A surprise weekend

What is it about the sheer fact of something's being a surprise that makes it unbearably interesting? Reminds me of Chief Wiggum's exasperation with the Springfield children: "What is your kids' fascination with my Forbidden Closet of Mystery?!"

See, last week, Bert told me not to plan anything for that weekend, "weil wir weg sind." Away? We are? Where to? The response was just a grin. So of course I spent three days antsily stamping my feet until we finally began to pack a few overnight things on Saturday morning. He still wouldn't reveal our destination as we walked out the door -- until I turned to walk toward the train station, and he instead directed me toward an unfamiliar car.
"We're driving? Whose car is this?"
"Ours, for the weekend."
And, tossing our things in the back and a map and sandwiches in the front, we took off down the Autobahn, heading north.

We found ourselves, three hours and many a gorgeous winding road through tiny village later, checking into a lovely hostel with a view over the town of Mayen, north of the Mosel River. After a little walk around, we then drove up to Andernach for a bite to eat, and finally arrived at some kind of building out in the middle of nowhere between the two towns. "Aussteigen!" chirped Bert as he pulled a fluffy rolled-up blanket out of the back seat. Okay... we walked toward the building, and I realized it was some kind of cultural center. Bert produced two tickets at the door, and in we went.

Inside was a stage, with a floor in front of it containing no seats. Instead, a veritable army of music fans was sprawled on blankets and cushions, holding drinks and facing a stage set with chairs and dim lighting. We spread our own blanket against one of the walls so Bert could lean on it, and I on him; and before long, none other than Eric Fish -- the lead singer for one of my favorite German bands -- moseyed onto the stage and took a seat with his guitar! I had heard that he occasionally does an unplugged concert of his own music, without the rest of the band, but had never really made the effort to find out any further information. And here we were!


The concert was awesome. Two other guys (and their guitars) joined Fish, who occasionally swapped out his own instrument for a mandolin, and the three of them proceeded to sing some harmonies that vibrated right down into your very bones. Fish's genre is generally kind of a strange mix of "folk metal," and so unplugged, his eclectic style was even cooler. I never thought three guys on acoustic guitars could rock so hard! The crowd stomped their feet, sang along, and exchanged jokes and banter with the musicians. The atmosphere was cozy and intimate -- there were even candles on the stage! Bert and I even met some other cool people during the break.

The next day, we got up early and checked out in time to drive off into the morning mist, toward a national park with the uebercool name of Westerwald: "the Westwood." We spent pretty much all day walking through an autumny wonderland.


The midpoint of our hike was a high hill that emerged from the forest onto wide fields, with views of the surrounding golden woods and villages down below -- not long after our arrival, the bong of churchbells even started drifting up toward us! So we spread out the same picnic blanket and took an afternoon nap in the sunshine, before sharing a beer on the way back down through the rustling, late-afternoon woods. It was magical.

Even the drive back was gorgeous, as we chose to head south along the western bank of the Rhein between Koblenz and Bingen: a route popular for Rhein-river cruises, due to its thick concentration of riverside castles and the famous Loreley cliff across from St. Goar.

Where else are the freeways lined with random castles?

Did I mention I friggin love Germany??

***Herzlichen Glückwunsch, Berti!!!***

I knew I liked October. It's autumn; it's cool and mysterious and smells of fireplaces; and what's more, my Bert was born on the 10th of it! That means that tonight at midnight, we'll head to our favorite pub for a complimentary birthday bottle of champagne. Then the party begins...!

Happy birthday, mein Lieber. Ich freue mich so sehr auf unser nächstes Jahr zusammen. Danke für alles, das du bist.

SCHMATZ!!!

Surfin' USA, Part Two: Chi-Town (Aug. 26-29)

It begins! This is the easy part, though: with a long train ride from Chicago to Appleton on August 29th, we were pretty good about keeping a record of our travels up to that point. So now it's just a matter of a little copy-paste and some picture-adding... I'll start with Bert's straightforward Chicago Tagebuch, and then finish off with my own. :) Welcome to the City of Big Shoulders!

26.08.07
Mit etwas Verspaetung gegen 19Uhr sicher in Nikkis Armen gelandet. Schon der Transfer vom Flughafen in die Stadt war ein Erlebnis und hat fast 90min gedauert... Schienenersatzverkehr inklusive, aber alle sind sehr nett und helfen gerne. Ab ins Hotel Allegro, eingecheckt und gleich wieder los, um noch etwas zu Essen und ein Bier zu finden! Auf der Suche kommen wir am Nachrichtenstudio von ABC vorbei und man kann von aussen zuschauen, wie die Livesendung produziert wird: "10pm Nightly News"!


Leider haben die Kneipen schon 22:00Uhr geschlossen und so muessen wir auf einen Kiosk ausweichen. Ich darf nicht mit rein, da mein Reisepass im Hotel ist und wir sonst kein Bier bekommen... Schliesslich sehe ich nicht aus wie ueber 21 Jahre...! Nikki "managed" das aber alles sehr gut und so haben wir noch ein gemuetliches Mitternachtspicknick auf dem Hotelbett mit orginal US-TV. Alle 8 (9) Gliedmassen von uns gestreckt und voellig erschoepft schlafen wir dann ein...

27.08.07
9Uhr klingelt der Wecker, aber wir sind schon wach. Nach einem gemuetlichen Aufstehen ziehen wir gegen 11Uhr los. Der erste Kaffeeshop um die Ecke ist unser und fuer Berti beginnt das Kulturlernprogramm...
Unser Ziel an diesem Vormittag ist das "John Hancock Center", um von dort die Aussicht ueber die Stadt zu haben. Auf dem Weg dorthin laufen wir kreuz und quer durch die Innenstadt. Alles ist aufregend, neu, RIESIG und mit Nikki an meiner Seite doch ganz entspannt und ich kann alles geniessen. Wir machen Stopp in der ersten "deep-dish" Pizzeria von Chicago, aber gegen Nikkis Rat entscheide ich mich gegen die "Pizza Uno" und werde mit einer fettigen Barbecue Pizza ueberrollt und mein Magen fuer den Rest des Tages ausser Gefecht gesetzt. Dafuer ist das Bier sehr sehr gut und wir haben eine schoene Pause.

Weiter geht's durch ein paar Klamottenlaeden zum Ziel! Leider ist das Wetter nicht so klar, also entscheiden wir uns spaeter auf das hoechste Gebauede der Stadt, dem "Sears Tower" -- 527m!!! -- zu gehen (fahren). Und siehe da, das Wetter wird besser. Nach einer sonnigen Wassertaxifahrt auf dem Chicago River erreichen wir den Sears Tower genau richtig zum Sonnenuntergang. Eine atemberaubende Aussicht laesst den ersten Tag ausklingen und wir erreichen unser Hotel gegen 22Uhr und fallen wieder todmuede ins Bett. Schnarch...


29.08.07
Chicago is an awesome city; but the most fun has actually turned out to be watching Bert's reaction to various bizarre cultural details. I keep forgetting that this is his first time -- ever! -- in the States, and so the little things that I just take for granted grab his attention. It's like when Matt came to visit in Germany: he would stop and notice things that I had forgotten were even different (e.g., the fact that sales tax in Germany is already included in the price, and so things cost at the register exactly what the tag says. Imagine seeing something displayed for "20 Euro", and actually -- gasp! -- handing over a neat 20-Euro bill for it! Crazy Europeans).

Anyway, so we kept a fun, ongoing account of the various surprises for my Europäer in Chicago. Such as...

