If a man ... said, "I will speak out to you concerning wine and liquor,"' he would be spokesman to this people (Micah 2:11)

I took over 150 pictures during our trip, and only one of them is of my boyfriend and me together. But I have plenty of Tim alone. Basically, whenever he picked up a drink, I picked up my camera. You could say that I just wanted to make sure I captured him at his happiest, but I also wanted to remember the various drinking experiences we had as well.

The first real beer we had on our trip was at the Tollwood Winter Festival, which is where the locals go to find unique gifts for the holidays. Of course, shopping can be exhausting, so many stop to have a beer, the unofficial but undeniable national drink of Germany. We weren't shopping, but we stopped to have a beer anyway. Later, outside the tent, Tim had a hot caipirinha, the national drink (although usually cold) of Brazil, which was one of the exotic offerings along with hot mai tais and hot mojitos:

Whenever we had time to kill during our wanderings, stopping to have a beer was a good diversion. Despite the cold weather, Tim like to have a brew al fresco. In Berlin, he got one at a kiosk on Staatsoper Unter den Linden (Under the Trees Boulevard). This was just a typical lager, but in the summertime, we were told, the rage is flavored beer. Near the end of our trip, I tried one at the airport. It wasn't the greatest, but to be able to drink it while walking down this avenue without a single open-container worry, that would be divine.

Because we were there during Christmastime, about the only places we could find some drinks in Warsaw were at the Turkish doner stands, almost all of which offered beer on tap. But this great bar opened up just in time for us to stop by before we caught our bus. And even though I should have had a vodka, in true Polish style, I grabbed yet another authentic dark beer to match the truly dive bar; it was located in an underground passage used to get across a busy street:

Vilnius didn't seem to have the drinking culture like that in the other cities we had been to so far, where you could find a cheap drink on every corner. We had to get off the beaten track to find this bar, called "The Bear." Before noon, we were the only ones in the place, which was under an office/apartment building, although you couldn't tell from the real-wood paneling. This also was where we first tried Krupnikas, a mead-like liquor that is Lithuania's national drink. As Tim and I agreed, this was by far the best of the regional quaffs:

Riga, on the other hand, offered drinks in all shapes and sizes. We were early in Vilnius and late in Riga; we closed down this hokey medieval bar, called "The Droplet." The waitress had to kick us out, perhaps because some shady business between some Russian proprietors was about to go down. We were happy to venture forth, though, because we had had enough pints to wash away the aftertaste of Black Balsams, Latvia's national drink, which tastes like a mix between Jagermeister and spruce beer, in a bad way:

Luckily, the Tallinn Christmas Market in Raekoja Plats (Town Hall Square) was still going strong more than three days after baby Jesus' birthday. Although it was consumer-oriented enough that vendors would take credit cards for hot cherry nectar (for Tim, nonalcoholic, for once) and hot apple-ginger-honey grog (for Kim, alcoholic, thank you very much), the towering tree and hall (and probably alcohol) provoked that warm, fuzzy feeling. To keep the glow alive, we headed into a happy hour at yet another medieval bar, where the waiter gave us free shots of the brandy-like Vana Tallinn, the Estonian national drink. Much to our relief, we found out later that the guy was a lawyer-turned-restaurateur who had just bought the place weeks earlier, so he had a right to be raiding the liquor cabinet:

By the time we hit Scandinavia, it became less fun to shoot Tim drinking, because the bars were more pedestrian and the beers more expensive. At times, we rued the fact that we hadn't bought more canned gin-and-tonics or pear ciders, which actually were pretty good, at the supermarket in Tallinn or in the duty-free shop on the ferry. We could have brought in a whole cart because of this poster explaining the Schengen Agreement, which makes borders between most European Union countries less restrictive. We were incredibly lucky because, as per the agreement, the Baltic States opened their borders on December 21, a day before we left on our trip, which made the train and bus rides much more bearable, especially when you could bring cheap booze with you:

With less than half a day in transit, we didn't have time to try to find any decent bars in Stockholm. Besides, after we felt ripped off by paying too much for bad coffee, we just didn't feel like risking it. So instead of soaking up some suds, we drank in this scenery instead:

I was glad to do the extra walking, even in the Stockholm snow, because I was sure I would gain many pounds with all the alcohol I consumed. But apparently, standing out in the cold weather boosts your metabolism enough to counteract those liquid calories. In the end, Tim and I each lost a few pounds. So I dare say, the Baltic Backpacking Diet was well worth it. Watch for the new best-seller in your local bookstore soon.

