Ah, I love the way 5th grade humor enters the picture just when you think it's gone forever.
I don't know about the readers that didn't go to elementary school in the Richardson area around 1981, but for a couple of brief and painful weeks, recess for us was about running around wracking people. In short, running up to people and hitting them in the nuts. Dumb as that game might have been, it was really more about playing tag in the school yard, with the ultimate penalty for getting tagged as "you're it" was that you really got whammied.
Enough about yesteryear, as I'm getting whammied in this year.
In addition to picking up a new repair program to launch in the coming weeks, I somehow got myself sucked into trying to fix an existing repair program that certainly has it's share off problems, least of all with someone trying to explain to me that headcount on a repair line (ie. technicians; the people that actually do most of the work) is subject to a 15-20% decrease just about every day of the week because people are either sick or on holiday. True, I'm the American that's learning the culture, but in the economics course I took (which happened to be the same course that EVERYONE else in the world takes) , if Johnny has 5 apples and gives them all away because they don't taste good, then that's his own fucking fault if he didn't find replacement snacks. Furthermore, he can't say that he still has 2 apples, and they'll be available another time.
So, I'm frustrated as hell, trying to launch a repair line with 3 technicians that have never really repaired laptops before, and I'm also frustrated as hell that the line I'm trying to find solutions for won't hire the necessary people required to do the job properly.
Using the common sense that I've gained in my life, I hooked it to Brussels Sunday afternoon to visit with my new customer. This way, I can avoid the imminent crap meeting that will take place between the "other" customer and my management this coming Wednesday, when they're simply going to ask why in hell do we have 15 guys (3 on holiday and 1 out sick) trying to fix 200 units per day. (Oh, I forgot to give you the additional factor so you can make your calculations: 1 tech can produce about 6 units per day. Er, homey don't play that?)
Pause while I let some of you realize that I just said homey.
So yes, I'm in Brussels this week, living it up, drinking Coke lite in the hotel room at 4 euros a pop. How did I get here? Well, for that, I've got to back up a few days.
Last Friday, we had a kick off the future meeting in my repair site with quite a bit off upper level executive management, including our CFO, CIO, a couple of business unit presidents, and most of the sales team.
I wasn't completely thinking things through, so I showed up at work in black boots, black jeans and black sweater. On any other day, I'm sure that this would have been appropriate. However, everyone of the other 20 guys was at least wearing pants and a blazer, if not a suit.
My sales guy, who is a really good guy by the way, though I wanted to slap him when he remarked that they would probably forgive me on the grounds that I was american, said that this was just the way these kinds of meetings went dress code wise.
I only met our CFO on one brief occasion in Texas, and that's when I ran past him in the hallway trying to get the attention of an engineer. However, on Friday morning, he came right up to me, asked me how I was getting back into the swing of things company wise as he looked me up and down, pausing quite a few moments on the DMs I was wearing. I told him fine thank you very much, then quickly asked my american slagging sales guy buddy who I'd just talked to.
In honesty, I was flattered to be included in the meeting; a workshop to work on efficiencies and process improvement in the business division site. (note - I almost stood up and said, "I think I know what our problem is," at the beginning of the meeting, then reconsidered that not all the Europeans would understand what it meant with the expressions, "two monkeys fucking a football," and "10 pounds shoved into a 5 pound sack." Besides, there were no apples for me to use as a visual aid)
At any rate, I spent virtually all of Friday locked in a conference room discussing various aspects of the business unit, then took fifteen minutes to get a cash advance from the finance department and had a five minute meeting with the guys I would travel with to Brussels on Sunday.
I was a little wound up during the days event, mainly because I'm four weeks away from a program launch, and basically I've got two ten pound monkeys doing the hokey pokey in a five pound sack; clearly I have other places that I need to be; I certainly don't need to be going through this distraction.
But, I did, and I still managed to get a bit of work done, and even managed to schedule a hair cut for the coming Saturday on the way home from work. Whether I'll still have any hair left come Saturday remains to be seen.
Instead of staying in on Friday night, I got home, chucked my backpack into the kitchen, confirmed that my DSL still wasn't working, then headed to MacGowan's for a much needed half vat of beer. I ran into a new buddy Stefan, and he and I chatted a bit about the course of the week. Stefan is a good guy, but becomes a bit of a loud drunk, and the bar is not particularly huge. Furthermore, I'm still trying to gain credibility in the bar, with various degrees of success, but sometimes I lose a bit of ground when my buddy spills his glass (which has now happened twice, in two consecutive weeks).
MacGowan's is really an OK place, but the vibe can be a bit strange from time to time. The waitstaff is more or less on the younger side, but the locals are a bit more 30s-40s, with a sprinkling of younger folks popping. I'm not entirely sure how many employees the bar has, but some of them clearly work more often than others. Isis, Goran, and Tom are there quite a bit. Isis is German, exceptionally cute (particularly when she says, "Tshus!"), and is particularly nice. However, this matters very very little when you inadvertently start calling her Inis. Inis as a name doesn't exist (I don't think), but my Spanish teacher's name was Ines, and she had sort of a similar eye twinkle. Throw in 5 pils, and you might get the names confused, too.
Normally, Isis wouldn't think much of it, but her workmate for the evening, Nadie, has twice now thrown a sarcastic remark in my general direction: once about being American (a couple of weeks ago), and twice, right after giving me grief for calling Isis the wrong name, called me the American that hit on helpless girls at the bar.
I'm not normally an aggressive type, and consider myself to be super super shy. So shy, in fact that for six weeks (and please stop me if I've said this before) in the cafeteria of an office I worked at years ago, I was completely unable to go through the check-out line of this really attractive girl simply because she was so nice. Experiences like that are firm reminders why my love life tends to remain in a constant state of bollocks.
At any rate, I took a bit of offense to Nadie's remarks Friday night. First, the girl from two weeks ago chatted ME up, and for five hours or so, I had no idea that she was only 19.
Second, on this night I was simply having a chat with Barbara (and for those readers from 7 or 8 years ago, it's a different Barbara). Barbara is Slovakian, and we'd been sitting next to one another about a week ago when said Barbara drank about 5 double Jameson's in 20 minutes. I only struck up the conversation to see if she was OK, being that she'd launched into a coughing fit only moments before. That night ended with me heading home for a bit of sleep, not expecting to see young (though older than 19) Barbara again.
I must say, though, that while Stefan and I were chatting merrily (though he louder than I) on Friday evening, I was delighted to see Barbara walk into the bar, and give me a little smile and a hello. At this point, Stefan was trying to have another round of tequila shots, which I thought was ill-advised, so I moved a few stools over to say hello to Barbara.
Drunk Stefan went home about an hour later, though not before, unfortunately, we both misused Isis' name. Sorry Inis, oh wait, it's Isis, or Inis...or...
This left Barbara (a bit more sober like) and I to continue a conversation about various topics, and we continued chatting until the bar was closing. Closing time in Germany just isn't announced; you realize it when the waitstaff have their coats on to go home.
Since it was only about 3.30, Barbara and I headed over to an afterhours place she knows, and we hung out for a few more hours, listening to the dj, chatting, and trying to decide if we were drunk or not. (note - if you have to spend an hour trying to decide if you're drunk or not, you probably are)
Well, the snow started falling, and we had a nice view of the streets outside, and we were cozy, so there was no rush to leave.
