Our two year adventure in Prague is coming to an end and we’re about to move back to Austin, TX. It seems only fitting to publish our latest thoughts on “home” here.

In this issue, we explore the topic of home through various mediums: words, pictures, video, and sound. I share my thoughts on moving home, we capture the feeling of our beautiful Prague flat in a video tour, Amy and her family tell their experience of the strangest place we ever lived, and we see how one of our friends made her new apartment feel more like home when she moved abroad.

We hope you enjoy this last installment of Hello Unknown from Prague! Read Issue No. 2: Home.

Maybe we should take it easy, honey.

Well, we do have a drinking problem. The problem is all this great beer in Europe and hardly enough time to try it all. It’s only a matter of time before we have to move back to Austin and leave all this beer opportunity behind.

Thankfully, Austin’s growing craft beer industry offers some consolation. And the best of that craft beer, Circle Brewing, sent an emissary to help us in our quest to experience the best beers Europe has to offer. Amy and I met up with our friends Marjorie and Jud (co-founder of Circle) a few weeks ago for a beer tour of Bavaria in southern Germany.

Beer Tour Rules

The tour started in Munich, Germany and ended in Pilzen, Czech Republic (Yes, I know, that’s actually Bohemia). Here are a few rules we lived by during the tour.

1. Leave no beer behind. If someone can’t finish their last beer in a sitting, the group has to pick up the slack.
2. Fit in a beer at every opportunity. Five minutes before a tour starts? That’s enough time for a beer.
3. You will be judged by your peers for speed and style. You’ll earn a ranking for every round of beers based on the order of finishing that round. But it’s bad form to chug a beer just to win. This is really good beer, and we’re here to taste it.
4. May Pole spotting. Spot a May Pole first and you win. Bragging rights, I guess. If you brag about such things.

Munich

In Munich you are obligated one visit to Haufbrau House, which is a huge, traditional beerhall. Pretty touristy, but one of those things you have to do at least once. It was giant, crowded, and full of foriegners enjoying their 1 liter beers.

When we entered Amy said it smelled like sweat and hops. In case you think the smell of sweat and hops sounds terrible, consider that in the 1800s the toilets were just a trench under the tables. Yep, no need to leave the table to pee. Smells aside, we had a smashing time.

Aw, how cute. Amy bought me a cookie heart. On a ribbon.

We also headed up to Andechs, a beer brewing monastery outside of Munich.

Beautiful. And delicious.

Romantic (but deadly) Road

The Romantic Road is a famous scenic route that passes through a string of small villages and towns in Bavaria. It’s sort of the best Sunday drive ever – winding roads, beautiful views, and even castles. We rented a car in Munich and drove through a bit of it on our way to Nuremberg.

Road trip!

Just one of many of the picturesque stops along the Romantic Road.

Naturally, a beer pit stop. Note: neither of us were drivers (thanks, Jud).

It was a very relaxing day, except we did almost die from a tour bus collision. Here is the video evidence.

Nuremberg

Nuremberg was lovely. I don’t remember any significant beers here, but I do remember a really cool castle and picturesque views.

We arrived in the evening, so after dinner we went up to the castle in the dark because it was open and why not? Amy tried her hand at capturing some lightning photography while the rest of us waited to escape the coming rain and to leave the highest spot in the city during a lightning storm.

The next morning Amy and I woke up early for a jog we won’t soon forget: running along the inside of the old city walls. We stumbled into the red light district on accident, but that just added… interest… to the run. Or maybe it just gave us a reason to run faster, I’m not sure.

Regardless, there was plenty of beautiful, old town scenery to be had in Nuremberg. I’m not referring to the older lady doing a crossword puzzle in her underwear in one of the red light district windows, either.

Not a bad view for the morning jog.

Bamberg

Our beer pilgrimage led us to Bamberg, the pinacle of our beer experience in Bavaria. The whole town of Bamberg is listed on the Unesco World Heritage List. No lack of atmosphere here.

There was no lack of beer, either. The town boasts 8 different breweries, which is a lot for a town its size. Many of them have been in operation for three or four hundred years. They know what they’re doing.

