New Schleissheim Palace.

Gardens are thought through and intricately geometric.

Although I despise flying, I found myself after mere three quarters of a year back at the Denver airport — however, this time with Tom. After complicated family discussions we concluded that this was likely Tom's last school summer break, and it would be nice for him to see his grandparents, and, having paid for Lisa's trip to Europe during previous fall, this time it would be good to send our son into the world. Yet he did not want to go alone and sending him along with Lisa (and James) did not look like a solution appreciated by any of the participants. I took a deep breath and purchased tickets.

Lufthansa emailed me on the morning before our departure about their airplane being full, and that I should check in even my carry-on — they were as kind as to not charge me extra for this additional luggage! It irked me; tickets were incredibly expensive, and my boarding pass stated that I was allowed to on checked-in baggage, one carry-on, and one personal item — like a handbag, camera or a laptop. I don't fly frequently, but I have been flying for thirty years, mostly on long flights (10-12 hours), and I have accumulated plenty of negative experiences to know that on a plane, you're not only imprisoned inside a volume that differs from a coffin only by the fact you can't stretch your legs, but on top of that you're at tender mercies (or lack thereof) of flight attendants. They cannot dispense medicine (understandably, not being doctors); when food is not resupplied during the short airport stop, they will bring you none (and if you're on a special diet, e.g., unable to eat gluten, you're basically at risk anyway). In a situation where you become drenched with a drink is resolved in that they deign to bring you a SINGLE napkin into your coffin. Thus, I try to fly equipped — besides medicine, I carry some basic food — and change of clothes for two days (to survive a possible loss of luggage without having to desperately chase down underwear in a foreign country).

A beer garden is, on the other hand, uncomplicated.

Munich Olympic Complex.

Consequently, I was entering the airport hall in a feisty mood, Tom only rolled his eyes. As expected, during our checking a poisonous woman announced that we must also send our carry on bag into the airport's innards. I tried to rationally point out that we checked in one bag, being TWO people sharing ONE carry on. The wench countered by repeating that the airplane was overfilled and we must check it in. I insisted that the carry-on contained medicine and dietary food. She said that I should transfer those into my handbag. I protested that they cannot forbid me to carry my medication onboard. She claimed that the carry-on was too large and won't pass their cage test. I inserted the carry-on into the cage, but one wheel jammed on its edge. The broad rejoiced that it would not fit. I realigned the bag and it fit in nicely. She accused me of jamming it in with force and opined that it won't be possible to extract it, for it was too big. I grabbed the handle and lifted the bag with ease. It had too be too heavy anyway, she grasped at straws — I placed it on their scale, which showed less than the limit. In the end I walked victoriously away with the bag. Right after that we almost lost it — during the security check, both Tom and I passed through the gate and were just putting our shoes back on, re-threading our waistbands and completing our backpacks, when they called from the X-ray belt that someone left their carry-on on the floor and did not send it through the machine at all. You can guess, it's not hard at all.

Tom would not fit into a Formula.

A history teacher's hell.

The flight generally fulfilled my expectations. Tom had a paid window seat; with his 6ft 2in, he needs every extra chunk of space. I had aisle, to be able to go to the bathroom and relax my claustrophobia a bit. A relatively large chap was seated between us, who also bulged out of his space; that was unpleasant. Yet there's very little on can do, the seats are truly under-sized for a normally grown specimen of homo sapiens — consequently this transport is severely inhuman — and that's why economy in airline parlance translates into cattle class — and it's really not exaggerated.

When we finally disembarked in Munich, I was very glad that there was not yet another flight leg awaiting us, but nice, hospitable friends instead. I had the feeling of being a total old hand, when I explained to Tom that we would just buy S-Bahn tickets and soon arrive "home". Alas, an "IT-dude" camped on a portable stool at the ticket machine, saying that it was broken and we should buy tickets on the platform, which also sported ticket machines. We entered the platform — where these machines were abuzz with confused tourists, who not only attempted to comprehend the municipal transport zones, but also cajoled tickets using their credit cards out of two seemingly functional machines out of ten such present. After watching their losing battle for about ten minutes, I proceeded to harass a chap in a control booth, who claimed that the machines were functional, but if I so desire, I may ride up a floor and buy a ticket at a counter located there. Eventually we found the counter and made the purchase there — there were machines next to it that refused cards as well.

Isetta.

Reverse stream gate must be passed from below.

We made it to our planned train: in the middle of the day, S-1 runs approximately every twenty minutes and missing one would not be a disaster, but Holger had promised to pick us up at the station, to spare us dragging a heavy bag on foot. Fortunately even S-1 had a wi-fi, so we were able to confirm our arrival and soon we stepped out in Unterschleissheim. It was a child's play to agree that we would take a quick refreshments, shower, and have a small nap, while Holger continued working from home; in the afternoon we would visit the Palace together, followed by a Biergarten.