Eventually, however, it was about 6, and she had to work around 1pm, leaving only a few short hours for a bit of shut eye. We decided to vacate, and I walked her back to her flat, which is also in the neighborhood, probably about a 5 minute walk if you're sober, 15 if you're wobbly and cold.
We made it to her place, and even after the key fumble (see Hitch), I did all the right things, though I hadn't intended for that to mean, "get completely lost at 6.15am on a Saturday morning in a snowfall."
She must live about 10 minutes away from me, but in the falling snow I lost my bearings (yeah right) and didn't get back to my apartment until 7am. At one point, I almost stopped for coffee, as the konditorei was just opening up for early morning market.
I finally got home, took a much needed pee, and tumbled into bed, feeling pretty fuzzy.
Thankfully, I did get into the gym a bit later in the day, and I even did a bit of shopping, but by Saturday afternoon I was pretty exhausted. I had to pack for my trip to Brussels, and my estate agent was bringing over a new TV set.
Yep, I got the TV, and I'm now back in the land of lousy German programming. However, my DVD player works great, so I can at least watch kino, etc. In fact, I watched a film Saturday night instead of heading back out for a few beers on the town.
Thank goodness I did that, because when the phone rang at 7.30 on Sunday morning, I didn't know what the hell was happening. Oh good, a karaoke party in full swing, which I've since heard was quite the festive evening. I'm quite thankful that no-one thought to try and make me sing a song; I was in full Tom Waits voice due to the hour, and probably wouldn't have been able to sing much more than one bar.
That early hour phone chat was fine and dandy, but I still was in no mood to spend four hours driving across Germany with three fellow colleagues from work to Brussels where they would spend the next three days training. However, once we got on the autobahn, it got pretty cool. Part of that was the Audi A4 we were driving, and part of that was the fact that we were going pretty fast.
The hotel I'm staying in is not the best, and the fact of it is, I'm staying right next to the airport, so Heather, I don't know if it's the worst city or not; I've not actually seen the city center. Personally, though, it seems pretty darn cool. The music on the radio is fucking rippin'; it's kind of 1988 meets 2007 with a nice combo of industrial punk/electronica...just the kind of stuff I've always gone nuts about. And there's Stella.
So, it's 10 after 10 on a Monday night, and I'm tired. My colleagues left the office at five, and I stayed for a meeting that didn't let out until six. I couldn't find a taxi, so I didn't get back to the hotel (five minutes away by car, only across two really busy streets so I couldn't walk) until about eight, only to find that my guys ate without me.
That brings me back to the here and now. Two stella, and two cokes, and I'm winding things down for the night. I'll find something to eat in the morgen.
keep the faith
bryan
soundtrack (not to be confused with the songs I'd sing for karaoke)
Concrete Blonde - Joey (you owe me for that!)
Gene Loves Jezebel - Shaving My Neck
Bryan the unstoppable american basketcase - (to the tune of camptown races) - Slovakian Girls Are Really cute, Do Dah Do Dah
The Pogues - Fairytale of New York
Monday, January 29, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Motorcycle Diaries
Nope. I never have ridden a motorcycle. First, my mom would kill me. Second, you only have to spend a few hours in a Spanish city before you realize the crazy driving situation. It's tricky enough in a car, and for that matter, a bit dodgy on foot. A motocicleta? It's better to leave that for someone a bit more daring.
That said, I always wondered what would happen if I rode a bike. Would I be able to control it(and we're not talking about vespas, here, Katie)? Would I be able to work the clutch, the accelerator, the hand brake and the brake pedal? I certainly don't know.
Lately I've been picturing my life as if I were riding a motorcycle for the first time. Basically, I'm unable to stop accelerating, and my hand won't let go of the handle. I'm going so fast that I'm not even on the bike; I'm sort of hanging on with one hand for dear life, legs trailing behind me.
It kind of cracks me up, simply because I'm the one who chose to reenter the profession of repair logistics, knowing full well the craziness that goes with the job. Throw in a language barrier, freezing cold temperatures, several train delays, barmaids named Zena and Isis, and it's easy to see why I signed up. I absolutely love it. I'm sure it will get even better as soon as I can figure out how to use my voice mail on my mobile.
As I left the house this morning, almost leaving said mobile and my wallet behind in the house, I realize that I'm getting older, one year at a time. While that may be the least profound remark I've made in months, what I'm finding is that although the clock is ticking, I keep feeling younger, more like the college sophomore working at a corporation during summer break and inadvertently having a very very brief fling with the office secretary, then inadvertently telling everyone in the office about it. Innocence of youth? Nein, more like plain stupid goofball.
But a nice goofball.
Swashbuckling program manager - that's me (though only with a motorcycle jacket and not the bike itself). Frantically trying to launch a repair program, keep all the balls in the air, and keep the momentum going. This week, my IT guy drove his car into a lorry, and will now be in hospital for the next several weeks. I almost fell off the bus yesterday evening as I was talking on the phone to a colleague in the UK. One of my customer counterparts in Brussels has a techno band, a myspace site, and loads of earrings and tattoos, and she and I like all the same films.
I started this piece to talk about the youth of Arsenal and all the great things that have been happening with the team lately, but suddenly my fingers started typing my thoughts; thus the "Gee, this guy probably should drink a bit less coffee" comment that you might be feeling right about now as you read this.
No worries by me. I've got to go for a smoke and to figure out where they store the extra a4 paper around here.
keep the faith, and feel free to do a bit of swashbuckling
bryan
soundtrack:
Sham 69 - If the Kids are United
New Order - Round and Round
Bigod 20 - The Bog
Front 242 - Welcome to Paradise
I have no idea - Wheels on the Bus
That said, I always wondered what would happen if I rode a bike. Would I be able to control it(and we're not talking about vespas, here, Katie)? Would I be able to work the clutch, the accelerator, the hand brake and the brake pedal? I certainly don't know.
Lately I've been picturing my life as if I were riding a motorcycle for the first time. Basically, I'm unable to stop accelerating, and my hand won't let go of the handle. I'm going so fast that I'm not even on the bike; I'm sort of hanging on with one hand for dear life, legs trailing behind me.
It kind of cracks me up, simply because I'm the one who chose to reenter the profession of repair logistics, knowing full well the craziness that goes with the job. Throw in a language barrier, freezing cold temperatures, several train delays, barmaids named Zena and Isis, and it's easy to see why I signed up. I absolutely love it. I'm sure it will get even better as soon as I can figure out how to use my voice mail on my mobile.
As I left the house this morning, almost leaving said mobile and my wallet behind in the house, I realize that I'm getting older, one year at a time. While that may be the least profound remark I've made in months, what I'm finding is that although the clock is ticking, I keep feeling younger, more like the college sophomore working at a corporation during summer break and inadvertently having a very very brief fling with the office secretary, then inadvertently telling everyone in the office about it. Innocence of youth? Nein, more like plain stupid goofball.
But a nice goofball.
Swashbuckling program manager - that's me (though only with a motorcycle jacket and not the bike itself). Frantically trying to launch a repair program, keep all the balls in the air, and keep the momentum going. This week, my IT guy drove his car into a lorry, and will now be in hospital for the next several weeks. I almost fell off the bus yesterday evening as I was talking on the phone to a colleague in the UK. One of my customer counterparts in Brussels has a techno band, a myspace site, and loads of earrings and tattoos, and she and I like all the same films.
I started this piece to talk about the youth of Arsenal and all the great things that have been happening with the team lately, but suddenly my fingers started typing my thoughts; thus the "Gee, this guy probably should drink a bit less coffee" comment that you might be feeling right about now as you read this.
