Fünf Jahre...Und?

Very quietly, I have managed to spend the last five years (and one day) of my life living in Germany. Not a lot of hoopa hoopa and what not as celebrations are concerned; it was really just kind of a low-key moment: one that I took in stride, though, and with some pride.

After all, not everyone can say that they have just gone off and just thrown themselves into a new life and new culture and then lived to tell about it. And while I may be pretty battered and scarred, I have certainly learned a few things, had a few unexpected experiences, and will forever be able to say, “it is worth it.”

Just from the German perspective, I sort of chuckle at two things. I have finally reached that level with the language where I don’t have to think too much about things. For example, I asked my supplier for a Business Continuity Plan (neat little document that describes what you do when the factory burns down, etc) the other day. He sent it to me, and I forwarded it on to a manager, who responded, “Thanks, Bryan. Any chance we can get the document in English?” I had totally checked the plan, approved of what had been written, and forwarded it on, forgetting that not everyone else would be able to read the document.

The other day, I sat down and got all goose bumpy watching a film about how soccer came to Germany back in the 1870s. The movie is called “Der Ganz Große Traum” and yes, of course I got weepy. (I recently watched three movies which also created a bit of emotion, and while I believe “Sliding Doors” and “Say Anything” are worthy of a tear or two, what about “Ratatouille”? And people wonder I tend to watch movies on my own…)

So, back to the German soccer film. I watched the film start to finish without even thinking about what language the film was in. And, after I had dried my eyes (and did a little dance around the flat; the film has a happy ending), I realized that said film was not in my native tongue. Pretty cool.

And so it goes. I continue to get more and more comfortable with the language. I know a fair amount of people, and we only speak in German, despite the fact that they prefer to speak in English. Furthermore, many of these people have English-speaking only relationships with various acquaintances of mine, and somehow, I still keep pushing the German through.

The second point that makes me chuckle is how quickly I can become totally knocked for a loop, in German. This morning (how easy it is to pull examples from recent experience), I was on a horrific train journey that involved loads and loads of delays; it actually took me about 4 hours to get from Frankfurt to Düsseldorf, and that is normally a 90 minute journey.

True to the Bahn, they give you a little voucher that gives you a rebate kind of thing in the event that there is a significant delay in service. This is more or less what the airlines do when your flight gets cancelled or whatever. I have long since been aware that the metro service will actually reimburse you for a ride on the U-Bahn in the event that the train is more than 10 minutes late. I just happen to be one of those customers who doesn’t give a shit.

This morning, I had already been toodling around on the trains a bit, and was having trouble getting focused on getting a train to Düsseldorf. However, at 11.25, I raced madly from the house, got to the station, got my train to the airport, where I was to catch the 12.09 to Köln. Well, I was at the airport on time, but I soon realized that the 12.09 would be delayed, because the 11.09 was already one hour late, and suddenly indicating an 80-90 minute delay.

This is the kind of thing that gets people pretty wound up, and I must admit, if I hadn’t had a nice morning which helped me briefly forget all the work stuff that is about to make me have a heart attack, I might have been right there moaning and groaning about the delay.

Meanwhile, I just sort of realized that shit happens, and strolled around the platform. Another train came by, going in the same direction as the one I needed to take. Not surprisingly, many of the other waiting passengers crammed (and I do mean with a capital Sardine) onto the train that was operational. I held out for 10 more minutes, and then got on a train (that was also quite full) to Köln. I found a place in the dining car, and when the lady came to check my ticket, she then asked me if I had already received the Fahrgästerechte-Formular, to which I had to reply, “Can you please repeat that?” simply because I had never heard that word before. Ultimately, it was the little form that they give you where you have to put down all your details, submit the form, then they give you a voucher for train travel or whatever.

True, I am not the kind of consumer that typically wants this kind of compensation when something goes wrong, such as the tremendous delays from today. I wasn’t really thinking about the delays when she asked me, and part of that had to do with the fact that I had not been on the train for longer than 15 minutes. (Had I made the full line journey from Munich or something, perhaps it would be another story) However, I was totally confused by the question, and the train conductor had to struggle to try to explain what was going on. It became an awkward moment, and a glaring reminder that I may do OK in German, I don’t know all of it.

However, it was a small moment of miscommunication, and truth be told, I have had a lot of experience in areas where I NEVER thought I would have to speak a different language, and that has been quite a worthy experience.

Previous posts have commented on trips to the dentist, unemployment, negotiating a salary, finding a lost grocery store, understanding medical insurance, and just recently, the finer points to renovating bathrooms. Most of these things I would still say are pretty challenging for me in my mother tongue, so if I make a few mistakes (or a lot, depending on how lenient you are feeling), so be it.

At any rate, I stay aware of these two points on language – I am able to understand and communicate a lot (despite the laughter at my accents), and I can be thrown for a loop at the drop of a hat.

In short, what I do in the German language is pretty much what I do in the English language. Full stop.

But I still would not say fluent. That is a goal for the future.

As briefly mentioned above, the experiences have been pretty interesting. Many, many, good things, and a fair amount of unpleasant things that tend to happen in anyone’s life, wherever they happen to be. That is what makes it all the more interesting and worthwhile for me, which is not so easy for me to explain.

For example, visiting the unemployment office for the first time. Shitty thing to have to do, but I tried to find the fun in the experience, particularly from the culture and language aspects. However, I would not wish the experience on anyone.

About a year ago, I was taking a bit of time to relax, think about a new job, and basically mucking around, and now, I am working my tail off, travelling a lot, going through a bit more stress than even I like to put up with, and it is quite the difference.

As usual, I tried to put the experience to music, did a reasonable job at it, and as it were, life goes on, cos it is only life after all.

I never stop reminding myself of that. Good to know that it is my life, though, you know?

Keep the faith

Thanksgiving Eve and All the Rest

I don’t know why, but this year I am very much missing Thanksgiving. It may be because of the recent challenges my family has experienced, like the passing of my grandfather, my aunt’s cancer treatment, I really don’t know. Sure, the family bit is important, and I would like nothing more than to be able to give a hug or two to my parents and grandmother. Yeah, I would certainly enjoy the full turkey dinner and an afternoon of a bit of groaning (“I ate too much. Again.”), dozing in the living room, watching whatever game happens to be on. And the night before Thanksgiving….ah, a nice evening catching up with everyone that still might attend (or get a free pass to attend) the Old Monk Happy Hour, assuming that this tradition lives on in some fashion.

At any rate, I have said my piece: to those of you stateside, enjoy the Thanksgiving holiday, please. White meat for me, with extra cranberry and stuffing on the side.

Though I do tend to enjoy this time of year, regardless of where I happen to be, I am still stunned by how quickly the holiday decorations come out. I know that other countries tend to start getting into Christmas gear (ie…shop til you drop, no matter how shitty your economy happens to be) as early as possible, but I actually like the fact that things don’t really take off until late November in Germany. The German Christmas markets open up this weekend, running through until just before Christmas, and some shops have had their Advent Calendars on sale for the past few weeks, but there has not been a whole lot of visible decoration otherwise, until the last couple of days.

As I walked to the U-Bahn early yesterday morning, I noticed the white lights that get put up in my neighborhood. Today at work, the workmen came to put up the tree in the lobby of my office building.

Last year, I had the month of November and December off, and took a bit more time to enjoy the scene. I am glad I did, because this year, I am running around like a, erm, turkey with its head cut off. Twice in the past week I momentarily forgot which country I was in, which is sort of humorous, in a frequent flyer kind of way.

The constant activity keeps me from getting too bogged down with things that I can’t control but still tend to think too much about. On one hand, that is a positive. On the other, it is a bit nerve wracking, because I do not always have time to catch my breath.

Fortunately, my body does tell me when things need to slow down, and I tend to pay heed. OK, once or twice I misread the signals, but I do not actually believe that I can credibly use the excuse, “I accidentally had 5 shots of Jägermeister last night,” or “Whoops, I stayed at a party too late.”

That does not mean that I did not try, mind you.

So, I am off to enjoy my Thanksgiving Eve by watching a little Champions League football, and will hope not to have to “accidentally” have a Jäger or two (geez, will I be growing up anytime soon?)

As I mentioned above, please enjoy your Thanksgiving holiday. And another portion of stuffing and cranberry, please. OK, go on, a bit more turkey and a couple of rolls , too.

keep the faith

A Few Too Many Oops

Have you ever said something or done something and immediately wished you hadn’t? In a matter of days, I have managed to do that no less than three times, and it is only Tuesday!

I always was that kid who greatly enjoyed visits to the petting zoo or any other activity where children are encouraged to touch and feel and experience, craft fairs or science exhibits, for example. I seem to have continued that habit through my life, and more than once, have been chided for reaching out and touching a stucco wall or a piece of fabric as I ambled down a street. In fairness, I just wanted to know what those things felt like. For clarification, I am not in the habit of touching people’s clothing while they are wearing the garments, though I do enjoy hugging people in fuzzy sweaters.

Today in the hotel lounge, I was waiting on my coffee to come out of the espresso dispenser, and looked over at a rather large steel canister that was shaped like an upside-down ice cream cone. It was the hot tea dispenser, but that did not compute when I , thinking I wanted to touch the smooth stainless steel , just reached out and burned the shit out of my finger.
I wish I hadn’t done that.