I became fond of Schleissheim Palace during my last visit — an expansive area if Versailles-type gardens offers to a jet-lagged tourist a beautiful walk through an undemanding landscape with an opportunity of fresh air among trees and flowers — and there's always something to see. This time, the fountains were on, a new experience even for me. At a half point of our round, Holger suddenly approached a bearded young man sitting on a bench — it took me several seconds to realize it was Oliver. Perhaps I can be excused since I had not seen him for nine years. Unlike our offspring, German students still did not have a summer break, but at least we had a Schnitzel together. Tom and I washed it down with a Radler — finding this beer very refreshing on our tiredness and on a hot summer day. Holger and I drove back to the station in the evening to buy tickets for the following day — Tom and I wanted to tour Munich. Even Holger did not manage to extract a ticket from the machine with a card — eventually paying cash. I wonder whether it became a common German thing, or whether their payment systems always crash in honor of my arrival.

Old Falcons Gym Pub.

Karlštejn from cemetery stairs.

On Thursday we left Holger quietly working at home and ventured on our own into Munich. Vicky took me through town and public transport last year, and thus I had a general idea what I wanted to show Tom. Unfortunately beginning this year, the sightseeing tower in Olympic Park was closed, and we were deprived of a great attraction. Still we hiked up a hill with a view in the Park, even spotting Alps that had been blocked off by smog in the fall. Then came ten o'clock and BMW Museum opened, and we tried our luck there. A technical exhibition seemed too me as a good counterpoint to Palace gardens of the previous day. It was not bad, but I did not understand their ordering system — exhibits were scattered across years, while my history teacher's soul pined for a chronological order for everything. Tom, becoming a mechanical engineer, probably enjoyed it more — various engine types and so forth. I was most attracted to Isetta — a car concept completely different from what I normally know. Then I noticed that our 6ft2in Tom could not drive the Formula — racing mini-cabin is smaller still than the airliner seat! We typically suffer that absence of air-conditioning in Europe — we live at 5833 feet above the sea, in a continental climate — moreover, in the precipitation shadow of the Rocky Mountains — we're used to cool dry air and a permanent breeze (yes, after four years in Wyoming we regard everything under some 45&mbsp;mph as a breeze) — then suddenly we find ourselves in a lowland on a peninsula surrounded from three sides by seas — with a crazy humidity. The museum, which was by eleven o'clock in the morning totally over-crowded, became somewhat claustrophobic.

Karlštejn.

A medieval feast.

On our way back, though we found ourselves on the wrong platform in Moosach, we eventually spotted our metro. And then the S-Bahn back to Unterschleissheim. The S-1 route includes one pitfall — the train splits in Neufahrn — the forward section continues to Freising, the rear goes to the airport. It did not matter to us this time, as we were to disembark before it came to the ennerving Zugteilung. Yet it mattered to one dude, who judged the blond and tall Tom as a local, and demanded to know (in German) whether our car went to the airport. Tom smoothly answered, "ja". I dropped my jaw; until that moment I regarded myself as the expert for Munich — but apparently Tom's analytical mind managed to integrate and dissect the basic lesson "riding on a train" within mere 24 hours, during which he was exposed to information boards and announcements in German and English.

We had a lunch with Holger — perhaps I should mentioned here that Holger is the husband of my friend Vicky, whom I know for incredible 33 years — and that Vicky at the time of our arrival was on a trip to Scotland, so we missed her during this opportunity, and had to correct it later. After lunch we packed and continued on our journey to see our family in Czechia — we had to watch on the S-1 to be in the car going to Freising, but otherwise it went well. The express to Prague picked up only less than an hour delay, which I consider progress. Grandfather awaited us at the platform, grandmother was near the ticket counters — but we all got together.

Belveder.

Royal Gardens are separated from the Castle by the Stag Moat.

On Friday we went to greet the girls (my nieces, Tom's cousins) and granddad in their home. Grandpa made us aware of a World cup in slalom on Trója Channel — checking out the schedule told us that we could easily catch finals of men and women on kayaks, and set out to this happening. Gradpa claims that we are old boating family, as his father grew up near Čertovka, another channel on Vltava. He allegedly fell into Čertovka as a toddler, and what saved him was the custom of the time, when even small boys wore little dresses — which would keep him afloat until his older sister pulled him out. My granddad used to ride on Vltava in row-boats, my dad was a river canoe enthusiast, and took me out on water first time when I was two years old; my mom used to row — now my nieces are rowers as well. Our kids were occasionally out on rafts with us — and I currently own a lake kayak. There's always some water around — and a kayak competition seemed like an interesting addition on our vacation.

