Copperbottoms and Assman - It Could Have Been the First Post

In the interest of getting another story posted, I reached into the archives and found the last story I wrote before I moved everything to the blog which I started in March 2006.

This particular piece was from January 2006 and would fit as the very first post.


Copperbottoms and Assman – Oh, if only I wrote children’s books.   

Fade to Saturday, January 7^th, 4pm at the Old Monk.  There are about 14 million things going through my head right now.  I only just returned from Spain two days ago, and there’s a lot that needs to get done.  So, instead of doing any of that, I’m having beers.  It’s 80 degrees outside, a perfect summer’s day.  Of course, we’re just starting January.  

As a creature of habit, I tend to follow a fair amount of little routines.  Things like:  having a coffee and then a monster drink before going to the gym, or having two coffees and a monster drink before a soccer game, or spending the first Saturday after my vacations abroad at the Monk trying to get a jump on the Spain write-up.  You could make an argument that I tend to be at the Monk doing a bit of writing most Saturdays, anyway, and that is a fair point.  However, it’s always significant to mark this particular day, since it more or less marks the completion of another wonderful experience in Spain, and suddenly it’s time to launch the new year, which means getting back in the swing of things…the routine, if you will.  

Unlike the past years, where I’ve ended my write-ups with the terrace chanting, psych yourself up words like, “this punk is going to try and make it happen this year,” this time round I find myself in the position where I’ve already made it happen.  My new year in the states begins immediately with a countdown to a whole new bit.  In about four weeks, I’m moving to Spain.  So, instead of merely recounting the past three weeks of my holiday, I need to backtrack a bit, then catch you up to where we are, and finally on to where this is going. 

When I was six, my parents took a four week vacation to Europe.  In the weeks leading up to their trip, I read picture books, National Geographic magazines, and maps about their destinations.  I got so fired up that I announced that one day, Europe was where I wanted to live.   

It’s amazing how easily people dismiss the comments of a six year old, but I’ve been pretty persistent.  After a visit to the UK in the early 80s, I returned home convinced that I needed to be in Europe.  

Adolescence and college only fuelled that fire.  As graduation approached back in 1992, I thought I’d be over there within one year. 
  
14 ½ years later…I’m on my way. 

What took so long?  Life, of course.  The experiences I’ve had since school have been phenomenal and irreplaceable. – smashing cars in England, breaking feet on Greenville, almost getting in a fight cos’ someone is doing coke in your house, head butting the dartboard in the Old Monk, speeding over speed bumps down Richard…those are the glamorous, if not absolutely frightening stores.  (Some of you might be going, “Wait, did I miss a Bryan story or two?”  Nope.  Some stories have yet to be written.) 

Unlike my sister, who moved to Spain soon after college, I stayed stateside and fought for a career.  Not surprising.  It’s sort of the traditional thing to do, and it’s what my dad did.  Of course, I was trying to get the global position, the assignment abroad, but through my contacts at work.  Looking back, I realize that I took the slightly longer path, but during all these years in Dallas and Boston, I’ve been looking for something to believe in.  Myself.  

Fortunately, during that search, I also found the confidence to take matters into my own hands.   
Returning to Dallas after Boston that fall of ’98 was a bitter thing for me initially:  almost achieving my goal to be in Europe, only to tank it right at the finish.  Apologies go out to the UK, the Warrington police, and the guy who’s nose I broke, but that was all part of life’s rich pageant.  Clearly, the UK and Bryan didn’t quite fit back then.
   
On the bright side, back in Dallas, I found the Old Monk and Little Goliad, and was very lucky to have the support of some friends, even while I slagged Dallas and the US.   
It’s not so much that I’m not a patriot; it’s more like I need to be where I belong.  A wise Pablo, in his disgust of my lack of appreciation for the finer points of Dallas, pointed out that perhaps I needed to spend a couple of weeks abroad each year to see if I really needed to be overseas or not.  His suggestion was excellent.  

Every trip I’ve made to Spain in the past seven years just reaffirms my conviction that I feel more comfortable in Europe than stateside.  Now the question will be:  Am I still comfortable after three weeks, three months, three years?  It’s time to find out.  

Some folks here will recall my outspoken remarks about England and Ireland.  I’ll always love those countries (hell…I support England in the World Cup) and wouldn’t rule out a move there at some point.  Yes, most of the bands I listen to are English, and I’ll always have a passion for the conflict that Ireland has endured.  

After the debacle of 98, I didn’t feel comfortable hitting Britain or Ireland.  Visits to those islands since that time have proven that it’s probably best that I stay on continent.  Never mind the £ to € exchange.   

When a Dutch company bought my team out of bankruptcy several years back, I really thought that I’d be in the EU soon.  3 years on, and that’s still not the case.
  
It seems when I elected to gain that career experience, I did too well.  My management team hasn’t been interested in letting me out of Dallas.   

Instead of just going through another year of the same old shit, I realized in summer 2005 I could do something different.  After making this decision in August, I began my transition, and have busily, albeit quietly, begun putting things in place. 
  
As I put the word out (of my intentions), I wrestled with the angst of spilling the news too soon.  Half of Texas knew about my job in Manchester in ‘98, and after I fucked that up, I vowed never to make that particular mistake again.  The pain of having to “explain” why I never actually got the job was too great.   

The process of getting my visa for Spain was relatively straightforward, but somewhat vague regarding time frames.  I’d heard things could take anywhere from 3 to 8 months.  That kind of made it difficult to know when exactly I’d be going, particularly since I’ve been kind of saying “I’m going” regularly for a really long time.
   
I dragged my boss down to the Old Monk (quick! How many times has Old Monk been written thus far?…we’re only on page 3!)  one night at the end of September, and told him about my plan:  Leave the company, relocate to Valencia, and teach English for a while.   
 
My boss reacted as I expected him to, “Make it happen, Bryan, and keep me informed.” 

In early October, I set out to compile all my required documents for my visa application.  I’d had a few conversations with the Spanish Consulate, and they actually believed they could get my paperwork done in about 3-5 weeks.  This seemed particularly fantastic to me, since I had already made vacation arrangements for December 15^th.  It was actually feasible to collect my documents, get my visa, and be out of the country by the end of the year.
  
To me, getting the paperwork in order was going to be easy.  First, I needed a letter from the police department saying that I was an upstanding citizen.  With the exception of a small traffic violation involving a hedgehog over on Palo Pinto, I didn’t anticipate any trouble with the records department.   
Sure enough, a quick visit to police headquarters, $3, and I had a letter stating I was golden.   
I celebrated the completion of task 1 by having a coffee at La Duni, and called my mom for help on task 2:  a doctor’s note saying I’m not insane, not addicted to drugs, and don’t have the plague.   
I allowed my mother to talk me into going for a physical (the last visit I made to a doctor was one hung over morning during college immediately before departing for a tennis tournament). My mom gave me the number to her doctor, and I made myself an appointment for later that week.   

