Totaled Jeans and Totally Advent

 "Riiiiippppp."

"Well, there goes the crotch of my jeans," I thought to myself this week as I knelt to pick something up in my living room.  

As I was working from home that morning and had no plans or need to leave the house, I continued to wear the jeans.  I figured I would just throw them out that night when I changed clothes.  It wasn't as if it was a total surprise.  After all, the button fly was prone to popping open at very inconvenient times, allowing moose to stampede out of my jeans, or a glimpse of Santa riding on his sleigh, or whatever other boxers I happened to have on during the given day. 

The following afternoon, I encountered almost the EXACT experience again.  Another "riiippp," and suddenly, I had effectively totaled two pairs of jeans inside of a week. 

The positive from this is that I now have more room in my closet, and reinforcements (brand spanking new jeans) are soon to be filling the space.  Still, I get a little sentimental when it is time to let go of a friendly garment that I have worn for many years.  Twice. 

In other exciting news, I finally got my first hint of getting into the spirit of the season.  A week ago Saturday, I woke up to find snow on the ground, which melted over the course of the afternoon, but still served as a nice little glimpse of winter.  Frankfurt tends to be really cold in November and early December, then turns mild (relatively) until mid January, where it stays ridiculously cold until at least the beginning of March. 

Keeping up with recent tradition, my father sent me a digital Advent Calendar, and I am enjoying this one just as much as previous years.  The theme this year is set in London, and each day you get a little interactive scene; sometimes it is a game, or an opportunity to decorate a tree, or simply a peaceful Christmas scene.  Besides the daily surprise, there are little games and various other activities to keep you entertained in the days leading to Christmas.  

As much as I enjoy the calendar itself, I actually like enjoying that my father enjoys it so much.  Likewise, my sister is pretty enthused.  Over the past week, we have all compared notes on the little things that we have found in the setting, the surprises, and our favorite parts.  

Because this year's calendar is set in London, Big Ben chimes in accordance with the computer clock.  Hands down, it is my favorite thing, so far.  

The Advent Calendar has a lot of meaning in our family.  My grandmother (my mother's mother) was very creative and artistic.  When my sister was very small, Nana made a calendar from felt.  Each day in December had a little pocket containing an ornament.  Each day, you put one of the ornaments on the felt Christmas tree, up until the 24th, which always contains the star.  

We all have our childhood memories of Christmastime, and the family Advent calendar (along with the Advent wreath) was close to top of the list.  Each day, my sister and I would take turns putting up an ornament.  Over the years, we had to take turns on who went first, so as to ensure that one of got to put the star up at least once every two years. 

My sister, many years later, had the good sense to make a new felt Advent calendar not only for herself and family, but also for me.  So, these past 20 years, we have three of the Advent calendars on the go. In various parts of the world. 

This year, it is the only decoration I have up in the flat, but I am making the most of it.  And, just like I did as a child, immediately upon waking up in the morning, on the way to the kitchen to turn on the espresso machine, I stop and put up another ornament.  And love it. 

The other highlight of the week involves me finally learning the difference between eggnog and Eierlikör.  

As I child, I was first introduced to eggnog that came from the dairy section of the grocery store.  It was basically milk and eggs and sugar.  Call it innocence, but for years I was not aware that there was a version which contained alcohol.  

One time at a Christmas party at someone's house, I was pleased to find that they had homemade eggnog.  Of course, this was back before I knew exactly what the ingredients were; I just knew it tasted good and it was special for Christmas. 

At the party, I overlooked the fact that there were two separate punch bowls of eggnog.  Logic (for a seven year old) at the time told me to go to the closest punch bowl for a refill.  That was, until an adult pointed out that I was refilling my cup with the "souped" up version.  

My parents quickly intervened and made it clear which bowl I could use, but by the way, slow down on the consumption of sweet beverage.  Christmas, children, and sugar, eh?

A couple of years later, I discovered a recipe for a single eggnog serving in a children's cookbook, and I proceed to proudly use my initiative to whip up a serving or two.  My friend Jeff was visiting one time, and decided that eggnog was not for him, based on the ingredients he saw me mixing. 

Up until that point, it had never occurred to me that eggnog ingredients might put someone off.  I recognize that not everyone has a taste for it, but I think it is just the idea of a raw egg going in a drink creates a few questions.  My thought at the time was simple.  If Rocky can drink raw eggs, then I can too.  

Ah, the 70s, Christmas, children, and sugar, eh?

So, this past Wednesday, just a mere 12 hours after I had ruined my second pair of jeans, I met up with the usual crowd at the pub.  This was our final get together with everyone before the holidays.  Two of the girls brought homemade Eierlikör, which is rather popular in Germany at Christmas.  

Although I am not a huge fan of shots, especially sweet liquor, I certainly wanted to sample the offering.  The girls found some little shot cups made of cookie, but lined with chocolate on the inside, so as to make for an edible shot experience. 

Eierlikör to me tastes almost exactly like I remember eggnog, obviously with alcohol (rum) in it.  

But, as we discussed the differences between the two (while standing outside the establishment sneaking our drinks, as the pub frowns on one bringing in their own spirits for consumption....at least until we made the landlord and the waitress try a sample or three, themselves) I discovered that while eggnog contains egg yolk, Eierlikör does not.  

Had no one said anything about the difference, I never would have known.  That said, it tasted great to me, and we all enjoyed several rounds during the evening. 

It made for a very nice evening, very festive, and a nice way for me to wrap things up in Bornheim for a couple of weeks.  

True, my tongue and head were not functioning so well the next morning, but hey, Christmas, children, and sugar, eh?  And beer and shots.  

That night at the pub, I looked across at the school, and noticed that this year, due to the high cost of utilities, the school is not lighting a window each night for Advent.  One of my fond Bornheim Christmas memories is seeing the 24 windows on the front of the school converted into an Advent calendar.  But, in the interest of conserving energy, I do welcome the decision. 

So that is me wrapping things up before I get out of town for a few weeks.  The rules change daily, and with children (no matter what age) and corona, all plans are subject to change.  

Fingers crossed that I will not be too heavily impacted, but I will take things as they come. 

see you out there

Bryan

Learning and Being Thankful

I learned a few things this week, which dovetailed nicely with the opportunity to be thankful, not only for all the normal things that I tend to reflect on during Thanksgiving week, but these tidbits, as well. 

First, I have been proudly recycling for many years, and my system might be considered by some to be a little bachelorly.  For example, rather than take the empty olive oil bottles down a flight of stairs to the receptacle just in front of my house door, I tend to collect them in groups of as many empties that will fit on the little edge between my kitchen sink and the wall.  That amounts to about 10 bottles, from recent experience.

Plastic recycling is a little more organized; I simply fill up a small plastic trash sack until it is overflowing.  Then, I take it down to the containers outside in our back garden.  The Müllmann generally comes by once or twice per week to make the collection, but sometimes the bins are overflowing, right about the time that I need to take my stuff downstairs.  No real problem for me, but should any visitor walk in my kitchen, they might notice a big stuffed bag of empty milk cartons.  

When it comes to paper recycling, the guys tend to pick that up less frequently, which is a bit irritating, as our paper bins fill up quite a bit faster, thanks to the constant ordering from the likes of Amazon and other online retailers.  During a conversation at the pub this past Wednesday, someone mentioned the fact that pizza boxes are NOT to be recycled.  At least, not used pizza boxes.  

I felt really put in my place, even though the girl did not direct the statement towards me.  I have been on a pizza kick all year, and have been dutifully (and incorrectly) putting my empty pizza box in the cardboard bin each week.    

For a couple of minutes, I felt like a dolt. But, moments later, I realized that it is better to learn late than never, so I have refined my process and the pizza boxes will now go in the regular trash.  As an aside, I tend to fill up my normal trash sack, then set it out on my balcony for a day or two before running it down to the trash bin outside the house.  Shoving pizza boxes into a trash sack might force me to rethink my normal trash strategy, as the boxes take up  a lot more space (than my normal trash).  

Oh well. 

Coincidentally, just hours before learning that I might be on the cardboard recycling police wanted list, I had an opportunity to learn how my laptop works.  We were finishing up a presentation for a customer, which meant that I spent several hours on some video calls with various colleagues, including a woman from the marketing department.  She called me right after a meeting, so just she and I were speaking when she commented that my camera was looking a little dirty, and she suggested that I perhaps wipe the lens of the camera.  Well, I did that with her right on the call, and immediately discovered that...I had disappeared.  

It was kind of an unsettling moment, aka. "now you see me, now you don't," and I did not have the slightest idea what happened.  I assumed that my laptop camera had picked that given moment to stop functioning; I fiddled with the settings for a couple of minutes which did not improve anything. 

Because I use a virtual background, the disappearing act was rather startling.  The girl I was talking to sent me a screen shot, which clearly showed some smudges, but no Bryan.  

After a quick reboot of my laptop, I was still stuck.  I was sitting there thinking, "Gee, I am going to have to go buy an external webcam," which I did not find pleasing.  All of my calls are done with video, so this was a problem.  I cannot be without a camera.  

I grabbed a cloth and wiped the camera again, feeling kind of helpless, knowing that "wiping" the camera is unlikely to make it function again.  

The penny dropped when I discovered a little sliding mechanism.  Said mechanism slides to the left and blocks the camera.  Slide it to the right, and presto, the camera is on again. 

My private laptop is made by the same manufacturer, and does not have such a mechanism.  What threw me, though, is that the little camera light stays on the whole time, even when the camera is blocked.  

I started an ad hoc meeting with myself, turned on the video, and was relieved to see myself.  Again. 

Just goes to show you that you can work 20 years in repair services, consider yourself relatively capable when it comes to knowing how stuff works, then find that you still can always learn something new.  

Thanks. 

I always get a bit sentimental during Thanksgiving week.  Despite it being one of my favorite holidays, I do not really celebrate it in Germany, other than to speak with family and think extra thoughts of family and friends.  And yes, a certain amount of reflecting on all the things that I am thankful for.  

Thanksgiving Eve sparks fond memories, and this year, as I have just described, I had new reason to be particularly thankful, having just learned how to properly handle pizza boxes and laptop cameras. 

Thus, I woke up Thursday morning feeling particularly creative.  And somehow, against my better judgement, I decided I would fry my chicken flautas instead of baking them, as I have been doing for several years. 

What a mistake that turned out to be. 

I forgot how quickly out of control a frying pan full of oil can get.  I also forgot that you have to really roll the tortillas tightly to keep them from coming apart in the pan.  