We were surprised how many people came to Trója — and only gradually we realized that they all were either relatives or coaches of the competitors; a lot of people like that show up for a World Cup — perhaps we were the only ones with no ties to the competitors. One more reason to enjoy it like a show, with no nervousness and disappointments. I seems that the show even appealed to Tom — our whole family is very lax regarding sports watching, as we have never found much value in it — but this was interesting. One random observation — women on exactly the same track were roughly ten seconds slower than men, so there would be some differences between genders.

Ball Game Hall.

The Golden Gate — this time not in San Francisco.

After the race, grandpa went home, and Tom and I had a beer and fried cheese, first of many such. So far it seemed to us that we were successfully overcoming jet lag — we managed to spend parts of our days in sunshine, and realign a bit our eight-hour shift in routine. I was possibly a bit worse off, as I kept randomly getting tired — the feeling that all the lights went out and no motion or thinking is possible — for a few seconds, before one recovers. I also sometimes suddenly felt horribly hungry, or something.

We had planned Karlštejn for Saturday. I had not been to this castle for many years and felt that Tom should see this most popular Czech fortress. A kink crept into our departure — Tom had to return home for his sunglasses, and therefore we missed the bus to the train station, and subsequently, the train. This is the stressful aspect of mass transit — if you delay in the last moment for some reason, you miss a connection — so you compensate by rather being everywhere five, ten, thirty minutes earlier, which in the end consumes a lot of time. In this case, our delay had eventually paid off — through our reaching the castle only around noon, all eager tourists were already sitting at lunch and we got our castle relatively crowd-less.

All Saints Church.

A view to St. Michael's and Petřín.

Going up, we took the cemetery route, which is kind of less comfortable (stairs), but offers prettier views of Karlštejn. I was taken aback by how farther the castle seemed compared to what I remembered — I must had been much younger during my previous visit. Tom and I paid for the basic tour; granny awaited us in the courtyard. Then we took pictures of the fortress from all angles — and could descend to the village, where, during our ascent, I had spotted a restaurant announcing fried cheese with fries and tartar sauce for 180 crowns ($8), which I considered a deal. Only sun-baked seats were available on the patio, so we went inside, which was empty and pleasant. We had beer and coffee and garlic soup — and then I ordered potato pancakes with smoked port and sauerkraut for Tom — so he'd get a break for fried cheese. We don't make such pancakes at home (in part due to my gluten-free diet, but perhaps because we're lazy to slosh with it), but it stroke me as food that Tom would appreciate — he likes kraut and smoked meats, and surely potato pancakes too. This proved to be the case; Tom enjoyed it all. By then desperate servers began to zip around — who were unable to communicate with guests at the patio, which escalated into overall misunderstandings and frustrations. In the end Tom offered his services as an interpreter, and helped to calm the situation a bit, perhaps even resolve it.

On the next day we continued our tour of Prague — our granny used to work at the Castle, in the Presidential Office, which automatically qualifies her as the local guide. We took it via Queen Anna Pavilion and through the gardens with views to the whole Castle complex — and then across various courtyards to Dalibor Tower and back again. We never entered any place, not having time, but also the money — for years now the Castle has been firmly occupying the "tourist trap" category — you pay for everything, everywhere. We returned down the Neruda Street — and paid for a tour in St. Michael's Cathedral — which I still consider one of the most beautiful Prague churches.

St. Michael's.

Čertovka.

In the Small Quarter we were bound to resolve another European specialty — that is, going to the bathroom. As a tourist, I had been impressed by Belveder among other things by the fact that one can visit a local restroom normally — all toilets on the whole Castle are behind turnstiles, with queues to them, and paid access. One is completely out of luck with restrooms in downtown, even when willing to wait and pay. McDonald's is an exception — you pay ten crowns for restroom and only then they discount the same amount from your order — it sucks that you can't go for free after you ordered and paid. But still something. In Freising, Germany, I stuffed one euro into an automated potty-booth — only to discover that this particular cabin had a clogged and overflowing bowl. Literally one euro down the toilet.

After an icecream in Micky-D, we parted with granny and sent her home; Tom and I continued to the Old Town Square and The Clockwork. From there we went to Podolí and another date with grandpa — he dragged us to his favorite pub named Old Sokol's Gym — the place is quaint with furnishings made from old gym equipment like beams and vaulting boxes — which are surprisingly comfy to sit on. If you add good company, you get a classic Czech relaxed groove.

We kept pub crawling on Monday as well — first a lunch with my friend Honza (whom I know forty two years!) and then a dinner with Péťa and Kočička — girls brought their daughters, and it was very optimistic — that the world is turning and continuing on.