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