Happy When it Rains

Whether it be a just a little sprinkle, a sudden downpour, a full-blown thunderstorm with hail, or whatever, I have always loved the rain.

I am sure I am not alone in my appreciation of the rain, there is just something about how it soothes. It looks nice, it can sound cool, and depending on where you happen to be, it can smell and feel great. In fact, rain is just one of my favorite things. (I wonder how many people start humming the Julie Andrew's song after reading that last sentence.)

True, I associate many fond memories from my lifetime with rain. There is nothing better than grabbing a book and a cup of hot chocolate (or tea, or coffee) and sitting safely inside while outside, it storms for the whole day.

I have been at a few outdoor concerts where, after a few hours in the heat, we welcomed a sudden downpour that drenched all of us, but, rejuvinated by the freshness, we continued to pogo and bop around to the music, caring little for our disheveled appearances. Great times, those are.

Of course, there are moments when I have found the rain not to be so pleasant, at least not at the precise moment. I managed to get caught out in a storm several years ago that soaked me to the skin, thus enabling me win a a wet t-shirt contest, which would have been all well and good had I not been on my way to give a business presentation. I never learned from that experience, and to this day still do not carry an umbrella, preferring to just take things as they come. As a result, I have several trophies at home commemorating my ability to achieve a top 5 finish in said contests.

Driving in the rain is not always that fun, either. I once drove through the state of Arkansas during a tremendous rain. There was no visibility, and I probably should have pulled over to the side of the road, as it simply was not safe to drive. However, considering where I was, I did not think it would be any safer to stop, so pressed on for the next six hours, finally collapsing in exhaustion in a cheap motel.

Still, despite those times, particularly afterwards, I found pleasure in those experiences, as well as a bit of humor.

This past week I had the chance to appreciate the rain on several occasions. I found myself sitting outside last Sunday afternoon, doing a bit of writing. The album of choice was something from Bad Religion, and for 36.7 minutes (their albums tend to be on the short side) I sat outside by myself at a table with a large umbrella. From there, I was able to enjoy the gentle rain without getting wet, and really found the experience to be quite peaceful.

A few days later, while at work, a friend and I looked outside to see the sudden rainstorm. We went downstairs to get a closer look, and were momentarily blown about as the wind blew the rain this way and that. As I looked forward to the commute home on the train, thinking I would sit and look out the window at the rain, my colleague began to swear. For a minute, I was a bit surprised at his reaction, until I rememebered that he had come to work on his motorcycle that day; the drive home for him would fall into the "less than pleasant" category that I just described above.

By the end of the week, the rain was gone (or so it seemed), and the weekend started with sunny skies, lots of sun, and summertime temperatures. I spent my Saturday being a slug, never leaving the flat except for a quick trip to the supermarket. I spent the evening cooking myself a decent dinner, watched the 3rd place match of the Women's World Cup, then went to bed rather early.

Recently (er, over the past several months) I do not seem to be sleeping that well, sometimes due to a restless night, other times simply because there is too much on the brain, still other times because the dreams turn into nightmares. Once or twice I have wondered, is it because I am eating so much chicken? I then immediately remember that it likely has more to do with me finding my place, and my peace, in a couple of different cultures.

During a train ride home from work earlier in the week, perhaps even as my colleague rode his motorcycle home in the wet, I found myself in the train's snack bar (board bistro they call it) reading by myself. Three other passengers started up a conversation with each other; none of them had anything to read. I could not help but overhear, and discovered that one young passenger in his 20s was a professional poker player. He came from the Netherlands, and was on his way to the airport, where he would be flying to Colombia. A German passenger remarked that his wife was from Brazil, and they travelled at least once a year to South America, also. Suddenly, the third guy announced that he was from Chile, though he had been raised in Germany.

For the most part, they spoke in German, discussing the culture, the language, etc. Though I was engrossed in my book, and we were somewhat in close quarters, I found it hard not to follow the conversation. Once or twice they had to switch briefly into English, as the Dutch guy could not always explain everything in German. This happens with me from time to time (ok, sometimes quite regularly), too.

At any rate, the trio had just started discussing their annoyance with Americans, which was unfortunate, since I was just about to put my book down and join the conversation. I immediately bristled and returned to reading my book, deciding it best to stay out of the chat. After all, I understood their points, and it is not my place to challenge their opinions. After all, they are simply opinions.

A few minutes later, an Asian man entered the car and ordered something to eat. He spoke English as he ordered, and he ended up joining the conversation with the others; they all switched to English.

We soon reached the next stop, and the Dutchman departed the train, as did the Asian. The other two men started gathering their things, since our stop (they were travelling to Frankfurt, too) would be reached in another few minutes. They started moving towards the exit, leaving me alone in the car.

From the other end of the train car, a man in boots and a hat made his way towards the counter to order a beer. He and I exchanged greetings, as we had seen one another several times over the past couple of weeks. We introduced ourselves and established why we both are regular train travellers on the same train.

After a couple of minutes chat, he, like many others in this country, asked if I wanted to continue the conversation in English. I responded, no, of course not, as we were in Germany. (note - there are only a couple of exceptions where I do not speak German with Germans, and that is another story altogether...)

So, we continued on in German. He then asked me where I came from. I told him, then asked him the same question.

"I come from North Dakota," he smiled.

Well, we switched to English at that point, and we quickly exhanged our stories as to how we both live far away from where we come from.

The brief experience made up for the humbling experience from minutes earlier.

So, last night, as I once again found myself a bit too restless, I got up for a glass of water from the kitchen. I stood in the darkness, in the quiet, then realized that it was raining gently. I opened the balcony door, and stood for a few minutes just enjoying the sound of the rain.

The rain has continued here throughout the morning, but I sit here in peace. You see, rain is simply one of my favorite things.

keep the faith
bryan

How to Press Buttons and Draw Attention to Yourself

The other week, I got on the elevator to go downstairs for a cigarette. The elevators are glass, so you can sort of look out over the lobby of the building as you come down (or go up). I pushed the button to the ground floor, then pushed the "door close" button, but instead of closing the doors, the alarm sounded.

I realized that I had simply pressed the wrong button, and waved down to the security woman, who was checking her computer and trying to figure out which elevator had a problem.

Upon reaching the ground floor, I walked through the lobby to the parking lot, kind of sheepishly smiling to indicate that there was no cause for alarm, everything was ok, etc.

I had dismissed the incident from memory, but a few days later I was standing on the U-Bahn platform waiting for the metro. Lots of people were around, as we were all trying to get home after our work day. I leaned up against a post, trying to be casual, but somehow leaned against the SOS button, which alerted the transportation security. The little speaker squawked, and a voice asked me what the emergency was.

"Er, sorry, I did not mean to press the button," I stammered, turning very red. I had never actually seen anyone use the SOS before, nor had I ever heard the little alarm sound (or should I say rather noisy alarm sound) Other folk were looking over curiously, wondering what the commotion was all about. I had time to think, "gee, weren't there about 5 other people standing directly next to me 5 seconds ago?" as I once again smiled sheepishly and pointed to my backpack, signifying that it was to be blamed for the accidental SOS. Afterall, there was now no one standing close to me, so I needed to find a scapegoat quickly.

I managed to go another week without doing anything totally foolish (at least involvling random buttons), but that luck ran out this past Wednesday evening on the train home from Düsseldorf.

As usual, I was nestled in the BordBistro reading my book and enjoying a glass of beer. (side note - frequently the train will jostle around at high speeds, so it always a good thing to find a place where you can be somewhat secure, or at least have a place to hold on to. I have regularly seen people get totally bounced from one side of the train car to the other as they tried to walk through just as the train rounded a curve. I seem to find this particularly entertaining.)

When we were about 10 minutes from Frankfurt, I finished my beer and decided I should visit the toilet before we arrived at the station. I found that the regular WC (which really is just a small closet) was out of order, but I noticed that the WC designed for wheelchairs was not occupied. This particular WC is cavernous compared to the little one, but to get the door open you have to press the green "open" button, which I did. The door then slides (at a snail's pace) open. I walked in, and pressed the red "closed" button. The door finally closed, and I immediately addressed my business.

I was in no particular hurry, so I stood there kind of lost in thought as I finished up. I then pressed the "flush" button, or so I thought.

Here is where the story gets a bit confusing. Suddenly, the door slides open and a train attendant is standing there. He is sort of the custodian, I think.
Though a bit surprised, I went ahead and finished zipping up, washed my hands, collected my stuff and exited the toilet.

The guy was furious with me (let it be said that I was not particularly thrilled with him, either) and he immediately started speaking into his little walkie talkie that "no, there was no emergency, it was just some idiot taking a piss who had pressed the "i need help!" emergency button in the toilet, which is strategically placed right ABOVE the "flush" button. Apparently I had pressed the wrong button. Again.

It was this last incident that was the most comical and embarrassing. When a train is close to reaching the next station, exiting passengers tend to leave their seats and stand in the corridor next to the door so that they can quickly get off the train as soon as it stops. This corridor is, of course, where the toilets are. The corridor was totally empty when I entered the toilet, but totally full when the door slid open minutes later.

Very nice, Bryan.

Well, we got to the station, and I scurried off, trying to leave behind the stares of the people behind me. I carefully waited for the U-Bahn, keeping my hands to myself. Once on the U-Bahn, I found myself cramped in between a stroller and the door. I faced the door, trying to give as much space to the little family behind me.

Suddenly, I noticed that something was poking me in the butt. True, it was rather gentle, but startling all the same. I turned around to see the little occupant of the stroller, shyly waving at me. He had simply wanted to get my attention and was poking the only thing, pressing the only button he could reach. I smiled and waved back as we got to the next stop, and exited the metro.