For about 15 minutes Thursday evening, it was complete mayhem in my kitchen, as I had oil splattering everywhere, loose pieces of chicken bobbing around in the pan, half-rolled tortillas turning crisp on one side, and not crisp enough on the other.  

And I still had half the batch to go.  

I managed to avoid burning myself, and that was probably the highlight of the evening.  In fairness, the flautas did taste okay, not least of all because guacamole and fresh made salsa solve a lot of the world's problems, but I could not bring myself to do the clean up that evening.  I would leave that until Friday, and would also make a special note that baked flautas are not only easier and less messy, they are more healthy.  

I will leave the fried flautas eating experience for my next visit to Uncle Julio's or wherever, somewhere where they know what they are doing.  

And that itself is reason enough to be thankful, especially since I now know what to do with my pizza box, too. 

see you out there

Bryan

Not Just Another Tagebuch or Kalendar

 Yesterday while I was in the Apotheke, the nice lady helping me offered me a calendar, which I gladly accepted.  A couple of weeks ago, a friend gave me a calendar that a mutual friend had made; his art is perhaps not for everyone, but hey, a calendar is a calendar. 

Part of my autumn (or end of year) routine is to pick up a Chefkalendar from my Post Office.  It is an A5 sized book tailored for the business day.  Office Supply shops are kind of scarce in my neighborhood, and the one shop that I am familiar with seems to have rather strange hours.  I think maybe my first couple of years in Germany, I was buying my business calendar at his shop, but one day while running errands,  I found his shop closed, and, somewhat disappointed, headed on to the PO to mail a letter (and complete my errands.)  While standing in line, I discovered that the PO had office calendars in a little display, and I quickly decided that it was perfect for me. 

I really got started on the business calendar kick right after college.  I was visiting Spence, and noticed his day calendar.  On the way home from the visit,  I stopped in the SMU Bookstore and picked up the exact same one.  I repeated this routine until I moved abroad. 

Sure, I also enjoy a wall calendar, and every year look forward to what scenes or photos I will get to look at on the calendar hanging on the wall in my hallway.  This year it was international libraries, last year it was baby goats, the year before that, scenes of Ireland, and so on.  

But, it is the day planner that I keep open on the desk and use most frequently.  I record so much information there: birthdays, trips to the store, cash flow, when Arsenal play, and generally scribble out to-do lists.  For example, today's entry has me updating this blog post, submitting my meter readings to the utility company for the year end, and the time of this afternoon's match.  And, as written two seconds ago, make a batch of tortilla soup. 

All of these day calendars are still with me from years past, and from time to time I do go back and look at what might have happened on a a given day or in a certain year.  

I have noticed that sometimes over the past years, I have used the day calendar in lieu of a journal.  That being said, I have another collection of journals, going back decades.  And these are almost more important to me than the calendars.  

When my junior high English teachers encouraged us to write in our journals, a lot of my fellow students rolled their eyes and considered it just more homework.  I developed an appreciation for it, and while I did not keep a steady journal during high school, it did kind of kick in during university, and has continued ever since.

Sometimes I wrote my journals in notebooks displaying the college logo, other times just used legal pads, and eventually found a hardcover notebook specifically designed for journal writing.  I must have filled at least 5 of those books up while spending quiet evenings at the Old Monk.  

Once you get in the habit, it is pretty easy to maintain a journal.  Being a fan of office supply shops, I regularly perused the selection of journals I could use.  Additionally, I really got into writing instruments, and thanks to my sister, became a huge fan of Lamy pens.  It was all about ink and paper for me. 

Moving to Europe was the kickoff of this Blog; it was a request from Pablo, for which I am still grateful.  But, I was not about to leave the pen and paper behind.  In fact, every post from 2006 was hand written before being typed into the laptop.  I actually would edit the hand written stuff before it was posted.  

Once I got to Germany, I realized that I would get more posts (stories of the life of Bryan) done if I simply sat at the laptop.  Indeed, this has saved me some time, and I found that I could still make some time for writing in my journal.  As some of you might have gathered, the blog posts tend to be somewhat personal, but truth be told, despite the fact that I do write for myself, I am aware that there is an audience, however small.  With the journals, the entries are significantly more personal.  

Journal writing in a pub or a cafe is just a nice way to pass the time.  Sadly, writing in public seems to happen less and less for me, but I would not rule it out again some time in the future.  In fact, my whole journal writing process has kind of changed over the years.  Even 10 years ago, I was still having really expensive paper product sent to me from the US.  Seriously, I was paying 100 Euro just to import 100 Euro worth of heavyweight paper.  After a while, it got ridiculous.  About this time, I also came to the conclusion that no matter how great a writing instrument I was using, my penmanship was going crap.  

There was a wonderfully pleasant afternoon maybe 10 years ago when I was sitting by myself at a table outside of my local.  As I have mentioned, one tends to see a great deal of the world from the quiet Bornheim corner.  This particular afternoon was no exception; I was lucky to have started early, managing a good couple of hours of writing before half the world walked by and stopped to talk. 

At one point, I was chatting with a friend, then another couple who knew my friend came up.  The guy glanced at the open notebook on the table, and said, "Wow, that is the coolest handwriting I have ever seen.  Who wrote that?"

This caused the others to admire the penmanship, and all quickly realized who the author was, as I was the only sitting there with a pen in my hand.  

Alas, that was a while ago.  These days, there are times when I cannot even read my own handwriting, and start to wonder if I am consuming enough water or lacking sodium, or who knows. 

I kept lugging my journal with me wherever I went, but as my backpack was filled with a laptop, calendar, and a journal, I started exploring options for downsizing.  Eventually, I moved away from a A4 sized journal, and have conveniently found the smaller A5 (yep, just like my day calendar) journal, which I been using for the past 5 or 6 years.  

At my office (which is my kitchen table), my journal is placed to the right of my laptop, and my calendar to the left.  Both are black, and from the outside cover, you notice no difference.  

Inside, of course, is a completely different story.  

And that is so much why I like keeping the journal.  It tells the story.  Some of the entries are short and sweet, almost more of a diary than anything else.  Other days, I write page after page.  

Today, I am on the last page of my journal.  Fortunately, I had the good sense to stock up on blank journals, so tomorrow I can begin a new book.  The one that I am finishing today has a first entry from Jan 1, 2020.  That amounts to 192 pages of action packed entries over the past 23 months.  

Here's to starting a fresh journal (which is like sleeping on freshly changed sheets), a tasty tortilla soup, and an Arsenal result. 

see you out there

Bryan

Being a Derry Girl in Bornheim

In 1991, I returned from a school trip to Ireland and a couple of days later, wished my sister "buen viaje" as she headed off to Spain.  At the time, I had no idea that her move would reward me with a close friend.  In fairness, neither did my sister, since she had not yet met her roommate, an Irish girl who relocated to Valencia about the same time. 

Irish culture continued to influence me heavily through my final semesters in college.  I kept up with my sister regularly, and obviously heard stories about what she and her roommate were doing in Spain; going to clubs, going to shows, doing stuff that girls in their early 20s tend to do. 

It would be another four years before I would finally get to meet Stephanie.  Meanwhile, I graduated college, my sister got engaged, my friend Pablo moved to Valencia (and became Stephanie's roommate, no less), and eventually Stephanie married a Spaniard, and my sister married her fiancé.  Finally, in 1995, I went across to Valencia to see my sister, and meet Stephanie and her husband. 

Meeting friends of your siblings is fairly routine, especially if you are pretty close, as I am with my sister. But, as much as I enjoyed the evening out with Stephanie and her husband, along with my sister and brother-in-law, I never expected what happened a year later. 

Late 1996, I moved to Massachusetts, kind of spontaneously.  Independent of my decision, Stephanie and her husband also moved to the Boston area, for Rafa's work at an accounting firm.  For the next two years, we all hung out frequently.  One of the best times of my life, as experiences go.  What was particularly rewarding is that Stephanie, Rafa,  and I became very close friends, but the fascinating point to me was that Stephanie was also a very close friend of my sister's.  But, our friendships remained somewhat independent of one another, completely unconditional.  

When I returned to Texas from Boston, Stephanie and Rafa returned to Europe, spending some time in Portugal and southern Spain before eventually settling in Valencia again. 

And my friendship with both of them continues, for which I am very grateful.  

Despite the odd conversation, text messages or emails, we did lose a little contact during the past year, up until a few months ago.  One day, I had a wonderfully long overdue telephone call with Stephanie, and we talked for several hours.  It was brilliant.  

At one point, we traded suggestions on literature, films, or tv series that we were enjoying.  Steph, who is just a couple of years older than me, mentioned a funny show that she had seen, called "Derry Girls."

She went on to say that she could connect with the show, even though the characters (high school aged girls growing up in the late 90s) were from the generation after ours.  

I decided to check the show out, and immediately understood what she meant.  I could not stop laughing; I found the complete series simply fantastic. 

The show is set in Northern Ireland and is about the experiences of the characters at a girls high school.  An English male cousin of one of the girls also attends the school, for strategic reasons (related to the plot), and this obviously has great comedic effect.  Each of the girls has her own character, one is overly sarcastic, one is the wild child, another is very eccentric.  Most everyone can personally relate to similar experiences with friends, whether from school or wherever.  

In one of the most heart warming moments of the series, the male cousin has to return to England.  Despite the constant hard times he gets from everyone, especially from the girls, they are all devastated by his departure.  In a charming scene, the girls are standing glumly in a crowd of people gathered to hear Bill Clinton speak, when suddenly the guy returns, proudly exclaiming, "I belong here.  I am staying.  I am a Derry Girl!" 

I was reminded of what it is like to be a Derry Girl this past week when I met up with some friends at the pub as part of the Wednesday routine.  A group of mainly women have met up together each week for the past several years.  I have always greeted them while at the pub, but this summer started to join them at their table.  Several of them are former colleagues, but they (in much the same way of the OM Happy Hours from years ago) plan one evening a week to gather for a little break from the hustle and bustle of life, spouses, kids, etc.  

Two of the girls I have known for several years, but in the past months have gotten to know the rest of the group.  Each one brings a certain character and it has really turned into a pleasant event.  One is overly sarcastic, one if always finding humor in something and just loves to laugh, one is a bit more quiet and thoughtful; the combination just works, and I look forward to my Wednesday evenings with them.  The topics of conversation vary from venting about work, humorous incidents wherever they happen, current events, and of course, a bit of gossip.  

In other words, just normal conversation.  

There is always plenty of banter, and frequently, I get the brunt of any frustrations one of the girls might relate about my gender.  

At one point this past Wednesday, one of the girls related an incident involving her husband, to which I responded, "Männer" as I rolled my eyes.  