- On the first morning, he called to me from the hotel bathroom to inquire if the toilet was stopped up. I came to investigate, and found him peering down into the porcelain, suspiciously eyeing a couple of tissues I'd thrown in there. "I don't think so," I said, "Those are just nose-blows." Him: "Then why is the whole thing filled with water?"

- When we stopped for some caffeine, I turned around to hand him his 12-oz "small" coffee. "Oh, thanks," he said, "but this must be yours. I ordered the 'small'."

- Later, I came out of a public restroom to find him happily observing a water fountain. "What a great installation!" he proclaimed. "Free water -- we need these in Germany." Hee hee... and I totally agree! And had completely forgotten that there aren't random public water fountains lying around your average German cityscape -- "Too unhygenic!" explained the school secretary (with her customary exasperation). She's probably right; but come on, our immune systems could use a bit of a workout, especially as kids! I sometimes wonder if urban Europeans are in general suspicious of plain water. Which would make sense, seeing as how, for hundreds of years in crowded medieval cities, the beer was a lot safer. Yet even today, asking for water in a restaurant means receiving sparkling bottled mineral water, and sometimes paying more for it than you would for a beer. Just drinking right out of the faucet even strikes some people as weird!

- Speaking of food and drink, our first restaurant experience, Pizzeria Uno, was an almost constant inundation of newness. First, we waited to be seated by a hostess, while Bert did an antsy-dance at having to just stand there, waiting for her to get off the phone, when there was a perfectly good table right there. When she finally led us to our cozy corner, the hostess herself was then so much chattier and more personable than is typical for German restaurants that Bert leaned over and asked, in a whisper, if this was normal. :oP

The waitress then brought us free tap water (which delighted the both of us) plus three yummy American beers on tap: one Sam Adams Summer Ale (mm, pale and citrusy); one Uno's Ale (thick, sweet, and amber-colored); and some local Hefeweizen whose name I unfortunately can't remember. These were all delightful, despite the fact that they did come -- blasphemously! -- in plain glasses that were bereft of any volume markings whatsoever. How could we be certain we were getting the full pint? sniffed my exacting Deutscher. (Germans have marvelous laws for alcohol and alcohol-serving. God help the Pfaelzer who makes your Schorle less than 75% straight wine, or the bartender who comes between a countryman and his last few drops of golden suds.)

The only disappointment was the food. Pizzeria Uno is famous for its deep-dish pizza, but we unfortunately deviated a bit from the famous Uno's style and went with some barbecue-chicken-topped experiment that was, alas, more greasy than it was flavorful. Oh well, at least that's sort of an authentic American fast-food experience! Though the beer and atmosphere were great. After the meal, we figured out a 15% tip, something which Bert got really good at in later restaurant adventures.

In fact, Bert was a pretty fast absorber of all things new. Even when he was tired and just didn't feel like exerting himself all the time, he still insisted on speaking English almost exclusively and on figuring most things out for himself. Except once, when it was late and he owed a cashier some change... he at first squinted at the pile of foreign currency in his palm, raised an exhausted eyebrow, sighed, and held it out to me. "Could you just... pull out the correct amount?" he asked.
"Sure," I said, grinning.
As we walked away, I held up a dime. "Remember how much this one is?"
Another sigh. "Pffft... Five cents?"
"Ten." Brandishing a nickel: "This one here is five."
"Then why is it bigger than the ten-cent piece??"
"To confuse logical foreigners, of course."

- Finally, a couple more observations that were just cute:

1) We had stopped by a Walgreens for batteries, but then decided to come back for them later. When Bert went to remind me of our errand that evening, he mentioned that we should be sure to find "that market" again.
2) They don't have Sears in Germany. So naturally, Bert could never remember the name of the tower: "Are we going to that Cereal Tower today?" "How high is this See's Tower, anyway?"

But enough with the observations. The trip itself has been a blast. Our hotel, "Hotel Allegro," was a pretty lush, art-deco-style place in Chicago's Theater District, just a couple of blocks away from the Loop, Grant Park, and Lake Michigan. Our first day was just as Bert describes it -- except that he was also so jetlagged I had to keep pouring coffee into him to keep him upright on his long legs. Despite this, he was a real trooper, and we spent most of the day just wandering the gridlike streets with our necks craned backward to take in all the towering glass skyscrapers. Tuesday (yesterday), we sat down to breakfast in the "Corner Bakery" and were overwhelmed by the sheer volume of food you could get for ten bucks a person: a huge plate of scrambled eggs, four slices of toast, a bowl of fruit, fried potatoes, cinnamon-raisin french toast, a "medium" (that is, 16 oz) cappuccino, and all the butter, jam, honey, syrup, ketchup, and other condiments you could possibly want. Bert, being the sauce/topping fiend that he is, was in heaven. He kept going back for more jam, just because he could. :) Though we naturally couldn't finish all the food, and took two to-go containers back to our hotel to stick in the fridge for later!

The rest of the day was too hot to spend outside, so we took refuge in the Museum of Science and Industry. This place is awesome. And, unsurprisingly given some of its layout, intentionally modeled after the Deutsches Museum in Munich. Matt, remember the huge room with planes soaring over some ships? Turn the ships into a locomotive, and you've got the "Flight" section of the MSI. This same section also boasts some supercool model trains, zooming through the model dowtown Chicago, past models of landscapes spanning the American west (including the Rockies), and wending its way all the way out to a model of -- Seattle! I like trains. Even miniature ones. I stood watching them like Homer with the drinking bird: "Look at that one! Hee hee, he's traversing the mountain."

Bert's gaze, however, was attracted upward, toward the British Spitfire and German Stuka, two WWII fighter planes suspended from the ceiling in frozen pursuit. The Stuka in particular is hung at a downward angle, so that, standing it front of it, it looks as if you're about to be on the receiving end of some machine-gun nastiness. We stared for a while like two toads about to be gekked, and then Bert automatically raised the camera to his hypnotized face and took a picture.


Oh, but the best exhibit in the entire museum -- and of which they are justifiably proud -- is a fully intact and restored WWII U-Boot: the U505. Apparently, this was the first foreign vessel captured by the U.S. Navy since the War of 1812! It was cornered, shot at, and boarded in 1944 after sinking eight Allied ships; and it's perfect. Here's a note from Wikipedia on the submarine's restoration:

When U-505 was donated to the Museum, she had been thoroughly stripped during the years she sat neglected alongside the dock at the Portsmouth Navy Yard. Admiral Gallery proposed a possible solution. Major Lohr contacted all of the German manufacturers who had supplied the components and parts that went into her, in hopes of restoring her to near-new condition. As the Admiral reported in his autobiography, the Major expected at best responses that boiled down to "Go to hell." However, to his and the Museum's surprise, every company supplied the requested parts without charge. Most included letters that said in effect, "We are sorry that you have our U-boat; but since she's going to be there for many years, we want her to be a credit to German technology." An article by the boat's former curator, Keith Gill, published in Savas, Theodore, editor, Hunt and Kill: U-505 and the U-boat War in the Atlantic, pp. 161-220, offers an in-depth and fascinating behind the scenes account of how U-505 ended up in Chicago.