I chuckled a bit as I walked down the street. Keep it up, little one. It just gets more and more fun from here.

keep the faith
bryan



O

In a Word...

Hi,
I am currently in Time-out. Self-prescribed, that is true, but it is a bit better than being sent to the principal's office.

I will be back soon.

Meanwhile, the sountrack is all about Peter Murphy, The Mission, and of course, the Bouncing Souls.

Keep the faith.
bryan

Trains, Planes, Taxis, and Other Joys of Travel

A couple of weeks ago, I was due to meet up with a Scottish colleague in Budapest. As I made my final preparations at home before heading for the airport, the colleague phoned me up and explained that there had been a change of plans. Due to the volcanic ash spouting about in Iceland (flashback - 2 week holiday in Ireland from last year), he couldn't get out of Scotland. However, he as going to take a shuttle bus that the airline had organized to Manchester and fly from there. "Bryan, the whole bus is loaded with folks going on holiday! I am the only business traveller," he said with irritation.

Minutes later, he phoned again to say that he was cancelling his trip, as it was easier than trying to deal with the uncertainty of getting to Hungary, only to be trapped there due to the lingering ash.

Because the ash wasn't yet impacting German airports, I planned to go on with my trip. I finished my packing, checked the time, and realized that I was in danger of being late for my own flight. Normally, I try to take the S-Bahn to the airport as it is direct, cheap, and, as long as you are not trying to go during rush hour morning commute (when people sardine themselves on the transport so they can get to work), relatively stress free.

Though the S-Bahn runs regularly, I had procrastinated a bit too long at home and had lost 15 minutes or so. Thus, I decided to take a taxi to the airport, which would get me there with enough time to check in, etc. (note - the taxi takes about 30 minutes while the S-Bahn about 20. However, if you miss the S-Bhan, you have to wait about 15 minutes for the next one, and I had already used up that time at home.)

Upon arrival at the airport, I was pleased to see that things were not so hectic. I used the little check in kiosk, printed my boarding pass, then waited 2 minutes at the baggage drop off counter. Done.

Indeed, the leisure travel season has started, and Frankfurt airport was bustling, a mix of both business and holiday travellers. That said, I was able to relax and have a coffee at the departure gate and used the remaining minutes before departure wondering what would happen if the ash blew east and made things difficult in Germany over the next few days.

As a traveller, I have always felt more inclined to check my baggage. Surely I am in the minority, as time and time again, everyone seems to board the airplane with 2 or 3 pieces of hand luggage, which they then cram into the overhead bins. I often believe that flighs are delayed because people get all upset that they cannot put all their hand luggage directly over their seat, even though they know good and well that the overhead bin could never possibly store that much stuff, never mind that the bin in intended for all the passengers in that particular row. They have to hunt up and down the aisle searching for a small bit of free bin space.

Yes, it is quite annoying, but as I have plenty of other things to get worked up over, I just bite my tongue during the boarding and concentrate on the book I am reading.

On this past flying experience, I encountered something a bit unusual. Perhaps I have simply missed it in the past, but there were an unsually high number of people that could not seem to find their row on the aircraft. I do have to admit that, back at the gate as we queued to board, I glanced down at my boarding pass to note my seat assignment, then saw that someone in front of me apparently had the same seat assignment. Secretly hoping that the mistake would be corrected by upgrading me to first class (though on this length of flight, the only real difference is that first class gets their drinks served in glass as opposed to plastic cups) but preparing for the worst, I decided to just wait and see.

Seconds later I realized that we were boarding from gate A38, and my seat was going to be 38A. My mistake. The other passenger had a ocmpletely different seat.

However, once I got to my row and took my seat, suddenly someone motioned that I was sitting in their seat. Somewhat surprised, I pulled out my card to show that I was really in seat 38A. "Oh, what row is this?" asked the passenger.

Truly bewildered, I pointed to the little number 38 which was printed right above my seat and said, "38."

"Oh, I have row 37," remarked the passenger.

I pointed to the seat in front of me, and suggested he try that one.

Well, it turns out that some moron who was supposed to be on row 17 had sat down in row 18, and EVERY passenger had simply accepted that and followed suit, without bothering to check their row or seat .

In short, everyone from row 18 to the back of the plane (I was on the 2nd to the last row) had more or less sat down in the wrong seat and it took several minutes to sort out as people frantically tried to relocate their stuff from the overhead bins.

Through it all, the flight attendant kept her smile, though her eyes showed clearly that she was struggling to answer the question, "What the fuck is going on today?"

My visit to Budapest went quickly. Two days later, I woke up, thinking I had plenty of time to check out of the hotel and get a taxi to the airport. Previously, I had stayed at a hotel overlooking the Danube. Nice as it was (and is), they hike up their prices for the summer season, and I was forced to find a more economical hotel.

This hotel was fine, but pretty well filled with, yep, you guessed it, vacationers, particlarly a lot of travel groups. Thus, every time I got on the elevator, I joined 15 to 20 people who all seemed to know one another.

When I reached the reception desk, I kind of panicked. 15 or so guests seemed to all be checking out at the same time. I had not calculated on this. I glanced at the clock and figured I still had plenty of time to get to the airport.

20 minutes later, I was not so sure, but I signed my bill and ordered a taxi.

Turns out that everyone who had just checked out in front of me had also ordered a taxi, so suddenly I was in a new queue, and I was really wondering if I was going to be on time for my flight. My previous experience in Budapest airport had been a bit hectic; unlike Frankfurt airport where there are self check in kiosks for about 1000 people, Budapest has two machines, and one of them is always out of order.

I tried not to think about time as I stood in the sunshine with 15, then 14, then 13, then 12 other people waiting on taxis. Eventually, the concierge motioned for me to take the taxi that had just rolled up.

Like every other Hungarian driver I have ever ridden with, this taxi guy hurtled through the streets of the city, dodging busses, parked cars, weaving in and out of traffic without a care in the world. I bounced around in the backseat and told myself, "this is fun, this is fun, this is fun," while I looked at my white knuckles.

As we neared the airport, the traffic congestion eased up. We blurred by several other taxis, and I noted hotel guests number 12, 8, and 5 had been fortunate enough to get a taxi before me, but they were going to arrive at the airport after me. Maybe their drivers hadn't played the same driving video games as mine had.

With a bit of luck, I walked right into the airport, found the check in machine vacant, printed my boarding pass, gave my luggage to the lady at the counter, and started to relax. Plenty of time for a coffee (necessary travel ritual for me) and a telephone chat with a supplier.

Half an hour later as I took my seat on the aircraft, I heard a passenger standing directly next to row 22 ask to no one in particular, "can someone tell me where row 22 is?"

See you out there.

bryan

soundtrack
The Who - Quadrophenia (non remastered)
Thought Riot - entire catalog, on shuffle

A Few Weeks in Busytown and Other Stories

So, this week's post has a bit of a Richard Scarry flavor, though Huckle Cat and Lowly Worm will unfortunately not be a part of the tales. However, two friends of mine, Bear and Zebra, despite their recent mishap in my washing machine, might make an appearance or two, at least in spirit.

Well, it has been a pretty action packed few weeks, albeit in a quiet sort of way. Without further ado, here comes the recap...

Bryan ist erkältet

Right at the end of April, I was sitting in the Düsseldorf office, and suddenly sneezed three times. "Shit, I am getting sick," I thought to myself. I haven't had a cold since early December, and have been best pleased at the long run of healthy times over the past few months.

I took the train home that evening, realizing that my throat was getting more and more scratchy, and I had a bad feeling I would be down and out for the weekend. Upon ariving home, I went straight to bed, and was a bit surprised early the next morning that I felt somewhat better. Perhaps I was going to be able to head this headcold off at the pass.

Wrong.

Back in the office for Friday took a bit out of me. By midafternoon, I was starting to feel more and more draggy. I certainly didn't look forward to the commute home, and my nose started to drip midway between Düsseldorf and Frankfurt.

Again, I went right to bed Friday evening, hoping to sleep the sickness away. Saturday was spent in bed, with only a quick trip to the market for kleenex and juice the only form of entertainment.

I was fortunate to have a fair amount of books at my disposal. Thus, I read and slept and blew my nose for two solid days.

By the following Monday, I did feel able to go back to the office. As the week wore on, I felt better and better, for which I was quite thankful; I had feared a relapse. At the end of the week, I wished my colleagues well and that I would see them in a few weeks.

Bryan nimmt Urlaub

To celebrate three months working for the new company, I elected to take a week's vacation. No, I certainly did not need to take days off, but it stands to be a pretty hectic summer workwise, and, assuming that I get through the probationary period of six months, there will not be as much time to take all of the holidays that come as part of my contract.

My plan was to get a few domestic things done around the house, take care of a little personal business, do my taxes, and basically relax.

The weather was fantastic, so I spent the majority of my time sitting reading on my balcony. Time very well spent, in my opinion.

Besuch beim Zahnarzt

I am one of those guys who sort of enjoys going to the dentist. Sure, it certainly helps that I have rarely had any problems with my teeth, even with the 12 year break I took during my 20s and early 30s, and the somewhat shorter break between a quick stateside dental visit a few years back until last May. My dentist in Frankfurt is quite nice, and last year's visit went very well.

Though I had had a lttle difficulty getting the appointment arranged (amazing what happens when you suddenly forget how to speak German to a receptionist at a medical office), I ultimately got it sorted for Tuesday afternoon during my vacation.

I was slightly anxious when I arrived a few minutes early for my appointment. Would my luck with my teeth ever run out?

