June 25th – It’s Sunday, and we have a relatively lazy morning before disembarking. We’re in Tallinn today, a well preserved medieval city, also the capital of Estonia, and while we’re glad to get the chance to be there it’s not something we need to rush or through. As we suspect, it’s a lot like Dubrovnik—ancient stone walls, steep cobblestone streets—but it’s a little
less sleepy in comparison. Sarah leads the way on another Rick Steves walking tour, which takes us through the large, beautiful town centre, past a historic wheel well, and to yet another cathedral. The surprise, though, is when we step inside (along with about 200 other tourists) and find that there’s a service in progress. Note to the people of Estonia: when church is in session it’s generally wise to close the door and keep dumb ass tourists from waltzing in. We move along, passing the Canadian Embassy (closed for St. Jean Baptiste Day), more churches, and a few nice panoramic peek-outs of the modern parts of the city.
As for shopping, we pick up some new cat bowls for the boys (one labeled clever cat for Gunther; simple cat goes to Moe), some overpriced postcards, and dishtowels for Sarah’s Nonna. We also stop at a convienence store to check the price of beer—and finally we’ve left the teetotaling belt of the Baltic, because not only is beer easy to find, it’s absurdly cheap. The local currency, the Krooni, converts very favourably to the Canadian dollar, and a half litre bottle comes out to about ninety cents. We line up five huge bottles on the counter, pay, then find out that bags are extra and we’re fresh out of Krooni. Sarah and her mom fill their purses with beer until they're likely to burst, which despite all we’ve seen and done, ranks among the Top Three Awesome Moments of our Trip.
For a snack, we stop off at a pub called Hell Hunt, which touts itself as being the first Estonian pub (in smaller letters underneath: est. 1993). [It was recommended by Rick Steves, but Dave inisted we visit after seeing the logo. - Sarah] Again, for scandalously few Krooni we get a decent amount of stuff: parmesan chips, deep fried rye bread with dill dip, not to mention their fine microbrew beers. Hilarious bathrooms, too. Sarah’s dad returns from his pit stop there telling me that it's “a sight not to be missed.” So I go, and rather than urinals, there’s a long trough (think Maple Leaf Gardens circa 1982). Fine, sort of funny, whatever; I start to go. Then I look out the huge window in front of me and notice a waitress eating her lunch on the restaurant’s back porch, which is about twelve feet directly in front of me. Fortunately, I shuffle off to the side before she gets a chance to eye the goods.
June 26th – Day at sea.
June 27th – Germany: home of Zee Scorpions. We dock in Rostock, because coming to port along side the completely landlocked Berlin can be tricky. There are several excursions that take you to the capital, but they all involve a three hour train ride, only four hours in Berlin itself, and then more train fun. That appeals to us in no way, so we decide to make do in Rostock and the surrounding area. The port itself is all kinds of ugly, and the city merely plain. [Not surprising,
as they were part of East Germany until 1989. - S.] We walk a bit, catching some locals putting away cans of Carlsberg at nine in the morning, but it’s not untill later that we realize that that’s basically the most entertaining thing to do here. Two comments sum the experience up best. Sarah’s dad: “So which port gets the Booby Prize: this or Oslo.” And Sarah's: “I feel like I’m touring Guelph.” [How apt, as Guelph was Queen Victoria's last name in German. -S.] It’s not a terrible place, just not somewhere you’d want to spend a lot of time in as a tourist.
Sarah's favourite game in Rostock was trying to pronounce the absurdly long words. The German language commonly uses compound nouns, often several of them piled on top of one another, coming together to form seemingly unprouncable words. World Cup, for example, is Weltmeisterschaft. But that's just an easy one. Sarah's dad tells us that there's a gigantic word that's meant to express 'the attempt to split the atom,' (which sadly we can't find in German as I write this.) Thanks to wikepedia, however, we did come across this beauty: Rinderkennzeichnungs-und-Rindfleischetikettierungsüberwachungsaufgabenübertragungsgesetz. Rough translation: Cattle marking and beef labelling supervision duties delegation law--something Sarah could conceivably used if she'd conducted her first government job... in German.
We walk the Kropliner (a long pedestrian mall) where we score cheap World Cup shirts (emblazoned placements of DEUTSCHLAND! giving the shirts added authenticity.) Then we visit the Marienkirche, which is a 13th century cathedral decorated in a slapdash manner. Full to the brim with Rostock, we head back to the ship for a few hours break.