Guys can be real jerks, as we know, but all the girls appreciated my comment, as it fit perfectly into the conversation. 

I, for one, always enjoy a bit of perspective, and thankfully get this opportunity each week. 

In turn, the girls are equally glad that I am present; they have pretty much accepted me as one of the group.  In fact, a couple of weeks ago, I had to work a little later than normal, and suddenly I received a text message, "Where are you?"  

About that time, I realized that I am one of the Bornheim Mädels, effectively a Derry Girl in my neighborhood. 

Our antics may not be quite ready for a sitcom of its own, but we have our moments. 

See you out there

Bryan

Still Looking for a Birthday Buddy

 A few years ago, I was present at the exact moment two people discovered that they shared the same birthday.  It was an interesting moment to witness, and I realized just how seldom this kind of thing happens.  I felt a bit envious; where was my birthday buddy, and how come I had not yet met them?

I never really referred to people as "buddy," not with any great frequency, anyway.  I tended to say "dude" or "man" more in high school.  By the time I was in college, I was hearing "man" and "dude" so much that I gradually stopped using the terms.  Right about that time, I stopped saying "what's up?" as a greeting, pretty much for the same reasons.  

The definition of the term buddy can be a little confusing.  One time at a college party, I stepped around the corner of the house to take care of business.  Pretty much all the guys did the same thing, as we left the one bathroom in the house for all the female guests.  As typically happens as the evening progresses and the kegs keep flowing, one found oneself spending more and more time outside in the side yard. 

"Hey, buddy, would you mind not pissing on my house?"  asked a voice from the darkness.  

I was not really in a position to answer with any type of dignity, but I finished up and thought, "I do not think that guy thinks I am his buddy."

A couple of years later, the store manager where I worked constantly addressed me as buddy.  "Hey buddy, can you restock the telephone cables?" or "Hey buddy, make the bank drop tonight after we close." 

Fast forward almost 30 years, and I find myself using the term a little more frequently, not as a form of address, but rather as a reference.  

For example, my friend Nadja is also my key buddy.  I have her keys, and she has mine.  Neither one of us tends to lock ourselves out of our flats, but it also nice to know that we are covered, should that ever happen.  Strangely enough, when I was a child, my father, who does refer to groups of friends as "buddies," never told me specifically that the Swords or the Stuarts were our key buddies.  Instead, he simply said, "If you ever get locked out of the house, go to the Swords.  They have a spare key."

A few months ago when I got my vaccination, again my friend (my key buddy) became my vaccination buddy.  The two of us went together to the doctor's office for our shot.  

The following week, I was telling some German friends about my vaccination experience, and referred to my vaccination buddy.  They gave me some curious looks, and I went on to explain that yours truly does not particularly enjoy visiting the doctor, especially for an injection.  It was a lot more comforting to have someone there with you. 

I elected not to tell those friends about my previous vaccination buddy experience from college (probably right about the time I was decorating the outside of some guys house) when it was time for flu shots.  A friend of mine accompanied me to the auditorium where they were offering the vaccination, and I was really really worked up.  My friend turned to me, noticing my anxiety, and simply said, "Hey, I am your flu shot buddy," and her comforting words got me through the event. 

Last week I got my booster, and unfortunately had to go to the clinic without my buddy.  Fortunately, I did keep the recent memory of our last visit at the front of my mind, and as relieved as I am to have the booster, I did miss her company and comfort. 

Yesterday on the way back from the supermarket, I encountered two boys arriving home from school. They rang their doorbell (as they have a few years to grow before they will have their own keys and eventually key buddies), and as soon as someone answered the intercom (presumably the father), both announced (in that quiet way that children are capable of) "Wir sind!"

I cannot be sure that they were twins, but I have to assume they were brothers.  I just found it fascinating and endearing how they both answered in unison.  

A nice visual of what being buddies is all about. 

So, today my two friends celebrate their birthdays, one in Germany, one in Texas.  Although one of them is not the biggest fan of birthdays, I know that both are equally pleased to have a birthday buddy. 

As for me, I have again reached out to one of my favorite authors, who not only shares my birthday, but also shares a fondness for Arsenal FC.  I cannot count Mr Hornby as my birthday buddy until he gives his consent.  Here's hoping he feels so inclined to accept my invitation. 

Until then, see you out there

Bryan

Mask Routines, Another Round of Names, and (Almost) Rebellious Boxers

The other week, I was on a business trip in another German state to meet a couple of coworkers.  One colleague was coming in from the Czech Republic, and another was coming from the Alsace area near to the German border.  I took the train to Erfurt Monday morning, and like always, followed the rules involving mask wearing.  (In public transport, everyone over the age of six has to wear a mask.)

Through this whole experience, I have rarely seen anyone not following the rules; everyone I have seen in supermarkets, U-Bahns, trains, and restaurants has always had a mask on.  Despite the fact that I am not gallivanting all over the city, I have taken great comfort in the absence of reports of people defiantly refusing to wear masks.  It has all kind of become routine. 

Upon my arrival in Erfurt, I took a taxi to the repair facility, and I did notice that the driver was not wearing his mask.  I found this curious, but decided not to say anything about it.  I was not actually sure what the actual rules were in the particular state.  

I got settled in the site, turned on my laptop, and was writing an email when one of the colleagues walked in.  "What are the mask rules?"

"Good question. I was just wondering that myself.  What made you ask?"

He responded that at the security check in at the site, none of the guards were wearing masks.  I sort of made the argument (however loose) that maybe they were following the "if you are at your desk, you do not have to wear your mask," rule.  

In the facility, we always had to have our masks on while walking around, and it was no big deal. 

A couple of hours later, the third colleague arrived.  We finished our work day, then headed to the hotel. 

Before dinner, we met in the lobby bar for a quick beer.  The servers wore their masks, as did we while walking to our table.  Once seated, of course, we removed our masks. 

The particular state has some pretty high infection numbers, and the three of us discussed the current situation, comparing experiences from our three different living areas. 

Upon arrival at the restaurant, the greeter confirmed our reservation, then asked us for our proof of vaccination, which we all promptly provided. (Inside dining requires one to show proof of recovery, negative test, or vaccination, known as the 3G rule.)

The second evening, our experience at a different restaurant was identical.  All the rules being followed, and, like I said, it has gotten so routine, you do not really even think about it. 

Later in the week, I got back to Frankfurt, and was more than ready for a couple of beers Friday evening. I headed over to the pub, where I joined a friend and his wife, who were enjoying their own start to the weekend. 

"What the hell are the mask rules, these days?" Rob asked, nodding in the direction of the waitress walking through the patio. She was not wearing her mask.  I have known the girl for a little over a year (she worked in the pub the previous summer), and actually had only seen her without a mask one time.  The girl happens to be rather striking, and last autumn there was some regular speculation as to what this girl really looked like. No one had ever really seen her face.  

Yes, that striking. 

Funny though, is that it took this incident for us to question the rules.  It had taken us a few minutes to compute "what is different in the picture" before realizing it was simply her not wearing a mask. 

A bit later, I asked her about the current pub mask rules, and she responded that outside it was no longer a requirement (but a decision of the restaurant).  But, inside, the masks still need to be worn, and because the waitstaff serves both indoors and outdoors, they mostly keep their masks on while running around to tables. 

The couple and I shared our recent experiences about mask requirements.  I told them of my couple of days in Erfurt, and they mentioned a recent weekend get away to Paris.  All three of us commented on our observations that along our high street, where most of the restaurants and pubs are located, we had not seen too many establishments cracking down on the rules, whereas Erfurt and Paris seemed to be 100% compliant.  

It was just one of those things that you talk about at the pub, and all three of us recognized our comfort levels; we agreed that we were less likely to enter a super crowded establishment during the winter months.  Those kinds of comments are easier to make when the temperatures are still mildly cool.  Both of them were wearing stocking caps and coats on that evening, and the current temps were nothing compared to what we will have during December and January. 

 I spent the rest of the weekend doing the odd bits and pieces, as you do.  That included spending a nice Sunday afternoon outside, as I alluded to in the last post.  Before I headed outside that afternoon, I did place an order for some boxers, as I realized it was time to stock back up.  I was on a little bit of a money spending kick, as I had just booked some airfare, and I was keen to get those purchases on the October credit card statement.  

This is the part of the blog where I might be accused of sharing too much information, but oh well. When I purchase boxers, I purchase in quantity.  And then never seem to wear them.  Instead, I keep wearing my old boxers, of which I have plenty, but they just get more and more ratty.  Still, I keep washing them and wearing them again.  Eventually, I decide to discard a pair, but usually a couple of wears past their welcome. 

Anyway, rather than purchase in a store, I elected this time around to order online.  Upon order confirmation, I got kind of a vague delivery date, but expected them sometime during the week. 

The week itself, from a work perspective, was busy as usual, only made slightly confusing as we worked with our customer to put a project plan in place.  Such a plan requires action owners, and despite the fact that we have been in contact with each other over the past months, we realized that two of the team, one from our side, one from theirs, had the same names.  In fact, we have multiple overlaps, so we tried to collectively find a way to differentiate.  

It was a fun challenge to solve, and we had a couple of chuckles during the experience. 

Right as that meeting was coming to a close, I received a text notification that my boxer order was out for delivery, and actually provided a time window for when I could expect it.   A nice touch, but always a little bit tricky, kind of like when the cable guy (for those of us old enough to remember what that is) would come make a house call between 8am and 8pm.  Nice. 

But, I needed to go up the street to take advantage of the local vaccination place; I was due for a booster, and wanted to allow sufficient time for that.  The delivery window came and went, and I decided to go get my injection.  After all, it was not as I would urgently need to wear the boxers, not for another 2 years or so, anyway. 

The booster experience was easy as you like,  and I was quite impressed with the way the lady just distracted me with a conversation she was having with a colleague, about something I could not help but listen along to.  Before I knew what had happened, I was finished. 

Back home, I finished my work day, still waiting on the delivery guy.  At 18h, I officially logged off my laptop and headed to the pub, as part of my Wednesday evening routine.  For the next half an hour, I kept looking around at the traffic on the streets;  I was trying to keep an eye for the delivery carrier, knowing that I could sprint home real quick and accept a package, if he happened to turn up. 

The girls I was sitting with soon noticed how distracted as I was behaving; I was basically rubbernecking, trying to keep an eye on all the ways a courier could drive onto the street.  I informed them of my situation, but elected to provide the details of the order.  I just was expecting a package. 

Sure enough, just past 19h, approximately 5 hours after my "delivery window" had closed, I saw the delivery van.  I waited patiently for him to park, gather the packages he needed to deliver, then sort of followed him to my house door. 