The hygienist (die Hygienikerin, auf Deutsch) plopped me in the chair, took some x-rays, then started the cleaning process. As I sat there with my mouth wide open, filled with the little suction hose, allowing the woman to do her job, I started thinking about that episode of Seinfeld where Kramer went to the dentist and almost got attacked by the suction hose. Well, I was trying not to laugh out loud at the thought, so my legs started convulsing a bit, I ended up smiling a little (not so easy to do with all the gear in my mouth), and I almost started hyperventilating.

This must have happened once or twice to the hygienist before, because she really didn't blink an eye, thank goodness. I do think she thought I was a bit strange, but who doesn't?

At the end of the cleaning, the woman filled a little dual mouth-guard with some jellylike substance, shoved it in my mouth, told me to clamp down and hold it for three minutes, set a little kitchen timer on the cart in front of me, then left the room. Normally, I would hope that I would sit calmly and quietly for the duration.

Unfortunately, that was not the case.

I suddenly started thinking, "what if my cold suddenly comes back and I get totally congested and unable to breath from my nose?" I started breathing more rapidly through my nose to compensate (as if that would help), my legs started getting really wiggly, and I somewhoe managed to get a case of the giggles, all in this three minute time span.

With a tremendous amount of will power, I managed to get things under control just as the timer bell went off. The woman came back in, removed the mouth-guard, and told me to rinse out in the basin.

Well, I rinsed a bit, then spat the gunk out, which would have been ok except I missed the basin by a good 2 inches. "Oh that is fucking gross," I said to myself as I tried to scrape the yuck off my jeans, hoping it would not burn a hole in the dark denim.

"No food or drink for an hour. Have a nice day," said the dentist, who had come in to say goodbye. "See you next year!"

With very clean feeling teeth, I went off to a local bookstore and browsed for the better part of an hour, selecting a few German books to add to my library.

It is no secret that I enjoy reading, and I am thrilled to have a bit more time to open up a book. Though I tend to read mostly in English, with the occasional stab at a Spanish novel, I have realized that I need to improve my German, especially since my job currently requires more English than German. I cannot afford to let my language level slip, particularly since I am far from fluent anyway.

So, during the latter part of my holiday week, I opened up a little German crime novel, one that was designed for the language learner. I kind of laughed initially, as my pace of reading in English is alarmingly fast; with a German book, it is as if the world has stopped, as if I were losing a footrace with a snail.

I almost gave up after two pages, but took a break, then opened up the book again, using a bit more patience. I soon found that I was understanding everything, and was feeling pretty good about things. The story, while somewhat simple, had enough to keep me interested. Late one night while reading in bed, though, I started the final chapter, and was totally let down! The story itself was a bit of a murder mystery, and I was thinking, "OK, it is not a bad story," but it ended so abruptly that I was really irritated. It was as if the author spent the better part of a year writing everything but the conclusion, only to discover that in order to meet the publishing deadline he had only 5 minutes or so to bring the story to a close.

Fair enough, the book is intended for language learning (in one chapter I had to go through and identify all the adverbs, in another, all of the irregular verbs), so I comforted myself with the thought that so long as I keep this up, I will soon be able to venture into the adult section of the library.

The Most Expensive Vacation...Ever!

My relaxing week at home ended abruptly Thursday evening when I discovered a virus on my laptop. I called a friend of mine who had helped me with a similar problem previously, but shortly before he arrived, I went online using my work laptop to check my bank account, where I found two unusual transactions transferring money OUT of my account.

The previous Saturday, I had gone online to the same banking website, where something strange happened: a little window had popped up asking me to update my account, and, to make a long story short, I typed in the requested information, though in the back of my mind it seemed a bit dubious. However, after I updated the info, things continued as normal.

I checked my account each day, looking for any thing that seemed wrong, and Thursday evening (a couple of hours after I discovered the virus), I discovered the false transactions.

I consulted my friend, who had arrived to help clean up my PC. I phoned the bank, but unfortunately they were already closed for the day. As panic set in, I smoked a handful of cigarettes in a matter of minutes, then checked my banking paperwork for an afterhours telephone service number. I did find a number, which I called, and was told how to deactivate my online account, which I did immediately. I then gave him my telephone number with the understanding that someone from my bank would contact me on Friday with the next steps that would need to be taken.

As you can imagine, it was a bit hard to relax after that. However, knowing that nothing more could be done that evening, I concentrated on getting my laptop cleaned and operational again, with more or less a positive result.

Friday morning, I woke up (did I even sleep that night?) a bit of a nervous wreck. I sort of flopped about trying to calm myself down. Knowing that my little error from the previous Saturday had created this mess did not help my mood; I tend to know better than to be so foolish, or so I thought.

I waited the morning and afternoon anxiously for the phonecall, which never came. Finally, a little past 4pm, I phoned up the bank, cursing myself for waiting so long, and sure enough, got through to the answering service, who informed me that the bank were closed, and would reopen Monday morning. Fuck.

Expecting a lot from myself is something I have always suffered with. It is easy to find motiviation to psych one's self up, but in a blink of an eye, all of that can go away. I tried not to beat myself up too much, telling myself (with tremendous bitter sarcasm) that I had just single handedly spent the last week on the most expensive holiday I have ever taken. It was probably poor judgement on my part to watch the biopic "Control" dvd. While a great movie, it is not particularly the film to watch when you are going through a complete absence of self-confidence and esteem. Fucking good soundtrack, though...

At any rate, Monday morning I phoned my bank first thing, eventually found the right person to speak to, and explained the course of events. Upon the bank employee's suggestion, I then phoned the police and spent 15 minutes or so trying to explain what "phishing" is, but eventually got through to the right department. The policeman told me to go to my local station and file a statement, and yes, it would be ok to do that upon my return from Scotland. I thanked him, hung up the phone, then went to the airport.

This past week I met with my colleagues in Scotland, greatly enjoying the opportunitiy to work side by side with the team, which includes a fair amount of comical banter in the office. Though I certainly joke about in Germany, also, it can be particularly humorous with the Scots, and it really helped me put my little banking fiasco a bit behind me. As usual, though, I was very glad to get home on Friday evening.

Besuch bei der Polizei

Instead of jumping up early Saturday morning and heading to the local precinct, I lounged arond my flat, doing a fair amount of fuck all. Part of me was feeling a bit intimidated about having to go off and explain things to the Police, but I knew if I was to have any chance of recovering any of the funds taken from my account, I would have to get them involved.

The last time I was in a police station, I was an overnight guest, and that memory still regularly haunts me, even over 10 years later. But, after a long shower and several coffees, I walked the few minutes to the station, where I introduced myself and explained my plight.

The guy buzzed me into the quiet office and we sat down so he could type up my statement. This was kind of a new experience for me, since I have not concentrated my language learning time figuring out how to explain ocmplicated things like internet crime, etc. Fortunately, the guy was very patient, and I wonder how many times he has had to take a statement from a non-native speaker.

Once or twice I saw his mouth sort of twitch as I struggled to explain the step by step events from the moment I got phished to the moment I walked into his station. In my defense, I did a rather reasonable job explaining. However, I was acutely aware that I had never in my life learned police jargon (or bank jargon for that matter) so needless to say, the process took a couple of hours.

There was a brief interruption when someone came to the station claiming that their car had been stolen. The officer assisting me had to get up and tend to the newcomer, as the other police were out on patrol or whatever. Of course, at that moment the phone started ringing off the hook, presumably as more and more people who had just spent the last few hours enjoying beers in the sunshine were all feeling inclined to phone up the police for one reason or other. (As I indicated above, I am not a frequent visitor to the police, and I was not allowed to use the phone (save for one call) on my previous visit)

My attending officer was starting to get a bit wound up. I patiently sat at the desk as he explained to the person at the front desk that no, the car had not been stolen but instead towed away as it was parked in front of a fire hydrant. This did not sit well with the (possibly slightly drunk) carless man, who started to get a bit frisky himself. Fortunately, things calmed down, and a few minutes later, we were putting the finishing touches on my statement.

Thank goodness I had read a little German book earlier in the week, because he pushed the typewritten report across the desk for me to read and sign. I understood all of it, even though he had helped to correct my German grammar.

At the end of the session, I thanked him profusely for his patience and help, and sheepishly said no I would never do something so foolish again online.

Hopped up on new experiences and new vocab, I feel better prepared for the next exciting chapter. You see, the future is unwritten, as Pablo reminded me early this morning.

keep the faith
bryan

Embrace the Ambiguity...Game, Set, Match (er, Full Time)

The other week I was in Hungary having dinner with the customer I was visiting. Several of us were sitting around the table as we waited on a few more colleagues to arrive. We started discussing sports; the three Hungarians I was dining with all enjoy skiing and cycling. They are all friends (which is nice to see in a firm), and tend to take their bike (spring/summer) and ski (winter) trips frequently. The ski season is just coming to an end, so everyone was getting their bikes out in preparation of the season change.

Inevitably, I was asked about my own tastes in sport. One of the guys is a huge fan of women's basketball; he had been following the team for 20 years or so. I found that not only intriguing but also sort of endearing. He apparently hasn't missed many matches since becoming a fan.

As I have had to do several times since living in Europe, I explained that although my childhood gave me plenty of exposure to a lot of different sports(including basketball), both as a spectator and a player, I always preferred soccer. (I almost always say soccer, since everyone assumes initially that I refer to american football when I say football). Hungary is not really known for its prowess (but hell, look where I come from), though they might have a chance to qualify for Euro 2012.

