leaves overhead to those underfoot might be a good way to systematize my experience, but I prefer to attempt to catch the leaves as our paths cross.  When enough specimens are present on the walkway, my passage creates a chromatic wake.  Thus far, I have not gotten myself lost or had any run-ins with dogs.

Although coffeehouses were against the law here about half a century ago, they have returned to Budapest with caffeinated alacrity.  It is true, where once it was forbidden to meet for a hot beverage or heated discussion, the custom has readily returned.  It is to one of these places of stimulation that I retreat for refreshment and advancement after a midafternoon jaunt.  Such sophisticated surroundings are ideal for academic readings, especially in the vein of philosophy.  What’s more, such outings give me the opportunity to create narratives about the other patrons from behind the veil of the steam from my green tea.  They don’t seem to mind, nor are they any help, given that they insist on conversing in languages beyond my ready comprehension.  But so it goes, and so do I, all in the course of a day’s work.

Traveling with Mozart

Budapest is notable for its cultural assets and centrality within Europe.  From here is it not difficult to travel down the Danube to other capital cities.  I took the bus to Vienna (Wien, colloquially) on a brisk Saturday morning and enjoyed the sunrise over the plains en route.  The bus let out at a station on the perimeter of the city, giving me two choices: I could buy a pass and ride the subway into the downtown, or I could just start walking toward the city center.  With camera in hand and the early light at my back, my decision was easily palpable.  Never knowing exactly where I was, everything took on a flavor of mystery, but I plodded on and duly encountered some idiosyncratic characters followed by some flummoxing spectacles.  Shops offering 8-tracks and phonographs beckoned to me.  Perhaps it was the early hour or the nonbusinessness of the day, but unfortunately, these franchises were not engaging in commerce, so I was relegated to negotiating with the frosty-glassed portals.  My stint of time travel would have to be postponed.  Each storefront and building offered to whisper secrets, but I was deaf to much because my budding understanding of Hungarian Awning labels was no help in the deciphering of this German.  Austrian tweenage hooligans returned me to the present reality, darting in slalom fashion betwixt the few pedestrian passengers like myself making their way onwards.  I suspected I was headed in the right direction because foot traffic intensified evermore as the wrist-bound clock hands climbed.  One avenue led to a boulevard, then to a causeway that opened onto a thoroughfare, which in turn clearly led to a gorgeous (and heavily populated) square.  My shutter release button could not keep up with the vistas and artistic sights beheld, so I took my time exploring the locality.  Fountains, sculptures, accordion players, gargantuan tour groups, Johannes Brahms, a lone yogi, and ostentatiously chlorophyll deprived leaves all captured the entirety of my imagination and reality in turn.

From this central circus, it was also possible to orient myself onwards.  Following a languishingly tempting stroll through an open market, a much-needed Austrian hot chocolate, a stop in an ingenuous playground and a perusal of the mercantile borough, I made my way to the hostel where I met my fellow travelers.  Including Professor Erdi, who came along to point out the best sights, we numbered three quarters of a baker’s dozen.  We oriented ourselves towards the museum quarter; Vienna has an impressive collection of storehouses for their wide array of culture.  Ambling over cobblestones shared by horse drawn carriages, I felt that my own symphony composing abilities were augmented by osmosis.  The Art Nouveau edifices were in sharp contrast with the modern street performances occurring in their lee.  When walking turned to trudgery, though, it was time to replenish in true Viennese style, with Sachertorte, the famous chocolate decadence.  Next, we went to the opera house and put in for balcony real estate: the deal is that an hour before each performance, standing room is sold off to the first half gaggle in line for 2€ apiece.  The marquee proclaimed Verdi’s La Traviata, and this is precisely what was performed.  You may choose against taking my word, though, because we know you get what you pay for, and it was only possible to see 5/12 of the stage.  The music was quite enjoyable and from what I could tell, the company had taken a minimalist conception of scenery and costumes.  Urbane discernment takes a lot out of a person, so by the curtain call, it was clearly time for a meal.  We found a traditional type Austrian restaurant near the hostel and ate heartily and to great content.  Someone needs to define “egg barley” for me.  Subsequently, we ventured back to the welcoming arms of just-too-stiff bunk beds.

Shonbrunn: fit for a queen

The following morning after another exorbitant meal (who thought it was a good idea to serve repast in all-you-can-eat style to weary travelers?), our company made our way to Schönbrunn Palace, imperial residence of the Habsburgs.  This is the largest building I have ever seen to house a single family, but it was spectacular to tour inside.  Every surface reflects the monumental wealth with which these rulers were burdened.  Each room has a purpose – for playing cards, for receiving foreign visitors, for combing the queen’s hair – and the tour did not even cover the entirety of the manse.  The accompanying gardens make the extravagance within seem trivial in comparison.  Behind this house there are acres of hills, impeccably manicured to the last pine needle, including a labyrinth, a zoo, a public pool, a private flower garden, greenhouses, monuments, secret alcoves, ad infinitum.  Before we arrived, I doubted we could possibly need a full day to see the attractions at some palace, but I was more than mistaken.  To start, we climbed up to the top of the hill, then to the top of the templum, and from there took in the glory of the palace grounds, Vienna, and the world beyond.  I must admit, when we faced the labyrinth next, I was skeptical of the challenge and confident about my abilities to conquer whate’er I found therein.  Again, I was put in my place when I discovered the lofty hedges, grown to impenetrable profusion.  

maybe it looks easier from above...

At each turn, I expected to encounter a sphinx (or at least a blast-ended skrewt) but was equally befuzzled when it was another dead end.  I escaped in time, for I am writing this, but mum is the word on the duration required.  Baby animals improved everyone’s mood afterwards when we perused the zoo.  My friend Ashley heard that this particular zoo proffered giant pandas including a new baby pandaling!  The panda enclosure, then, was a high priority destination.  Of course, the fuzzy inhabitants were all in a deep slumber, but so it goes.  We unlike our black and white clad friends had work in the morning, so begged adieu, enjoyed the other exhibits, and then headed for the train station.  There was time to stop in a nice little restaurant before we hit the road.  Over his plate of fried foods, Paul summarized it nicely: “Wien is the schnitz.”