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...
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
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
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
Sunday, October 16, 2011
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
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
Saturday, October 08, 2011
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
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
Saturday, October 01, 2011
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.
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.
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