Most of you know that I’m not a fan of doctors, so needless to say, I was a little anxious when I got to the office.  I was greatly encouraged, however, when the doctor remarked, “You’re probably the healthiest person I’m going to see this month.”  I got my little speech on why it’s dumb to smoke, I paid my co-pay, and left the office with only slight annoyance that my “doctor’s note” wouldn’t be available until the following week when the office manager returned from vacation.  Even with the week’s delay, I was still on track to hit my target date. 
  
Two days after my original appointment, the doctor’s office called- they wanted to re-do a chest x-ray.  I took care of that same day, and thought no more about it.  

Two days later they called again, and wanted me to go for a cardiogram, as they wanted more views of something they saw on the x-ray.  Gulp.
  
After a search on the internet to find out just what a cardiogram was, I’d read enough to scare the shit out of myself. 
  
I went to some heart diagnostic center for this thing one morning the following week, and repeatedly told myself that this was just a formality.   I was easily 30 years younger than any of the other patients, which still wasn’t all that comforting.  

Two days after that, I picked up the phone on the first ring when the doctor’s office called again.  Though the results from the cardiogram were normal, they now wanted to do a rest-echo test.  Double gulp.  

Back to the internet for more research, and I believe I changed my pants, too.
   
At this point, I figured I’d better tell my parents.  That conversation wasn’t all that pleasant or calm; I was a bit hacked about forking over hundreds of dollars on tests without really knowing what was happening.   

Late October, I enter the doctor’s for the rest-echo test.  First question from me is, “When can I get my clearance letter?  I need it to apply for my visa.  Second question from me, which came 5 minutes after some girl smeared jelly all over my chest, did a sonogram, then told me I’d be called in about a week with the results was, “Why the fuck is this taking so long?  It’s a sonogram…the results are right there!” 

I suddenly realized that my December target departure wasn’t going to happen.  I hadn’t even applied for my visa yet, and my boss didn’t want my resignation until after the visa was approved.  I was now faced with a January/February time frame.  On top of that, I apparently had some medical situation, which wasn’t easy to tolerate, since I’d had no symptoms, ailments or anything.  As far as I was concerned, I couldn’t have been healthier, despite the fact that my alcohol and cigarette consumption was increasing at an alarming pace.
   
I’ll press the pause button briefly on this medical bit.  Up to this point in late October, I’d been spreading the word among some friends that I was headed for Spain.  “I’m trying to get through this process – I’m just waiting on the medical clearance,” I said, “then I can get the visa, then quit work, then get out of here.” 

Now, with the exception of three people, I had heard nothing but positive feedback from friends and family.  “It’s about time, B-Low.  Congrats, we’ll miss you.”  I don’t mean to make light of this; telling friends that you’re about to be really far away gets very emotional very quickly.  (Furthermore, I was finding myself in that position of “holy shit, once again all these people think I’m leaving, but instead I may be dying from some heart problem.) 

I was particularly concerned, though, about the reaction of one person to my announcement about Spain.  Though our friendship has been unusual during the past two years, it is extremely special to me.  I was most alarmed at her reaction; she seemed to be most upset and surprised that I was leaving.  However, we did take some time to talk about it and at the time, I thought we were on the same page; all signs indicated as such.  Sure, it was going to be tough to leave her, but I hadn’t left yet.  We hung out a few more times over the next week or so, and then came a bit of a surprise. 
I’ll spare you the details, but in short, I managed to get my heart broken. 
  
Right.  Back to the test results.  On a Friday early in November, mere days after I got zinged by this girl, I sat in the doctor’s office, and was told, “Bryan, you’ve got ----.  It’s very serious, but can be treated with medication, and possibly surgery, but you should have a relatively normal life.” 
All in all, this came as bittersweet news.  The doctor did agree to sign a clearance letter for me, but he’d basically told me that I was fucked.  For life.  I’m one of those punks that didn’t really want to be told that now, even though I’d had this condition since birth, I’d have to be on meds the rest of my life, and possibly have to alter my lifestyle.  I’d also have to visit my local cardiologist once or twice a year forever.   

I left the office in a stupor (after paying another co-pay).  I’ve had a problem since birth, and now that I know it, I have to change my life?  I’ve got to go to Walgreen’s for a prescription?  I don’t have any symptoms (except for the pants shitting mind fuck I’d been going through every moment while I smoked 3 packs a day for the past month).  

And I STILL didn’t have my clearance letter; it would be available the following Monday.   
As low points go, I found a new depth for myself.  In less than 5 days, my heart had been absolutely annihilated, both physically and emotionally.  Not too cool.  Spain seemed so very fucking far away.  Simply making sense out of ANYTHING seemed next to impossible.  I spent the weekend hiding, desperately trying to convince myself that this was simply another test I could pass.   

As I wallowed in pity, my sister wisely turned wonder twin and got moving.  She located a cardiologist in her town that I’d be able to visit regularly in Spain.  She also had some kind words of support for the other bit.  She gets super points for that…as I was still back on the, “damn, everything sucks” campaign.  

I managed to rally by the end of the weekend.  See, I’m fortunate to be a wonder twin, too, and I learned from one of the best.  A few hours of Yaz, some Bouncing Souls, oh, and about 30 beers…and I got myself sorted out just enough to NOT tank the whole objective.  For those of you who have always been curious, the tattoo is for Keeping the Faith.  Sometimes you need the reminder right there on your shoulder.   

In fairness to the doctor’s office, they were honest, though not particularly considerate.  The manager gave me my letter the following Monday, along with some kind supportive words, a proper scolding about smoking, and a big hug.  She also called another cardiologist’s office to get me an immediate appointment for a 2^nd consultation.  

Though still heavy of heart (literally too, it seems), I raced off to Houston the next day to apply for my visa.  I was now a month behind schedule, and there was no way I would have a visa in hand by December 15^th.  Now, I’d go over for vacation, return in January, then back to Spain with visa in February.   

The experience at the consulate was great.  A very nice woman took care of my paperwork, and assured me that in 4-5 weeks, I’d have my visa.   

Countless personal vacation hours had been used up to this point, but I was now back on track.  I was starting down a new path, with new opportunities…with the aid of prescription medication and a semi-annual visit to a heart guy.   

But on the bright side, I’d be in Spain within 30 days for Christmas break.   

Fade to November 21^st – my follow up consult with the cardiologist.  I took yet another afternoon off to make the appointment.  

Yet another slick office, yet another moment where I noticed that I was 30 years younger than anyone else in the waiting room… 

Once back in the examination room, I borrowed a phrase I’d learned from sister and brother in law when asked why I was there.  “Ni puta idea.” 

A few minutes later, the doctor came in, then mentioned he wanted to review my rest-echo video.  Before he saw it, though, he gave me a quick overview of what to expect for the rest of my life as someone with this condition.   