Anyway, they did such a good job that you can take a tour of the inside of the ship and get a really good feel for what it must have been like below decks. There are even cards, dice, and a copy of the only record album found on board (French, of course). Maybe half a dozen of us were led through by a guide who was absolutely in love with this submarine: he would clasp his hands and half-close his eyes in bliss as he recounted, in astonishing detail, every aspect of the ship's construction, history, capture, and crew. Though of course his storytelling, as we were led through the belly of the beast, was "enhanced" by occasional background noises piped in through unobtrusive speakers: orders being called in German, the sound of depth charges, the music from the record album, or the sounds of equipment bonging and clacking. At one point, he paused at a very suspenseful point in the story, and so did the "soundtrack." It was in this brief moment of tense silence that Bert suddenly blurted, "ALLE RAUS!!!" Everyone jumped. We held our sides and shook with silent laughter -- they all thought it had been part of the recording! At the end of the tour, we stepped, blinking, into the light outside, and people were stopping to thank the tour guide on their way out. "Dankeschön," said Bert, without thinking. "Bitteschön!" declared the guide. :)

That evening, we made our way back downtown again to Navy Pier to discover a joint called "America Dog", reputedly the best Chicago-style hotdogs ever. (They were okay.) Then we made it just in time to the Oriental Theater to catch a production of "Wicked," a musical about the witches of Oz, and how the whole Dorothy-story was just a misunderstanding. The idea was cute, the story not bad, and the sets, acting, and singing terrific; but frankly, well, I just didn't really care for the music that much. It was... kind of trite! The characters were great, but when they started singing some forgettable melody about "friendship," you start checking your watch to see when they'll get on with the story. All in all, though, it was very well made and definitely entertaining. The Oriental Theater, too, is an amazingly ornate, historic venue right in the middle of the city's renowned Theater District, and and I could just imagine women in 1930's finery taking in some exotic production set in Darkest Egypt. Very atmospheric.

My poor jetlagged German, however, took a very expensive nap. ;)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SARAH!!!

Sarah with her secret ingredients

September 18th is my stepmom's birthday -- and although she's been my stepmom for the last thirteen years, it's still weird to attach that title to her. Sarah is more like an aunt, or your cool big sister. She's also an amazing mom to Katie and Chloe, a sorcerer in the kitchen, and the one person I know who honestly, truly thinks about everyone else before she thinks about herself. We just had a great visit together for a couple of weeks this month, and I miss her already. :( Happy birthday, Sarah -- I hope it was a wonderful day, and that you enjoyed whatever you were woken up to eat! ;)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD!!!

It's September 12th -- my Dad turns 49 today! It's been inexpressibly wonderful to be able to spend these last couple of weeks with him and Sarah and the girls. We've kind of been doing a series of pre-birthday celebrations ever since everyone was gathered at the lake, and last Sunday was no exception: it started off with bringing him breakfast in bed (which I'm certain he didn't suspect, after being ordered by Chloe to get back in bed after he got out of the shower, followed by a symphony of clinking and hushing from the kitchen!), and then a day at Bay Beach, a charming family amusement park -- replete with little ferris wheel -- right on the water. It's been such a great visit I'm loathe to leave tomorrow. Thanks for hanging out, Dad. And happy birthday.

Surfin' USA

Given that I'm now in Week Three of a whirlwind summertime visit back to the States -- so far having hopped over three cities in two regions via plane, train, bus, and even kayak -- this blog entry should be something awesome. But I'm also pleasantly high from an hour-long stint on Dad & Sarah's stationary bike, and feeling too loose and noodley right now for anything more than some light impressions until I can get these other half-finished entries organized enough for a full report. (Where there might even be a guest writer on the blog, hee hee!) So for now...

Just Some Thoughts:

- Tucson in summer has a wonderfully unique smell. It's the smell of ozone, of the desert, of rain on soil and the coming heat of the day. Without question, the thing I miss most is setting off with Mom on her daily eight-mile walks, when we leave while the stars are still twinkling and return, two-and-a-half hours worth of talk and laughter later, when the morning sky over the mountains is streaked with crimson and gold. Arizona skies aren't blue, really. The sun is so intense that far south that the base color is actually white, and so every tiny variation in color and cloud is that much intenser.

- Speaking of walks, Bert and I went for a long stroll down Lakeshore Drive along the Chicago coastline last week. It was beautiful: with the silver skyline to our right, and glittering Lake Michigan to our left, it seemed everyone in the city was out cruising the road on their bikes or roller blades or sneakers. More than once, this included some excessively-tanned dude capering by in nothing more than tiny shorts, bronzed pecs rippling in the sunlight as he checked himself out in every reflective surface he passed. And for the first time, I actually noticed these guys. That is, they looked like the vainest, most insecure saps that ever flipped their collars in a bar. Don't get me wrong: if you're an athelete or a jogging hobbyist, then of course you're entitled to look how you want. (Judgement based on physical appearance is never acceptable, and yet here I am running the risk of doing exactly that!) But there is an obvious difference between a guy who takes care of himself and a Ken doll who spends way too much of his short lifetime sculpting each individual neck muscle. It's like a woman wearing clownish makeup: they're just trying too hard, to the point of making themselves pitiable and just a bit ridiculous. I know I'm a heterosexual female, and so some part of me is supposed to at least find the body appealing, even if its careful tan and obsessive, exoskeleton-like abdominal muscles reveal a warped sense of priorities; but seeing a guy so obviously insecure about himself is about as attractive as Ichabod Crane. Then I looked to my right, at the tall, handsome, unshaven, confident, unselfconscious man next to me, fully clothed and having just enjoyed a Chicago-style hot dog with his girlfriend -- without giving a rat's ass about exoskeletal abdominal muscles -- and thought how lucky I am to have found the sexiest man alive.

- My family is awesome. Last Thursday evening, Sarah, Katie, Chloe, Bert, and I all drove to Sarah's parents' lake house out in the western part of Wisconsin, where we were joined by Dad and Michael, and, the next morning, by Shauna and Steve. The nine of us then proceeded to have an absolute blast. We played badminton, cannonballed off the dock, played kickball with the girls, swung on the swings in the tree, took the kayaks out for an adventure, picnicked, went for a walk through the forest, visited the Leinenkugel's brewery in nearby Chippewa Falls, took the girls out in the paddleboat, sunned ourselves on the floating raft, drank beer, barbecued... and in the evenings, we played Euchre, made margaritas, watched Jason and the Argonauts, stargazed, and talked and laughed until we couldn't stay awake any longer. Oh yeah, and the whole time, we swam, swam, swam! It was like a 4th of July barbecue that lasted four days. It was also the first time Dad had ever had all five of his kids in one place, and we celebrated his birthday with a famous raspberry-cream pie from the Mainstreet Cafe.

- I am excited for autumn. This last year has been the first time I've lived in, well, seasons since I was thirteen, and so have spent the last twelve months thoroughly enjoying every snowflake, every green bud, and every summertime bike ride. But for some reason, autumn is still my favorite. Not sure why: maybe something in my northern-European blood remembers the coming harvest or feels the deep change about to occur in the earth. I can absolutely understand the ancients' tendency to hold festivals during this time of the year: the light is lower and golden; the wind smells like change... something about it sets me dreaming. It's been over ten years since I was last in this part of the country for this beautiful season, and we can already see the fields turning golden and the occasional bunch of red maple leaves peeking out of the trees. Sarah and the girls and I, along with Sarah's mom, Cindy, are headed to a farmer's market this Saturday. Then next week, it's off to my favorite city to catch up on much-needed hangout time with my soulmate: to Seattle, and Shauna.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!!!

Today is a fantastic day. 'Cause it's August 25th: my Mom's birthday!!!!

And what's more... she's 50 today! Wow, what's it feel like to be a grown-up now, Mom? ;)

Wein nach Bier, das rat' ich dir

Why is it that beer lubricates my German and makes it awesome, but when I drink wine, I can't speak a word? Someone explain this to me.

The opiate of the masses

I think finally figured out what annoys me so much about television.