About an hour ago, after a visit to the repair site, I went back to the hotel lounge (yep, business travel is all about the boredom of tasting snacks in various hotels around the world) to do some work, have a little snack and try to calm down after a long day. I chose a table which seemed clean, put my laptop down on it, then noticed the adjoining table (always sit at a table for four, even when you are alone…it is fun!) had some liquid on it, most likely spilt beer. I told myself to watch out for that, then promptly put my notepad right on it, then immediately forgot about the wetness. I actually drank a beer for myself, then finished up the work and started packing everything back into my backpack. Well, the notepad got pretty well saturated, and I felt like a right plonker as I realized that I had seen it coming, but proceeded right ahead.

Instead of grabbing a napkin, I actually put the notepad back into my backpack before I finally wised up and cleaned things up, leaving a bit of a beer stain (and scent). Though it really is not that big of a deal, I do compare using a football club notebook with beer stains on it to walking into a business meeting after having been attacked by a hot dog with mustard on it (that has managed to get on your shirt). People tend to look at you curiously, and you know good and well that they are wondering just what the hell you have been up to. (I tend to try and act like nothing unusual has happened on these occasions, which is only semi-effective.)
At any rate, I wish I hadn’t done that.

So, I am quite able to brush off little events like this (and others, such as inadvertently spraying myself in the eyes with an aerosol spray, or swallowing a bit of febreeze, or sneezing at the exact moment that you are about to take a bit of waffles that you have carefully covered in syrup and powdered sugar…that last one took quite a bit of time with the vacuum cleaner) with a little “wow, thank goodness I didn’t hurt myself” kind of relief.

Alas, when it comes to saying things that I didn’t want to, I am not so fortunate. Over the past months, I have been choosing my words carefully. You might say I am a bit more guarded than before. Sure, I slip up from time to time, and usually I feel a bit silly (take that with a grain of salt) but get through the conversation without too much embarrassment. However, the other day I shocked myself by totally saying the wrong thing; not only wrong, but completely rude, senseless, and totally out of order.

I must say, I have not had such a sickening feeling . At home that night, I was unable to concentrate (I actually narrowly avoided yet another incident with febreeze, if you must know), and got only a few minutes (if that much) of very troubled sleep, and that came only after several hours of lying in bed, tossing, turning, really feeling horrible.

Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me. That was an expression that I only have half-heartedly believed in my life. Mostly, I try and convince myself otherwise, but in the end, I still believe that the wrong words can hurt. And it is particularly humiliating when you are the one who said the hurtful words.

Apology accepted, yes, thank goodness. But, like “out of sight, out of mind,” I don’t really practice the action “forgive and forget.”

Forgive? Almost always. Forget? Almost never.

Sigh, sometimes having a good memory and being a sensitive thinker (though obviously not ALL of the time) are not always the greatest traits…

Then again, those traits do enable me to say in three languages:

“I wish I hadn’t said that.”

Keep the faith

It's About Time

Last night I set the clock in my kitchen back by an hour, as you do when preparing for daylight saving. As I was getting into bed, I realized I needed to do the same with my little alarm clock in my bedroom. Typically, my computers and my mobiles would update themselves automatically, or at least that is what is supposed to happen.

Though I was very tired, I read for about half an hour, then switched off the light, only to lie there restlessly with a mind full of all sorts of thoughts. Physically, I was in need of the rest, but my head wouldn't have any part of it; I must have finally dropped off to sleep several hours later.

Fortunately, the sleep I did get was fairly deep, and I opened my eyes this morning feeling somewhat rested. I looked at my alarm clock, noted that the time was way too early, then compared the time with my mobile, which was one hour ahead. I changed the time of the mobile, then lay there with my eyes closed, hoping to perhaps catch another hour or two of kip. In the end, I just sort of dozed until my mobile beeped several times in succession, signaling new emails coming into the mailbox. (ah the joys of receiving automated reports that all trigger off first thing in the morning, every day of the week).

I decided it was time for a coffee, so put on some jeans, walked into the kitchen, and noticed that the wall clock showed a time one hour later than my mobile and my alarm clock. It turns out, apparently, that both my alarm clock and my mobile DO update themselves automatically, though I had failed to recognize this. I had set both of them back an hour further.

Thus, for a brief period this morning, I have been completely unsure of what time it is.

Truth be told, this is really nothing new. Every spring and fall, I always kind of go through this ritual: trying to prepare for daylight saving, then questioning whether I set all the clocks right. At least I tend to remember, though, even if the time is not completely correct.

I recall that more than once during my childhood, our family overlooked daylight saving time, which did result in a few humorous experiences, most of which involved us arriving for church an hour early on Sunday mornings. Because of those experiences, after living on my own, I have made a point to make sure I did not forget. Rarely have I forgotten since, though I was a bit surprised to find that european daylight saving time does not happen at the same as in north america. (There tends to be a 2-3 week gap between the two, which always makes for some interesting skype conversations with my parents, who keep asking what time it is where I am; they try to understand the time difference so as to avoid calling me in the middle of the night)

After getting the time sorted this morning (the clarity came with the first cup of coffee), I turned on the tunes, and heard the first line of a song, "It's about time that I came clean with you."

While I certainly can connect with the song on it's intended level, I also recognize the various ways the opening phrase, particularly the first four words, are used.
For example, if you have been waiting for someone to arrive for a meeting, an appointment, or whatever, and that person is rather tardy, it is normal that someone says, "It's about time!"

Yesterday afternoon, I had the pleasure of watching an Arsenal match on television. The game was excellent, my team victorious (rather convincingly), and in a post match discussion with another fan, I stated, "It is about time!" We have been waiting for them to start playing the type of football that has made them so successful for quite some months.

I guess the expression is used mostly with strong feelings of emotion, at least for me. As one would exasperatedly say "it's about time," when their tardy friend finally arrives, they might also exclaim "it's about time!" when they finally accomplish something that they have been trying unsuccessfully to do, like learning a really complicated piece of music on piano, or being able to conjugate an irregular German verb, or coming to terms with feelings, just to name a few personal experiences.

During their visit last weekend, my aunt and uncle gave me a keepsake of my grandfather: the wrist watch that his congregation gave him back in 1976 when he was elected Bishop, thus moving on to another role within the church. I happened to be at that reception back in 1976, and remember very well how appreciative the members of the church were of my grandfather, who had been the pastor of the church for many years. I even remember when my grandfather received the church's gift, and how touched he was when he read the inscription on the back of the watch.

Though I have never really worn a watch myself, I did receive a Swiss watch from my grandfather when I graduated from college. It was a special watch (one that I had already identified as one that I would like to have), and it did not escape me that my grandfather also found it a nice piece. Though I welcomed the gift, I never got in the habit of wearing a watch all the time (or any time, for that matter).

As I understand it, my grandfather's wife identified his watch from 1976 as something that my grandfather would have wanted me to have, and for that, I feel truly honored.

Sheer coincidence? Perhaps. However, I recognize the significance, and feel the connection.

And that is timeless...

The Joys of the Bahn and Espresso Machines

I almost started to write about the hazards of can opening this week, but, after some consideration and a little doodle, I elected it best to save that story for another time, since the particular event gave me quite a bit to think about during the course of the week.

Last Tuesday morning after a night of rather disturbed sleep, I managed to catch my train, made my connection in Köln, and walked into work feeling a bit tired. Normally, I do not nap on the train, instead choosing to catch up emails or other work related tasks; ones that do not need network connections, etc.

The day was not particularly eventful, but I felt pretty tired through the rest of the day, as well as on the homeward commute. There has been quite of work related stress in the past month of so, but I am certainly not alone in this, so at the very least there is a bit of comfort knowing that my colleagues are working just as much and feeling just as much pressure.

On Wednesday morning, I once again roused myself and drowsily boarded the train. For a few minutes, I just sort of sat in a fog, trying to feel more awake. I noticed that some of the train employees (connductors, bistro staff, etc) did not look so perky, either.

My morning commute involves a ride from Frankfurt to Köln, where I jump over and catch a connecting train that goes into Düsseldorf. If everything goes well, I usually have about 5 minutes to scurry from track 7 to track 3 to board the Düsseldorf-bound train. Since I have been working in Düsseldorf, I have yet to miss this connection, but Wednesday we were delayed by about 4 minutes 30 seconds, and I had a feeling that my luck would be changing. Still, I decided I would give it my best shot, preparing myself at the door of the train as we rolled into Köln, ready for a full blown sprint through the station to the other track. I told myself to try not to knock anyone over, but not with any real conviction.

Well, the train came to a stop, the doors opened, I jumped off the train, ran downstairs into the passenger throughway, then ran upstairs onto the track where my next train would probably be rolling away just as I reached the top of the stairs.

I reached the top of the stairs and almost collided with a group of people who were all standing on the platform. Momentarily confused, I barely had time to move out of the way before several more people (who had just pulled the same trick as me) came rushing onto the platform; all of us desperate to catch the 7.46 to Düsseldorf.

Every person after me had the same expression of confusion and disbelief; there was a different train on the platform, and as we looked about for some answer as to where our train was, I saw a few more (rather slow runners, as it were) huff and puff to the top of the steps, look about with bewilderment, the focus on the sign above the platform, which indicated another train was about to depart.

It is not so unsual for an announcement to come over the PA indicating that a certain train will be departing from a different track. In fact, it happens all the time, just like airplanes departing from different gates at the airport. However, this is all well and good if you were already on the track and heard the announcement. This was not the case for my fellow commuters and me, and as we caught our breath, it started to dawn on all of us that there were a lot of people still on the platform.

Things started to become a little more clear. Something must have happened to the 7.46 train I wanted to take, as I saw too many familiar faces that were already on the platform. After another couple of minutes (during which I had a cigarette and tried to figure out when another train would come by), the platform sign changed, indicating that indeed, the 7.46 train was approximately 10 minutes late.

