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 

An Action-Packed Week of Grübeln and Eingreifen

Three random events from this past week managed to occupy a fair amount of my time and thoughts.  I feel a little fortunate that they spaced themselves out so I never felt totally overwhelmed. 

It started on Monday evening at the Kiosk.  Although we rarely struggle for conversation topics, there was a brief lull as the three of us stood there. 

"Hey, there is no longer a No Drama Lama ice cream available," Denny said.  

We looked at the poster advertising ice cream bars hanging tantalizingly at kid's eye level and saw that he was right.  

Over the years as we gather each Monday evening at the local Kiosk, we get to watch many people come and go, picking up cigarettes, take away beers, chewing gum, snacks, and of course, ice cream bars.  Often this generates some very interesting experiences, or peculiarities, if you will.  Once, a guy came up to the window and ordered 3 Heinies, an affectionate term for Heineken. 

All of us found this rather amusing, and probably me most of all, since I knew the term from the playground at my elementary school.  "Ha ha ha, he fell on his heinie," some kid would shout gleefully, partly because the incident was funny, but mostly because the word is just funny to say. 

My German friends appreciate this concept of saying funny words, which is why last summer we got kind of curious about the No Drama Lama ice cream bars.  None of us really wanted to purchase the item, but every time a kid walked up to the kiosk, we hoped that they might order one and tell us what it tasted like. At the very least, we were able to say No Drama Lama pretty regularly. 

Monday evening is beer night, so no one is ever looking for a tasty treat.  But, we all comment regularly on our childhood when we did look forward to any time that we got to eat ice cream.  The Kiosk ice cream bar sign gives us a regular reminder of those days. 

And right after we confirmed that there was no more drama or lama, we did look more closely at the Magnum ice cream bars on offer.  I remarked that I was always disappointed that the picture of the ice cream bar was about 10 times bigger than what you actually got to eat.  

So, I went home that night with ice cream bars on the brain.  A friend of mine sometimes experiences that urgent need for ice cream, and from time to time, I go through a brief phase where I want ice cream, too.  

I made a mental note to look in the freezer section of my supermarket during my next shopping run, which was planned for later in the week.  It turned out to be Thursday, and so as to bring this first random incident to a close, I can report that I ate 3 Magnums on Thursday evening, and another 3 last night . 

That is me done with ice cream for the next little while.  The urge hit me, I addressed it, and while 3 ice cream bars in one sitting seems excessive, they were rather small.  

The second incident of the week involved my mobile phone charger.  My mobile has a monster battery in it; I usually have to charge once every 6 or 7 days.  Sure, I am not surfing or doing much of anything that would drain the battery so quickly, but I kind of like seeing how long I can go between charges.  

Last Saturday, however, I encountered a small hiccup. Suddenly, my phone was not performing like I expected it to.  I ended up having to let the device charge overnight, and even then, it was not quite at a full charge.  I decided to wait and see what would happen over the course of the week.  I figured I would monitor the drain on the battery and determine further action.  

Due to a trip to my company headquarters on Wednesday, my phone was a bit more active, as my train app sends me regular alerts during my ride.  ("Hi, your train leaves in one hour!" or "Hi, you have reached your destination!")  While helpful, I do not necessarily need these messages, but also am too lazy to switch off the alert. 

That, combined with a brief video call with my father and grandmother on Thursday night, pretty much had my battery at 4-5% by Friday morning.  I plugged my phone back into the charger, and was somewhat dismayed to see that again, the phone was not taking a charge. 

I have a business trip next week, and rather than find myself with a phone that I truly cannot charge, I made a quick decision to replace the charger, since they can fail from time to time.  I went online, found a suitable charger for my mobile, and placed the order with expedited shipping, so that I would receive my package this morning. 

Sure enough, the DHL guy rang my doorbell at 9am this morning.  I immediately plugged my phone into the new charger, and presto, 2 minutes ago (at around 11h30 in the morning), my device is fully charged. 

Problem solved.  It was the charger and not the phone.  As I sat eating my final Magnum last evening, I wondered when the package would come, and was rather pleased that it came so early in the day.  

The truly thought-provoking event of the week started Wednesday evening.  I was talking to a friend of mine whose son recently developed an interest in playing guitar.  A lot of teens discover music around this age, and I was immediately intrigued.  I have not yet spoken with the son directly, so was asking my buddy a barrage of questions.  What kind of guitar?  How is he learning?  Is he progressing? What kind of music is he playing?

My friend is a fellow music fan; we share very similar tastes.  Over the years we have traded stories about concerts, album listening experiences (which turn into marathons), and can enthusiastically discuss music for hours on end. 

When I received the answer to my question what songs is he learning, I immediately responded, "I do not like that band."

"Me neither," said my friend. 

And that is where the pondering has started.  

What do you do when you don't like the music that your kid is learning to play?

This sounds like a very naive question, and certainly clarifies that I am not a parent.  But, I think back to my own childhood, and all the music lessons I took.  Likewise, I think of all the music I have loved and listened to over the years. 

My parents had their own musical tastes, and while I certainly was exposed to their favorites, I never really became a fan.  Too much happened between their generation and mine, so we never really had overlapping tastes.  In short, I did not like their music too much, and they sure as hell did not like my stuff, whether it be progressive rock like The Who or Yes, or the industrial electronica, the new wave, the ska, and the punk.  My parents took a bit of an issue with the punk, which I guess I can understand to some degree. 

The difference now is that my friend's kid is liking music and bands that my friend is very familiar with. In fact, he probably already has some of the albums, has seen the band in concert, or whatever, simply because the generations are a little more closely aligned.  

My dilemma, despite the fact that it really is none of my business, is that because my own passion for music is the same as my friend, we have a tendency to express our opinions, usually in a friendly way. Back in high school I might have been a bit more aggressive when making statements like, "that band is crap," or "I hate that album."  Over the years, I toned that down a bit, so as not to kick someone's legs out from underneath them. 

After all, if you want to listen to a shitty album, go right ahead.  

That seems like a snobbish remark, but I mean it very politely and respectfully.  My tastes are my tastes, and someone else's tastes are their own.  I do not expect someone to love all the things that I listen to, and everyone is free to express their opinion. 

That being said, when I started playing more and more rock piano, my parents were not familiar with any of the stuff that I was learning or playing.  The closest thing my parents could relate to was Jerry Lee Lewis, but I was not playing that kind of rock piano.  

Sure, my parents encouraged me to pursue my musical interest, my passion for piano, expression, etc.  And likewise, my friend is also encouraging his son to take the interest as far he wants.  To be clear, it is very early days, but we shall see. 

Right, so I think I am doing a lousy job of expressing my point.  For me, my musical tastes were so distant from my folks, that we simply had a mutual respect that we each had favorites.  If I think of my mother, I think immediately of Nat King Cole or Frank Sinatra.  My dad was a pretty big Elvis fan, and also quite likes country western music.  

In my friend's case, it is a different situation.  He and his son are listening to remarkably similar stuff, from pretty much the same era. Like my friend, I never listened to bands just to irritate my folks (well, ok, maybe a few times), but I did really find myself enjoying the alternative stuff, which has that connotation with rebellion. 

Now, my friend and his son are listening to these same bands, and it is simply a musical taste issue.  I think part of me would want my kid liking my music, but the other part of me wants to keep my music for myself.  And selfishly, I would prefer my child not to develop a liking for the bands I did not like from my own adolescence, however unfair that sounds. 

I am certainly not going to solve this question here, and probably will never quite get my head around it, but as I play a Joy Division album later today, I am quite sure that some 15 year old, somewhere, is also listening to it, and perhaps even liking it.  Despite the 30 year gap, I would be curious as to what made them choose the record, since I cannot see how a youth of today could really connect with JD, other than the music is brilliant. 

And who knows? Maybe my dad will show up in Germany next visit wearing a Siouxsie shirt and wanting to talk with me about the JAMC.  

see you out there

bryan

 

Eine Roller-coaster Woche oder Zwei

This time last Saturday, I was sitting at home thinking of how to start the week's post.  Not just start it, but also finish it.  And put in the middle part, too. 

The previous week had been good, if not pretty darn good, but somehow I was at a loss as to how to formulate some thoughts on to paper.  Rather than waste away the Saturday sitting in front of the laptop, I got on with things and expected the thoughts to flow, eventually on to paper.  No luck. 

Sunday was not much better from a "sit down and bang out a post" perspective, but I made up for it by catching up on the domestic chores; the sheets got changed, the floors got hoovered and mopped, and orange oil cleaner had my bathroom smelling like a little orange grove.  