We only had one night in Bamberg, so we began a rather ambitious expedition: to visit as many of Bamberg’s brew pubs as possible in one night. We made it to at least four. In retrospect, that’s not really that great. We must be getting old. Or more mature. Yeah, that’s it.

The highlight of the entire trip was the Rauchbier, which I can now pronounce 100% correctly thanks to one not-so-impressed-with-foreigners barmaid. She was very good at two things: correcting pronunciation and being impatient. But that’s besides the point, the beer – the Rauchbier – was like nothing I’d ever had before.

Rauchbier is a “smoked beer”, and a Bamberg specialty. Oh, but it’s NOT in every pub in Bamberg, so don’t you dare order it at every pub (more helpful information from our favorite barmaid). Rauchbier is made by drying the malted barley over an open flame, which in turn gives the beer a smokey flavor. Our favorite was at our first stop, a brewpub called Spezial.

We stopped at several more places and tried several more beers, but the Rauchbier stood out as my clear favorite. I miss that beer… ah but I digress. Back to our awesome walk-around Bamberg.

Third stop in Bamberg. More beer, more good times.

A little lost between a couple of our last stops. Definitely slowing down…

No worries. We found our way and finished strong.

And finally, Pilsen

We boarded a train to Prague and stopped off in Pilsen on the way. Pilsen is the home of Pilsner Urquell, and famous for being the birthplace of the Pilsner style of beer.

Our train arrived a bit early for the Pilsner Brewery tour, so we killed time by taking an underground tour of Pilsen. It was a little underwhelming, but we did get to see some tunnels and wear hard hats and hair nets.

You would think with all the beer we’d been drinking we’d have a lot more embarrassing pictures than this. Yet, here we are – stone cold sober.

The underground tour ended late, however, which meant a mad dash back to the Pilsner Brewery where Marjorie and Jud barely made the next tour. Amy and I had already been, so we goofed around town taking pictures and, of course, had a beer or two.

It’s that time again…

Home again, home again

With our arrival in Prague, the beer tour officially came to an end.

Thankfully the delicious beer did not. We’ll continue to enjoy one of the many benefits of Czech living (cheap, delicious beer) with what time we have left here, and look forward to trying out what Austin has to offer in the near future.

Don’t be sad, Marjorie. We’ll be back in Austin for another beer tour soon…

Top 5 things that make me grumpy

1. Being overcharged
2. Being cold
3. Being tired
4. Being late
5. Being lost

We’ve done a lot of traveling in the last couple years, which is no small thing and incomparably awesome. But I have to admit, our trips always always include me being grumpy because our trips always always include my top 5 list.

Amsterdam was particularly challenging. It’s stinkin’ expensive, which just makes me mad. Why? Why does a coffee cost way more in Amsterdam than in Prague? It doesn’t make sense. It’s stupid.

Admittedly, my pet peeve was made worse by my lack of research. I thought we could save some money by staying just outside the city, and didn’t realize until we were shelling out $40 a day that Dutch trains are not a bargain.

We also seem to have an uncanny ability to arrive in a city just as the weather takes a crappy dive, so it was cold, cloudy, and rainy.

And we’d just returned from a trip to the States for my grandfather’s funeral, so we were emotionally and physically drained.

(Before you say it, yes, I realize the irony since Amsterdam is famously a great place to… mellow out. Just not my bag.)

So all that added up to a slightly stressful, mostly grumpy trip, and a less than glowing opinion of Amsterdam.

But three months later, Dennis and I looked through our photos, and I’ll be danged if I didn’t actually have a great time.

We imagined living in the charming row houses.

We spent a day enchanted at Keukenhof, roaming around the famous gardens taking way too many photos of tulips.

We stumbled on my new favorite shop in the whole world — a hipster curiosity shop — where I got some awesome tchotchkes that I’ll adore for many many years.

We stepped (almost literally) into Rembrandt’s life, in his former home-turned-museum, and into Van Gogh’s at the museum that chronicles his progression in life and in art, and into Anne Frank’s where she and her family hid.

We saw fun window displays, and explored dark canal streets together after sunset, and peered into cozy cafes.

Despite our limitations, from money to weather to exhaustion, we found plenty of ways to enjoy Amsterdam. I’ll bet there are more memories worth a second look and a changed perspective.