Truth be told, it's gotten to the point where I almost hate TV -- the yammering voices of a cliched sitcom, the ominous music and sound-bite graphics of a slick news program, the commercials that all try to outdo each other to win your attention... I have never been much of a TV-watcher, and find that the more time goes by, the more impatient I get with the whole stupid business. I own a TV; but the only action it really sees is to play DVDs.

See, movies are great. They have a story, a message; someone is trying to express something through the multifacted narrative tool provided by film, and whether they do a good job or bad job, or whether I personally agree with -- or even understand! -- the sentiment being conveyed, the point is to communicate. A filmmaker has an idea, and wants others to listen. And unlike TV, which cycles on in an endless loop of rehashed garbage and advertisements, a film only asks a couple of hours of your time (not to mention will start and stop when you want it to!). Of course there are exceptions: sequels whose only point is to squeeze more revenue out of a previous success, adventure films that get so obsessed with the spectacle offered by CGI that they forget they're supposed to be telling a story; but these are the movies that seem to draw a bit from the TV genre in that their main purpose is to compete for your money, and any narrative goal of the filmmaker is incidental. For the most part, though, it still seems that the money of major film studios is just a resource that makes the filmmaking possible. The people who actually make the movie -- directors, writers, actors -- are all there because they want to tell a story.

We humans love stories. We learn, teach, identify, entertain, commiserate, empathize, dream through stories. The ability to communicate with each other so lucidly and vividly is an aspect of that one staggering talent -- language -- that only our lucky species gets to possess. And we have exercised and reveled in that ability since we began acting out hunting tales around the campfire. In film, the storytelling tools are just more advanced, but the spirit is the same. It's a community act: one person stands up and begins a tale, and the others watch and listen.

TV, on the other hand, is an entirely commercial enterprise. Whereas a movie is made by a specific, relatively independent team with one vision, and often (though of course not always) aimed at a selected audience, TV is the hash produced by a conglomeration of executives and advertisers, aimed at distracting as much of the masses as possible with one hand while they reach into the viewer's back pocket with the other.

What makes this whole scheme downright offensive is the way TV tries to engage its audience. When you slide a movie into your machine, you know you are about to view the manufactured presentation of a specific filmmaker. Even if it's a documentary film, most sensible filmgoers will realize that a movie is only so "real". But TV is sneakier. Of course everything you see on television is just as produced, just as carefully engineered and selected as that in a movie; but because it's presented in the form of "news", it suggests that you're supposed to lower your critical filter. It pretends to be educational; it tries to fashion itself as some kind of dispassionate lens onto truth. And yet (with the natural exception of local or non-profit programming), TV is just as fake as a movie, except without that essential desire to communicate. The purpose of TV is entirely to make money. Every show, whether canned sitcom, shocking drama, or appropriately grave news program, is designed to compete with each other for your attention. If there is any communication going on in TV, it is between the individual shows, not with the viewer!

I know I sound like some kind of conspiracy-theorist curmudgeon. TV is so normalized, such a part of the background of our western culture, that people hardly seem to really notice it. Our living rooms are arranged around the TV; conversation flows as easily over the topic of TV shows -- and the shared culture they provide -- as it does over real events. Hell, I pepper my conversation with as many Simpsons and Seinfeld quotes as anyone else of my generation. But it's exactly this normalcy that leads people to be indiscriminate about what they view. For every Seinfeld, there are three imitations with a recorded laughtrack, crammed with all the Sunny Delight and Mazda dealership commercials a thirty-minute slot can hold. Maybe that's what I like about the trend of the last few years of offering some TV shows on DVD. Removed from the advertising circus, the few unique, satirical, free-thinking delights like Scrubs and Family Guy can be enjoyed on my own terms.

I don't really remember when I stopped watching TV (obviously, I haven't missed it). But it's gotten to the point that just to hear a TV gibbering away in the airport feels invasive and unnecessary. When did this yammering barrage of flashy images and disposable contents get to be as normal as having the light on?

It makes me wonder what we'd be doing if we didn't spend hours on the couch being fed pointless, forgettable, barely-disguised advertisement. I don't think I'm naive enough to believe that the world would be significantly more improved, as we all exchanged TV for evenings at the soup kitchen or environmental action. But maybe we'd actually be talking to each other and getting a little exercise... getting to know the real world, instead of the flat, scripted one set to a laugh track.

The marital meal

My brilliant mother contributed this comment to the last post:

I'm not sure the subject of potato salad is suitable for public conversation. It used to be that the sacred salad was only eaten in the privacy of a couple's own kitchen. Simply for nutrition, of course, not just for the pleasure of eating! Potatoes, mayonaise, egg, a little salt perhaps for some spice. But not too much spice. That might lead to indulgence above and beyond the sustenance of life. I hear, though, that people have begun to routinely add onions and celery to their potato salad to ratchet up the (blush) flavor. What is the world coming to? Next thing we know this most sacred of foods will be consumed by couples outside of the bonds of dinnertime and the evening news! And, please, let's have no talk of how those of other ethnic backgrounds make THEIR potato salad. After all, this is still a public forum and could accidentally be accessed by a child.

Yea, verily, this is wise counsel! I trust that none of our Gentle Readers was offended by the nutritional references of the last post, and assure them that this most sinful casserole -- together with "deviled eggs" -- will henceforth be considered Prurient Material and unsuitable for publication in this wholesome journal.

This forum will hereby commence only with topics of interest to Decent Folk: sex, alcohol, and maybe quiltmaking.

A-Summering upon ye olde Hobbyhorses

So, er, I should be working on the blog entries. But when it's so pretty outside, it's hard to sit in front of the computer!

What is there to do in Germany in summer, you ask? Well, Bert and I spend much of our weekends with our butts slowly molding into the form of our bike seats -- much more of this and we're going to grow right into them. If native South Americans saw us on their shores, I'm sure they'd think we were cycletaurs.

Our last venture was down the lovely, tree-lined Neckar river, where we saw cool specimens like this:


I love the dog riding shotgun!

Then Bert turned around to capture me in all my glamourous attire:


Yeah. The South Americans would probably call me Queso-cotal for my pale limbs. (And cheesy puns.)

25 km later, we stopped for a nap under a tree.


Bert looks cute in all his gear, including the shorts... why else do you think I ride behind him?? ;)


In addition to biking, we've also been picknicking a lot on the banks of the Rhein River. It is beautiful: the sparkling river flows, glasslike, along the edge of a green grassy park, and we lie on a blanket and grill Bratwurst while watching the sun go down over the city on the far bank. The weather has been perfect and warm until long after the stars come out; except once, when it got windy enough that we had to batten down the hatches. I asked irritably, "What did our forefathers do when the weather didn't play along, and yet they didn't have any other choice except to cook over a fire?"

To which Bert replied, "They probably just retreated to the caves und haben Liebe gemacht."

I grinned. "Klingt besser als Kartoffelsalat."

At which point, Martin reached for the spoon and said philosophically, "Aber Kartoffelsalat ist auch nicht schlecht."

After it got dark, the girls were all given a tiny bottle of something (I think mine was Baileys), the cap of which we were expected to wear on our noses:


Last Sunday, Bert and Alex and I drove out through the Pfaelzer Wald until we reached the lake next to Burg Berwartstein. We set up our towels, and Alex dived easily into the water.

I dipped a toe in and shrieked. "This lake must have melted yesterday!"

Despite Alex's assurances that the water had to be at least, oh, two or three degrees above freezing, it still took me several minutes of inching, waiting for my lower body to go numb, and then inching some more until I could kick off for a swim. I still only lasted just a few minutes before retreating to the beating sun over our towels. We desert rats weren't meant for glacial mountain pools!