In short, I had done a whole lot of rushing about for nothing, though I obviously could not have known that ahead of time; the fact that my first train was delayed was in no way related to the tardiness of the second. With a sigh of relief, I realized that order was more or less restored, though I would now be arriving to work a little later than planned.

A few wind sprints in the morning helps to make you awake, so by the time the train arrived (actually 18 minutes delayed), I was pretty well alert. I made my way into the Bistro car, and found an unoccupied table, where I sat down and said "Whew."

Though this next leg of the commute was about 30 minutes, I did not bother to pull out a book. I kind of dreamily looked out the window until I noticed a little commotion at the door from the passenger cabin into the dining area: a little boy was struggling to push the heavy door open. Seconds later, a smaller boy (obviously a little brother) was trying to help, and both of them pushed with all their might, until their mom arrived (mere seconds after that) and helped them enter the bistro.

The bistro is rather small, and all the other tables were occupied, so after a glance around to confirm this, the mother asked if they could join me. I smiled and said of course.

Both boys gave me a polite "hello!" as they squeezed around the table. The mother then grabbed a menu and the three of them began discussing what they wanted for breakfast.

The older boy, who could not have been more than about 7 years old, initially said that he wanted a brotchen, and after some consideration, an apple schorle. The younger brother announced he wanted a croissant, to which the older brother excitedly changed his mind, indicating that that sounded like a better choice, then took it a step further by saying, "a chocolate croissant!"

Naturally, the little brother felt that was in good order, and the mother went over to the counter to get things ordered, leaving the boys and I alone at the table.

They started chatting a bit about the passing countryside with me when I decided to ask why they were not in school. The older boy answered with something I did not quite understand, then went on to proudly state that he was "the only 2nd grader not in school that day."

"And I am the only Kindergartner not in school today!" piped his little brother.

I explained briefly that I was not so fortunate, as I was on my way to work.

Suddenly, the mother returned to the table with the news that there were no croissants (chocolate or otherwise), in fact there was no bread, available. Apparently when the train arrived late in Köln (where they load up the Bistro with food and beverages), none of the breakfast items had made it on to the train. With that, they said goodbye and headed back to their seats.

I noticed that neither of the two boys was particularly disappointed at this news, and they good naturely followed their mother out of the car, leaving me with a smile on my face for no real reason, just a bit of a quite normal event that made for a pleasant journey to Düsseldorf.

For some reason, I smiled at the thought of the encounter a couple more times during the work day, and returned home that evening still with pretty happy thoughts. Random meetings with pleasant people just helps make the world go around. The fact that this happens on the train just makes train travel better.

Later on in the week, I prepared for the arrival of my aunt and uncle (hence the operation "clean up" from the previous weekend) by doing a bit of dusting and quick mopping; my efforts from earlier only needed a bit of touch up. As usual, this involved a few coffees, particularly on Friday morning.

Alas, my espresso machine, my trusty Saeco, has been struggling lately to get coffee into my cup that waits patiently below the spout. Meanwhile, the foaming wand has a habit of leaking water even when the valve is completely closed. Thus, a simple coffee creates a bit of a need to mop up the counter.

So, as I waited for my vistors to arrive, I checked out a few options of espress machines on line, and was a bit surprised that things seem to have changed in the past 5 years. I have always preferred the manual machines. I believe one cannot call themself a barista if they simply press the button that prompts the machine into action. I should have realized this before (since the rest of my life seems to be headed in this direction) but I seem to be part of the dying breed. You know, the type of person that still uses a map instead of a gps system, uses his smart phone as a mobile telephone (without downloading too many apps), and likes to tamp his own coffee into the little thing that you put in your machine to make the espresso.

What I thought would be a quick look on line to identify a replacement machine for the one I have been using these past 5 years, which is basically the same model that I used while I was living in the states, the very one that still sits upstairs above Chris' garage, turned out to be an eyebrow raising "holy crap, can I afford a new machine?" experience.

During the first part of the weekend, after I squeaked another coffee out of my machine early Saturday morning, I visited a local shop to inspect the choices personally; a slight detour from the sight-seeing excursion I was taking my relatives on. I left the store somewhat discouraged, confirming that the machines these days seem to be not only 99% automatic, but expensive as hell.

The weekend itself was absolutely brilliant. It has been some time since I have had visitors, and we enjoyed walking around Frankfurt and the surrounding area Saturday and Sunday.

This morning, I made one last coffee on my dying machine, and decided that after I took my aunt and uncle to the airport, I would spend the rest of the afternoon in hopes of finding a new machine.

I found a store specializing in machines that is not too far away from my neighborhood, and ventured over to take a look around. The saleswoman greeted me, and after I explained my predicament, my wonderful Saeco NON-automatic machine needed to be replaced, she showed me her selection, the cheapest of which cost way more money than I had planned to spend.

Many of the models were quite snazzy, state of the art (and a whole lot of shiny chrome!), but I refuse to pay a month's rent (or two months, in some cases), despite my love of espresso. Then, the woman showed me another machine that was a little closer to my price range. She pointed out some of the features, and did a reasonable job of helping to steer me towards a decision. I thought her comment, "a lot of it depends upon how much espresso you drink," was rather pertinent, as was my response, though I am not sure she understood the word "fuckloads."

In the end, after a few minutes of private consideration (she left me to attend another customer), I motioned that I would go ahead and invest in the new machine. Yes, it was quite a bit more than I had planned to spend, but I now have a nice shiny machine on my counter, that works very very well.

It was kind of the right way for me to go through my let down period this afternoon as my aunt and uncle travlled on to Spain. I made myself a coffee, reflected on the very nice weekend, and did not give too much thought about work.

Maybe I will not be terribly bright eyed and bushy tailed (I have been dying to put that in a blog post) tomorrow morning, but a quick espresso before I head to the train should help get things going. Like a pleasant greeting on a train, an espresso from a brand new machine is just a pretty good thing.

keep the faith

IBTABA and Other Ways to Motivate Yourself to Scrub

Back when I was in college, I frequently found myself delaying projects and papers until the last minute. True, I have always had a bit of a tendency to procrastinate in most everything I do, but I identify the college experience because during this time I developed my methods for psyching up to complete said task. Not surprisingly, the motivation would come from music, but somehow I would always manage to select the appropriate tunes to enable me to get cracking on the paper that was due the following morning at 10am.

Of course, it would always be about 10pm when I sat down to start writing (most of the time it was a paper that was due), and I always scolded myself for once again, waiting until the last minute before starting. That said, I knew full well that I would be having the same stern conversation with myself in another week's time, or whenever the next paper was due.

For me, there is just something about having it come down to the wire. Enter, "In Vivo," by the band Wire. This particular track always seemed to prompt me into gear, and after the obligatory dancing around the rooom (whether it be the dorm room, study, library, or as we will soon find, the kitchen in my flat) for several listens, I could manage to settle down and get the piece written (remember these were the days of hand writing the first draft, then eventually typing the final product) and turned in on time.

I do pause for a moment to fondly remember some very very late nights creatively arguing why authors like Larry McMurtry or William Faulkner had such a dynamic influence on punk music. I am quite fortunate to have had some very accomodating professors who recognized that I was able to establish my voice in my papers, even though I may not have always produced exactly what they were looking for in the conventional matter. Ah, the joys of a liberal arts education...

At any rate, I come back to the song "In Vivo," and how it has helped me crack on this morning on the project that I have coming due. No, it is not a paper that I have to turn in, though I have to smile at the bit of procratination; I was in between making a 14th coffee for myself, dancing on the balcony to said song, waiting for the bathroom cleaner to soak in a bit (for extra cleanliness!) when I thought, "hey, I will just go write in the blog right quick."

Project for this weekend is: give the flat a good cleaning. This had been intended as a weekend project, but Saturday morning after mopping my balcony and getting attacked by some aggressive dust bunnies that had escaped from their warren under my bed, I kind of lost momentum. A bit of Thai take away, a pint of ice cream and a thriller movie with Liam Neeson seemed the logical alternative instead.

Lately, in addition to the novel in German that I am reading, I have been reading Bill Bryson's At Home: A Short History of Private Life. As with all of his works, I am enjoying this one immensely. However, on Friday night as I was reading in bed, I found myself in the chapter where he discusses all of the varieties of life that exist in ones house. "Armies of tiny creatures...crawl across bedsheets at night to gaze upon the vast, delicious, gently heaving mountain of slumbering flesh that is you." was quite a disturbing passage to read while lying in bed, so I did not have the most restful sleep of my life that night. Eventful dreams, though.

Therefore, I did get up early Saturday morning with purpose and motivation to scrub, sweep, and mop. However, after the dust bunny incident mentioned above, I managed to involve myself in other distractions.

That brings me to this morning, where I still have the day (and night) to finish operation clean up. It is not as if the flat is in horrible shape (apart from under the bed), but a simple tidy up will not suffice here, either. "in Vivo," has once again helped to get me to focus (sort of) on the tasks that I need to complete today.

I am certainly making progress, and listening to some rather decent tunes at the same time. I did a filter on Wire on my ipod and quite a few gems popped up in addition to "In Vivo." OK, this also has proved a bit distracting, also. One of my favorite U2 songs (erm, "Wire") has brought a bit more impromptu dancing, which has resulted in a coffee spill and a need to mop the balcony again.

Next up on the playlist, "The Ideal Copy," and the rest of "It's Beginning To and Back Again."

I can keep this up all day.