I had my ID at the ready, as I figured I would need to prove that I was the true recipient of the package, as opposed to some guy walking up to a delivery man on the street and saying, "hey, that is for me."

It worked out fine, I got my package, and returned to the pub for the evening. 

Our servers were both new.  One of the guys I was slightly familiar with, but I had forgotten his name.  When we went through the introductions, it turned out that both guys had the same name, save for one letter. One is Luka, the other is Lukas.  

Par for my week, on the confusing name thing. But, hey, my boxers are pretty cool. 

See you out there

Bryan

Gotta Be Outside

 This week, the post is short (and maybe a little sweet). 

Work-wise, it was nonstop action Monday through Wednesday as I visited one of our facilities near Erfurt. I spent a couple of evenings getting to know some of my colleagues better, and it was a productive time. 

But it wore me out. 

I returned Wednesday evening, and still had another couple of hectic days to go before the weekend. This included a marathon afternoon full of back to back conference calls. I was really drained by the end of the last one, which ended just around 19h.  

That was the perfect time to eat dinner and fall asleep in front of the television set.  Like always, I woke up just as the credits were rolling, which was the sign to go straight to bed.  I did not care that it was only 21h, the shutters were coming down. 

This, of course, meant that the following morning, around 5, I was up, alert, and bewildered.  It was too early to go to work, but too late to go back to sleep. 

The early start to Friday hinted that my evening might end a little earlier, and sure enough, I was about 2 hours ahead of everyone for most of the day.  I clocked out at 18h, headed to the pub and stood outside in the chilly weather, enjoying a little time to myself. 

About the time I was kind of winding things up, a couple of friends stopped back (we refer to it as the "second shift" of pub time), and I had another one or two for the road, before returning home to watch the Arsenal match. 

The game went well, and got the weekend started off right. 

Saturday was low key, just like I wanted it to be.  That said, it meant today needed to be a bit more productive; flats do not clean themselves, nor do the clothes, for that matter. 

So, I have been domestically enjoying the morning getting the domestic duties taken care of.  By chance, I found a live set of the Bosstones to listen to, which is perfect housecleaning music,  I must say.  

And, it has got me pretty energized, so there is no possible way I can pass up an afternoon to be outside in the autumn sunshine.  The temperature is mild, as long as the sun is still out.  So, I am typing this last sentence, and headed out to enjoy the scene. 

See you out there

Bryan

Knowing When to Pull out the Stops

Right about this time last year, I had completed a couple of rounds of interviews and was soon to receive an offer to begin a new position.  I obviously accepted the role, and since this past January have been a new team member.  

I was prepared for a new challenges, new opportunities, and new excitement.  I was not prepared for some of those things that would turn out to be beyond my control.  I jumped in to things right from the start, and as I worked to integrate myself into the organization, I recognized situations and areas where I felt less sure of myself.  

As spring came, I continued my efforts, but noticed more and more that I was not feeling like I was progressing how I had planned.  As I neared the end of my first six months (Probezeit, as it is known in Germany), I was feeling really uncomfortable; I was having almost no success with any customer contact (cold calling), and that was a big concern, since my role as account manager requires this activity. 

I took a day to formulate all my self assessments and prepared to reach out to my managers.  

They beat me to the punch. 

At the end of June, my manager phoned up and informed me that collectively, the organization was not prepared, not yet convinced, to issue a permanent contract to me, on the grounds that I had not progressed into the role as expected. 

My manager was quick to point out that he recognized the external factors (pandemic, etc.) that made my probation period all the more difficult, and he also highlighted that, rather than just cutting ties with me, the company would extend a short term contract to me.  A contract that would run until the end of October. 

Although this was a bit of a kick in the teeth, I was feeling pretty much the same vibe.  Had I been in their shoes, I would probably have done the exact same thing.  After all, the whole point of the 6 months probation period is to make sure all parties are on the same page. 

I was given a little improvement plan, which identified milestones which I would need to hit during the next 4 months.  Again, their list and my list were almost identical; this was significant because we were more aligned than I had initially thought. 

After receiving the news and signing the new short term contract, I took a day or two to dig deep, reflect, and pull myself together. 

Sure, there was a fair amount of self doubt.  This role was already moving me out of my comfort zone, which was exciting and scary as shit all at the same time.  

It was the self doubt that bothered me the most, but as I took a few more days to reflect, that old spark kind of reignited.  

Naturally, I turned to music for the motivation, and I will take a brief moment to thank Red City Radio, Bad Religion (particularly their album "Process of Belief"), the Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Ben Folds, and of course, the Bouncing Souls for helping me put the soundtrack together to get myself psyched back up. 

In truth, my biggest frustration was trying to get over one or two hurdles so that I could really start making things happen. 

My father, as well as a few friends, did offer some kind, supportive words, as well as ears to listen to my frustrations and "get back on track" plan.  

The circumstances in the community and the world (or at least Deutschland) helped: suddenly we had vaccination campaigns, things were opening up, and people in general were finding ways to get back to some sense of normalcy. 

Getting out and about helped me remember how to build my self confidence.  I got to play a little Clark Kent along the way, but the summer was pretty good.  

Blaring the soundtrack in my head, I regained control of what I could control in the first place.  I reminded myself that I could either think negatively or think positively, but only one of those streams would be productive. 

True, I still have a strong desire to throw a hot cup of coffee on someone who says something like, "hey, let's turn that frown upside down!"  but a lot of that has to do with my envy of particularly perky people. 

The theme for the summer was very simple.  No one was going to be able to say that I had not given my all during the remainder of my short term contract. 

Besides that, the final decision was beyond my control.  

So I got on with it.  Music blaring, polished steel toes, and the constant reminder to myself "take it as comes, but make it happen" propelled me through the past few months, and it just felt right. 

My working relationships with internal colleagues developed, my interaction with customers improved, and people started recognizing that I do know what I am talking about; I just do it Bryan style. 

And that is a good thing. 

One afternoon in September, I was speaking with a colleague in the UK, and he said something about my years of experience in business development.  I corrected him, saying "no, not years, but rather months," to which he responded, "Wow, if you hadn't said anything, I never would have known.  You come across as if you have been doing this all your career."

That felt good. 

The following week, one of our customers reached out to me directly, which was another great step in the right direction; the relationship was developing. 

As October started, I felt like I had been holding up my end of the agreement.  I felt like I was finally making the progress that I had set out to do since day one.  Slow starters do not always lose the race, as we know.  

And since this is not a race, but rather a journey, it is all about just getting on with it.  And make sure to have fun while you are doing it. 

This past Tuesday, my boss called me to inform me verbally that I would receive my contact early next week.  I am officially back on the team, and that feels good. 

Next week, once I have the hard copy, I can contact the Arbeitsamt to give them the good news, and get myself off their radar.  

It was kind of crazy few months, and despite holding myself to task, I did have a few anxious moments where the thoughts started wandering in the "what if?" direction.  I had to accept those thoughts, but not let it knock me off track, and I am proud of myself for staying true.  To me. 

So I am going to enjoy the ride, keep the momentum going, and just keep on being Bryan. 

see you out there

Bryan

Family Fun is Never Gefährlich if Dad is Dabei

Please excuse the multi-language title, as I merely wanted to avoid any confusion involving internet searches and key words.  

Early in the week, I was outside having a few beers and just observing people as they went about their lives.  I particularly enjoyed seeing some of the families riding by on their bicycles.  Our neighborhood has a fair amount of young kids, and it is always fascinating to see a new group of little ones out on their bikes, getting familiar with how to ride in busy areas.  

Like any city, you always have to watch out for the various types of traffic:  cars, obviously, but also cyclists, pedestrians, and most recently, e-scooters. 

There is a little stretch of sidewalk that passes right through the middle of the pub's terrace, and this can be a pretty lively spot for traffic congestion.  First of all, if all the outside tables are full of guests, which is normally the case on pleasant weather days, you have a fair amount of movement as the staff serve the tables their drinks and food.  Meanwhile, people are walking by on their way to or from somewhere.  

The particular corner of the neighborhood has a kind of three way intersection, but all the streets are one-way.  For the purposes of this post, I mention it only because parents and children who are cycling together have to sort of split up, as technically cyclists are not allowed to ride on the sidewalk.  

This rule does not tend to apply to younger cyclists, for a variety of reasons.  

What this means, however, is that I tend to get a regular load of entertainment as parents continue riding on the street, trying to watch out for traffic themselves.  These parents are also nervously monitoring their children's process of riding through a busy pedestrian walkway.  It is only for a few seconds, really only about 30 meters, but there have been a fair amount of close calls, where a child has almost lost control or careened into a waitress with a full tray of beers.  (Keep in mind my post from a couple of weeks ago when all the dogs decided to kick off together; it can be a real rodeo in the neighborhood.)

What strikes me the most is how the parents have prepared their kids for this kind of thing.  City families have to go through a different learning process, particularly when considering traffic and strangers.  Those of us who grew up in suburban neighborhoods did not have this experience.  Instead, we knew all the neighbors and the safety of our street. 

I write all of this just to get to the point that I notice that the kids in the neighborhood are able to navigate busy sidewalks and what have you just because they know their parents are close by.  

Despite the safer environment for my own "learning to ride a bike" experience, I distinctly remember learning to pedal with the comfort that mom or dad was close behind me on their own bike.  The confidence came from knowing that mom and dad were right there, even as I rode along wobbily.  Just like the kids in Bornheim. 

As I observed all of this the other evening, my thoughts wandered on to other childhood memories.  Our family did a fair amount of camping when my sister and I were really young, and we learned a lot about nature, being outside, how to make campfires, and other lovely things. 

During summer vacations, we visited many state and national parks.  Sometimes in the evening we would gather around the bonfire with other campers and listen to a park ranger tell stories or explain the history of the area, or whatever.  My dad would use these opportunities to do some whittling.  He always had a knife with him, and was always on the lookout for a good piece of wood to whittle. 

Heck yeah, I wanted to whittle just as soon I was allowed to, old enough to.  

I think my father was keen to get me started with whittling, too.  And, in 1976, not too terribly long after I learned to ride a bike without training wheels, he returned from his first trip to Europe and gave me my very first Swiss Army Knife.  

The knife was red, but instead of plastic (like most of the Swiss knives I see today) it was metal.  I loved the way it felt in my hand, and I was a proud six year old.  

Ready to whittle. 

Unbeknownst to me, my parents had a lively discussion somewhere in Switzerland at the knife shop.  My mother was of the opinion that I was way too young for such a knife.  My father won the argument in the end, likely convincing my mom that his own childhood started out similarly (his dad and grandfather were big outdoorsmen) and not least of all, my father would only allow me to use the knife under his supervision. 