No worries by me. I've got to go for a smoke and to figure out where they store the extra a4 paper around here.
keep the faith, and feel free to do a bit of swashbuckling
bryan
soundtrack:
Sham 69 - If the Kids are United
New Order - Round and Round
Bigod 20 - The Bog
Front 242 - Welcome to Paradise
I have no idea - Wheels on the Bus
Thursday, January 18, 2007
A week of fun in the wind and rain
Boy, there's nothing quite like spending a few days in Colchester, eh? Especially when the wind is really blowy and the rain just doesn't seem to stop.
I arrived here on Monday, along with three colleagues from Germany. Together we're trying to prepare for the upcoming project for our site in March. This includes spending umpteen hours locked in a room with my customers from Belgium as we try to complete SOW, MSAs, and all sorts of other fun stuff.
Beers certainly aren't optional. I think my liver needs a break, but I won't get that for a few more days. Oh well.
Apparently I'll have internet access by the weekend, at which time I can have a bit more time to tell about last weekend., which included loads of debauchery, pils, and teenagers. And that's just for the Arsenal match.
oooh! a cliffhanger!
Stay tuned...
bryan
I arrived here on Monday, along with three colleagues from Germany. Together we're trying to prepare for the upcoming project for our site in March. This includes spending umpteen hours locked in a room with my customers from Belgium as we try to complete SOW, MSAs, and all sorts of other fun stuff.
Beers certainly aren't optional. I think my liver needs a break, but I won't get that for a few more days. Oh well.
Apparently I'll have internet access by the weekend, at which time I can have a bit more time to tell about last weekend., which included loads of debauchery, pils, and teenagers. And that's just for the Arsenal match.
oooh! a cliffhanger!
Stay tuned...
bryan
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
RESULT!
Wow! Not only did I arrive home last night to find my clothes quietly waiting to be removed from the washing machine and hung on the drying rack, there was no water trying to seep out onto the bathroom floor.
With great relief about laundry matters, I headed next door to watch Arsenal's Carling Cup match against Arsenal (second match at Anfield in 4 days), pausing briefly to chat with sis on the mobile.
I wasn't halfway through my pils when the bartender pushed a half of guinness in my direction, saying that it was a mistake and would go to waste if I didn't drink it. Not one to try and waste guinness, I quickly finished my pils, had the half, then ordered another pils, just in time for match kick off.
Check soccernet or Arsenal's official website for the write up of the match, or catch the replay on FSC or whatever satellite channel might show football: the match was simply incredible. The Carling Cup is usually where Arsenal allow their younger players to get a chance at first team play. For a moment, I was trying to identify all of the newbies, all of whom looked about 21 at most. Then, I simply became mesmorized by their style of play.
Four goals in the first half, two more in the second, and that was just what Arsenal scored. True, Liverpool scored three, two of which were pretty impressive. Overall, the game just went on at a superfast pace, which is why I continue to be such a fan of football, particularly Arsenal.
The work is piling up, so I'll gush about football later. Away at Blackburn this Saturday, and home to ManU Sunday week. I'm in Colchester myself next week, so I might just see if I can round up a ticket and stay in the match. OK, I can dream.
Thanks to Heather for being the first person other than T-Com or Volksbank to send me mail. Nice house. I always liked that one when I drove around the neighborhood.
cheers
bryan
With great relief about laundry matters, I headed next door to watch Arsenal's Carling Cup match against Arsenal (second match at Anfield in 4 days), pausing briefly to chat with sis on the mobile.
I wasn't halfway through my pils when the bartender pushed a half of guinness in my direction, saying that it was a mistake and would go to waste if I didn't drink it. Not one to try and waste guinness, I quickly finished my pils, had the half, then ordered another pils, just in time for match kick off.
Check soccernet or Arsenal's official website for the write up of the match, or catch the replay on FSC or whatever satellite channel might show football: the match was simply incredible. The Carling Cup is usually where Arsenal allow their younger players to get a chance at first team play. For a moment, I was trying to identify all of the newbies, all of whom looked about 21 at most. Then, I simply became mesmorized by their style of play.
Four goals in the first half, two more in the second, and that was just what Arsenal scored. True, Liverpool scored three, two of which were pretty impressive. Overall, the game just went on at a superfast pace, which is why I continue to be such a fan of football, particularly Arsenal.
The work is piling up, so I'll gush about football later. Away at Blackburn this Saturday, and home to ManU Sunday week. I'm in Colchester myself next week, so I might just see if I can round up a ticket and stay in the match. OK, I can dream.
Thanks to Heather for being the first person other than T-Com or Volksbank to send me mail. Nice house. I always liked that one when I drove around the neighborhood.
cheers
bryan
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Hantel, Heat, und Held Hostage!
After a full week in the new flat, I have just about sorted out my routine. I've taken to carrying some little canvas bags in case I need to stop off in the supermarket on the way home from the U-bahn. Germany will sell you grocery sacks, but most people just get the multi-use canvas bags to do their day to day shopping.
Over the King's Day weekend, my real objective was to find a gym. I haven't stepped into a gym since the very end of November, and certainly didn't need Finnegan's Lee to tell me that after a few weeks of Schnitzel and Pils (grosse, naturlich) I'd be well on the way to becoming a fat bastard (hence the Carter USM song on last posts soundtrack).
Saturday morning, I woke up, had a little breakfast, then took the U-bahn one stop away to visit a gym I'd seen. Fortunately, Thomas spoke english and showed me around. They call them Fitness Centers in Germany, and unfortunately, this inevitably means that they focus more on cardiovascular stuff than racks and racks of free weights. The gym was OK, but kind of small.
The price, however, was not so small. 60 euros to join, 35 for a fitness test (what the fuck?), then 50 per month for a minimum one year contract. Um, no.
Thomas recognized that I knew my way around the weight room, and told me about a couple of other gyms in the vicinity. So, after giving him a hearty thank you, I headed two more stops away to Konstablerwache, which is a plaza in the center of Frankfurt.
Along with an open air market held each Thursday and Saturday, there are also loads of birds about that gleefully attempt to poop on any head that they can find. Konstablerwache is one of the most central points in Innenstadt, and supercool. All of the shops you need are right there, along with a gym that opened up a few months ago.
I found the entrance to the gym, went upstairs and tried to communicate with the attendants. His English was sufficient enough for me to understand the operation, and within 5 seconds of walking into the weight room, I knew that I'd found my gym. Brand new equipment in a spanking clean environment. As many benches and weights as I could possibly need. The next floor up, a large room is filled with all the latest cardiovascular machines, all looking out onto the Frankfurt skyline. It's sick.
"60 euros to join, and 5 euros a week," Jan told me.
Um, yes.
I obtained a week's pass just to play around, but the real reason is that I needed to get some money put into my bank account so that I could pay the fees.
Feeling right positive about things, I headed back home, and stopped off at an electronics shop to browse a bit and pick up a cheap land line telephone. An hour later, I'd forced myself to skip the super saeco espresso machine (like my one from the states), but I did have a small telephone, a cd, and a DVD player that was on special. These days, a decent DVD player sells for about as much as a good night out at the pub.
Home I went, eager to try out my new gear, especially the DVD player; I had a couple of music DVDs that friends from Spain had given me, and I was ready to listen.