Happy Birthday, Pablo. Thanks again for letting me borrow your Mac all those nights in school.

keep the faith

Self-Assessment of Language and Life

One of the things I have always been sensitive to (from a rather extensive list!) is communicating in a language that is not my native tongue. I have greatly enjoyed the challenge of learning Spanish and German, even my very limited dabbling in Czech and Hungarian. Though it has been years since I have been inhibited by the fear of making a mistake while speaking German, Spanish, or even English, I am still conscious of how my communication is received. This is particularly significant from a professional standpoint, as the directives, objectives, and results can be measured by the clarity of the original message. I frequently reflect on my communication with my suppliers: the Germans (in German), and with the Hungarians (in English). Was I clear enough? Do they truly understand what needs to be done?

Usually at the start of any meeting or teleconference, especially in Germany, we have to decide which language we will use. Our general rule is that we will speak German so long as all participants are able. Many of my support team are Canadian and English or Scottish, so meetings are often held in English. That said, it is not unusual for us to banter in German as we wait for others to join, then we switch to English when someone (who speaks no German) joins the call. Sometimes we do have to pause and allow a colleague to briefly translate so that everyone has the common understanding.

I have noticed in the past months, as we have gotten involved in some fairly complicated topics (all of repair logistics is complicated, actually), that I was not always capable of communicating at the necessary level of German. Thus, I recognize the need to do a bit of assessment and figure out where I need to improve. After all, the key to getting my supplier to perform at the expected level can be influenced by my proficency.

So long as I have a grasp of the local language, I prefer to use it. Therefore, when I am in Germany, I will obviously speak German, and while in Spain, I will speak Spanish. Sure, there are exceptions. In both countries I will speak English with any native English speaker, since it is more natural.

Before I went to Spain the other week, I asked my nephew which language we would speak in together while I was visiting. He is now at the age where he consciously (for the most part) switches happliy from language to language. I, too, am pretty comfortable switching between Engish and German, but had hoped that I might be able to take advantage of speaking a bit more Spanish with him so I could brush up on my own Spanish level, which has dropped a bit through the past years. My nephew ultimately decided we would speak English, though we did banter a bit in Spanish, especially if we were conversing with others who spoke no English.

During my visit to Valencia, I did feel semi-comfortable in the Spanish language. I noticed that I am still able to follow conversations fairly well, though as usual, I could easily be tripped up or distracted. Strangely enough, my sister tended to translate bits of conversation to me that I had already comprehended, and sometimes did NOT translate just at the moment where I needed the help. For the most part, I was able to voice my opinion as needed, though I also noticed that more often than not, when I struggle for a word that I don't know or remember in Spanish, I plug in a German word instead of English. While I give myself credit for utilizing my German skills, it did not always bring the point across, either.

With every visit to my sister in Spain, there are many opportunities to interact with family and friends of my sister, people that I have known over the years; people that also know my parents, who are regular visitors to Spain, too. One of the interesting things that I realized during this recent visit was how my perception of some of these acquaintances differs from my parents.

My parents speak neither German nor Spanish, so during their visits to Germany or Spain, they are much more taken with our friends or acquaintances that can speak English, particularly as my parents perceive these people to be more open. To some extent, this perception is accurate. Anyone who has learned a second language knows that a certain amount of confidence is required, and with this comes the need to open up. However, this does not necessarily reflect someone's true character. As a result, one might incorrectly assume that someone is much more open simply because of their ability in a foreign language.

True, my parents are not able to put this in perspective as easily since they do not live in a culture foreign from their own. Those of you who have had the pleasure of meeting my parents would probably say that they are quite pleasant and open. Indeed, they are great people, and I am not trying to comment on their perceptions. On the other hand, because I live outside of my native culture and language and travel internationally quite frequently, I get more opportunities to get to know people (and their character type) despite the language they speak.

During the past months, I have been in Budapest regularly, and I have really been struck by how polite people have been. Sure, many of these people work in the service industry, but still, I get the impression that they are really nice people. Some speak very little English, while others are quite skilled.

Likewise, I have had countless experiences throughout Germany where I can get a reasonable feeling about someone's character, whether we are speaking in German or English. More and more often I encounter situations where I know someone only in the German language, only to find out later that they actually communicate only in English with a mutual (English native) friend. In most cases, I was not surprised to find that my English native friend had the same feeling about our mutual German friend as me.

At any rate, I think it has more to do with the character and the communciation.

While in Spain, I visited an old colleague who shared a little language self-assessment grid with me. I have been familiar with this concept for quite some time, but apparently it has become more standardized in recent years. It ranks a language level at A1 for a student who can communicate on a very basic level, then moves to A2, B1, B2, C1, and finally to C2, which would be considered fluent. Thus, there are 6 levels of proficiency.

About 5 years ago when I lived in Spain myself, I achieved a level B2. As I have said, I no longer have that same level, simply because I do not use Spanish every day. However, I try to hold my level to B1, at least with listening, reading, and speaking.

Meanwhile, with German, I would say I have more or less gotten to level B2. The article had a sort of summary page for each level, and one particular point commented that B2 was basically the ability to interact without strain for either party. Depending on which way the wind blows, how well my brain is functioning, how much alcohol is present, and how well Arsenal are doing in the league tables are all factors that impact my ability at this level. I would argue that on many topics, B2 is no problem for me, particularly through verbal communcation. On other topics, maybe I am closer to B1 or perhaps even lower.

Though this grid is designed to measure one's ability at a 2nd language, I decided to assess my level at my native language. Truth be told, there are some areas where I might only be a B2 or lower in English. For example, biomedical engineering, most legal topics, and the rules of cricket are not areas where I would be particularly good at communicating. Maybe those are extreme examples, but I like the exercise of self-assessment. What would happen if I used this assessment grid and compared the language ability to my character?

I consider myself reserved, rather shy, but for the most part a decent sort. I also believe that regardless of the language I am speaking, people would recognize that my character is the same. That is not necessarily for me to decide, bur I still wonder from time to time.

What is also quite clear is that one cannot really measure character or one's own ability to communicate so definitively as with a foreign language, but still, it gives me something to think about.

Anyway, that is what I have been thinking about over the past couple of weeks, and is most certainly what distracted me upon my return from Spain to Frankfurt, when I jumped in the cab and gave directions to my home to the friendly cab driver, in perfect Spanish.

Language assessment of the incident - C2. Character assessment - complete bozo.

Ah well, that is how it goes sometimes.

bryan

Wet Clean Up, Fourth Floor

One afternoon earlier this past week, my sister and I picked up my nephew from school. As we were walking home, we decided that my sister would go to the supermarket, while my nehpew and I would head on home so that he could get started on his homework, as he had a test the following day.

Trips to the store tend to go better with a bit of planning beforehand. My sister and I had done a quick inventory of the storage closet before leaving home, just to make sure we knew exactly what was needed, particularly in the beverage stock. We had already planned to take more milk and soft drinks upstairs, as my sister would replenish while at the store.

So, my nephew and I stopped off at the storage closet in the garage, and I grabbed 6 liters of milk (nicely wrapped in their case) and an 8 pack of Fanta, also wrapped in their plastic.

"C'mon, Uncle B!" said my nephew, who was standing next to the elevator.

"Two seconds," I responded, looking around to see if there was anything else I thought we needed upstairs.

"One, TWO!" exclaimed my little companion, cheekily taking my comment literally.

I elected to grab a six pack of beer, locked the closet, then we got in the elevator, where we started pulling faces at one another in the full length mirror as we rode to the 4th floor.

Both of us were simply standing there, albeit with comical expressions on our faces, when CRASH!

One of the bottles of beer slipped out of the cardboard holder and smashed and splashed onto the floor of the elevator, just as we reached our floor.

The elevator is not particularly big, you might consider it a bit tight with three adults and a growing 9 year old. However, it is the perfect size for a bottle of beer to completely cover the floor (and our shoes, for that matter) with liquid.

"HOLD the elevator. Don't let it go anywhere," I instructed my nephew, as I quickly tried to figure out what to do next. My hands were full of bevvies, I was trying to keep the other beers from falling out of the cardboard holder, and my keys were in my pocket. Nevermind there was beer EVERYWHERE. And broken glass.

I put the drinks down on the floor outside of the apartment, keyed open the door, then noticed I was about to track beer inside the house. Unfortunately, I had to go inside to get a mop, paper towels, or whatever.

"HOLD that elevator," I exclaimed once more, feeling a bit frantic but also quite grateful that my nephew was there to help.

I grabbed a roll of paper towels from the kitchen and raced back into the corridor, where I tried to carefully pick up the broken glass, managing to cut myself in the process.

The elevator is such that when another tenant wants to use the elevator, they press the button and call it to their floor. Er, this is pretty much how elevators work, I know, but I am trying to make the point that there is no way to stop the elevator if you have, let's say, dropped a bottle of beer all over the floor. On previous visits to my sister, I have once or twice seen a stray grocery cart, a stroller, and once even a small child appear as the elevator doors opened, simply because someone had exited the elevator and turned around just in time to see the doors close and the elevator move off to another floor.

Of course, everyone else was getting home from picking up their kids from school, so suddenly everyone was trying to use the elevator. Thus, the elevator was starting to get confused, as it was being called to another floor while my nehpew kept pressing the button at our floor. Twice he had to jump in front of the sensor as the door started to close. Unlike office elevators that spring open when the smallest thing gets detected by the sensor, this elevator proceeds to close with determination, going so far as attempting to crush whatever is in its way (which normally should be nothing). Sure, I have first hand experience with this (and furthermore can actually compare it to times that I have stood in front of other closing elevator doors (in hotels, office buildings, etc), and for that matter, on metros and U-Bahns, too.