One Saturday afternoon about a week after my folks from returned from their European trip, I decided to sit on the porch with my father and whittle.  

We selected a suitable piece of wood, and my father again showed me all the ways to be careful when handling a sharp knife.  Then, he went back to doing his yard work while I sat on the porch and started carving. 

The first two or three cuts into the wood went really smoothly.  But with the fourth or fifth, the knife slipped right off the wood and directly into my left index finger.  

Well, that certainly surprised me, and when I saw the blood, I became alarmed.  And then I felt the pain. 

My dad had casually glanced over when he heard my yelp, and quickly jumped up and escorted me inside.  The finger was bleeding profusely, and I was leaving quite a little trail through the foyer and den as we got to the kitchen, where my mom was preparing dinner. 

Suddenly, my mom is shrieking, my finger is under the faucet with cold water running, and all the while my father was saying, "He is okay, he is okay, he is okay."  

It took longer for my mom to calm down then it did for my finger to stop bleeding.  

It all happened rather quickly, but suddenly I had a band aid on my finger and the crisis was over.  

It was a simple accident, but certainly helped to remind me about being cautious with knives, hard wood, and whittling in general.  

But my folks were there, and it was okay.  It helped particularly that my dad did not overreact.  After all, to borrow a line from Monty Python, "it was just a flesh wound."

The incident did not stop us from continuing to handle knives.  

Maybe a year or two later, my dad introduced me to game one afternoon.  The game is Mumblety-peg, and in the version he taught me to play, we stood across from each other outside in the front yard with our legs shoulder width apart.  

The object of the game is to flick the knife a few inches away from the opponent's foot.  If the knife stuck blade in, you had to move your foot to where the knife was, then try and and flick your knife next to their foot.  The first one to fall over because they had to stretch too far was the loser.   The loser then had to pull a peg of wood out of the ground with their teeth. 

My dad had learned the game as a boy scout, and I never really even questioned the danger with the game.  How my mom allowed us to play it is a question I will never have an answer for.  

I was never really able to get the hang of flicking or throwing a knife, so I hardly ever won against my father.  Unlike my father's generation, those of us growing up in 1970s were not really allowed to go off and play such games on the school playground; some very clued in school board member must have realized that a bunch of 8 year olds throwing knives at each others feet was just a disaster waiting to happen, so wisely nipped that in the bud.  

But playing mublety-peg with Dad?  No problem at all.  

When Dad is there, how dangerous can it be?  

I celebrated the memory of my first Swiss Army Knife by purchasing a new suitcase (which I have needed for some time) from the same manufacturer.  

The new suitcase arrived yesterday, and to differentiate it from others at the baggage carousel (whenever the hell I travel again), I am considering pasting a sticker on the side of the case. 

"I know how to play Mumblety-peg.  Thanks, Dad."

see you out there, but leave your pocket knives at home.

Bryan  

A Brief Sunday Post

Here on a rainy German Unity Day, I am just enjoying a quiet Sunday afternoon thinking about my folks. 

My mother was a huge fan of writing little post-it notes to me, sometimes with nothing more than a smiley face.  Wherever I happened to be, I would generally receive newspaper clippings from her from time to time.  Sometimes it was an article about quitting smoking, other times it was just something that she had found interesting and wanted to share.  All of our family was fond of the comic strips in the newspaper each day (and in color on Sundays), and if my mother happened to come across a particularly funny comic, she usually would cut it out and send it to me, too. 

I miss those little things, those little "just thinking about you" moments that my mother sent to me through her entire life.  

Somewhat unexpectedly, my father started doing similar things after my mother passed away.  I say unexpected, because I am not entirely sure that he knew mom was sending me such little notes.  I am not sure what prompted him to start the habit, but it it quite a pleasant thing.   There has never been any question that my father does not think of me, but the little surprises that have been popping up in the past few years have been particularly welcome. 

Sometimes there would be only a newspaper clipping of a comic, other times there might be a short note with encouraging words.  And of course, Birthday cards are still arriving each April. 

A couple of years ago, my father did cancel the hard copy subscription to the newspaper, making the decision to go digital.  This was a big step for him, as he has spent his entire lifetime enjoying reading the paper, getting ink stains on his fingers, sometimes having to let the paper dry out in the event that the carrier forgot to put it in a plastic bag on a rainy morning, etc. 

Reading articles on a computer monitor (or phone, tablet, whatever) is just not quite the same.  

I wondered if this would be a difficult transition for my dad, but truth be told, he kind of took it all in stride.  

And I am particularly thankful that he has gotten his head around the technology side of things, because now, instead of sending me a clipping of a comic strip, he just sends me a little pdf attachment in an email.  

Twice this past week I received a quick funny from Dad, an email with a Dilbert comic (one of his favorite strips) attached, and a simple one line statement saying, "I thought of you when I saw this."  

As an additional bonus, I received an electronic animated greeting card from him on Friday, just a "wishing you a good start to autumn," as he knows this is my favorite season.  

And indeed, it is a good start to autumn. 

see you out there

Bryan

Flashing Back to a Song (or two) I CAN Like

Wednesday evening during a quick trip inside the pub for a moment to see about a horse, I heard a song playing in the background, a fairly popular hit from around 35 years ago.  As the weather is still quite pleasant, hardly anyone is sitting inside, preferring instead to take advantage of the open air without having to have any concerns about social distancing indoors.  Thus, the pub was empty, save for the young staff, who were not even born until about 15 years after the song came out.   I was mildly curious as to why they were listening to the playlist, but was more glad to actually hear the song, as it was a particular favorite when I was in school. 

The particular song was from an Australian band, and it prompted me to think about another Australian band from the time.  INXS was never my favorite band, but I quite liked them during the 80s, and saw them at least twice in concert.  I started listening to them circa 1983 or 1984, and part of that had to do with a guy, my lab partner in chemistry class, who was a huge fan.  A huge fan. 

As funny as he was, the guy was kind of a jerk.  But, I do not hold that against him.  I had a passion for music and specific groups and despite the common ground, that certainly doesn't mean we all have to be friends.  The thing that was cool about this guy is that he was quick to point out how good the early INXS stuff was.  And he was right.  

INXS did not really hit the US until 1986, so I was a little ahead of the game.  The particular album was quite successful stateside, as was their follow up in 1987.  However, I was already kind of moving on from the group, as my tastes were constantly broadening and diversifying.  

The album that did it for me was Shabooh Shoobah, from 1982.  For an album experience, it was just pretty darn good from start to finish.  And the final track, "Don't Change," is simply incredible. 

Hand's down, "Don't Change" is my favorite INXS song, and is the song I thought of when I was exiting the gent's in the pub Wednesday night.  

Whereas the song I listened to a couple of weeks ago (and mentioned in my last post) did nothing for me, "Don't Change" knocked me over right from the get go.  It had all the elements that make me love a song, and this particular one remains a specific favorite.  

Of course I looked at the "official" video of the song, which I never had bothered to do so many years ago.  The video, albeit dated, was certainly fitting for the time. 

Readers familiar with the band will recall that the band had all the elements fitting for being rock stars.  They look like rock stars, especially the lead singer.  (My chemistry partner had made a conscious effort to dress just like him, and actually did a fair job.)  

As cool as that might have been, it was the music, rather than their appearance, that appealed to me. 

When the band scheduled their tour dates for 1987, I was all over it, actually spending a premium to get slightly better seats in the venue.  I had waited several years for the opportunity, and was keen to go see them, even if they were already dropping down my list of faves.

I was not quite prepared for the throngs of female fans that were there specifically to see said lead singer perform.  Furthermore, I was not prepared that that the audience seemed to be familiar with only the latest release of the band, seemingly unaware that the band had already released several albums. 

As you do when attending a concert of a band, you always have a little list of the songs you hope and expect to hear.  I was looking forward to the show, but really only wanted to hear the one song. 

Because I had pretty good seats, people, girls for the most part, seemed to want to share my vantage point, and as the band continued to play, my little section grew in size.  On our row, there were probably 10 seats, but as the concert was coming to an end, there were at least 30 folks in the same area.  I thought to myself, "this is probably the one time in your high school experience that you will be standing among 20 really attractive girls, so enjoy it,"

And I did. 

It came time for the encore, and as we all waited in anticipation, I was the one person in the section that felt the electric charge as I heard the opening chords to the ONE song I wanted to hear. 

No one danced more lively or sang along with more enthusiasm than yours truly, and it was a brilliant moment. 

Only after the concert ended and the band left the stage did I realize that none of the people around me had ever heard that song.   Clearly the song did not touch them like it did me.  I sensed their disappointment, their confusion, but left it at that.   

Shabooh on them for missing out.  Shoobah for me for enjoying that moment. 

see you out there

Bryan

.

A Box of Tinder, a Song I Cannot Seem to Like, and a Favorite Film

I credit two girls from high school with my introduction to Siouxsie.  One girl shared the same last name as me, which meant that we tended to sit right next to one another in those classes where the teacher sat us alphabetically, which was often.  Additionally, she and I were both in a similar curriculum, so for the better part of 3 years, we had about 75% of our classes together.  One of her closest friends, who I did not as well, ended up being taking the exact same electives as I was taking, which more or less filled up the other 25% of my high school time. 

These girls were not super close friends, but they were friends, all the same.  As one did in a big high school, you tended to get to know the people that share similar interests, and in this case, it was all about the music.  One day, Amanda and I were talking albums, and she pointed out that I did need to get better acquainted with Siouxsie.  I certainly was familiar with the band, if not really familiar, but was not quite as enthusiastically overwhelmed as these girls were.  

I gave the band another listen, and the impact was huge;  I remain quite the fan, and my appreciation for her music has never waned. 

Hence the soundtrack for today, which you can also listen to as soon as you decipher the hint from the title. 

This past week started with the receipt of a message from an old friend of mine.  She and I knew each other many years ago, and music is one of the things that brought us together.  She was more into hard rock, even metal, and I was absorbed in my own tastes, but there is always that bit of cross over.  She also has a bit of a thing for some of the electro-pop, synth stuff (think late 1980s).  

Her message from Monday was actually a follow up:  "Have you listened to the song, yet?"

The previous Friday, she sent me a link to a song that she had recently discovered.  The band is an American synth-pop band, probably about 15 years old.  Apparently they have put out several albums, and have some level of notoriety, but I obviously had never heard a thing about them.  Neither had she, come to that. 

Well, she was so overwhelmed by the one song she shared with me, she sent the message indicating that it might be something I would like. 

