Round and Round It Goes

Into the Dublin

2008-05-23T03:54:00.000-07:00

Friday

As I walked back to the hostel this evening, I looked up at the sky over the Common House. The green dome was lit against a dark denim sky, and I was surprised to see the full moon floating above it, nestled among faint clouds. I knew it was a full moon tonight -- we would have celebrated V-night had it not been Good Friday, had people been able to make it. Still, the sight of something so familiar and friendly in this city that is so strange to me was unexpected. It's the first full moon I've actually seen since moving to the UK.

The day has been very long. I made it harder on myself by getting so engrossed in a story I was writing last night that I didn't go to bed until ~3 a.m. (The story? It's called "Wish in One Hand" for now. I wonder if anything will come of it.) Up this morning to pack and clean the house before heading to the Vic to meet the rugby boys and board the coach. The way this little trip came up, after all, is that the Menai Bridge Rugby Club (Paul's team) is going on tour to Thurles, Ireland this weekend. I thought it was thoroughly unfair that Paul would get a fun weekend away and I didn't, so I hitched on with the boys as far as Dublin. I'll spend the weekend on my own, exploring the city.

The coach and ferry ride over was a raucous affair. Half the boys were drunk before they got on the coach, but the other half quickly caught up. Their theme was silly hats, and they created rule after rule for the trip, all designed to be violated at every turn, resulting in either monetary fines or alcohol consumption.

I tried to nap a bit on the ferry, my late night catching up with me, but Paul made a poor pillow as his drunk-ass shifted and hollered with the rest of them. Why I married a man whose voice is at a perfect timbre to burst my eardrums and sauté my brains I'll never know. (Lie, but whatever.) That, added to the group "HeeeEEEEYYYY!!!"s as guys fell, spilled, or got caught sans silly hat, was enough to disrupt any rest I might have gotten. On top of everything else, we shared the ferry with the inevitable trashy, hammered girls who alternately screeched, threw bottles, or shook their boobs at all the guys. They even attempted to start fights between the boys and an English rugby team also on the boat. The last didn't work terribly well, as the Welsh settle their battles with the English by -- what else? -- out-singing them. Most of the lyrics involved some form of "Stick your f**king chariot up your ass." Ah, centuries-old rivalries.

At one point, the trashy girls actually turned on Paul and Stan, accusing Stan of having diminutive genitals. Stan, who could fill in for Van Damme, was not at all fazed by slights to his appendages. "Eh, I'm not worried about the size of my dick -- I know how to use it. But if you really wanted to hurt me, you'd accuse me of being emotionally stunted and incapable of intimacy. I'm not so sure of myself there."

We reached Dublin, and the coach dropped me in the city center. I was on my own. I headed for Isaac's Hostel to check in and stash my pack. At age 29, this is the first time I've ever stayed in a hostel (I don't think the teepee one in Taos counts). I chose it out of tight-fistedness primarily, but also out of curiosity for the experience most of my friends had 10 or more years ago. So far, it's not bad -- it resembles a college dormitory more than anything, with common areas, lockers for personal belongings, and community kitchens. There are a lot of youngsters, but I'm definitely not the oldest (thank goodness for old hippies!). The Americans are as easy to spot as ever, with their UCLA Ts, LL Bean backpacks, and loud voices. I have to admit, I avoid them.

I checked in and stowed my pack, then headed right out to find Excedrin (the ferry ride was hot and noisy, a lethal combo for my migraines), and some dinner. The chemist (pharmacist for the Yanks) seemed so grateful I knew to ask for the drug by its ingredients, including "paracetamol" instead of "Tylenol" or "acetaminophen."

I wandered for a little while, snapping a few pics. The city was teeming with people. Heaving. On every corner there is some sort of queue with 15-20 folks, I presume waiting for the next bus. The sidewalks are cramped, clouds of cigarette smoke tufting overhead. Groups of 5-10 cluster in doorways, laughing, smoking. What is striking is how young everyone is. It's like being on a huge high school campus. In a city of 1.4 million, half are under the age of 28. And like teens and 20s everywhere, they travel in packs and loiter. All over the city. It's startling, especially after being in North Wales for four months, where it seems like there are maybe 1000 people total, and they all have gray hair.

The River Liffey from the O’Connell Street Bridge

The city itself, what little I've seen of it, is a little New York. The streets are old, European in their cobblestones. The buildings are cramped, rows and rows of 2-3 story storefronts with apartments above. On this holiday evening, many shops are locked behind roller doors, their faces covered with graffiti. Then, on the next block, sits a building in proud Georgian splendor, lit up for the tourists, or a cathedral, draped in spotlights, spires and crosses soaring into the midnight sky. The River Liffey bisects the city, with several bridges spanning, including the O'Connell, which is the only bridge in Europe whose width exceeds its length, and the Ha'penny pedestrian bridge, so called because the toll to cross used to be half a penny.

I eventually found myself in the Temple Bar district -- dozens of pubs, a bunch of tourist traps, hotels, and eateries. Many places were closed for Good Friday, but I found a shop selling cheap crepes, and settled in for a break. The man who handled my order was young, Indian (I believe). He smiled, thanked me for my order. Even when he cleared my plate, his face softened and smiled again. Like the visible full moon, it was unexpected. I hadn't realized how accustomed I have become to the brisk and impersonal attitude of service people in Wales. The difference was lovely.

I had hoped to wander a bit more, getting some night shots of the sites. I'm planning to do the Literary Pub Crawl tomorrow night, and I don't know what chances I'll have for night shots then. But my exhaustion caught up with me, threatening me with a full-on migraine. I headed back to the hostel to snuggle into a sofa with my iPod, my journal, and a book.

So far, I love the traveling alone thing. No decisions by committee. I do what I want to do, period. I was scared to do this alone, terrified, really. I've never been anywhere by myself, let alone a completely new city. (Note: Now that I've typed that out, I realize what a lie that is. I've been alone in a lot of places, not the least of which was LA. I seem to have a rather selective and dramatic memory.) I almost backed out a dozen times. But I rock at this. The hostel clerk even seemed relieved to check me in after spending forever with several others -- I bothered to read the notice behind the desk that told me everything I needed to know. This is cool.

I'm going to read for a bit, then head to my assigned bed. Haven't been there yet, we'll see how that goes.

Saturday

Note to self: "coed" rooms in a hostel means me and seven guys. Oi. I didn't remember choosing coed, but it must have been cheaper. Damn my miserly heart. It wasn't that bad, really, except that I kept thinking I was in completely the wrong place, and some inebriated 19-year-old Czech was going to crawl into my bunk at 1 a.m., thinking it was his. But other than the reveille trumpet of farts this morning and an unbidden glimpse of naked ass (his, not mine), it wasn't horrible. I'm not even sure they knew a female was in the room with them, as my hair is pretty short at the moment.

I got up and made my way down to breakfast, which at that point was some tasteless bread and Styrofoam cups of what attempted to be coffee. I gave it up, grabbed a chunk of bread and headed out.

This morning the city was relatively empty, especially in comparison to last night. It gradually filled up, mainly with tourists. Today I can see more of the disparities: grand, soaring monuments of architecture, art and culture alternate with dirty, graffiti-covered alleys, homeless wrapped in sleeping bags, and ugly glass and chrome evidence of corporate money.

I marched around the Common House and up Marlborough Street. Passed the Millennium Spike (Why does this exist? I dunno), James Joyce, the big beautiful General Post Office.

Common House

Corner of Marlborough and Abbot

James Joyce

General Post Office

I went up Moore Street, full of colors, fruit and flower vendors. I bought a box of strawberries from a nice lady who called me "love" at least 10 times in the course of our transaction: "What'll it be, love? One box is one Euro, love. There you go, love, have some grapes, too. All right then, love."

Moore Street Market

I immediately chomped into the grapes, and pressed on past the Gate Theatre to the Dublin Writers Museum. Frankly, for a city that touts itself as a literary powerhouse, the museum was paltry. A bunch of old library books and "facsimiles" of personal correspondence does not a fascinating exhibit make. Oh, well, at least I only paid the student entrance fee.

Dublin Writer's Museum

I was getting tired, so I headed down Canal Street toward the Castle, expecting a place for lunch to pop up somewhere. I wandered past the Four Courts and Christchurch Cathedral, where the sky suddenly spat sleet. I had a turkey sandwich in a little shop, then made my way to the Castle.

Four Courts

Dublin Castle

The line to get in was thick and long, however, and filled with Americans, so I abstained. What is with the American obsession with castles? I guess it's because, with the exception of Barbie-plastic versions at Disneyland, we don't have any.

It began to sleet again, turning cold and nasty. I decided to seek out the infamous bookstores in search of a place to rest and get out of the cold. I first popped into a tiny bookshop near Temple Bar, across from the Bank of Ireland. It was cramped, long and narrow, but with a mezzanine along one side that curved out from the wall like this:

I very much wanted pics because it was such a neat space, but it was packed and I didn't think people would appreciate me taking photos of them.

I next hit Hodges Figgis, Dublin's oldest and largest bookstore. I browsed a bit, happening on a thick tome of literary criticism all about how all the stories in the world boil down to only seven plots. Let's see if I can remember them:

1. Overcoming Monsters
2. Quest
3. Voyage & Return
4. Comedy
5. Tragedy

Well, 5/7 isn't awful. (Further research indicates the last two are "Rags to Riches" and "Rebirth.") Anyway, I sat down with this book, and quickly found myself too tired to comprehend it and too tired to get up.

Hodges Figgis

So I pulled out my copy of The Subtle Knife and finished it. I find it annoying that Philip Pullman gets away with switching 3rd person point of view mid-scene (not that he really gets away with it -- I don't think it works -- but somebody published it as-is), but whatever.

Knowing I won't get through the next day and a half without a book, I bought another and set off again.

But my little guidebook was gone. It had been falling out of my pocket all day, and I guess I finally failed to notice it. Probably the worst place to lose a book is a bookstore, and I was unable to track it down.

I meandered, found The Duke, where the Literary Pub Crawl starts, then strolled along the shops on Grafton. I had hoped to stop at the Bewley, an old coffee shop the guidebook recommended, but without the book I was clueless as to where it was. Luckily, I stumbled upon it. After waiting interminably for a table (and traitorously eyeing the half-empty Starbucks across the street), I got a mocha and some choc cake, hoping they'd help kill the headache the Excedrin wasn't totally able to vanquish.

The Bewley is all right, but not the paragon of early 20th century atmosphere it claims. It's just a 3-story coffeeshop, nicer than most, but a coffeeshop all the same.

Bewley's Oriental Cafe

This area is very Americanized. Starbucks, the Gap, Urban Outfitters. Everything is watered down, catering to the tourists. I suppose you have to get out of the city, into less well-traveled areas of the country to really get the feel of Ireland.

The Literary Pub Crawl:

Okay, by this time last night I was way tired, my migraine making me nauseous, and all I could think about was getting to bed. But this was the one thing I had planned to do, and I didn't know if it would run on Easter Sunday. So I went anyway.

We started at The Duke, where the two actors (one male, one female) did a scene from "Waiting for Godot." Then to Trinity College, where we all gathered around the first stone placed as the school was built in 1592. They did a bit of Oscar Wilde in Leadville, CO, schmoozing with the miners as part of his tour of America. On to O'Neill's, a rather huge pub, to sit and twiddle our thumbs for twenty minutes. Well, I guess everyone else drank and chatted, but I was sick with migraine, and I had no one to talk to (the thought of making the effort over the noise made my skull shriek).

O'Neill's Pub

Then another brief, cold performance outside the tourism center -- something about men forced to beg on the streets after the workers' strike of 1913. Led by Jim Larkin against the big cahuna employer of the day, William Martin Murphy, the workers were unsuccessful, and many were forced to the streets. The characters were engaged in judging whether passersby were Catholic or Protestant, so they could choose the proper hymn to sing as they held out their hands.

On to The Old Stand, formerly the Monico, for another twenty minutes packed into a noisy pub. At least this one had rugby on. Apparently, this pub was near Michael Collins's (freedom fighter) secret meeting place, and its proximity to the Castle (where the local Brit government was) made it a grand meeting spot for the British agents.

There's a lot of convoluted history in this town.

Then on to The Duke again, where they did a little quiz to give out a T-shirt and some whiskey, and to chat about the next pub, Davy Byrnes. A whole chapter of Ulysses is set there. They also talked about Brendan Beehan, who spent a lot of his short life in jail for IRA activities, and the rest serving as the village drunk.

They went on to Davy Byrnes, but I didn't. I headed to the hostel, a shower, and bed.

Sunday

Last night was quieter than the previous, maybe because I took some Excedrin PM before bed. Unfortunately, this morning the seven other guys in the room had to wake up at 8 to discuss the night's debauchery and fart in one another's faces. There's a lot to be said for hotel rooms, expensive as they are.

I spent today hitting the major sites I missed the day before. The city was empty, either because it was Sunday morning, or because it was Easter. Hard to find a place open for breakfast.

St. Patrick's Cathedral -- truly impressive. It seems like every city -- hell, every village -- in Europe has several cathedrals to draw tourists. They get a bit old after a while. But St. Pat's, built for the man who brought Christianity to the Irish, is really something. Spires anchored to the building by arching spans rise above long silvery stained glass windows. Celtic crosses top the roof peaks. The gardens hug the building, allowing children to play in the shadows of the intricate structures. There are so many angles, so many nooks and crannies for light to play in, it's a photographer's dream. My only regret was the fencing keeping me at a distance, and the clouds that sheltered the church from the sun.

St. Patrick's Cathedral

Back past Christchurch Cathedral -- the sun out enough now for me to play with reflections -- and down Dame Street to Trinity College. It's a lovely campus, but the gray buildings and the gray day didn't make it very picturesque. Perhaps if I could have captured the dissonance between the gorgeous gothic buildings sitting stately beside 1970s concrete shoeboxes, I would have some meaningful photos to share. As it is, I had to be content with the bell tower (the site of the 1st laid rock of Trinity), whose bell only rings when a virgin passes underneath. It has not made a peep in a very long time.

Christchurch Cathedral

Trinity Bell Tower

The New and the Old

I played with reflections again here, and did manage one "dissonance" shot -- a modern sculpture fronting a Dracula-esque building.

Onward to Merrion Square, a park surrounded on four sides by famous and colorful Georgian doors, and the street artists selling little paintings of them. Then around St. Stephen's Square (a bit of a larger park), through the Santa Monica Promenade-like Grafton Street, on to Temple Bar to meet Paul and Stan.

Beers at Temple Bar, lunch at some pizza joint, beers at the Quays (pronounced "Keys") and the Oliver St. John Gogarty (serenaded by some very unnoteworthy Irish musicians), back to Temple Bar to meet up with the rest of the boys. Then bus, ferry, bus, and finally home. Yay -- I missed my bed and my dogs and kitties.

I have to admit that in the end, the trip probably would have been more fun with a good traveling partner like Paul or Mom. I'm not a drinker, and Fri-Sat's mild migraine kept me from appreciating the pubs very much. But a little live music and a couple of drinks with friends would have made a big difference (well, that and no nausea-inducing migraine).

I would love to be able to go back when I have more time to take some day excursions out of the city, or to do an entire island tour, really. Someday soon, I'm sure, Paul and I will get it together enough to do our bike tour. That will be awesome.

My Trip to Germany: Berlin

2006-08-16T11:51:00.000-07:00

Berlin – July 10, 2006

It’s all over. I might cry, mostly because I don’t want to go home. Though I will have all the games to watch on DVD…

We heard the game was playing at Potsdamer Platz so we headed there, figuring it was in the Sony Center. Of course, it was full and closed, so we went to a nearby bar per our usual custom. We had dinner and Dunkelweiß (mmm…), then discovered the movie theater upstairs was playing the game for 3Є. Sure, the bar was free, but cush seats, A/C, ginormous screen, and new experience! It was worth 3Є.

France was awarded a PK in the 7th, which Zidane tucked away. Italy was insanely dangerous on corners, scoring on one. France turned it on in the second half (by which time I was sick to my stomach for the first time on the trip), and I thought they were going to pull it off. I hoped, anyway, as I can’t bear to cheer for Italy with all their crying and diving. Every 30 seconds Toni was on the ground, writhing and grabbing some new fake injury.

France was definitely the stronger, and Zidane, Henry, and my man Ribery put in awesome performances, but it still ended 1-1 and went to OT. Where it all fell apart. Tresuguet came in for Ribery, and Wiltford for Henry. There were cold and had no touch, didn’t know where each other were.

Zidane had his shoulder dislocated, and this is what makes him different from other players (and other Frenchmen, too): he just sat there, waiting for the whistle to blow, then when they finally noticed him, he just gave a wan smile and gestured to his dangling arm, waiting for someone to come put it back so the game could go on.

Zidane, however, was not present for the penalty shoot-out, as he received a straight red with only a few OT minutes to go for head-butting Materazzi – of f the ball – in the chest. So far, we haven’t really seen what provoked him, other than some fairly non-head-butt-worthy grabbing by Materazzi. The only thing I can figure at this point is that Materazzi jabbed him in that injured shoulder, or called his mother a really bad name (as it turned out, he called his mother AND sister really bad names).

So shoot-out without Henry, Zidane, and Ribery. On the second shot, Trezuguet bounced it off the crossbar, but unlike Zidane’s PK in the 7th, this shot did NOT bounce down over the line. This would be the end for France, as Italy nailed all 5 of their PKs.