At any rate, I was very interested in avoiding having to tell my sister that not only had I made a bit off a mess in the elevator but that her son had also gotten smushed in the door as we tried to clean things up.

"Keep holding!" I yelled as as I left the paper towels soaking up the beer and ran back in the house to get the mop.

Seconds later, I was busy with the mop, listening to more and more frustrated (and lazy) people trying to use the elevator. I contemplated directing my nephew to run downstairs to tell them to simply use the stairs themselves, but figured we would be finished cleaning up very soon.

Well, it turns out, I failed to realize that there was no detergent in the bucket of water, so I basically just swapped the beer around on the floor. The water helped, of course, but I was not particularly pleased with my clean up. But, it would have to do for the time being.

I could still hear people downstairs, so was eager to get inside and close the apartment door. However, the elevator, after only a few minutes of constant button pressing, had managed to jam, and was now stalled at our floor. A clear indicator as to who had been mucking about.

For two anxious minutes, I waited for the elevator to reset itself, but it just stayed there.

My nephew had the idea to simply press a button to another floor, and we both were relieved to see the doors finally close and hear the elevator start moving again.

We went on in the house, tracking beer on the floor. We removed our shoes, and I promptly rinsed off the soles and left them to dry in the bathroom.

"Wow, Uncle B. Did you get beer all over your face and shirt, too?" asked my nephew.

"Nope, that is just me breaking into a tremendous sweat," I retorted. "It was kind of hectic back there. Thanks for your help."

Suddenly, the door buzzed, and my nephew picked up the receiver to find out who was at the door (downstairs, of course).

"It's Mama," said my nephew, handing the phone to me.

For a brief second, I thought that the frustrated tenants had all encountered my sister and commplained that we had hogged the elevator for the better part of 15 minutes, and she wanted to find out just what the hell was going on.

It turns out, she just wanted to send the grocery cart upstairs and run off and do another errand. I asked quickly if she had bought some more paper towels at the store, then explained that we had had a bit of an accident in the elevator.

She sent the groceries on up and I had just finished putting them away when she returned.

"Looks like everything is back in order," she commented. We did do another mop job with a bit of detergent, and brought the event to a close.

Over the next 24 hours, we rode the elevator at least 3 or 4 times. Each time, my nephew and I wrinkled our noses at the whiff of stale beer and giggled. There is nothing like leaving behind a little reminder that you were somewhere.

I elected not to tell my nephew about a similar incident I had had a couple of weeks before when I was sitting by myself in a conference room at a repair site in Budapest, where I quietly opened up a bottle of warm coca-cola, only to have it explode in a fountain of spewing foam all over the floor.

But I will leave that for another story.

Meanwhile, I will hope that my nephew forgets about the incident and remembers more fondly the times playing ping-pong, board games, breaking the slinky, how to say science in German, and having battles with the star wars lego guys (of which pictures and video are available on request).

See you out there. Mops and wet-wipes are optional, but probably a good thing to have close by.

Brushing Off, Fashion Police and Speed Reading

I had a bit of an anxious moment earlier in the week. Because I was recovering from a pretty bad cold, I decided to take a really long hot shower, taking full advantage of the hotel I was staying at. The water was really hot, and things steamed up nicely (which always helps the congestion). Unfortunately, I stayed in the shower far too long, thus making a bit a jungle type humidity all in the convenience of my room overlooking the Danube.

Since I tend to sweat as soon as the temperature drops below 20 degrees celsius, the next few minutes were all about me using all the towels trying to dry myself off, which was a hopeless event. I almost just went out in the hallway just to get a bit of fresh air into the room, but in my state, did not really want to encounter other guests, who I could hear out in the hallway.

Fortunately, I had risen early, so decided just to wait it out, waiting for that moment where I could put on my clothes without them immediately turning soppy.

When this finally happened, I dressed quickly, only to find that one of my buttons on my shirt had cracked at the dry cleaner's (note to self - have them replace the button next time), which was a bit annoying. A couple of minutes later, my shoelace snapped as I tried to tie my shoe. Damn.

Though I was more than annoyed, I did find a way to create a short term solution (do I even look like the kind of guy that would carry a spare set of shoelaces around with me?) and added to my list of to-dos to pick up a couple of extra shoelace packs, and in future, to become one of those guys...

Like all my other recent visits to the repair site in Budapest, it was nonstop action: loads of tough conversations about how the site needs to perform better, a couple of chuckles as we try to make a bunch of stuff happen at once (that is nigh on impossible), countless walks through the airport like security set ups in the repair areas, and then once the visit is through, it is back to the hotel to do all the stuff that did not get done during the day!

Hectic is a word that I use to decribe how things are going with work, lately. That said, it is going, and, as my colleagues have pointed out, we have to keep pushing, but we will get things sorted out. True, things are moving very quickly right now, but that can be a good thing. You just have to keep your head up, and in the event that you get knocked down, you have to pick yourself up very quickly, brush off, and keep going.

Sometimes the pace can be a bit quicker than I can handle, and a few things start to slip. For example, I managed to conclude my visit with the repair site, left the premises, returned to the hotel, then took a little walk around the town before eating dinner.

While I was eating, I happened to glance down and notice that I was still wearing my ESD heel straps. For those of you who have ever worked in a repair shop for computers or other technology, you know what I am referring to; it is basically a little stirrup kind of thing that you wear on your shoe. If you have not seen one of these before, they tend to come in very bright colors. Mine happened to be florescent yellow. Not something that you would be surprised to see in a repair factory, but walking around the streets of Budapest? Nope.

A colleague called me about this time, and I laughed with him at the experience. It was certaily not my intent to try and put racing stripes on my oxfords and sport about town.

Ah well, if that is the worst thing that happens to be me, then life can't be too bad, eh?

And indeed it is not too bad, right now.

I have started reading my first novel in the German language. Up until now, I have managed magazine articles, children's books, and even a couple of junior mystery stories, but never a full blown novel.

I decided to begin with a novel that I am already familiar with. Since I recently finished a series about a Swedish detective, I picked up one of the German translations and am plodding through. Slow going, I am finding it. I am doing this exercise knowing that it will improve me level of German. However, that means I am really trying to read for comprehension and appreciation of the writing style. Not so easy to do, I am finding out.

Because I do read pretty fast in English, the difference in pace is a bit frustrating. Still, I am enjoying the challenge, one slow page at a time.

keep the faith
bryan

Think About the Way, Part 2

One year ago today, right about this time of the morning, I went off to the local portrait studio and got some Lebenslauf photos made. I was still in that shock mode of having just been laid off, but the experience (aside from some negative feedback on my tie) was good, things went well, and it turned out to be a really nice day.

The next week, I picked up the photos, and soon had them posted in the various professional networking sites, etc. Soon after, I went on a shopping excursion to rectify the tie situation, and over the next couple of months, I received one or two comments about the photo. A professor of mine from school actually sent me a quick note indicating that he was always shocked when he looked at my photo, though hopefully not because of the frightening look I have on my face. I think he was trying to say that he simply was not used to seeing me in professional attire. I can easily say the same...

I was quite fortunate to find a new job despite my photo, though I do accept that culture in Germany is such that they expect to have a look at you before deciding if they want to talk to you or not.

At any rate, I took a couple of moments over the past two weeks to think about the progress I have made in the job I started seven months ago. In Februrary, I certainly indicated that I expected things to be challenging, and I would certainly be earning my pay. Very true statements indeed.

The learning curve has been steep, but until last month I really felt that I was progressing nicely. Suddenly, though, a few twists and turns popped up, along with a few pitfalls (roughly the size of the grand canyon) and politics (ooh! fun!) and I found myself stumbling a bit recently.

Two weeks ago, I spent a week with one of my suppliers in Budapest, and by the end of the week, I thought I had the visit had been effective. However, as I stood at the boarding gate in the airport waiting to go back to Germany that Friday afternoon, my boss called me up to tell me that the following week HE wouuld be visiting the site, along with another senior colleague of mine. He suggested that I get travel arranged to return to Budapest the following Monday, which I hastily did just as we all settled on the airplane.

Initially, I was a bit insulted and humbled. How come my boss and colleague arranged to visit my repair site without telling me? Why did they wait so long before indicating their plans?

Throughout last weekend, I thought about the task at hand, and why the situation was such that reinforcements were needed. By the end of the weekend, I did come to terms with the fact that I certainly wanted the support and assistance. I recalled the time several years ago, when I was on the other side of the business, when the customer kept bombarding me with visits, etc, and how stressful the time was then.

Now, on this side of the business, I have a much better understanding of what my customer was thinking at the time. Furthermore, as I am now the customer, I realized that this additional visit to the repair site with additional resources was very much needed.

So, this past Monday evening, I landed in Budapest, got to the hotel, met up with my first colleague, and our boss arrived soon after. We had a chance to talk about the way things were going, and both colleagues pointed out that this was a business interest, and did not have as much to do with a feeling of "no confidence" in my abilities.

Well, the week was tough, extremely challenging, and I learned a lot, not only about how my supplier operates under pressure, but additionally how my boss operates, and not least of all, I learned a lot about myself: how I can improve my approach to the supplier, how I can better handle things internally within the team (knowing full well that I am somewhat isolated from my colleagues in the UK), and how I must simply not get too senstive when the constructive criticism comes through. You see, despite the claims that visit from my boss did not have anything to do with a feeling of concern about my own performance, if you looked closely at the situation, you would realize that indeed, this had something to do with things.