I had not given the music a listen, but her reminder prompted me to take a few minutes and check them out.  

My initial reaction was not very positive.  The song had plenty of elements where I should have been able to connect:  the bass hooks, the electronica, the unique singing voice. 

But I just could not get into it.  

Two or three more listens, as well as a few attempts with some of the other songs, did not change my impression. 

I wrote back to her, giving my honest opinion, but felt a little guilty.  She was familiar with my tastes 25 years ago, and even though those tastes remain rather similar, they are unsurprisingly no longer exactly the same.  I did not outright hate the song or the band, but just felt no connection at all.  I said as such in my message, being careful not to rip someone for liking something that I did not.  

During the course of the week, I related the story to a friend of mine, who is also a huge fan of music.  He summed things up with once sentence, "If I am not emotionally touched by the music, then that is it.  I won't really like it."

It made sense, and reminded me that this was exactly how I felt about the arts, particularly music.  But that feeling naturally extends to the likes of cinema, literature, architecture, painting, and so on. 

If it does not grab you emotionally, then you are less likely to make the connection. 

Of course, we all like to passionately discuss such topics with our contemporaries, and I have noticed that my experiences have changed through the years.  Numerous times I have posted that I have migrated from a position of "if you don't like what I like, screw you," to something much more accommodating, like, "hey, that is an interesting view, and thanks for sharing that music with me."

25 years ago, I was still learning how to become more accepting.  There were still times when I would enthusiastically share (or push) my current favorite band on someone, and feel a bit insulted if they did not share my passion.  It was a naive view, but I am aware that people still have this natural tendency. 

Take films, as another example.  People tend to scrutinize the reviews and the user ratings.  My sister usually avoids watching films where she reads the review-aggregation with a low score.  She always checks the review prior to watching the film. 

Her influence on this has caused me to check some reviews more than I care to admit, but normally I just launch myself into the film, and decide for myself how I feel about the work.  Sometimes, I to have to turn the film off 15 minutes in, as it is complete trash.  Other times, like with a 10 hour series I watched this past week, I found myself 3 episodes in, still intrigued, but also thinking, "gee, this show is not very good." 

I finished the last 4 episodes yesterday.  

And indeed.  The show was not very good.  

But that is fine.  I recognize that my opinion is different, but others might flock to it, saying it is the best martial-arts, science fiction, part Outlander, part Highlander, show put out in the past 5 years.  

In short, I simply found no emotional connection to the show. 

Late in the week, somewhat timely, I received a link to an article commemorating the 20 year anniversary of one of my favorite all time films.  

The author of the article talks about the impact of the film, which received worldwide acclaim, adding in her own personal view; she seems to like the film almost as much as me.  She also shared a few reviews from critics that were not very positive.  

The article was a good read, but gave me a couple of things to think about.  

For starters, I go back to my comment above, that this is one of my all time favorite films.  In fact, my blog profile lists the film as one of my faves; I remember listing it when I first set this blog up. The film simply ticked all the boxes of my criteria for "what makes me like this film so much."  The setting is brilliant, the soundtrack was world class, the story line is incredible, and of course, the actress playing the lead role was superb.  And cute. 

Packaged all together, I was simply emotionally overwhelmed.  

I remember gushing about the film with others, but I do not recall (keep me honest, Pablo and Chris) if I was ever pushing this film on others.   My recollection is that I just loved the film for me, because it touched me.  And that was more than enough. 

Sure, when I was in conversation with people who also mentioned that they had seen the film, it was easy to discuss the positive feelings the film tends to bring.  But I never ran up and down the streets proclaiming how great the film was.  I certainly never ran around forcing people to drop whatever they were doing and go see the film. 

The significant thing, which only came to my attention after reading the article, is that some people did not like the film.  

This never crossed my mind, not then, and not now, that someone might dislike the film.  It never occurred to me.  And again, that is quite okay.  

The film, of course, is Amélie.  I have watched the movie hundreds of times over the years, not only in the OV (French), but also in Spanish and German.  In fact, it is probably the one film that I have watched in all three languages, with equal enjoyment from all.  Sure, my preference is still the OV, partly for my appreciation for original version, and partly for my fondness for French people and culture.  

I think of the film rather often, primarily due to the connection I have always felt with the character, not so much because she is young, French, and cute (that is a different side of me), but because of her imagination, perspective, and character.  

With that, I am going to enjoy the rest of my Sunday, borrowing a quote from the article. 

"It is a fantasy that invites viewers to pause amid our everyday lives to find moments of quiet magic."

see you out there

Bryan

Selfishly Schlechtgelaunt

I had a very busy week last week, full of all kinds of hustle and bustle.  All of that is a good thing, but by Friday, I was feeling the effects, and was more than ready for the weekend. 

My Friday routine tends to involve picking up a pizza for dinner, catching up with my father on skype, and having a few beers at the pub.  As it was nearing 18h, I was still trying to wrap a few things workwise, but finally reached a stopping point.  I then called my pizza guy, who is now pretty familiar with my routine, himself.  "Zehn Minuten," he said as I finished telling him my order.  

I did a bit of work space tidy up in the next few minutes, then walked up the street to pick up my pies. I figured I would check in on my father when I got home, then head across to the local.  

As I left my apartment, I noticed a bit more activity going on at the pub, including what sounded like a DJ playing happy hour music.  I found that curious, but in possibly 15 minutes I would be able to check it out up close.  I just focused on the task at hand, making sure I had a mask with me (to go inside the restaurant), etc. 

Minutes later, the pizzas were safely in the kitchen, and I quickly tried to reach my father, but unsuccessfully.  No need to panic; I would catch him later in the evening or on Saturday. 

I recognize the slight risk involved when the beer to food ratio is not so balanced, and this has created one or two, um, let's call then incidents, when my Friday evening starts out on an empty stomach, then careens out of control when the "on the fence," part of the decision making process goes missing.  My plan always starts out well enough:  enjoy 3, maybe 4 beers during the "happy hour" time slot early Friday, then return home to dinner on the couch while enjoying a film. 

The other week was an excellent example.  Just as I was finishing the third beer, a couple of friends showed up, and of course I had to stick around. Two beers after that, another few people showed up, and on it went, until around 3am.  

This particular Friday evening, however, I had planned just for me.  I was interested in sticking to just a few beers, collect my thoughts as I recapped the busy and productive week, and possibly play an album or two in my head as a soundtrack.  I had been discussing PIL, The The, and The Cult with some folks in the previous days, so I had all kinds of playlists queued up in the brain. 

I quickly realized that my soundtrack was getting drowned out by the DJ, who was playing music that I simply did not feel like listening to.  In fact, as I found out that the pub was doing a joint promotion with a beer distributor; they had a bit of a festive atmosphere organized, with the music, decorations, and little stands for take away beers.  

I found my usual place, which was fortunately vacant, and knew that the evening would be somewhat shorter than originally planned.  Another friend showed up, saw the scene, and immediately expressed what I was already thinking, "This is not the way I want my Friday evening to go.  I wanted a bit of quiet time with a few friends and beers.  Not this party scene."

Then he left. 

Despite my disappointment at being in a festive atmosphere without wanting to be festive, I made the most of things, and did enjoy my alone time collecting my thoughts, and particularly liked it when it suddenly started pouring down rain.  Under the protection of the umbrella over my table, my beer and myself remained comfortable. 

Like I mentioned the other week, sometimes I prefer my pub visits to be solitary, with as little conversation as possible.  Because of the rain, I was pretty much guaranteed to have this, as the rainstorm certainly was not enticing to those patrons wanting to spend an evening sitting in a beer garden. 

One of the pub owners did come over for a few minutes, just to catch up and say hello. I wished him a happy belated birthday (he was on the list from last week), and I cheered him on as kept having to go clear the rainwater collecting on the awnings over the DJ station.  This involves a broom handle and you basically poke the top of the awning so that the water pours off onto the ground below.  

Sporadic rainstorms have been the norm as of late, and more than once, an unfortunate server has been walking by with a plate of food or a tray of beers, only to get water dumped on them.  I do appreciate these moments of free entertainment, I must say. 

That kept me occupied for another beer, and I started thinking about winding things down for the evening.  I was not letting the festive atmosphere put me in a bad mood, but it was so different from what I wanted, that I could not help but let it bother me a bit. 

It was one of those evenings where my list of people I felt like talking to was very, very short.  Maybe 3 or 4 people, but preferably not all at once.  

With a stroke of luck, one of those persons showed up; she had just finished working, herself, and was coming to join her boyfriend, who clearly had been at the pub from the onset of the festivities, joining his friends who were running the promotion. 

Maria is a good friend, and we actually had a nice conversation for half an hour, just talking about lots of different things. It was a really nice chat and made up for my evening that was not actually going to my original plan. 

The timing worked out fine.  She needed to go rescue her boyfriend, who was already starting to wobble, and I had reached my "on the fence" time.  I called the waitress over to cash out, said my goodbye to Maria, then headed home for a bit of quiet. 

Before sitting down for dinner, I decided to check in on my dad one more time, and found him online. We chatted for another hour, and I was glad to have gotten the weekly visit with him done before Saturday, when he himself had a full schedule planned. 

All things considered, it was not a bad night, but still, I was not in the best of moods, even while eating my pizza and watching an Agatha Christie film. 

I ended up falling asleep on the couch, but finally switched off the TV and went to bed. 

As for myself, I did not have a full schedule planned for Saturday.  I had a few to-dos, knew I would speak with my sister, and, because of some cooking preparation I had done Friday afternoon, I already had Saturday's meal mostly taken care of; I would need only to heat a few things up in the oven. 

I was looking forward to finally seeing a match that Arsenal could possibly win, but as I texted with a friend during the morning, we both discovered that not only was the match not going to be shown at the pub, it was not going to be televised at all.  

This irked me, as I had been looking forward to a catch up with my buddy, even with the continuance of the beer promo going on at the pub.  Meanwhile, I asked myself again why I have a subscription to skysports when I can't get to see the match I want. 

Even though I got my to-dos completed, I felt a bit pissed off about things Saturday afternoon, for no reason whatsoever.  

As football was not an option, I found a film to watch as I ate my Saturday afternoon meal.  I tend to eat heavier during the early-mid afternoon, sort of Spanish style, and that was all fine and good, but I ended up eating too much, and found myself feeling a bit bloated and uncomfortable.  

After a very brief rainstorm, the sun came out again, and the promo at the pub kicked back into gear.  This time, unfortunately, instead of a DJ, they had a live band playing.  

Once again, I was not in the mood.  Sure, I was not right in the middle of everything, but because of the proximity of my living room to the pub terrace, I might as well have been.  

