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