I was sick that the whiners and divers had won, but also increasingly sick to my stomach, period. Even J, after cheering for Italy, admitted they didn’t deserve the Cup. We didn’t stay to see them crowned, though we did see the Italian national team cut off Camoranesi’s nasty hair-knob in some ritual of victory.

Back to the hotel for some 1-on-1 time with the flush valve. I’m impressed I made it this far into the trip without getting to know a random toilet intimately. It’s a record, I believe.

Berlin – Later…

Today we gave over all decision-making to Jeff, our tour guide at Fat Tire Bike Tours
(affiliated with Mike’s in Munich).

The tour started in Alexanderplatz, and toured a lot of East Berlin, which we hadn’t seen much of previously.

Marienkirche and the TV Tower. The TV tower arose as an East Berlin structure. West Berlin had built a tower, and East Berlin felt the need for a bigger and better one – but they didn’t have the knowledge or technology. So they hired the Swedes (snuck them in and out, really), only later to discover that when the sun reflected off the giant disco ball, it sent of rays of light in the form of a cross. West Berlin called it “the Pope’s Revenge.” Only the T-Mobile stick-on soccer ball decal was able to cover it up.

(© hermitthecrab 2006)
Neptune’s Fountain

(J's pic)
After passing the Rotes Rathaus, the East Berlin Town Hall, we came to Marx-Engels Platz (the framers of The Communist Manifesto), and sat in Uncle Karl’s lap.

Don't cry for these Argentinians (J's pic)
Bebelplatz, the site of the infamous Nazi book-burnings, but also home to Humboldt University, where Einstein and the Grimm brothers studied (not at the same time, of course), the opera house, Hedwig’s Cathedral (a replica of the Pantheon), and currently the Buddy Bears. Turns out those are nothing more than a traveling exhibit; the U.N. called out to artists to paint them however they wanted, and around the world the bears go. Our Aussie ass man (the guy stuck at the back to round up stragglers) said they’d been in Sydney for 3 months. Mystery solved.

Another mystery solved is that of the Walk/Don’t Walk guys. The ones with hats were East German, and disappeared post-reunification. As a gesture of sentiment, Berlin brought them back, but mixed East and West all over the city.

Humboldt University and the Buddy Bears (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The balcony from which Kaiser-Wilhelm declared WW1. Eh.
I hadn’t quite realized before that Germany got so egregiously split up among the Allies after WW2. Jeff drew us a lovely chalk map to illustrate:

J is balancing in Berlin (© hermitthecrab 2006)
The “Deathstrip,” the area between the two walls that formed THE wall, where snipers were free to kill anything that moved.

(© hermitthecrab 2006)
The last remaining sniper tower. Something like 5000 people escaped to the West from East Berlin, but 700 died, including one man who was killed two days before the wall came down.

And come down it did. The full story is that in 1989, Hungary opened its borders with Austria, creating a huge hole in the Iron Curtain. East Germans could go to Hungary, then to Austria, West Berlin, and West Germany as a result. The East German/Russian government decided to fight this by granting travel visas to East Germans could see how “truly horrible” the western world was, and subsequently come running back to the loving arms of the Communists.

They called a live press conference, handed the spokesman a bunch of notecards and let it go from there. But the only info the spokesman had was that travel visas were to be offered…when asked when and to whom, he floundered and responded “Immediately, to everyone.” East Berliners flooded the checkpoints by the thousands within minutes. Having no orders, the soldiers held them for a while, but finally just let them through. And the Communists’ game was up.

The huge Coke billboard at Potsdamer Platz, which has already been altered to reflect Germany’s hopes for 2010.

(© hermitthecrab 2006)
Hitler’s bunker, where he and Eva Braun hid out, got married, and killed themselves. It’s a parking lot now for a fancy apartment complex, though the 18-room bunker lies below as the Russians were unable to blow it to smithereens despite their whole-hearted attempts.

(© hermitthecrab 2006)

Time for beer and more beer. We traveled through the Tiergarten to the biergarten, making friends with father and son D & S from New Jersey. They were in Berlin for the whole cup, and S is moving on to Munich & Austria tomorrow.

The Tiergarten biergarten, and yet another ginormous bike lock (© hermitthecrab 2006)

More friends (J's pic)

We each drank a dunkelweiß and shared a radler (hey, it was hot out there), so the ride back was a bit tricky. Made even moreso by the sun – we forgot sunscreen, so now have lovely burns from our very last day in the country.

Wobbling a bit, we cruised on the Spree River, spotting the National Chancellery, where the Chancellor usually resides, though the current Chancellor Angela Merkel does not. Over a nice bridge, past the Hauptbahnhof and the ginormous soccer cleats fronting the Swiss Embassy, and around to the Reichstag.

The German Chancellory on the Spree River – and some crazy boaters who must want a bacterial disease (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Our last stop was at the Berliner Dom, a lovely Protestant church, and the Altes Museum, full of old junk.

The Berliner Dom, the Altes Museum, and a random sapling (© hermitthecrab 2006)

We got T-shirts, a coupon for Barcelona, and 50¢ Pilsners from the tour shop before we headed on our way, buzzed and sunburned.

In search of the Michael Ballack calendar that so amused us in Bad Homburg, we caught a train to the shops we knew near the Zoologischer station. Of course, we found the calendar in a newsstand in the station before ever boarding a train, but had forgotten our original purpose (um, beers), so got on the train anyway.

We wandered back through the Kaiser-Wilhelm Gedachtniskirche to the KaDeWe, a ginormous department store. About the only things interesting there, besides its sheer size, were the prominently displayed seasons 1 and 2 of Baywatch on DVD (in German, of course) – gotta have the Hoff! – and all the WC toys they had. Action figures of the players (with kicking motion!), 3-D puzzles of the players, the balls, etc., stuffed animals, coins, just about anything they could make a buck off. It distracted drunk-us for about 15 minutes.

Berlin's just crazy about Walk/Don't Walk signals (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The Ka De We, the largest department store ever (J's pic)

Who needs a guidebook when you've got manhole covers? (© hermitthecrab 2006)

At this point, it was nap time for J, as usual, so back to the hotel.

The daily nap (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Dinner – a revisit to the House of 100 Beers for the best apple strudel ever, and the funniest beer I’ve had, a nearly clear radler served in a Guinness glass. Ah, the irony.

That is so not Guinness (J's pic)

Pack, then airport in the morning. I’m not at all ready to go.

Can I please stay in Germany? Please??? (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The End!!! (Finally...)

My Trip to Germany: Stuttgart

2006-08-16T11:48:00.000-07:00

Stuttgart (3rd Place Game) – Later…

That was awesome.

We got lucky at the Hauptbahnhof and barely snagged a locker for our bags – I had to buy a postcard in order to get change, but whatever.

We got all smart and bought a round-trip ticket on the S-bahn before we read our game tickets – WC ticket holders get free local transport on day of the game. Just when we’d got the hang of it.

We got off one stop early, hoping to hit some fan gear stands. I don’t think the Fan Fest was really near the stadium here, because the crowds were thing and the capitalists were scarce. We did find a T-shirt vendor selling T-shirts 1 for 2Є or 2 for 3Є, so I bought a few with my friend C in mind (her gift request: a cheap T-shirt to rib my mom for calling me “tight” a few weeks ago).

The stadium didn’t open its gates till 6 (kickoff at 9), and we arrived at about 4:30. We shared a beer in a very plain bar outside the gates playing Spanish music, and watched the mullets and rattails go by.

Finally, the gates opened and the fans streamed in. We grabbed some brats and drinks and toured around, hoping for something to look at or do, but food and fan gear tents was all there was. Nothing at all like an American stadium, though it was much better organized: few lines, separate security and ticket checkers, with lockers for bags.

Me in the stadium at Stuttgart (J's pic)

So we bought R (J’s boy) a T-shirt (J finally decided) and I bought a couple of scarves for me and Mom, then headed to our seats. To sit, and wait. For three hours. So, of course, like the extreme geek that I am, I read a book. Hey, I was almost finished.

Waiting...waiting...waiting (J's pic)

Warm-up time, and Oliver Kahn emerges. We got to see the great Ollie Kahn play (he hasn’t played all tournament). It was incredible. Oh how the Germans love that man.

Scheider, Schweinsteiger, Klöse, and Podolski all played. Ronaldo got fearsomely booed every time he touched the ball. Figo came in as a sub. Kahn made some great saves, and Germany had some great runs. I finagled my film in order to get game shots, though I didn’t have any color film fast enough.

J and me at our seats (J's pic)

The atmosphere crackled – we were up and down for cheers and songs. Every player who got subbed had his name chanted affectionately, and Kahn and Klinsman go the loudest cheers of all. Ballack didn’t play, which was understandable but still a disappointment.

The starting lineup (J's pic)

J made friends with the girl sitting next to her, who after the game gave her her scarf (extreme jealousy on my part). The girl gave me a plastic banner, not as cool but still nice.

J with the scarf girl (J's pic)

Fireworks went off after the game, which we couldn’t see from the stadium, to celebrate Germany’s 3-1 win over Portugal. We made our way to the S-bahn, stopping briefly to buy more scarves, then got uneventfully to the Hauptbahnhof.

Now here we are, having a bit in a nearly empty train station restaurant, listening to the drunken celebratory chants, yells, and songs from the station below. Our train for Berlin leaves in an hour…thank Christ we have reserved seats!

Berlin – July 9, 2006

Long, tiring train ride. Drunk kid passed out in the hall outside our compartment on the Stuttgart-Frankfurt train, making everyone climb over and around him to pass. I think I nearly crunched his head, not that he would have noticed.

Hotel this time is farther from the center of things, but closer to the airport. We made it in time to eat breakfast before crashing, but there’s no A/C in the room, so it wasn’t the best of rest days.

Final game in about 3 ½ hours. Allez Les Bleus!

Note: Purchasing a buttload of scarves may have been a cheap souvenir tactic, but damn they take up a lot of luggage space. :/

Go to next Entry: Berlin

My Trip to Germany: Munich

2006-08-16T11:43:00.000-07:00

Munich – July 6, 2006

(At this point, I’d run out the ink in two pens. Did I do ANYTHING but write in my journal on this trip???)

We made it yesterday, finally. We met our buddy M, who kindly offered his apartment up for our Munich stay, then had dinner (our first food since breakfast) at a nearby Italian restaurant. The waiter kept teaching J German, making her repeat after him.

We finally learned how to tip – you only tip about 10%, and since the waiter/tress carries a money wallet, you just tell them the total amount you want to pay, bill plus tip.

M also taught us how to toast in Bavaria, by looking directly into the other person’s eyes, clinking the bottoms of glasses (for delicate wheat beer glasses), and saying “Prost!”

We then went to a biergarten to watch the first half of the Portugal-France game. They had beers as big as your head, but I couldn’t get a small Radler, my new favorite drink. We watched some kid running around with no pants on and poo schmeared all over his bum. The score on unbidden penis sightings goes up by one.

The biergarten with beers as big as your head (© hermitthecrab 2006)

No lie (J's pic6)

We watched the second half from Outland, the Aussie bar near M’s apartment. I was way full of beer and a bit tipsy at this point, but the game ended in regulation for once after Henry’s only goal in the first half. So the final is to be Italy vs. France. At least we’ll get to boo the big baby Cristiano Ronaldo in person at the third place game.

The Aussie bar (J's pic)

This morning we managed to accomplish another first: visiting a place J was interested in, the Deutsches Museum. It focuses on engineering, with a little science, a miniscule amount of history, but not much. I was pretty bored and could have left after an hour, but J was in her element so we stayed for three. They did have a Gutenburg Bible, though, which so filled me with reverence I felt the need to whisper.

The Deutsches Museum (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The book that changed the world (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Inside the Bridges exhibit in the Deutsches Museum (© hermitthecrab 2006)

We headed out on a walking tour of Munich. Munich is known as Germany’s wealthiest city, and it shows in all the expensive boutiques and shops that line the streets. Bikes are a preferred method of transportation, which means pedestrians really have to watch their asses. Dogs are pretty common, too – I hadn’t even noticed their absence from previous cities until we came here.

(In an effort to save space and not make you read until you are dead, I’ve combined the walking tour pics with the next day’s bike tour pics below, other than this one, a freaky doll with a soccer ball for a head. For the sake of your sanity, I have only posted one of these pictures.)

Not only is it a soccer ball head, it's a deflated soccer ball head (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The rain that had been threatening all afternoon finally started falling, so we hoofed it toward M’s apartment to write out postcards (I got silly and wrote one to myself, plus one to J she doesn’t know about) and dry off, and had planned to go swing dancing, but it’s rained out. So I suppose we’ll head to dinner and figure something out!

Later…

Went for dinner and had another traditional German meal, Käsespätzle, which is pretty much mac & cheese with onions (only a gazillion time better). I had Apfelschorle to drink, a mixture of apple juice and mineral water, not bad. They like to throw random liquids together here, it seems.

Then we walked toward the university for dessert, stopping to take a pic of a store called “Suckfüll” with a huge ad in the window screaming “Dick.” Just too funny to pass up. Dessert of Kaiserschmarrn was yummy, kind of a fatter, doughier funnel cake with ice cream and raisins.

We decided not to go to castles tomorrow, as the trip is 2 ½ hours each way by train and bus. We just can’t handle more train rides than necessary. New itinerary for tomorrow: bike tour, Olympic Park, stadium, and shopping.

My head issue has been officially diagnosed as cooties. But it’s not so bad because J has developed cooties, too, on her foot. Ha ha.

Oh, and Munich has their equivalent of Berlin’s buddy Bears: Lions. They’re everywhere here, too. City mascots, I guess. A little freakish, really.

Me with a literary lion (J's pic)

Munich – July 7, 2006

Super full day today led by Sideshow Bob with a bunch of sorority girls from Miami-Ohio.

Munich – July 8, 2006

Well, I wrote the above last night and then never finished. We’re on the train to Stuttgart now, so here we go…

While J showered I took a few shots of the view from M’s 5th floor apartment. The buildings are all very packed together, but unlike Russia, they have lovely little courtyards with trees popping up in the middle. And a lot of bike parking.

With an hour to kill before the bike tour, we managed to catch the Glockenspiel, the clock display in the Neues Rathaus that our tour guide later claimed was the second most overrated European tourist attraction, after the people of France. But I got some fun crowd shots.

Note: there is not a single German in any of these photos. Japanese folks and Americans have completely taken over Munich.

The Glockenspiel in the Neues Rathaus (J's pic)

Almost as soon as the little clockwork jousting display was finished, it started to rain, so while the street cleared of tourists, we pulled out our rain gear and beat it to the Bacchus statue we’d missed the day before, just under the Karlstor. The pics are slightly rain-blurred, but oh well.

(For those wondering why Bacchus is so important, it has to do with me being a know-it-all yet again, this time when I first met P. Everyone seems to think it’s soooooo funny.)

The drenched rat is me; the statue is my old pal Bacchus (J's pic)

The bike tour started under the Altes Rathaus. It was actually sort of a whirlwind tour of our walk from the day before, but with some great stories. Justin, our guide, was from Papua New Guinea, and as he later joked, he really did resemble Sideshow Bob.
The history of Munich is that some monks built a bridge for themselves across the Isar River, then found it was a lucrative business to charge folks to cross. Henry the Lion, Duke of Saxony and Bavaria, thought so, too, so he blew up the monk’s bridge and built his own. The Holy Roman Empire caught wind of this, so to keep his head Henry proposed to give 1/3 of the tolls to Rome, 1/3 to the city, and keep 1/3 for himself. It was agreed, and Henry became the first king of Bavaria. His symbol was the lion, so that’s why the lions are everywhere, as is the monk, the symbol for the city. Monks are drunks!

Bavaria itself was its own kingdom for a while, and is a lot like Texas in its independent nature. The attitude of Bavarians toward other Germans, and vice versa, is also like Texas in its mutual condescension. The statue of a woman often represents Bavaria – at the Feldhernhalle, the General’s Hall, the central statue represents the fierce warriors of Germany, while the woman is Bavaria. She has her arm around him, supporting him, but is looking away, showing Bavaria’s independence.

So much of Munich was bombed and rebuilt after WW2, it’s extremely common to see an 1850 structure standing next to one built in 1970, and so many historical structures (including the residence, Hofbrauhaus, Chinese tower, etc.) are rebuilt “exactly as they were.” Though none has been rebuilt so often as the church outside Marienplatz, which burned to the ground several times, then was bombed a couple of times. It’s liable to explode at any moment.

Altes Rathaus, Munich’s old city hall
Marienplatz, where we saw the Neues Rathaus (the new city hall), and Peterskirche, which we climbed all…the…way…to the top (300’) to get a 360˚ view of the city. We could see all of Marienplatz, a biergarten, the Frauenkirche (domes look like overflowing beer mugs, tallest structure in the city).

Marienplatz, with Frauenkirche & the Neues Rathaus (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Peterskirche...all 300 feet of it (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Inside the Peterskirche (© hermitthecrab 2006)
Hofbrauhaus, where Hitler and his cronies used to whet their whistles and brainstorm on how to ruin the world. There are paintings of flags on the ceiling that were designed to cover the Nazi swastikas, and they still bear the shape. In case you’re wondering if we stopped here for beers, the answer is no, huh-uh, no way. It is the Disneyland of beer halls, definitely not worth having a brew in.