This past week started well, and once or twice I announced to myself "I am all clean," in that way that a child says upon coming out of the bathtub.  (Hey, it works for me).  Monday evening was our first return to the Kiosk for the traditional Monday gathering.  It was great to be back in front of Papri's Kiosk, but it was also a little awkward for us. For the past three months we had been gathering on a quiet plaza, where we hardly came into contact with anyone.  The sudden contrast to suddenly having lots of people walking by on the street, as well as making purchases at the Kiosk was something that all of us commented on.  

A big advantage of being back on the main street is the opportunity to see folks that (in many cases) we had not seen in some time.  Sure enough, a couple that I know very well stopped to chat with us for a few minutes as they were making their way home.  It was great to see them and exchange news, find out about the family, recent happenings, etc.  This past week was technically the Kerb, which is a 414 year old festival that starts on a Saturday (last Saturday) and ends on a Wednesday.  The Monday in between is usually a semi-quiet evening, but during Kerb, our Kiosk evenings always had a little extra something, especially since semi-quiet is a relative term.  Mondays during Kerb have an extra little buzz. 

Indeed, there were a fair amount of folks out and about on Monday evening. Pleasant weather during the summer months just allows an opportunity that people do not want to pass up.  They want to be outside. Again, because we had gone so many months without seeing so many people all at one time, it required a little adjustment period. This also gave us more things to observe and comment on. 

Take e-scooters, for example.  These have been increasingly more popular in Germany over the past year, despite the pandemic.  This summer particularly has shown an increased number of vehicles on the streets.  There are several companies who offer the rental services, which effectively enables one to rent the scooter on demand, take it to wherever they want to go, then park.  

I do not have a tremendous problem with this new "craze."  It makes sense, is eco-friendly, and gives us something more to talk about.  The issue I really have is with the rider's behavior.  Last summer I was a little apprehensive about the number of accidents that would be caused, since my previous job had involved a manufacturer of such vehicles; Italy and Spain went first to market, and a couple of years ago they went through very similar challenges.  But, I am still not talking about guys double or triple riding (which is illegal) or riding while intoxicated (which is also illegal).  I am actually over those things. 

What bugs me, is the simple disregard that the riders have upon arrival at their destination.  They simply stop, and get off the vehicle.  

That could be in front of someone's house door, or simply on the sidewalk. 

This is my issue.  

From our Kiosk vantage point that evening, we watched multiple people just abandon the scooter wherever the hell they felt like.  This obviously creates a bit of a nuisance to those pedestrians who have to circumnavigate the bulky thing, which is equally annoying and dangerous.  

As we were standing there that night, I was reminded of my childhood when we finished riding our bikes.  From time to time, we might have arrived home needing to take an urgent trip to the bathroom, and because of that, we might have left our bike in the middle of the driveway or perhaps not in it's correct parking spot in the garage. 

The obvious problem, of course, is when someone arrived home from work in a car (let's call him Dad) to find that he could not park his car in the driveway or garage, because someone left their bike in the way. 

In my household, we had a few chats about things like this, and as a result, I did learn to think about my actions, and not least of all, on how to make sure my bike was properly parked. 

I see the same opportunity on the streets of Germany.  What is dismaying is that the (predominate) age group or e-scooter riders should KNOW better than to simply leave something lying dangerously as an obstacle in the pedestrian path of someone older, younger, or simply not paying attention. 

Biking rules are pretty strict, and it is rather amazing how cyclists, of which there are many, take particular care to park (and lock) their bikes in appropriate places.  What is hard for me to understand is that a cyclist is just as likely to park an e-scooter without this same level of attention and care.  That makes no sense to me. 

As you might have noticed, this topic bugs me.  As we stood there Monday evening, we discussed our frustrations about the whole thing, and also recognized that cities and regions are also finding it difficult to combat the problem.  One of the ideas being kicked around is to keep charging the rider if the scooter is not parked in a proper place.  How to facilitate that is a pretty good question. 

I finished the Monday evening not by solving the problem, but by talking enthusiastically with Ali about the start of the football season. 

While I don't want to say that the e-scooter problem is ruining my life, I will admit that I was feeling a little down on Tuesday morning, but told myself to make it a good day.  The work day did go well enough, and at 18h, I logged in to my online German course, which was restarting after a week's hiatus. 

At the end of the previous week, I had received a message from the language learning company informing me that a new teacher was set to continue our courses.  I confirmed with them that I still had six remaining sessions (at 90 minutes each), and while I am still a little irritated about how the previous teacher was treated, I was open for the next stage of this saga. 

Well, it turns out that I was the only student present on Tuesday.  I had no explanation as to where the other students were, but figured I would simply take advantage of the one on one session.  The teacher was competent enough, but was located in another country.  I had no problem with that, but was a little irritated that the instructor was not a native speaker.  Despite the competence of the guy, I found it difficult to get engaged in the class.  I prefer a very informal, personable learning experience, and this guy is the exact opposite.  

Because we were just the two, I had sufficient time (all in German, of course) to explain how the previous class had been structured (rather unstructured, truth be told), and then proceeded to explain my background, my previous learning experiences, etc.  Despite the fact that my German was almost flawless, it immediately became clear that he was simply going through the motions, and not listening to me. 

I had just gotten through explaining that the class was almost through (we started in May), when he finally realized that we only had a handful of sessions remaining.  The whole 90 minute session was kind of a stressful situation, since he wanted to do things his way without considering the current situation. In short, he did not have the ability to react and be flexible. 

I was really hacked at the end of Tuesday evening, which did nothing but sour my mood.  I tried to look at things from his side, and did concede that he had been called into action kind of spontaneously, and in fairness, I think he is the type of online language instructor that can be very effective. 

Let us just say that we did not immediately hit it off. 

As usually happens when things are bugging me, my body responds.  I woke up Wednesday feeling like I had been kicked in the gut, and these tummy troubles found a way to stay with me over the next couple of days. 

I met up with some friends Wednesday evening at the pub, and as enjoyable as it was, I could not help looking at things from the negative perspective.  This would have been Bernemer Mittwoch, the highlight night of the Kerb.  Instead of thousands of people getting absolutely blotto in the plaza in front of my house, it was just another summer evening.  Ironically, I am no longer quite the fan of the huge gatherings, but I missed it all the same. 

Thursday was a pretty rough day, and not just because of the one too many beers the previous evening. My stomach continued to act up, there were a couple of work challenges that intimidated me, and to top it off, I was set to have another session with a teacher who did not seem to listen. 

I pulled it together, and logged on at the appropriate time, and was delighted that one of my classmates showed up.  She is the other student in our group that has been in Germany the longest, and while she is a bit quiet, I did realize that she is rather clever, not only as a German student but also in her profession.  

Of course, she had not yet had an experience with our teacher, so we went through another little rodeo, but as we finished our 90 minutes, I did feel better about the course structure.  I had opened up to the idea that not every teacher is going to be the same, and my priority was to learn and get something out of the experience, which I did.  

I celebrated with some beef taquitos and an episode of Inspector Barnaby (in German) before going to bed at the unusually early hour of 22h. 

Friday morning, I woke up with that anticipation of "opening day."  Football was starting up again, and because of the interest in television rights and money, most leagues now have one of the matches played on a Friday evening.  Arsenal were scheduled in the season opener, against a small team that just got promoted to the top league after 74 (yes, that number is correct) years.  

I started the day early, got my leg exercises out of the way, started working early so that I could nip out mid-morning to get a haircut.  The work week was wrapping up rather nicely: meetings have been going well, and preparations for next week were also looking good.  The weather was nice, although perhaps a tiny bit too warm, and I was looking forward to the weekend and the start of football. 

My last meeting was at 14h with a couple of guys in the US.  I decided that I would finish up a little early, so after our call, I made a quick shopping run, and then put myself in weekend mode. 

As part of my Friday routine, I normally pick up some pizza, then decide whether to have a quiet evening on the couch with hot pizza and a movie, or spend a couple of hours in the pub, eating cold pizza a bit later. 

This routine actually requires a bit of planning, as I tend to check in with my father on Friday afternoon or evening. Once or twice in recent weeks, no sooner have I phoned my pizzeria and placed a takeout order when suddenly my father is on skype.  When this happens, I have to cut our call short so that I can pop down the street and pick up the pies. 

Last evening started a bit more smoothly.  Around 17h, Dad called, and I figured I could arrange for my pizzas after we finished.  He and I caught up on the week's events, and we discussed the sad state of politics in the home state, where it seems they are determined to beat out Florida to see who can fuck things up the most with regard to health and safety of the people.  