Part of me felt a little guilty for being so irritated by something that was very likely creating joy for others, but it was just not the right day or time for me.  I wanted to sulk. 

Probably any other time, I would have been fully supportive of a group of guys getting together to play covers of what they believe to be the favorite party songs, but I just was not up for it. 

So, I shut my windows to try and keep the majority of the noise out, which just made my flat a bit more humid, due to the sporadic rain showers.  And, as good as my Doppelfenster are, I could not help but follow the music through the band's set.  They played all the "hits" that I tend to shy away from.  It was a bit unfair, because they played competently enough, but it just was irritating.  Why were all the songs in English instead of German?  Why do cover bands always have to cover Oasis, the Rolling Stones, and the Killers?

Well, the Saturday evening continued on, and I was rather glad when 22h hit and the band had to unplug.   The terrace remained open, so I could still hear people enjoying the evening, but at least without crap music. 

All of this created some pretty interesting dreams for me last night, and I woke up this morning feeling somewhat refreshed and in better spirits. 

Of course, this has not stopped me from listening to the first five albums of PIL during the course of the morning, with a repeat of the classic line from the classic song.  

"Anger is an energy."

That being said, I am psyching myself back up for a good week.  It was okay to have a couple of days where I was not so bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and bubbly with fuzzy, but I can bring that to an end. 

That is the cool thing about listening to Public Image, Ltd. here on a Sunday morning.  Especially as I start on album number 6. 

Happy?

see you out there

Bryan

A Week of Warm Bornheim Birthday Fuzzies

Despite my own tendency to keep my own birthday celebrations rather low-key, I do enjoy wishing people a hearty happy birthday on their day.  I like to keep a note of these dates in my calendar, and over the years have noticed that my list has grown significantly.  Sure, sometimes I inadvertently overlook someone's birthday, and there are plenty of people close to me whose birth date is not on my radar.  Rather than get worked up about it, I just take note when (and if) I do happen to become aware of their special day. 

This past week was a big one for birthdays.  Last Sunday, a young friend of mine celebrated her 16th birthday, which we all know is a significant milestone.  I made sure to get the greeting sent, did my own distant celebration (which consists simply of extra happy thoughts), then prepared myself for the upcoming week. 

Sunday evening as I was finishing my brief celebration in the pub, I bumped into another friend who, as it were, would be celebrating her own birthday the following morning.  As we briefly caught up on events since the last time we had seen one another, she mentioned that she was aware that my own grandmother would be celebrating a birthday in the coming days.  I was touched, since I had not expected her to keep up with the birthdays of other people in my family.  When I asked her about this, she answered rather logically that she, too, kind of grouped birthdays, and if a string of them happen to all come at once, then one tends to keep up with them.

I asked if she would have time Wednesday evening to help me wish my grandmother a hearty happy birthday, and she confirmed that she would definitely be there. 

On Monday as I arrived at the Kiosk, Mono greeted me with the statement, "What is this about gathering on Wednesday to wish your grandmother a happy birthday?"  

That was the first thing I had planned to discuss with him at the Kiosk Monday night, but he beat me to the topic.  Turns out he had run into our friend with the Monday birthday, and already gotten the scoop.  

On the way back to Frankfurt the previous Friday afternoon, I had decided that I would try to rally a group of friends to gather the upcoming Wednesday evening in order to get on a quick video call and sing a little song to my grandmother. 

Although I do regularly head to the pub for a bit of evening socializing and refreshment, I hardly ever make any real plans to do so.  Because of the neighborhood, the variety of friends and acquaintances I have, you basically have a reasonable chance to see a lot of people you know each and every time you walk onto the pub terrace.  That being said, I never really know who might be at the Kneipe.  Sometimes, I have gone to the pub in search of a quiet beer and a few moments of collecting my thoughts, only to run into 20 people I have not seen in months.  Other times, I head over to the pub looking for conversation, and spend the next 2 hours staring at the stars on my own. 

I like this randomness, but when it comes to my grandmother, I was interested in being a bit more specific; I did not want to leave anything to chance. 

That is why I was glad to have seen the folks the previous Sunday and Monday, and was able to make some loose plans for the upcoming Grandmommy Day. 

Wednesday evenings, I do meet with a group of friends that have kind of a standing Wednesday gathering, but because I had not been in town the previous week, I had not informed them of our special activity.  

During the course of Tuesday, my sister texted me to confirm the plan for the following day.  She and I had already placed an order for flowers and balloons to be delivered to my grandmother, and had also coordinated with our father to get a birthday cookie cake decorated and available for when he would be taking her to lunch on her day. 

My father plays a big role in the communication with my grandmother, particularly when it comes to video calls, on account that she no longer has a mobile or tablet. 

As much as I wanted things to be spontaneous, I was forced in to some planning, as my father indicated he would make sure that they were available promptly at 11am their time, right when he would arrive to take my grandmother to lunch. 

That made for 18h my time, which was not suitable, partially because I had a business meeting at that time, but more importantly, because I had told everyone that we would singing around 19h or 19h30, over an hour later.  

I clarified everything with my father ("Dad, I will call YOU."), then got on with my work week, including the preparation for the big business meeting I had scheduled for Wednesday. 

Soon enough, the big day arrived, and my meeting went rather well.  During the discussions I let it slip that immediately after our meeting concluded, I would be organizing a bit of birthday greeting for my grandmother, who was turning 105. 

It is funny to be on a video call with customers and colleagues when everyone's jaw drops at once. 

I found it kind of special that everyone responded so positively and enthusiastically.  I think everyone like to live vicariously when it comes to knowing someone who has a grandparent that is doing better than simply being alive and kicking at the age of 105.  To some extent, I do understand the reactions of my friends in my neighborhood, as they know me and all about my family.  But people I do not know so well?  

Like I said, people tend to like a birthday, and if it is for someone who is at an age that most of us cannot fathom, you just can't help but get a little fired up. 

Shortly before 19h, I headed across the pub, noting that the special invitees were already gathered, albeit at a table across the terrace from the friends who have their standing Wednesday evening there. 

I kept a steady eye on the clock as I finished my first beer and ordered a second from the invitee table.  It was almost showtime. 

Right as we decided to stand up and cross the terrace to put all the groups together, a street musician walked up, pulled out his guitar, and started to play. 

I finished my second beer as I waited for him to finish.  I was not interested in any background disturbances (other than the normal buzz of a pub patio and the passing street noise).  Video calls with my grandmother and father are always tricky; connection problems, audio problems, anything could happen. 

Finally, the busker was done, and I quickly got everyone gathered, explained the situation, and then called my father. 

Once the connection was established, I made sure my grandmother could hear me (and possibly see me), then made sure that everyone in the chorus knew we would be singing in English, then kicked things off. 

My father and grandmother had just finished eating lunch in a burger restaurant and were just getting settled in the car.  This worked out PERFECTLY as we all sang into my mobile.  My father has the hands free set up in his car, which meant that the 20 or so of us were heard through his car stereo system, which ultimately meant that my grandmother got a full effect. 

The whole event took, as you can imagine, a matter of seconds, just long enough to sing Happy Birthday, but it was a successful effort. 

I gave a hearty thanks to my friends, then stepped away briefly to continue talking with my grandmother another few minutes.  

As always, my grandmother was incredibly gracious and thankful, exclaiming how nice and thoughtful it was to be serenaded from Germany.  That had been my intention all along, and was glad that my friends had participated and that it was so greatly appreciated. 

My grandmother was already having a pretty big birthday week, having lunches or brunches almost daily, not to mention all the flowers, cards, and greetings.  And, she had further events planned for later in the week. 

We said our goodbyes, and I sat back down at the table, taking a big sip of beer.  I could relax a bit, since the task of the day was completed.  The rest of the evening, we kind of celebrated my grandmother as well as enjoyed the normal Wednesday conversations. 

Thursday was relatively quiet, and I was glad.  Celebrating a grandmother's birthday can be tiring, especially when a couple of schnapps are involved.

Friday afternoon, I caught up with my father on skype, and he recapped the birthday week of my grandmother.   The important thing was that she enjoyed ALL of the celebrations, and was still talking about the call from Germany, as well as the call and serenade from my sister and her family in Spain.  

The whole week, I had been having extra special thoughts about my grandmother, and continued the fuzzies that evening when I ventured to the pub for a few beers, bumping into a couple of friends who had helped sing two evenings before. 

True, my grandmother's birthday was the highlight of the week, but here on Sunday morning, I have two more friends having birthdays, and one more tomorrow.  

I just glanced at my calendar, and there are a handful of birthdays still to come during September, but the flurry of the week is just finishing.  

It is already time to start thinking about what to do for my grandmother's next birthday, but until then, there are plenty of others out there that will be congratulated in the upcoming weeks and months. 

See you out there

Bryan

Challenging the Fashion Challenged

Right about this time last Sunday, I was preparing for the upcoming week, when I would be visiting one of our facilities.  I was already a wee bit antsy, as DB had strikes planned for Monday, which could potentially make it a real difficulty for me to get to Sömmerda.  Besides that, I was going to be meeting some colleagues for the first time, and naturally wanted to make a decent impression.  The real issue, though, was the fact that my last business trip was in January, and my wardrobe is much better suited for the colder months.  I just do not have that much "business casual" stuff  that is suited for summer, and as always, I tend to feel a step or two behind the fashion times. 

On the Sunday morning as I was packing my suitcase, I started with the easy stuff:  enough socks and boxers for a five day trip.  My rule is always "days away plus two," which is really easy to do with undergarments.  Because I would only be away from Monday to Friday, I figured on 2 pairs of jeans:  one to wear and one in the suitcase.  Shirts, however, was looking like a problem.  The weather forecast indicated coolish temperatures with a bit of rain.  I looked at the polo shirts I had available, all three of them (that are still presentable), selected undershirts (which, in my world, are t-shirts with the sleeves cut off), and realized I still had two days to plan for.  I figured that a long sleeve button down was not needed, and part of this decision was already made for me, as ironing would be involved, and I just did not feel like putting that much effort into things.  

I was quickly losing interest in the exercise, but knew I had to get it done.  Finally I decided on a henley and a long sleeve heavy t-shirt.  Not optimal, but doable, on the grounds that I was not going to be meeting with customers, but rather colleagues within the repair facility.  

Packing completed, I quickly went through the rest of my to-do list.  I needed ciggy and cash (not necessarily in that order), and had plans to meet up at the pub for the late afternoon football match. As I walked down the street towards my bank, I ran into some friends, a couple who were soon to be headed away on their summer holiday.  We chatted briefly, and the man complained about trying to pack for their trip, noting that some of his clothes no longer fit, heavily due to the events of the past 18 months, where people were doing less clothes shopping and to some extent being less active than other times, based on lock-down restrictions and whatnot.  