Thinly disguised swastikas (J's pic)
We walked to Karlsplatz from there, passing shops, more museums, and a number of fountains. Saw a cool rooftop with some fun weathervanes at the Kaufhaus Oberpollinger.

Why am I laughing so hard? The stone was wet and I had attempted highly unsuccessfully to "hover" for the pic (J's pic)
J got all excited at the Lamborghini dealership, though she totally missed seeing a bright yellow Ferrari in the street as she was photographing a random building.

J's idea of sightseeing (© hermitthecrab 2006)
Theatinerkirche, built by Elector Ferdinand Maria and his wife, Henriette Adelaide of Savoy, as a gesture of thanks to the lord for finally delivering him an heir after 12 years of trying and praying in 1662.
Feldhernhalle – Behind the Feldhernhalle is a cobblestone alley through which a ribbon of gold cobblestones threads. During Hitler’s reign, he constructed a monument in front of the Feldhernhalle dedicated to several of his stormtroopers killed there in a battle with the Munich police. Everyone passing by the memorial was required to offer a “Heil, Hitler!” Those who did not sympathize avoided walking past it by diverting to this alley, and the gold cobblestones are in honor of their courage.

The Feldernhalle and Theatinerkirche (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Opposite the Theatinerkirche is what was once a residence, where four lions guard the gates. In the time of Bavarian kings, one was such a philanderer that a student at the university wrote an open letter, calling him a bad Catholic, a bad husband, and a bad king. The king put a price on his head, but instead of waiting to be arrested, the student marched with 2000 others to the palace. He saw the king on his own, and said “Do with me what you will.” The king was so impressed with his bravery that he gave the student the bounty money and let him go. On his way out, the student rubbed the brass noses on three of the four lions, because to rub all four would be greedy and would destroy his luck.

It was still raining at this point in the bike tour, so of course I’d gotten cold and my legs had broken out in hives from knee to hip. I went a little crazy every time we had to stop, and my legs are still marked from my scratching.

Hofgarten (royal garden) and Royal Palace

(© hermitthecrab 2006)
Chancellory of Bavaria and the sunken crypt of a German soldier (equivalent to our Tomb of the Unknown Soldier), bombed and severely damaged during WW2. When they rebuilt the wings, their desire to make amends to the public was so great they made them out of glass, so the people could always see what their government was doing.

On to the university square. This was the site where students protested Hitler, passing out anti-Nazi pamphlets. A university chancellor was a Nazi-sympathizer, so he locked the leaders of the movement in the main student building and informed the Gestapo where they were. When the Gestapo came to arrest them, one student tossed hundreds of pamphlets from and upper story window down into the square below. The students were arrested, tortured for four days, then publicly guillotined. Today, these pamphlets have been embedded in the granite around the square, and the White Rose monument was built in honor of all the students who stood against Hitler. Every day someone replaces the rose, and others place pebbles around it.

At this point Justin noted something we hadn’t quite thought of before: that after WW2, nationalism and patriotism became sentiments the Germans were ashamed of. Until this WC, flags were not flown, songs were not sung. The WC has imbued a new life to German nationalism, tinting it with positive connotations, moving forward from past hurts.

M said WW2 is a very touchy subject here, especially among the older generation. It is still illegal to own a copy of Mein Kampf. Both M and Justin seemed to think the younger generation is more open to history, better able to study and explore the events without revisiting the horror.

English Garden, stopping briefly at the rebuilt Chinese Tower biergarten – a gift from the Chinese in the Prussian era – though we didn’t even get a beer for the road, whizzing past the Greek Temple, and watching the surfers. We wound down a shady path along the Isar River, no longer suffering rain (though my legs continued to itch), but sloshing through mud and puddles.

Me at the Chinese Tower (J's pic)

J with the Greek Temple (J's pic)

Surfen verboten (J's pic)
The oddly ornate (for a Protestant church, anyway) first Protestant church in Munich

(J's pic)
Volksbad (Munich’s first public bath)

(J's pic)
Bavarian National Museum

We lined up our bikes for lockage outside the Hofbräuhaus, then walked around the corner to Augustiner Am Platzl. It was a good thing, because we were close to fainting from the need for meat and beer.

The longest bike lock ever (J's pic)

Justin explained our beer selection – Helles, lightest and least flavorful; Weißbier, wheat beer; Dunkelweiß, darkest, for purists only, “like drinking a loaf of bread” (not really – it’s nowhere near as heavy as Guinness); and the Radler, an “abomination” (I still like it). Out of ~60 people, J and I were 2 of only 4 who ordered the Dunkelweiß (how’s that for math post-beers?). All the sorority girls on the tour went “Like, what was the lightest?” Ugh.

J and I shared a pork knuckle, kind of a mini-pork roast, and a great meal with the four non-college folk on the tour: D & E from WA, a married couple about our age, and B & K from Las Vegas. B is E’s uncle, and K is originally from Germany. B told us a lot of cool facts about Germany, and stories of places they’ve been. E (a world history teacher) and I commiserated about D and J’s lack of history knowledge, and our awe at all the amazingly significant things we’re seeing (she totally got my excitement over the Gutenburg Bible – “It changed the world!”).

J, me, K, B, E, and D at the Augustiner Am Platzl (J's pic)

We settled our tab and headed back to put away the bikes and pay for the tour. As soon as we got back on the bikes the sorority girls started whining about how their vaginas were bruised from the bikes. Over and over. Rather than being my know-it-all self and giving them an anatomy lesson to tell them their vaginas were NOT in fact the bruised appendages, I just went elsewhere. I’m sure they felt better last night when they went out to “get tanked like everyone else! Jell-o shots rock!” Since they hadn’t really been able to ride the bikes, and were bitching about how uncomfortable the California Cruisers were, I didn’t feel that sorry for them.

Tour finished, we headed out shopping. I bought some junk for folks back home, and a beer stein printed upside down for me (the Aggie in me couldn’t resist).

Some other Munich sights:

The Neues Rathaus (© hermitthecrab 2006)

A Munich street – believe it or not, I was standing at the edge of a crushing crowd (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Toys! (J's pic)

A brain-assed lion, just for P (J's pic)

With almost no rest, we went to dinner at a more traditional Bavarian place, the Bratwursthertzl, among smoke and almost no English whatsoever. Not a bad thing considering how sick we were of Americans. We couldn’t go anywhere in the city center without landing in the middle of a horde of tourists, something we haven’t experienced in any other city so far. I had more Käsespätzle for dinner, and a Radler, making me officially the child of the group. Oh, and Kaiserschmarrn for dessert, much better at this place than last.

Mmm...kaiserschmarrn (J's pic)

This morning before we caught the train M took us to have a traditional Bavarian breakfast: weißbier, white sausages, and pretzels. Traditionally, the white sausages can’t “hear the noon bells toll,” and we gobbled them just in time. The one beer also made me quite a bit drunk, and I wish I could start every day that way.

The train now is nice and cool, quiet, and not terribly crowded. Thank goodness.

Except for my family and pets, I really don’t have much of a feeling of homesickness the way I did in Russia. I will miss Germany, the ease of transportation, the relaxed atmosphere, the outdoor cafés. They’re allowed by law to have 1 L of beer at lunch, even in the office. Except for wheat beers, no additives and preservatives are allowed in the beer. They get 5+ weeks of vacation, more holidays, and rarely work weekends or overtime. America sux. :(

Go to next entry: Stuttgart

My Trip to Germany: Dortmund

2006-08-16T11:40:00.000-07:00

Dortmund/Essen – July 4, 2006

Well, we’re in Essen. It’s hotter and muggier here than anywhere we’ve been so far. It’s a very good thing it’s only for one day. Ick.

Starbucks isn't the only thing taking over the world (J's pic)

We emerged from the thankfully air-conditioned Holiday Inn Express (which, sadly, seems to be furnished by the Ikea across the street) for lunch, only to find our way to the cluster of restaurants 75% blocked by a clusterfuck of construction. We finally hit a pizzeria, nearly melting already, eschewing the ghetto taco stand across the street.

You know you want one (J's pic)

Decided to nap in our room’s A/C rather than walk around dullsville. Luckily, it seems Düsseldorf, Essen, and Dortmund are all part of a larger metroplex, so it should be simple to get to the semifinal in Dortmund this evening via S-bahn.

I also tried to call P to no avail – my calling card has no local dialing number from here. Essen sux, yo.

Dortmund/Train to Munich – July 5, 2006

On the train to Munich now, and it’s not turning out to be much fun. I’m sitting on some Samsonite-type bags, and J’s on the floor, in the space between cars. As far as we can tell, pretty much all the seats are reserved from here to Munich. Should make for a nice 5 ½ hour ride.

Anyway…yesterday:

Essen is not a tourist-friendly town. We could find no maps, no real info to help us get around. We got a bit lucky in looking for tickets to Dortmund in that a nice, Middle-Eastern-looking man dressed in some sort of military/police uniform complete with beret stopped to help us out. He punched in our info, said “Now you put money in,” and we were on our way.

This was the first time we’d had to actually travel to get near a game, and the rail experience was hot but fun. At every station was a line of people getting on the train to Dortmund, already decked out in their jerseys, face paint, temporary tattoos, and flags. They got on the train with their beers (I love Germany) already singing, already celebrating.

One guy sitting across from us thought we were Germans (we did look the part in our Deutschland jerseys), and asked me about my cameras. We switched to English, and I felt the need to explain about my Holga, photo geek that I am. I believe a good laugh was had at my expense.

We finally arrived at the Dortmund Hauptbahnhof, and the seas poured forth. It was such a mass of people we could easily understand how the main Fan Fest was already full up.

We were quickly accosted by a group of very drunk guys, including J’s new boyfriend Angelo, who managed to convince J to let him buy us drinks (apparently she couldn’t hear the warning bells that were blaring in my head) before asking her if she would go somewhere with him and “make fun.”

That's the infamous Angelo in the middle (© hermitthecrab 2006)

It took me three blocks to be the bitchy friend enough to get rid of him, but I finally succeeded. He stomped off in a huff.

The Dortmund Meat-Go-Round (J's pic)

The overflow from the Dortmund Fan Fest (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The Fan Fest being full, we went in search of a pub, and find one we did. It was the best bar we could have happened upon. It was packed, and J had designs to stand in the doorway, but yet another of my phobias crept up and I couldn’t handle being in that much traffic for three hours. The waitresses were great, claiming we weren’t in the way at all, then trying to shove some of the guys around to make room for us.

The packed pub (© hermitthecrab 2006)

A very polite East German fan gave up his stool for me (his chair, not his poo), and we managed to acquire another for J. We met Markus, who was from Dortmund and claimed it was the best city for football. A couple more of his friends came in, and we quickly became part of the group. Seems the bar was full of regulars who gathered there to watch games, and everyone knew each other. It was a German Cheers.

Our new friends (J's pic)

We also made friends with Daniel and Eric, the two guys in front of us. These were the lovely fellows who introduced us to Radlers, which we quickly fell in love with: beer and lemonade (Sprite).

(J's pic)

“So we can make it to watch the end of the game,” Daniel explained pointedly at halftime, clearly already at least one sheet to the wind. They refused to let us buy any rounds because, as Daniel put it, “you have traveled…7,543 kilometers, which is…4,392 miles.” I’m curious as to just how accurate that is. (Turns out it’s actually 8474 km, or 5266 mi. Not bad.)

Ah, relief…We’ve made it to Köln (Cologne), and some folks in the dining car were kind enough to offer us seats at their tables, so we’re in seats all the way to Munich as long as we continue to buy waters and coffee. I’m sitting with three middle-aged Germans who have talked nothing but soccer so far, and shared candy with us. :)

The bar periodically broke into chants, cheers, and songs as Germany repeatedly attacked Italy. I partly think it was in an effort to drown out the one Italian fan in the bar who frequently hollered “I-tal-ia! I-tal-ia! I-tal-ia!” Points to the Germans who mostly ignored him. Some amusement was had when we all discovered he was also American, and we insisted we weren’t all that obnoxious.

(J's pic)

Our new friends translated their cheers for us, and it turns out they’re mostly “Let’s go/Come on, Germany” lyrics. Daniel shrugged at their simplicity. One popular song that kept repeating in TV commercials was on that rhymed the years Germany has won the Cup and expressed assuredness that 2006 would be added to the list.

At one point the commercial showed a clip of Michael Ballack sliding on his knees in slo-mo after a goal, then they cut to a closeup of his face. He turns to the camera, still sliding on his knees, and sings along with the song. I nearly lost it. Makes me really want that calendar we saw of him in various cheesy poses.

The game was 0-0 into overtime, and Daniel ceased to be able to watch. Lehman pulled off some amazing saves on 1-on-1s, as the superfast Italians managed to beat the offside trap several times, prompting several Lehman-based cheers. Odonkor came in as a sub, to many cheers from the locals as he plays for the Dortmund club side (“He can’t play, but he’s fast,” was Daniel’s summation).

With many faces buried in their German flags, unable to watch, the Germans relentlessly attacked while Italy seemed to be playing for the shootout. But it all fell apart in the 119th minute as Germany failed to clear a corner and Italy fired in an absolutely unstoppable goal. Pushing hard, they allowed another in OT stoppage time from Del Piero, and it was all over. Germany is headed to Stuttgart, Italy to Berlin.

The fans were crushed. The East German who had screamed at the game almost the whole time (then turned to me and smiled each time) stomped off in anger and disappointment. The guy who’d stood up in the 87th minute, his clenched fists casting shadows on the screen, yelling encouragement, sat hunched in despair (though our friend said he always did that, and his cheers amounted to nothing more than “Come on, Team!”). Daniel went outside in his misery, leaning against a lamppost, his head hanging.

We said goodbye to our new friends, wishing them luck in Stuttgart, and headed back to the bahnhof, leaving them to mourn in peace.

The crowds were a bit sullen, and since they were already a bit seedier than those in Berlin, their disappointment added to their punkish attitude. A convoy of about a dozen triumphant Italian cars raced back and forth in the street, waving Italian flags and honking, earning a city’s worth of dirty looks.

Polizei were stationed on every corner, with their green uniforms and BMW motorbikes. They corralled folks into the train station, and I had about five minutes of mild panic attack as thousands of people crushed up into the station. As we got close, apparently one rather large man got frustrated that our current was moving faster than his, so he hollered, and his girlfriend, cigarettes in hand, elbowed me as hard as she could for as long as she could.

The highlight for J was when we were about 75% through the crowd. I was tucked in behind her, eyes squeezed shut, trying very hard to make believe I was in a wide open completely empty beach-like paradise. She kept glancing back at me to make sure I wasn’t going to pass out or something.

Then, all of a sudden she hears me say “That guy picked the jersey of the gayest man in the NFL.” I’d briefly opened my eyes to see nothing but the broad expanse of a large German wearing a Jeff Garcia jersey. It was enough to make us laugh, and enough to chill me out until we could pass through the barricades.

Plus, J had yet another drunk German become entranced with her. He walked next to her in the crowd and just stared unblinkingly at her for a good two or three minutes. Freaky.

But we finally got through, caught our train to Essen, and discovered the U to our hotel was closed. We briefly attempted to either find a bus or walk, but were too tired to figure out where the hell we were or how to get where we wanted to go, so we grabbed a cab.

I insisted upon showering before bed, because I reeked so of beer and cigarette smoked that I nearly puked on the train. Germany may be the cleanest place I’ve ever seen, but they definitely make up for it in smoke, cheesy ‘90s mood music, graffiti, and nudity in public advertisements.

Anyway, it was a great night with great people, the best game-watching experience we’ve had so far.

The train is incredibly crowded now, people packed into every conceivable space. Thank goodness for the lovely folks who invited us to sit at their table! Can’t wait to get to Munich so I can call P, relax for a minute, then watch the Portugal-France semifinal.

Later…

We’ve been stuck at the station is Plochingen, somewhere between Stuttgart and Munich for about 45 minutes, as there is a fire somewhere down the tracks. I’m hungry and tired, and all I really want right now is to be able to get to a place where I can put some more HC cream on the ever-expanding inflammation on my head. :(

But it’s not a horrible experience, mostly because we seem to find friendly and helpful people no matter where we go. Our new train mates (since somewhere after Köln) are a woman with her `9-year-old daughter, and two guys around our age. Oh, plus a couple of guys from Minnesota. The Germans have been kind enough to translate all the train announcements for us, and thankfully the more incessantly talkative of the two guys has wandered off somewhere.

Munich or bust. :/

Later…

Some commotion in our car as it is realized the next table over is host to Jairzinho, a member of the 1970 Brazilian team that won in Mexico. He kindly signed autographs and allowed folks to take pictures. We refrained from both, mostly because I always feel awkward turning some normal person into an immortal figure whose signature is worthy of museums or something. Never felt the urge when I lived in LA, and still don’t. People is people, I guess.

I’m hungry. And I’m running out of reading material. Still no Munich.

Heh, a man came into the car asking who the famous person was. We told him, mistakenly naming Argentina as his team (since that’s what giggly, talkative trainmate said), and he ran back for his WC tickets and camera. After getting his obligatory brush with greatness, he stopped to tell us “It’s Brazil, not Argentina. He is Brazil’s second greatest player, between Pelé and Ronaldinho,” as if we really should have known, when he didn’t even know!

Now the car is packed with all Jairzinho’s new friends. I can understand Beckham and Ronald’s desire to move to the U.S. for the anonymity, if this is what a star nearly 40 years past can draw.