Around 2:30, we disembark and head off for a ship-run excursion. We hop on a bus, and our tour guide is excellent—well informed, funny, and I forget her name but it was uber-German; Ilsa, or Bluma, or Rammstein—something like that. We get a bit of history (lost to me now) as we’re taken to Bad Doberan to ride the Molli. The Molli is an old steam train that runs through Bad Doberan itself, along the coast, and into Kühlungsborn, which is a cute little resort town.
It’s a small train, and slow-moving, but sort of fun. And then this lady beside us ruins the whole thing. She’s an older lady, and she’s all up in arms because the train is moving too fast for her to take pictures. Which confounds us all because: a) it ain’t a fast train, b) there’s really nothing that spectacular to take a picture of, and c) what did she expect a train ride would be like? She actually calls the guide over to complain. “I can’t take any pictures, and I’ve paid a lot of a money for this, and whine bitch and whine again.” Fortunate, I decide to escape the pain of having to listen any more by biting my wrists so I can die.
We arrive in Kühlungsborn, get taken to a restaurant for coffee and a snack, then we’re let loose in the town. Our priorities in order, Sarah and I find a grocery store to buy more alcohol. We discover that, boozewise, Germany is even cheaper than Estonia, and we haul a basket full of beer, wine, and candy to the check out.
At the end of the excursion, we stop by the beach. Sarah takes off her sandals, dips her toe in the Baltic, and is promptly streaked by a bare-assed German child who’s booting it up and down the shoreline as fast as his four-year old legs can carry him. He’s quick but not quick enough, and before he can get away I run him down and punch him out. [Watch out W. and Steven Harper...this is where the G8 will be next year. That kid is so getting incarcerated. -S.]
less sleepy in comparison. Sarah leads the way on another Rick Steves walking tour, which takes us through the large, beautiful town centre, past a historic wheel well, and to yet another cathedral. The surprise, though, is when we step inside (along with about 200 other tourists) and find that there’s a service in progress. Note to the people of Estonia: when church is in session it’s generally wise to close the door and keep dumb ass tourists from waltzing in. We move along, passing the Canadian Embassy (closed for St. Jean Baptiste Day), more churches, and a few nice panoramic peek-outs of the modern parts of the city.As for shopping, we pick up some new cat bowls for the boys (one labeled clever cat for Gunther; simple cat goes to Moe), some overpriced postcards, and dishtowels for Sarah’s Nonna. We also stop at a convienence store to check the price of beer—and finally we’ve left the teetotaling belt of the Baltic, because not only is beer easy to find, it’s absurdly cheap. The local currency, the Krooni, converts very favourably to the Canadian dollar, and a half litre bottle comes out to about ninety cents. We line up five huge bottles on the counter, pay, then find out that bags are extra and we’re fresh out of Krooni. Sarah and her mom fill their purses with beer until they're likely to burst, which despite all we’ve seen and done, ranks among the Top Three Awesome Moments of our Trip.
For a snack, we stop off at a pub called Hell Hunt, which touts itself as being the first Estonian pub (in smaller letters underneath: est. 1993). [It was recommended by Rick Steves, but Dave inisted we visit after seeing the logo. - Sarah] Again, for scandalously few Krooni we get a decent amount of stuff: parmesan chips, deep fried rye bread with dill dip, not to mention their fine microbrew beers. Hilarious bathrooms, too. Sarah’s dad returns from his pit stop there telling me that it's “a sight not to be missed.” So I go, and rather than urinals, there’s a long trough (think Maple Leaf Gardens circa 1982). Fine, sort of funny, whatever; I start to go. Then I look out the huge window in front of me and notice a waitress eating her lunch on the restaurant’s back porch, which is about twelve feet directly in front of me. Fortunately, I shuffle off to the side before she gets a chance to eye the goods.
June 26th – Day at sea.