When I plugged in the video cable into the back of the television and heard the really loud POP, I knew things weren't going well. The leasing agent had told me that the tv was old and might go out, but I was hoping to avoid that incident while I was a tenant. "Ah well," I said to myself, really meaning to say, "Joder!" with full force.
I have plenty to read, and holy crap I have a lot of work to do, so being without television is no big deal. After putting a load of laundry in the washing machine, I grabbed an Ian Rankin book (this time in Spanish...let's just see how it goes) and headed next door to the pub, hoping that they'd have the Arsenal match on.
It's a bit humorous that my local Irish pub has an American bartender working there who just happens to be an Arsenal fan. Fortunately for me, I will be guaranteed to see any televised match in future. But this afternoon was all about FA Cup third round. Arsenal. At Liverpool.
I grabbed a seat at the bar and geared up for a tense match. In the 35th minute, I turned to the other guy watching the game and said, I think we're in trouble. He is a Man U fan, so really didn't care one way or another. In the 37th minute, when Tomas Rosicky curled a shot into the net on one touch, I turned back to my acquaintance and said, "Maybe this will be OK."
Rosicky scored a beautiful goal right as the half was ending, and couldn't believe it. 2-0 at halftime, and up until now, Rosicky hadn't scored in the season. (I will point out, though, that Tomas Rosicky is the Czech that scored two cracking goals against the US during the World Cup.)
During half time, I chatted with the Man U guy, and I discovered that he was an Englishman that had been living in Germany quite a bit over the past six years. We continued to chat during the second half, as Liverpool pulled a goal back, then were silenced as Henry scored a third for Arsenal, clinching the victory.
Arsenal have been so sporadic this year that I was truly expecting a defeat, or a draw at best, especially against Liverpool. I was delighted, and stayed around the pub after the match, realizing that it was only 8pm, and I had no television at home to amuse myself with that night.
Around 1.30 or 2, after some excellent conversations with Johnny (we finally introduced ourselves), a girl named Anne, along with several other patrons, I chucked off home, once again feeling very glad that I only had to stumble a few feet to my door.
Sunday was meant to be quiet. I only wanted to go the gym, and maybe do a little work. My laundry wasn't done, and I didn't quite understand the situation. Perhaps I'd set the machine on the wrong cycle or something. I reset the machine, then went for my workout.
Washing machines in Europe work differently than those in the states. I'm not new to this, but the machine in my flat is probably 8 or 10 years old. There are no instructions lying about, and they'd be in German anyway. I've been relying on my experiences with washers that Lynne and Fran have had in the past for my "guesstimate" as to how to get the machine to clean my clothes. Since I'd already run two loads the previous week, I was feeling fairly confident that I knew what was going on.
By Sunday afternoon, I was losing some confidence. True, cycle times on European washers can take hours, but I believed I was allowing for sufficient time to pass, yet the clothes still looked soapy; it was as if the machine wasn't draining and completing the spin cycle.
I confirmed this when I figured out how to make the door open mid-cycle. A large wave of water came out onto the floor, which prompted me to say, "Fucking hell!"
I mopped up, and tried to reset the washer, deciding to leave it for another two hour cycle. No luck. Thankfully, I didn't open the door this time round.
Another cycle passed, and I was still getting the same results. No rinse cycle seemed to be happening.
I did what anyone would have done, and stepped next door to find out the score of Man U's FA cup match, had two guinness, then returned home to find that things were still out of whack.
Well, the mystery continued into Monday morning, but before work, I reset the machine and hoped I would see better results when I got home from work.
Monday was a pretty tough day in the office. The three hour management meeting (kicking off 2007) didn't particularly help my mood, and as I sat on the train last evening thinking about all of the things I've got to do in the coming weeks, I now had to consider the fact that I might arrive home to find my clothes still sitting in soapy water in the washing machine.
Yep, I was correct. Still there, looking pretty waterlogged. My sister didn't pick up when I tried to call her for additional brainpower, so I knew I'd face this problem alone.
I grabbed a few towels, stopped the cycle, opened the door, captured as much water as I could, and took the clothes and threw them into the bath tub. Then, I ran the spin cycle on the washing machine, which successfully drained the water.
At this point, I had the idea that maybe I should just hand rinse my clothes, but in the end, I put them back in the bloody machine, set a different cycle, and headed off to the gym.
Well, the skyline of Frankfurt is really nice. Furthermore, my new gym is not so overwhelmingly crowded like other gyms I've been to. That said, those that were in the gym were pretty serious about things. All of this is perfect for me, as I prefer to get in, do my stuff, and get out. I'll save the socializing for somewhere with a little more mahogany.
Although I'd bought groceries earlier in the evening, I preferred to save the pasta for another day, and stopped in at the Irish place. (note - at some point in the next few weeks, I'll see if I can remember the name. It's in Gaelic, and it's not particularly a name that rolls off the tongue. Even the sign outside simply says Irish Pub.)
I may have mentioned before that the food in this pub is pretty good. The food at Finnegan's was also above average, and there are a couple of stand out dishes, especially their desserts. However, this place is probably on par (if not slightly higher...gasp!) with the Old Monk. Last night I opted for the chili con carne, and was treated to some truly excellent stuff. I broke out in a sweat, which hasn't happened (save for a moment of wasabi madness in Valencia in October) for quite some time. This chef knows how to heat the spices up, and I am pleased pleased pleased.
The evening improved as a couple of guys got out a banjo and guitar for a bit of an Irish session. I cut the evening short (shortish...it was already 11) and returned home to find my clothes still in the wash.
One more reset and I went to bed.
This morning, after finding the same situation, I set a different cycle and hope I can get different results when I return home this evening.
At the very least, 6 socks, a few t-shirts and an Arsenal jersey are getting REALLY clean.
Arsenal return to Liverpool tonight for Carling Cup action.
I'd wear my jersey to watch the match, but it's in the wash.
keep the faith
bryan
soundtrack:
the sound of a washing machine, no rinse and no spin
Over the King's Day weekend, my real objective was to find a gym. I haven't stepped into a gym since the very end of November, and certainly didn't need Finnegan's Lee to tell me that after a few weeks of Schnitzel and Pils (grosse, naturlich) I'd be well on the way to becoming a fat bastard (hence the Carter USM song on last posts soundtrack).
Saturday morning, I woke up, had a little breakfast, then took the U-bahn one stop away to visit a gym I'd seen. Fortunately, Thomas spoke english and showed me around. They call them Fitness Centers in Germany, and unfortunately, this inevitably means that they focus more on cardiovascular stuff than racks and racks of free weights. The gym was OK, but kind of small.
The price, however, was not so small. 60 euros to join, 35 for a fitness test (what the fuck?), then 50 per month for a minimum one year contract. Um, no.
Thomas recognized that I knew my way around the weight room, and told me about a couple of other gyms in the vicinity. So, after giving him a hearty thank you, I headed two more stops away to Konstablerwache, which is a plaza in the center of Frankfurt.
Along with an open air market held each Thursday and Saturday, there are also loads of birds about that gleefully attempt to poop on any head that they can find. Konstablerwache is one of the most central points in Innenstadt, and supercool. All of the shops you need are right there, along with a gym that opened up a few months ago.
I found the entrance to the gym, went upstairs and tried to communicate with the attendants. His English was sufficient enough for me to understand the operation, and within 5 seconds of walking into the weight room, I knew that I'd found my gym. Brand new equipment in a spanking clean environment. As many benches and weights as I could possibly need. The next floor up, a large room is filled with all the latest cardiovascular machines, all looking out onto the Frankfurt skyline. It's sick.