Go to next entry: Munich

My Trip to Germany: Frankfurt

2006-08-16T11:26:00.000-07:00

Frankfurt – Later…

Turns out J wasn’t terribly cranky about the train ride, but hers was much more eventful than mine. The woman and two small children moved into our compartment, and then quickly settled down. Mostly J had to listen to one guy who was a Vegas ticket broker making deals in his East coast accent on his cell phone.

The little girl formerly known as screeching toddler quickly went to sleep, but the little boy had to go to the bathroom all the time, so finally his mom just stuck his weiner in a bottle and let him pee. Other than that feat of motherly care, she spent the rest of the trip filing her nails and answering her cell, which chimed to the tune of the “Knight Rider” theme, our first official Hasselhoff reference. Right on.

Frankfurt…had to pay 70 cents to pee in the train station, and got a bit turned around looking for our hotel, but we’re here. The Fan Fest is a stone’s throw from the hotel (as is the city center) along the main River (yes, that’s its name, the Main). They’ve got a ginormous double-sided screen set up in the middle of the river, but by the time we got there, that section of the Fest was full-up. Sucks to be us.

Walking through the city center (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The city is full of Brazil and France supporters, all singing and waving flags (starting to get repetitive? Don’t worry, it will…), and a smattering of Spanish fans cheering for Brazil to knock off the team that knocked them off.

The first game of the day was England vs. Portugal, and we walked a long mile in the heat to find some sort of vantage point. We found a miniscule bush that afforded a 70% view and called it good.

Our crappy view (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Of course, we didn’t really account for the large, half-naked family of Brazilians who leeched onto our space, not even watching the game. They stood in front of us, posed for family pics in front of us, and in general made our little viewing spot fairly miserable.

It only added to our discomfort to stand through yet another overtime game as Rooney got red-carded around the 60th minute for squishing a guy’s nuts. Beckham got subbed, and they continued to show him with his face all crumpled, which prompted J to offer the quote of the day: “Is he crying? Is he crying because they subbed him, or did they sub him because he’s crying?”

England took it to PKs with 10 men, where they completely dropped the ball. Portugal missed two, but England’s performance from the spot was so atrocious that Ricardo saved three. Game over. :(

An impromptu game started up near us, something like 11 Brazilians & Spaniards vs. 4 Frenchmen. They had a good time with a flat ball, continuing to smoke and drink all the while. A guy dressed up as a referee in a mockery of the WC refs officiated at the little game, throwing at least one red card and calling a couple goals before running off to blow his little whistle elsewhere.

That's 18 red cards and 568 yellows!!! (© hermitthecrab 2006)

After the game, we headed to eat and catch the Brazil-France game. We found a yummy place with an awesome waiter, who recommended Dömerfleisch mit Jogurten und Tomaten, which was sliced beef over French bread, smothered with a tomato sauce and yogurt. It. Was. Awesome.

We thought we had great seats until five minutes before the game when two Brazilian fans and their girlfriends rearranged the tables so they sat right in front of everyone at the restaurant. At this point, I decided to cheer for France because I was so sick of Brazilians and their nakedness and big hair. Plus, I really like saying Ribery’s name.

A fabulous Moroccan, Brian, joined us at our table, and we all commiserated at the terrible view afforded by the Brazilians (dubbed Yellow Man and White Man for the color of their shirts – hey, I can’t be creative all the time). Our revenge on Yellow and White Man, and on the previous rude family, was taken when Henry tapped in a goal all alone off a set piece around the 55th minute. Brian kept belting out “It’s over!” which made me say numerous prayers to the Gods of the Jynx.

Brian, me, and J (J's pic)

A crowd of people gathered around to watch the game die, and we worried a bit that people couldn’t see through US.

J commented, “At least I’ve got short going for me. I’m easy to see over.”

“And you don’t have big hair,” I said, looking pointedly at White Man’s girlfriend.

“Yes!” replied the girl at the next table in an Amen!-tone, as she’d had to watch the gamed through the girlfriend’s hair, and had even asked her to move her big hair.

The gathering crowd...none of whom could see through the big hair (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The game ended, and France had bounced out the big boys 1-0. The streets were filled with cries of “Allez, Les Bleus!” The expressions on Yellow & White Man’s faces were priceless. Not only had they lost, but they were surrounded by people cheering the loss. I’m sure a great deal of that cheering (well, at least on my part) was aimed at them, as their disrespect for everyone at the restaurant had earned them a great deal of ire.

So, on to the semis. Germany vs. Italy and France vs. Portugal. Go Germany, go France!

Frankfurt – July 2, 2006

We kind of saw the sights today as we stumbled upon them; Frankfurt really isn’t very big. Here’s kind of a running list of the day:

Kaiserdom, where Holy roman Emperors were crowned from the 16th to 18th century, built between the 13th and 15th centuries (it took a long time to build crap back then), largely unharmed by WW2. Until the skyscraper age, its ~300’ tower was the tallest structure in Frankfurt, and the ruins of a Roman settlement rest below it.

(© hermitthecrab 2006)
Römerberg:

Nikolaikirche, built in late 1200s to be the court chapel for the holy roman emperors.

(© hermitthecrab 2006)

Half-timber Ostzeile houses, restored after WW2 bomb damage.

(© hermitthecrab 2006)

Fountain of Justina (Justice), built in 16th century, where at the coronation of Emperor Matthias in 1612, wine flowed instead of water.

(J's pic)
Paulskirche, where the first all-German parliament was held in 1848.

(© hermitthecrab 2006)
Katharinenkirche, the first independent Protestant church in Gothic style, built between 1678-81. Goethe was confirmed here.
Downtown Frankfurt, where Ballack is king.

(J's pic)
Goethehaus, where Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (author of "Faust") was born in 1749 (restored after WW2 bombing destroyed it).

(J's pic)

(© hermitthecrab 2006)

(© hermitthecrab 2006)
Some statue in Goetheplatz. Never figured out its significance, but it was a nice fountain.

(© hermitthecrab 2006)
A good example of old architecture meshed with new.

(J's pic)
Alte Oper (Old Opera House): Kaiser Wilhelm I traveled for its opening in 1880. For 40 years after a WW2 sacking, it was a hollow shell. Nice outside, but we couldn’t go inside as our guidebook suggested (stupid Sundays – everything in this god-freaked country is closed).

(© hermitthecrab 2006)
Eschenheimer Turm, early 15th century, one of the city’s original 42 towers.

At this point, we headed to the river and decided we were hungry, so stopped for a pizza. Jane needed a nap, so she hit the sheets at the hotel and I crossed the Main River into Sachsenhausen.

Evangelisch-lutherisch Droikkonigskirche: Don’t really know the history of this church placed along the river, but it was all pretty and stuff. Plus, this is one of my favorite shots of all the millions of churches on the trip.

(© hermitthecrab 2006)
Sachsenhausen itself is on the south bank of the Main, an old quarter fill of nicely preserved cobblestone streets, half-timber houses, and beer gardens. It’s famous for Apfelwein (apple wine) taverns, so we plan to hit those tonight for dinner.

(© hermitthecrab 2006)

I headed back toward the hotel along the river, getting some nice city shots [B&W – to come later]:

Kuhhirtenturm, the last of nine towers built in the 15th century as part of Sachenhausen’s fortifications
Alte Brücke (bridge)
Main
Fan Fest
city skyline
city Center
Eiserner Stag, the first suspension bridge in Europe. Stopping to take my umpteen pictures, I could feel the bridge sway and bob beneath my feet.
Historisches Museum, and some people shots
I did the best I could with the Römer (the City Hall buildings), but they face East, directly into the morning sun. The Römer is either completely front lit or completely back lit, either way totally flat. Ugh. No wonder all the postcards of it are so ugly.
Paulskirche towering over the tourists

Though Frankfurt is much smaller than Berlin, and I’m sure has fewer tourists, it seems a lot more crowded. The Fan Fest is a much smaller area, and split up into sections along the river, so it’s harder to get into and way more packed inside. Plus, it seems like everyone is condensed into a much smaller area, the Fan Fest, Römerberg, and Zeil (the shopping strip) – once you get away from these areas, it’s pretty empty.

Tomorrow, since we have little interest in being cooped up in museums, we plan to make a side trip to Bad Homberg, mostly because we think the name is funny, where there is a fort and some other junk.

Frankfurt – Later…

Popped out for dinner in Sachsenhausen at the Sum Adolf Wagner for Apfelweis, some Schnitzel for J and Tufelspritz (steak) for me. Yummy potatoes, but the apple wine wasn’t as flavorful as we’d hoped. The strudel also wasn’t as good as we’d had in Berlin, though it was made with apple wine. The atmosphere was good, though (Fodor’s called it “Sachsenhausen smaltzy to the point of corny” but we liked it. I didn’t see corn anywhere).

The tavern offers souvenir pitchers (bembels) and mugs, but I went the cheap route and just stole a coaster. Hey, it’s good enough for me.

And since this is the very last page in my journal (folks reading online – yes, I have edited, and it’s still a novel), including three pages stolen from J’s journal, I was doubly lucky that some shops opened for about five minutes on our way out to eat. We dropped into Woolworth’s (yup, Woolworth’s) to grab a new notebook. We looked for some hydrocortisone cream for the lumpies on my head (spider bites? I don’t know, you can’t see them, but they itch and burn and hurt – worse in the sun – and they’re driving me batty). Couldn’t find any, though, so whatever further dermatological ailments may befall me, I’ll just have to suffer.

And now I really wish I’d give in to temptation, because Woolworth’s was closed on the way back, and I. Need. A. Candy. Fix!!!

Frankfurt – July 3, 2006

It turned out the Apfelweis last night was not such a good idea; it gave both J and me a bad night of dreams. I don’t remember what mine were about, I just remember an overwhelming sadness, knowing it was a dream and that I needed to wake up, but being unable to do so.

P called at 12:30 a.m. (as soon as he got back to ABQ from his Australia trip), scaring the bejesus out of sleeping me. J found it highly amusing to watch me flounder around like a frightened cat on roller skates.

On to Bad Homberg this morning, a Fodor’s recommended side trip. We first crossed pedestrian bridge, where we ran into a nice man named Sonny. He heard us speaking English, and thought he’d say hi.

Side note: J and I started writing in our journals at the same time, and she just finished, slamming her notebook shut. I looked over in surprise, considering my “day” had hardly started, and described what I’ve written so far.

She grinned and quoted her first line, her equivalent to my first page: “We decided to go to Bad Homberg, partially because we weren’t interested in Frankfurt museums, and partly because the name is funny.”

And that, my friends, is the difference between writers & engineers.

We walked through town a bit while we waited for the next hourly bus to Saalburg (the main attraction):

Old-fashioned telephone booth outside the tourist center. I made J pose, which made her rather embarrassed – “What IS a Superman pose???”
Gnomes!!!

(J's pic)
St. Marien’s Cathedral
Erloserkirche
Schloss, a 17th century palace where the Kaiser stayed when in residence. Somewhat jarring is a 172’ castle tower, the Weisser Turm, rising from the central courtyard, all that remains of a medieval castle. We were a bit disappointed to find the Schloss was closed (the house, not the grounds) on Mondays. It’s becoming a recurring theme.

After lunch we made it out to Saalburg, where we’d wandered around for a good ten minutes before J got frustrated and bought a guidebook.

“Turns out it’s a ROMAN fort,” she said.

“I know.”

“I didn’t.”

Um, didn’t you read the guidebook? I was a little flabbergasted.

At my bewildered (I thought) and apparently smarmy (she thought) look, she said, “I didn’t know the Romans were in Germany.”

I must have winced, and I tried to stay neutral, I really did, but I was reminded of how my mom’s employees though the Pony Express was a band, and The Revolutionary War was between the Americans and the French. “Sure,” I replied. “The Germanic Wars were pretty huge, weakened the Roman army, and conquering Germany contributed a little to Rome’s downfall.”

More blank look from her. I sighed.

“The opening scene in Gladiator is a battle with the Germanic tribes.”

“Oh,” she said, the light stuttering on.

It was conversations like this that earned me the dubious title of “Know-It-All” for the rest of the trip. Or as J was fond of saying, I did an excellent job of making her feel like an idiot. :(

Anyway…Saalburg was interesting in that it was a neat look at what a Roman fort might have looked like, and the museum had some really cool artifacts like shoes, glass window panes, and some glass jugs we were pretty sure were bongs.

The road to Saalburg (J's pic006)

The disappointing aspect was that it was all a reconstruction, complete with life-size cutouts of Roman soldiers. Yes, there had been a fort there, but it was in ruins. The fort was built in 120 A.D. as part of the Limes Wall along the Danube River, but fell apart after the Romans left. Kaiser Wilhelm II decided to recreate it “in honor of his parents.”

So it doesn’t feel as real as a visit to Chaco Canyon, for instance. The Saalburg guidebook was extremely insisten that the fort was as “Close to the real thing as possible! Reconstructed using pictures of other real forts!”

Me at the Limes at Saalburg (J's pic)

We made it back to Frankfurt after a long hot walk from bus stop to U-bahn, a long hot train ride on the U, a long hot walk to find J a bembel and no post office from which to mail it home. By the time we got back to the hotel, I was in bad shape. I was so hot the ringing in my ears was nearly a scream, and I looked like I’d been sunburned all over.

I read a bit and took a short nap while J went to find a post office. She earned my hero of the day award by coming back with bags of Twix and gummy bears, and a Toblerone. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you can’t have too much sugar.

It revived me enough for dinner at the 12 Apostles, a microbrewery. We got a bit lost on our way and a taxi driver (kinda hot, too) directed us straight to the restaurant. The only place taxi drivers seem to speak English is in Germany.

The 12 Apostles Microbrewery (J's pic)

After dinner we made a list of stops: ATM, drugstore, ice cream. Next to the Deutsche Bank we discovered a 1Є store, and couldn’t resist the hilarity. I looked for something for Laura, but couldn’t waste a whole Euro on a plastic votive, porcelain frog, or cheap paper goods, though I know how she loves the $ store.

The dollar store! (J's pic)

The pharmacist in the Apotheke was such a nice little man, and got me my hydrocortisone cream right away, telling me it was the correct medicine for the lumps on my head, which have expanded both in size and number. They’re now angry red welts on my scalp, itching me to distraction. If they don’t go away and my doctor has to shave my head, I will be very pissed off. I’m tempted to pony up the money to call and cry to my mother.

Grabbed some ice cream and headed back to the hotel, where we had an interesting conversation with our clerk. A bit was about how South Africa may not be up to snuff for the 2010 Cup (!), how much improvement Germany had to make for this WC, and how it will help the economy, etc.

Then he offered an interesting observation on the remaining differences between East and West Germany. Seems East Germans see West Germans much as a lot of the world sees America: they’re all rich millionaires and you should take them for all you can get. The economy, and it seems the culture, in East Germany has not caught up with the West, and the older generation’s attitude that West Germany owes them something (and can afford it) is being prevailed upon the younger generation. When they move west, they have no work ethic, and wait for their golden chariot to arrive (at least in the opinion of our hotel clerk).

It’s late now and time to rest for a long day tomorrow. Hopefully my poxed head will let me sleep. :/

Note: We decided that most of the German we learned (well, that I learned) is not terribly useful – buying train tickets, getting rooms, etc. Tickets are automated, and hotel clerks speak English (we have reservations anyway). What would have been useful was German food, so we wouldn’t have to walk into every restaurant and nearly cry because we have no idea what to order (Berlin had English translations, but here there’s less of that). We could be ordering skewered fish liver for all we know, but it’s worked out so far.

Go to next entry: Dortmund

The Fußball Fan's Dream Come True, or My Trip to the World Cup in Germany

2006-07-26T13:51:00.000-07:00

(Note: I have tons of pics, and am still processing the B&W, so they're not even all here. The pages may take a while to load, but I tried to help you out by splitting the trip into sections based on the cities we were in. It's a mess, but here goes.)

First of all, I filled up 1 ½ journals on this trip. Second, no I will not force you to read every little bit of minutiae I wrote down. Nobody (well, nobody except me) really cares that every restaurant we went to had World Cup napkins or that such-and-such a church was bombed and rebuilt umpteen times (I’ll give you a hint: every church was bombed and rebuilt umpteen times).

If you're supremely lazy, feel free to just look at the pics and maybe read the captions. I won't be hurt. Much.

So here’s our trip, abridged, and slightly edited to be less historically-based (and thus, boring).

Albuquerque, NM – June 27, 2006

I’m sitting in the ABQ “Sunport” on my way to Germany, only slightly dampened by the fact the U.S. has already been trounced out of the tournament. So while I have a moment, I want to note for the record my opinion of this World Cup U.S. Men’s National Team (USMNT):

I’ve said it about a billion times, and I’ll say it again. Landon Donovan is not the Great White Hope for U.S. soccer. To see him get the captain’s armband when Reyna stepped off the field in the Ghana game was to see me throw whatever I had at hand at the TV.
They should have given DaMarcus Beasley some potato chips and a La-Z-Boy.
Reyna, Convey, Dempsey, Bocanegra, and most notably Conrad showed up to play. I will not lower myself here to waggling my fingers in my ears and singing “I told you so” with regard to Conrad. Okay, maybe I will.
Arena should face charges for leaving Taylor Twellman at home. We could have used a sparkplug, an injury-free forward who is fast, works hard for 90+ minutes, and most importantly, scores goals.
Atrocious loss to the Czech Republic, ill-reffed tragedy against Italy (9 on 10?!?), and just no drive against Ghana. I’m waiting for the refund from our U.S. match conditional tickets to show up in my account.

