The first thing you notice is the wide fields of green, stretching out across the horizon like a grand quilt. And the history, too. Yes, all the learned about moments in history loom large, attack the senses, embellish all previous misconceptions, and tell you that you're here, now, sharking in over the gothic churches, ominous-looking buildings and moments in time brought to life only in film and books.
Landing in Munich's Franz Josef Strauss Airport is not entirely different from landing in Cork Airport, or any other than is surrounded by fields on such a vast scale. Flanked by pretty lawns marked with swaying trees that stand like eternal soldiers, the terminal stretches out for what seems like an eternity.
The evening sun is intense; locals, accustomed to the heat, fleet through the deserted hinterland of the baggage's bay, whilst strangers trudge like wounded animals, waving newspapers across their faces, cheeks puffed out. There is a peculiar beauty entwined in the dead airport - with its immaculate floors, its utter timelessness and chaotic signs of neon glow, it formulates a misshapen branch of reality, an idea suspended in time. J.G Ballard, the recently-departed Sci-Fi novelist, wrote endlessly of the invisible secrets of the abandoned airport. One feels his finger was firmly on the spot.
The S-Bahn to Hauptbahnhof takes about forty minutes. Outside, as the train trudged slowly, industrial parks appeared frequently, their grotesque steel structures glistening impressively in the dying light of the evening. Each town-name is a tongue-twister for those of us used to the simplicity of our native tongues. Yet despite the intricacies of pronunciation, traveling on the S-Bahn brings about no confusion.
Stereo-types, ridiculously exaggerated, are nearly always brought to use when traveling abroad. However, in most circumstances, they hold a grain of truth, even in its most minute proportions. The Germans are, as often claimed, undeniably efficient. Train-estimations are met with infinite precision- there are no delays, tickets are stubbed beforehand - there is no need for conductors. One quickly finds that everything soon seeps into a comfort-zone; things fall into place like one could only desire them to.
Arriving in a destination in the early hours is often an oddity; a rarefied attack on the senses. Cloaked in the darkness of the night, the panorama of a city lies shrouded in mystery, until morn and the first glimmer of light. Viewed through a hotel-window, Munich's skyline lies jagged, even, at times, seeming misplaced, but always endearing. The gothic cathedrals, penis-shaped business skyscrapers, and flowing rivers are an odd concoction but somehow work well. Indeed, one quickly learns that oddities in the eyes of those new to the city are all part of normalcy to it's natives.
Feeling distinctly alien in your first day in a new country is a prerequisite of travel. Along the wide pavements on the outskirts of Munich's city centre, frantic cyclists zoom by in their hundreds, fleeing around corners and out of sight like chased cats. For the minuscule walker, dealing with such a reality is often cruel, met often with harsh stares, wagging fingers and -worst of all - the jingling of a bell. It's an intimidating sight for the foot-traveler, who must, at all times, be on guard and highly aware of the crazed bell-ringers of Munich.
Around Marienplatz, Munich city's central-location, tourists gather in wild groups, hunched over with heavy-backpacks full of local souvenirs, whilst local pigeons peck wildly at their feet. A young American woman, robust and loud, holds a placard advertising free-walking-tours. Like mice, those in ear-shot flee toward her, cameras at the ready, smiles splattered on their faces. Despite the annoying woman-guide - for she is - a free tour is a free tour. Some listen intently, others hover on the outskirts of the group, unsure. Upon announcing that the walking tour- taking in the grand sights of Munich city - will take three hours, everyone streams away as though a canister of tear-gas has been flung into the heart of the crowd. Three hours is three hours, after all.
St Peter's church stands in gothic splendor, its grand arches and pointed steeple veering towards the heavens, leering over the heart of Marienplatz. Down below, the eyes of those gathered directly below hover incessantly, waiting for it to either take off towards the sky, or for it to crumble, or just for it to stay there where it's perched, beautifully pristine and intimidating.
The real excitement happens on the hour. As the minutes flitter out in their fifties, large groups gather in larger groups waiting for the:00 to hit. As it does, the bells of St. Peter's clang to the high-heavens, their chimes wailing into the Munich air; all the while, eyes are darting and mouths are yawping, when a clatter and hum sounds from the vast perches stationed high above, followed by a collection of well-suited statues who slide out with a boom, and disappear before the last bell clangs and the last clap is clapped. And then everyone follows suit and disappears. Though make no mistake, they will return in fifty nine minutes once more.
Sucking back a beer in Munich is fucking a Chinese prostitute in Amsterdam- it's taking a blurry snap-shot of the Big-Ben from London Bridge, eating dog in Korea, puckering up to the Blarney stone whilst your fat friend holds your recently-purchased Aran sweater from Blarney. It's an apparent must, and is on offer everywhere, and is consumed profusely, for it's cheap and plentiful. Large clusters of boisterous English-men are to be found ordering gallons of local beer in the many bars located around the city. However, despite the endless consummation, serenity never destructs as night creeps in. Pavements stay vomit-free, faces and limbs remain in-tact and attached; nothing descends into the unparalleled madness the streets of the town's of Ireland have become accustomed to. Such culture and peace amongst people would be the perfect gift to bring home.