I waited patiently as the doctor viewed the video next door.  I wasn’t happy, but I’d figured out that objective primero was to beat this crap:  what’s some major heart problem got to do with standing in the way of my future, eh?  Keep the faith.
  
The doctor walks in 20 minutes later, kind of chuckling.  “You don’t have this condition,” he said.  “You have a perfectly normal heart for someone who works out a lot.  We actually call it ‘athlete’s heart’.  It happens to resemble that of a heart with said condition.  You’re fine.  See you later.” 

Hmmm.   

Excuse the pun, as my heart truly goes out to those that truly have this disease I thought I had.  They’re still fucked.  For me, though, I was still fucked, but at least my heart worked right…particularly well, in fact, because I go to the gym so often.  I still needed to listen to Yaz, but oh my gosh, I’d discovered a new lease of life.   

So yes, I had a happy Thanksgiving, thanks very much.  Better yet – on with the plan, under my terms (though with the sad absence of my friend). 

For the next two weeks, I got ready for vacation, taking some comfort in the fact that I’d have time to enjoy a vacation and then return to the states and say proper good byes.  I wouldn’t have to try and cram that all in to a few days.  

Boom fade to Wednesday, December 14^th.  I spent a few hours closing out my time in Dallas by having a few personal pints.  Chris slid in for a couple of late beers, so we did have a bit of Goliad cheer.  

Pablo and I made good use of a napkin the evening before (same venue of course), listing things I’d need to be aware of while in Spain…things like blog sites, software apps, how to work an ipod, etc.  Quite the time, dear Pablo…thanks again.  

Friday morning, the 16^th, I arrived at Gatwick, then transferred across town to Heathrow, where I’d pick up my connection to Valencia later that day.  Fairly non-eventful, but a bit tedious. 
  
A beaming sister greeted me around 9 that night in Valencia, and we trekked back to her house.  Fran proudly showed me the new addition to their house:  the room on the terrace where I’d be staying.  How glad I was to be back in Spain.   

I opened my eyes Saturday morning to sun shining through the drapes and a little boy quietly standing next to the bed.  “Hello Uncle B, “ the little one said as I gave him a big hug.  I must say, it was a brilliant way to start my time in Spain.   

I was expecting the next three weeks to be a practice round for me.  In one sense, I expected it to be rather relaxing, since I really had no need to cram too much into 20 days.  After all, I’d be back very soon into the new year.  I needed a break from the emotional shit I’d endured for the previous six weeks, and being far away would help.   

On the other hand, I was eager to hit the ground running.  There’s a lot of uncertainty ahead of me, and I was interested in laying some ground work to enable a quick start in February.  I wanted to assess my Spanish, so I could get past the panic stricken moments.   

I jumped right into the language barrier; we had a family lunch at Fran’s mom’s house.  This always serves to be an intimidating experience for me – the family is great, but everyone talks fast, and Daniel and his cousins Aina and Carles are all playing with enthusiasm.   

I rough housed a little with Carles and Daniel, and I’ve got to say that it’s difficult to follow a conversation in a foreign language when a six year old is winging pillows at my head at the same moment that Daniel is launching himself on top of me from the arm of the sofa.  But, I’m never too concerned with what others are thinking, so I wasn’t bashful; I even allowed myself to be tied up with newspaper handcuffs.   

Later that evening, we stopped by a shop to buy some shoes for Daniel, and I met my first students.  I felt very confident to know that I’d been in Spain less than 24 hours, and already had a few hours a week booked.   

Sunday was a shopping day for us.  Christmas was a week away, and Lynne was working all the next week.  We hit the mall, and I found a photo display documenting the changes to the area over the past fifteen years.  This mall is adjacent to an extensive science/arts complex designed by Calatrava.  It was great to see the progress from the early 90s, particularly since I’ve been coming over for so many years.   

In some sense, I was just along for the ride on this shopping trip, since I didn’t really have any specific things I needed to get.  So, I kind of hung back and let Lynne and Fran do their thing…selecting clothes for the cousins, checking prices on audio equipment, etc.  El Saler is pretty much a shopping mall (as intimately known in the states) that has a supermarket on site.  We finished our outing by getting all the necessary staples (beer, wine, baking stuff, food) for the next couple of weeks.   

Now, I blame myself for my poor choice of carts.  I selected one with a faulty wheel.  At the time, I didn’t think it would be a problem.  After all, I’ve worked at Albertson’s, and I’m really good at muscling carts with broken wheels around.  (Many of the carts at my store had broken wheels on them because Whit and I continuously surfed them on the way back inside from the parking lot).   
After 30 minutes, we’ve got too much in the buggy, and I’m in trouble.  I’m already loaded down with umpteen bottles of wine, 30 liters of water and milk, and we keep piling stuff in.  Daniel is asleep in another cart, and I’m jealous.  I struggle on, through, and feel momentary relief at the checkout counter.   

A couple hundred euros later, and I’m trying to muscle the cart out to the car park, and almost tipped the fucker over…the bad wheel was really posing a problem.  Sweating profusely, I dragged the cart on out to the car, and even I could understand the Spanish words for, “Look at the idiot pushing a broken buggy.” 

We made it home, eventually, and there was a bit of time to read Richard Scarry’s Best Word Book Ever with Daniel.  He’s a big fan of the page about airplanes and the airport.   

Monday was a workday for Lynne, but not for me.  I woke up at noon, slightly embarrassed about the hour, but hey, I’m on vacation.  I’d picked up Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch in Heathrow, and managed to finish the book by that evening.  I feel a remarkable connection with Hornby, not only through literary style, but also his humor and his appreciation for Arsenal.   

Later that night, we all watched The Incredibles, including Daniel.  I’m amazed at how riveted he is – he intensely watches the movie, moving only twice.  Once to remark, “He’s really fast, “when a character runs through the woods, and a second to say, “That’s totally wicked!” repeating some of the dialog from the end of the film.   

Tuesday, Daniel stayed home sick and didn’t go to school.  It was rainy, and I was thinking I might be getting a cold, also.  I did talk briefly to my sponsor, and we made plans to meet up on the 2^nd or 3^rd of January.   

Wednesday, I had another quiet morning, then met up with Lynne to have lunch with some of her friends.  Yet another opportunity to converse in Spanish, but I choked.  I’m sloppily searching for excuses, but I wasn’t feeling so hot.  Furthermore, I was slightly distracted as Daniel, who had his eye on a polo (ice cream bar), went up to a perfect stranger and asked the man to buy him one.  In the end, one of our group took care of the Popsicle, which came with a little toy helicopter.  In between blowing my nose and watching where the helicopter was going to fly (so I could duck), I didn’t feel all that chatty. 

In fact, I was feeling close to lousy, and had already told my sister that I’d probably need to stay in bed that evening.  However, Rafa calls up at 5pm…he’s got tickets to the VCF match that night.  It took me two seconds to change my mind and agree to go.  There’d be plenty of time to be sick after I’d supported the club.  