At any rate, I related my tale that I had pretty much only played soccer through most of my playing years, save for an interlude when I played tennis for my college team. I actually laughed out loud when I mentioned tennis, reminded of the absolute absurdity of a 3 year stint on a team where I was an average player at best. I never quite developed my mental game on the court. As a result, matches were quite entertaining, as I could quickly lose control of a match, especially against any opponent who was talented enough to identify the plethora of weaknesses to my game.

Still, I did enjoy the experience, managing to be a decent contributor to the team. My physical ability, particularly my serve, helped to get me noticed. More than once I could snatch a few games off of a better player just because I could blast the serve and accumulate enough aces to momentarily rattle them. Of course, I was a bit of a one trick pony, so as soon as they figured out how to beat me, things tended to go down hill quickly.

Ultimmately, I returned to the pitch soon after college, and while I sort of wish that I had not skipped the opportunity to improve my footballing (while running around on the court), I do think I did make for a decent footballer in the end, though that is a story for another time. (preview - in a seemingly insane moment playing indoor with some guys, a teammate compared me to Bobby Moore. Flattered as I was, I actually asked the teammate if he was on crack...)

We had a couple of palinkas as I finished telling my story, and that more or less rounded out the evening nicely.

A couple of days later, Pablo reminded me that he and I had both always been better doubles players on the court, and I appreciated his analogy, especially since it gave a perspective that I hadn't thought of previously.

As always, I like it when a random comment gives me something to think about. Thoughts of double faults and broken racket strings (and a banner day when I bopped myself in the forehead trying to return someone's serve, resulting in me bleeding all over the tennis court) stayed with me during this past week as I commuted to work each day on the train, sort of mingling with my recent ongoing search to make sure the music doesn't fade completely away.

I greatly enjoy the experience on the train. I tend to hang out in the board bistro, where you can buy a coffee (mornings) or a beer (evenings), do a little work, or read a book. At the rate that I am reading, I am going to have to hit the library a bit more frequently.

There are usually other regular commuters that have the same idea as me, preferring the bistro to trying to fight for a seat in one of the passenger cars. I have never really been one to initiate conversations on the train (or planes, or automobiles, for that matter), and a prime reason (other than my shyness) came up one afternoon as I boarded the train in Düsseldorf. Two other guys who I had seen before sort of jockeying for that place on the train platform that puts you directly in front of the door to the train, thus allowing you to be one of the first to board as soon as the passengers have gotten off. This is a particularly significant thing when you have no seat reservation; being first on means you have a better chance of finding the spot (either in the passenger car in an unoccupied seat or in the bistro where you can get a table) that you want.

Train travel, especially for commuters, can create a bit of overcrowding. Usually you can purchase a ticket and ride any train. This potentially means that you can travel with a lot of people at one time, with more passengers than there are seats on the train. Football weekends are good examples, as are holidays when all the soldiers get a weekend furlough. Thus, there are times when you get on a train, only to find out that travellers (and their bags) are scattered all over: in the aisles, in the foyer, or anywhere where there is a place to lean, stand, or squat.
All the more reason to pick out your preferred spot and try to get situated quickly. It's a bit like musical chairs, and no one likes to suddenly find themselves without a place.

So, when the train arrived in the station, I found myself getting into the bistro just before the other two regular commuters, but as I was just about to put my bag on a little table, one of the guys sort of threw his own bag onto the same spot, more or less beating me to the place.

"Sorry," he said, more or less meaning anything but.

"Macht nichts," I responded, meaning, "you are a fuckhead."

I took the table across from them and opened my book, realizing that it was not worth worrying about. After all, I still had a spot for myself. My irritation came simply from the fact that he easily noticed that there were two spots and could have simply taken the one that I was NOT about to take. Ah well, it really came as no surprise. Most commuters tend to be a bit jumpy at the best of times. Mintues later, after we were en route to the next station, about 10 people all tried to order refreshments from the helpless guy behind the counter, and somehow everyone wanted to be first, as opposed to standing in a queue. I sipped my own beer and continued reading, glad to have a little spot at my table.

While I enjoy the train travel, the one thing that was a bit of a concern is the expense. I own a Bahnkarte which greatly reduces my ticket price, but as I am finding that I will probably not have to travel outside of Germany as much as I initially thought, the expenses of a daily commute to work were adding up quickly. After the debaucle of the shit hotel I stayed in a few weeks ago, I feel more inclined to simply commute each day, so long as the expenses aren't out of control.

I wisely decided to upgrade my Bahnkarte this past week (after riding home with fuckhead and his buddy), and was pleased at the service I got from the Reisezentrum as they helped me get the change application filled out. If it works the way I think it will, I will actually save more money commuting than if I actually stayed away from home during the work week. I was very glad to get this sorted, as it has helped create my little routine.

Later, at home, I lay in bed listening to a little "Night Music," feeling comfortable that at the very least, my work week is starting to get a bit structure, at least as much as can be formed in a job that is never dull, changing from day to day.

So, I entered the holiday weekend still trying to get back on track with the music, as my concerns from the other week had not yet subsided. Fortunately, a few tracks from Richard Butler hit rotation at just the right moment, and things seem to be improving on that front. Thank goodness. Throw in a bit of Joy Division and the Police, and look the fuck out...

After all, sometimes you just have to change the game.

keep the faith
bryan

soundtrack
The Make - Daryl
Into You Like a Train - Psychedelic Furs
Fall On Tears - Love Spit Love
Complete catalog - The Police
Complete catalog - Joy Division

Half Full or Half Empty

You know, when I was in college, I had a friend, and somehow, he and I managed to get going on a „who can be the most pessimistic“kick. Entertaining as this was at the time, it was a bit dangerous, and I found the whole experience quite educational. He had a way of saying, “Everything sucks, and if something good happens, it will be like a bonus.” Because of this approach, he almost won the contest, but in the end I won out, though I will save that story for another time. Sometimes best to leave a few skeletons in the closet, no?

We eventually grew up and out of our pessimistic tendencies, at least for the most part.

For me, rightly or wrongly, I developed a habit of wearing my heart on my sleeve; I have touched on that many times over the years. That took me a while to come to terms with, but I accepted things eventually, finding ways to mask emotion with a whole lot of satire, grim humor and wit, which further developed my style.

This style is not without its drawbacks, as I have always had a knack for laughing out loud while telling someone to fuck off (thus giving the impression that I was joking while I really was quite serious), or sometimes saying something so absurd, with a straight face, that people would almost take offense, thinking surely I spoke in jest, while I was quite the opposite.

I struggled with the feelings of being misunderstood for a long time. It took a bit of time before I realized that my style appeals to a much smaller audience (hence the reason that there are five regular readers of this blog…though I do thank each of you!), and while I accept that fact, sometimes it becomes a bit much.

I might add, though, that I grew up in a culture where cheerleaders happened to be everywhere, a wee too bubbly and chipper for my taste, and perhaps my pessimistic feelings came from the need to compensate, as I surely found them to be a bit much.

Like we all do over time and experience, we (or at least I do) reflect on things, and sometimes discover that it is ok to change our tune. This is not to say we should stop liking punk music in favor of opera; to that, I would laugh out loud with a hearty fuck off! I believe the change comes more gradually, which is better, as it allows you to develop at your pace. (er, punk, then shoegazer, then prog, then classical, and then opera? Er, if it suits you.)

With me, I slowly stopped wearing shirts with slogans like, “Smoke this, cheesedick motherfucker,” or “join a frat, rent a friend,” not because I no longer believed in the sentiment, but because I realized that the slogans were rather rude, and apt not to be so accepted. I am sure my Eco and Literature Profs would be relieved to know this. Probably a couple of old bosses, too. More important, though, I am glad for me.

Over the years, my pessimism has decreased, but not necessarily in the complete direction of optimism. That said, I do tend to support and cheer (we all have a bit of cheerleader in us) when compelled. True, those times may be infrequent, but what I lack in quantity I make up for in quality, because I deem them so important to me. Whether this be something like the FA Cup final in 2005, or wanting my nephew to do well on a math exam, or simply wanting a friend to be safe, happy, and at peace.

Yes, I tend to be selective, mainly because I tend to extend quite an effort in supporting the causes I feel worthy, and it can be equally rewarding and exhausting. But, even when I feel like I am running full speed into a brick wall (Barca-Arsenal Champs League 2nd leg 2011, for example) I still feel it the right thing to do, even if the result isn’t what I wanted, or expected.

The valuable lesson that I learned is to prepare yourself for the fact that you may have to say “Ouch!” Not everything or everyone will accept the Rah Rahs…
Ironic, that the very reason that people turn pessimistic is because of the rejection, or a big fucking brick wall.

Like I said, I am glad that I understand this, and while it doesn’t always make my life particularly easy, it is part of life all the same.

Alas, I have had a few moments recently where the bricks were a bit tough, or maybe I was running too fast. At any rate, I would have to say that some of the music stopped. This generated a bit of personal concern, as have this feeling I am living a short story that I wrote years ago (while wearing a silly shirt that said, “smoke this, cheesedick…”), and this story had a very horrible ending.

I am in the middle of figuring that out at the moment, and all things considered, I am ok with things, particularly since, and I must say this with a straight face: “Bring it On” is on the video on demand in my hotel, and I am in. So what if it is in Hungarian.

After all, we’ve all got a bit of cheerleader in us…

Keep the faith
Bryan

Soundtrack:
Smells Like Teen Spirit - Nirvana

Think About the Way

"Life's tough," I read in a text message about a week ago. Yes indeedy.

The comment stuck with me all last weekend, and lingered through this past week. Unlike last week where I commuted daily to and from Düsseldorf, this week I had booked a hotel to stay in.