I'll forget about all of my problems. I'll change my frown into a smile (Job 9:27)

You might notice that the heading for this post comes from the same bible chapter as the last, only in a different translation. This one includes the idea of a frown along with a smile. In hindsight, it's easy to act as if I had the perfect trip, with nary a moment to grimace. But the truth is, there were quite a few sobering sights that hit me right in the gut: twisting it with confusion, punching it with guilt, constricting it with sadness, or simply paralyzing it with indifference. After all, eastern Europe has had a storied past full of events not to be grinned at.

This vast wasteland is Theresienwiese (Teresa Meadow), where the infamous Oktoberfest is held in Munich. Throughout the rest of the year, it sits idle, like some sort of post-environmental clean-up, and in a way, I suppose it is. A woman from Munich who we met in Berlin expressed dismay at how the festival is so far removed from its roots. Apparently, the original event was a horse race to celebrate the marriage of Prince Ludwig and Princess Therese in 1810. Sure, there was lots of beer at that first party, but I doubt it was accompanied by tourists bent on swilling so much that they puke and piss all over the German city:

In terms of much more profound impacts, Berlin gets two gut-wrenching entries. The wall is still a palpable presence in the city, being pushed as a tourist destination in similar fashion to Oktoberfest, but its remnants are not so expansive. It takes some effort to follow the wall through the municipal streets, but markers can be found; to me, the most shocking part of seeing these memorial bricks is the last year, when I was not only alive but already 13 years old:

A different memorial recognizes an equally unnerving separation, although further in the past, before my lifetime. A whole plaza is devoted to the Holocaust. From the outside, it looks like mounds of coffins, but when you walk among them, they feel like cells. I didn't venture in far, waiting instead for Tim. My nerves at wondering when and where he would emerge from the pillars was a small echo of emotions from the genocide:

In our wanderings around Warsaw, we trekked up to the Cytadela (Citadel), the outside grounds of which actually have become a nice park for the surrounding neighborhoods. Inside, however, you can follow the path on which Soviet executioners led their soon-to-be victims. Luckily, the fortification was closed for the holiday, because the imposing metalwork on this gate was fearsome enough:

This next picture isn't something to rue about the past, but about the present. Vilnius has done a great job fostering a quaint feel amid commercialism, but like many of the Baltic cities, it is just now realizing the need to preserve its buildings. The Bastėja (Artillery Bastion) was closed for renovations. A good thing, indeed, considering it was used in the 17th century as a defensive wall against the Swedes and Russians, in the 19th century as an orphanage, and in the 20th century as a vegetable storehouse by the Soviets. And even before then, the Basilisk living there was said to act as a Medusa, turning people to stone with its gaze:

I've already mentioned the seedy side of Riga, but that didn't make me frown; in fact, I kind of enjoyed the debauchery. But beyond the market (the largest in eastern Europe), where few tourists are urged to venture, there are some sorrier sights. Lots of Soviet-era buildings and projects have been left abandoned. And the overcast skies didn't do much for the graying facades:

It was pretty hard to wipe the smile from my face during the medieval merriment of Tallinn, but during a walk home after most of the family fun had shut down, I was reminded what the town might've been like during the Dark Ages, despite the electric lights along this slick corridor:

I was pretty excited when we booked bunks in a dorm room for the second night of our stay in Helsinki. I thought it would be fun to spend a night inside the Olympic Stadion (Stadium), built for the 1940 Summer Games, which were canceled because of World War II. It wasn't used until 1952, the first time the Soviet Union participated in the Olympics since 1912. But the hostel was a bit of a disappointment, as was the arena, which seems to have fallen into disrepair. Sadly, the tower was closed because of the holidays, so I never got to recreate the season 10 stop of "The Amazing Race," and I was just a few months shy of the good summer concerts, including Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen later this year:

The first full day of our trip was full of sunshine, so it was probably karma that our last full day was full of clouds. Stockholm was a beautiful city, but it just looked so cold, literally, with all those nimbostratus puffs. By this time, I was getting a little tired of wearing a scarf, toboggan, and gloves, too, so this landscape -- almost -- made me feel ready to get back to the Israeli desert:

In the next, and final, installment: An optical ode to my boyfriend

I will forget my complaint, I will change my expression, and smile (Job 9:27)

As everybody always asked after our trip, indeed most of our time abroad was cold and cloudy, making for some not-so-sunny days, both literally and metaphorically. But that doesn’t mean we weren’t able to find some sights to make us smile. One of the only 2½ days of sunshine we saw occurred our first full day, in Munich. We woke up to a fairly frosty morning, but by the time we had walked to the Englischer Garten, the sun was glinting off the frozen glaze, creating a provincial painting-like scene in the middle of the city:

I wouldn’t have thought that the re-creation of Checkpoint Charlie, the Cold War-era barrier between East and West Berlin, would’ve made me smile, but I couldn’t help but crack one when I saw how commercialism has been so blatantly leaking between the city boundary. It’s hard to see, but the American guard holding the flag also wore a sign that read “1 Euro for Photo,” which I guess would be cheaper than the macchiatos at the Starbucks a block away in the background:

Seeing how few shops were open in downtown Warsaw on Christmas Day, we decided to head south to the Łazienki Palace (Palace upon the Water), a huge plot of bucolic ponds and gardens. Many people had the same idea, bringing bread and crackers to feed the birds and squirrels at the park. Apparently, this is a common outing, because the fauna have become a bit forceful. This squirrel jumped on Tim’s leg, demanding food, but at least it didn’t charge a euro for this photo:

I was prepared for the cold, but I was hoping for it amid a winter wonderland of sorts. But we only saw serious snow our second-to-last day, in Stockholm. So you can imagine that I was happy to see at least a few snowflakes falling on the main commercial strip by our hostel in Vilnius:

The family fun in Riga, amid many a house of ill repute, never failed to amuse me. I was particularly heartened by a couple who paid to put their two tots on this hand-powered carousel near the Vecrīga (Old Town):

Even with all the electric lights, I felt truly transported to medieval times when we ventured into Tallinn’s Historic Centre, near Toompea (Cathedral Hill). Even the restaurant to the left of the Town Hall had a quirky menu that tried to stay in period, encouraging perusers to read the menu out loud to potentially illiterate peasants nearby. Right behind me, performers in Teutonic costume pitched the simple pleasures of the 13th century, including roasted nuts and hot grog:

On the small-town island of Suomenlinna, a 20-minute ferry ride away from Helsinki’s main port, bicycles are the top choice for transportation. I enjoyed this somewhat schoolboy display of two-wheelers against the pretty-little-princess pink building, especially considering it was part of a 250-year-old fortress complex described as the “Gibraltar of the North”:

I was so excited by the snow and so shaky from the cold that I didn’t focus very well on this park we stumbled across in Stockholm. But trust me, behind all of those trees are quite a few families sledding down a small hill (I wanted to join them, but we had to go arrange our train to Nykoping, a town an hour train ride away from the city, which is apparently why the Ryanair flight from there back to Germany was so cheap):

In the next installment: A few frowns for good measure

I see men; for I behold them as trees, walking (Mark 8:24)

We didn't set out to find the perfect Christmas tree, but we could have. Every city had some sort of non-deciduous display in nearly every plaza. This was less of a surprise when we found out that the first documented use of an evergreen tree in a winter celebration took place in Riga in 1510. Legend holds that the tree was decorated with paper flowers, attended by men wearing black hats, then burnt in a bonfire. A plaque, engraved with "The First New Years Tree in Riga in 1510" in eight languages, marks the spot in the Rātslaukums (Town Hall Square):

At the beginning of our trip, two days before Christmas, we still had the chance to pick up a last-minute Tannenbaum of our own, at the Munich Christkindl Markt. This one in particular seemed to be calling to us; with the streaming light, I could almost hear the angels sing:

The main tree at Berlin's Christmas market, Gendarmenmarkt, prompted a similar sort of awe. It was erected beside Kaiser Wilhelm Gedächtniskirche, consisting of two churches: a 19th century cathedral serving as a bombed-out reminder of British air raids during World War II and a 20th century structure featuring a cross made of nails from Coventry Cathedral, a British church destroyed by the German Luftwaffe. The thought of such merriment taking place in the shadow of such destruction was nearly as breathtaking:

We were lucky enough to see the two trees in Stare Miasto (Old Town) of Warsaw on Christmas Day. The one in Rynek Starego Miasta (Market Square) was drawing more attention and photos, but I liked the medieval background of this one more. Plus, the busker playing "Silent Night" on the accordion added a special touch:

Vilnius was perhaps the most clean-cut of the Baltic capitals, which was apparent even in its holiday display. Lest you become too consumed by the pagan roots of the Christmas tree, in the square by the Zemutines Pilies (Lower Castle), a nativity could be found only a stone's throw away:

Oh sure, Riga puts up a tree right next to the plaque, but it's not the main attraction anymore. After all, it's pretty far away from all the nightlife (read: strip clubs). In keeping with its attempts to make even the seedy sophisticated, these somber trimmed-down trunks were spruced up ("spruce," get it?) with some sparkle, leading you to the main timber attraction, which incidentally is at the intersection of one of the aforementioned "nightlife" districts:

Being a port town, Tallinn welcomed and sent off ferry-bound tourists with the Christmas spirit. I spied this tree out the window as we left for our two-hour ride to Helsinki:

By the time we got to Helsinki, Christmas had been replaced by the New Year, so we didn't see as many trees on the streets. Instead, we got to see the real deal. The nicest hotel we stayed in had an aesthetically-pleasing alpine view. Pristine pines provided camouflage for the seaside sauna, which unfortunately wasn't open, but we did get to have our first experience with steaming coals elsewhere at the resort:

Demonstrating a stereotypical lack of sentimentality, Stockholm was tearing down its tree displays only two days after the new year. In a courtyard of a Gamla Stan (Old Town) apartment building, however, we were able to find one lingering, lit fir:

In the next installment: Sights besides trees that made me smile

Our garments and our shoes are become old by reason of the very long journey (Joshua 9:13)

Well, we did it: We managed to visit seven countries in 13 days for our whirlwind winter break tour. With the help of three planes, four trains, two buses, two ferries, and many subway and trolley cars, we made stops in Munich and Berlin, Germany; Warsaw, Poland; Vilnius, Lithuania; Riga, Latvia; Tallinn, Estonia; Helsinki, Finland; and Stockholm, Sweden – all with nary a horror story to tell. We made every connection on time, we got lost only when that was our objective, and we kept our belongings intact, even adding some souvenir mugs and a sweater along the way. About the only downside to the trip were the inevitable frayed nerves from spending too much time in one person’s company, which led to a few minor and quick spats. But those are all a distant memory, so let’s start with the more pleasant details.

If I had to sum up my overall impression of the trip in a thesis sentence (hey, I am an English teacher), it would be: Just like the individual identities of Ohio, Indiana, Wisconsin, etc. get usurped by a Midwestern stereotype, eastern Europe countries get unfairly pigeonholed. As we moved through our journey, certain characteristics resonated from country to country, but each city had a definitive flavor. So to start what will be a series of blog entries, since I have a lot of photos and stories to share, I will post the most representative shot I took from each locale.