So, Dennis, where do you wanna go next? Promise I won’t be grumpy.;)

We enthusiastically lug our bags onto the street and scan the area calmly for signs, reading over the directions we saved to our phones on how to get to our room. But the directions (or our sense of them) are whack, so we pull out a terribly unhelpful tourist map and spin around in a few more circles, a little less calmly. Eventually, we pick a direction (usually what was our first instinct) and start walking, luggage in tow.

Then it happens. Without fail, Amy pulls out the handle on the top of the case she is carrying and begins dragging it behind her on it’s wheels (as any sensible person would). And since almost every walkable ground surface in Europe is some kind of cobblestone or tile or brick, it begins.

CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK.

The wheels of Amy’s suitcase are unforgiving on each break of the sidewalk. Our movement through the city sounds out like machine gun fire as Amy’s wheels pass over the intricate patterns of small tiles or stones.

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK!

We have the loudest luggage in the world. The bright red bag is an acoustic masterpiece. A nice touch in our performance is the way the rhythm gets slower as we become more unsure of where we are going. At every street corner the beat slows to a long rest.

CLACK-CLACK—CLACK—–CLACK———-CLACK—————–CLACK.

Only to be picked up again with gusto when we’ve figured out where to go next.

CLACK——-CLACK—–CLACK—-CLACK—CLACK–CLACK-CLACK-CLACK!

I hate calling attention to myself, especially in unfamiliar surroundings. To me, nothing is worse than sticking out, let alone sticking out as a tourist. But there we are, every time, bright red suitcases clacking away as we alternate our gaze from map to street sign.

I begin to think, “Why oh why haven’t we invested in proper backpacking gear? At least then we would look like seasoned travelers.” I’m certain people are staring. The tension within me builds alongside the rhythmic pounding of our tourist walk of shame.

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK…

Amy does not think this way. Amy would clack on forever without a care. She’s a natural performer and the spotlight follows her. If her case wasn’t clacking she would be finding another way to be loud – she’s full of boisterous life and I love her for it. But usually I do take that damn bag away from her and tell her I’ll just carry it.

I don’t care if it’s ten more miles, that clacking has to stop.

Amy and I had just spent an amazing day in the seaside town of Porto Venere, goofing around as we do. But for the last 40 minutes of our day there we walked up and down the pier trying to find the perfect place for dinner. We were hungry, shoeless (Amy’s sandal broke), and increasingly stressed because our last night in Italy HAD to be good.

But nothing looked good. Our train back to our home base in Cinque Terre didn’t leave for another couple hours, and we needed food. With tension rising between us over making a decision, we stopped in front of a completely empty seafood restaurant to gather our thoughts.

Our soon-to-be waiter saw us lingering and barged into the fray, practically pushing us toward a table. Both of us were tired and beyond resistance. We sat down, silent.

Ha. Isn’t life tough in a place like this…

Down for the count?

I’m a laid back guy. As it pertains to life abroad, Amy and I are more and more comfortable rolling with the punches.

You know, taking it in stride. When you don’t know what the hell is going on, just keep moving forward and eventually it will fall together. When you know exactly what’s going on, keep moving forward until you realize you don’t actually know what’s going on, and keep moving forward again. Don’t sweat it. Just stay calm, be open, have faith, etc.

This way of life has its merits, but it’s also deceptive to say ‘things will just work out.’ I don’t think that’s totally right. And actually, it’s not even in the spirit of what we set out to do by moving to Prague.

Deciding to move was anything but laid back. We didn’t react to external circumstances to end up here. Quite the opposite. We kicked the idea around for eight months before Amy sat us down at a Starbucks and forced a decision. In her wisdom she realized that some things require action. Make a move, or you ain’t gonna be moving.

Sometimes you’ve got to be the one delivering the punches.

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bread basket

That greasy waiter reinforced this insight. As he went off to get us a basket of bread, we looked over the menu. It was expensive. We looked around. The staff outnumbered us 5 to 1. We were both tired and grumpy. I envisioned the last night of our trip to be a celebration – a culmination of the week’s victories. This felt like a let down.

After what seemed a very short amount of time, the waiter marched up, dropped the bread on our table, and demanded an order. It wasn’t friendly, or accommodating, or nice. This wasn’t nice. As he looked down on me waiting for us to choose a wine, I could only think one thing: I wanted to punch him.