Anyway, so there's a little glimpse as to why the blog continues to be a tad neglected. If only it would rain or something here, so that I could spend a cozy day inside writing! Alas, that summer in Germany is just so darned fun. :)

Hope everyone else is having just as great a season!

Happy Birthday Conny!

My friend Conny in Berlin celebrates her birthday for the first time with her brand-new daughter today. Here are some old-fashioned American chocolate chip cookies in honor of the occasion:


Alles Gute zum Geburtstag!!!

Firstly...

Okay, so I should be going in order, but I just spent all morning uploading the photos from Matt's adventure (he's working on some mysterious project that required them to be sorted and labeled before he left -- still won't tell me what it is, yet!), and so am antsy to post them. Narrative is a-comin'... but first, the pics! :D

Summertime, and the livin' ain't easy

Sie ist wieder da, sie ist wieder da! I must apologize to Blogland for being so out of pocket of late. But as you can probably guess from the title, these have been some crazy last six weeks!

The title here refers to the fact that I have been hard at work traveling around to exciting destinations with friends and loved ones, spending money and engaging in various gastronomical adventures (and by this I mean of the drinkable variety). It's not easy, having fun all the time. Yet among the few downsides to such an occupation are 1) I haven't been spending this time in the increasingly more urgent job search and 2) my poor little blog is sitting forlorn at the door, waiting for me to come home to it! pets reassuringly There there, Blogchen.

So now, where to begin?? How about with where I'm at now: alas, no longer on the Weinstraße. The Fulbright teaching assistantship came to its official end on June 30th, and I moved out of my cozy apartment on that same day. Happily, in the same way that Shauna was there to help move me in, my mommy was here to help move me out. :) She arrived on an ICE on Tuesday morning, June 26th, and we spent the last few days merrily running around the Fatherland before moving me out of Neustadt, wrapping things up at the school, and hopping right away on a plane for Edinburgh.

I will say, with no touch of sarcasm or melodrama, that Scotland is the land of dreams. Shauna joined us in Edinburgh, and the three of us spent the next nine days in a sort of wonder before coming down out of the clouds to land in Dublin. There, we met up with Michael, and then the four of us continued our amazing trip until we all sadly parted on Sunday, July 15th. I still need to sit down and start sorting all these wonderful memories into narratives and picture albums; needless to say, that is top on the docket for this next week.

As for And Then What Happened, I had hardly been back in Ludwigshafen long enough to sort my hastily-moved suitcases before one of my best buddies, Matt Gallucci, came to visit from the States. He flew into Frankfurt on Tuesday, July 24th, and we spent the next ten days in a mad rush around Germania, stuffing ourselves, our cameras, and our souvenir bags with as many memories as possible before I had to take him back to the airport yesterday. It was an absolute blast. It was Matt's first trip to Europe, and it seems to have already infected him with the addictive nature of overseas travel -- we're already talking about the next trip!

Now, after six weeks of straight visiting and traveling, I am sitting here in my underwear on a Friday afternoon, at the new desk that Bert set up for me in what is now our room. I am already looking forward to the next big leg of the summer: flying back to the States to see all the friends and family who couldn't make it over this year. But for now, there are resumes to translate into German and contacts to start calling; insurances to schedule, finances to get in order, and lots and lots of green tea and multivitamins to consume after all the haggis, whisky, beer, and Schnitzel! But first thing's first: let the blogging begin! :)

Love to all!

Bagpipes, haggis, and harps: Coming soon to a blog near you!

A sudden creak announces the turning of the door handle. The door blows open, banging against the wall in a blast of icy wind as snowflakes swirl madly into the room, frantically scuttling onto various bits of furniture or meeting their untimely demise in the fireplace. A cloaked figure stumbles in and shuts the winter back outside again; the fire, which had responded to this blustery offense with frenzied indignance, settles back down onto its peat bricks.

The figure lets fall the bag she had been carrying and pushes her hood back. She is unwashed and smudged with travel; bits of the Highlands are still stuck in her disorderly hair. She gladly accepts a cup of whisky from the innkeeper, and makes her way over to settle down next to you on a bench by the fire.

"Well?" you ask. "Gonna share that whisky?"

She hands you the cup. The scent of the peat smoke blends nicely with the aftertaste of the single malt Scotch. She picks a leaf out of her hair and regards it for a moment. "Sorry about the appearance. I tripped and fell into some bushes on my way off the tour bus. By the way, why is it snowing in July?"

You shrug. "Don't ask me, it's your blog."

She nods sagely. "So maybe I should start putting together a few stories to post from our Scotland & Ireland adventures. The trip was absolutely mind-blowing. Wanna hear about it?"

You sip the whisky. "Okay. But get started already, I can't keep checking back here to see nothing new for over a month. It gets annoying!"

She nods sagely again. Obviously she has no idea where this entry is going. "Then sit tight," she instructs you, reaching for your cup. "There's a lot to tell!"

Willkommen, Sophia Charlotte!

CONNY AND NATE HAD THEIR BABY!

She's a gorgeous little two-and-a-half-kilo, dark-haired bundle of pinkness named Sophia Charlotte Saunders. Sophie chose June 13th to grace the world with her arrival; and with her brilliant parents, I fully expect Sophie to be changing her own diapers in a couple of weeks. Or at least learning that the hands waving in front of her face are indeed attached to her arms. Check out further details on Nate's blog!

Congratulations, Mama and Papa!

Raphael's Madonna of the Hospital.

My Dad

When I was a little kid, I remember one of the best, safest, happiest sounds in the world was the sound of my Dad's boots thumping up the stairs to the front door after work. No matter what kind of a day he'd had, he was always whistling as he came in; and, once we heard that sound -- followed by the exciting jingle of keys in the door -- there was no stopping us. Like a bunch of little Pavlov puppies, we had no other focus in the world than to run to him as fast as we could, shrieking; and he'd drop everything; and the room would echo with his happy "HEY!" as we tumbled into his arms, his sun-warmed uniform and strong hands smelling of the flightline and Wild Country cologne.

As a kid, that's just how Dad was. You don't wonder at it or question it. He was just the symbol of all that was safe and positive. He would herd us outside to take a look at that incredible sunset. He would break open a fresh pea pod from the garden and exclaim in genuine wonder at the smooth green jewels within it; and his delight in the world around him flowed over into us and fed us as surely as did those hot strawberry waffles he'd make us while we all watched reruns of the original Star Trek on the livingroom floor.

When I got a bit older and would complain about something, nothing made me feel better than when my Dad would suddenly lean over and mutter, in his 'Indio' voice: "But that won matter to you. Or to me."

And I'd mutter back, "Because we will be far away."

And he'd go, "And we will have all the moh-ney."

And then we'd both go, "BONG!"

Of course, as you get older, your parents naturally become a bit more human. And isn't that the time when you're supposed to start getting critical of them, when they start to lose their godlike status, and the two of you are supposed to have some natural butting of heads as both must adjust to their changing roles?

Well, that never really quite happened with my Dad. As I started to get my own little taste of the grown-up world, my awe of him only grew as I realized all that he did -- and sacrificed -- for us in order that we could grow up in such security and happiness. It is especially now that I'm older that I get to know him even more for who he is, and not just who he is in relation to me. Imagine my delight, then, to slowly discover that Human Dad is even cooler and funnier and kinder and amazing-er than was God Dad (and believe me, God Dad was already pretty cool).