A very sad Claudio Reyna

But P’s Socceroos played tough, at least giving me someone to cheer for, only bowing out yesterday to the crying bitches that form the Italian team.

Brazil looks dull…or have they just not played anyone worthwhile yet?

Argentina, Spain, and Italy are the teams to beat. Maybe Portugal. England and France just aren’t clicking.

Anyway, we’re literally peeing every few minutes in excitement. Mentally crossing fingers for a not-horrible flight…

Various Airports – June 28, 2006

We just passed through the Paris Charles DeGaulle airport, and came to one conclusion: contrary to popular belief, the French just like to good-naturedly fuck with people.

As France beat Spain yesterday 2-1 to advance to the quarters, the airport is covered in celebratory media (and maybe this is the reason for everyone’s good humor). The coffee shop had newpaper photos of Zidane leaping over Spaniards in a single bound, and their specials board simply proclaimed “France 2 : l'Espagne 1.”

Zidane flying over the Spaniards

So ready to be in Berlin. According to the German sports page we found at the gate, we’ll be there for the Germany-Argentina quarterfinal.

Oh. Hell. Yes.

Berlin - Later…

Made it to our hotel with only fair to middling bewilderment. We are 43.8% certain we purchased the right bus and train tickets and took the correct route.

We had our first beers this afternoon in a nearby coffee/food/beer shop, then took a walk around the Zoologischer Garten along the Landwehr Canal. Caught our first glimpse of German genitals as well, as we finally come to understand why all the trees are dying around all the stadiums: the world is most definitely their toilet.

My first beer in Germany (J’s pic)

Walking along the Landwehr Canal, Berlin (J’s pic)

After a while we turned back toward our hotel along city streets, finally encountering a little World Cup fair set up underneath the Kaiser-Wilhelm Gedachtniskirche (Memorial Church). The damage the 1895 cathedral suffered in WW2 has not been repaired, and stands in stark contrast to the flanking Memorial Church and Tower (a.k.a. the Lipstick and Powder Box) and the colorful fan tents below.

Germany’s hopes for the Cup (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The Kaiser-Wilhelm Memorial Church, bearing all its bomb damage, and the merchandise fest below (© hermitthecrab 2006)

B&W pics of the Kaiser-Wilhelm Memorial Church (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Much-needed nap at the hotel, then dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant, where our waiter was like a jolly uncle, informing us we were wonderful Americans, obviously not from Pennsylvania. ;)

Italian restaurant (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Oh, and of course, more public urination, this time on the exterior wall of a public restroom. Maybe it was too far to walk…?

Berlin – June 29, 2006

Breakfast, our first showers, and off we went with our trusty guidebook. We followed its advice and hopped on the 100 bus for a self-guided tour around the city:

Grosser Stern & the Victory Column, Berlin (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The Grosser Stern, a huge traffic circle where the Berlin Fan Mile begins. The Victory Column in the circle’s center attests to three victories in the Prussian War against the French which united the German states, the Goddess of Victory topping the tower. The green panels depict the battles, and were stolen by the French during recovery from WW2. I guess they figured no one would notice, and they really didn’t want yet more proof out there that they’re the easiest European country to defeat. They returned them later, though…mostly.

The Victory Column plates telling the world how Germany kicked France’s butts, Berlin (J’s pic)

The enormous Berlin Fan Fest, from the Victory Column (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Back on the bus, we caught a view of the updated Olympic Stadium (built for Berlin’s Olympics in 1936) where tomorrow’s game and the final will be played. We wandered over to the Brandenburger Tor http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brandenburg_Gate, though we had no idea what it was until much later.

The Brandenburg Gate with some wild-ass Cup festivities going on, Berlin (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The Brandenburg Gate, Berlin (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Some college kids dressed in silly costumes with their faces painted came up to us with a can, making a request in German. Once we asked for English, they said, “We are students who just got out of school, and we are collecting money for our party.”

No way could we say no to that. :)

Brief glance at the Reichstag, the national parliament building, whose glass dome was installed after the reunification so that the world could always look into the heart of German government, sort of a makepeace for the atrocities served up in the world wars.

The Reichstag (© hermitthecrab 2006)

We returned to our bus stop, and J followed two guys onto a bus before I could utter, “Uh, I don’t think that’s our bus.”

Sure enough, we’d joined a tour bus en route. Instead of immediately kicking us off, however, the driver closed the doors and drove off. Two very jocular South African guys insisted we stay for the tour, so that’s what we did. Hey, who’s going to turn down a free air-conditioned ride around the city?

The South Africans were highly entertaining, cheering for Brazil and insisting they simply “hadn’t turned on yet,” and responding to everything we said with “Phenomenal!” They were in extremely high spirits, giggling (yes, giggling) and joking about how much one liked to shop – “He’s got altogether too much estrogen.” We would have thought they were flamboyantly gay if not for their wedding rings and talk of the “missuses” who were of course, notably absent.

Our free tour wound around the city, crossing the Spree River several times, passing the President’s Palace (a lovely, uncluttered white palace with a flat green lawn perfect for soccer). We saw the Swiss Embassy with its giant pair of soccer cleats outside, a token of good luck to the Swiss side (I guess it didn’t work – maybe they needed bigger boots).

Stolen tour finished, we trod on our own free fee to Potsdamer Platz, formerly the financial district of Berlin, but bombed to hell. Big companies like Sony have tried to bring it back, but it hasn’t caught on. If anyone needs cheap office space…I know a spot in Berlin.

Potsdamer Platz is the place to find museums, galleries, and the Philharmonic hall, all boasting avant garde color and lines with a lot of brilliant flair. But there are pockets of the old in the cobblestone streets, the cathedrals, and even some buildings converted to offices or apartments.

The Monstrous Sony Center (© hermitthecrab 2006)

In search of the site of the Berlin Wall, we wandered through the jarringly modern glass and chrome Sony Center, a monument to consumerism. Amidst promotional soccer games and cheesy blow-up exhibits, we stumbled upon a remaining monolith chunk of the wall rising from the subtle cobblestone line that demarcates the wall’s former boundary.

Well, I stumbled on it. J didn’t see it at all, and was determinedly marching on in the quest, as I followed her in complete confusion, stuttering, “But I thought we wanted to see the wall…? And here it is…? Can I have my stapler…?”

Anyway, the light eventually dawned, and we eschewed taking snapshots with the wall as the rest of the Americans were lining up to do (you can pick out the Americans pretty easily: they’ll be the one’s wearing NFL jerseys).

We followed the little line of cobblestones down the street, amazed at how many shops, hotels, and office buildings have risen atop since its destruction in 1989. In fact, in a development that was both disgusting and the ultimate illustrations of capitalism’s virulent capabilities, we discovered a Starbucks sitting plumb on top of the wall’s carcass.

Starbucks is the devil...or is it? (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Sitting atop the Berlin Wall (J's pic)

Walking on, we encountered a monument of granite blocks stretching over a full city block. In one sentence, J created a standard that would direct many of our future tourist destinations: “Hey, I saw that on a postcard! It must be important, let’s go see what it is.”

Took me a while to stop laughing at the thought of ranking city sites by postcard status, especially given that most of the postcards I bought had apes, guys in lederhosen, or chunks of the wall embedded in them.

The “postcard” site turned out to be a rather somber one, the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. The blocks, of varying height over undulating ground, form a grid-like maze. Underneath the southeast corner is an exhibit on the history of the Holocaust, complete with timelines, pictures, descriptions of the “Death Sites,” and short features on several families who were mostly or completely wiped out.

Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The most emotionally effective room for me, however, was the second. The room was maybe 30’ x 30’, with textured rubber floors, completely dark except for 15 or so rectangular displays set flush with the floor, each about the size of a ceiling tile. A muted blue light shone through each transparent tile, illuminating the words of Jews writing their own accounts through reports, diaries, or letters. Most showed a copy of the original letter, and all had a poignant quote enlarged in German and English, and a brief bio of the writer (if indeed, anything was known). All but one died in the Holocaust.

A great deal of controversy surrounded this monument. First, the Jews were not the only group affected by WW2; no memorial stands for the murdered gypsies, the disabled, the homosexuals, the Slavs. Second, the memorial cost millions of dollars for a city deeply in debt. Third, and most disturbing, the city commissioned a chemical company to create a coating for the granite that would enable them to easily wash off graffiti…only later to discover this same company manufactured Zyklon-B during the war, and purchased gold teeth scavenged from the bodies of Holocaust victims. Here’s hoping this is that company’s form of restitution is some small way. Somehow, I don’t think it quite covers the bill.

On top of all that political controversy (or maybe underneath it) was the fact that during site excavation, they found the Goebbel bunker. The Goebbels, most particularly Magda, the wife of Hitler’s Propaganda Minister, were staunch, almost obsessive supporters of Hitler. When it all hit the fan, they took their 6 children into the bunker, drugged them with morphine, then poisoned them all with cyanide before shooting themselves. Nice. I’d like to read more on this history, actually, once I retrieve my stomach contents.

We emerged from the subterranean museum, both physically and emotionally drained. We decided to visit the Brandenburger Tor since we were so close (according to our Fodor’s map), but on approach realized we’d been there earlier in the day, just from a different side. So we hoofed to back to the train station and our hotel to take a nap…or, for J to take a nap and for me to write a bazillion pages in my journal, as it turns out.

Some other fun tidbits from the day:

Smartcars are hella cool.

Who needs to parallel park? (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Sometimes the little “Walk/Don’t Walk” guy on the traffic lights is just a little walking or standing stick figure. Sometimes he has a hat. Don’t know why. It’s a mystery.

Another mystery: What are those flippin’ “Buddy Bears”? These near-life size bears, all painted differently, are on every corner, in front of every hotel, shop, and station, and we have no idea what they are. Bears are the symbol of Berlin, sure, but this is a bit ridiculous.

J is not afraid of the mysterious Buddy Bear (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Berlin – Later…

We found heaven in Berlin. The House of 100 Beers, south of the Wilhelmsdorf U-bah station. Highly delicious sausage, sauerkraut, potatoes, and beers. And for dessert, apple strudel in vanilla sauce with ice cream. Drool.

Heaven on a plate (J's pic)

Long walk back…probably a good thing for my growing gut.

Discovered a pretty major flaw in my travel plan: the Third Place Game in Stuttgart starts at 9 p.m. The last train out of Stuttgart leaves at 10 p.m. We’re going to have some finagling to do to get to Berlin for the final…

Berlin/Train to Frankfurt – July 1, 2006

Awake (mostly) and on the train to Frankfurt now. Plenty of time to fill out yesterday’s details (if anyone cares).

After figuring out the postcard thing (a whole Euro to send a post card! Ouch), the internet café thing (I still have 4 Euros worth of time in that place…stupid machine that doesn’t give change), and getting more cash, we embarked on the second half of our sight-seeing tour, this time traveling to East Berlin.

We stopped at Checkpoint Charlie, a crossover point the Allies held after WW2, when Germany and Berlin got split up into territories overseen by each Allied country. Checkpoint Charlie was the third checkpoint held by the Americans, also the site of the famous tank standoff in 1961 between the Americans and the Soviets.

(Briefly: some American diplomats going to theatres in East Berlin got ticked that the Soviet soldiers insisted on checking their passports – despite their diplomatic license plates – so the next time they brought tanks. The Soviets responded with more tanks. The tanks stared at each other, fully armed, for a full day until Kennedy and Khrushchev agreed to chill. Ah, the Cold War.)

The sign (not the original – nothing is) (© hermitthecrab 2006)

Tourists love Checkpoint Charlie (© hermitthecrab 2006)

While the west has clearly seeped into the east in the past 17 years, East Berlin is still much more the darker of the two. The buildings are older, grungier, drabbier. The sidewalk vendors sell more “war” souvenirs, postcards leaning toward depictions of WW2, battles, political figures, people crossing the wall. Tiled into the sidewalk at the Checkpoint are the words “Unity in Liberty” in German, English, and Russian.

We did note that the American “soldiers” at the Checkpoint plainly had never been in the military. There were far too smiley and casual, flirting with tourists and slinging their fake rifles around. Who knew if they were even American. Capitalist, for sure, and they nabbed a Euro for every picture taken.

A few blocks away is the Topography of Terror. This temporary outdoor exhibition (they’ve been trying for decades to get a permanent museum built, to no avail) focuses on the Nuremberg Trials, the political prisoners, and the general fallout of WW2. You can actually press a button and listen to the testimonies of the accused at the Trials. One notable quote from American judge Robert Jackson:

These men saw no evil, spoke none, and none was uttered in their presence. This claim might sound very plausible if made by one defendant. But when we put all their stories together, the impression which emerges of the Third Reich, which was to last a thousand years, is ludicrous. If we combine only the stories of the front bench, this is the ridiculous composite picture of Hitler's Government that emerges. It was composed of:

A Number 2 man who knew nothing of the excesses of the Gestapo which he created, and never suspected the Jewish extermination program although he was the signer of over a score of decrees which instituted the persecutions of that race;

A Number 3 man who was merely an innocent middleman transmitting Hitler's orders without even reading them, like a postman or delivery boy;

A foreign minister who knew little of foreign affairs and nothing of foreign policy;

A field marshal who issued orders to the Armed Forces but had no idea of the results they would have in practice;

A security chief who was of the impression that the policing functions of his Gestapo and SD were somewhat on the order of directing traffic;

A Party philosopher who was interested in historical research and had no idea of the violence which his philosophy was inciting in the twentieth century;

A governor general of Poland who reigned but did not rule;

A Gauleiter of Franconia whose occupation was to pour forth filthy writings about the Jews, but who had no idea that anybody would read them;

A minister of interior who knew not even what went on in the interior of his own office, much less the interior of his own department, and nothing at all about the interior of Germany;

A Reichsbank president who was totally ignorant of what went in and out of the vaults of his bank;

And a plenipotentiary for the war economy who secretly marshaled the entire economy for armament, but had no idea it had anything to do with war.

This may seem like a fantastic exaggeration, but this is what you would actually be obliged to conclude if you were to acquit these defendants.

They do protest too much. They deny knowing what was common knowledge. They deny knowing plans and programs that were as public as Mein Kampf and the Party program. They deny even knowing the contents of documents they received and acted upon.

Click here for the full closing statements.

Topography of Terror, formerly Nazi prisoner cells (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The exhibition ran for about 200 meters, the doubled back in a subterranean bunker (mostly open to the air). Above and behind the bunker, a 200 meter stretch of the wall is preserved as a reminder of history, of what Germany has overcome.

Whoever wrote that was right (© hermitthecrab 2006)

We saw a lot more Americans yesterday than we had previously. It’s cool to see them turning out for this. Maybe they’ll all go home and spread soccer fever. Woot for the Free Beer Movement.

It was time for some lunch and some soccer, so we headed to the Fan Mile via the Reichstag. As the Reichstag overlooks the Olympic Stadium and the Fan Mile, we got to see some pretty excited Germans.

Our first brush with fun-loving German fans (J's pic)

Grabbed some brats and beers before braving security to the Fan Mile, where the entrances were all a crush. We soon discovered, however, the power of breasts. Girls got to bypass the crowd. Yay for boobs!

A mile-long stretch of street was closed down, including several acres of park (garten) on either side, from Grosser Stern to the Reichstag. Thousands of people flooded the area, but it wasn’t terribly crowded, thanks to the park.

We splurged on Germany jerseys (hey, we had to have someone to cheer for), though we were terribly disappointed in the beer selection. We killed a couple of hours walking the mile, taking in sand sculptures, the Ferris wheel, the singing, painted, black-red-and-gold bedecked German fans, and the guys peeing in the woods.

Goldfinger has struck (© hermitthecrab 2006)

We sat for a while and people-watched, finding our hero for the day: a lonely German guy waiting for his friends under Lanterne 139. He spent several minutes perfecting his fan gear, adjusting his Dr. Seuss hat, tying his flag around his waist, straightening his jersey, arranging his lanyard and soccer ball necklace and rubber bracelets.

Then he waited. And waited. Standing awkwardly alone in the middle of the street, he eyed the nearby Grosser Stern entrance anxiously. His friends did not show.

The Lonely German (© hermitthecrab 2006)

After several minutes he pulled out his cell phone, but no one answered his call. He crossed his legs and uncrossed them. He twisted his bracelets, rearranged his lanyards. He retired his flag around his waist. Still, no one came.

We were ready to check out the other end of the Fan Fest, but we couldn’t just leave the poor guy. So we waited, too.

He pulled out his cell phone one more time. Relief flooded all our faces as someone answered. It was only a few more minutes until several girls miraculously emerged from the woods behinds him. He greeted them with crushing hugs and very animated German, probably something along the lines of “Where were you guys? I’ve been waiting all by myself, looking like a complete idiot here with all my crazy stuff on. Why didn’t you answer your phone? I thought we were supposed to meet at 4 o’clock! You guys suck.”

Relieved at the happy ending, J and I toured the mile again, making the inevitable T-shirt purchases.

The Grosser Stern end was the least crowded, so we watched the game from there. We attempted to sit on the foliage-overgrown curb, desperate to get off our feet, but I quickly discovered the weeds we were sitting in were poisonous. I suffered a red rash with white lumps most of the game, and burning and itching for the rest of the night. (It was only the beginning of my dermatological dramas.)