At the first of the week, I was a bit frustrated, since my boss walked into the site, and listed a bunch of concerns, all of which I had personally discussed with the supplier on my visit the previous week. There is nothing worse then feeling like you are ineffective in your position, even if you are doing the right things.

As the week went on, I recognized that the reiteration of the messaage my company needed to deliver to the supplier was extremely necessary. Though the days were long, I took a few minutes each evening to stand outside the hotel lounge and just look out over the Danube, appreciating the scenic view of Budapest as I noted where I could take the appropiate steps in my own professional development. In a way, I am glad that it happened halfway through my first year with the company. I now have a much better understanding on how I need to get to the next level with my suppliers.

Yesterday morning, I boarded an early flight back to Frankfurt, and was glad to be back home. Sure, the workday was busy, but when I finally logged off for the day (er, evening), I took a bit more time to think about how things were going, and are going.

During a brief chat yesterday, I was reminded of my personal interpretations: imagination, visualization, and realization. Throughout the afternoon and evening (and even in my dreams last night) I continued to concentrate on these concepts. Food for thought, if you will.

The quick, somewhat comical example I could use would be:
Imagine that your football club plays the worst game of their lives, then visualize them getting totally blown off the pitch by one of the strongest teams in the game, then realize that I am talking about the Arsenal-Man U result from a couple of weeks back, and there you have it.

This morning, I sit here listening to the Trainspotting soundtrack while I finish this piece, and remember why the film has always been one of my favorites.

And the soundtrack is bloody brilliant, too.

see you out there
bryan

A Bit of a Tribute

So, a few minutes ago, I got a short message from my mother informing me that my grandfather passed away a few hours ago.

Wow, what a sudden surge of emotion: immediate sadness and relief, along with a tint of rejoicing...

Now, my grandfather turned 97 about three weeks ago, so, all things considered, you have to say he had a mighty good run.

My relationship with my grandfather was always a bit interesting. Though he was born in Texas, he never lived there until I was in my late 20s. Thus, he and my grandmother were always a bit special, since I did not see them all that frequently as a child. They lived 10-13 hours a way by car, so when the did visit (or we visited them), it was kind of exciting.

My dad's father had died when I was 9, and my grandmother on my father's side has always been close to me, particularly since she lived in my home town. I was able to see her often, and that relationship has continued over the years, whether it be for Tex-Mex and margaritas in Cantina Laredo, or more recently (aka, the past 5 years) via Skype.

My mother's parents, however, always lived "far away," or at least far in a kid's terms. Thus, any chance I got to seem them was extra special, since the visits were not so frequent. Nana and Daddy Monk were always close to me, but as a child, I was a little too young to truly comprehend the fact that my grandfather was a minister, and subsequently was elected Bishop when I was only 6. That basically meant that he touched a lot of different people in various churches and congregations. When you are a little kid, you just kind of want to be loved by your grandparents, and are not so caught up in what they do for a living, etc.

Daddy Monk and Nana took me abroad for the first time when I was 11 years old. One of the most brilliant trips in my life, that was....

As I grew into adolescence, I began to question the answers I received as I went about my life, questions about personal life, existence, religion, etc.

While I remained close to my grandparents, and always somewhat in awe of both of them, I began to notice that things were not exactly as simple and easy going as I had believed when I was a little boy. As I matured, I was not always so quick to simply accept what my grandparents said or directed. I was not really challenging them, but I trying to put things into perspective.

When I was 13 or 14, they moved to North Carolina. My grandfather had effectively retired, and had built a house near Asheville, North Carolina. My first visit to their house was incredible. Methodist ministers tend to move around a bit, so I had already known my Grandparents in 4 different houses before seeing their "retirement home."

Though I had always had fond memories of their previous homes, I was particularly enthralled with this house in North Carolina. When I was 15, before I started to high school, I got to go over and spend almost a month with them in their house. The idea was to spend time with them, of course, but also to serve as a bit of a summer job for me; I did odd jobs for my grandparents around the house, including painting, renovating furniture, and more or less doing all the heavy lifting that was required. My grandfather was a bit strict, but was quite a skilled workman, so I learned a whole lot. Sure, I got paint all over the garage floor, and mucked up a few other things, but the experience was wonderful.

My grandmother was an artist and a teacher, so her influence, along with my grandfather's special touch, made for a very enlightening growing up period.

As that summer came to a close, I thought happily about my visit with my grandparent's in North Carolina, feeling forever proud that I was the one who completed their little "Bryanhurst" sign that was placed at the foot of their driveway.

As I finished up high school, I started to get the feeling that my grandfather played favorites a bit amongst my cousins and me, and furthermore, was a bit direct in his commmentary. More and more freqnetly, he came across rather opinionated, kind of in a irritating way, if not hurtful. Once or twice I got the feeling that I was not able to measure up to expectation, which was a little disconcerting, as my high school experience was only slightly better than "it really sucked," so I was not really in the mindset to have to deal with additional negative commentary.

During the summer after my first year of college (private Presbyterian school...for which I apparently earned appreciative points from my grandfather), my grandmother died suddenly from a heart attack.

Though I was deeply saddened by this loss, particularly since this grandmother had had great influence with me regarding art, tolerations, and appreciating beauty in its smallest capacities, I was even more touched by the impact that my grandmother's death had on my mother, and my grandfather.

My dad's father died after a lengthy illness when I was young, and my grandmother (my dad's mom) has remained solid and strong ever since. On the other hand, my mom's dad, after mom's mom died, seemed suddenly lost. I was amazed, because he had always been the patriarch of the family, not just because he was a very capable minister, but because his direct approach at being the leader of the family.

The death of his wife seemed to take a lot out of my grandfather, but over the next months we were in regular contact with one another, and I, as an angst-ridden teenager, assumed that he would continue on strongly, after his healing process, much the way my grandmother (my father's mom) had done.

During my second year of college, I went to visit my grandfather during a spring break. We had a good visit, though somehwat subdued. During the visit, I felt a bit distant, mainly because during the past few years we had grown apart. Or perhaps I was simply growing up, still caught between being a child and an adult. As our visit came to a close, I remember thinking to myself, "My grandather is now old man, and I will likely not have too many more opportunities to see him."

Fortunately, I was wrong.

As I continued through college, my grandfather began dating again, and during my senior year, remarried, to a wonderful woman. At the time, I was a bit distraught, since I thought that remarrying only two years after a loved one has died seemed a bit too short. Howeever, I tried to put myself in his shoes; he had always had companionship, so it was only logical that he would seek a new partner. I certainly welcomed my step-grandmother into the family with open arma.

I finished school and entered my 20s with the comfort that I still had living grandparents. Sure, for a few years during my late teens and early 20s, I was a bit distant from most everyone in my family, as I struggled with my own life. However, I continued to recognize the importance of family and cherished the moments I had with my living grandmother on my dad's side, and my grandfather and step-grandmother on my mother's side.

During my 20s, my grandfather had a few health problems which required surgery, which inevitably led to complications, as he was already in his late late 70s. However, each time he was in hospital, I realized that he was so strong that he would get through.

Two years after I finished college, my sister got married, electing to have the wedding ceremony performed by my grandfather in the church where we had grown up.
Because my sister married a Spaniard, who at the time did not speak a great deal of english (and his family even less), a close friend of mine, Pablo, was enlisted to help with language barrier stuff. Pablo is Cuban-American, and obviously fluent in Spanish.


The night of the wedding rehearsal, Pablo picked me up, and we slammed a couple of beers down on the way to the church, and arrived about 15 minutes ("traffic, mom, honest...") late, to the disapproving looks from my grandfather and my mother. However, Pablo was particularly charming, and smoothed thing over (it might be a Catholic thing) very quickly. The rehearsal went swimmingly, and then the wedding party (plus guests) headed off to a restuarant to celebrate before the ceremony the following day.

Chris came to join us late, and Pablo, Chris and I had some late night beers atop the Green Room, where we just enjoyed the scene. I was just glad to have the company that was not immediate family (those of you who have had a sister get married know exactly what I am talking about). We enjoyed the scene, and a couple of times Pablo commented on how sharp my grandfather seemed as he coordinated the wedding party. Indeed, my grandfahter was at this point 80, but easily could have passed for someone 10 years younger. (note to Pablo, my grandfather was most impressed with you as well. imaagine that!)

Well, over these past 17 years, I am proud to say that I had a chance to become better frends with my grandfather. Sure, he has continued to be pretty direct, sending regular emails to me with instructions on how I should be living my life. Furthermore, I always suspected he tended to play favorites, so me, as a non-churchgoing heavy smoker did not necessarily rank as high among the grandkids, especially since two of my cousins have gone through seminary.

However, I put all of that aside. Though my relationship with my grandfather was difficult for a number of years, namely between age 18-33, I never stopped loving him. And I know that he never stopped loving me.

As I entered my 30s, we were able to have a few more open discussions about my viewpoints on life, the state of the world, etc, and to some extent, I think my grandfather respected that.

Once or twice, I have joked with friends that my grandfather started respecting me once he found out that I am an avid reader of the The Economist. Sure, my grandfather had never stopped sending me emails giving me the addresses to the churches in whichever city I was living in at the time. (you try moving 3 times and it adds up). However, my grandfather was just being himself. I learned to respect and accept that. I have always admired him, but yes, he had certain habits that made things difficult, not only for me, but also for other members of my family, particularly my mother.

That said, I always strived to put things in perspective. My grandfather had an incredibly active life, and touched thousands of lives in his personal and professional life. For the better part of 20 years, I wondered when he would be overcome with an illness that prevented him from living his life the ways he wanted.