I kind of chuckled, then told the man that I was going through a similar problem.  Some of my clothes probably do not fit as well as they once did, and certainly some new articles of clothing are probably needed.  However, because I have not done a lot of travel this year, I am not altogether clear what I should be wearing.  

This may sound like a very ridiculous question, but let me explain.  

In service logistics facilities, including our repair sites, most of the employees that work on the repair lines, either as technicians or material handles, tend to wear jeans and some sort of ESD protective clothing.  One of the big trends these days is for the ESD apparel to be more trendy.  There are polos and both long and short sleeve t-shirts offered to the employees, all with company logo and ESD protection.  Effectively the employees all look like they are wearing a uniform.  

The program and operations managers tend to wear the business casual stuff, just like I have done for most of my career.  Now, in this slightly different role, I am not sure if I can continue to get away with wearing ops type clothing, or if I need to spruce up a bit to wear more something more suitable to business development. 

The question is, what exactly should a business development guy be wearing?  Generally, a suit is almost too formal for this kind of business, and one of the rules of thumb is to sort of mirror what your customers might wear.  So, I have been thinking about these things and decided to do additional research during the week in Sömmerda as I met with some other colleagues in my department.  I was glad that I had not invested too much time or money in buying new work clothes at the beginning of the year, but knew that now is probably the right time. 

There were some tricky bits during the train ride on Monday, but I got to my destination without too much delay.  I greeted some of the colleagues I had first met in January, then met some new colleagues, all the while kind of making mental notes as to what people were wearing. 

One of the guys that I was meeting personally for the first time is at my same level of management, which basically means we were dressing similarly.  When we arrived at the hotel, he pulled out a hanging bag, and I immediately thought, "oh now, this guy is going to wear suit tomorrow."

It turned out that it was just a shirt, and his routine was to simply bring the stuff on hangers if he were travelling by car.  No need to pack and fold if you do not need to. 

One of the German colleagues wore a waistcoat over a white shirt.  He looked smart, but a little too trendy for my tastes, especially since he completed the outfit with jeans and white tennis shoes.  I have seen a few other people dressing similarly (though mostly without the sneakers), but rather than a vest, I would prefer wearing a blazer, if required.  In fact, the typical business casual German fashion is a blazer with a jeans and a shirt.  I can do that without any problem, but in summer, it tends to be way too warm for that, despite the fact that German summer temperatures are nowhere near like they might be in southern Europe.  

My buddy with the hanging bag tended to wear print shirts for the week, and this something I am also not a huge fan of.  I prefer solid colors, and as we know, these solid colors tend to be extremely dark: black or gray.  

All things considered, my polos did just fine for the week, and as Thursday and Friday approached, I quietly wore my henley without too much fuss.  I realized that I had not made too much progress on deciding on what I needed to extend my wardrobe, but told myself to pay attention on the train ride home to see what other businessmen were wearing.  

I got additional opportunities to see how others are dressing because the train that I was booked on had a technical failure.  The replacement train was simply another train that had to route through our station and pick up the additional passengers.  Thus, the train was quite full for the two hour return trip to Frankfurt. 

That was already a bit stressful, because as much as I like train travel, I do not always enjoy the cattle car experience, and Friday afternoon was leaning in that direction. 

The week was busy and very productive, so I sat in my seat, closed my eyes (I had already peeped at the other businessmen and their attire), and thought about clothes.  

I remembered my years in high school and college, when I wore Stan Smiths a whole lot.   I loved that shoe, not only for tennis, but simply because it was a nice basic all rounder.  I should point out that because of it's simplicity, it was an exceptional shoe to use when kicking a hacky sack.   I continued to wear Stans until the mid 90s, when I finally made the change to Sambas, which has been my casual shoe of choice for over 25 years.  

A few years ago, I was slightly surprised to see Stans (and equivalents) showing up more and more often on peoples feet.  I understand that fashion goes in cycles, but the difference this time was that the shoes were being used more formally.  A prime example comes from the morning television show that I watched this past week while getting ready for work.  The moderator wore a slim fitting suit, certainly trendy, but wore Stan Smiths on his feet.  The look works, but is so trendy, that it puts me off.  I do not think I could ever dress like that, but I could easily see my nephew sporting that look.  This is not a negative comment towards my nephew, but just the acknowledgement that people have their styles and looks. 

When I was coming to the end of my time wearing Stans, I still wore khakis semi-regularly, and actually still wore some shirts that maybe didn't have prints, but they might have had more color, and possibly some stripes.  Some of this was because I was still wearing clothes from high school, and there was a time when you had to wear khaki pants because your mom made you.  

One of the very last times that I wore a more colorful shirt was one warm summer evening in 1994. It was a Friday afternoon, and Pablo came by to pick me up so that we could go to my sister's wedding rehearsal.  Both of us were involved in the wedding, Pablo called into action due to the need for Spanish translators as well as being a personal friend not only to me, but also my sister and the rest of my family. 

My mother specifically stated that I was NOT to attend the wedding rehearsal wearing jeans or overly dark clothing, which was my tendency, so I pulled out a shirt, one that I briefly quite liked, that had vertical stripes in a very soft blue and pastel red.  If someone were to see me wearing that today, they would certainly raise an eyebrow, since they are not used to seeing me in something like that.  But, that Friday evening it was the best option.  That and my khaki pants.   Pablo picked me up at my place, handed me a beer from the console in his car, and we enjoyed a happy hour beer as we headed downtown.  Yes, consumption in an automobile was kind of frowned upon, if not illegal, but sometimes you just did it anyway.   

We should have expected traffic, but left it late (casual as we tended to be), and found ourselves arriving to the rehearsal a good 20 minutes after it had started.  No mobiles back then, so no way to tell everyone (particularly mom, who was none too pleased) that we would be delayed. 

The beer tasted good, we had a few laughs, parked, and strolled into the church sanctuary, and thank goodness Pablo turned on the charm and had everyone chuckling within seconds, even though my grandfather (who performed the ceremony) was a bit irritated by the interruption. 

Stateside culture calls for wedding rehearsals to be followed by a rehearsal dinner, an opportunity hosted by (usually) the groom's family with special guests and family members the night before the wedding.  Pablo played a key role in this because the groom's parents did not speak any English, and the bride's parents could not speak any Spanish.  Hence the need for bilingual folks to be strategically placed in the restaurant to help keep the festivities flowing, and to help make everyone feel more comfortable.  You have to appreciate that besides Pablo and a couple of others, the only person who was bilingual was my sister, the bride.  She, of course, was preoccupied with the wedding stuff, and needed less pressure on having to do ALL the translating.  

I no longer remember how many people were at the rehearsal dinner, but we had reserved one of the banquet rooms at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants.  Once all the guests had arrived, my father stood up to make some introductions, welcome everyone, and give a toast or two.  He, himself, was wearing a print shirt, some navy blue thing with kind of a paisley print.  This was kind of style in the early 90s, especially for men of his age when they attempted to do the semi-casual look.  

Truth be told, I had a couple of other shirts very similar to that (thanks J-Crew, those were good times), but was no longer really wearing them; clearly my fashion tastes were already well on their way to jeans, boots, and solid black, grey, or white shirts.  

The beers and margaritas were flowing well that evening, and it was a nice event.  As I was interested in enjoying myself as much as possible while still honoring all my wedding duties that are required of the little brother of the bride, I had whispered to Chris that perhaps he should come by the restaurant for a couple of late beers.  He sauntered in at the appropriate moment when the gathering was starting to break up, and after a beer and a tequila shot or two, Pablo, Chris, and I decided the night indeed was still young, and it was time to venture downtown. 

In those days we were frequently on Elm Street, seeing shows with great frequency.  Two doors down from Trees, one of our favorite venues, there was a nice little bar called the Green Room, which had a roof top terrace that was brilliant.   So, that Friday evening, the three of us headed upstairs, found a table, and relaxed during the lively evening.  August in Texas is known for being hot as shit, and that is not good.  But, every once in awhile, the evenings are not so humid, and not so damn hot.  This particularly evening offered a pleasant breeze, good company, nice beers, and all of it made me forget that I was wearing a goofy colored shirt.  

What I do remember about attire from that evening, is that both my friends were wearing their usual styles.  We have all been friends for over 30 years, and with the exception of my migration along the color spectrum to darker colors, none of us have really changed styles.  Like anyone, we have discussed it maybe once or twice through the years, but always more in passing.  We are simply WYSIWYG kind of people.  We know are styles, are comfortable in those styles, and simply get on with it.  

It was a nice memory to reflect on as I got back to Frankfurt Friday afternoon.  I returned home, threw all my dirty laundry into the washing machine, noticing that when all you wear is darks, there is no hassle with sorting.   

As the workweek came to a satisfying close, I figured that in the coming weeks I may indeed need to venture out to a store or two to update my wardrobe, Bryan style.  There is still a bit of uncertainty on whether my style will mesh well with the workplace, but I will focus on staying as what you see is what you get.  After all, one of my target customers is a start up, and they all recently changed their profile photos on business networking sites from pictures of them in suits to pictures of them in hoodies.  True, it is a start up, and maybe that is the hip thing.  So dealing with an account guy who wear steelies and jeans should not be a real big deal for them.  

I celebrated the start of the weekend with a nice trip to the pub, where I caught up with a few friends, and even met some new people, including a woman wearing a summer dress and Stan Smiths (which I found to be a nice look).  Conversation topics in the pub are always spontaneous and enjoyable, but on the particular evening, taking things as they come and individual styles were discussed.  This served as an excellent reminder that I just need to keep on dressing like I want to dress.  The rest of it will sort itself out all in good time. 

Yep, Friday turned out to be a very late night indeed, and perhaps two or three beers too many.  This is why Saturday I spent a lot of time on the couch, not worrying about my team getting ripped apart by their opponents, and just kept trying to get through the hangover.  

But it was worth it. 

As the last little point for today's post, it once again involves Pablo and Chris.  One of our haunts from the neighborhood, an Irish Pub (gee, really?) apparently closed it's doors with a hint of abruptness.  It arrived 20 years ago just when we needed a new place to go to in Dallas, and we all have fond memories from there.  Both guys informed me via text of the news almost at the exact same moment.    

It just serves as another reminder that as friends, we are never been concerned with what we are wearing on our bodies, but instead where we can hang out and enjoy pints and good chats. 

see you out there

Bryan