I spent Monday with the office to myself. Not a soul in sight. The receptionist sat out front, and had already mentioned that things were pretty quiet until Tuesday. I got a fair amount of work done during the day, though at this stage in the job, I am still getting into the swing of things. Thus, there is not so much to do. I find that a bit uncomfortable, because I am used to having loads on my plate.

Colleagues tell me that I should be patient; there will be plenty to do in good time and likely sooner rather than later. I reckon that they are right, and I should really enjoy the time while I can, sort of gradually working my way into things.

However, I feel a little self-conscious as of late, so having a few idle moments in the office is the last thing I want right now.

Ah well, I took advantage of the slow day and left the office a few minutes past 5, and walked to the U-bahn stop. En route, I got a front row seat of a motor accident, where a woman drove a car into a man riding a motorcycle. Though neither seemed to be going that fast, the man still got flipped several feet into the air, and the whole incident was bloody awful to have to see.

Though I had a direct view of the accident, I was about half a block away, and therefore couldn't really consider myself a witness. Other workers finishing for the day were right there on the scene, and scurried over to try and help. Meanwhile, I went ahead and got on my train and headed back downtown. "Life is tough," I thought to myself.

I was pretty well freaked out by the whole thing, and while I mean no disrepect to those involved in the accident (particularly the injured victim), my own personal mood was rapidly going downhill. And it was only Monday.

My hotel was situated a few minutes walk from the train station, and I realized as I checked in that it was going to be a shit hole. The neighborhood was pretty lousy (as most neighborhoods next to German train stations tend to be), and I hadn't seen any interesting restaurants close by.

Of course, the room rate was pretty reasonable, only about 40 Euro per night, but I had hoped for a bit more atmosphere. Deciding to suck it up (life is tough!) and remembering that the entire week had already been billed to my credit card, there wasn't much I could do about it.

After unpacking, I set off in search of a quiet restaurant where I could do a bit of reading, preferably for a few hours, as my room was so small that I wanted to stay out of there as much as possible. 10 minutes walk further down the street brought me to fuck all. The neighborhood was marginally better than the immediate hotel surroundings, but only just. I decided to walk a bit further in hopes of finding a small gem, otherwise I would be forced to head back to the kebap shop across the street from the hotel.

The extra bit of walking paid off: I came upon a little tapas bar which looked interesting. I walked in, indicated I had no reservation, and was allowed to sit at a little table in the bar. The staff were friendly, the sangria was pretty good, and, as it turned out, the tapas were quite impressive, and reasonably priced.

I tucked in, and spent the next few hours enjoying the quiet atmosphere, my book, and the sangria. The restaurant was not very busy, but I assumed that had more to do with the fact that it was a Monday night, not the busiest of eating out nights.

My bill came to just over 50 Euro, but that is because I had eaten so much. Tapas tend to be better suited for parties of more than one, but, hey, life is tough. I was more than satisfied, despite the splurge. Besides, I had not eaten all day.

Indeed, there were a lot more people in the office on Tuesday morning. I would say that the other folks are at the very least, relatively polite. However, they were not overly friendly, nor were they particularly interested in why I was there, or what I was doing. Since they are all in sales and marketing, I would say that is fairly typical. I am in ops, so they will usually only get involved with me when they need something. Kind of a strange environment to be in, but I hope that over the next few weeks and months (when I am not travelling and actually in the office) things will be a bit more comfortable. In fairness, I have only been with the company two months, and it was only my fourth day in the office. They probably need a bit of time to adjust to me, too.

As the work day finished, it started to rain, and I lost any sense of adventure for trying to find another restaurant, so made it easy on myself and returned to the tapas bar. The same staff from the previous evening greeted me with a bit of surprise, but I pointed out that the food was fucking great, and the menu was quite extensive. I ordered a few new items for round one, then repeated a couple of dishes from the previous evening.

I was engrossed in my book, but took a quick break during the evening to chat with a stateside colleague about my early days on the job. He reassured me that things would certainly get better on some fronts, but the chaos and bizarreness would also be prevalent...

The chat helped, and I returned to my cramped hotel room feeling a bit less isolated, knowing that I was not really as alone as I currently felt.

I chatted with the office receptionist on Wednesday, and she pointed out that my hotel was a shithole in a pretty lousy area of the city. I mentioned that I kind of wished she had told me that the previous week, but thanked her all the same.

As a creature of habit, it was no surprise that I returned to the tapas bar again on Wednesday evening. I had already prepared an explanation as to why I had to keep going back to the same establishment, but was fortunate that the waitstaff from the first two nights of the week were not there, likely having a night off. Unfortunately, the place was packed, and the waitress on duty did not know me from adam, but begrudgingly found me the one remaining table, even though it was marked as reserved.

I quickly realized that they were actually understaffed. In a tapas restaurant, this is a bit challenging, as dishes are whisked out to the tables as soon as they are ready. I felt a bit unsettled, as my table was in the middle of the bar, kind of in the traffic lane between the kitchen and the other tables. By the second glass of sangria, though, I felt somewhat better. The chef brought out one of the things that I had ordered, and we suddenly started chatting in Spanish. This upped my status in the place considerably, especially with the busy waitress, who became at least civil towards me, if not almost friendly.

By the end of the night, I had decided that I would return to Frankfurt on Thursday evening after work. It was not that I was tired of tapas, my dining experience had been the best thing about the whole week. However, I was feeling a bit too far from home.

On Thursday morning, I gave the hotel clerk my key, saying that I would not be staying that evening. He was a man of few words, and more or less dismissed me, acknowleding that he already had my money. As I walked to the U-bahn with my bag, I noted that I would tell my parents to find a better hotel before they arrived in Düsseldorf; this one was shit.

Though my current situation is all about feeling a bit unsettled and isolated, I do enjoy riding the train between Düsseldorf and Frankfurt. The commute home on Thursday was easy, and I was very glad to pick up a couple of pizzas at my local shop and get home to my flat.

The pizza was a nice change from the tapas, but as I finished dinner and prepared to do a laundry load, I discovered that I had a new issue to deal with. No hot water.

A couple of years ago, I had experienced a problem with my hot water heater, and ultimately had to have a man come out and do repairs. On that visit, he mentioned that he had had to fill up the water level, but never bothered to show me that I could take care of that myself, should the need arise in the future.

Sometime last summer, according to a little gauge on my hot water heater, the water level needed to be topped up. The term is Nachfüllen, and I checked about on the internet looking for instructions, preferably with photos. I did find a few forums which described the process, and upon further discussion with a few people, I had some idea as to how to take care of this task. The forums all mentioned that it was pretty easy to do. Hmmm.

After trying once or twice unsuccessfully to fill up the water level, I assumed I was doing it wrong. However, I still had hot water, so was not too worried. True, because the tank level was too low, I would frequently hear noises that were a bit unsettling, especially to house guests.

This went on for several more months, but as long as the hot water flowed, I found it easy to forget about.

All that changed, of course, on Thursday evening when my luck ran out.

Friday morning I checked the internet forums again, hoping that a newer post might have been written (with pics). Nope.

I decided to give it another shot myself, remembering that one time someone had shown me where they attached the hoses to get water into the tank. At the time, it wasn't very clear to me, but hey, life is tough.

By the middle of the afternoon, I felt beaten. My efforts to resolve this on my own were fruitless. This was certainly not helping my self esteem (I am DIY!) and was likely going to require a telephone call or two to the Hausmeister. My German has also been a bit shaky over the past couple of weeks, partly because most of the work day is conducted in English.

Fortunately, the Hausmeister was patient with me, but he, too, was unable to instruct me over the telephone as to precisely how one goes about Nachfüllen. But, he gave me another telephone number for someone he thought could help. Minutes later, I was speaking with Frau Rot, who told me that her fixit men were all out on calls, but one would call me back as soon as they got back to the office.

About 30 minutes later, she phoned me back to tell me that a guy was on his way to my flat. It was easier for him to show me in person.

So, at 5pm on Friday afternoon, the man arrived at my flat, we walked upstairs, he connected the hose to the same two places that I had already tried, then turned a little key on the radiator, turned on the faucet, and within two minutes, the Nachfüllen was complete. I felt a bit idiotic, since I had done everything that he did, save for turning the key. In fairness, no one had mentioned anything about this key before, neither the friends I had consulted nor the internet forums.

With great relief, I had hot water again. Order restored.

I opened a bottle of wine to celebrate. The whole day had been most stressful, but was ending on a decent note. At the very least, I can put up with the "I told you so's" and move on to the next bit. How funny that something so seemingly easy gets so complicated.

Last night, I took a quick trip to Köln to have dinner with my parents, and related the tale as we sat in a restaurant eating, erm, tapas.

Life is tough, no?

keep the faith
bryan

soundtrack:
Over and Out - Alkaline Trio
Enjoy the Silence - DM
Age of Consent - New Order
Think About the Way - Ice MC

Avoiding an(other) Identity Crisis!

Like anyone else with a vivid imagination, I tend to find connections with various characters in films that I see. As children playing with friends after school, which one of us was Luke, or Leia, or Han Solo (or an ewok, for that matter)? I have always favored films by John Cusack and Colin Firth (the earlier stuff), as I always felt something in common with the characters those actors have portrayed. This does not mean that I went through junior high thinking I needed to ski the K-12 or anything like that.

After watching St. Elmo's Fire last weekend, though, I did spend a couple of days thinking about post college and the challenges we all faced as we acclimated ourselves to the "real world." Interesting how people you never expected to amount to much became stellar people, and likewise, folks that always seemed on top of things back in school have had less than pleasant times.

