Once upon a time, there was a Mad King who loved to build castles. He loved to build them so much that he nearly bankrupted his country and died under mysterious circumstances only one day after he was deposed as ruler. But the castles remain -crazy fairy tale concoctions, the forerunners to every Disney theme park, visions of an age that never was. The king was Ludwig II; the place was Bavaria. On a cold, snowy day this December I made the trek from Munich to the foothills of the Alps to visit Neuschwanstein, his most famous creation, along with Paul McMullens and Pete Morrissey, fellow Valencians both.
Given the generous partaking of Munich’s finest the night before (i.e. all the beer, starches, and sausages our hearts desired) our nine o'clock wakeup was not pleasant, particularly for one P. McMullen, who objected most vociferously to the ungodly earliness of the hour. A difficult struggle ensued, but P. Morrissey and I would not be deterred. With pretzels in hand and seconds to spare, we made the train to Füssen.
Every normal seat being taken, we made our way to the unheated storage car. We made snug makeshift beds from cheap fold down seats, which were accompanied by dirty looks from those stuck with us for the two hour journey. Signs of snow were in the air as the city disappeared and farm and forest took its place. Soon white was the only color to be seen, at least for those still awake.
The ground was thickly coated with snow when we arrived in Füssen, with no signs of stopping. From this picturesque little town, we took a bus to an even smaller and more picturesque little town, Hohenschwangau. Walking past colorful chalets of postcard perfection, we got our first glimpse of the castle. Barely visible in the blinding snow, it perched atop a high cliff in the distance, even higher mountains surrounding it.
Going up a mountain would not be easy, especially with hangovers and inadequate footwear, so we stopped to recharge at the Allgäuer Stüberl restaurant. Beers, starches, and sausages were once again consumed. After all, it would have been rude not to.
Perhaps wise not to as well, but propriety trumped wisdom, and it was now time to begin the trek up to the castle. There was, of course, the possibility of a horse-drawn carriage ride to the top, but the long line of tourists was not promising in light of our scheduled tour. So we took the winding road up through the forest, huge pine trees towering on both sides, snow still falling. Along the way we saw an icy waterfall, a mini-Hofbraühaus, and some remarkable near-wipeouts by our esteemed Vice-President, who brought up the struggling rearguard of our little company.
At last, the summit was reached. Neuschwanstein was now in full view, its glories apparent. Huge pseudo-Romanesque towers and battlements loomed above us. Mountains surrounded us. A swift stream fell into a deep valley below, while the open countryside was pure white in the distance.
Fairy tale is a bit of an understatement. King Ludwig knew what he was doing. We passed underneath the giant gate into the main courtyard, a surreal and wonderful experience that still haunts our dreams.
Entering the castle by means of a lengthy spiral staircase, we found a tour guide waiting for us. Every tale needs a villain, and here was ours. Whether this performance was nothing more than an elaborate act remains to be determined; but far more likely to us is the possibility that our tour guide was either a vampire or the long-lost great-great-great grandson of King Ludwig himself. What followed is difficult to capture in words, but I shall try my best -unfortunately no pictures were allowed in the castle.
“Velcome to…Neuschwainstein” he began. The voice was quiet, harsh and high-pitched all at the same time, a cross between Lord Voldemort and Christoph Waltz in Inglourious Basterds, barely intelligible. Note too, the ellipsis, designating an uncomfortably long pause between words. Also note the word Neuschwanstein. This was spoken about ten times faster than any other word; the rest, at an excruciatingly slow pace, helped by the aforementioned pauses. These weighty silences were interspersed liberally every couple of words, even longer between sentences, and longest of all between rooms of the castle, when we would wait until every last person of our 50 person tour group had caught up.
Our fellow tourists were just as astonished as we were at this mysterious androgynous man. Caught between unstoppable laughter and underlying terror, we made our way through a wonderland of sumptuously fake rooms. Most of them were covered in murals relating to one of Wagner’s operas: Tristan & Isolde, Parsifal, Siegfried, Meistersinger, Tannhäuser, Lohengrin. There was a giant Byzantine throne room without a throne. There was a complete grotto made of fake looking rocks inserted innocuously between the living room and the dressing room. There was a working telephone from the 1880’s. Perhaps most spectacular of all was the king’s gothic bedroom. Here, an insanely carved wooden canopy, carved washstand, and a carved reading chair that a giant could fit in, all took fourteen sculptors four and a half years to complete! There was also a secret door which our guide too gleefully showed us with a dramatic gesture and creepy glances.
These gestures! As ubiquitous and important as the voice, and even more difficult to describe. For our guide never actually looked at any of the things he spoke of, but pointed to them ethereally as he gazed off into the distance. I can still picture the arm moving slowly and deliberately, filling the pauses with meaningful but sinister motion, the outstretched hand frozen in a strange open position not even remotely resembling someone pointing. In this way, we learned important facts. “King Ludvig’s favorite animal…vas ze schvan.” “And here…iz King Ludvig’s vashstand…covered in schvans…fed by ze natural springs from high up in ze mountains.”
“And now, you vill ask zee questions…” Not a single question was asked. The tour was drawing to a close. Only about forty minutes long; it might have been twenty without the pauses. After all, only a small portion of the castle was finished before the king died in 1886. I won’t speculate on what secrets lurk in these unfinished areas, save the several large gift shops that we passed on the way out before starting the trek back down the mountain.
Avoiding the horse droppings was difficult, and our feet were now soaked and numb to the extreme, but we made it down unscathed, even Mullens. King Ludwig and his swans had treated us well.
Could the day get any better, you might ask? Yes, it could, as we missed two busses and a train on the way back to Munich. In Hohenschwangau, we missed the bus to Füssen by seconds. Naturally, we returned to the trusty Allgäuer Stüberl for hot chocolate and apple strudel with homemade vanilla cream sauce.
Unfortunately, while waiting to pay the next bus arrived, and after a mad dash we arrived at the bus only to be rejected at the door -it was completely full. Thus began another half hour of waiting in the cold, finally arriving in Füssen just in time to miss the 5:00 train.
But what better way to spend an empty hour than wandering at twilight through the streets of a small Bavarian village, covered in snow, with Christmas markets, Christmas trees, and Christmas carolers filling every street? We weaved through children engaged in treacherous snow wars, climbed up a hill to a quiet monastery, stars overhead, and drank glühwein.
But alas, all fairy tales must end. We arrived back in Munich, where beer, starches, and sausages were once again consumed. In other words: happily ever after.
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