Culture Shocks

Lunch in Munich's town square

Our original plan was to stay in Munich for one night, but when we didn’t get there until 11pm and didn’t feel like doing anything, our plans changed.  The one thing I wanted to do while in Bavaria was go to Neuschwanstein Castle, but there just wasn’t enough time. We walked around town, ate lunch in the square by the cathedral, went to Hofbrauhaus and on a pub-crawl. These were starting to feel like swaps freshman year, the standard way of going out at night and meeting new people. We met quite a few people from Australia who all do a similar program called “hop on hop off.” The buy a standard ticket, something similar to a Eurail pass, and a bus comes to various towns throughout Europe every 2 days. Some of them stay in one city for the bare minimum of 2 days while others would live and work there until they feel it’s time to move along to the next city. I loved every Australian I met, and it made me want to go there more than ever. 

Becca lounging on the Train

            We “accidentally on purpose” sat in first class on the train from Munich to Innsbruck. We paid for the upgrade and met the nicest Italian man sharing the car with us. We usually didn’t like sharing cars with other people, especially if the train wasn’t very crowded. When the Italian man opened the door to the small cabin he looked identical to the guy in the movie Eurotrip who has no concept of personal space. I thought “if this train goes through a tunnel and that dude is sitting on my lap saying ‘mi scuzzi’ I’m gonna freak out.” (you’d have to see the movie to understand.) He ended up being the nicest man and even insisted on paying for our glasses of wine, making our first class train experience that much better.

A Brazilian Headlock 

            Becca’s sister studied in Innsbruck two summers ago, so she recommended us to her favorite restaurant for dinner. The beautiful town is nestled between the Alps and has perfect weather in the summer. It’s no wonder hundreds of Americans come here every summer. We had met plenty of wonderful people from all over the world the past few days, with the exception of the Brazilian’s in Prague. They have no boundaries and don’t understand the meaning of no. Before even given the chance to object, they will kiss you smack on the lips faster than a bat out of hell. So naturally after this occurred a few too many times, we were so excited be around some Americans and familiar faces. A guy in a New Orleans Saints jersey sat down next to us, and it didn’t take long to see he was beyond drunk. He knocked over Becca’s beer, stole the shots we ordered and already paid for when the waitress brought them, then threw up a few close centimeters from Becca’s shoe. “This is the reason European’s hate American’s,” she said, moving her chair to avoid the vomit. My craving for “southern hospitality” was gone in a hot minute, and I wondered what was worse: the puking Saints fan or the face-raping Brazilians in Prague?