Now, I get to see and enjoy both sides of the picture. As I watch him with my two little sisters, I laugh anew at the "beep-boop-bort-n-ding!" robot that chases the girls, shrieking with glee, down the hallway. And then after we tuck the little ones in, Dad and I run to the kitchen like kids ourselves to drag all the chocolate and popcorn out into the family room; and then, accompanied by the sounds of crunching and passing around more Schnapps, he and Sarah and I hash out all the issues of the world, long into the night.

It seems not only inadequate, but strange, to try to say thanks. "Thanks" is what you say to somebody who helps you move your couch. What do you say to someone who has spent the last 26 years of his life making the last 26 years of yours nothing but joy? How do you thank someone who could easily be a concert pianist, a university professor, a NASA scientist, hell, James effing Bond, for choosing to first and foremost be your Dad? Somehow, I still slightly suspect that Dad is just hiding his Batmobile for those few moments he gets to himself; but not for one minute did I ever doubt that he would rather be cruising in it than helping us build our volcanoes for science class. (Which, now that I think about it, further supports my theory in that they were always the coolest volcanoes -- or Conastoga wagons, or Cheyenne village dioramas, or anything -- at the whole school fair. These were the kinds of dioramas that only Batman could have made.)

But because there aren't really any other words that can do the job, I'll just have to go for these. Thank you, Dad.

And happy Father's Day.

Black, red, and gold

Thanks to Nate's blog for an interesting article, which led to this interesting article, about the sudden normalcy of seeing German flags in -- gasp! -- Germany.

I am especially intrigued by the teenager's haste in assuring the interviewer that her patriotic skirt isn't patriotic. Since the World Cup, the younger generation appears to have discovered a viable avenue for expressing some national pride, after all -- but only as long as it's fashionable and hip, and avoids any hint of politicism by a wide margin. This seems to confirm that this new phenomenon of attempting to redefine a country's image and sense of self-esteem is quite self-conscious. Somehow I imagine a homeowner looking over both shoulders as he raises his flag for the World Cup; then putting his fingers in his ears in expectation of the coming apocalypse as he makes the decision not to remove it immediately afterwards. Nothing happens... it waves prettily and harmlessly... and remains there, catastophe-free, for a whole year. Imagine that!

Sure, the movement is young, and largely based (for now) more on soccerfield pride than on some fervent belief in a nationally-recognized set of values -- as, for example, American or Swiss pride tends to be. However, the mere mention of that kind of patriotism still makes Germans recoil in horror. So for now, light and fluffy, sports-oriented "Go Krauts!" t-shirts are already a big step. Whatever it is, it's a good sign. Maybe there can be a "new" Germany, after all, defined by its future instead of only its past.

Robot Insurance

Need insurance with a robot plan?

(Fyi, if you're at work: this one's a video!)

Hei times in Heidelberg

Tina is in Germany!

More specifically, she's visiting her old university town of Heidelberg, where she spends a couple weeks each year catching up with old friends (and random acquaintances on the street). And by "catching up with," I mean "bombarded by": breakfast with this person, lunch with another, then coffee with someone else, all before meeting up with these or those people for dinner. Haha, by the time she goes back, the girl probably looks forward to the new school year as an opportunity to relax!

Thus Nigel and I decided that this would be an ideal time to pop by and smother her with even more whirlwind socialization. Yesterday, the two of us met up at the Heidelberg Hauptbahnhof around 1 o'clock, and then took off to find our Bavarian girl in the Hauptstraße (a lovely street that penetrates the expansive and beautiful pedestrian Altstadt).

We had all these plans to explore the city -- visit this museum, see that sight, you know, do stuff -- but in the end, we just found ourselves not really wanting to do anything except eat, drink, and chat, chat, chat. In addition, Nigel lives in the French-speaking part of Switzerland, where he gets more than his share of baguettes and cheese on a regular basis. Therefore, part of our mission was also to fill him up with as much good, hearty, rustic German food as we possibly could before packing him back into his train.

So first thing's first, we went in search of lunch. We found it in a cafe with a garden, where Nigel was ceremoniously stuffed with Jägerschnitzel, Pommes, salad, and beer. (I, on the other hand, have had access to plenty of hearty Essen over the last nine months, so I wimped out with a simple soup and espresso.)

It was well over two hours later before we finally hauled ourselves out of our comfy seats and trundled, belching, to the Studentenkarzer: a nineteenth-century detention center for students at the University of Heidelberg, who had disturbed the peace with such shocking offenses as playing in the city fountains, singing loudly in the streets as a consequence of too much drink, or publicly jeering at local authorities. The Karzer is an unremarkable, three-story stone house in the middle of the scenic Old City, whose various rooms had been transformed into dormlike cells for the rowdy students to cool their heels for anywhere from two days to up to a month. Over the years, it took on a sort of romantic appeal: students began to view a stay at the Karzer as somewhat of a University of Heidelberg tradition. The walls are absolutely covered with clever poems written in candlesoot (and gorgeous, tidy, 19th-century educated handwriting); silhouettes of the inmates; murals; laments for missed girlfriends; funny anecdotes detailing "offenses"; and all kind of interesting bits of art. The Karzer was turned into a museum in 1914, and its elegantly entertaining graffiti has been carefully preserved for almost a century.

After taking pictures of ourselves behind bars, we then moseyed around various other university buildings before deciding it was time for more beer. The sunlight started to take on a golden tone as we found another outdoor cafe in the Marktplatz; and we then spent another couple hours talking each other's ears off over a cold, sparkly Radler.

Every now and then, someone would halfheartedly suggest that maybe we should be, like, walking around and seeing the city and stuff? At which point, the conversation would go something like this:

Person Two: "Oh yeah. Uh... well, we've all seen the castle about a dozen times."

Three: "And it's at least a ten-minute walk from here."

Universal sigh. Person Two: "How about the Brückentor (Bridge Gate)?"

Person One: "How far is it?"

Vague hand wave. "Oh, I dunno. Fifty feet that way?"

Significant consideration of this daunting odyssey. Finally: "...All right. Let's take a picture of the Brückentor, and then go find some dinner."

We drag ourselves once again from our umbrella'ed table, and spend about fifteen minutes hanging over the edge of the bridge to admire the swans and the view of beautiful Heidelberg, before walking one street over to a cozy brewery for more rustic teutonic deliciousness.

If you ever find yourself in Heidelberg, whether for the first time or as a returning wanderer, I highly recommend the Vetter Brauhaus. Located in the Steingasse right across from the Brückentor, it's the coziest, most Germanic pub ever. We sat ourselves down at a long bench pushed right up against one of the tall, enormous windows, the sill of which makes up the table's end-bench. The result is that you feel like you're dining half-outside, half-inside, and able to watch all the summery foot traffic wander by as you sip THE WORLD'S STRONGEST BEER. No kidding, they have an entry in the Guiness Book of World Records! All of the beer at this brewery was good -- especially the pale stuff, which was practically sweet -- but their most famous one is the "Vetter 33": a beer whose alcohol content nudges the 33% mark. They serve it in 1/4 liter glasses, and we all carefully sipped one of these between the three of us. It's surprisingly drinkable. Dark, of course; very malty and syrupy, of course; but has a pleasant smoky finish, and forces you to enjoy it slowly. The food was also absolutely terrific: ever on task, Tina and I fed Nigel a plate piled with a delicious giant Bratwurst on top of a mound of steaming Sauerkraut and perfectly-fried potato slices, and I got a tender, yellow baked potato covered in herbed Quark, washed down with a bubbly refreshing Radler. For dessert, Tina and Nigel ordered the thickest, most layered Apfelstrudel this side of paradise. (It was so good, in fact, I even risked a bite myself, knowing full well that doing so could mean inciting the wrath of the Gods of Fructose Intolerance. Fortunately, they seemed not to have noticed my sin, yet...!)