I metroed in and met Rafa around 8, and we hustled off to Mestalla.  We had a good opportunity to catch up with each other during a relatively slow game.  During the second half, however, VCF turned it on and we saw three great goals – goals that make you say, “Dang, those were great.”  It was totally worth it, even knowing that I’d have a really bad cold after sitting outside on such a chilly night.  

Sure enough, my cold was in full force Thursday morning; I needed a Kleenex every 30 seconds.  Daniel was home sick from school again, and he wasn’t much better.  So, he and I played ramps and cards, and every few minutes, one of us would say, “mocos” and grab a tissue.  

I also managed to finish a book about a serial killer in Minneapolis; I have no desire to visit that city again very soon.  Good book, though.  

Friday, the 23^rd I woke up feeling much better, as was Daniel.  We did some last shopping in Valencia that afternoon before returning home to launch a full scale onslaught on Christmas cookie baking. 
Part of baking cookies is finding ways to help the little one “help” without having him hinder progress.  Sometimes it’s just not safe for a 3 ½ year old to be left holding an electric blender when both the stove and the oven are on.  In effort to allow Lynne some powerbaking time, Daniel and I read “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” on the sofa.  It’s been a tradition for he and I, and we read along to the groovy sounds of the Old 97s, Beatles, Gomez, and the Foo Fighters.  You just can’t beat the XMAS 2000 mix.  Thanks again, Pablo.  

Christmas Eve, and time to put the star up from the Advent Calendar.  Each morning during December, Daniel would count up to the appropriate day and then put the ornament up.  He counted in Valenciano with Fran, and English with Lynne or me
. 
We still had a lot of baking to do, so I made truffas while Lynne whipped up a bunt cake and some toll house, haystacks, and some butter cookies (to be decorated later).  Again, helper Daniel wanted to participate actively, and while he certainly contributed, he and I did take some time to build another Lego town so Lynne could continue zipping along in the kitchen.  

I’ll take a moment here and talk about playtime and my nephew.  True, he speaks three languages, frequently using all three in the same sentence.  He mostly spoke Spanish to me (to everyone, for that matter), but he definitely has some key English phrases, albeit not necessarily using the proper prepositions just yet.  “Let’s play in trains!” or “Let’s play in blocks!  Let’s do that!”

I continue to be in awe as Daniel carefully concentrates when he builds anything.  There’s a real pleasure that comes from building towers or houses or whatever we want.  It’s very important that we use ALL of the blocks.  At the completion, we sit back and smile with content.  (OK, we also both tended to clap our hands and say, “Hey that’s really neat” also).  Then, we knock the blocks over, and do it again.  For hours.  

Eventually, the fun comes more from destructing instead of building.  It also becomes more silly as we knock each other’s blocks over.  Thank God that neither Fran nor Lynne videotaped any of this, especially since the constant interruption of mocos (thus needing a tissue) is not something I’m keen to see after the fact.  

On the evening of the 24^th, Fran locked himself in the kitchen and prepared and impressive four course meal for the three of us and Concha.  I appointed myself assistant wine drinker, and we enjoyed a very wonderful dinner that helped get me in the spirit of the season.  

Now, this story isn’t supposed to be a cultural monolog, but over the course of my visits, I always seem to encounter something that I’ve never experienced before.  This trip was no different:  for the first time in my life I saw a nutmeg.  In my upbringing, I’d only seen ground nutmeg; I’ve always just assumed that’s the only way it comes.  So now I know.  It’s a nut.  

On a slightly different note, during this same evening I discovered that my nephew wears a brand of underwear called ASSMAN.  Seinfeld episodes aside, this struck me as a bit unusual, but I also made a mental note to pick some up for myself.  I’m always looking for another reason to laugh hysterically at myself while I’m putting underwear on…

Christmas morning.  Whoops, someone made the mistake of reminding the little one what day it was.  Thus, we all got to get up quite a bit earlier, as Daniel was ready to see what Papa Noel brought him.  I’m glad I pulled myself out of bed, because it was quite nice to see Daniel appreciate his Rodney Copperbottom (the frantic trip to ToysRUs did pay off).  The Spiderman bath towel was a big hit, too.  Probably a good idea (for Daniel’s sake, at least) that no-one managed to get the camera out when he streaked around the house in it right after his bath.

We headed off to Lola’s for Christmas dinner around 2 – yet another opportunity for me to butcher the Spanish language in front of 30 odd people.  Actually, with the exception of an embarrassing moment when I dramatically explained to Pilar in Spanish all my reasons that I felt in no position to be a parent, I managed ok.  The embarrassment on my part came when I found out that the question Pilar had asked me was something totally unrelated, like “So when are you going to be in Spain for good?”  The conversations I had about possible apartments for me to rent, smoking laws in Spain, and soccer were all fine.  Quite the nice afternoon.  

Our baking efforts were not in vain – Christmas cookies were enjoyed by all.  

I’ll take another brief moment and mention the car rides.  Most of the time, Fran drives, I’m shotgun, and Lynne and D are in the backseat.  Frequently, Daniel would crash out during any ride 20 minutes or longer.  City driving, though, and he was awake and alert for the duration.  “Red car.  Yellow car.  Red car,” I’d hear from right behind my seat.  Clearly my mother has spent some time with her grandson – this is a game that I learned when I was D’s age. 

“Santa’s climbing up! Santa’s climbing up!” came the exclamation from the back of the car about 5 times during any ride.  This was Daniel’s way of observing the decorations new to Spain in 2005; countless stuffed Santa’s climbing on a rope were hanging from many balconies and terraces around the city…and we’re talking hundreds.  (If you’re intrigued, you will very likely see one hanging from my parents’ house next Christmas, my dad happens to be crazy about his.)

No one had to work the week between Christmas and New Year’s, and we took a day trip on Boxing Day to a little community close to Valencia that specializes in leather goods.  I’m actually refusing to feel any guilt for spending a month’s rent on a new jacket for myself.  Of course, I hadn’t bought Lynne or Fran’s Christmas present yet and I had just quit my job, but, but, uh, um, um, no, no guilt whatsoever…

Tuesday, Lynne and I spent a little time in city hanging out, which was cool in its own right.  I was particularly delighted to get home and find an email from Texas saying that my visa was approved and ready.  Finally.  This deal is going to happen. 

We spent the next several days relaxing – long lunches, play time, movie rentals.  I got just as emotional watching “Finding Neverland” in Spanish as I did in English (note to self – you might NOT want to leave that in the story).  

Daniel and Lynne got haircuts one day, and on another, Lynne, Maribell and I visited a gym.  The two of them hit the spa, and I tried to remember what to do in the weight room. 

We went to another dinner party, where I finally found my stride in Spanish conversation.  Paloma is always cool, and her party was a great time.  I held my own conversing with several folks, and even managed to rip on a guy who liked to joke a lot.  