The plant that poisoned me (J's pic)

So we stood for the entire game as Argentina scored a brilliant header…Germany scored their own brilliant header…the game extended a scoreless 30 minute overtime…and Germany won it on penalty kicks. Ballack played hurt and cramping, and nailed his PK. I see why the entire nation adores him.

The Germans went wild, hugging and kissing. Little boys jumped into their fathers’ arms. The young men waved their flags and went running through the streets. Fans plugged the avenues as we waked back to our hotel several kilometers away. Their little cars were bumper to bumper, sounding their horns, with German flags waving from every open window. Some mopeds bristled with dozens of flags poking out like black, red, and gold porcupine needles.

It's too bad I couldn't take a pic of the noise (© hermitthecrab 2006)

The celebration went on into the night, as we hobbled (I had developed a blister) to find a nice pizzeria in which to watch the Italy-Ukraine game. After several attempts we found a great place with pizza for me, gnocchi for J, gelato for dessert, and a quiet front row table (well, quiet except for the drunk girls who kept wandering back singing some German song to the tune of “Yellow Submarine” – much worse than the one set to “John Jacob Jingleheimer Smith”). Italy crushed the Ukraine 3-0 (though the Ukraine was denied an obvious PK call).

Now we’re on the train to Frankfurt, after not too much effort. The scenery hasn’t been overly spectacular, just a lot of green and a lot of farmland. Actually resembles North Texas and the Oklahoma plains quite a bit. There are the occasional houses, but few. Tons of graffiti, though, even in the boonies. Every available surface is covered in artwork, from sheds in pastures to the concrete lining the railway overpasses.

Due to some screaming children needing a place to sit, I kind of got routed out of our compartment, and I’m actually in a nice quiet seat. I feel a little bad at leaving J to the compartment o’ the screeching toddler…but she’s better equipped to handle it than I am. At least, that’s the theory I’m sticking with.

Go to next entry: Frankfurt

Am I Losing You?

2005-10-20T13:08:00.000-07:00

I think Dad said it best when he said all the changes in College Station, aka “Aggieland”, were “amazing, scary, sad, and magnificent.” No one ever wants their beloved to change, to become new and unknown, to belong to anyone else. There’s absolutely no help for it – the darn kids are going to make it their own no matter what we old Ags have to say about it. The only consolation is that we thoroughly pissed off previous generations of Ags when we instituted our own “new” traditions.

The first thing I noticed is that I had no clue where I was. Landmarks have changed, new hotels have emerged, shopping centers, restaurants, even new buildings and parking lots on campus. The only indication I was back in College Station was the smell that greeted me as I got out of the car: wet, green humidity. I remember when Dad first brought me to school, when I believed without question that I was going to melt into the pavement as we walked across campus to the Southgate Loupot’s. At 2 o’clock in the afternoon, dew still weighed heavily on the grass. Breathing the air made me long desperately for gills. But after a while, I couldn’t remember ever being anywhere else, and I was rewarded for all my suffering come spring, when the highways are alight with popping bluebonnets and fluorescent Indian paintbrush.

Northgate, the kitchen table of Texas A&M, was hardly recognizable. Oh, the Dixie Chicken was there all right, and Freebirds, Dudley’s Draw, the Dry Bean Saloon, even Shadow Canyon. What was gone was the atmosphere Robert Earl keen immortalized in “The Front Porch.” The dirt and tobacco juice alley that used to line the back of the bars, where I hid with my stolen pitcher from the Chicken – a memorial to the emerging ring-dunking tradition – was bricked and paved over with some civic-minded businessman’s idea of a more aesthetic community. Meters and parking stripes covered the old residential blocks where we used to cram our trucks in so tightly we couldn’t puke without hitting a car nine spots over. Hell, even Bottle Cap Alley, where the few sober pissheads go to find material for their spurs, had a plastic arching sign announcing its presence to the world. It was only slightly less ugly and disappointing than the McDonald’s twin arches a block away.

The only saving grace is this guy:

Standing rather remotely behind the Chicken at the entrance to Bottle Cap Alley, this embodiment of the Aggie Spirit is almost enough to make me forget about the plastic ugliness of the rest of the changes. Alas, in life he is no more, as the Bonfire has not risen since it fell in ’99, and any Aggie will tell you we lost a lot more than twelve lives that day.

My dad, stepmom and I shoved our way into the Dixie Chicken – whose interior, thank Christ, has not changed a whit. We snagged some Shiner and removed to the back porch…where we began the Great Encounter.

Dad sipped from the pitcher so it wouldn’t spill, and received a “Hey, you can’t drink from the pitcher, buddy” from the back door bouncer, whom we fondly named Bubba.

(May I add that this no-drinking-from-the-pitcher rule is wholly and completely the fault of my generation of Aggies. You see, when we started the ring-dunking tradition, you had to drink the contents of a pitcher within the second of your class year. Completely and utterly illegal, this activity spawned the end of an era – the end of my 17-year-old self being able to buy beer at the bar, and the beginning of the now perpetual TABC probation imposed on said bar. So now they sell some half-ass “schooner” for the kids to dunk out of, which is lame and not red-ass at all.)

Well, Dad kidded around with the modernized ape for a few minutes, to no response. And then Dad proceeded to be Dad as usual, which meant hollering “Howdy!” at everyone who passed through the back door. This translates to something like 5,987 howdies. Bubba was not impressed.

It wasn’t until we returned from Midnight Yell Practice that the full effects of my father’s personality were felt: we were going back through the Chicken for a bathroom break on our way to the car, when Bubba stopped Dad and tossed him out because he was “too intoxicated.” On three beers. For those of you who don’t know my father, he is not a small man. His jaw dropped and he made those boys bust their butts to call over the manager.

In a highly amusing conversation, he informed the manager that he was not drunk, that Bubba was quite a rude young man, and “I was a student here before that kid ever even thought about being born. I was here before there was a Chicken!” My father has officially become that belligerent old guy. Sweet.

Anyway, the manager could see pretty well that Dad wasn’t drunk, so he let us in. On our way out the back door, Dad made sure to stop and make nice with Bubba, which I’m sure had no effect on Bubba’s rather flat brain wave pattern. We later learned he’d tossed friend of mine after only two beers. It’s a wonder they do business at all, considering they’re now a bar where no one is allowed to drink or have a good time.

As for Midnight Yell…we made it, anyway, somewhat the worse for wear. We stopped in at the Memorial Student Center for a bathroom break, which turned out to be not quite soon enough for my stepmother. I heard her enter her stall and sit down, then she let loose an exasperated “Well, shit.”

“What?” I asked.

“When I tripped on the stairs just now, some pee came out.”

Okay, I’m thinking. That happens to me sometimes. I don’t get to pee before a soccer game, get whacked in the bladder with a ball, and wind up with a spot or two. Or I sneeze. Who hasn’t sneezed and peed their pants? So her underpants are a little damp.

I offered her some paper towels, but when she came out from the stall it was clear that solution was woefully inadequate. Some pee hadn’t come out. All of it had. She was wet front to back, crotch to knee.

I didn’t know what to say. Actually, I was afraid to speak, for fear that I might laugh. It’s not good to laugh at someone who’s just wet their pants and now faces the prospect of spending the next several hours amidst tens of thousands of people. I couldn’t even pull a Billy Madison and wet my pants, too, because…well, because my stepmom’s not six years old. I doubt she’d buy that all the cool kids were doing it.

When we emerged, humbled and embarrassed, from the restroom and informed my father of the situation, his reaction was “You wet your pants again? At least this time it was only pee.” (A story for another day…)

Other than that, Midnight Yell was a rousing success. Other than the unexpected – for me and Dad, anyway – numbers of people, it was just as it’s always been. Dad kept saying when he went to Yell, only the Corps of Cadets attended, a few thousand in the corner of Kyle Field. When I attended, it was around ten thousand, in a corner of Kyle Field. This time, it had to be 30,000 people filling up the entire lower deck of the student section.

But the Yell Leaders still started everything off with “I got a story for you, Ags…” and there was only one new yell we didn’t know. Some guy always managed to yell “Uncover!” in my ear, and another guy always managed not to hear it. The “wood” is still insanely instable from thousands of students standing on it for three hours at a time – I’m amazed there hasn’t been some mass-fall incident at Kyle Field. Everyone would go like dominoes.

The last stop of the evening was Whataburger. I don’t think I’ve had a Whataburger in near to five or six years. Why, oh, why does anyone ever go to McDonald’s? The sheer joy in the orange and white striped bag is overwhelming. I almost cried.

Game Day dawned, if not early, then at least early enough for a bland continental breakfast. Dad abandoned us in the room to dine with a horde of really old codgers – the class of ’46 reunion: “I looked around,” he said, “and I thought I was in a nursing home. Look at all the old folks – oh, wait, I guess I’m an old fart, too.”

We went on to the hardest part of the trip: the Bonfire Memorial. Dad told us he’s never even been able to visit Pearl Harbor, fearing the emotional toll. I knew I would cry, I knew it would be awful, but I couldn’t help but feel these twelve kids deserved at least fifteen minutes of consideration. They literally died for the spirit of Aggieland, for the love of the school, for their pride in their community.

The Memorial, situated in a circle around the site of the bonfire – complete with a granite plaque in place of the center pole commemorating the date and time of the collapse – consists of a timeline for every year of the bonfire since its inception in 1909, and a large gateway into the circle facing the hometown of each of the students who died. In that doorway you can read about them, their lives, what their families said about them. It was just a fancy cemetery until I got to about the 5th monolith, where a quotation from the boy stood out: “Help my buddies first.” Lying in the fallen stack of logs that had once stretched six stories high, hurt, dying, he had directed rescuers to half a dozen other injured students that he could see before he would allow anyone to pull him from the wreck. I don’t know what I would have done in his situation, but chances are I wouldn’t have been that kind of hero. Looking at that bronzed phrase, a knot tightened in my throat that I could not swallow, breaking into a round of tears as I completed the walk around the circle. Like Dad with Pearl Harbor, I’m not sure I’ll ever have the heart to face that memorial again, but I know that image will stay with me until the day they write my epitaph.

Somewhat less jubilant, we left the polo grounds and the site of the memorial and headed to the various bookstores around campus to let some shopping lift our spirits before the game. The only truly notable item I purchased did not show its true Aggie colors until we were in the car, receipts in hand. I had needed a new visor, having left my old one out in the sun until its deep maroon faded to more of a happy pink. I got my nice new A&M visor out of the bag and proceeded to fit it on my melon, when I noticed something strange: the “Texas A&M” embroidered on the velcro closure strap was on upside down. Yes, folks, an official NCAA piece of headgear was constructed upside down.

“Do you want to go back and exchange it?” Dad asked.

I grinned. “Hell, no. This is hilarious. If I’d have known it was upside down, I would have paid double for it.” I guess you have to be an Aggie to understand things like this, things like drive-thru windows on the right-hand side of the car, throwing away your winning lottery ticket because you were reading the numbers upside down (I mean, I’ve never done that…), and putting your hurricane boards up on the inside of your plate glass windows.

We made our way across campus to the game, having secured free parking from one of the lovely merchants, pushing our way through the circus that has become Kyle Field on game day. Tailgaters who must spend 75% of their income on BBQ pits, flags, portable satellite TV systems, and pimping out their ride to match the A&M colors were packed into every park and every parking space, the aroma of beer and brisket permeating the air. We even saw a converted “short bus”, further testament to the mental prowess of former Texas A&M students.

Adding to the chaos was the endless amount of promotional booths and games. I’ve been to carnivals that were less successful. We could sit and watch every college game on TV that day, stop by for some free Hershey’s Kisses, win a really ugly car, catch a football from a mohawked, maroon-painted loonie, even pig out at our choice of five different chain-restaurant huts. I suppose charging us $75 a seat for the new horseshoe wing just isn’t cutting the payments.

Though so much was new and made my father and I want to cry and tell everyone to go away, that this is sacred ground, for crying out loud (for those who don’t know, Kyle Field is a memorial to all Aggie who have died fighting for our country, and no one is allowed on the field unless they’re the band, the football team, or in the Corps of Cadets – a fact which has led the Corps to, shall we say, remove with force numerous Lubbock dirt monkeys from our beloved stadium), one ceremony remained true: the march-in. As always, an hour before the game, the entire Corps of Cadets marches into the stadium in full dress. And while I myself was a non-reg, Fightin’ Texas Aggie Class of 1998, my father was a member of M-12, back in ol’ army. I’m not saying I’ve never seen my dad cry (okay, so my dad cries a lot), but it still makes me smile to think of how he always wells up at the sight of those boys (and girls!) in khaki.

Finally, we made our way up…up…up…and several more ups beyond the point you think you can up no farther…to our seats in the horseshoe. I was bemoaning our location – oh, yes, all the way at the very tippy-top, practically hanging from the flagpole – and the exorbitant amount of money we paid for bleacher seats, until the game began and we had an unprecedented view of everything: Kyle Field, the game, the stands, College Station beyond, and the full A&M campus behind us. The view of the band at halftime was better than I’ve ever seen, from the echoing “Now entering at the north end of Kyle Field, the nationally famous fightin’ Texas Aggie Band!” through the how-the-hell-do-they-not-knock-each-other-over formations, all the way to the patriotic tribute to end halftime. We even had entertaining seatmates: to our right, a nice man with a radio broadcast significant events in Game 3 of the NL Championship series to the delight of all Houstonians in the vicinity, and directly in front of us three very happy young ladies, one of whom offered up the quote of the day – “He’s getting married? Not to the sideburns girl!?!”

Of course, watching the boys beat the hell outta o.s.u. 62-23 didn’t make for such a bad experience, either. The cherry on top was seeing the 12th man (number 12 on the football team is always a walk-on, and represents the entire student body) intercept a pass on one of the final plays of the game. Nothing makes Kyle Field louder than seeing the 12th man touch the football. We sang one more happy round of the War Hymn, the fish carried the Yell Leaders off to the Fish Pond for a victorious dunking, and everyone lived happily ever after. (That is, until we play a team that doesn’t suck. And then we’re the team that sucks. Yet another defining characteristic of being an Aggie.)

Despite being thrown out of a bar, wetting our pants, and me getting ruthlessly sick on the way back to North Texas (ah, how I’ve missed Taco Cabana), this trip was one of the best in recent memory. I’ve even taken up Dad’s mantra from my first trip to Aggieland: “When I was a student here, this was all wilderness. Wilderness, I tell you.” I didn’t understand it much then, but now, only seven years out from my graduation ceremony (which famously took place in a coliseum that only the year before had been “wilderness”), I can feel the heartbreaking loss of my beloved. She stays the same in so many ways, but I fear the day when I wake up and no longer recognize her at all.

I figure I’ll just have to go back all the time to keep the romance alive.

New York: My East Coast Love

2005-03-31T10:50:00.000-08:00

I met New York for the first time recently, after years of hearing so much about her, seeing her on the television, reading about her past. It was a quickie, a fly-through and grab all you can get in three days, but it was more than enough time for me to fall in love with her.

She’s not a forever kind of city, not for a country girl like me, anyway. Unlike my home territory of the American Southwest, the land of mañana, New York moves at a lightning pace. The defining word for the city and her inhabitants is intense. From Wall Street to Times Square, from NYU to Greenwich, everyone you meet is either driven to make their mark or driven to sell you something. In comparison, Los Angeles is a stoned beach bum, an underachiever investment banker with a script in his trunk, a self-described producer looking for a free lunch and a photo op. New York is brooding, thoughtful, the guy who stares at you a little too long and a little too hard. Personal space is restricted to the earphones in your iPod, not a whole car on the freeway. The mind is what is sought-after there, with bookstores far more common than tanning salons. When I left the city I had none of the low body image I acquire after visiting Venice Beach; rather, it was my mind that was reeling, flashing with thoughts and inspirations, considerations and ruminations.

Before I got there, before I even got on the plane in Long Beach, I received an indicator of how my trip was going to go. A preface, a foreshadowing. I met a man on the shuttle in from long-term parking, a nattily-dressed older gentleman who hopped on the bus asking “Are you happy or are you married?” and chortling at the driver’s response. He was on his way to visit his son, who would soon be on David Letterman promoting his book Ultramarathon Man: Confessions of an All-Night Runner. The author runs these insanely long distances – we’re talking 100-150 miles – in exotic locales such as the Antarctic and Death Valley, all for the sake of children who need organ transplants. The pride in his progeny literally oozed from this man, and by the time we stepped off the bus to board our separate flights, I felt like I’d gone to school with his kid. It was an auspicious start to my weekend.

Upon arrival, I was immediately plunged into the hopping, jumping, hard-drinking side of Manhattan. Dragging my bags and huddling inside my wool coat – I’d had to dig deep to find suitable winter clothing in my Los Angeles denuded closet – I met up with friends at a Lower East Side dive that I never caught the name of. It was a Detroit-based pub, the walls covered with bumper stickers, hubcaps, and other auto paraphernalia. A bored go-go dancer gyrated on a shelf in front of a huge window, her dollar-stuffed gold-sequined bikini in stark contrast to the fat flakes of driving snow falling outside.

I drank that night with an MTV crowd, including a native Long Islander who left no doubt as to his hometown. He bought me a drink, loudly told lewd stories from a distance much to close to my face, his rum-laced breath clashing with the screwdriver in my hand. I also met a big bear of a man who upon finding out I’m from New Mexico, stated “That’s awesome! I want to move to Albuquerque. Or Roswell.” Apparently the sky-high rent in New York can addle a man’s brain to a degree I never would have considered. I made little headway in convincing the poor sap that the mild insanity he was currently enjoying was nothing compared to the all-out bedlam he would come down with after only a week in Southeastern New Mexico. I love my home state, but there are some parts of it better left to the wind, dirt, and dairy cows.