This is another topic that is really bugging me as of late, particularly since it stands to affect my family and friends.  Although my father and I do not have identical views, they are very similar, and I am comforted to know that he remains in the more logical and pragmatic group of a seemingly increasingly divided state.  I will take another deep breath as I write this:  I respect people's opinions, but I do start to take issue with people making decisions that will put the health of my family and friends in jeopardy, for no reason other than sheer selfishness. 

I am tired of having to explain to German friends why things are so out of whack in the country where I grew up, and the exhaustion comes not only from having to repeat myself, but the fact that I simply do not understand why it is so out of whack.  I am very capable player when it comes to gray areas, but when something is so black and white, come on. 

But, Dad and I found more positive things to discuss, and at the end of our call, I made my phone call to my favorite pizzeria. 

No answer. 

After two more attempts, I suspected that they were closed, likely on holiday, which is kind of normal for Italian places in Germany during the month of August. 

To be absolutely sure, and with plan B already prepared, I walked the few minutes up the hill around the corner to the place.  Sure enough, closed for a week of holiday. 

Plan B was immediately put into action, so I walked back down the street, stepping over no less than 4 e-scooters randomly lying on their sides on the sidewalk as I headed for my alternative pizzeria, who were just back from vacation, themselves. 

I placed my order at the window, then stood at a table just enjoying the Friday early evening.  No sooner had I lit a cigarette in the sunny start to the evening, out of nowhere a wind blew in, and suddenly it was raining buckets.  It started literally out of thin air, and caught EVERYONE by surprise.  

It was just going six o'clock, and about every patio table on the Berger was filled with folks out starting their weekends.  Those people still on their way home from work normally jealously look at people sipping their beers at all the establishments, knowing full well that they will be right back outside after they change out of their work clothes.  Last evening, most of them were sprinting by, as you do when you fruitlessly try to outrun a downpour.  

I have been there myself, and was grateful that I was already in my casual gear, which was getting fairly soaked even as I stood under one of the umbrellas covering a table.  Water was collecting quickly, I noticed my shoes getting soaked, and I managed to see some guy in a suit do a reasonable reenactment of an Olympic hurdler as he navigated the various e-scooters parked (loosely) haphazardly on the sidewalk.  

This little pizzeria does a fair amount of business, and they are pretty quick.  I expected about a 15 minute wait, and indeed, that was all it took.  The rainstorm lasted 20 minutes, which meant that I, too, had to paddle home with my pizzas in tow.  

No sooner had I walked inside my flat did the rain cease, the sun came back out, and I checked to make sure no water had seeped through the pizza box.  

Klimawandel?  

Absolutely. 

Since I have been in Germany I have never experienced a situation where the weather forecast was 100% different than reality.  I understand that most meteorologists around the world are never going to get it right all the time, but this was crazy.  

Slightly soggy, I decided to go ahead and have a few slices of pizza.  Arsenal were not due to play for another three hours.  I was in that quandary where if I went directly to the pub, I would consume way too many beers BEFORE the match, which was something I wanted to avoid.  On the other hand, I knew that a bit of pizza and some couch time might just lure my body into a "ooh, we are not going anywhere tonight." situation, which I also wanted to avoid. 

In the end, I let my Arsenal buddy down, and switched on the match from the comfort of my living room.  The excitement of opening day quickly wore off as the team never really got going.  Their freshly promoted opponents clearly came prepared to the game, and put on a very good display.  They thoroughly deserved their victory.  I did watch until the end, trading messages with Erik and Chris, where the words "Oofta," and "It is going to be a long season," were thrown about with conviction. 

So, I must say, it was not the way I wanted my evening to go, nor for my team to start their season, but hey, we know that we have to take it as it comes. 

Part of me is glad to have the match out of the way, so that I can now enjoy the rest of the weekend, keeping alert for e-scooter obstacles on the sidewalk and sudden rainstorms out of nowhere. And I won't even have to worry about those when I do my German homework. 

see you out there

bryan

Under My Thumb

Earlier this week I jotted down some notes about a possible topic I wanted to cover in this week's post.  It had to do with a family trip to the Astrodome to see SMU play a football game.  I will likely come back to the topic, but today it is being preempted in order to talk about the real excitement that I had this week.

It all started in the kitchen, harmlessly enough, and by that I mean, I am not sure exactly when it happened.  In truth, I was not sure what happened.  Sunday afternoon I cooked some chicken, and seem to remember slightly burning myself when I touched the skillet.  Monday, I was putting something in the oven and apparently might have done the same thing.  Neither incident was more than a "Dang, that was hot," before I quickly moved on to other more comfortable tasks.  

Monday evening, however, I was chatting with some friends in the park, and started noticing that my left thumb was a little sore.  I was aware of the thumb, but did not really think much more about it. 

Tuesday afternoon came, and I was distracted by a little drama involving my German class.  My teacher has been very upfront and open about her recent move to Berlin and all the hectic things that come with getting settled in a new city.  In the class whatsapp group, a couple of students had already indicated that they would not be present, and about an hour before class, two other students had to cancel.  The teacher quickly polled the rest of us, then elected to simply postpone the class due to not enough participants.  In short, she has tried to adapt her schedule and our schedules.  Most of us in the class are working full time, and despite the home office environment, it can be busy.  

I actually did not see all the whatsapp messages until about 20 minutes before class, after having finished a rather busy work day myself.  I quickly discovered that our classes for the week had been pushed out until next week.  I had no issue with this.  In fact, most of the students have never expressed any problem with this whatsoever.  

Unfortunately, on this particular evening, one of the students did take issue, and started writing aggressive texts in the group requesting that the teacher take immediate action and get us a substitute.  The teacher responded civilly and clearly, indicating that we would not lose our class time, and it was good to be a little flexible.  Again, I should point out that no one in this virtual class is having to drive across town to get to their class.  They simply login from their living room (where they likely have spent much of their working day already) and presto. 

I took advantage of the evening by having an earlier dinner (as opposed to waiting until class was over) and sat down to watch a couple of hours of television.  My thumb was starting to bother me, and I wondered if I had inadvertently sprained it during some of my exercising over the previous few days. I did not really think so, but I could come up with no other explanation. 

Wednesday morning, I woke up early and made an effort to complete by workout before starting the work day.  One of the advantages to home workout and home office is that I have a bit more flexibility with certain activities.  Though I rarely do so, I could effectively finish a set before a conference call, then do the second after the conference call, and so on.  Just knowing I have that option is cool for me. 

This week is deadlift week, and I must say that jumping out of bed in the morning and going straight to the dumbbell rack to bang out the reps is not a thrilling idea.  Thus, I try to give myself an hour or so before I launch into the activity.  But, here is the dilemma.  It is not as if I am getting up 2 or 3 hours before the work day.  Typically, I might be up at 7.30, and will be online within 30 minutes.  That is a little tight to get the workout in, get a shower, and get the day going. 

So, this particular Wednesday was fortuitous, as not only did I get up earlier, I felt ready to get the deadlifts and other exercises (it was back day) completed quickly.  I realized as I grabbed the dumbbells that I did not have the grip strength in my left hand, largely because my left thumb was suddenly almost twice the size of my right thumb. 

About the time I realized how swollen it was, I started noticing the pain.  Determined not to let it prevent me from getting the workout in, I persevered, got everything done, took a shower, then made my first coffee, and almost dropped the portafilter.  For those of you who are not baristas, this part is where you put the coffee grounds, then put it into the machine so that the coffee comes through the filter.  For those of you who have an interest in the German word for a portafilter, it is der Siebträger.  

Wednesday was already a bit of an emotional day.  It happened to be the date of my mother's birthday, and while I think of my mother at least daily, I choose to have extra special thoughts of her each year on the 28th of July.  Furthermore, I tend to think about the fact that so many people who happened to know my mother are also remembering her birthday on that date.  So all of us are thinking about her at the same time, and I really like that thought.  I am feeling fuzzy right now as I write about it. 

That being said, it made for a sentimental day, and there I was with a huge left thumb that was hurting like hell.  I did manage to get the coffee made, and had just about convinced myself that I had not sprained my thumb, but instead somehow burned it, but still was not sure. 

Around midmorning, my phone chirped with a message from my German teacher.  Somehow, one of the students had complained to the language school, the school then contacted the teacher with the escalation, and the teacher abruptly quit.  Her message, perhaps slightly more eloquently written, indicated that she was stepping away and she wished all of us good luck. 