"60 euros to join, and 5 euros a week," Jan told me.
Um, yes.
I obtained a week's pass just to play around, but the real reason is that I needed to get some money put into my bank account so that I could pay the fees.
Feeling right positive about things, I headed back home, and stopped off at an electronics shop to browse a bit and pick up a cheap land line telephone. An hour later, I'd forced myself to skip the super saeco espresso machine (like my one from the states), but I did have a small telephone, a cd, and a DVD player that was on special. These days, a decent DVD player sells for about as much as a good night out at the pub.
Home I went, eager to try out my new gear, especially the DVD player; I had a couple of music DVDs that friends from Spain had given me, and I was ready to listen.
When I plugged in the video cable into the back of the television and heard the really loud POP, I knew things weren't going well. The leasing agent had told me that the tv was old and might go out, but I was hoping to avoid that incident while I was a tenant. "Ah well," I said to myself, really meaning to say, "Joder!" with full force.
I have plenty to read, and holy crap I have a lot of work to do, so being without television is no big deal. After putting a load of laundry in the washing machine, I grabbed an Ian Rankin book (this time in Spanish...let's just see how it goes) and headed next door to the pub, hoping that they'd have the Arsenal match on.
It's a bit humorous that my local Irish pub has an American bartender working there who just happens to be an Arsenal fan. Fortunately for me, I will be guaranteed to see any televised match in future. But this afternoon was all about FA Cup third round. Arsenal. At Liverpool.
I grabbed a seat at the bar and geared up for a tense match. In the 35th minute, I turned to the other guy watching the game and said, I think we're in trouble. He is a Man U fan, so really didn't care one way or another. In the 37th minute, when Tomas Rosicky curled a shot into the net on one touch, I turned back to my acquaintance and said, "Maybe this will be OK."
Rosicky scored a beautiful goal right as the half was ending, and couldn't believe it. 2-0 at halftime, and up until now, Rosicky hadn't scored in the season. (I will point out, though, that Tomas Rosicky is the Czech that scored two cracking goals against the US during the World Cup.)
During half time, I chatted with the Man U guy, and I discovered that he was an Englishman that had been living in Germany quite a bit over the past six years. We continued to chat during the second half, as Liverpool pulled a goal back, then were silenced as Henry scored a third for Arsenal, clinching the victory.
Arsenal have been so sporadic this year that I was truly expecting a defeat, or a draw at best, especially against Liverpool. I was delighted, and stayed around the pub after the match, realizing that it was only 8pm, and I had no television at home to amuse myself with that night.
Around 1.30 or 2, after some excellent conversations with Johnny (we finally introduced ourselves), a girl named Anne, along with several other patrons, I chucked off home, once again feeling very glad that I only had to stumble a few feet to my door.
Sunday was meant to be quiet. I only wanted to go the gym, and maybe do a little work. My laundry wasn't done, and I didn't quite understand the situation. Perhaps I'd set the machine on the wrong cycle or something. I reset the machine, then went for my workout.
Washing machines in Europe work differently than those in the states. I'm not new to this, but the machine in my flat is probably 8 or 10 years old. There are no instructions lying about, and they'd be in German anyway. I've been relying on my experiences with washers that Lynne and Fran have had in the past for my "guesstimate" as to how to get the machine to clean my clothes. Since I'd already run two loads the previous week, I was feeling fairly confident that I knew what was going on.
By Sunday afternoon, I was losing some confidence. True, cycle times on European washers can take hours, but I believed I was allowing for sufficient time to pass, yet the clothes still looked soapy; it was as if the machine wasn't draining and completing the spin cycle.
I confirmed this when I figured out how to make the door open mid-cycle. A large wave of water came out onto the floor, which prompted me to say, "Fucking hell!"
I mopped up, and tried to reset the washer, deciding to leave it for another two hour cycle. No luck. Thankfully, I didn't open the door this time round.
Another cycle passed, and I was still getting the same results. No rinse cycle seemed to be happening.
I did what anyone would have done, and stepped next door to find out the score of Man U's FA cup match, had two guinness, then returned home to find that things were still out of whack.
Well, the mystery continued into Monday morning, but before work, I reset the machine and hoped I would see better results when I got home from work.
Monday was a pretty tough day in the office. The three hour management meeting (kicking off 2007) didn't particularly help my mood, and as I sat on the train last evening thinking about all of the things I've got to do in the coming weeks, I now had to consider the fact that I might arrive home to find my clothes still sitting in soapy water in the washing machine.
Yep, I was correct. Still there, looking pretty waterlogged. My sister didn't pick up when I tried to call her for additional brainpower, so I knew I'd face this problem alone.
I grabbed a few towels, stopped the cycle, opened the door, captured as much water as I could, and took the clothes and threw them into the bath tub. Then, I ran the spin cycle on the washing machine, which successfully drained the water.
At this point, I had the idea that maybe I should just hand rinse my clothes, but in the end, I put them back in the bloody machine, set a different cycle, and headed off to the gym.
Well, the skyline of Frankfurt is really nice. Furthermore, my new gym is not so overwhelmingly crowded like other gyms I've been to. That said, those that were in the gym were pretty serious about things. All of this is perfect for me, as I prefer to get in, do my stuff, and get out. I'll save the socializing for somewhere with a little more mahogany.
Although I'd bought groceries earlier in the evening, I preferred to save the pasta for another day, and stopped in at the Irish place. (note - at some point in the next few weeks, I'll see if I can remember the name. It's in Gaelic, and it's not particularly a name that rolls off the tongue. Even the sign outside simply says Irish Pub.)
I may have mentioned before that the food in this pub is pretty good. The food at Finnegan's was also above average, and there are a couple of stand out dishes, especially their desserts. However, this place is probably on par (if not slightly higher...gasp!) with the Old Monk. Last night I opted for the chili con carne, and was treated to some truly excellent stuff. I broke out in a sweat, which hasn't happened (save for a moment of wasabi madness in Valencia in October) for quite some time. This chef knows how to heat the spices up, and I am pleased pleased pleased.
The evening improved as a couple of guys got out a banjo and guitar for a bit of an Irish session. I cut the evening short (shortish...it was already 11) and returned home to find my clothes still in the wash.
One more reset and I went to bed.
This morning, after finding the same situation, I set a different cycle and hope I can get different results when I return home this evening.
At the very least, 6 socks, a few t-shirts and an Arsenal jersey are getting REALLY clean.
Arsenal return to Liverpool tonight for Carling Cup action.
I'd wear my jersey to watch the match, but it's in the wash.
keep the faith
bryan
soundtrack:
the sound of a washing machine, no rinse and no spin
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Peat and Repeat
So, an American guy walks into an Irish bar, orders a drink from the Serbian bar tender, decides to have some Schnitzel made by an Indian chef, then sits back to watch a soccer match on Sky Sports One.
If I'd had walked into the bar with a duck on my head, that might have been weird. Instead, it was just another night for me down at my local.
I wish that I had been able to see the Arsenal match on television, but instead watched Chelsea-Villa, which was boring, but worthwhile to see a draw. I had to settle for Arsenal highlights later in the evening, where I discovered they won 4-0 over Charlton. Impressively, I might add, at least from the highlights I saw.