I have to assume that when we find outselves in self thought, or even self doubt, we sometimes seek a pick me up in the form of a film, typically one that we already know (sometimes not, I suppose), just we know we will be able to identify with a character, and see things which provide us a it of reassurance.

Sure, we have the ability to sort of manipulate this sensation, and tend to select a movie where we believe we are guaranteed to find something reassuring. At festive family gatherings (ie Thanksgiving, or Christmas Eve), I doubt seriously that anyone is saying, "Hey, who feels like watching Schindler's List or The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo?"

Let me be quick to point out that I am not suggesting that we try to live our lives along to a movie script, I am simply saying that with stories (music, too) we often find things that we can relate to. And we want that in our lives.

Sometimes, though, we find ourselves seemingly caught on the back foot, as the events of daily life suddenly remind you of a specific character or story. This happened to me this past week as I commuted daily to my office in Düsseldorf. Monday morning, I was singing to myself ("Heigh-Ho, Heigh-ho, It's off to work we go,"), feeling a bit tired from the emotional end to the weekend.

The commute to Düsseldorf takes about 90 minutes, but because the train is busy (with other commuters), I was unable to get a reserved seat, so went to the bistro and had a coffee and read a book. After two months on the job, I was actually going to my "office" for the very first time. Sure, I was a little anxious, partly because I wasn't too clear on how to get to the office, and furthermore, did not really know what to expect. This particular office is primarily a location for a different division of the company. The work done there would not have too much to do with me, and visa versa.

I managed to find the office without too much trouble, and felt a little bashful as the office manager showed me around. There were not too many other workers there, which I found a bit strange, but I was told that that was normal, usually most people were there Tuesday through Thursday, working from home (or commuting) on Mondays and Fridays.

My two primary German colleagues were both travelling on Monday, so neither was in the office with me. I felt a bit awkward sitting there in a rather empty office. Of the other three people there, one made a bit of chit chat with me, asking who I was and what my function was in the company. I struggled to explain, fumbling a bit for words, not really because the conversation was in German, more so because I was still trying to get settled. I always need a few moments (hours, or days...) to reach my comfort level. It goes without saying that this early in the new job, I am still searching for my daily routine, wherever, whenever, however. Each day is more comfortable, but actually going to my office for the first time was a bit new.

The day went ok, and around 6pm I took a train back to Frankfurt. Ideally, I will plan to stay in Düsseldort during the work week (when not travelling), but due to a Messe, there were no hotels available. Fortunately, the one way commute is not too terribly long, and I was able to get a bit of work done. However, I was a little tired, a bit sleepy. Upon arriving in Frankfurt, I ate a quick dinner, then went home to bed.

Tuesday was a repeat of Monday, with the bonus of better knowing the public transportation routine, making the transfer from the train platform to the U-Bahn without incident. (The previous day, I had felt a bit of a dope, as I stood around in the middle of the train station, getting in everyones way as I tried to find my bearings. I tend to be selfconscious about that kind of thing, and it is not as if I am a dwarf or anything, right?)

On the way home on Tuesday evening, I saw a guy who had been on the same homeward journey the previous day. On the U-Bahn in Frankfurt, we exchanged a few words, finding out that both of us had the commonn situation of living in one city and working in another. Both of us travel, so there is no pressing need to relocate; commuting is sufficient.

I was feeling a bit grumpy on Wednesday morning, not to mention sleepy, dopey, and bashful, and was a bit concerned about my mood. For most of the weekend and early days of the week, I was struggling with the question, "why is everything so strange, is there something wrong with me?" as I tried to cope with various things in my life. Am I making the right decisions, am I doing the right things? I suppose we all ask ourselves these questions regularly, but maybe not all of us do this while sipping a latte on a train coach, slowly realizing that we seem to be caught up in a Disney film.

However, I took the time to reflect, and as I seem to do so well, at least for myself, confirmed for myself that I am on the right path (and thank goodness the right train!), and got through the workday in decent fashion. I was very glad that I had arranged to work from home the rest of the week, on account that my parents would be arriving the following morning. I decided to take an earlier train back to Frankfurt, and was pleased to find the bistro not so full.

A man was at the table across from me, constantly looking at his smartphone (just as I was). He made a few business calls, and I noticed that he spoke German well enough, but like me, was not native. I tried to ignore him, but kept glancing over, as he spoke somewhat loudly, and I couldn't help thinking that perrhaps my own German accent sounds a bit like his. I don't really know.

He was a fairly big man, so his voice was fitting. Big guy, big voice. A few minutes later I was startled from the magazine that I was reading with "Achoo achoo achoo!"

At first, I looked around, wondering if there was a baby hamster on board. The noise I had heard was very dinky and strange.

The man was pulling out his handkerchief, and I bit my tongue, refraining from making a rude comment out loud.

Way to go, Sneezy.

We arrived in Frankfurt soon after, and I bumped into an old Kumpel on the platform. He lives in Stuttgart and commutes to Frankfurt regularly; an old drinking buddy from the pub.

Later, I ran into another friend that I hadn't seen since the beginning of the new year, and we caught up over a few beers. A nice way to finish the day.

Well, the rest of the week has been pretty good. At the very least, I can be happy with the fact that I accept how things are.

Now, I have got to run off to the DVD shop and hopefully find something that will help me get the silly song out of my head.

Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho.

keep the faith
bryan

Bryan Wears Dark Socks

Man, do I ever hate sorting socks.

Over the past couple of years, I seem to have overstocked myself on boxers and dark socks. I won't say that I stop in every H and M that I see, but every couple of months I do find myself buying a few pairs of boxers and inevitably, a six pack of black socks.

Once I get home to put the new articles away, I discover unopened packs of socks that I had previously purchased, lying happily (and forgotten) in the drawer. Ah well, I will certainly need them one day I always tell myself.

I seem to have the same habit with shaving cream, shower gel, and fabric softener, also, due primarily to the fact that I am an impulse buyer, but I will leave that story for another day.

Because I do not let the dirty laundry pile up, the clothes get washed frequently, folded, then placed in the bureau, only to be worn again pretty quickly. Thus, I tend to wear things over and over again; wear clothes for the week, wash them on Saturday, then wear the clean clothes again the next week. Jeans and shirts all seem to be the same (in kind of a Nancy and Sluggo sort of way), always dark (ok, black) and in the same style.

In reaction to some pressure from some of the more fashion conscious I know, I now wear white socks less and less. In Germany, dark socks are key. This is not a huge issue, but it has created a bit of an imbalance in my laundry sorting.

Usually, I have to let the whites kind of accumulate, since they are only white t-shirts now due to the absence of white socks. Not a problem.

However, what can be a bit challenging is the fact that I have multiple loads of dark that have to be done each week. One for the jeans and shirts, and one for the boxers and socks.

With the sudden shift from constantly being at home to being on the road several days each week, or perhaps even longer, I have had to change my laundry strategy, if only slightly. I decided to put together little travel packets: sorting 5 pairs of underwear and socks in preparation for the next trip. This resulted in a couple of things: I could better rotate my socks and boxers, and even allowed for me to find some of the cool boxers buried deep in my drawer.

When I got home Thursday afternoon from Budapest, I took a look at the laundry situation and decided that I would do the majority of the wash on Friday and Saturday; no nead to run a load on Thursday. Keep in mind that one has to plan a little with this domestic task. I do not have a clothes dryer, so am limited to the hanging rack in my bathroom for getting the clothes dry.

Friday morning I took a train a couple of hours north to attend new employee induction day. Not the way I really wanted to spend my work day, basically because I had, er, a fair amount of work to do and no time to sit in a video conference talking about company history and where to find the link to company news on the intranet.

Fortunately, the meeting wrapped up about an hour earlier than I expected, so I caught the next train back to Frankfurt, stopped off at a pizzeria, then went home to have a very quiet night after a rather busy week. Before I sat down for dinner and a movie, I threw a load of laundry in the wash. I managed to watch all of St. Elmo's Fire, then hung the wash on the drying rack (noticing that there were a lot of socks), then went to bed.

This morning, feeling refreshed, I enjoyed a couple of coffees, then started another laundry load (sheets and towels). Then I looked again at the rack, and realized I had a bit of folding to do. Sure, the boxers (5 to a kit, please!) are easy, but the pile of socks seemed a bit intimidating, so I had another coffee before I attacked the pile.

One would think that such a menial task would not be so annoying, but with black socks, it just takes a bit longer to sort. In all, it took me a good 15 minutes, and while I was glad to get things finished and the stuff shoved in the sock drawer, I noticed yesterday's socks lying on the floor of my bedroom. I had forgotten to put them in the wash, so they will now sit in the hamper for another week.

The cycle repeats itself.

This long-winded little tale about my domestic life is brought to you today by Lenor fabric softener (Energy - clear blue flavor!) and the Clean Clothes Brigade, all to the soundtrack of an interesting mix of The Police, Joe Jackson, and Blaggers ITA.

Keep 'em clean, and keep the faith.

bryan

Alone Again...or So Lonely?

A friend of mine contacted me last month right as I was starting the new job with the news that he was about to put up a blog on his website. In addition to putting up a daily post in real time, he also shares from his journal entry from the same day eleven years ago. I found that to be a very interesting concept, and have really enjoyed following the posts; every couple of days I go to his site to read a few entries.

Pause while I just remembered that he said he was going to be in Frankfurt for a couple of days this past week. Shit. Needed to have a pint with him. (said blogger is mentioned in one of my earliest German posts. Who said that an Arsenal fan can't be friends with a fan of Man U?)

