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