As of 3 January, I'm a legal resident of Germany! Nothing like a little early morning trip to the main government office in Frankfurt to get that sorted out. Except for the fact that my colleague picked me up at my apartment in an Audi quattro, drove us all around until we found parking downtown and walked through the red light district to the visa office, the whole experience was remarkably similar to the one I had 11 months ago when I arrived in Valencia. Er...
It does not escape me that I've gone through the "change countries of residence" game twice inside of one year, but have still managed to scrape up a routine in a relatively short amount of time.
In a few minutes, I'll go freeze my ass off at the bus stop, take the train back to Frankfurt, buy a couple of things at the market, then head back to sample a little more cuisine from the Indian guy who cooks in the Irish pub. **note (Not to be confused with the guy from the Isle of Wight who worked in an Irish bar in Spain and served people paella)
The menu here in Bornheim tiene buena pinta, and besides, it's Karaoke night.
cheers
bryan
If I'd had walked into the bar with a duck on my head, that might have been weird. Instead, it was just another night for me down at my local.
I wish that I had been able to see the Arsenal match on television, but instead watched Chelsea-Villa, which was boring, but worthwhile to see a draw. I had to settle for Arsenal highlights later in the evening, where I discovered they won 4-0 over Charlton. Impressively, I might add, at least from the highlights I saw.
As of 3 January, I'm a legal resident of Germany! Nothing like a little early morning trip to the main government office in Frankfurt to get that sorted out. Except for the fact that my colleague picked me up at my apartment in an Audi quattro, drove us all around until we found parking downtown and walked through the red light district to the visa office, the whole experience was remarkably similar to the one I had 11 months ago when I arrived in Valencia. Er...
It does not escape me that I've gone through the "change countries of residence" game twice inside of one year, but have still managed to scrape up a routine in a relatively short amount of time.
In a few minutes, I'll go freeze my ass off at the bus stop, take the train back to Frankfurt, buy a couple of things at the market, then head back to sample a little more cuisine from the Indian guy who cooks in the Irish pub. **note (Not to be confused with the guy from the Isle of Wight who worked in an Irish bar in Spain and served people paella)
The menu here in Bornheim tiene buena pinta, and besides, it's Karaoke night.
cheers
bryan
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Acabo de llegar y alles klar!
It’s amazing to me the hundreds of euros I have spent on taxis in recent months. Spanish taxis were on the more reasonable side, particularly after a couple of hours in Germany. 46 Euros will get you from Frankfurt airport to Darmstadt. 11 euros is a one way trip from my hotel in Darmstadt to the office in Weiterstadt.
I certainly have had no intentions to continue the daily cab excursions; I simply cannot afford it. However, with a final decision yet to be made about a car (something about $4.5 per gallon of gasoline kind of freaks me out), I needed to find a short term solution within my economic means for the work commute. Of course, it would be important to first locate suitable accommodation other than my hotel room in Darmstadt, nice as it is.
Sorting out the apartment initially seemed a bit tricky. Estate agents, deposits, high prices, and oh, the language were challenges that I had to consider. I was spending quite a bit of time on a couple of housing websites when my co-worker phoned up to say that she had arranged for me to see an apartment in Frankfurt the Monday evening before Christmas. She set up a taxi to take me into city, wait while I met with the agent, then return me to Darmstadt.
Weiterstadt is really about 30km outside of Frankfurt, and easily accessible by the autobahn. The problem was that the taxi driver wasn’t too familiar with Frankfurt, so we got a bit lost en route. Several times he’d look over to me as if I knew where we were going, and I had to continue to give him my “I haven’t a fucking clue, mate” look. After a couple of calls to the estate agent, we arrived in Bornheim, a little district on the north side of the city.
Noting the Irish pub about 15 feet from my front door, I headed upstairs to meet the estate agent, and was immediately pleased. I had already seen some on-line pictures, so had a rough feel for the place. Ten minutes after I’d arrived, I informed the lady that I was definitely interested, but would need to talk to her the week after Christmas.
On the way back to Darmstadt, the cab driver told me about his sex life in his broken English, I hadn’t actually invited him to tell me anything, but I sort of nodded and smiled from time to time and hoped that the fare wouldn’t be more than the cash I had in my pocket. 150 euros, it was, and gee, that’s a lot of money for a guy who hadn’t been reimbursed for his business expenses yet.
Speaking of high prices, the apartment is a little pricey, but being that it’s fully furnished, complete with all appliances, sheets, towels, plates, glasses, etc, I realized that I wasn’t going to find anything better for less money. Besides, the location seemed excellent, and the work commute appears doable.
So I nipped off to Spain for a few days, and returned on the 27th to the office hoping to get a bank account, my residence card, and finalize the apartment. Well, one out of three wasn’t too bad.
The office was a bit quiet the week after Christmas, but I had loads to do in my project. My co-worker was out until the 2nd of January, so I was going to end the year without a bank account, which initially meant that I wouldn’t be able to get paid. I did call my estate agent, and she explained that I could pay the deposit (two months) and first month’s rent in cash. Wow, not a small figure, really.
I had a brief word with my manager, and explained the situation. He thought for a moment, then said, “No problem. We’ll pay your expense report (which included a whopping 1000 euro hotel bill from England) along with part of your salary, all in cash.” Fine by me.
Friday morning, I showered for the last time in my Darmstadt hotel room, took an 11 euro taxi to work, had a couple of meetings, then received a note from the finance department for me to go see Frau Steller.
Up the stairs I went, and Frau Steller greeted me with a, “Do you really want this much in cash?”
“Um, I guess so,” I responded, not quite sure how much she was about to give me.
I’ve never held 5000 euros in cash before (dollars, either, for that matter), and after the initial shock, casually put the money in an envelope in my back pocket, and hoped like hell that I didn’t get jacked up in the bathroom.
Around 3pm, I called the estate agent back, and arranged to meet her at the apartment around 5.30. I packed up my hotel room, and gave the cab driver a feeble smile when I confirmed that yes, all of the stuff in the hotel lobby DID need to go in the car.
We only experienced a little traffic, thanks to the holiday weekend, and I was relieved to find that the agent was already there. I quickly unloaded the taxi and all my stuff was curbside; I really didn’t want anyone to zip by and help themselves to any of my stuff. Fortunately, the cab driver waited until my gear was inside the front door, so all I had to do was lug everything up to the first floor.
The agent and I completed an inventory of everything in the house, which gave me a better opportunity to realize just what kind of place I’ve gotten myself into. It seems the owner is a Scottish man who is working in Zurich for the next five years. Meanwhile, he took the time to kit his place in Frankfurt out pretty good. I’ve never set foot in an IKEA store, but now I don’t see any reason to. Everything from IKEA is in my place. All things considered, I’m really impressed with the guy’s taste.
The living room is fairly basic, with sofa, easy chair, coffee table, bookshelves, and a stereo television. The bedroom has plenty of storage space, and a double bed nestled in the corner. The kitchen is super modern with plenty of things to cook with. The bathroom is a dream: completely new fixtures, allowing for a full size bathtub and separate shower. It takes almost two minutes to cross the bathroom, it’s that big.
After I signed the contract, the agent took me down the street to the grocery, where I stocked up on a few staples. I live right off of Berger Strasse, which is an awesome street filled with little pubs, restaurants, and shops. It’s the main high street in the district, but runs almost to the center of the city.