Maybe it was his smug look. Maybe it was just the sinking feeling that I was settling for second best. Whatever it was, something in me snapped. Why were we here? Didn’t we have complete control over this situation? No one was forcing us to dine here, but here we were, unhappy. We were done in this village. Why did we have to wait for a train to take us back? We had only paid a couple bucks for the train tickets, not some huge loss. We could take buses, taxis, water taxis – any number of ways – to get back to Cinque Terre.

Defying all of my programmed rules of engagement, I clenched my fists, stood up, and announced that we had to leave (you thought I was gonna punch the guy?). We told the waiter thanks but no thanks, gathered our stuff, and left.

Would you believe that leaving a restaurant prematurely without ordering didn’t cause the building to implode on itself? Sure, it felt a little rude at first, but seriously, everyone survived it just fine. Except maybe the basket of bread. They may have thrown that away.

Adventure! Romance! Thrilling conclusion!

Luckily we caught the last water taxi to Manarola. It cost 500% more than our train tickets, but that was the last thing on our minds. We traded our train for the sea. With the wind in our hair and Amy squealing that she was cold, it became one of the best moments of our trip.

Back in Manarola we found a bustling restaurant overlooking the marina, ate and drank the evening through, and later walked Lovers Lane back to our room in Riomaggiore. The sun had long since set, so we strolled along the walkway by moonlight. We stopped to star gaze (make out) and listen to the roaring surf below us (more making out). Better best moment of our trip.

We tried to get a picture of the stars looking up from the Lover’s Lane. Obviously didn’t work.

Our traveling adventures have challenged me. Trying to be in control all the time isn’t good, but neither is letting go of the wheel. Be proactive; make something happen. Then take in stride what life throws at you as a result.

And be sure to enjoy the cool stuff you’ll experience because you threw a punch or two. You wouldn’t want a good bread basket to go waste for nothing.

A tale from the trail in Cinque Terre:

Dennis: Here’s what happened. We were hiking along the trail and Amy was attacked by a snake.

Amy: Here’s what happened. We were hiking along the trail, I heard something rustling, thought it was a big lizard (which I like), so I stuck my head in the bushes.

D: Yes, but it was a trick. Snakes are crafty. Probably heard us talking about lizards, because we were seeing a lot of them. He set his trap, then sprang. Attack!

A: Correct, it was not a big lizard. Had it been a lizard it would have run away from me. Instead, a snake’s head appeared and he came right for me! But he was just crossing the trail. He did not attack.

D: Um, yes. If it wasn’t an attack, why did you run away screaming? That snake lept from the bushes and tried to strike your face. You squealed and bolted.

A: I did not. Did I? I may have moved quickly in the other direction. Anyway, Mr. Calm & Collected, he slithered across the trail right in front of YOU, who didn’t run, and he didn’t attack you, did he? I don’t think he had attack on his mind.

D: Why would he attack me? I didn’t fall for his trap. Anyway, I glared at him pretty hard, so he decided not to give chase. Good call, snake.

A: Haha. Well. Well done, then, Hadley. Thank you for saving my life from a harmless snake.

D: No problem. Anytime, really.

We spent two days hiking the ridge that skirts the coast between the five villages. It was hot, steep, and sweaty.

And it was breathtaking.

Word has gotten out about this beautiful little corner of the earth, so we certainly weren’t charting new territory. But my thighs thought we were. Thanks to my conniving husband, I hated every last lunge and blasted squat I did leading up to the trip, but I was grateful for every last lunge and blasted squat I did once we were on the mountain.

(Reading this in an email? Click the link to see the embedded video.)

It definitely made it worth it that each leg of the hike rewarded us with another amazing old Italian village.

It does seem that Melissa beat us to it.

But that’s okay because I bet Melissa didn’t have this delicious lunch of salami, focaccia bread, hunk of unidentified cheese, and olives. (I know it looks like it’s all gnawed on, but I swear it’s not. My food styling skills could use some improvement.)

Or get this exact same picture of the bell tower in Vernazza.

Or see this bike.