Munich has a standing as a party city, what with Oktoberfest, and I probably shouldn’t judge based on our day there – which consisted mainly of visiting Christmas markets, the one for tourists in the historic downtown and the one for locals in the suburban outskirts – but I’d say the reputation is founded. But that’s not to say boozehounds are bombarding the streets (unless they’re foreigners perhaps). Munichians (Munichites? Munichers?) just like to have a good time with minimal preparation and consternation. So, you simply show up in the free music tent at the Tollwood Winter Fest, where grandparents sip coffee, middle-agers drink mulled wine, and teens down pints amid kids climbing on wooden bear statues, dogs chewing on stump tables, and a band playing a folksy version of “TNT” by AC/DC, complete with the drummer accompanying on accordion:

Berlin is a fun-loving city as well, but it’s much more subdued. The effects of the wall linger, with the west side pulsing with capitalism and the east side still adjusting to being unconstrained. Even more than 10 years after the fall of the wall, the neon of the west and the gray of the east are uniting precariously, making for an interesting merger of contrasts. Only a few yards down from where the city has moved a part of the East Side Gallery, the longest stretch of once-intact Berlin Wall, so residents of a new arena district can access the riverfront, this young club/goth fashionplate wrote a note on the fading artwork celebrating the barrier’s opening:

Warsaw has a similar collision of identity, but its sources are harder to recognize, considering the boundaries here were less blatant and publicized. Therefore, there has been less attention and money put toward mending old wounds of separation, despite their palpable presence. We had to a hunt a while before we found the remnants of the ghetto wall, only recently protected by U.N. decree, in between some downtrodden apartment buildings. Towering over the wall is the Palace of Culture and Science, a gift from Stalin to the Polish people that has now become the most conspicuous mall and office complex in the city:

Vilnius suffered some of the same offenses of Soviet oppression, but it has fared better in moving forward from its bitter past. Instead, it has chosen to focus on its more ancient and honorable history; the city is in the middle of rebuilding or renovating multiple sites, including the Royal Palace, in time for its millennium anniversary, which according to the earliest written mention of the city will be in 2009. Extending from the palace is the main commercial strip, with brand-name fashion boutiques and upscale coffee houses. Once again, pieces of the “old country” remain, and here, they aren’t even on a map but maybe just in the appearance of some passers-by on the “new country” drag:

Riga isn’t simply moving forward from occupation, it is morphing. The many Russian immigrants, who perhaps learned how to make an underhanded cent under the Soviet regime, have turned the creativity of desperation into an explosion of entrepreneurship. Riga is the Las Vegas of Europe, with travelers from every corner coming to take advantage of five-star cuisine and top spas or strip clubs and escort services, all combining nearly seamlessly amid an anachronistic medieval backdrop. And so families can frolic amid the snowmen in this lovely park, just across the street from a row of adult entertainment outlets, like May Day with wenches on the side:

Tallinn also has gone the tourist route, but with a good dose of Scandinavian propriety. If Riga is Las Vegas, then Tallinn is Myrtle Beach; it’s just as touristy, but more wholesome, in an overly polished kind of way. But in this case, the usually prefabricated aspects are actually genuine. Plus, I’m a sucker for even the phony kind of stuff. I had no qualms sitting near the kitchen of an “authentic” medieval kitchen, where I could see the cooks putting “baked” potatoes in the deep fryer. On the way home, though, I caught this authentic moment. Sure, the sparklers aren’t appropriately medieval, but the simplistic enjoyment of overlooking the town’s lit spires is:

Helsinki also retains a small-town charm, but it is found amid big-city trappings. Contemporary skyscrapers sit amid Renaissance towers. It is nice to have elements of both worlds, but modern conveniences come with modern prices. Residents seem to fall back on old-fashioned – and inexpensive – pursuits, including drinking. But somehow the local dive bar, where we saw and heard an honest-to-god slap in the face, seemed more enchanting after we passed a packed skating rink. Even the city’s New Year’s Eve celebration seemed quaint, considering there were fewer people that night in Senate Square than at any Red, White, and Boom in Columbus. If there hadn’t been the old building in the background, this father and son watching fireworks could have been in anywhere in middle America:

Stockholm is a more expensive and cold version, if that’s possible, of Helsinki. It only took us a half-day in the city to see why European economies are outperforming the United States' so well. No wonder all those passengers rolled carts of duty-free beer and cigarettes off the ferry. Despite the high prices (nearly $5 for a black coffee!), downtown businesses were booming. They were more packed than the Royal Palace, where the guards apparently aren’t required to remain stoic against the biting, chafing winds. Despite just having taken over his post, this one was fidgeting furiously to fight the cold:

In the next installment: Christmas trees from around the world