I immediately reached out to her privately, wincing as I typed with both thumbs.  (No, Pablo, swiping would not have been any better...it was like playing golf with basketball instead of a golfball)  My teacher responded with an audio message (gee..why did I not think of that), basically indicating that she felt hurt and insulted that the student had reacted in that way, and because of her current situation with the move, being away from family, and stuff, she elected not to put up with the additional headache. 

I responded with words of support, and told her how sorry I was that this had happened.  She acknowledged the kind words, and we agreed to stay in contact.  

The whole incident was blown out of proportion and it is really irritating.  I am not even sure if we will still have our four remaining classes, scheduled for next week and the week after.  The fact that one, only one, student raised a stink, for really no reason other than pure selfishness, really bugs me.  Not only that, every one of us in the class has already done a similar move to Germany, and all of us had a tough tricky experience.  We all know how stressful moves can be.  Besides all of this, the teacher was trying to accommodate all of the students, and that is sort of special.  It is vacation period right now, so the odds are, somebody is not going to be in attendance.  

The incident continued to bug me throughout the day.  I am not even sure that all the students have completely understood that the teacher has quit.  You might recall in recent posts that not every student has quite achieved the same level of comprehension, let alone writing or speaking ability.  So, on all fronts, a minor incident has blown out of proportion, and as a result, I am without a German teacher. 

Mom thoughts, negative class thoughts, and a thumb continuing to hurt like hell did absolutely nothing to improve the course of the day.  In fact, the thumb found a way to take control of my thoughts, and I was rather unproductive during the afternoon, as I got very absorbed in the pain and my concern for what the fuck had really happened.  

In short, I was feeling like I was under my thumb.  

True, my imagination kind of took off as I sought to explain what had happened.  I really just wanted to know what event had triggered the pain.  This is normally not my standard approach to this kind of problem solving (at least, in recent years).  Instead, I try to focus on what might be bugging me (consciously or subconsciously), as this tends to be a source of the physical pain. 

Indeed, I did have a few things on my mind, and that was certainly contributing to the pain in my thumb, but what was really bothering me is that it was feeling like I had burned it, but there was no blister. Yes, indeed, readers, I have encountered a fair amount of burns that I have suffered while cooking in the kitchen.  Several years ago, I spilled some hot grease on my right thumb, and as you can  imagine, it hurt like fucking hell.  

Since I did not have a blister as such, I was really confused as to why my thumb was so swollen, and why it felt like a burn, but the wound was not behaving like a burn.  Rather than just accept it and plan  to observe it over the next day or two, I lost control of my thoughts.  I think this is what irritates me most of all.  I dislocated my knee while playing hacky sack back in college, and that pain was excruciating, but I did not let it get the best of me.  Why am I now struggling with this concept? Where is the fearless Bryan from college?

I spent a little time meditating Wednesday afternoon, then decided to distract myself further by playing a little piano, which took some effort, considering one of the digits has to be involved.  As the work day finished, I checked in with my father to see how he was doing on this special day.  It was a good, albeit brief, chat, but it put me in a better mood, which ultimately helped me to decide to go on to the pub that evening to meet up with a few friends who have a regular meet up each Wednesday night. 

As we sat outside at one of the tables, I was conscious about the size of my thumb, which felt bigger that it really looked.  Actually, it was not like I could really feel the thumb, anyway.  I carefully held my beer glass with my right hand, and when it came time to use the zippo, I had to switch hands, as my left thumb normally turns the wheel that lights the flint. That was completely impossible, considering my thumb size, pain, etc. 

The evening served as a nice distraction, and I enjoyed the company of the group, and even bumped into another friend I had not seen since the lockdowns started.  We had a chance to catch up, which resulted in one beer too many. 

The beer probably helped, as I slept fairly soundly Wednesday evening, and did not notice my thumb whatsoever.  That kind of confirmed that it was certainly not a muscle strain or sprain, since those injuries tend to flare up with any (however slight) movement. 

Thursday morning came, and I noticed immediately that my thumb was less swollen.  I got on with the day, and enjoyed it.  

Friday morning came, and it looks like my thumb is on its way to healing.  I continued to be fascinated by how the mind approaches such situations, and why there continues to be this tendency to always think so negatively and fearfully.  And, how the sense of relief that floods you as soon as your brain comes to terms with the situation. 

The working day finished on a pretty positive note Friday afternoon, and I brought the work week to a close.  I arranged to pick up a couple of pizzas at my local pizzeria and  bring them home so that they would be waiting for me later in the evening.  I then spent the next couple of hours outside the pub, collecting my thoughts, greeting some friends, thinking about the week, feeling happy that my thumb could work my zippo again, and just appreciating things for what they are. 

see you out there

bryan

News from Lake Wo...erm, FFM

On top of all the other cool things that my parents introduced me to in my childhood, they got me in the habit of listening to a Prairie Home Companion, a long running radio show.  Probably my favorite feature in the program was the "News from Lake Wobegon," where Garrison Keillor starts the monologue with "Well, it's been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, my hometown," then proceeds to tell a witty story involving the little town and its inhabitants.  I enjoy these stories tremendously, as did my parents. 

Over the years it has been common for someone in our family to reference Lake Wobegon in our conversations, particularly when we are skyping with each other. I lost count of the times that my mother might wrap up a lengthy chat with me by saying, "And that is the news from LW."  Or, my father might make a comment about "the women being being strong, the men good-looking, and the children being above average." 

Yesterday it was my turn.  

Around 4.15pm, after having just finished kind of the last conference call of the day, I was just collecting my thoughts while I checked my private laptop, which sits in a different room from my work station (ie..my company laptop setup).   For obvious reasons, I only have skype (which I use for private purposes only) installed on my private laptop.  Suddenly I received a skype call, my father calling to check in. 

"How's your week going? Where have you been?" he asked, right off the bat. 

I kind of reminded him of the time difference and the fact that I was just finishing up the work day, and the work week, as it were. 

And then I said, "Well, it's been a quiet week in Frankfurt, my home town," making a slight reference to the well known quote. (artistic license is allowed here.  Feel free to use whichever city or town you want to use should you feel the need to say the line). 

With my return to work this year, the one slight drawback is that I no longer am able to have such frequent lengthy chats with my father.  While I do miss the daily chats we had, I am currently enjoying having a little more substance to talk about.  Work, reduced restrictions with regard to the pandemic, and perhaps most important of all, having the opportunity to get out and see people again are all providing much more engaging conversation topics.  Just six or seven months ago, a typical daily question was something like, "Hey, have the colors of your walls changed since I talked to you yesterday?" and that might have been the highlight of the week. 

So, yesterday afternoon I gave my father the weekly update, basically catching up on all the news since he and I spoke the previous Saturday. 

It turns out that it was not that quiet of week after all. 

On Monday, I contacted my nephew to wish him a happy 19th birthday.  I was glad to speak with him on the telephone.  Like many teenagers, he is not particularly chatty or communicative, but our conversation, while only lasting 15 minutes or so, was enjoyable; I really liked speaking with him.  I asked him about his drivers education course and he mentioned that he was progressing along, hoping to sit his exam at the end of the summer.  Meanwhile, I told him my own tale about going to the DL office in Frankfurt a few weeks ago, and went on to state that I was feeling a little ignored, as my follow up email to them almost three weeks before (where I provided the needed documentation) had not yet been answered.  We finished our little chat, I told him Happy Birthday one more time, and then went downstairs to check the mail. 

Sitting in my letter box was a formal looking envelope, and upon opening it, I found my newly issued German DL.  

And that, friends, is called a tick in the box. 

After finishing my work day, I headed down the street to pick up a few beers before walking to the local park to meet up with some friends for our normal Monday evening gathering.  En route, I passed a friend of mine sitting by himself in a cafe.  He and I had just discussed music a few days prior, so seeing him reminded me to send him a track or two of my own stuff.  

At the park, I proudly showed off the new addition to my wallet, and one of the guys wanted to compare my license with that of an actual German license holder.  Truth be told, the licenses are pretty identical, though mine does clearly point out that my original license was issued in another country. 

One of the noticeable differences between a US license and that from Germany is that the German license is simply the valid authorization to drive.  It is not used for identification, like the US licenses tend to be.  Germans (and myself) have a different ID card for that purpose. 

On the back of my new license, rather than simply stating which driving class I belong to, there is a complete list showing both the class and also a little picture illustrating what the class really is.  There are about 20 driving classes, ranging from motor scooter to a commercial truck.  There is a little section where each class where I am authorized is clearly marked.  It turns out that in addition to a standard automobile, I am also allowed to drive a moped (so long as it does not exceed a speed of 30 mph), and curiously enough, I am allowed to drive a tractor. 