I continued my newfound confidence during the New Year’s celebrations with Juan, Teresa, Jaime and Vivi.  Vivi and I talked about politics while we smoked on the terrace; I’m not really able to discuss politics at the best of times, even in English, so this was a cool challenge.  As I continued to consume wine, I continued to converse in Spanish, though my comprehension capabilities diminished…but it was a nice celebration (nothing overly crazy)…and good call on putting those lights on the terrace, Fran.  Nice touch. 

New Years Day was low key.  We did have a family lunch at Concha’s, and I had another opportunity to get beaten up by my little buddies Carles and Daniel.  At one point, Concha made a comment to Lynne about the wear and tear I was taking while we rough housed, and I completely mistranslated.  I heard Concha refer to me as Big Bird (I can’t remember his Spanish name from Barrio Sesame at this exact moment), when she was actually mentioning to Lynne that I was being beaten up like baby food.  Again, because I was dodging pillows and diving little ones, I didn’t feel too bad for not completely comprehending.  

Lynne returned to work on January 2^nd, and Fran left me to do some errands.  Daniel and I spent the morning hanging out.  This was pretty much my first experience as an unattended babysitter, so it was only fitting that within 2 hours, I’d already had to change Daniels outfits twice.  I maintained my composure as I tried to reason with my nephew, “Now, you’re going to tell me if you’ve got to go to the bathroom again, RIGHT?”

But, we had a nice few hours playing blocks (por supuesto), playing catch with a balloon in the hallway, flying the toy helicopter (from the ice cream polo the previous week – how cool is it that some of the most entertaining toys come from such simple sources).  Later, we listened to a James album while doing a jigsaw puzzle.  

“You know, Uncle B,” Daniel remarked in the hallway as we kicked a little ball back and forth, “You’re my big uncle, and you’re my friend.” 

Crys.  

It was unfortunate that I didn’t feel so well on the 3^rd, because I was supposed to go visit Alan, the guy who I’d be working for at the school.  I never really left the bed, and barely managed to call him that night and tell him that I’d see him in a few weeks. 

I was glad to be feeling better on the 4^th, as I was not too thrilled with the thought of being ill while flying to London and then Dallas.  After quick goodbyes (see you in a few weeks) with Lynne and Daniel, Sondra took me to the airport. 

I sat next to a Chelsea fan on the Valencia –London leg, but we had a civil conversation about the league, FA Cup, and Spain.

Immediately upon arriving at Gatwick, I checked into my hotel, lay on the bed, and read an entire John Grisham novel.  (How come I never can remember them right after I read them?)  I continued to feel better, so ordered room service, and then watched a soccer match on Sky sports.  Later, I couldn’t get to sleep (since I’d slept most of the day before), but was pretty psyched to find that Flashdance was on TV.  

The next morning, I had a couple of coffees at Gatwick before getting on the plane for my final leg of the trip.  I watched a few unremarkable movies on my video screen, but was more entertained by a little altercation between a large German (I think) man sitting directly in front of me and a slender American guy sitting directly in front of him.  The American was trying to lean his seat back, and in doing so, managed to knock the German’s food tray into his lap.  This didn’t please the German, who sort of jumped up and growled.  A couple of flight attendants popped by, then hurried off to get one of the more sizeable members of their crew, who came and invited both guys off for a private word.  Ultimately, this wasn’t a really big deal, but when faced with a 10 hour plane ride, anything helps to pass the boredom.  

Mom and Dad were there to greet me when I came out of customs.  We headed to Uncle Julio’s for a little snack, and I managed to suck down three swirls.  I kind of floated back to Goliad, said hello to Lori, Bennett, and Regan, started my car (which had been hinting that it’s battery might die), then headed to the old monk for a little down time.  A few pints later, and I was ready for bed.  After all, it was Thursday evening, and I started back to work the next morning. 

With jetlag in full force, I woke up ultra early Friday and headed to the gym (again the car started with just a bit of reluctance).  Feeling a bit refreshed, I had a coffee and a smoke, then got in my car to drive to work.  

I wasn’t particularly pleased to find that the battery was now dead, but hastily went to the big house for help.  Chris used the Durango to jump me, and I drove immediately to Park Cities Volkswagen, where I found one of my old service guys I’d dealt with in past years..  

A couple of hours (and a couple hundred dollars) later, I jumped on a conference call while I finished the commute to work.  I’d purposely scheduled myself back on a Friday so I would only have to work 8 hours before taking a weekend.  I’d already told my boss that I’d be targeting the last of January for a stop date, and I was hoping to discuss what we’d have to do over the next few weeks. 

Things were a bit complicated, because I had yet to formally resign from work.  My boss was totally in the know, but he didn’t want my letter until I had a visa.  The next step after resignation would be to announce my departure to my customer, and then the rest of my company.  I was really ready to let everyone know; holding on to a secret can be a bit burdensome. 

Unfortunately, my boss and I didn’t get to have that discussion on Friday, so I worked through my frustration by going to the old monk for a few beers, then later to play a soccer match.  (I could blame my poor performance on jetlag instead of alcohol). 

Between daily trips to the monk and sleep, I got back into the work mode, though in shortimer mode.  My boss announced my exit early the next week, and then I was able to talk about my plans with other coworkers.  

What happens next?

I’ve been in the monk a lot lately, chatting with old friends, chatting with new friends, getting ready for the adventure.  

It’s now February 6^th, and I leave Friday.  

Con permiso, I’ll quietly head across the ocean.  Thanks to everyone who has come out over the past month…it meant a lot to have the personal time.  Thanks especially to Whit, Spence, and Nate – those calls were much needed.  

As this act comes to a close, I just can’t stop smiling.  Thanks for that.  Have an extra ciggy during intermission, and refill your drinks.  It’s about to get nutty.  
   
See you out there – see you over there – keep the faith
cheers
bryan

A Week of Being a Wimpy Bryan

"I wish it would get hot."

I keep thinking of my father's quip this week as we endure ridiculous warm temperatures in Frankfurt. Sure, it is still awfully hot in Texas, hotter than in Germany, but still, it is simply unpleasant.

Another banner statement Dad likes to use is "It's all in your head."

The way I try to use that quote is by trying to convince myself that a situation does not suck nearly as much as I think it does. Sometimes this can be more successful than other times.

The week itself did not get off to a particularly good start.  The weather forecast was pretty grim, but I took a short break during the workday to get out of the stifling flat (even with the balcony door open) and walk to the grocery store.  At the check out counter, I carefully counted out exactly 52,46 euro, precisely 10 euros more than the actual bill. The check out lady took my money, put it in the drawer, then handed me my receipt without giving the 10 euro note back as change.

"Um, could I get the 10 euro back, please?" I asked politely.

"I did already," she responded, pointing to my left hand.