I got my first rush of attraction later on that night, after enough of my new friends had drunk themselves beyond the bounds of conversation, as I discovered what may be my favorite thing about New York: at any time, on any block, there’s always some hole-in-the-wall deli, taco stand, or pizza place open. At 3 a.m., my friend E and I popped into a “Chicken Sandwiche” shop just around the corner from her apartment, where you where you could not only get a chicken or steak “sandwiche”, you could also get “begels”, “bayerages”, or “blak coffee”. The spelling of the food had no bearing on its tastiness, and I briefly considered the possibility of smooshing the entire restaurant into my carry-on bags for my own personal use back in LA. For the past three years, I have searched high and low for a 24-hour corner shop within five miles of my apartment in Mar Vista, and all I’ve come up with is the convenience store where they sell three bags of generic gummy bears for a dollar. No chicken sandwiches for me.

Saturday was tourist day, though I quickly made up my mind that I don’t really have the patience to be a real tourist. The movies, the TV shows, the travel articles, none of them really tell you the true experience of being a tourist in a place as world-renowned and popular as New York: the lines. The ferry line for the Statue of Liberty was easily two to three hours long, just so you could go to Liberty Island to look up the lovely lady’s skirt – and not get any loving in return, as she’s currently undergoing restoration, and can’t receive any guests. We waved at her from Battery Park and headed into SoHo for the main event: shopping.

The going joke is that the Native Americans sold the island of Manhattan to the colonists in the early 17th century for a handful of beads and some fire water. I highly doubt if that tale resembles the facts at all, but the spirit of free trade is still alive and kicking. The entire island, filled with museums, office high-rises, historic buildings, and flashing Broadway show-houses, is actually just a network of pedestrian paths filled with vendors, all of whom have the same trite photographs of the city and boxes full of faux-designer handbags that they hawk at you like Mexican children selling Chiclets. It reminded me of walking the streets of St. Petersberg and Moscow just after the USSR crumbled. People would sell their souls to you for $20.

We trekked uptown past the Trinity Church and on into SoHo, where we stopped in at a large Asian market full of paper lamps, bamboo notebooks, and cheap houseshoes. We meandered around the tiny “Evolution”, where they sell fossils, petrified wood, and amber-trapped insects. It was strange to see shelves full of skulls replicas, skulls that I could name, skulls that I had worked with during my brief stint as an Evolutionary Biologist. I felt like I was meeting old friends.

I even caved and made a purchase from a street vendor, a beautiful green necklace that led to a quest for a perfect outfit to go with it. Twelve hours in New York, and I was already infected with the desire to hand my credit card to whomever could offer me the prettiest accessories.

But before the shopping was done, we had to head to one store that you will never find in any true capacity in Los Angeles: a bookstore. The Strand Bookstore is a skinny structure filled top to bottom with used books, wholesale books, remainders, review copies, rare books, and books they sell according to color and measurements for those who just want a pretty shelf. There was hardly room to walk between the towering shelves, the tables overflowing with sale items, the randomly-placed carts stacked with everything from the history of King Henry XIII to a full Curious George collection. It was a far cry from the bookstores I’ve become accustomed to on the West Coast, where the severe lack of books is never commented upon. Instead, “book” stores in LA are coffee shops with fake shelves of old tattered books as décor. In Santa Monica, The Library is a pub. In my heart, I felt I could easily justify my infidelity to my current city of residence with this mere fact alone. New York reads. And that’s got to be the sexiest thing about it.

The not-so-sexy thing about New York is that it also steals. Pilfers, breaks and enters. Before E and I could get ready for a party Saturday night, we stopped off at her brother’s car, where she was keeping most of her stuff in anticipation of moving back to LA. As I walked up to the passenger side, I tread carefully, thinking that the clothes strewn about the parking lot indicated a homeless person had been camping in the spot next to the car. When I found the passenger side window shattered, however, we knew the car had been burglarized, and the junk littering the parking lot was E’s stuff, what the burglars had left of it anyway.

They stole her jewelry, her electronics, her CDs, her shoes, her designer clothing, even her suitcases. The rest they’d left soaking up dirty puddles on the asphalt.

E frantically called her folks and her brother, growing more upset every time she explained the situation. By the time she finally got hold of her brother, she was in tears. I know the feeling, as I’ve been both the victim of car and home burglars (okay, the word “burglar” is comical and is cracking me up, but I can’t think of a better word. Sue me). It isn’t necessarily the loss of material belongings that cuts to the quick. Far more than that, it’s the feeling of violation. That some stranger has entered into your private space, gone through your underwear, your favorite CDs, your paperwork, your life. That someone had enough disrespect for you to destroy your property, mangle your photographs, and leave the rest as trash. You wind up scared and full of rage all at once, but are left completely impotent, unable to do a damn thing about it except blame anyone who might have left a door unlocked, a window uncurtained, a box in pain sight. Which doesn’t make a bit of difference, anyway.

We partied hard that night, and spent the next morning carrying out due process. The 90th precinct in Brooklyn is not at all the Hill Street Blues hustle and bustle of ringing phones, surly detectives, and hollering prostitutes. Rather, it was a quiet little building, where a large female desk sergeant ignored us for a good five minutes while she chatted happily with a beat cop. When she finally got around to asking us what we wanted, she took our answer and hollered to no one in particular “Car burglary!” as though she were a truck stop waitress placing a request with the short-order cook.

After another twenty minutes, E was called into the back to place her report, while I was left in the waiting area with nothing but a couple of Brooklyn weeklies and my imagination. I occupied myself by reading wanted notices for a man who had raped two women in broad daylight two blocks from where I was staying, articles about two local ladies who, in separate incidents, had killed toddlers in their charge, and a thank you poster from local schoolchildren who certainly weren’t being taught to write in English.

Then I spent ten minutes devising a personal strategy should a coked-out gunman decide to take the entire station hostage. Would I dash for the stairs? Would I try to make it outside? What about my friends, in the depths of the building – should I stay, just to avoid abandoning them? What are the odds on a gunman hitting a moving target? How should I run – ducking? Sideways? It was a lot to think about. Thank goodness E came out before I could really get myself all worked up.

Semantics over with, we finally made our way to Times Square for a burrito and theater tickets. Because E had to work, I purchased a lone ticket to Rent. To kill time before the doors opened, we walked to the Empire State Building, and examined every single deserted entrance in complete confusion before we realized we had made a beeline not for the Empire State Building, but for the Chrysler Building. What can I say, the Chrysler’s Art Deco façade is prettier than the Empire. I would try again the next day, only to find that, yet again, the curse of tourist strikes at the Empire State Building as well as it does the Statue of Liberty: the line was hours long, and I don’t have that kind of stamina.

At the theater, I had an initial moment of my ongoing public entertainment luck when a 300 pound Frenchwoman seated herself in the tiny seat next to me. She seemed to understand the burden she placed on her fellow man, however, for she scrunched herself up as much as possible, and never bothered me at all. I was also startled to read in the program that the Pulitzer-prize winning author of the play had died suddenly at age 36. We’ll never find out if he was a one-hit wonder, if he had better drama to give us. It’s like he was here to make his mark and then be snuffed out. Almost makes me want to hold off on making my big thought-provoking work until I’ve lived a good, long, full life.

Rent itself was something of a disappointment. The story was weak, the songs were so-so, and it was polished to a perfect, clockwork shine. There were no flaws at all, save when Roger managed to flick his scarf into his own face during a solo, and the perfect shining veneer made the whole play seem somehow less interesting. Drew Lachey played the lead – much derided because he is a member of 98º and brother to Nick, who stars in MTV’s Newlyweds with Jessica Simpson. I actually found him to be the most engaging actor, especially compared to the man who was supposed to be the emotional anchor of the show, Tom Collins. That actor, though his voice was strong, obviously couldn’t begin to be comfortable playing a gay man, hugging his partner while keeping his crotch backed away at all times.

And periodically, of course, I would illogically crack up as I had flashbacks to Trey Parker & Matt Stone’s Team America: World Police flick, with its mock-up of Rent (Lease), where the main song was “Everybody’s Got AIDS!” It was funny because it was true.

Before the night was over, I fell into another heart-pounding aspect of New York: getting utterly lost on the subways in the wee hours of the morning. Trying to meet back up with E with a dying cell phone and a handful of MTA passes, I wound up zooming back and forth on the N/Q/R/W line for a good ½ hour, looking for non-existent stops and getting on wrong trains. I suppose it’s not much different from trying to navigate Los Angeles’s tangled web of freeways, but at least in LA you can get off the highway and ask for directions. I doubted the ability of my fellow bag-ladies to help me out with this one.

I had Monday, my last day, all to myself. I headed to Central Park, munching on a bagel while I wandered as far as the Bethesda Fountain. This was by far my favorite hour of the trip. To me, the most beautiful thing about New York is Central Park, standing in the winter-bared woods, surrounded by footpaths, sheep meadows and creeks, and looking up through the skeletal branches to find the skyrises peering down at me. They were almost forlorn, like sickly children on the edges of a rough-and-rowdy playground, able to observe the picnics and the merri-go-rounds, the fountains and the dogs playing fetch, but never allowed to participate. I had a strangely motherly urge to open my arms to them, welcoming them in, wiping the tears and snot from their glass faces.

Unfortunately, I had to rush a bit so I could finally hook up with my cousin, who lives in NY and who I hadn’t seen in probably ten years. I had halfway become convinced that we would just exchange “I’m not going to make it, what about tomorrow” phone calls with her all weekend, and never meet. I was glad it worked out, though, because I discovered that of all my family on both sides, M is probably the one most on my wavelength. She has her BA in photography, though now she’s doing a lot more painting. She came to NY as soon as she could, desperate to get away from an Arizona she hated. She’s living in a converted warehouse in sort of a commune of artists, with an art-nazi roommate who dictates the use of the community studio space. Like me, she’s not ecstatic about the schmoozing part of getting her work noticed, but she also accepts it has to be done. She also knows there’s nothing she’d rather do. She’d rather live in the scary neighborhood of Crown Heights (Brooklyn) with an anal-retentive roommate and work three jobs in Manhattan than live in Albuquerque and work a crappy 9-5. I vote with her.

When we were done, I headed back to Times Square to grab some 7/$10 T-shirts for everyone I know, finally nabbed some B&J’s ice cream, and got completely bamboozled by the Morgan Freeman wax statue outside Madame Toussaud’s. I walked by, thinking, “Well, at least I can tell everyone I saw someone famous” before realizing where I was and what I was looking at. Then I hopped on a bus at the Port Authority back to JFK airport, and headed back to the sun, sand, and empty-headedness of Los Angeles.

So to you, New York, I say “Where are you going to be in six months?” It’s easy to understand now, why so many people want to live in a place so crowded, cramped, and expensive. The city is alive, a dynamic lover, that exciting friend who leads you into trouble but also makes your life worthwhile. I fell in love with the palette of people to watch, with the subway, with the falafel and pizza and the chicken sandwiche. It may have to be a long-distance relationship for us, and unless I can import some mountains and miles of empty space it will never be a forever-kind of marriage, but I hope New York will always welcome me whenever I want to come to her.

Would I Do It Again? Yes, Please.

2005-03-18T09:10:00.000-08:00

When I received the email from my outdoors group listserve, I responded without really thinking about it. It was like I was answering a survey about things I was mildly interested in. I somewhat strongly agreed that I was interesting in skydiving sometime in the vague future.

When J, the outing leader, emailed me back saying “Great! We’re going on Sunday,” as in this Sunday, as in six days from my expression of mild interest, I panicked a bit. I had no plans for this Sunday. Next Sunday I was out of town, and the following Sunday was far enough away to develop alternative plans. But this Sunday…well, now I was stuck.

I was heartened by the fact that as an outing leader, J was something of a disappointment. He was a little scatterbrained. In the course of a two-day period, he lost my cell number three times. He emailed the group to “Make reservations NOW if you want to go,” and then never called to sign up the group. Friday rolled around, and the suitably understanding girl at the skydiving company informed me that yes, J had called, but he hadn’t made any reservations for the group. He had merely asked umpteen questions about how many people had died or been maimed jumping out of airplanes in this particular drop zone, questions whose answers I did not want to hear. (The number is zero, of course. It’s a remarkably safe sport for first-timers, really.)

So I made my decision. I relied on my tried-and-true method of determining the best course of action: “Fuck it.” This phrase usually gets me through whatever it is I’m worried about doing. “Fuck it,” I said, and gave the girl my credit card number. I figured, even if no one else from the group signed up, I’d go it alone. I don’t need a herd for courage. I am a badass mofo.

As it turned out, eight people signed up and showed up. I carpooled with J, an engaging man with the personality of a kindergartner; his large, ponytailed and mustachioed friend J; and a roly poly K who was very adamant about his political views. C, a rather quiet engineer, and his new verbally incontinent roommate N showed up at about the same time my group did. Two girls showed up much later, one absolutely freaking out, but as they didn’t jump with us, I’m going to ignore their presence entirely. Because I can.

The first thing we saw driving up to the site at Lake Elsinore, CA, was a gaggle of divers floating down out of the sky, dozens at a time. Their bright blue, pink, green, red, purple and yellow canopies filled the bright azul dome like a migration of butterflies, some drifting slowly to the flat green grass, some zooming in like hawks on the kill. It was exhilarating, and probably the first real realization that in just a few hours, we ourselves would be descending from that same sky.

In order to even strap on an instructor and a parachute, we had to literally sign our lives away. We signed away, they filmed us signing, and then we read what we had just signed for the camera. This was some major CYA going on here. We had to agree that our descendants couldn’t sue them in the year 2576. None of which would have made a difference, of course, had any of us fallen to our mushy deaths; our parents, children, friends and employers would still have sued the pants off the nice folks there at Lake Elsinore, signatures and videotapes or no.

We then progressed to the video room, where a woman informed us the first section of the film was a “downer,” but the second half would get us all pumped up. I have no idea what was on the second half of the film. Because the first half was a 10-minute legal disclaimer narrated by the highest ranking Unintentional Comedy lawyer ever. He was spit-shined and polished, his hair combed, his suit natty. He sat behind a large lawyerly desk, with a shelf full of legal tomes behind him.

And he had an enormous – though very well-groomed – Uncle Jesse/ZZ Top beard stretching from his chin to his navel. I haven’t a clue what he told us about the legality of voluntarily jumping out of a working airplane, but the man rocked.

From there we were directed to a covered area full of picnic tables and told to stay together so and instructor could give us the rundown. Within thirty seconds of these instructions, J had wandered off to gaze at a bumper sticker or something, N was off an running with a spoken list of everyone he had ever informed in his life that he wanted to skydive, and a couple of the guys meandered over to watch somebody else’s jump tape. It was like a fire drill with first graders.

Our initial instructor Js showed up and looked at me like I was a very bad den mother who couldn’t keep her charges straight, then launched right into his spiel. We all lined up to go through the “simulator,” a mock-up of the airline doorway. No one paid a word of attention, and no one got the movements right (right knee down, left foot on the door, thumbs in your pack straps, 1-2-3-go, arch back, check altimeter, pull rip cord at 5500 feet), but it turned out that was all right because once you get on the plane, you are merely a tinkertoy for your tandem instructor, and all these steps are just to keep your mind busy so you won’t freak out and force the plane down.

Then we waited. And waited. And waited. Our reservations had been for 10:30 a.m., but since it’s damn near impossible to get eight people all going in the same direction at the same time, we were slightly late. We didn’t get up in the air till 12:30 or so.

They suited us up in jumpsuits and harnesses, introduced us to our tandem instructors (I got the best guy ever – T. He forgot to give me head gear, but I gave him shit for it, and it was all good), let our videographers get some really goofy interview footage of us, ran us through the simulator again, and let us wait around some more, this time at the edge of the drop zone, marveling at the experienced divers flying in or rehearsing their in-air formations on the ground. I don’t know about the rest of the group, but I was starting to get a little giddy, not to mention weak from hunger, since I hadn’t eaten since 7 a.m.

Finally, they packed us into the tiny plane, which makes mass transit look like a luxury cruise. It was just a tin can with benches along either side, and we were all wearing each others’ deodorant by the time we got out. The climb to 12,500 feet took about ten minutes, ten minutes that I spent finally feeling like a complete fool for tempting Death in such an outrageous manner. I had previously boasted that so far this year (all two months of it) I have kept my emergency room visits down to one; on that plane, I regretted throwing my good fortune in the gods’ faces so extravagantly.

I was the last one off, which sounds like it would be nerve-wracking, but everything went so fast I didn’t even get a chance to see the rest of my group fall out of the plane. I was too concerned with the guy strapped tightly to my back, moving down the bench, and of course, all those instructions I’d received in the simulator. Was it right knee or left knee down? Which is my right knee again? Were we going 1-2-3 and then go, or 1-2-go on 3?

I never got it all sorted out, because within ten seconds of the first guy out the door, my video guy was swinging out, and T was pelvic thrusting to the count. Then we were out the door. Flying. Positively flying.