This I find as an unexpected bonus.  In all my years of driving, it has never crossed my mind to inquire about the ability to drive farm vehicles, but now I am quietly trying to figure out if I know any Germans who have a farm close by.  

Monday evenings are always enjoyable, and as we wrapped things up around 10pm, I decided to peek in at the pub as I passed by on my way home.  This license thing was a real (self induced) stressful thing, and I was still feeling relieved to have finally completed the task.  So, I was not quite ready to stop the celebrations, and texted another friend to see if he felt like coming down for a couple of quick beers. 

A few minutes later, he and I were standing outside catching up and enjoying the pleasant evening, when one of the waitresses walked up.  It was her night off, which is why she approached us while eating an ice cream cone and carrying a guitar.  She sat with us for a few minutes, and we got to talking about the guitar she had just received.  I have known this girl for several years, and once or twice have mentioned in these posts that she is a rather talented musician.  My Monday evening finished on a very positive high as she and I chatted about her music, how she composes, and all the points involved with starting a music career. (This girl does have a music contract with a label, and has multiple singles released). 

Tuesday was pretty quiet in comparison to Monday, but quiet is good.  My German class went well, and I finished the evening with a little Taco Tuesday and an episode or two of Inspector Barnaby (as Midsomer Murders is known here). 

Wednesday involved a visit to the barber after work, and then I met up with another group of friends as part of their Wednesday group.  Due to illness and vacation, there were only a couple of folks from the group in attendance, but it enabled us to share a table with a couple of other pub guests.  We chatted with them a little bit, as you tend to do when you are sitting outside at a pub on a summer evening.  We were all heavy into our conversation when my cafe friend from Monday night walked up, excused himself for the interruption, then proceeded to scold me for not sharing the music tracks with him before.  He enthusiastically complimented me on my ability, saying he really enjoyed listening to them, but was irritated that he had known me for 10 years and never knew that I played.  I was rather touched, since I certainly had not expected such a reaction.  True, I have been complimented before, even rather recently, but I don't really anticipate that kind of thing.  

Because of my friend's outburst, the other people at the table (who I do not know quite as well) were curious about just what music I am playing.  So, I ended up sharing a few more audio files with them, and so it goes.   As several readers already know, I am a reluctant performer, and this extends to even sharing such audio tracks.  Yes, I have passed them around to several folks, but mostly within a circle of friends, more so than acquaintances.  I remain pretty open, always wear my heart on my sleeve, but do have my limits when it comes to shoving my material on others.  (This blog is a slight exception, but since it is in the public domain and has an audience of about six, I think it is OK)

Thursday afternoon, my German teacher had to abruptly cancel class, as she had an urgent appointment to look at a new flat for her and her family.  Flat searching in Germany is really a challenge, so you have to be quick, aggressive, and hope like hell that luck is on your side.   Effectively having a free evening, and because the work day had been a bit challenging, I returned to the pub to (hopefully) have a couple of quiet beers by myself before returning home for an early night. 

It was a good call, as I got to experience something that I have been wishing to happen for many many years.  

There has always been a fair amount of dogs in Frankfurt, and one gets very used to seeing people out walking their pets up and down the streets, in the park, or wherever.  Some people have bigger dogs, which I am not so sure is a great idea, simply because we live in an urban environment, and my opinion is that big dogs need bigger places to run and play.  My flat is only about 70 square meters, which can become a little cramped when more than two people are here.  Imagine having a retriever or rather large dog in the same space, it just would not be fair to anyone. 

That being said, I cannot speak for everyone else, but do recognize that people, particularly when the weather is pleasant, like to take their pets with them when they go out to socialize.  Most restaurants and pubs, especially outside, are pet friendly.  My own local has little water bowls for the dogs on those extremely warm summer days.  Most of the other pubs and cafes have a similar policy. 

So, I was in my usual place outside the pub, minding my own business, and watching the world go by, when I noticed two couples sitting across from one another at a table under the canopy that the pub had set up for additional protection against rain.  Keep in mind that most restaurants still have very limited indoor seating.  Along with that, summer in Germany is the time when everyone wants to be outside, even more so now after the recent restrictions have finally been lifted.  The problem has been that we have had a fair amount of rain during June and parts of July.  To deal with this, the pub put up a tent kind of thing to cover some of the patio tables.  One side of the tent is closed, so as to block some of the noise from the neighborhood, as well as to keep the pub noise away from the rest of the neighborhood. 

The great thing about outside seating is that you usually have a 360 degree view of what is happening in the vicinity, and there tends to be a lot going on in my neighborhood.  With one side of the tent closed off, those sitting at a table have a little less visibility. 

So, these two couples were sitting there, enjoying their evening, enjoying having their pet dog (a medium sized cocker spaniel) sitting under the table, attached to his lead.  

Well, another couple was walking their dog along the street, which meant they were going to pass right through the pub terrace.  Because no one could see each other, no one immediately noticed the proximity of the two dogs: one on a lead, and the other roaming free. 

Clearly, the cocker spaniel had something to say to the other dog, and jumped up from his place under the pub table and ran towards the other dog, which caused his lead to trap the two people sitting on the bench against their table.  Suddenly, glasses were spilling and breaking, beer was flowing all over a lady's lap, and the dog was doing his best to drag the bench (still attached to his lead) with him, effectively carrying the two people along with him.  

I had a front row seat to this, and it was awesome. 

Neither dog was particularly mean, and I really would not use the word aggressive but rather enthusiastic.  Like all of us, they, too, have been kind of cooped up during recent months, so why not get excited when you get a chance to see someone (even another breed) again?

There are a couple of known "mean" dogs in the neighborhood, dogs that are not quite so good-natured around other dogs, and I have learned to use a little bit of caution in such situations.  One of the factors that can make this tricky is that some owners regularly use a lead, while others allow their pets free range to do whatever.  This can result in the odd dog skirmish, but usually things never get totally out of hand. 

The difference in Thursday's entertainment was that both dogs were really happy, and both owners were caught off guard at the reactions of their pets.  The lady who got the lap full of beer was the owner of the cocker, and within minutes she was actually laughing about the experience. 

At any rate, I would happily pay money to see this kind of thing more regularly, particularly because no person or pet was hurt, and pub glassware is regularly broken anyway. 

It truly was a highlight of the week, and as I finished my report to my father, I said as such.  Getting a DL and seeing a dog wipe out a couple of people sitting at a picnic table makes for a pretty good week, in my book. 

I returned to the pub for a few Friday evening beers just to start the weekend.  No dog activity to speak of, but then again, I did not stay out so long.  By close to 21h, I was home catching a French movie dubbed into German, and by 23h I was in bed asleep. 

So that's the report from Frankfurt, where Bryan had a good week, the dogs are lively, and people are enjoying themselves. 

See you out there

bryan

  

Enjoying Getting Enough ZZZs

I woke up this morning feeling relaxed, refreshed, and just pretty darn good.  I lay in bed for a few minutes staring at the ceiling, just allowing my thoughts to wander, when I realized that I have actually been sleeping really well for the past couple of weeks. 

As always, there are plenty of things on my mind, and we know that our thoughts can prove very distracting and can really impact our restful sleep.  Last Sunday night, I stayed up to watch the end of the Euro Final, which went to extra time and penalties.  Thus, it was late when I went to bed, and because of the dramatic events in the final, I found it difficult to fall asleep; I was pretty wound up because of the tension (I find penalty shootouts extremely nerve wracking, even if I am a neutral observer). 

It is not always the case, but frequently well intended, positive statements have an opposite effect on me.  For example, when someone simply says, "Don't get nervous," directly before I have to do any public speaking, or have a job interview, or any activity that involves an opportunity to be very self-conscious, I tend to get particularly flappy and extra nervous, which can be very frustrating. 

Other examples include when someone says, "Don't screw this up," or "Hey, do not miss your penalty kick."  

Yep, you can imagine what happens next:  a huge cock up, and regarding the shot, the ball goes over the bar or directly into the keeper's hands. 

I have always been fascinated by the statement "break a leg," in the theater world, noting that an element of superstition is involved.  How well the statement works, I have no idea, but people have been saying it for almost 100 years, so there must be something to it. 

Of course, when it comes to nighty-night, and the fact that I live on my own, it is less frequent for me to hear (or say) "Sleep well!" before bedtime.  Maybe after a late night out at the pub or a restaurant, I might receive "Schlaf gut!" from someone as we go our separate ways and head home to bed.  Sure, my folks would tell me to have a nice sleep as they finished a bedtime story and tucked me in, but that was obviously a long time ago. 