I spent Friday evening unpacking all of my stuff; I’d been living out of suitcases for all of December, and many of my things were still folded into my packing envelopes from the initial move out of Spain. Around 8, I walked down the street and found a kebap shop, where I enjoyed a couple of beers as I waited for my durums. The staff were friendly, and one of the guys asked if I’d been to the pub yet. “Nope, but all in good time.”
Saturday morning, I fired up my new stove-top espresso maker (thanks Moe, it’s rockin’) and enjoyed a kaffee on my patio, which overlooks the back courtyard. Think more Rear Window as opposed to Melrose Place and you’ll have a pretty good idea of the set up. Pretty fucking cool.
I walked up and down Berger Strasse on Saturday afternoon amongst the little street markets, shoppers, glühwein wine stalls, and kept smiling. “Dang, I wish I knew what people were saying,” I thought to myself as I tried to get my bearings. It was a wee bit chilly, but I enjoyed the stroll. I located my local Schlecker, stocked up on stuff, then made a return trip to the supermarket to buy enough food to last through the holiday weekend.
At 6pm, I walked into the Irish pub, ordered a pint of John Smith, then sat down to watch the Arsenal match being showed on Sky One. I felt a little giddy as I recapped the last 24 hours: moved into a cool new place in Frankfurt, Irish pub 5 seconds away from my front door, Arsenal match on the tube…
OK, so I was a bit agitated as Arsenal lost to a relegation zone team. On the positive side, I was comfortably numb with the beers, and chatted with a couple of the pub staff, including a really nice German girl who has nice dimples. I wrapped up the evening with a return to the kebap shop, which, in hindsight, was not as good an idea two nights running, especially after a handful of pints. Ah well, I had to christen the new apartment somehow…
I woke up a little earlier on New Year’s Eve, as I had an agenda. First, I needed to check out of my Darmstadt hotel. Second, I wanted to figure out how to use the public rail service so that I can get to work every day. The metro stop is about a five minute walk away, and I more or less found myself in the train station before too long. I wandered around until I found the trains for Darmstadt, then found myself on a 35 minute ride through 15 stops on the commuter line. Must see if we can improve the logistics a bit, but it’s doable.
I collected a couple of items from my hotel, and completed the check-out, taxied back to the Darmstadt train station, bought a monats karte, and boarded an ICE train back to Frankfurt. This was more like it: 15 minutes direct from station to station, sin para. Back on the U-Bahn to my little Bornheim Mitte stop, and I was back in the apartment, where I amused myself with a little cinema on the television, including Flashdance. I’m not sure if a guy who just bought the back catalog of Bad Religion should be able to express his enthusiasm for a movie like this (er, I also watched the Wedding Singer), but hell, I’m going to. I'l even go out on a limb and say that after a few weeks watching VIVA and German MTV, I now have a new crush on Gwen Stefani. Wind it up.
The pub was pretty festive when I arrived at 9, and I paced myself on the Guinness, not wanting to repeat the previous evening’s performance. I caught up with my new acquaintances, and met a few other folks enjoying a few drinks. A dj started playing a mix of various types of music, and updated us periodically with the time. Not surprisingly, a few U2 songs were played in honor of the bar, though I’m not sure why someone wanted to play Achy Breaky Heart, nor a song by John Denver. Eclectic tastes? Definitely. However, I, too was going nuts with the rest of the bar when they played Major Tom, the popular German/English song from the 80s. 4,3,2,1 Earth below us….
A drunk Irish guy got a bit longwinded with me, but bought me a beer once he discovered that I’ve read some Keats. Midnight hit, and the packed bar ran out into the plaza to shoot off fireworks, and we’re not just talking blackcats. Some guy loaded up some super duper bottle rocket things that almost tore off a tree limb, and after a shower of burning cinders, I took the opportunity to return to the safety of the bar for another drink.
My drunk buddy disappeared at some point, and I realized that I was about to wind things down, too. My German bar maid excitedly told me about the German new wave songs that the dj was now playing while she danced around. No extra charge for the dimples.
Then, out of nowhere, on came one of my favorite Héroes del Silencio songs. Another German standing nearby clearly was a fan; he was belting out the tunes pretty well. I took the moment to reminisce on good times celebrating New Years in Spain with 12 grapes, good dinners and good company.
Everyone in the bar was pretty well oiled by this time, and I knew that I had no business ordering another drink. A quick visit to the gents (I simply didn’t want to wait 15 seconds until l I got home), then I returned home for nighty night.
Fade to Tuesday, 2 January. I made the commute via u-bahn, ice train, and autobus in about an hour flat. With the exception that I stood at the wrong bus stop for five minutes until I realized that I was mistaken, no problems whatsoever.
I'm assuming that I'll be able to reverse things and get home this evening.
Feliz Año Nuevo, guten Rutsch, y Happy New Year a todos
keep the faith
bryan
Soundtrack
Madness: Our House
Héroes del Silencio – Entre dos tierras
U2 – New Year’s Day
Irene Cara– Flashdance, What a feeling
Carter USM – You Fat Bastard
Peter Schilling – Major Tom (Völlig losgelöst)
I certainly have had no intentions to continue the daily cab excursions; I simply cannot afford it. However, with a final decision yet to be made about a car (something about $4.5 per gallon of gasoline kind of freaks me out), I needed to find a short term solution within my economic means for the work commute. Of course, it would be important to first locate suitable accommodation other than my hotel room in Darmstadt, nice as it is.
Sorting out the apartment initially seemed a bit tricky. Estate agents, deposits, high prices, and oh, the language were challenges that I had to consider. I was spending quite a bit of time on a couple of housing websites when my co-worker phoned up to say that she had arranged for me to see an apartment in Frankfurt the Monday evening before Christmas. She set up a taxi to take me into city, wait while I met with the agent, then return me to Darmstadt.
Weiterstadt is really about 30km outside of Frankfurt, and easily accessible by the autobahn. The problem was that the taxi driver wasn’t too familiar with Frankfurt, so we got a bit lost en route. Several times he’d look over to me as if I knew where we were going, and I had to continue to give him my “I haven’t a fucking clue, mate” look. After a couple of calls to the estate agent, we arrived in Bornheim, a little district on the north side of the city.
Noting the Irish pub about 15 feet from my front door, I headed upstairs to meet the estate agent, and was immediately pleased. I had already seen some on-line pictures, so had a rough feel for the place. Ten minutes after I’d arrived, I informed the lady that I was definitely interested, but would need to talk to her the week after Christmas.
On the way back to Darmstadt, the cab driver told me about his sex life in his broken English, I hadn’t actually invited him to tell me anything, but I sort of nodded and smiled from time to time and hoped that the fare wouldn’t be more than the cash I had in my pocket. 150 euros, it was, and gee, that’s a lot of money for a guy who hadn’t been reimbursed for his business expenses yet.
Speaking of high prices, the apartment is a little pricey, but being that it’s fully furnished, complete with all appliances, sheets, towels, plates, glasses, etc, I realized that I wasn’t going to find anything better for less money. Besides, the location seemed excellent, and the work commute appears doable.
So I nipped off to Spain for a few days, and returned on the 27th to the office hoping to get a bank account, my residence card, and finalize the apartment. Well, one out of three wasn’t too bad.
The office was a bit quiet the week after Christmas, but I had loads to do in my project. My co-worker was out until the 2nd of January, so I was going to end the year without a bank account, which initially meant that I wouldn’t be able to get paid. I did call my estate agent, and she explained that I could pay the deposit (two months) and first month’s rent in cash. Wow, not a small figure, really.