Nigel is daunted, but determined.
(By the way, that glass is a Maß -- a full liter of beer!)

We must have sat there for hours. The candle burned all the way down in its clay bottle as we talked about old times and new, caught up on what's been going on in the past and what we hope for the future. I gotta say, it was exactly what I'd been needing. Not that I don't enjoy the company of my new friends and all the wonderful people I've met here; but, well, sometimes I just miss my old buddies. Hanging out with Tina and Nigel was like making a little visit home.

Which is exactly what it was, actually. Looking around the cozy brewery, watching the streets get dimmer outside as murmuring pedestrians wandered by with their ice cream and we ordered more beer, I realized that, to me, home isn't a geographical location.

Gesundheit

Going to the pharmacy here is fun.

First, to get there, you hop over puddles in the cobblestoned streets until you reach a narrow doorway, squeezed between two centuries-old stone buildings and hung with a wrought iron sign that says "Hirsch Apothecary" (established sometime in the 17th century). Ding! You push open the door.

Inside is a small shop, covered wall to looming wall with an orderly, but dizzying, variety of medicaments, all glowing quietly in their white packaging -- an effect surely meant to convey not only professionalism and sterility, but also the impression that aesthetics are completely superfluous for medicines of such power. Two robed deities of Health and Well-Being (or maybe they're white-jacketed pharmacists) greet you with a grave nod. "Good day, madam," intones one, bending his awesome medical eye upon me. "How may I assist you?"

I suddenly remember that, in addition to my prescription, I could use some more band-aids. "Right this way," purrs the white jacket, and floats weightlessly out from behind the counter to guide me to an astounding array of various Self-Adhesive Cotton-Gauzed Wound Plasters. Selecting one from the artfully arranged shelf, he assures me that "this assortment should meet the lady's needs."

"Sure," I say, reaching for the box.

But he's not finished. "You see the various different kinds of Self-Adhesive Cotton-Gauzed Wound Plasters available in this package." He tips the silver-edged box on its side like a bottle of fine wine, in order to better display the incredible power of these bandages. "There are 14 strips of a 19x72 millimeter size, and 6 more of a 30x72 millimeter size. The padding contains an antibacterial element which can also help prevent infection in the wound. In addition, these strips are waterproof."

I repress my grin. "Sounds great." Then I hand him my prescription. This is also outlined in equal detail, and finally conveyed to me in a professional, Hirsch Apothecary-embossed refrigerator package "because of the warm temperature outside today."

"Does the lady require anything else?" the voice intones, serious and hushed as a doctor's -- or a psychiatrist's.

"No thanks, that was it."

"Then I wish you a pleasant day."

And with that, the two deities withdraw once again behind the Counter of Olympus, and the ding of the bell heralds my crossing back over into the earthly world.

Himmelfahrt

Which way to Himmel?

It's a rather widely-acknowledged observation that the U.S. population is, percentagewise, significantly more religiously active than that of western Europe. Last I read, somewhere around ten percent of the German population regularly attends religious services, as compared with about fifty percent of Americans (or more, depending on the area). Germans even sometimes roll their eyes at the apparent crusader's fervor that spouts regularly from our president; raise an eyebrow at the "In God We Trust" printed on the backs of our currency; and laugh outright at our Puritan prudishness (for example, the Janet Jackson Superbowl scandal that so rocked our media boats barely registered on the European radar. "So? It's a breast!" scoffed your Average European, before putting out his cigarette to board a high-speed train).

And yet, German Catholics are proud of having a German pope. "Religion" is a regular subject in school, just like Math and Geography. And every month of May, there are a slew of government holidays taken right out of the Christian calendar.

One of these is Himmelfahrt -- literally, "the Journey to Heaven" (Christ's Ascension) -- which occurred last Thursday. Most people get a four-day weekend out of this; and, being springtime, the result is that seemingly everyone in the country decides to go on a mini-vacation. Including us.

Unfortunately, this does mean that the Wednesday before Himmelfahrt is comparable to the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Bert and I booked our tickets to Chemnitz way too late to get a reserved seat on the train, and so when the shiny white beast glided up to the platform, we crushed in with the rest of the masses, immediately sat ourselves down at the on-board restaurant, and ostentatiously perused the menu until everyone had packed inside and the ICE pulled smoothly away. It was insane -- people were sitting in the aisles, in the doorways, on top of their luggage in those passageways between cars! So we ordered one beer apiece and spent the trip justifying our presence in the restaurant seats by slowly sipping one mouthful of Hefeweizen at a time over the next four hours.

Of course, though, any train that is teeming with humanity is also going to be a train that gets delayed, rerouted, and whatever other technical problems can serve to make the trip for those sitting in the aisles as long and uncomfortable as possible. It was almost one in the morning by the time we finally arrived in Chemnitz, and were picked up by Heidi's boyfriend, Jens, who thankfully supplied us with another much-needed beer before settling us in cozily on the couch. We must've slept more than nine hours before waking up late the next morning to bright sunshine and birds outside.

Driving to Heaven is as easy as traveling down any road in the Erzgebirge.

Traditionally, Himmelfahrt Thursday is also sometimes observed as Männertag, or "Men's Day" (especially in the formerly communist East, where religion was definitely not acknowledged by the government!). As Bert and Jens explained it, this is when guys get together to hang out, go hiking, barbecue, and usually drink lots and lots of beer. Fascinated, I asked when the next "Frauentag" was, and they exchanged guilty looks.

"Well, technnically there is a Frauentag... but it's in the winter sometime, and it's not a day off," they ended lamely.

Oh, I see. So all of society acknowledges a day when men get to go out and celebrate their man-ness by hanging out with friends and drinking beer all day, but there's not really an equivalent for the other gender. Although in principal, I actually quite like the idea of having a Men's Day: with all the focus in the last few decades on trying to even out the playing field for women (albeit understandably so, given that this entire half of the population was widely considered property for many thousand years!), it's good for men to get a little celebration, too, just for being the marvellous creatures they are. However, I still found it surprising that, in the Land of Forests and Beer, it never seems to have crossed anyone's mind that women like a long hike and a bottle of suds, too. I huffed and said as much; and they looked at my big bowl of oatmeal, frought with steaming healthfulness, and laughed.

We did indeed spend Männertag hiking and overeating, though. In fact, we did that all weekend. On Thursday afternoon, we drove once again to the lovely village of Sehma, where Bert's parents live, and shared some wine with them in his uncle's back garden before wandering over to Olaf and Corinna's for more pizza and beer. Then on Friday, we caught a train to the top of the Fichtelberg.

A steam-engined train!

An open car in a train is also a heavenly way to journey upward.

It was awesome. We sat in an open car in the sunshine, right behind the engine, and got occasionally ashed- or steamed-on as we chooga-chooga'ed through the beautiful countryside. We finally hopped out in Oberwiesenthal (at the end of the line) and walked a bit through the town... before seeing a Sommerrodelbahn at the foot of the ski slopes! This is a slick metal half-tube that wends down the hillside: each person gets plopped down on their own little cart -- a tiny wheeled platform just big enough for your butt, feet, and a handbrake in the middle -- and then whoooosh, you fly down the hill in this precarious trench, sliding so far up the sides around every curve that you're sure you're inches away from joining a pile of other riders' remains on the outside of the track. I, being smaller, bulleted my way as fast as I could through the whole thing, pushing so far forward on the brake/go-stick thing that I was practically bending over on my belly (and consequently also better able to handle curves). Bert, however, with his nearly two meters, apparently had a scarier time of it. I hopped off at the end, exhilarated; and yet it was several moments later before he came carefully rolling around the last curve, sitting straight up, hair on end, long legs bent so that his knees were practically touching his ears, and eyes wide with apprehension.