Unlike penalty kicks or public speaking, when someone DOES tell me to sleep well, I do not experience the extreme opposite.  Thus, upon hearing a polite adieu, (like from the pleasant night clerk at the hotel who says goodnight as you walk upstairs to your hotel room) I do not necessarily sleep more restlessly or endure scarier than normal nightmares.  At least I do not remember doing so.  I simply sleep. 

Obviously there are several factors involved in getting a good nights sleep.  My point here is that for me it all comes down to what I am thinking about, and how I am dealing with those thoughts. 

The particular significance about my couple of weeks of noticeably good, restful sleep is the fact that I am not allowing my thoughts to get the best of me.  And I am not thinking about things too much.  In short, I am not trying too hard to deliberately get a restful sleep, but instead just allowing things to happen. 

This is not certainly to say that I am not deeply troubled by the reaction of fans to the young players who did not convert their penalty kicks last Sunday evening.  Or the tragic events this week in Germany and Belgium where suddenly towns and people have just been washed away.  Or the passing of a close family friend a few days ago, a friend who was extra close to my sister.  All of these things are weighing heavily on my mind.  Add in the routine pressures of work and every day life, and one might conclude that is was tough week. 

And it was a tough week, but one that I accept.  I think this acceptance, simply taking it as it comes, enabled me to sleep with a better peace of mind.  

Trivialities like having to endure another 400 grams of coffee beans that are not performing so well in my espresso machine is irritating, but will soon be a thing of the past.  It seems so insignificant in comparison to the other recent events, but it is still a thing. 

How I choose to think about these things and allow them to impact me is my own decision, so I am going to keep on being B and getting my ZZZs. 

see you out there

bryan

I Bought the Wrong Shower Flavor!

I have mentioned in past posts my fondness for the citrus scent, particularly orange.  I tend to use an orange oil based product for most of my household cleaning, and almost all my air fresheners use some sort of an orange scent.  I just really like it. 

My grandmother has always been partial to lemon, so I recognize the family appreciation for citrus. 

I almost never fail to start my morning with a glass of orange juice while I am waiting for my espresso machine to warm up.  Fresh squeezed juice is obviously a nice treat, but most of the time I make do with a bottled version of juice that I get at my local store.  

My juice consumption is restricted to a glass or two to start the day, for the most part, and after the rounds of coffees during the rest of the morning I tend to switch to water as my beverage of choice.  At least until the pub opens.  I drank a lot of juice throughout the day as a child, but as I got more aware of sugar content, etc, I realized that staying away from beverages high in sugar was a pretty good idea. 

Fortunately, I weaned myself off cola many many years ago, and truth be told, was never really all that worried about sugar content, because I simply was finding such beverages a little too sweet in the first place.  Thus, I am still amazed to see a lot of people drinking cola (diet, even) non-stop throughout the day, then complaining that they cannot make any progress with the diet that they are on.  My father experienced an interesting situation several years ago when he abruptly stopped drinking gatorade for about 7 days and almost immediately lost 5lbs.  I, too, consumed gatorade with frequency when I was actively playing tennis, but, again, wisely moved on to water as my hydration key.  Pure water, no flavors added. 

The funny thing about flavors is just how unnatural they can taste.  Upon arrival in Germany, a colleague introduced me to something called Spezi, which is a mixture of cola and orange soda.  

I did not take to it.  The flavor combination was too unnatural. 

In a word, I found it gross. 

But, this colleague could not get enough of it, and tried to convince me that at a proper establishment, a natural orange soda and cola combination was just fantastic.  I will leave him to his own opinions and tastes.  This guy also enjoyed a Bananeweizen, which is a combination of a wheat beer and banana juice. 

In a word (or two), fucking gross. 

Of course, I am sure that some people are not big fans of a Radler, or a Shandy, as it is known in the UK. This is a combination of beer and lemonade, or sometimes lemon soda.  I actually kind of enjoy this on a really warm day, but after awhile it can get too sweet.  This might also have to do with the fact that I tended to drink more Radlers than beers; one summer I consciously wanted to reduce the number of beers I consumed, so switched to Radlers, and actually increased my overall consumption.  Instead of having 4 beers, I was drinking 6 Radler during a similar time frame, which resulted in a higher alcohol intake, higher outlay of cash, and the end of the evening I was a little tipsy and hopped up on sugar. 

Back to the safety of the orange grove...

With my orange cleaning products and air fresheners, I try to be very careful in my selection.  It is important that the scent be as natural as possible.  I am no chemist, nor do I want to become one.  But I know my nose and the rest of my senses.  I much prefer a basic orange (lemon works too) scent that smells as natural as possible.  This is one of the reasons that I have never been a big fan of air fresheners with the scents like "beautiful calypso beach breeze,"  which is a miracle of science, in my opinion.  Somehow, somewhere, some person figured out how to take a Capri Sun beverage and put into an air freshener. 

We all have our tastes and favorite flavors, but let us be realistic:  as children it took us quite a while to get our heads around the fact that a raspberry flavored beverage was a bright blue in color.  (Yes,  I consumed my share of slurpees and equivalents during my childhood and adolescence). 

With orange, you tend to know what you are getting. 

Putting orange juice in my body, using my orange products to clean my house, and strategically using my fresheners to create a fresh orange scent in my kitchen and living room, the next logical step would be to stock my bathroom with an orange shower gel. 

Several years ago while visiting my sister in Valencia, a city located in a region well known for it's citrus products, she and I were doing some shopping when we found ourselves stocking up on some shower gels that were offered on special at the shop.  The shop invited all of its customers to test the products (or at least open them up and sniff), and we spent the better part of half an hour comparing some of the body washes and shower gels.  We eventually loaded ourselves up with a cornucopia (you did not expect to see that word in a sentence, today, did you?) of shower gels, including grapefruit, lemon, and my favorite, orange. 

Smelling these soaps just makes you want to go take a shower. 

My nephew was playing on the local basketball team, and in the locker room after games, all his teammates wanted to use his shower gel, because it smelled so great.  

I had a slightly similar experience myself, though it did not involve 12 year olds and basketball.  One evening I showered with my super duper orange gel, then went out to dinner with some friends. After dinner, we headed to a local pub for drinks, and somehow got involved in karaoke.  The place was trendy, and not a place I would ever choose to go, but I was with a couple of attractive sisters, and, well, I was enjoying myself. 

Because the place was packed with people, we were all in close quarters.  One of the girls in my group, after a particularly sardine-esque moment when someone had to push through the crowd with a load of drinks, yelled into my ear (to be heard above the loud music), "Wow, you smell great!" referring to the lingering orange scent coming from my skin.  

It was by no means a pick up line; she and I are simply close friends.  She was just making a compliment, much the way one does when you see someone at a wedding dressed to the nines.  What was additionally cool, though, is that during a trip to the ladies room, she and her sister overhead some other women talking about the fresh orange smell coming from one of the corners of the pub.  

Our corner. 

The problem with this super shower gel is it's price in relation to the quantity.  True, I just said that my and sister had "loaded up" on these goods during a shopping trip, but that was during the Christmas season, when sometimes you just splurge on little treats for yourselves. 

As good as the product is, both for washing myself and smelling nice afterwards, it is not really sustainable, at least in my economic world.  At about 20 Euro per bottle, and at the rate I like to lather up, I could easily be spending hundreds of Euro per year on shower gel.  

Thus, I have been on the quiet quest for a similar, more inexpensive product.  During my weekly shopping, I alternate between a major supermarket chain and a bio-markt.  I usually linger on the aisle with the shower-gel, and always browse the different varieties on offer.  When it comes to showering, I do open up my tastes to just about all of the citrus flavors.  Indeed, grapefruit gel is quite refreshing, as is the lemon-lime stuff I found one time.  Both were more citrus and less sugary, so I never felt like I had just taken a shower with a bottle of Sprite. 

This past week, while in the bio place, I spent a few extra minutes in the "natural cosmetics/body products" section of the store, which really is not all that big.  I came across a body wash with the flavor spicy orange blossom, and after a second's consideration, put it in my buggy. 

What a colossal error in judgement that turned out to be. 

Once I got home and unpacked the groceries, I opened up the shower gel to take a big sniff.  The Duft was not overwhelming, which should have been my first clue.  But, I decided I would test it out the following morning. 