June 27th – Germany: home of Zee Scorpions. We dock in Rostock, because coming to port along side the completely landlocked Berlin can be tricky. There are several excursions that take you to the capital, but they all involve a three hour train ride, only four hours in Berlin itself, and then more train fun. That appeals to us in no way, so we decide to make do in Rostock and the surrounding area. The port itself is all kinds of ugly, and the city merely plain. [Not surprising,
as they were part of East Germany until 1989. - S.] We walk a bit, catching some locals putting away cans of Carlsberg at nine in the morning, but it’s not untill later that we realize that that’s basically the most entertaining thing to do here. Two comments sum the experience up best. Sarah’s dad: “So which port gets the Booby Prize: this or Oslo.” And Sarah's: “I feel like I’m touring Guelph.” [How apt, as Guelph was Queen Victoria's last name in German. -S.] It’s not a terrible place, just not somewhere you’d want to spend a lot of time in as a tourist.Sarah's favourite game in Rostock was trying to pronounce the absurdly long words. The German language commonly uses compound nouns, often several of them piled on top of one another, coming together to form seemingly unprouncable words. World Cup, for example, is Weltmeisterschaft. But that's just an easy one. Sarah's dad tells us that there's a gigantic word that's meant to express 'the attempt to split the atom,' (which sadly we can't find in German as I write this.) Thanks to wikepedia, however, we did come across this beauty: Rinderkennzeichnungs-und-Rindfleischetikettierungsüberwachungsaufgabenübertragungsgesetz. Rough translation: Cattle marking and beef labelling supervision duties delegation law--something Sarah could conceivably used if she'd conducted her first government job... in German.
We walk the Kropliner (a long pedestrian mall) where we score cheap World Cup shirts (emblazoned placements of DEUTSCHLAND! giving the shirts added authenticity.) Then we visit the Marienkirche, which is a 13th century cathedral decorated in a slapdash manner. Full to the brim with Rostock, we head back to the ship for a few hours break.
Around 2:30, we disembark and head off for a ship-run excursion. We hop on a bus, and our tour guide is excellent—well informed, funny, and I forget her name but it was uber-German; Ilsa, or Bluma, or Rammstein—something like that. We get a bit of history (lost to me now) as we’re taken to Bad Doberan to ride the Molli. The Molli is an old steam train that runs through Bad Doberan itself, along the coast, and into Kühlungsborn, which is a cute little resort town.
It’s a small train, and slow-moving, but sort of fun. And then this lady beside us ruins the whole thing. She’s an older lady, and she’s all up in arms because the train is moving too fast for her to take pictures. Which confounds us all because: a) it ain’t a fast train, b) there’s really nothing that spectacular to take a picture of, and c) what did she expect a train ride would be like? She actually calls the guide over to complain. “I can’t take any pictures, and I’ve paid a lot of a money for this, and whine bitch and whine again.” Fortunate, I decide to escape the pain of having to listen any more by biting my wrists so I can die.We arrive in Kühlungsborn, get taken to a restaurant for coffee and a snack, then we’re let loose in the town. Our priorities in order, Sarah and I find a grocery store to buy more alcohol. We discover that, boozewise, Germany is even cheaper than Estonia, and we haul a basket full of beer, wine, and candy to the check out.
At the end of the excursion, we stop by the beach. Sarah takes off her sandals, dips her toe in the Baltic, and is promptly streaked by a bare-assed German child who’s booting it up and down the shoreline as fast as his four-year old legs can carry him. He’s quick but not quick enough, and before he can get away I run him down and punch him out. [Watch out W. and Steven Harper...this is where the G8 will be next year. That kid is so getting incarcerated. -S.]
Comments
Who wouldn't want to go in there because of the logo. That's awesome!
...because coming to port along side the completely landlocked Berlin can be tricky...
Best line of the post.
Longest German Word
Check it: 999,999
neunhundertneunundneunzigtausendneunhundertneunundneunzig
Or this one: Meaning Unknown
Donaudampfschifffahrtsgesellschaftskapitaensfrauenverbandsvorsitzendenaufwandsentschaedigungsrahmenordnungsrichtlinienen
I don't know if their is such a thing. Given the fact that any word can be made longer (provided it doesn't end in an adjective) you could conceivably come up with words that will eventually create their own gravity (like describing your cleverness, for example).
When you think about it, almost any word can be lengthened by adding "with cheese". So 'the attempt to split the atom with cheese' would be even longer than the word Sarah's dad was thinking of. Crazy Germans*.
Bonus for using the word slapdash by the way.
:)
Sounds like a great tour. Keep it going!
J
* - Quick fact (to tie your Russians and Germans together). The Russian word for Germany is "Niemitz". That word means "mute" because the Russians couldn't understand what the Germans were saying. This is not a joke. And if it is, I'll have to give my Russian prof a beat-down.
I have a thing for foreign penis.