The way to paradise is straight and narrow.

Now that we had conquered speed, we decided to test our fear of heights by traveling the rest of the way up the mountain on the ski lift. At the top, it was bright and sunny, and families and hikers ran around with ice cream cones and spied through telescopes at the 360-degree view of the Erzgebirge.

We took the high road.

We shared a beer, enjoyed the view, and then hiked an hour or so down to the Czech border to have lunch at a cafe on the other side.

Bert showed his German ID, which the border guards barely glanced at before waving him through.

I handed over my passport, and they took it as if I were handing them a fizzing black sphere. The guard opened it carefully; compared me to the picture; inspected every page; showed it to his fellow; then, with a hesitant nod, handed it back.

"Don't I get a stamp?" I asked hopefully.

Suddenly the suspicious expression broke into an amused smirk. "Well, you have a visa, which usually doesn't require a stamp."

"But the stamps are the coolest part," I protested. "How else am I supposed to show off?"

"All right, all right." He opened the passport back up and carefully pressed a stamp into one of the empty cells. I regarded it happily as we crossed into the Czech Republic. Stamps are the modern equivalent of stickers on a suitcase!

Lunch was... well, drool. We sat outside with Bert's mom and uncle -- who drove the car over to join us, for some mysterious reason opting to skip the steam engine, Sommerrodelbahn, ski lift, and hour's hike -- and we feasted on goulash, stroganoff, and delicious black beer. Then we did a little grocery shopping (groceries are cheap, there!), poked around a black market where we were offered cigarettes every five feet (I am not kidding!) and then drove back to Sehma, where Bert and I got ready to go take a look around Annaberg-Buchholz at night. It was beautiful. The nearest big city is Chemnitz, 45 kilometers away, and so the stars are thick and bright. At this time of year, too, the sun goes down very late, and so the long, blue twilight bathes everything in a dreamlike glow: the fields are intense shades of green, the trees rustle dimly overhead, and the stars and silver crescent moon glitter in a sky that is somehow still bright, even though the sun is long gone. We viewed the town and scenery from a hilltop before wandering around the cobblestoned streets and poking in and out of cozy pubs.

The next day, Saturday, we had a leisurely coffee before just generally taking it easy: running some errands and stopping by to visit various people Bert had grown up with. It's odd to see people in Sehma waving at each other as they drive by on the street -- "Oh, there's Frau So-and-So. Guten Morgen, Frau So-and-So!" -- and just, well, knowing each other! Bert and Alex drove around and pointed out various unassuming little spots, regaling me with stories about how this person went skinny-dipping there and got caught by a bunch of girls, how that person fell over this gate after a night at the pub and blamed the damage on sheep, how this is the field where they trained for various sports, etc. etc. In other words, they grew up there. Alex, especially, being one of the town's two bakers, knows everybody. Which is odd for the vagabond American military brat to wrap her head around. I'm not sure I could live in a town where there is so little privacy. But it sure is cute to come visit!

That evening, we had a little cookout on Bert's uncle Gert's back patio, and it was, like everything else, lovely. And, like everything else, swimming in beer and food! We stuffed ourselves on pork chops in onion and mushroom sauce, Bratwurst with spicy mustard, soft seedy dark bread, potato salad with pickles, cucumber salad, and of course, cold foamy suds. Olaf, Corinna, Alex, and his girlfriend, Anja, also joined us, and we sat and drank under the night sky until rather late. Then Bert and I had a half-crocked philosophical discussion on the walk home through the bright starry fields.

The next day, we lazed around in the Lißner's garden. There was breakfast outside with the twittering birds, an hour or so in the hammock, and a pedicure from Bert's mom (who's studying podiatry) before it was time to pack up and meet up with our ride back to the Pfalz. This is a girl who works in Ludwigshafen, but who commutes every weekend back to Cranzahl in the Erzgebirge to stay with her family. She is very sweet -- but a machine! The drive back was six and a half hours long, and the whole way, she took not one sip of water, not one bite of anything to munch, and not one pee break. We could have forced the issue, but it would really have been forcing the issue to get her to stop. Instead, we just sat trapped in the back seat and tried to think of something else. We practically ran each other over in the desperate sprint for the bathroom after we were mercifully dropped off outside Bert's door.

So, that was that. All torturous pee-break-less rides home aside, our Himmelfahrt really was a little Journey to Heaven. :)

(And here are even more pictures!)

The Eye

Hee hee...

Welcoming in the May

Okay, so the blog is starting to get a little repetitive. I think it was Tolkein who wrote (wait, let me find the quote, here it is): "Now it is a strange thing, but things that are good to have and days that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to; while things that are uncomfortable, palpitating, and even gruesome, may make a good tale, and take a deal of telling anyway." An interesting observation, considering his gift for creating images of unparalleled beauty (Lothlorien, anyone?). But kind of true, if you're anyone other than Tolkein.

So with that in mind, I think I'll create a standardized formula for all future blog entries from now on:

"We had such a swell weekend at Bad Dorfbergsteinbachsheim, a charming medieval town with great (wine/beer/coffee) at an outdoor (cafe/Biergarten). There was a (number)-year-old ruin of a (monastery/castle/fortress/town wall) in the (Romanesque/Gothic) style. Then we ate (delicious German food) at the local (Seasonal Festival)."

This would certainly work to describe last Tuesday. It was the 1st of May, which is not only an ancient holiday in its own right, but also Labor Day in Germany -- which meant that everyone had the day off, and we took the opportunity to go out and do fun May things. Like this! :)

Happy 1. Mai, everyone!

Excuse me, junge Dame, do you have a minute?

Gaahh!

Why is it that when you're walking by yourself down a busy street, the mere fact of your being alone -- no matter how purposeful your walk or aggressively focused your expression -- is an automatic invitation to be approached by anyone bearing a pamphlet?

Not having a car, I tend to walk through town for a reason. I am either on my way to or from work, to the train station, or to an appointment, all of which represent a specific time engagement waiting for me at the end of the street. Which means I don't generally mosey, or gaze around aimlessly at the various sights. In short, I don't think I give off the impression of a window-shopper with nowhere to be.

And yet, if there is ever someone selling something, handing out pamphlets, approaching people to fill out a questionnaire or talk about the benefits of joining their special-interest group, or even just asking for change, I am always the one chosen. Always! Without fail! Out of a horde of people walking down the Hauptstrasse, the guy with the clipboard targets me. I don't make eye contact; I don't meander; I certainly don't call attention to myself in any way. And yet my face must have the word "sucker" written across it, because no matter how I try to blend in, sneak by, sprint by, cross the street, or put as many other passersby between myself and them as I can, inevitably that slick voice catches up behind me and eels over my shoulder, "Excuse me, miss, do you have a minute?"

Once, going down Unter den Linden in Berlin, three different people offered me the same fill-it-out-and-win thing within the same 100 meters. By the third one, I turned around and shouted at him, "NEIN!"

It's like live telemarketing. Can't we all wear some kind of sign that makes us exempt from such approaches? Some kind of universally-understood button that indicates, "I find billboards and other advertisements aggressive enough. Should you then attempt to take it even further by intruding upon my personal space to force me to pay attention to your schtick, you might be risking a knifehand strike to the neck."

Edit: So, yeah. What was that about going placidly amid the noise and haste...? ;o)

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly, and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant. They too have their story.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is. Many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.

Strive to be happy.

- Anonymous