I had a brief word with my manager, and explained the situation. He thought for a moment, then said, “No problem. We’ll pay your expense report (which included a whopping 1000 euro hotel bill from England) along with part of your salary, all in cash.” Fine by me.
Friday morning, I showered for the last time in my Darmstadt hotel room, took an 11 euro taxi to work, had a couple of meetings, then received a note from the finance department for me to go see Frau Steller.
Up the stairs I went, and Frau Steller greeted me with a, “Do you really want this much in cash?”
“Um, I guess so,” I responded, not quite sure how much she was about to give me.
I’ve never held 5000 euros in cash before (dollars, either, for that matter), and after the initial shock, casually put the money in an envelope in my back pocket, and hoped like hell that I didn’t get jacked up in the bathroom.
Around 3pm, I called the estate agent back, and arranged to meet her at the apartment around 5.30. I packed up my hotel room, and gave the cab driver a feeble smile when I confirmed that yes, all of the stuff in the hotel lobby DID need to go in the car.
We only experienced a little traffic, thanks to the holiday weekend, and I was relieved to find that the agent was already there. I quickly unloaded the taxi and all my stuff was curbside; I really didn’t want anyone to zip by and help themselves to any of my stuff. Fortunately, the cab driver waited until my gear was inside the front door, so all I had to do was lug everything up to the first floor.
The agent and I completed an inventory of everything in the house, which gave me a better opportunity to realize just what kind of place I’ve gotten myself into. It seems the owner is a Scottish man who is working in Zurich for the next five years. Meanwhile, he took the time to kit his place in Frankfurt out pretty good. I’ve never set foot in an IKEA store, but now I don’t see any reason to. Everything from IKEA is in my place. All things considered, I’m really impressed with the guy’s taste.
The living room is fairly basic, with sofa, easy chair, coffee table, bookshelves, and a stereo television. The bedroom has plenty of storage space, and a double bed nestled in the corner. The kitchen is super modern with plenty of things to cook with. The bathroom is a dream: completely new fixtures, allowing for a full size bathtub and separate shower. It takes almost two minutes to cross the bathroom, it’s that big.
After I signed the contract, the agent took me down the street to the grocery, where I stocked up on a few staples. I live right off of Berger Strasse, which is an awesome street filled with little pubs, restaurants, and shops. It’s the main high street in the district, but runs almost to the center of the city.
I spent Friday evening unpacking all of my stuff; I’d been living out of suitcases for all of December, and many of my things were still folded into my packing envelopes from the initial move out of Spain. Around 8, I walked down the street and found a kebap shop, where I enjoyed a couple of beers as I waited for my durums. The staff were friendly, and one of the guys asked if I’d been to the pub yet. “Nope, but all in good time.”
Saturday morning, I fired up my new stove-top espresso maker (thanks Moe, it’s rockin’) and enjoyed a kaffee on my patio, which overlooks the back courtyard. Think more Rear Window as opposed to Melrose Place and you’ll have a pretty good idea of the set up. Pretty fucking cool.
I walked up and down Berger Strasse on Saturday afternoon amongst the little street markets, shoppers, glühwein wine stalls, and kept smiling. “Dang, I wish I knew what people were saying,” I thought to myself as I tried to get my bearings. It was a wee bit chilly, but I enjoyed the stroll. I located my local Schlecker, stocked up on stuff, then made a return trip to the supermarket to buy enough food to last through the holiday weekend.
At 6pm, I walked into the Irish pub, ordered a pint of John Smith, then sat down to watch the Arsenal match being showed on Sky One. I felt a little giddy as I recapped the last 24 hours: moved into a cool new place in Frankfurt, Irish pub 5 seconds away from my front door, Arsenal match on the tube…
OK, so I was a bit agitated as Arsenal lost to a relegation zone team. On the positive side, I was comfortably numb with the beers, and chatted with a couple of the pub staff, including a really nice German girl who has nice dimples. I wrapped up the evening with a return to the kebap shop, which, in hindsight, was not as good an idea two nights running, especially after a handful of pints. Ah well, I had to christen the new apartment somehow…
I woke up a little earlier on New Year’s Eve, as I had an agenda. First, I needed to check out of my Darmstadt hotel. Second, I wanted to figure out how to use the public rail service so that I can get to work every day. The metro stop is about a five minute walk away, and I more or less found myself in the train station before too long. I wandered around until I found the trains for Darmstadt, then found myself on a 35 minute ride through 15 stops on the commuter line. Must see if we can improve the logistics a bit, but it’s doable.
I collected a couple of items from my hotel, and completed the check-out, taxied back to the Darmstadt train station, bought a monats karte, and boarded an ICE train back to Frankfurt. This was more like it: 15 minutes direct from station to station, sin para. Back on the U-Bahn to my little Bornheim Mitte stop, and I was back in the apartment, where I amused myself with a little cinema on the television, including Flashdance. I’m not sure if a guy who just bought the back catalog of Bad Religion should be able to express his enthusiasm for a movie like this (er, I also watched the Wedding Singer), but hell, I’m going to. I'l even go out on a limb and say that after a few weeks watching VIVA and German MTV, I now have a new crush on Gwen Stefani. Wind it up.
The pub was pretty festive when I arrived at 9, and I paced myself on the Guinness, not wanting to repeat the previous evening’s performance. I caught up with my new acquaintances, and met a few other folks enjoying a few drinks. A dj started playing a mix of various types of music, and updated us periodically with the time. Not surprisingly, a few U2 songs were played in honor of the bar, though I’m not sure why someone wanted to play Achy Breaky Heart, nor a song by John Denver. Eclectic tastes? Definitely. However, I, too was going nuts with the rest of the bar when they played Major Tom, the popular German/English song from the 80s. 4,3,2,1 Earth below us….
A drunk Irish guy got a bit longwinded with me, but bought me a beer once he discovered that I’ve read some Keats. Midnight hit, and the packed bar ran out into the plaza to shoot off fireworks, and we’re not just talking blackcats. Some guy loaded up some super duper bottle rocket things that almost tore off a tree limb, and after a shower of burning cinders, I took the opportunity to return to the safety of the bar for another drink.
My drunk buddy disappeared at some point, and I realized that I was about to wind things down, too. My German bar maid excitedly told me about the German new wave songs that the dj was now playing while she danced around. No extra charge for the dimples.
Then, out of nowhere, on came one of my favorite Héroes del Silencio songs. Another German standing nearby clearly was a fan; he was belting out the tunes pretty well. I took the moment to reminisce on good times celebrating New Years in Spain with 12 grapes, good dinners and good company.
Everyone in the bar was pretty well oiled by this time, and I knew that I had no business ordering another drink. A quick visit to the gents (I simply didn’t want to wait 15 seconds until l I got home), then I returned home for nighty night.
Fade to Tuesday, 2 January. I made the commute via u-bahn, ice train, and autobus in about an hour flat. With the exception that I stood at the wrong bus stop for five minutes until I realized that I was mistaken, no problems whatsoever.
I'm assuming that I'll be able to reverse things and get home this evening.
Feliz Año Nuevo, guten Rutsch, y Happy New Year a todos
keep the faith
bryan
Soundtrack
Madness: Our House
Héroes del Silencio – Entre dos tierras
U2 – New Year’s Day
Irene Cara– Flashdance, What a feeling
Carter USM – You Fat Bastard
Peter Schilling – Major Tom (Völlig losgelöst)
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