That first shove out the door was heart-stopping. I had just abandoned an airplane at 12,500 feet in the air. That’s 2.37 miles above the surface of Earth, zooming toward it at 120 miles per hour with nothing to stop the headlong rush but some rope and a glorified sheet. It was undoubtedly, indubitably, undeniably the most excited, most exhilarated, most alive I have ever felt in my life. The view was the same you’d see from a passenger jet on approach, only no wings or landing gear to spoil the 360 degree panoramic. It was cold, around 40 degrees, but I never felt it. I was just free. I could do nothing but grin and gawk and hope that it never ended.

For a few seconds anyway. Then T physically picked my head up so I would look at my camera guy, floating a few feet in front of me. I mugged for him, grinning and yelling, though the wind whipping past us left nothing of my voice to be heard. At one point I stuck my tongue out at him, not having the foresight to realize that at 120 MPH, the wind would whip my tongue around like a flag in a tornado (when we first viewed my video, this sight completely grossed the instructors out. Jeez, like no one’s ever stuck their tongue out before).

After 45 seconds of freefall, T shoved my wrist in my face to let me know we were at 5500 feet. I reached back, yanked the orange golf ball on his hip, the chute opened, and the entire world silenced.

My camera guy sped on down to the ground, and the first thing out of my mouth upon learning I could hear myself again was:

“THAT FUCKING ROCKS!!!”

T laughed, saying “I love getting people like you,” and I kicked my feet around, totally high (no pun intended). We played around all the way down, going into spins (the only time my stomach ever threatened queasiness), one way and then back the other, dropping like rocks and then hauling in the canopy to slow it way down. I whooped a lot and laughed maniacally. I don’t think anyone had a hard time figuring out I was having fun.

We dropped in for a landing, perfectly executed and standing straight up. As we swooped down, I caught sight of my camera guy filming us, so I gave him two thumbs up and a big fat “Gig ‘em, Aggies!” which I’m sure no one understood but me. It was just the best thing I could think of to say.

T unhooked himself from me, mostly because I was jumping around like an ADD kid on crack and he’d never get his gear picked up if he was attached to the Tasmanian Devil. I rushed over to bear-hug my cameraman, then hugged T and posed for a pic.

I was hopped up the rest of the day, even though by that point I had to beg a ride off C and N to get back to my car so I could get to my soccer game in Santa Monica on time. I played on no food, but the adrenalin was still bouncing around my system, so I was all right (not all right enough to win, but all right enough not to collapse).

I called my mom to tell her what I’d done – everyone who’d ever done this said not to tell the folks before you go, and I was glad I hadn’t. She was worried even though she knew I was already on the ground and safe again. It didn’t ease her mind much for me to tell her I was in more danger every day driving around LA freeways than I was skydiving. Her first question was, “Well, you’re not going to do it again, are you?” To which I replied “Probably.” Why the hell wouldn’t I want to do that again? It was like riding a cross country course times ten, only you’re not exhausted and beaten at the end.

Dad’s response was a shudder (okay, we were on the phone, I don’t know if he shuddered, but play along with me, ‘kay?), and a flat statement of “Good. Now you’ve got that out of your system and you never have to do it again.” Yeah, Dad can’t even bear to stand next to an open second story window. The idea of an open window two miles up isn’t his idea of a good time.

Overall, I have to say that this was an experience that was worth it at double the money. If I didn’t already have a horse, travel expenses, and a soccer habit to drain my funds, you can bet I’d be hauling my butt out to a drop zone every weekend. Oh, and did I mention that every single guy who skydives is pant-meltingly hot? And there are way more guys than girls? That’s not a bad thing, especially when you compare it to horse shows, where ladies outnumber men 10-1 and the men who are there are ambiguously (or not so ambiguously) gay.

Did I love it? More than anything in recent memory. Would I do it again? Yes, please.

San Francisco - A Treat or a Trial?

2005-02-08T14:46:00.000-08:00

I was more excited about this trip than anyone really has a right to be. I think this is the case mostly because this trip marked the first of many in the year to come: San Francisco, Las Vegas in February, New York in March, Kentucky for the Rolex 3-Day Event in April, Europe in the summer, and possibly Germany for the World Cup next summer. For a girl who hasn’t done much traveling in her life, the itinerary here is giddifiying.

The plan, which went slightly awry, was to drive up with an acquaintance - let's call her Nan - from Los Angeles. Saturday night was the only fixed event, a fondue party that served as a mixer for a lot of soul-sisters we’d met online. So we drove up to LA in her car, a pretentious Audi convertible that didn’t get the mileage my car got, but that I suppose she looked better driving.

Now, it’s about a six-hour drive from LA to San Francisco, and not a whole lot of scenery along the way, unless you count feedlots and several miles worth of the freakiest, Stephen King wannabe-murder-weapon windmills I’ve ever seen in my life. They’re not quaint, rustic windmills that could be used on the set of Man of La Mancha. No, the hills along I-5 near Livermore are filled with rows and rows of white, 3-bladed stiles, each turned in slightly different directions to catch whatever wind prevails. They group along the meadows, lurk behind hillsides, and march single file along the ridge-tops, only a few of their blades turning in the breeze. The rest stand silent and still, watching the cars pass, serving as sinister sentries along the freeway. Nestled among their feet are the bodies of fallen mills, blades jutting out of the grass like discarded weapons, and it’s not a huge leap of the imagination to suddenly see these quite and simple machines rumble to life, pulling their foundations out of the earth as they whip toward one another in fierce battle. They lock together, spinning each other about, blades whipping furiously, slashing and dicing metal into flying bits of shrapnel that pummels and crushes the ant-like motorists on the unsuspecting I-5. Then, just as suddenly, the fight is over and the wind-gathering soldiers return to their posts, leaving brethren and enemy alike behind to rust into the dirt.

These were my most exciting thoughts on the drive, as I was trying to come up with highly philosophical answers to my companion’s many relationship questions. “So, do you think it’s possible to break up with someone and still make them a better person?” “Do you believe that even though a guy’s father was a notorious womanizer, and the guy himself has repeatedly cheated on you, that you can change him? That if he loves you enough, he’ll only want to be with you?” “Is it possible to sleep with your ex who cheated on you and still be friends?”

How far is it to walk to San Francisco from the windmills? Would the windmills sacrifice me to their gods? Would it be worse than playing Dr. Ruth to this 30-year-old woman who can’t get over a guy who fucked everyone he met while also fucking her before, during, and after their 4-month relationship?

Actually, I still wasn’t irritated with her yet. It’s my bitterness in hindsight that causes me to rant so cruelly about Nan. Moving on…

We drove – or I should say, she drove, as I got the distinct impression she didn’t want anyone else driving her car, a very bad sentiment to have when on a road trip – directly to Fisherman’s Wharf to kill time before the party. I was mostly entertained at that moment by memories of my very first trip to the San Francisco piers.

My first time remains my best time. I had just moved to Los Angeles, friendless, jobless, homeless, and scared shitless. My best friend "Sue" was in grad school at Stanford, so every weekend I hopped in my hand-me-down-from-grandma ’95 white Buick Century and made the drive to San Jose (a route that never took me past the windmills from the seventh level of hell). On one such weekend Sue and I decided to take the tourist’s route around the Bay area, a driving tour led by a smarmy pelican.

Actually, it was the 49-mile scenic route denoted by a friendly, smiling seagull on many signposts throughout the city. Our severe lack of avian knowledge led us to believe it was a pelican (hey, we could only name two seabirds – the pelican and the seagull – so we had a 50-50 chance of getting it right), and our severe lack of the ability to make our own decisions caused us to believe said pelican was purposefully leading us on a wild and merry goose chase. (Note: a goose is not a sea bird. Just in case you were wondering.) Oh, it led us to all the right places: through Chinatown, over the Golden Gate Bridge – where we got a parking ticket (who knew?), Coit Tower, Aquatic Park, Presidio, the Palace of Fine Arts…but it also led us into a Walgreen’s, a completely random parking lot, as well as abandoning us several times in areas where the local shop signs were definitely not in English. Not even in the Latin alphabet. By the time we got to Fisherman’s Wharf, we cursed and screamed at the laughing, mocking pelican/seagull who had taken such unfair advantage of two blonde girls from Albuquerque. I’m fairly certain he chuckled at us, as well, when Sue neglected to put the car into gear at a stoplight and we nearly careened backwards down a steep hill into the arms of a waiting Jaguar convertible. That was fun.

It was on this trip, as well, that I had my first taste of chowder in a bread bowl, leading me to forever want to fly Southwest out of LAX, for there is a Boudin’s in the Southwest terminal. We missed the last boat to Alcatraz, so instead had an adventure with the Bush Man. I have spoken with numerous people who either live or have lived in San Francisco, and about half of them know of the infamous Bush Man (and a Google search reveals his actually is the “World Famous Bush Man”). As we walked down the Wharf, we were fortunate enough to witness his act, which is to sit on a milk crate holding some pathetic-looking bush branches in front of his face. People stream by him on the Wharf, not paying him any attention at all – after all, he’s not doing anything, just sitting there.

Just when you’ve dismissed him from your mind, however, you start to walk past him, chatting to your travel-mates about the Alcatraz inmate pajamas you just bought, when BOO! the Bush Man yells and jumps out at you, shaking his leaves in your face. The entire street seems to be in on the joke, because everyone is laughing, and once you’ve ascertained you won’t have a heart attack, you laugh a little bit to cover how girly you sounded when you screeched in fright. And then you find a good place to watch for and laugh at the next unsuspecting victim.

We watched the Bush Man do his act without falling victim to it, then marched along the tourist traps, oohing at the views of the bridges and avoiding the temptation to spend $20 on $3 “handmade” necklaces made in Malaysia. After discovering we’d missed the Alcatraz tour – where, of course, we’d hoped to have a guide like Phil Hartman from So I Married an Axe Murderer – we strolled back down along the street.

Throughout our entire trip, Sue had been joking about how Asian she was becoming (the Bay area has a large Asian-immigrant population, and Sue was one of the few non-Asians in her Mechanical Engineering program at Stanford). She insisted on showing me her tiny cell phone, and pointing out every pimped out “rice rocket” we passed. I, on the other hand, was trying to keep an eye peeled for the guy with the tree branches. I could see a large crowd across the street watching for something, but I just couldn’t see where the Bush Man had moved to in the short time since we’d first seen him.

“Oh, check it out, there’s a rice rocket right there.” Sue pointed across the street at a white 2-door Honda Civic, with custom taillights, super-sonic spoiler, racing stripes, and chrome wheels. I turned my head, let down my guard for just an instant and—

“ROOOAAAARRRR!” the Bush Man leaped out at us, rattling his foliage in our faces. We both screamed and jumped off the curb, stumbling into the street, narrowly avoiding being missed by a speeding hansom. The surrounding crowd broke out in happy guffaws. I frowned at all of them. They were not smarter than us. They were not better. I knew the damn guy was there, I knew he was going to get somebody. I just couldn’t see him. That meant that any one of the schmucks laughing at us could be the next schmuck. I hoped it was true.

Even worse, as we walked away, our faces red and our hearts racing, the Bush Man yelled after us, “Bet that’s the biggest thrill you girls have had in months!” Sadly enough, he was right.

This time, I didn’t even catch a glimpse of the Bush Man, which was too bad because I really would have enjoyed seeing him scare the pants off my companion.

No, we visited Boudin’s, then trekked to find something sweet, which meant Ghirardelli Square, of course. On the way, we glanced through the items for sale from the sidewalk vendors, and I found my first opportunity to partake of my current travel-memento plan: I want to buy a piece of local art from every city I visit, preferably from a local vendor/artist. A photographer was selling his images of San Francisco, and had produced some fascinating pictures with creative processing. He had a series of city scenes – a trolley, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Wharf, etc. – that seemed a little blurred, their lines agitated, as if they were vibrating, in motion. He explained that he’d taken the photographs with a Polaroid camera, and then, because the Polaroid film is “soft,” he was able to place it in solution and shake it about a bit, producing those vibrating lines I so adored. He then photographed that image, and the resulting picture was what I wound up buying. I can’t wait to put it up on my wall.

Then, because the sun had set and my companion couldn’t handle the “chill” (couldn’t have been less than fifty degrees), we sat for an hour in Starbucks. Nice. Go to a new city and sit in Starbucks. That’s the height of cultural immersion, right? They didn’t even have a local flavored coffee. Not even a deviation from the standard Starbucks “buy more expensive shit with our name on it” décor.

Judging it time to be leaving for our party, we headed off down the Wharf. Finally, I got a chance to look into the odd storefronts – resulting in my companion buying a great pair of shoes I wanted but didn’t come in my size that I jewed down for her – including “Babushka,” a store that sold only Russian matroshka (nesting) dolls. Definitely better than Starbucks.

Finally, we made it to her car and paid $18,000 to get out of the parking lot. We traveled back across the Bay Bridge to get to our party. (On a side note, as an American citizen who grew up several states away from any interesting bridges, I am fascinated by them. I want to be on one when the winds and/or earthquakes make it sway. I love to stand and look at them during the night, when they are illuminated by thousands of bulbs, a lighted connect-the-dots. Who changes those bulbs, anyway?)

The party held an enormous amount of fun, as it was a group of like-minded women who didn’t mid sharing their more outrageous views and snarky comments. A cheese fondue course followed by a course of “pasta” and liquored up chocolate fondue left me with a stomachache the next day, but a gigantic smile on my face, and a whole troop of new friends. Unfortunately, my driver was staying with an ex-boyfriend who apparently still had some veto power over her, because after one phone call she insisted we ditch the party so she could join her pal. Unhappy but stoned enough to be unable to argue, I followed her out.

My day in neighboring Mountain View with my high school buddy Dan was much more enjoyable than my time spent in Nan’s cloying company. Dan took me on yet another driving tour, but since he actually knew where we were going, we needed no mocking seagull to lead us about by our noses. We headed up to the hills along a rolling, twisting, narrow lane, pausing for the numerous cyclists struggling up the endless incline. At the top, we took in vistas all around, the Bay on the east side and the California coast (though mostly hidden by low clouds) on the west. Our viewing time was cut short by the fact that we had not been smart enough to wear Eskimo gear (and strangely, Dan did not have any in his Outback, though he did have skis, skin calipers, and what I suspect are several “science” experiments). The chill wind bit through our T-shirts and convinced us it was time to head out for our Super Bowl party.

The party was large enough to provide me with a $40 win in the betting pool, and to provide enough of Dan’s former fraternity brothers for him to play a disastrous round of beer pong (a sad and pathetic 10-3 loss). I gave Nan a call at halftime to give her directions on where to pick me up – I would be on her way back to LA – and was forced to leave a message. When she finally called me back, the game was over, even The Simpsons was over. I gave her directions and settled down to wait.

An hour after that, I had lost half my pool money in the post-Super Bowl poker game, and she was calling me again, this time to tell me she hadn’t left yet, and wasn’t planning to leave for another thirty minutes. Speechless, as I looked at the clock and estimated that I would now not get into my bed until something like three a.m., I ground my teeth and reminded her that I had to work the next day. “Oh, sure, we’ll get there,” she promised.

She finally “got there” at eleven p.m., after I’d discovered that a fellow poker player’s father could have given me a ride home seven hours previously (I’d have been in bed already!), after she’d gotten lost and wound up halfway back to San Francisco again.

And she was shocked when I got in the car and was angry. She’d been sick, she claimed, though I looked around the car and detected numerous fast-food remnants in addition to the fact that several of my CDs had been removed and presumably listened to. This was not the car of a woman who has spent the entire day with her head in a toilet. Again, she refused to let me drive, even though I knew this route like the back of my hand from my many visits to Sue. So I in turn refused to enter into an in-depth discussion with her of why I was so upset. Um, hello, I could have been stranded there. Had she informed me at three, four, even five o’clock that she didn’t think she could make the drive home, I could have caught a ride, rented a car, hopped on a train, even got on a bus. But at eleven o’clock on a Sunday night, the options tend to be severely limited. What if she hadn’t felt like driving back at all? I’d have been stuck, and I never once got an apology. What I did get was a defensive “I just drove an hour to come get you!”

Wake up, girlfriend, and find a map. You were coming from Pacifica, I was in Mountain View. Mountain View is on the way from Pacifica to Los Angeles. You just hopped off the freeway to get me. I, on the other hand, drove 45 minutes out of my way to meet you at your house in Pasadena to start the trip, a 45 minutes I would have to repeat in reverse after you were snuggled in your own bed.

So since she wouldn’t let me drive, I handed her the directions and went to sleep, though I repeatedly had to tell her that no, I would not discuss this with her while I was so angry, and I understand that she was sick, and I’m sure she’s not a bad person. I did resist the urge to tell her, “Jesus, shut the fuck up. If I’d been dating you, I’d have fucked anything that was quiet.”

When I woke up next, she was lost. I sullenly directed her to keep going the way my directions and all the road signs were telling her to go, and I went back to sleep. I woke up when we stopped for gas, but still, she would not allow me to drive her baby blue Barbie car. Finally, I woke up at her house, managed to extract all of my CDs from her precious CD-changer (ostensibly the reason we took her car), and got the flock out of there. My head hit my own pillow at 4:30 in the morning, giving me exactly three hours before I had to be up for work.

All in all, this trip was enjoyable, but it did reinforce my decision to travel only with my mom or my best friend from now on, or on my own, of course. I think I can face down the scary windmills. I can find parking, I can navigate, I can stay as long as I want at a party, I can not wait for thoughtless, ill-bred airheads to come pick me up while they dither with their ex-boyfriends.

Okay, maybe I should pick a route that doesn’t involve windmills. I’m just saying. You never know when those bad boys are gonna go.