Showing her the shopping list (on the post it note) in my left hand, I said, "No, you didn't."

She then responded, "Really?"

Really.

She reluctantly went on to give me the 10 euro, then had me sign the store copy of the receipt, putting my telephone number on there as well.  When they would count the drawers out later at shift end, they would check for any mismatch.

On the way home from the store, I realized that I probably could have put ANY telephone number down, but that never would have occurred to me.  Probably people do this regularly, but I have never deliberately done something like that.  Furthermore, I did check my cash once I got back home.  I was already going to have to make a trip to the cash point as part of my weekly routine, but I was absolutely sure that I had not "duped" the woman.

It's all in your head....and sometimes your head can play tricks, right?

All things considered, the incident was not really a big deal, and I dismissed it quickly from my mind. The following morning I had plenty of other things to deal with.

Fruit Flies.

Over the past months I have really gotten on a banana kick, and am always keeping a bunch on the counter for me to snack on.  This has been working really well until Tuesday morning, when I discovered that a couple of the bananas in the bunch had gotten a bit too ripe and actually split open.  This attracted a rather large swarm of fruit flies who merrily invaded my kitchen before I really could grasp what was happening.

This was not "in my head."

I quickly discarded the bananas, then did a bit of research on how best to clear the flies from my kitchen fastest way possible.  The whole process took the majority of the day, and I was only slightly satisfied that evening when I escaped to the pub for a few outdoor beers, getting away from the annoying flies and the stillness of the flat.

Actually, being outside this week is not much better than being inside.  There is hardly any wind, so it is just still and hot.

Suck.

Before going to bed Tuesday evening, I laid another little fruit fly trap on my kitchen counter.

Wednesday morning, I got kind of grossed out when I entered my kitchen to find a bunch of dead flies in the trap.  I cleaned things up before I started coffee preparations.  That went OK, but then the heat really started getting to me, and I found myself really struggling to concentrate on work.  I was waiting on a package to be delivered from something I had ordered online, and was glad when the doorbell rang around noon.  Sure enough, I got my package, and then went on to sign for three other packages.  This is not unusual, but I failed to realize that the three packages were actually supposed to be delivered to other people who live on my street, but not in my house. 

This suggests that the delivery guy was a lazy jerk who didn't want to take time trying to deliver the packages.  Instead, he put that monkey on me. 

A few minutes later, the doorbell rang; it was one of the package recipients, so I was glad to get one less thing off my list of things to have to deal with.  I proceeded to open the package I had received, then proceeded to assemble it.  I had ordered some dumbbells last month, which I am really pleased with.  However, I needed a little stand for them, and there was a bit of assembly required. 

Once that task was completed, I decided to take a little time to lie down on the floor to rest my back, which was acting up a bit due to the heat.  I then took a look at what was new on netflix, and discovered that a few of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid movies were suddenly available.

In an effort to encourage my nephew to get excited about reading, my mother got him started on the series of books that came out about ten years ago.  It turns out that my nephew really liked them, and once he was current, he started receiving any new book (there are about 10 in the series, now) that came out as a birthday or Christmas gift.

Once when I was visiting Daniel, I was looking for something to read, and I ended up getting started on the series, then proceeded to catch up with him on the later releases.  I really enjoyed them, too, so started looking forward to each new book in the series.

Well, I never really picked up on the fact that they had put out a few films, but I spent the rest of Wednesday watching the light comedies, and just tried to relax and stay cool. It made for a rather pleasant evening, although it never really got much cooler.

That night, I kind of dreamed about being a wimp; the week had been sort of tough so far, although the issues were all sort of insignificant.  Still, I was not in the greatest of moods (I never am, when it is hot as shit), so dreamy restful sleep was appreciated.

Of course, when the baby that lives next door started crying in the middle of the night, I was not too thrilled.  Most of me was relatively OK with it.  After all, a crying child is a very natural thing.  I might argue that the timing was not so great, but as Chris always says, "With kids, all plans are subject to change."

Yes, indeedy.

Thursday, I woke up in slightly better humor, and told myself to get excited about making it a good day. My back was feeling better, and I thought things were gonna be pretty good.  Then, as I was getting out of the shower, the telephone rang.  The executive director of my partner in Slovenia was calling.  And he was not calling to just say hello I hope you are having a good day.

I will not bore you with the details about our call, but it was a decent enough call.  Sure, the guy's message was very clear.  I assured him I was doing everything (and would be finding a way to do even more) to help get his burning issues resolved quickest way possible.

The conversation took a bit out of me, particularly as his valid points were also my own irritations, and ones that I had already been struggling through with with my internal colleagues, unfortunately with very little support or success.  That did not put me the best "hippty hoorah" moods, but I told myself, "Hey, it's all in your head."

Recently I have spent a lot more time working on my mental approach to how I deal with things that piss me off.  I am grateful that I am no longer as angry as I might have been (in my 20s, 30s, and early 40s).  A lot of that is me just maturing, but I really have helped teach myself how to not get so worked up about things that are absolutely not worth worrying about.  But, rather than dismiss something with a sarcastic remark, I try to put a more positive twist on things.  It is helping. 

With that, I finished up my workday, ran and got a needed haircut (for those hairs that still remain), then headed to the pub to enjoy a few beers outside in the heat. 

Chatting with friends was fun, the liquid refreshment was tasty, and things were going along just fine until a wasp came up and stung me on the leg. 

Dang, that hurt. 

Hey, it's all in your head. 

Rather than complain, I just sort of said, "well, that could have been worse," and about five seconds later, it did get worse.  For my friend, who also got stung by another wasp.  He is allergic, so had to take immediate action and take the medication.  Fortunately, everything sorted itself out quickly, and we continued taking our refreshments, until I figured it was time for a little takeout pizza and home to the couch. 

That was a good decision.  The pizza was tasty, and I enjoyed half a film before falling asleep on the couch, starting to dream about being a penguin.  A blue one, which is what I am on my netflix login. 

Sure, I felt cooler during the night as I slept, and when the baby started crying, this time for quite a bit longer than the nights before, I did wake up. 

But hey, it's all in my head, and I am a penguin!

Today is not too bad, even though the heat continues with a real purpose.   So, I will go see if a couple of beers will help take the edge off.  Time for the weekend.

see you out there
bryan

Great Moves

Like many other people, I have taken part in my share of moves over the years:  moving in and out of the college dorms while in university, moving into my first apartment after college, moving on to Boston, then moving back to Texas.  Of course, we cannot forget the relocation to Spain, then Germany and eventually into the flat where I have resided the last 12 years.

Additionally, I helped quite a few people over the years with their own moves.  It's just what you do.
Upon arriving in Germany, I have continued to lend a helping hand (and back) whenever possible.  A German girl I met while living in Spain called on me soon after I arrived in Frankfurt to seek my assistance for her move.  At the time, she was living a few blocks away from me, but was going to move out of the WG (Wohngemeinschaft) and in with her fiance.