She may have rented a chair and umbrella on the beach at Monterosso. I’m not sure… we don’t believe in renting beach plots, so we didn’t stop to look for Melissa. I bet she was there.

But anyway, it’s not a race. So you may have made it there first, Melissa, but I had the world’s best company.

(And yes, people, I am wearing a top. A tube top. Get your mind out of the gutter.)

Ho.Ly.Wow. Completely, absolutely, utterly amazing.

Cinque Terre is a series of five villages dotting the northwestern coast of Italy along the Ligurian Sea. (The whatta-whatta sea? It’s an arm of the Mediterranean.) They are little towns that have been practically carved into the mountains, surrounded by terraced farm land for lemons, grapes, and olives. Mmmmmm. The whole area is part of the Cinque Terre National Park, which has been named a Unesco World Heritage Site. Heritage of the world. A treasure of the human race. Thirtieth birthday spectacular.

So where does the training and exercising and getting in shape that Dennis required come in? Well, the five villages are linked by both sea-side trails that meander along the cliffs, and steep trails that wind through the mountains. Guess which one we did yesterday? Let’s just say I got very used to the tickle of sweat rolling down my back. And front. And face.

We went on the most memorable hike of my life. Not because of the huffing and puffing, and thankfully not because we needed the first aid kit, but because of the stunning views. Everything from sun-scorched vineyards overlooking the sea (which was, of course, deep blue and sparkling), to shaded forest with a thunderstorm grumbling almost literally on top of our heads (turned out to only be a tease).

And now, sun screen re-applied and water bottle refilled, I’m ready for Day Two!

I’ll give you all my clues, and see if you can figure it out. (I didn’t.)

1. I had to save all my euros from tour guiding.

2. Unesco.

3. 5 in 1.

4. A riddle that’s a clue for what I should pack: It can enter water without getting wet. (Answer is at the end if you want to work on this one.)

And then the gift clues started coming in.

5. A “technical day pack” from REI. I don’t know what a technical day pack is, but I am happy to report you can’t fit a sleeping bag or cooking ware in it.

6. First aid kit. You can imagine my excitement over this one.

7. A geocaching app for my phone. Intriguing.

8. And last but not least, bikini shopping. Not sure how bikinis and first aid kits go together, but I’m excited a swimsuit is part of the equation.

Let the guessing begin! We’ll let you know tomorrow if you were right.

And for the answer to number 4, scroll down.

Light. Pack light. Oh boy.

I met Lance Armstrong once. I was a young reporter with a bad haircut, lugging a massive tripod and camera all by myself at a fun race fundraiser. And since I was the only reporter in sight, and probably because I was this young thing lugging all this massive gear, Mr. Armstrong waived me past his body guard so I could interview him. That was cool.

Then a few years in a row during South by Southwest, I hung out with Lyle Lovett a number of mornings. He was a regular guest on a radio show that broadcast all week from the lobby of a swanky Austin hotel. My TV station piggy-backed on this radio broadcast for morning live shots, so Lyle and I were often first to the lobby. He even remembered my name from year to year. Stand-up guy. Love him.

But yesterday, my knees got all week, I broke into a sweat, and I couldn’t concentrate. Because. I was chit-chatting with a sweet family on my walking tour when, before I even really realized she looked familiar, I blurted to one of them, “You look a lot like one of the girls from Eisley. Have you heard of them?”

Eisley is a groovy indie band of sisters that Dennis and I have followed for years. We especially love belting out their tunes together on road trips.

So as I was saying, I said, “…Have you heard of them?” Well, yes she had, because, yes, she was.

I was very excited. Completely star-struck. But the tour had to go on, so I continued, having no idea what exactly was coming out of my mouth for the rest of it. And at the end Sherri and her rock star hubby, Max Bemis of Say Anything, were kind enough to humor me with a picture.

“And to your right…”

Oh, P.S. … I’m a tour guide! I was walking past a tour group in the spring, and heard the guide speaking English with an American accent. That was enough for me to go, “I could do that!”

I’ve been guiding walking tours for a couple months now, and it suits me just fine. As you might imagine, I think it’s fun to meet new people every day, and I’m no history buff, but I do love the history of this city. Just beware, because I have developed a bad habit of breaking into tour guide voice randomly with friends. Any excuse for an audience.;)