Fortunately, he never really was subjected to that. Despite several surgeries and cancer treatments, he has been of sound mind and body, until this morning. Since I have lived away from the states, I communicate often with my parents via Skype, and hardly a conversation with my mother has gone by without her commenting on the current state of my grandfather, who, shortly after I left the states, left his home in North Carolina and moved into a more assisted liviing environment in my hometown, close to my parents.

Over the past 5 years, it has been more and more frustrating to receive the reports from my mother on a regular basis. My mom is simply commenting on her own frustrations at watching a parent, a loved one, get older, and become less and less independent.

I have always maintained that things were just taking their natural course, and truth be told, to have a grandparent alive at the age of 97 is quite the milestone. Therefore, it has always been relatively easy for me to sort of try and be diplomatic with my mother, ponting out the obvious, that 97 years is a bloody long time to be alive, and we should be thankful for all the great things that have happened during this time.

However, my mom is a worrier, and so am I. Thus, it is hard to NOT think about the "what if's" that take place in life. I have enough issues of my own, but often I have to stop and think of things from my mother's perspective; she is watching a parent get older and more and more dependent. Truth be told, I am doing the same thing, as I get older myself, and witness my own parents advance in their years.

It is days like today that I realize just how far away I am from my family. I want nothing more than to hug my mother and step-grandmother and oomfort them. I can only do that from afar right now.

But, I commfort myself with the fact that this past Christmas, I was in the states with my parents, and grandparents. We had a time together, where we could visit, laugh together, go to a concert together, catch up on each others lives (with which came the list once again of the churches I should be visiting in Frankfurt) and basically just celebrate the time together. For that I will be forever thankful.

As my sister lives on this side of the world with me, she and I often talk about what we do when we get news like we did today. We obviously cannot just jump in the car and cross town quickly.

How do I comfort my mom, who I want so desperately to hug right now? How do I reach out to the rest of the family who needs lots of thoughts and prayers right now? And how do I come to terms with this myself?

Like I said at the beginning, the emotions are flooding through me right now. The tears flow, and I think of my grandfather as I knew him in my lifetime, as well as before, as well as beyond. I hate laughing and crying at the same time, but it fits right now, because I can only be proud that Daddy Monk was my grandfather. He had a wonderful life, and touched many many lives, including mine.

I phoned him three weeks ago on his birthday; that was the last time we spoke. At the end of our conversation, we finished like all of our previous calls. We smiled, and said...

"Goodbye"

A Quiet Saturday Night

Late last night I sat on my balcony during a rainstorm, listening to a couple of compilations on my ipod. For two hours I just enjoyed the self time, allowing the tunes to help carry my mind wherever it wanted. It was interesting to sort of watch and feel the rain without hearing it, as the music provided the soundtrack. Still, I knew the type of sound the particular rainshower made, which was most comforting.

Sure, I have listened to these comps countless times, but sometimes when you are in a different mindset, the tunes strike you differently. Of course, I had moments of reminisence, recalling the first time I had ever heard certain tracks, or why I decided to put a track on the compilation in the first place. I recalled Funland and shows from 20 years ago (during the Dallas portion of one playlist), and smiled as I remembered getting thrown out of Trees once for taking a nap at the bar; I hadn't thought of that incidet in years.

I felt a bit somber as I listened to a song by COE, thinking of a friend of mine who, though I haven't spoken to him in a year, once mentioned how much he liked the particular song 59 minutes. A couple of weeks ago I found out that he has less than a year to live.

Minutes later, though, I was overwhelmed by the happy thoughts of how perfectly fitting the songs were, twisting and turning as they went through the gamut of emotions. I listened closely to the lyrics, somewhat amazed at how clear the Spanish songs were, despite my not using that language as much as before.

Interesting that I had been about to go to bed, truly tired from the past week, when suddenly, just with a a few tunes, I was wide awake and truly concentrating on things. Yes, I am often pensive, and I regularly reflect on the past, but last night everything was intertwined, mixing ideas for the future with memories of the past, funny times countered with not so pleasant moments. In life's unusual way, my thoughts were filled with absolute clarity, though clarity for me seems to be various shades of grey.

Quite the experience, I must say.

As the second comp came to an end, I finished my drink and went straight to bed, where I slept rarher soundly, and I didn't once have a nightmare about how poorly Arsenal looked yesterday in their opening match of the season. However, I will leave that discussion for another time.

Meanwhile, on with the music...

keep the faith
bryan

soundtrack -
Camouflage/Thrice/JimmyEatWorld
LawrenceArms/Rufio/Daryl/Funland/Old97s
CourseofEmpire/LaLey/Ignite/NewOrder
JoeJackson/Texas/BouncingSouls/BenFolds
Moenia/BigAudioDynamite/TheAlarm
MilesHunt/PhilCollins

Can't Think of a Title for this Post

This morning as I went to wait for the U-Bahn in Düsseldorf, I was rather amazed by the fact that, at 8.15am, though the platform was full of passengers waiting for the next train, it was totally quiet. Library quiet.

Truth be told, I was not feeling particularly chatty myself, but part of me almost burst into song, just to see everyone’s reaction. In the three seconds that I thought of this, the song choices came down to, “If you are happy and you know it clap your hands” or “If I Could Turn Back Time,” by Cher. I am not really sure why these songs popped into my head, but fortunately I held my tongue and just stayed silent with the rest of the people.

Most days, there is a flurry of activity, as you can imagine. Inevitably, there is always someone talking a little too loudly, though I know that it not just a phenomenon of travel on the underground. All the same, it was just a bit strange this morning.

As readers know, I tend to be on the quiet side at the best of the times, so I probably should have just enjoyed this morning’s silence and simply look forward to the next time. However, since I seem to be more and more self-conscious as of late, I actually couldn’t help wondering if perhaps everyone had been busy, chatting noisily and going about their business on the U-Bahn platform until 5 seconds before I got there. You know, kind of like when you walk into a crowded room and suddenly everything goes quiet. The obvious thought (right after you think of two quick songs to sing) is, “Mmmm, was it something I did that made everyone suddenly stop talking?”

Thankfully, the paranoia quickly passed, and a few minutes later I walked into the office to start another exciting day of work.
The past few weeks have been rather interesting (in a holyfuckingshit…I hope that never happens to me kind of way) and, though life tends to be pretty wobbly for me right now, I do still find the humor on a regular basis.

One recent day in the gym, I was doing overhead presses when suddenly my shoulder popped, loud enough to startle a guy who was about 2 meters away at another weight bench. I did not feel any pain, but was spooked enough to sort of take things easy for the rest of the workout. I did try to keep the shoulder loose for the next week, but returned to the gym the following weekend, and managed to throw my back out. I felt it go, and immediately knew that I was fucked.

What did I do? I went upstairs and did 20 minutes on the elliptical trainer, thinking that might loosen my back up.

It did not.

My gym is three U-Bahn stops away from home, but after workouts I frequently get off at the stop just before mine to do a few errands, then walk the rest of the way (a 5 minute walk). In fairness, since I realized that I was going to be sort of laid up for the rest of the weekend, I thought I might peek in the DVD store for a few movies to watch. Well, I got to browsing in the store, and could not make up my mind. Eventually, the pain in my back forced me to leave the store, and by this time I was more noticeably bent over and walking more and more slowly.
Next stop, a little place where I buy wine and coffee. Again, two staples that I need in my life, and again, I eased my way into the shop, made my purchases, then headed for home.

30 minutes later (5 minutes if you are upright and walking without any back pain) I finally got to my doorstep and I really thought it might be nice to get run over by a car. Alas, I simply keyed in, went upstairs, and got myself under the shower, hoping to get a bit of heat on the lower back.

After the shower, I felt well enough to decide to see if I could numb the pain with a few beers, so made my way next door to the pub, and spent the next few hours having a handful of pints. Later, I walked gingerly to get some Thai take-out, then went home and watched Brother Bear. (don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it).

Sunday morning was somewhat excruciating. I was unable to turn over in bed. Hell, I was unable to get out of bed, the pain was intense. With a few yelps and a couple of “oooowww’s,” I eventually got myself into an upright position, and then had to remain standing for the next 4 hours. Once, I tried to sit down, but my back locked up immediately, forcing me to immediately stand back up. I contemplated throwing myself of my balcony, but in the end the muscles loosened up just enough for me to climb in the shower, stand under the hot water for 20 minutes, and ultimately I began to feel a smidge better.

Truth be told, Sunday afternoon I did notice that the back was starting to recover. This has happened to me before, and usually the first 36 hours are total hell, but then things improve pretty quickly from there. Within a week, I would expect to be back to normal.

Except right now things do not seem to be so normal in my life. The Friday night before my back incident, I had been informed that instead of flying to Scotland the following Wednesday, I would need to be in Hungary, from Tuesday until the end of the week.

I obviously did not do any work on the Saturday (Brother Bear and take-out…try it!) and on Sunday I decided to try the alcohol trick to see if that would help improve things.

Turns out I was a bit wrong there, also. I did manage to get fairly drunk, which resulted in me being physically ill (geez, is this guy 22 or what?), which, for those that recall the not so great moment when I had a similar sicko experience right before I flew to Spain for Christmas holidays a couple of years back (“mom, was that a walking abortion we just passed, or does he just look like a dead baby pig?”) meant that I went off to work Monday morning bent over, walking slowly, looking like I had puked my guts out the previous evening.

Not a pretty sight, and several people commented as such when I arrived to Düsseldorf that morning, before heading on to Hungary.

