Wednesday, November 14, 2007

It Was The Best of Times, It Was The Wurst of Times, Part VIII: Saturday 9/29

I don't usually get really bad hangovers, but for one reason or another, I woke up around 8 Saturday morning with a RAGING headache -- the kind of headache that makes you pray you can fall back asleep so you don't puke, even though you know damn well there's no way in hell you'll be falling back asleep before rocketing last night's dreams all over the back of a cold, foreign porcelain basin. So, I got up and made my way to the bathroom. When combined with the ingestion of only beer, pretzels, wurst, and bacon double cheeseburgers, an entire day without water apparently has negative effects on the human body. Everything I had consumed the day and night before had been completely absorbed into my body, and that fucking sparkling water didn't exactly grease the pipes, so there was simply nothing to puke up. Lord knows I tried. As I'm sure you're aware, dry heaving does not make a hangover any better, nor does it make a pleasant sound.

I managed to down two Excedrin Migraine, even though I knew this was a Category 5, and no matter how many boards I put over the windows, the house was getting razed. Defeated, I crawled (figuratively, but also literally) back into bed, and was eventually harassed by Jester, Kyla, and Alex when they awoke. My muted screams of "stillvasser" (which, of course, is German for impossible-to-find non-sparkling water) went generally unnoticed. My organs, which were on the verge of rejecting themselves, suggested that I stay in bed while the other three got breakfast and stood on their feet for any period of time. For the next several hours I wavered in and out of consciousness. I guess a caffeinated painkiller is not a good idea when you want to sleep, and especially in circumstances where it kills no pain. Now and then I attempted to drink from a liter bottle of Evian, which was standing tall in the middle of the bed, mocking me. Hydration is exceedingly difficult in the prone position.

Eventually, I was able to flip onto my side and splash some stillvasser all over my face and the bed, and then flip over to the supine position and drip some stillvasser into my bone dry mouth. The snowball effect took hold, and I was able to sit up and drink properly. By the time the other three returned, I could form rudimentary sentences, and I carefully suggested that I was ready to try to stand up. Dennis Byrd himself wouldn't have been more proud.

But enough about that. As soon as I was able to walk, we headed to the beer tents. Just kidding, people. I'm not THAT much of an alcoholic. Plus, we woke up too late.

A group of us went to the Munich suburbs to visit Schloss Nymphenburg, which, despite it's name suggesting otherwise, is not a burg full of chicks who are addicted to sex. If you recall, a schloss is a castle.

Schloss Nymphenburg is a nice little palace on grandiose grounds, stocked with swans, random royal buildings, and dimly lit forest paths that would make a serial rapist salivate.

The only of the aforementioned random royal buildings we visited was the hunting lodge, which was painted a manly pastel pink. As we were joking, Prince Leopold, upon commissioning the construction of said hunting lodge, probably suggested to his architect (in a hilarious German accent), "Okay, Rudolph, I want a building that says, 'This Prince Leopold, he is a hunter,' buuuuut I don't want to come across as too seveeeeere. The last thing I need is for people to think I am some sort of savage." (Remember to read the previous sentences in a slightly gay 18th Century German accent. I guess you had to be there.) While in the hunting lodge, Alex tried to eat a 140-year-old painted deer.

We were ejected from the palace grounds. Apparently swan kicking is only legal in the U.S. Undaunted, we decided to go to a nearby bier garten called the Hirschgarten, yet another of Munich's several gigantic outdoor bier gartens in the middle of a public park (Mayor Daley, please take note -- I'm sure there's a "public beer garden tax" you can dream up). It looks a lot closer and easier to find on a map, so it took us a solid hour to get there.

Nonetheless, it was still a bier garten, so it was awesome. The ladies left earlier than the gents, probably to go make out with each other or pet some deer or shop or bake pies or make babies.

For dinner, we got the whole gang together and tried to go the Hundskugel, Munich's oldest restaurant, but there was not enough room and some Wiccans with torches ran us off.

Thus, we went to the Ratskeller, which is a totally badass restaurant in the basement of the Rathaus (city hall, if you recall), with limestone and dark wood. Very gothic.

Luckily Nick's Blackberry was able to get some college football scores because it allowed me to learn that IU had beaten Iowa. John felt up a lion.Feeling invincible, we all went back to the Lotter Leben one last time. We got two large tables, and our waiter, who we nicknamed Bruno, was both extremely hammered and gay (not that there's anything wrong with that). There's not much funnier than a flaming drunk German man wearing tight lederhosen shorts, a cutoff button-up shirt with sleeves removed, unbuttoned halfway down, who has no qualms with dancing on tables when he should be taking Americans' drink orders.

One of the highlights while there was when a song came on that was entitled, "Who the Fuck is Alice?" (which also happens to be the chorus). Everyone in the bar sang along during the chorus, but we all thought it was "Who the Fuck is Alex?" Thus, Alex (and those around him) got a kick out of it. Even better was when Alex stood up and yelled "I'm Alex" to a table of confused Germans who probably thought he had gender confusion issues.

After Lotter Leben, we scattered Bruno's severed body parts throughout Munich and went to bed knowing that we gave Munich our all that week, but sadly, we had to leave in the morning.

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