Though quite some years ago, I do remember showing up at her flat, only to find that she had not really started packing yet.  On top of that, no one else had apparently shown up to help with the move.  Fortunately, her father and brother did show up a little while later.  However, that really just meant that more people were sitting around waiting for her to get her act together and get things sorted.  This was a little awkward due to the fact that no one in her family spoke any English and my German was in the really early stages; basic "moving" vocabulary was still several months away from me.

In the end, we got Svenja moved, and I did actually feel helpful and productive.

A couple of years later,  a group of rallied to help Nadja move from her WG to Bornheim.  We had a better turn out of helpers, but Nadja had a lot of boxes of books.  Heavy.  But, again, we got it done.

Things went rather quiet on the relocation front for several years, until about 3 years ago, when my buddy Mono asked for some assistance in moving his office.   I certainly said yes I will be glad to help, and on that particular Sunday morning, a group of about 6 of us all turned up to help move his gear.  Mono is a graphic artist, so most of his office equipment was heavy and bulky.  Fortunately, Mono planned things out really really well, so we actually got the van loaded quickly and efficiently.
Unloading was about the same; heavy but manageable.  All of us helping out seemed to click and work really well together.

It really is all about the preparation.  During that move a few years ago, we all commented on how well things went.  Likewise, we all traded stories from previous experiences where the move did not go so well.  Once we got Mono into his new office, we all sat around and celebrated with a few bottles of beer.  As you do.

Alas, the shop owner where Mono had his office went out of business last year, so in August 2017, he
once again asked for assistance.  This time, we would move from the shop to a studio in an office building in a town about 15 minutes drive from our neighborhood.  6 of  us showed up that Sunday morning (Sundays are the best days for these kinds of operations, due to less traffic, etc) and were again pleased (but not surprised) that everything was prepared to be put in the moving van.

We efficiently and quickly got the van loaded, drove to the next town, and unloaded things without too much difficulty.  True, we were all quite gratified to be able to use the loading elevator to get all of the bulky stuff up to the office.  Again, things went really really smoothly.

Afterwards, we headed off to the kiosk for the post move beers; Mono shelled out for drinks as his way of saying thanks.  As you do.  (In fact, every time I have helped someone move in Germany, or the states, for that matter, the person was always grateful for the help and gladly bought us several rounds of drinks)

Unfortunately, not long after that move from August 2017, we found that the days Mono would be able to have his office in the next town were sort of numbered.  We were not really sure when we would have to move him again, but we new the day would come.

And that day came four days ago.

Since I had done this twice already, there was certainly no doubt that Mono had made all the necessary preparations, making sure that everything was organized.

At 10am last Sunday, I met Mono and then was pleased when his brother-in-law showed up. The three of us drove to the office and met a fourth guy.  We would be the primary guys doing the move, and we did not dilly dally.  We jumped right on it and started shoving stuff in the freight elevator so as to get the truck loaded.   Most of the things were pretty bulky, but we had two guys down on the dock, Mono shuttling in the elevator, and I was upstairs clearing the office.

We made some pretty decent time and by about close to noon we were closing the truck doors and headed back for Bornheim, making one small stop to re-shut the rear door.

True, it was really warm outside, and it was about to get warmer.  From time to time, usually in the middle of situations exactly like this one, my father tends to quip, "Gee, I wish it would get hot..." which tended to bring a couple of grim smiles.

I refrained from making such a remark as we started unloading the truck in front of Mono's building.  The task now was to get everything upstairs to his apartment.

On the fourth floor.

No. This time, there was no elevator.

And, for those readers not so familiar with how Europeans count the stories in a building, I will quickly explain that the ground floor is just that, on the ground level.  Thus, the first story is really the second story.  Thus, we had quite a few flights of steps between Mono's flat and the street level.

We actually all got a little frazzled for a few minutes as we tried to coordinate and plan the best attack. The facts were:  all the stuff was heavy as shit, most of it was awkward to carry, and the two heaviest items were the LAST things that we would be bringing up stairs.

For a few minutes, we experimented on how best to bring things inside.  Should we bring everything up to the first or second floor, then have a couple of the other guys bring it the rest of the way upstairs?  Should we go from point A to B with every little item?

It was at the moment I considered making my father's quip that I had avoided a few minutes before.  Luckily I saw the look on someone's face and decided to keep my mouth closed. We all knew we simply had to get things done.

Well, the sweat was pouring, and I quickly felt like I was running out of gas.  The more stuff I carried, the more stuff there seemed to be, and things were just really starting to suck.

Still, we pushed on.

I decided to start hauling things all the way up to the top, and hoped I would not faint along the way.  Everyone else was in the same boat as me, and none of us are particularly young anymore.  As I left the flat to go back down for another load, I heard a few new voices in the stairwell.  Connie and Tobi had arrived to help!

A little weeping for joy happened, and then the six of us continued to trudge up and down the flights of stairs to get Mono's gear inside his flat.

Jokes were few and far between, and despite the fact that Connie and Tobi were younger and fresher, they, too were quickly sweaty as all get out.  Finally, we realized that we getting closer and closer to getting everything upstairs, so we took a couple of minutes to stand on the street for a break.

Smoke em if you got em.

I did.

Kind of wish I hadn't, since I was feeling like I had just been trapped on a runaway stair-master with an extra 50 kgs strapped to my back.

All of us were really dreading the final task;  inside the truck were the two table tops, perfect for  workstations for a graphic artist who needs to spread a lot of things out on the table.  They are super sturdy and exceptionally heavy.  We looked at them in the truck, then roused ourselves to make it happen.

These tops are about 1 meter x almost 2 meter.  I already said they are heavy (maybe 50 kilos or so), but usually between two of us we could move them in and out of the moving van.   Taking them up to the fourth floor of the building was going to be a different trick.   For the first one, we actually did it with about 2 and 1/2 people, and almost regretted it. No one was looking forward to the second top.

This time round, we used three people, and almost did not make it, mostly because we were all just wrecked.  In the end, we took it very very slowly (erm, there really was no other way) and paused on every half-landing.  And finally we got it inside the flat.

With great relief, we all smiled wearily, looking and feeling very grubby and sweaty.

"Kiosk?" asked Mono, though it was really more of a directive than a question.

Mono, Connie, Tobi, and I all headed down the street to the kiosk and much needed refreshment.  The other 2 guys headed off to get on with the rest of their day.

So, I stood around Sunday afternoon drinking a few beers, enjoying the sunshine and not least of all that the move was now complete.  At least our part of it.  Mono would have to get his set up organized and unpack his various boxes, but that was for another day.

Of course, Sunday afternoon was also the World Cup Final.  France vs Croatia.

I was certainly going to watch the match, but was leaning towards home viewing, especially since I was really feeling the heat and physical exertion from the past 4 and half hours.  (Wish it would get hot.)  And that is exactly what I did.  Feeling a bit loopy after 4 beers and no brekkie, I picked up some take-away Thai and headed home to my couch. 