As the days drift by in a new country, one becomes more daring - they venture that bit further beyond the boundaries of the city, leave the map behind in the hotel-room, and perhaps, if one has truly become embedded within the culture of the city, even chance a conversation with a local. One ventures and explores.
The omnipresent bus-tours of the city zoom away and back on the hour. Upon jumping aboard, one is supplied with a crackling set of earphones, whose narrator will whisper your way through the city, averting your eyes to the city's many chic boutiques of style, its horrific past, and the its pretty fountains and lane-ways where rose-petals trip and wanderers wander towards the grand selection of famous beer-gardens.
Munich's Academy of Music, a fine, building of grand gray, now lies where the former headquarters of the Nazi party once stood. Indeed Nazism, that eternal thorn in the side of German culture and history, appears to have left no traces. It isn't forgotten - nor shall it ever be - yet it is spoken of only in vague terms, as one would speak of an uncle who once murdered a child, or a dream best forgotten. Its mark is a mark of shame, like a scar so horrid one wishes to conceal it for eternity.
There is, however, a subtle reminder of the stark devastation traversed across humanity as a result of Nazi tyranny. Located in the square of the victims of national socialism, a marble shaft stands idle, topped by an imprisoned eternal flame, fluttering and flickering day and night, year after year, for those perished by means of fascism.
Elsewhere, beer-gardens spread across the land, here, there, just about anywhere. Some, idle off beaten-tracks, sit pretty in their quaintness, decorated with begonias of red and yellow and neatly-crafted endearing furniture. Others house as many as 5,000 merry patrons, though, like many arenas of such a grand scale, somehow aren't quite as pretty as their little siblings. And then we're done; our whispering friend offers his good-bye, and with time running out - for what are holidays, but a clock constantly running out - we're left wanting more. And luckily there is, Plenty more.
The Deutches Museum, the world's central hub of showcased technology and science, is located a half-mile from the heart of the city, down a dusty, quiet road, on a tidy little island on the river Isar. For a meager EUR8, one gains entry to a splendid collection of gems. In the entrance room, ancient ships with tattooed sails, held aloft by decrepit masts, rise towards the ceiling. Such a bizarre sight - boats inside a building, lined together as though stuck in a traffic jam at the end of time - would be at home in a Dali painting. In a side-room, missiles lie astride one another, their sheer power and ability to destruct creating scenes of mayhem in the minds of those passing through the soundless room where they are stationed.
In another room we find a sleazy giant snake, its belly dissected in half for those looking on but not saying anything, to stare in awe and terror at the nation's first U-Boat. It is, perhaps, the museum's most terrifying sight, yet stands beautiful, alone and aloof. No one adheres to the "No Touching" signs dotted around its self - the urge to touch, to make sure it's really there, is too much for everyone.
Out of the water, we take for the skies; the museum grand foyer acts as an unused air-wing. Suspended from the heavens, planes dangle above those looking up. Fighter jets with crude logos,; commercial jets; paratrooper planes and beastly war-birds fight for the arena's airspace. The crowd in awe is plentiful, but no one speaks. The images reflect the mood - everything is damningly surreal. A dream-scenario of juxtaposition.
From the skies, the universe is our only goal yet to achieve. And yes, those good old Germans cater for that, too. The top-floor is dedicated to the most surreal of all journeys - into the cosmic unknown. Mannequins in space-suits are suspended lifelessly in mid-air to backdrops of stars; we step aboard a replica of a steel-box that was shot out beyond the perimeters of our world. But one feature - lit up in a minute glass box- beats everything this arena of wonder has offered: a fragment of the moon. One squints their eye, gets closer, and sets themselves upon it. And there it is,-small, looking like just any other stone, yet quite possibly the most unique item for us humans to behold - a token from another world.
And then, it's time to leave. And the clock has finally run out - and like the whispering guide, it, too, is now time for us to say our goodbyes. Leaving the museum, one thinks about its location and the cancerous past it has to live with. Munich is the city where the most tyrannic of parties established themselves. It is a city with a permanent tattoo embedded within its psyche, where, although buildings can be destroyed, images in the mind cannot. There will always be a repulsion towards Germany's past - it can not be forgotten. Yet, it moves on. It prospers, and, above all, it serves as a city of wonder to those who come to visit. It is a city of good people, in a country of good people. And it's a city where, like all the other magical places one visits, people wish it stood still in time, in order for their enjoyment not to run out.
Accounts of journeying are often littered with a litany of cliché. Talk of stones being split by the sun, Irish-bars and endless comparisons to home are about as useful as reading a book review in the Sun. The beauty of travel lies within its mystery - and how you, as the observer, experienced it all. Munich is an experience - for not only are the horrors of the world lurking, but also the infinite beauty of it, too. And that's exactly the way it should be.
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