I am not saying that I am now off of the orange scent, but I am very disappointed.  This spicy orange blossom smells like oranges that are overly ripe (ie..approaching that sickly sweet fragrance), and just to add to the situation, there seems to be an added element of a smell that I can only describe as "dirty sock after having played a football match," which is what made me laugh out loud in the shower.  Normally, that would not have been a big deal, but because my mouth was open, the shower head sent a gulp of soapy water into my mouth, so I got to smell and taste my purchase. 

And that was fucking gross. 

I immediately tried to make amends by grabbing another shower gel, which turned out to be a sort of lime scented soap.  Unfortunately, this did not make things too much better, and I rinsed off thinking that I smelled like a bowl of fruity pebbles or a pack of skittles.  Way too much unnatural flavor and way too much sugar. 

I choose to believe that the lady who almost crashed her bike while riding past me a few minutes later when I was on the street did so because a dog almost ran in front of her bicycle, but perhaps it was because the dog was running for its life away from my scent...

Maybe I am going to have to suck it up and invest heavily in the known product that is great and expensive.  At the very least, I will use a bit more caution next time in the shower gel section at my store. 

See you out there

bryan 

Getting the Row of Ducks onto the Autobahn

When the junior high school year came to a close in May, 1985, many students, myself included, were buzzing with excitement:  after summer, we would start high school, the next big step in our young lives. First, though, we had the summer to look forward to, and for those of us that had already turned 15, we were eligible to take drivers education.  

In those final weeks before school let out, many of us discussed when and where we would take our drivers training.  The general consensus was to use the Sears Driving School, which was conveniently located close to our junior high school, and had already been used by many of our older siblings a few years before.  

I got registered for the drivers course, and in June 1985 started my classes, along with a few friends from school.  The whole idea was to complete the course, including obtaining the learners permit, then practice driving with our parents (or someone over the age of 18) until our 16th birthday.  Then, we would be allowed to obtain our driver license, provided we passed the written and practical driving test. 

Driver's Ed is a bit of a blur.  We saw some pretty gruesome films about just how badly things can go on the roads, and I recall one of my friends was particularly fond of "giving people a friendly tap of the horn," when driving around with his mother.  Our final exam for the course was held on the morning of Live Aid, which gave me a particular incentive to complete the test as accurately and quickly as possible.  I left tape rolling to record while I was taking my test, but I knew I was likely going to miss a few important music acts performing at Wembley.  Of course, the real priority was to pass the exam so that our permits would truly be valid.  

Well, I passed the exam, no problem.  I then took advantage of every opportunity to get behind the wheel with my parents in tow.  Any errand my mother needed to run, I was her driver.  Likewise with my father, when he allowed it.  (My father apparently had a lot taken out of him while helping my sister learn to drive.  I won't discuss the topic further, but more often that not, my mother took this task on with me.)

A significant advantage I had with regard to driving was the fact that we attended church downtown, about 25 minutes away, depending on the traffic on the highway.  This was significant because I basically got to drive us to and from church EVERY Sunday for 10 months, and this was on top of all the neighborhood runs (to the grocery store, etc).   True, every other 15 year old I knew from church was basically doing this same thing, but because of our distance, I logged a lot of highway miles.  On top of this, I learned my city backwards and forwards. 

My father quickly realized I knew (for the most part) what I was doing behind the wheel, and gradually he started taking me on little driving excursions, too. 

This preparation helped me pass my driver license test that next April (of 1986) and suddenly I joined the ranks of licensed drivers.  Tick in the box. 

Maybe one day I will go through the story of the Golfs, but for today's post, will just say that from the first license, I enjoyed driving whenever I could.  I got my first car just before my senior year of college, and toodled around in it until it was no longer worth repairing.  With the second car, I was already living in an apartment complex, and I took that car with me to Boston, keeping my plates registered in Texas. 

During my time in Massachusetts, I never changed the address on my DL.  Apparently I was supposed to, but I did not feel inclined to do so.  I actually had a little story prepped (made slightly more plausible by having a car with Texas plates) that I was just "visiting" the area, in the event that I ever got pulled over by the police for any violation. 

Renewing DLs was always a bit of a hassle, and I understand it to be even more complicated these days, particularly in Texas.  For me, despite the nuisance, I just needed to remember to renew the license BEFORE it expired.  This is not a complicated effort, but does require a bit of planning.  On my 30th birthday, I went to the DL office that was closest to my workplace, out in Irving.  At that time, one could not make an appointment, so you never knew if you would have to stand in line for hours, days, or what. 

Luckily, in April 2000, the line was very short that day in Irving.  The woman behind the counter actually picked up on the relevance of the date, and actually sang me Happy Birthday, which I thought was very nice.  Because I had learned a little more about the importance of registering your actual address with the Department of Public Safety (DL Office), I jotted down my little Goliad address, which made sense, since that is where I lived.  (I remember briefly the discussion with the big house on whether or not to make my address a 1/2, to denote that I lived in the garage apartment separate from the house.  In the end, I just kept getting my mail from Lori, and my subscription to the Economist came each week as soon as Chris was done reading it.)

That was my last physical address in the US before I moved to Europe in 2006.  

For convenience sake, I have continued to use the address of my parents (my childhood home) for any things that require a physical US address.  This made perfect sense to me when I made the move, and not least of all, because my sister, who had moved to Europe 14 years before me, was doing the exact same thing.  

True, I hardly ever get mail at that address, but a few things do come from time to time.  Financial statements and various other documents continued to be delivered to my folks and stored in "Bryan's Box" for me to review during visits.  

As we have all gotten older, the realization finally hit me that one day, this address would go away.  I was already looking for ways to decrease any (however small) dependence on my parents (ie..handling my infrequent mail, etc) when my mother passed away.  Her passing got me to thinking that I would need to take additional actions sooner rather than later. 

Because American driver licenses are used as the predominate identification, I have continued to keep renewing my Texas DL.  One of my summer trips back to the US involved me getting picked up at the airport by my folks, then driven directly to the DPS office close to the airport.  My father needed to renew his license, and they had scoped out that this location was less shitty than all the others in the area, when it comes to the hassles and lines at the DPS.  We still had to wait about 45 minutes, but it did not go that poorly, and I was able to get my license renewed before jetlag hit. 

Again, I can only speak from the Texas experience, but somehow through the years, they changed the renewal rules to allow for every second renewal to be done online (rather than in person), so long as you had no traffic violations during the period. 

Thus, in 2018, again while I was there for a visit, I jumped on line, found I was able to renew my license, and within 10 days (during Christmas season, even), had my license in hand.  But only for Texas (and the US). 

When I arrived in Germany, I quickly discovered that obtaining a driver license was a pain in the butt. With a little effort, I found that some of the American states qualified for automatic conversion, without any requirement for taking driver training, tests, etc.  The other states, including mine, were at the SOL side of things:  we would need to go through the exact process that every new German driver has to go through.  Among other things, this would be a significant investment, several thousand euro. 

Because of my circumstances, I could not justify spending that kind of money for a license that I was hardly ever going to use.  I have touched on this in the past, but in 15 years, I may have needed to drive maybe 3 times.  I may have wanted to drive a few times more than that, but I have happily moved around on foot, public transportation, and the lovely train network.  

For business travel, I rode with colleagues or took taxis and public transportation.  And it has been fine. 

Last autumn during my interview with the company, it came to light that I did not hold a valid European driver license, and this raised a few eyebrows.  My boss ultimately said it would be beneficial for me to obtain this.  We went back through the story that many US states do not qualify for an automatic conversion, and that I had refrained from going down the "hey I am the oldest guy in this driver's ed class" path on grounds that it made no financial sense. 

However, I did take the action to do some investigation, and found that during my time in Germany, the number of US states that qualify for auto-conversion had increased, and now included my state.  A few years ago, I had also heard something about this, but there was some sort of stipulation that there was no grandfather clause.  This meant, even though I carry a license from the state, I have lived here to long to qualify for automatic conversion.  

This was a little discouraging for me, particularly since I was starting a new job during a global pandemic.  How and when was I going to be able to take driver training and go through this whole process?  I asked a few American folks about their experiences, which was not quite as helpful as I had hoped.  The support was there, but everyone had come to Germany at a different time, and from other US states.  

I read and reread the information on the Frankfurt DPS website, and finally concluded that apparently said grandfather clause no longer existed.  From the wording, and there was a lot of it, I must say, it appeared that I simply needed to gather some documentation, a translation of my TX license into German language, and a few other things.  I decided to get things rolling, and sent my license off for translation.  Over the next couple of months as I began my new job and tried to get through less pleasant aspects of the pandemic, I gathered all of the things that I understood I would need in order to set an appointment with the DPS and go see about getting my license converted. 