Due to my action packed movie watching and novel reading experience last weekend in Glasgow, I found myself a little behind in blog reading. I travelled to Bolougne-sur-Mer on Monday via the Chunnel, which was quite cool. Two colleagues and I arrived at our hotel, checked in, found a local restaurant, then returned the hotel after dinner. I tried to connect up to the Wi-Fi in my room, but was totally unsuccessful.

I found that the local telly was showing L'auberge Espagnole, one of my favorite films, so decided to watch that instead of doing any work. A few minutes later, one of the colleagues sent me a quick text message with the news that the other colleague had to return home suddenly as his wife had just gone into labor. Thus, we would visit the repair site without him.

The next day at the supplier, I found I was still unable to connect to the wireless network. My colleague came around the table to check my laptop, and pointed out that my wireless was turned off. Damn.

As I turned red with embarrassment, I waited for him to zing me by stating the obvious. "So, you worked in laptop repair for the past 15 years, huh?"

Well, I deserved that.

The rest of the day was spent on the repair lines, and though I did connect up and pull down my work emails, I did not have a chance to look around on the internet until Wednesday morning. I found an interesting post that my friend had written the previous week on the subject of being alone or being lonely.

That afternoon, we drove back to England, and I was dropped off at a train station about an hour outside of London. I purchased my ticket and Underground transfer; I needed to get to City Airport for my return flight that evening to Frankfurt.

I contemplated the blog entry during my entire journey home, and have continued to reflect over the past several days that I have been back in Frankfurt, rereading the entry several more times. One sentence really grabbed me: "When we can be alone with ourselves and we do not need anyone else, then we can love like we have never loved before."

I have always thrived on my independence, and acknowledge that I tend to be on my own most of the time. I stop short of saying loner, because I do greatly enjoy other people's company. Furthermore, while I have certainly exhibited a tendency to be a nonconformist through the years (I recall a manager's parting comment as I resigned from a job I held at an insurance company, "Bryan, you did a lot of great things for us here, but you will go a lot further in your career when you stop going against the flow."), I have been able to develop both my professional and personal life by always reminding myself it was better to try and be myself as opposed to trying to stand out.

No sense in attempting to point out the obvious, right?

Since I have been in Germany, people have told me on more than one occasion that I really am no different than anybody else. Although I initally took offense at the comment, I quickly realized (and remembered) that it was the truth. I had confused the fact that I was alone, or feeling alone, when in reality, everyone else has those same feelings. OK, living abroad in a different culture brings about a feeling of isolation from time to time, but so be it.

So, while I continue to be aware that I am alone, it was not until the latter part of last year that I noticed more and more feelings of being lonely. It was rather a new experience for me, and has certainly created some anxious moments.

With the new job comes additional isolation. I am travelling a bit more (er, a bit????) and am conscious of the distance that has created. I was so glad to get home last Wednesday night and have the chance to see people that are close to me.
Sure, sometimes I wonder if I am missed, but then I read a blog post and the reassuring words.

I am comfortable with the fact that I can be alone. This ability to not feel dependent on someone enables me to concentrate more on the things that I know I carry with me: faith, hope, and love. Whether I am playing the song by the Damned on guitar, or dancing in a club to the cool track by the Police, reading a blog post, travelling to Budapest, or just living life, I keep the faith, have hope, and am able to love.

See you out there.
bryan

Voices, Sounds, and Images

„Grrrr,“ said my colleague in way of greeting on Friday morning outside our hotel.

“Morning,” I mumbled just as deeply, though it was more of a grunt.

Said colleague was with me on my very first day of work about five weeks ago, and we discovered almost immediately that neither one of us is particularly chatty in the morning, each requiring a bit of time (not to mention a coffee or two) before we are able to fully function.

I do have my moments, though, when I feel a bit inclined to make conversation, and because of my experiences just minutes before at the checkout desk, I did feel compelled to relate the story despite the early hour.

At the checkout desk, the service agent had greeted me cheerily, but was somewhat drowned out by the noisy alarm that was sounding from the mobile phone behind the counter. She was doing her best to ignore it, but I recognized the sound, because my mobile has the same alarm. In fact, I initially thought it was mine, so had quickly checked my pockets and confirmed that I was not the culprit.

As alarms go, it actually starts out kind of soothing, in a funky, synthesizer sort of way, then quickly, albeit gradually, launches into a noise not unlike the sound of the Jägermeister machine from my local pub, a pulsating, grinding machine sound that forces a quick reaction to switch the alarm off. It is one of the most annoying sounds I have heard.

There was someone being served ahead of me, and during the few minute wait this alarm went off multiple times, each time for about a minute, then a minute’s pause, then back to the, er, grind. I was sort of confused as to why the hotel agent hadn’t already simply reached over and switched the mobile off.

“Very sorry about the annoying noise coming from the phone, “ she said apologetically. “The phone was left somewhere in the lobby (presumably by a forgetful guest) and we do not know how to switch it off, as it is in German.”

I kind of smiled in response, as things became clear. “Perhaps I can assist,” I said, “my phone is also in German, I have the same device, and I might have a good idea as to who the phone belongs to.”

“That would be oh so lovely,” she breathed with relief. “This alarm has been going off for the past hour.”

An hour? (perhaps hotel protocol is such that one cannot simply eject the battery or, worse case scenario, throw the device onto the ground outside in the carpark so that a car can accidentally run over it)

With a quick press of the button, I disabled the alarm, and also pointed out that in future, should this happen again, just press the button on the screen that says, “beenden.”

I paid up, then headed outside, grunted my greeting to my colleague, then asked, “Wo ist dein Handy?”

He reached in his pocket, pulled out his phone, and I went on to say that one of our colleagues from Germany was probably looking for his device at that moment. As if on cue, I looked inside to the hotel restaurant and noticed another colleague going through his jacket pockets as if he were looking for something.

“Er, I think the mystery is already solved,” I laughed, but upon holding up my own phone and mouthing the question, “where is yours?” to the guy inside, he held up his own device.

My outside colleague quickly sent a text message to one of the other members of our group, and within a few minutes we had identified the co-worker who had been ransacking his own room in search of his device. We had a bit of a chuckle as the guy sheepishly collected his mobile, and that was pretty much the way we started our workday.

The fact that all of us were carrying identical German phones was not too surprising. Everyone from the German office of our department was in Glasgow for a meeting with our entire European team.

In all, there were to be about 40 people in attendance, including the higher level managers from the North American corporate offices, who were there to present to us the plans and strategies for the coming fiscal year. A bit of a rah rah team session, if you will. More on that in a minute.

Due to some local personal business that was pretty important for me, I had worked from home during the first part of the week, and, realized how necessary that had been as I made my way to the airport Wednesday morning, very much glad to have made that decision.

I flew from Frankfurt to Amsterdam, then hung out for a couple of hours as I waited for my (grunting) colleague to arrive. He and I then flew on to Glasgow and met up with our Scottish colleagues, as well as a few others from around Europe.

Thursday we worked out of our Glasgow office, and during the afternoon other colleagues from the team arrived from Germany, Spain, Italy, and England.

That evening, we all gathered at a Japanese restaurant, one of those where you sit around the cook top and watch the chef delight and amaze the diners. The dinner gathering itself was very new to me. Such things were very rare during my time in the states, partly because of my career position at the time, and partly because that just was not the work culture.

On the way to the restaurant, a couple of colleagues had described the last team gathering, the company Christmas party. Again, my stateside boss had just not ever done a Christmas party or dinner, and for the four Decembers that I worked in Germany up until this point, I had always been travelling, thus missing the team Christmas outing. (note – I am not trying to say woe as me, just simply stating the facts and setting the stage).

We walked into the restaurant, met several new colleagues, then grabbed a seat next to my Scottish colleague. (For the sake of clarification, I have several Scottish colleagues with whom I work very closely. Likewise, I have several German colleagues that I will be working closely with, assuming that I start spending some time in the German office at some point in the future)

This particular colleague is quite humorous, likes to laugh, and I am glad to be working with him. He gave me a bit of a run down on the new faces sitting around the table, as well as giving a bit of a description of the antics of the particular restaurant.

Drinks were ordered, as were our main dishes, then, the chefs came out and got to work. They started by frying up some potato discs, and I understood that the chef would soon be tossing bits to the guests, who would attempt to catch a piece in their mouth.

As we were on the end of the table, we got to start, and I willed myself to catch the piece thrown at me; perhaps a way of redeeming myself from the wine spilling incident that I had created a few weeks before in Hungary. Sure enough, I caught mine first try, and on around the table the game went until it reached a couple of the women who had arrived from North America. First, one declined with a shake of her head, then a second, and then the third woman sort of shook her head and gave a bit of an “Don’t even think about it,” kind of look.

I am sure that most of the chefs have had to put up with this sort of thing before, where someone refuses to participate in the fun, and while I can appreciate both sides, I do realize that sometimes you just have to join in, despite your character. (pardon the brief tangent: my father once related a story where he had done Karaoke in a Japanese bar simply because it was the expected thing to do while on a business trip with the Japanese hosts. I was horrified at the thought, as my father is completely tone deaf, but finally understood that singing ability was totally irrelevant to the situation. I put the lesson learned into practice soon after when I attended a wedding in Boston. I knew absolutely no one, save for the bride, who I had met a couple of times, as she was a friend of my sister’s. At the reception, we had to get up and dance around the dinner table and sing a song. Somehow, I rose to that occasion, and flamboyantly reenacted a David Lee Roth song with such enthusiasm that I amazed the other wedding guests, as well as myself. )
Anyway, the chef took this in stride and finished rounding the table. Fortunately, all the other guests did partake in the food throwing. The chef then went back to work preparing the entrees, slicing, dicing, adding oils and sauces. At one point, he grabbed a plastic ketchup bottle, turned to the grumpy woman who had glared so defiantly when refusing to catch a potato, pointed the bottle in her direction, and squeezed .