Well, flying for two hours in a crowded airplane, then sitting in a van for three hours to get to southern Hungary is not necessarily the way to get your back back in order. However, I did not really have much choice. Thankfully, the hotel bed was extremely firm, and probably sped up my recovery.

By the end of my week with the supplier, my back was feeling quite a bit better. Thank goodness, because the visit with the supplier had not been a particularly positive one. No need to provide the details, but I returned to Germany not feeling particularly zippy.

I tumbled into bed that Friday evening, but just could not get to sleep, though I tried everything I could think of. I tossed and turned, kept getting up for drinks of water, and so on. Maybe I got a little sleep at some point, but certainly no real quality rest.

That said, fairly early Saturday morning I woke up, knowing it was way too early, but had to get out of bed, because my back was starting to stiffen up. So there I was at 7am on Saturday morning, knowing full well that I would NOT be visiting the gym that day, but was too tired and restless to try and do anything else.

For inspiration, I found myself blazing through the first season of 21 Jump Street, which at least gave me a few hours of something to do. Realizing that perhaps I should try to do something productive. I made a quick run to the supermarket, stocked up on a couple of things, then headed off to do a bit of journal writing. Obviously that experience requires a few beers along the way, so I did manage to spend Saturday afternoon scribbling some thoughts. Some random people came by that I knew, so I closed my book and chatted a bit. A bit later, a different group of folks came by, so I talked to them awhile, before they headed off. Just then, another acquaintance walked up, so he and I had a bit of a chat, and so the next few hours went. I must have sat in 5 or 6 different areas of the beer garden before eventually moving inside to pay my bill.

The hours must have slipped by, because the inside of the pub was rather full for a Saturday night, and I commented as such to a guy I saw. He responded that it was normal that the pub had lots of people inside at 10.30pm, then kind of chuckled as he asked me if I knew how wobbly I was.

“Yep, I am very wobbly right now,” I said, realizing that it was best to go home immediately.

I paid up, went home, almost burned the kitchen down as I made some toast, watched another couple of episodes of 21 Jump Street, then tumbled into bed, somewhat relieved that I felt tired enough to sleep.

Though I managed to sleep for a few hours, it was far from restful, and I woke again early Sunday morning, unable to sleep any longer.

Sunday was not too different from Saturday, except without much pub time. As a bit of an anti-bonus, I experienced anxiety that normally comes on Sunday evening as I think about the coming work week for the whole day. That, combined with the fact that I washed a load of clothes without putting any detergent in with the load (which I realized after I had hung the wet clothes on the drying rack) made it a day worth forgetting.

Monday morning started brightly, as I was on the U-Bahn platform at 7.30, on time, and ready for work. Five seconds later, I was overcome with a sudden attack of gastroenteritis, and elected quickly to work from home that day, in the comfort and privacy of my flat. I cancelled some dinner plans I had made with a former colleague in Düsseldorf, believing it best to hold off until a time when my stomach would better cooperate, and managed to have a semi-productive work day.

I went to bed early that night, which just meant that I had even more hours to toss and turn. On the positive side, I got up even earlier, and took an earlier train to Düsseldorf, which enabled me to get a couple more things done in the office.

And I will spare the typing time - the rest of the week has been pretty much the same. Not a lot of sleep, not a lot of eating (however I did manage to lose about 4 kilo that I wanted to), and a few 21 Jump Street episodes just for filler.

I started writing this piece one day ago, noting an incident involving public transportation. To bring an end to this week’s update, I will note another incident from public transportation, one from my commute home this evening. As we boarded the train this evening, the conductor announced that the electronic reservation system had failed, so none of the seats in the cars of the train were marked as reserved. This does happen from time to time, and it is quite entertaining, because everyone has to fumble about with their tickets and prove that they are sitting where they are supposed to. People do not handle this very quietly, so as I finish up, I smile, thinking of what would happen if the people I am riding home with now got to hang out with the people who were waiting quietly for the U-Bahn yesterday.

Now that would be something, huh?

See you out there

bryan

Happy When it Rains

Whether it be a just a little sprinkle, a sudden downpour, a full-blown thunderstorm with hail, or whatever, I have always loved the rain.

I am sure I am not alone in my appreciation of the rain, there is just something about how it soothes. It looks nice, it can sound cool, and depending on where you happen to be, it can smell and feel great. In fact, rain is just one of my favorite things. (I wonder how many people start humming the Julie Andrew's song after reading that last sentence.)

True, I associate many fond memories from my lifetime with rain. There is nothing better than grabbing a book and a cup of hot chocolate (or tea, or coffee) and sitting safely inside while outside, it storms for the whole day.

I have been at a few outdoor concerts where, after a few hours in the heat, we welcomed a sudden downpour that drenched all of us, but, rejuvinated by the freshness, we continued to pogo and bop around to the music, caring little for our disheveled appearances. Great times, those are.

Of course, there are moments when I have found the rain not to be so pleasant, at least not at the precise moment. I managed to get caught out in a storm several years ago that soaked me to the skin, thus enabling me win a a wet t-shirt contest, which would have been all well and good had I not been on my way to give a business presentation. I never learned from that experience, and to this day still do not carry an umbrella, preferring to just take things as they come. As a result, I have several trophies at home commemorating my ability to achieve a top 5 finish in said contests.

Driving in the rain is not always that fun, either. I once drove through the state of Arkansas during a tremendous rain. There was no visibility, and I probably should have pulled over to the side of the road, as it simply was not safe to drive. However, considering where I was, I did not think it would be any safer to stop, so pressed on for the next six hours, finally collapsing in exhaustion in a cheap motel.

Still, despite those times, particularly afterwards, I found pleasure in those experiences, as well as a bit of humor.

This past week I had the chance to appreciate the rain on several occasions. I found myself sitting outside last Sunday afternoon, doing a bit of writing. The album of choice was something from Bad Religion, and for 36.7 minutes (their albums tend to be on the short side) I sat outside by myself at a table with a large umbrella. From there, I was able to enjoy the gentle rain without getting wet, and really found the experience to be quite peaceful.

A few days later, while at work, a friend and I looked outside to see the sudden rainstorm. We went downstairs to get a closer look, and were momentarily blown about as the wind blew the rain this way and that. As I looked forward to the commute home on the train, thinking I would sit and look out the window at the rain, my colleague began to swear. For a minute, I was a bit surprised at his reaction, until I rememebered that he had come to work on his motorcycle that day; the drive home for him would fall into the "less than pleasant" category that I just described above.

By the end of the week, the rain was gone (or so it seemed), and the weekend started with sunny skies, lots of sun, and summertime temperatures. I spent my Saturday being a slug, never leaving the flat except for a quick trip to the supermarket. I spent the evening cooking myself a decent dinner, watched the 3rd place match of the Women's World Cup, then went to bed rather early.

Recently (er, over the past several months) I do not seem to be sleeping that well, sometimes due to a restless night, other times simply because there is too much on the brain, still other times because the dreams turn into nightmares. Once or twice I have wondered, is it because I am eating so much chicken? I then immediately remember that it likely has more to do with me finding my place, and my peace, in a couple of different cultures.

During a train ride home from work earlier in the week, perhaps even as my colleague rode his motorcycle home in the wet, I found myself in the train's snack bar (board bistro they call it) reading by myself. Three other passengers started up a conversation with each other; none of them had anything to read. I could not help but overhear, and discovered that one young passenger in his 20s was a professional poker player. He came from the Netherlands, and was on his way to the airport, where he would be flying to Colombia. A German passenger remarked that his wife was from Brazil, and they travelled at least once a year to South America, also. Suddenly, the third guy announced that he was from Chile, though he had been raised in Germany.

For the most part, they spoke in German, discussing the culture, the language, etc. Though I was engrossed in my book, and we were somewhat in close quarters, I found it hard not to follow the conversation. Once or twice they had to switch briefly into English, as the Dutch guy could not always explain everything in German. This happens with me from time to time (ok, sometimes quite regularly), too.

At any rate, the trio had just started discussing their annoyance with Americans, which was unfortunate, since I was just about to put my book down and join the conversation. I immediately bristled and returned to reading my book, deciding it best to stay out of the chat. After all, I understood their points, and it is not my place to challenge their opinions. After all, they are simply opinions.

A few minutes later, an Asian man entered the car and ordered something to eat. He spoke English as he ordered, and he ended up joining the conversation with the others; they all switched to English.

We soon reached the next stop, and the Dutchman departed the train, as did the Asian. The other two men started gathering their things, since our stop (they were travelling to Frankfurt, too) would be reached in another few minutes. They started moving towards the exit, leaving me alone in the car.

From the other end of the train car, a man in boots and a hat made his way towards the counter to order a beer. He and I exchanged greetings, as we had seen one another several times over the past couple of weeks. We introduced ourselves and established why we both are regular train travellers on the same train.

After a couple of minutes chat, he, like many others in this country, asked if I wanted to continue the conversation in English. I responded, no, of course not, as we were in Germany. (note - there are only a couple of exceptions where I do not speak German with Germans, and that is another story altogether...)

So, we continued on in German. He then asked me where I came from. I told him, then asked him the same question.

"I come from North Dakota," he smiled.

Well, we switched to English at that point, and we quickly exhanged our stories as to how we both live far away from where we come from.

The brief experience made up for the humbling experience from minutes earlier.

So, last night, as I once again found myself a bit too restless, I got up for a glass of water from the kitchen. I stood in the darkness, in the quiet, then realized that it was raining gently. I opened the balcony door, and stood for a few minutes just enjoying the sound of the rain.

The rain has continued here throughout the morning, but I sit here in peace. You see, rain is simply one of my favorite things.

keep the faith
bryan