This preparation involved getting a vision test, which I got last month:  a little certificate that says that I can see adequately with corrective lenses.  This was the last item on my list, and true to form, I was really sweating before going to get the test.  Part of this was due to my initial visit to the optometrist, when the girl said "holy shit, you need glasses," during the consultation.  She hinted that the driving vision test was a little more involved, and there was a possible chance that even with lenses, I might not score so well. 

My confidence was a little shaky, but I got my glasses, got used to them (sort of), then went back and passed the driving vision test without any problem.  

Big relief feeling number one. 

I immediately returned home, and went online to make an appointment with the driver license people.  The pandemic has sort of helped streamline this whole process; I had heard many Germans were just as frustrated by visiting the DPS as everyone I knew from the states.  The office really only allows for appointments to be scheduled in advance, and they are limited, for the most part to 15 minutes.  Because of the number of people who need such services, it can take several weeks in order to get a time slot. 

This is exactly what happened to me.  Earlier in the spring as I was getting things organized, I knew that I wanted to target the end of June for this visit to the DPS.  I was scheduled off of work for a few days, and that would be the perfect time for me to take care of the personal business.  

Unfortunately, the first available appointment I found was for this past Tuesday, a week after my time off. I booked the time slot at 12h45, and informed my boss that I would need to be out of the office for a little bit to get this taken care of.  "Oh good luck, that stuff sucks," my German boss said.  

So, this past Tuesday, after checking and rechecking that I had all my paperwork, I left my house at 11h44, walked to the taxi stand and directed the driver to take me to the address.  "Ah, getting your license, eh?" he asked me. 

The Frankfurt region is rather large, and there are only two driver license bureaus, but because of the appointment scheduling, they keep things kind of under control.  It is not overrun with all the new 16 year olds that go off to take the driving test on their birthday.  

The closest office to me is unfortunately on the other side of the city.  I had already checked the traffic situation, and expected it to take us about 30-40 minutes to get through the city and out to the western outskirts where the office is located. 

Even the taxi driver remarked that he was glad we were leaving so early for an appointment that was scheduled a hour later.  

On the way to the office, the taxi guy and I talked about the world, the pandemic, 9/11 and the aftermath, and once again I realized how much I have missed talking with random people over the past months and year.   We made pretty good time, and as I paid he wished me luck. 

I started feeling antsy (as I always do, for absolutely no reason) as I stood outside smoking a couple of rally myself ciggy.  What if I get in there, and they pull out the old rules, or flat out deny me?  I rallied myself and decided to just take whatever came. 

The entrance to the lobby was manned by a guy who would periodically come outside and ask who had an appointment scheduled for x hour.  The website indicated that one would be allowed inside only 15 minutes prior to the scheduled appointment.  Because this place is kind of remote, and not really supported by local public transportation, everyone tends to go early, lest you arrive late and miss your appointment entirely.  

A handful of us stood there in our masks, and one guy who was holding his license plates turned me and asked what time my appointment was.  "Viertel vor," I responded, to which he said, "me, too."

At 12h40, the doorman allowed us inside, and we went to the little kiosk to register our number, then took a seat and waited for our number to show on the screen.  

I took a deep breath at 12h44 when my number appeared on the screen, then went over to the desk of the lady.  I proudly handed over my passport, Aufenthaltserlaubnis, my translation, a photo copy of my TX license, and the license itself.  After a minute, she stated that there was one thing missing, which momentarily threw me.  She started by asking if I understood German, which I confirmed.  Then she mentioned that she needed a history of my licenses, including the original issue date. 

"Fuck fuck fuck," I thought as I remembered seeing this listed on the website requirements: proof of original date of issue.  I had misinterpreted this as the issue date of my current DL.  That date is listed on my current license.  What she really needed, however, was the date way back during Live Aid, when I first got my permit. 

Most bureaucratic employees do not show their most positive cheery sides when working with the general public.  A couple of friends of mine who do not speak as much German had commented that their experience in the DPS was still pretty okay, and that the employees had been at least helpful, if not relatively polite. 

I quickly realized that this lady was not looking to make new friends, but she was certainly trying to help me get things sorted out.  I was also overjoyed that the topic of grandfathers or auto-conversion had never entered the conversation.  I only needed to provided proof of my DL history in order for her to proceed with things from their side. 

We were certainly using up our 15 minutes as we discussed the situation.  "Do you have your old licenses with you?" she asked me.  

Um, no.  

"Well, you will need to contact your TX DPS and get the records, but usually you can do that online fairly quickly," she said, and I realized again that she was going out of her way to be helpful.  Clearly, she also had gone through situation with more than one other (likely Amercian) driver looking to have their license converted. 

We talked about solutions, and in the end, she took my money, kept all the documents as well as my TX license, and gave me a little card with the email address, so that I could email the documentation.  

"Once we get that, we can complete the conversion, and we will send the license to you in the mail."

Big relief feeling number two.  

In short, I did not quite get my license, but as soon as I could get them the missing info, they can complete things.  This is exactly what I wanted:  the easier path for getting the DL (as opposed to taking the course, the tests, and spending shitloads of money). 

She had to hide a smile as we finished things up, and I knew that I had sort of won her over, maybe because of the new glasses, or the fact that I spoke German, or that I was simply very polite and thankful for her help.  

I walked back outside into the sunshine, and took another deep breath as I took my mask off.  

It was 1 o'clock in the afternoon, and I needed to return home and get back to work, as well as contact the DPS in Texas. 

As I said, the office is remotely located, and I started walking back towards Frankfurt, hoping like hell that a taxi would drive by looking for a fare.  

40 minutes later, I was sweating more than I wanted to and was still on foot, arriving to Skyline Plaza.  I had walked through a few western districts of Frankfurt and had seen several things that I had not seen in awhile, if ever.  I actually enjoyed the long walk, but was reaching that point where I was needing to be working again; I did not want to make it a totally free day.  

During the walk to the Plaza I managed to drop my mask on the ground, and fortunately found another in my backpack, although it was a little past its prime.  It sufficed for me getting in the taxi and directing the driver back to Bornheim.  He rolled up the windows, turned on the AC, then turned the radio to a station that apparently only plays hits of the 80s.  So, on the way home, I listened to Phil Collins, Michael J, Ultravox, and a few other pop hits from, ironically, the time I was just getting my original DL issued. 

The taxi got back to Bornheim just when I was needing to remove my mask, which was more past its prime than I had initially realized.  

I walked back in my front door at exactly 14h14, exactly 2 1/2 hours after I began my adventure, my trip to the DL bureau.  

During the rest of the afternoon, I obtained a document from the Texas DPS which I think is what is required, and while I was rummaging in a drawer, I came across 4 of my old licenses.  I decided to scan them and email them to the Frankfurt office along with the one document I had.  I am kind of hoping that the folks in the Frankfurt office do not laugh too much at my license photos from 1992 and 1998, or at least do not laugh any more than I did as I looked at them.  

In Germany, at least for the people in my age group, people are issued with their license one time.  Initially, it was issued without expiration.  Thus, every German friend that I have carries a driver license with a photo from about 35-40 years ago.  The rules are now as such that my license, like everyone else, will be valid for the next 15 years.  

We always talk about getting our ducks in a row, getting organized with things.  On on hand, I procrastinated for 15 years before bothering to try and obtain my German license.  On the other hand, it was only just now that I actually needed to do something about, and now I can tick that box.  I have done something about it, and am pretty close to getting this taken care of.  

I am feeling proud of myself for the effort, and am waiting excitedly for a confirmation email from the bureau that everything is in order.  I will take things as they come, but since they took my money, my new license photo, it looks like I am well on my way. 

The next evening, I met a few friends at the pub, and reported on my progress.  Both girls are German and were interested to hear how the process works for converting the license.  Both expressed a surprise that an American license could be converted without the holder having to go through the rigorous process of driver education, practical and written exams, etc.  I sheepishly reminded them that I did not make the rules, and likewise pointed out that my own experience learning to drive was also rigorous.  

All of this is just to get the license, and getting this license means that I give up my Texas license.  There is a bit of sentiment attached to that, but we all have to grow up sometime, don't we?  To me, the TX license was the last physical ID that listed my childhood home.  True, the objective here was to create a solution for the future, when that address is no longer able to be used.  But still...

I expect this story to continue on until the happy moment when I get my German license in the mail. I can then consider how and when I will start driving in the country.  But at least I will be able to say I can legally do so.  

Until then, see you out there.  On foot. 

bryan