Well, the effect was astounding. Turns out that it was one of those fake ketchup things, where red string sort of shoots out, startling the unsuspecting person. The woman reacted as you might expect, shooting back from the table with a start, horrified that she might have just had tomato sauce spilled on her. She almost spilled her wine glass (been there, done that) and struggled for a few moments to regain her composure as we all laughed at the joke.

Because my colleague and I have already had a few moments where we have laughed so hard that one or the both of us have almost choked, we could not believe our luck; we were sitting directly across from the woman, and her facial expression before, during, and after were so extreme that we could not stop laughing. Her eyes bored into the prankster chef with such severity that I actually feared for his safety. She simply was a very serious person, who unfortunately does not like to joke about.

My buddy and I laughed about it for the remainder of the evening, and again the following morning as we arrived at work. Not only was the evening enjoyable and entertaining, I got a glimpse into the types of people I would be working with.

So, Friday morning, we gathered in the conference center, and various people, including the woman from the ketchup incident, presented the details of what we have to accomplish over the next year. I did learn a lot, and confirmed that I now work for a very large organization: lots of different departments, different people, and different locations. All of this adds to the challenge of the job.

As I listened to each person presenting, I noticed that all of them had the habit of ending each statement as if they were asking a question; the tone of their voice went up. It soon started to annoy me a little bit, because it was EVERY statement, but I made a mental note to discuss it later with a German colleague, and focused on the subject matter.

The experience was educational. Indeed, I have a better understanding about our direction, but also have a better understanding on how people from different regions work with one another. It is the human nature element that is of particular interest, especially since I am knee deep into a multi-national, multi-cultural professional and personal life, now.

The meeting wrapped up in the middle of Friday afternoon, and I said farewell to some colleagues rushing off to the airport to catch their flights home. Those of us not needing to get out of town went back to the office, where we proceeded to chat about the events of the day (and laugh about those events that were humorous) and do a bit of work.

My grunting colleague and I transferred to a hotel in downtown Glasgow, checked in, and then headed off in search of something to eat. He was due to fly back to Germany very early Saturday morning, while I would be staying through the weekend, before flying to London Monday afternoon, and on to a meeting in France during the first part of the week. (It did not make sense to fly back to Germany from the UK on Saturday, then turn around Monday and fly right back to the UK, where I can (ironically as it ma y seem) then get back to the continent. Travel logistics were way too complicated and time consuming.)

Well, the weather Friday morning in Glasgow was cold, rain/snow, and pretty much crap. The rain/snow mixture kept up throughout the day and into the evening, with a forecast of about 30 centimeters of snow due in the area by Saturday afternoon. Turns out that the snow never really accumulated, but the weather has remained quite crap.

Friday night, we walked 20 minutes or so to a part of the city with a variety of restaurants. As we walked through the cold, we joked about the fact that both of our voices are quite deep (particularly in the morning) and quite the contrast to the voices we had heard during the presentations. My colleague was equally aggravated by the way each statement sounded like a question. Though we had been trying to find an Indian restaurant, we came across a Brazilian tapas bar that looked interesting. My German colleague had done some work (and subsequent vacationing) in Brazil, and immediately steered us over for a closer look.

What was going to be a quick mojito became a 5 hour session. The tapas were great, the drinks tasty, and the scene pretty groovy. For those of you who have ever done the Gloria’s or Monica’s Aca y Alli salsa nights, you know what I am talking about.

Around 1am, we called it a night. I was tired from the week, as was my buddy, who also had the unpleasant task of getting up three hours later to go catch his flight. Then, he was faced with another couple hours drive home from Amsterdam.

Thus, Saturday morning I had a nice lie in. I looked outside, saw that it was still snowing and sleeting in a way that makes you kind of want to stay inside with a book and a cup of cocoa, and realized I had no book. I took advantage of the breakfast buffet, then braved the elements and walked to the high street, found a bookshop, and picked up a few things to tie me over for the weekend.

The weather has really been rotten, so I have taken advantage of the fact that I have no obligations and caught up on some reading and movie watching. True, may be a bit quiet for a weekend get away, but hey ho, I have enjoyed it.

It is hard to believe how quickly things are moving. I am about to begin my sixth week in this new job, which will soon enable me to simply say job. The experiences have all been interesting and very much worthwhile. I like having the multi-cultural professional relationships, as that adds greatly to the experience, the learning, and the humor.

Fake ketchup bottles and annoying mobile telephone alarms are optional, but they certainly help.

Keep the faith
bryan

Wonder Twin Power - Form of...a Slippery Slope

One of my fondest memories from childhood involved the Saturday morning ritual of watching cartoons and eating cereal with my sister. She and I got out the TV trays and ate Crunchberries, Fruity Pebbles, or something along those lines, on the floor and watched for a couple of hours. A favorite show happened to be the Superfriends, where all the super heroes worked together to make the world a better place.

Years later, I realized how much influence the show had had when I quipped, "Meanwhile, at the hall of justice," around some people, and just about everyone recognized the quote, and why I had used it in the particular situation. I know that my generation apparently has a tendency to use pop culture quotes in daily life, perhaps more than other generations, but sometimes, you just have to say, what the fuck! (first person who comes over here and tells me what film that comes from will gladly get taken for a schnitzel and a pils)

What took me a bit longer was to recognize that my sister had equally fond memories of those Saturday mornings, too. A particular team of the Superfriends was a duo called the Wonder Twins. Yes, I have referenced them in earlier stories, and might have even described Saturday morning cartoon watching once before. However, my sister and I, through the years, tend to use our secret identities (you see, we are the Wonder Twins, though she is a little older and I am a quite a bit bigger) as a way of helping each other through the rough spots.

I found myself in a bit of a rough spot this past Monday evening, after arriving in Glasgow. Workwise, everything seems to be going along just fine. On the personal front, though, I briefly lost the plot, and must have startled the other guests that were entering the hotel I was staying at as I wandered around the parking lot talking with my siter on the telephone. The details of the crisis aren't so relevant to this piece; I simply needed to reach out and get a bit of support to help me remember where I stand in my life and its rich pageant.

Without any regard to the roaming charges associated with using a German mobile to call a Spanish telephone number from a location in the UK (sometimes you have to say what the fuck), I phoned my sister, and was very glad she picked up.

We chatted (interpret that as some angstridden really tall little kid losing hair faster than you say, "Fruity Pebbles are really sugary," stomping around a parking lot with a beer in his hand and a handy in his other) for the next hour and a half, after which I felt a little better, though physically and emotionally drained.

The next morning at work, I glanced at my sisters slogan on her skype, and smiled when I read Wonder Twin Power!!! She had not done much more than listen and offer some encouragement the previous evening, but it had helped a lot, and this was her way of reminding me that things would be ok. Indeed she is right, even though I may need to remind myself regularly.

At any rate, I was able to concentrate better on work throughout the rest of the week, which was great. After a few weeks on the job, I am starting to feel like I am doing stuff each day, becoming more involved, making decisions, etc.

I met a couple of colleagues who are also working remotely in other parts of the world, and it was cool to compare notes and hear about their experiences in the African and Middle Eastern markets. During dinner one evening, they touched upon the fact that they had their work cut out for them, having to operate in tough markets, and somewhat limited chances to visit the office in Glasgow. Like myself, they are also a bit isolated, perhaps even more than me.

Midweek, I watched the Old Firm derby with some colleagues in the bar of a local restaurant, and recalled an old magazine article Pablo had given me some 20 years ago which discussed the rivalry, the hatred, the violence, and the, um, football. The match itself was almost insignificant, save for the fact that Rangers lost. Loads of reds and yellows, arrests, and commentary the following morning on how disgraceful the whole thing was to Scottish football. Thank goodness I didn't get beaten up, though.

I found myself watching an episode of Glee later on in the week (who said life on the road wasn't fun and eventful?), got involved in a a bit of banter involving the Old 97s (glad you enjoyed the show, Karen), ate a few more sandwiches at work (Ploughman's taste really good, especially with the sauce), but was really glad to head for the airport yesterday afternoon.

As I said a couple of weeks ago, it is only a matter of time before I flat out miss a connecting flight. Though we landed on time in Amsterdam, the line at passport control was longer than I had ever seen it. The problem was, EVERYONE was about to miss their flight, so it was not as if they could allow those of us with tight connections to butt in line.

The experience was absolutely surreal. More on that in a future post.

My gate was closing, and I sprinted through the lounge, shoes untied, belt in hand (I hadn't bothered to try and sort that after the security, as the time was too tight) up to the counter, quite a bit more huffy puffy than I care to admit. All I could say was, "Shit."

The girl at the gate sort of smiled when I said that, then pointed to the waiting bus outside; turns out I wouldn't miss the flight afterall. I thought that perhaps I would need to find a better connection in future, especially when the pilot announced midflight that the reason the plane was so empty is because some 20 other people had been held up at the same security log jam as me.

So once again, I am back at home, enjoying a sunny Saturday morning, alas, without cartoons. Yep, I am listening to Fight Songs, and realizing how similar my life is to Calvin and Hobbes (though I have a bear instead of a tiger). Imagination is a wonderful thing. It helps you appreciate reality.

And if it doesn't, well, you just might have to say, "what the fuck."

keep the faith
bryan