The food was delicious, and I elected to take a nap on my living room floor until the kick-off.

Here is where I will give my feedback on the overall tournament.  It was so much better than I expected it to be.  Sure, Germany and Spain crashed out way earlier than anyone expected, but some of the "smaller" teams did themselves proud, and there were plenty of enjoyable matches. Sure, I caught quite a few of them at the pub, but equally enjoyed watching a few of the games quietly from my own living room. Again, home office helps, as I was able to follow all the group stage matches which were going on during my afternoons.

What I particularly enjoyed this time round was trading messages with Pablo.  He was watching a much as he could from the states, and we could catch up in the hangouts on various bits and pieces, never mind the exciting moments of the WC, including the use of VAR, surprise comebacks by the likes of Belgium, and certainly the endurance and drive of team Croatia.  Cheers Pablo.

The following day, we once again met at the kiosk, and Mono and I discussed how it went.  Both of us agreed that it did suck.  (One of the other guys took the time to post on Facebook how much he hated friends that moved....only half intended as a joke, I imagine).  Due to the multiple flights of stairs, I was really feeling my legs.   Here, days later, I am not feeling like I need to do any squats or other training. 

Those two table tops are still fresh memories, but hopefully, this will have been the last time that I need to actively participate in a move. Of course, if someone were to ask me for assistance with taking a large box of cotton balls downstairs, or if someone needed a couple of crates of stuffed animals relocated, I would consider it.  However, I am really kind of inclined to say, "Nie wieder."

I am not saying it wasn't fun in it's sadistic sort of way, I am just saying, time for me to use my time doing other activities.  Enjoying the summer, for example.  Or visiting the new Thai restaurant that just opened up down the street.

see you out there
bryan

Catching a Breath

In fairness, I fully intended to get a post written a few weeks ago.  The topic had been chosen, and the ideas were floating around in my head.  Then, the World Cup started...

This marks the fourth WC that I have been able to view from Europe, and each time I have always appreciated how fantastic the atmosphere is.  The whole community just has a buzz about it as people follow the tournament.  Sure, I have fond memories of watching WCs when I lived in the US, but despite the growing number of fans who sort of follow the sport in that country, it is simply not the same. 

As an example, last week the local newspaper in Dallas posted an article about the ONE place that a fan could best watch the tournament.  It just happens to be an English Pub not far from Chris's office, and a pub that I used to visit from time to time when I lived in Dallas.  True, it is a good place to go to watch matches (both domestic and international), and both Pablo and my father mentioned the article to me during the course of the week. 

Meanwhile, there are about 35 restaurants and bars between my house and the five minute walk to the U-Bahn station.  All 35 of those establishments have screens up and are showing ALL of the matches.  And, in most cases, particularly for the "bigger" games, those places are full. 

Of course, the weather tends to help out; during summer most cafes are pretty full during the afternoons and evenings as everyone enjoys some time outside.  This alone makes for a rather pleasant atmosphere.  Add the buzz of a footy tournament and the excitement level goes up a couple of notches.

A friend of mine who left Germany last summer to return to the states arrived last week with the intent to experience the WC viewing.  He, too, is well aware of how much fun it can be.
Unfortunately, the day he arrived was the day of the last group stage game that Germany were to play.  Germany HAD to win in order to advance to the next round.

Those readers who have been following the tournament are already aware of what happened next: a complete and utter crash out.   Germany exited the WC in the first round for the first time since many many years, and the fact that they were the Cup holders was just all the more of a kick in the teeth.

That being said, most of the Germans I know all said pretty much the same thing, "We played like crap, never got our act together, and we deserved to crash out."

I was kind of rooting for Germany as well, but I tend to stay a little more neutral in recent years.  I know this might come as a slight surprise to guys like Brandon and maybe even Tim, but now days, I simply prefer to watch an exciting event.

The day after Dave arrived, my sister and nephew arrived to spend a long weekend with me in Frankfurt.  I had been eagerly anticipating their visit, and was particularly excited that they, too, would be able to share in the neighborhood atmosphere of a World Cup summer.  I had already checked the match schedules, and knew that we would have an important Spanish match during the Sunday afternoon.

My sister and I had really no special plans other than to hang out and enjoy the time together.  As visits go, I was really pleased that they were here.  Part of me suspects that my teen-age nephew was not totally thrilled, but unfortunately I am not all together up to date on what would make a typical teen enjoy visiting another European city.  I mean, we were able to hang out in various cafes, went to a cookout at a friend's house, and were able to catch several matches on the various screens.  We did hang out in the local market in my neighborhood, and also took a quick walk around the city.

Most people (ie...my father, other friends, aunts and uncles, as well as my sister,on her previous visits) tend to really enjoy the first hand experience of meeting a lot of people in my neighborhood.  I have a fair amount of friends and acquaintances, and I am always touched that my local Kumpels look forward to meeting any guests that come to visit me.  They actually go out of their way to introduce themselves, engage with my visitors, and ask after my relatives after they have left.

This was totally the case this past weekend.  My sister and I had a wonderful time just sitting on the balcony and chatting.  My nephew could spend his time on his phone (using my Wifi) and could do his own thing.  We were all out and about regularly just meeting and greeting in a relaxed environment.   Some other friends came in from out of town, so the whole weekend was pretty active, but in a low-key way.  Several people mentioned how much it seemed like "old times." 

Old times.  New Times.  I would probably say simply, "Good times."

And through it all, football matches every day. 


Monday afternoon I was going through my let-down period after my sister and nephew headed to the airport, but that evening I was back at the kiosk for the normal Monday evening activities.  The particular match that evening was Belgium vs Japan, which turned out to be one of the more exciting matches of the tournament so far. 

Tuesday evening, England had to play Colombia, and again, the match became rather dramatic.  Unlike the match on Sunday when Spain crashed out on penalties (to the great disappointment of not only my nephew, but yours truly), England actually got through on penalties, which is extremely unusual. 

Yesterday was the first day without football pretty much since the tournament started almost 3 weeks ago.  After work, I ventured over to the pub for a quiet (extremely quiet) beer outside.
A few other folks were also at the pub, and all of them asked if my sister and nephew had enjoyed their visit and gotten home OK.  Then, they also remarked on how absolutely still it was outside.  Hardly anyone was walking around or sitting outside; it was a tremendous contrast to the previous weeks when it almost seemed like a nonstop festival going on in the neighborhood.

I absolutely loved it.  I greatly enjoy moments of quiet and peace.  The summer holidays have started in Frankfurt, so a lot of people are off on vacation anyway.  Take away football and it was almost eerily quiet.  Almost similar to a really cold winter's day, when hardly anyone (except for myself) ventures outside. 

As much as I like football, I really enjoyed a moment where nothing was going on.  Tomorrow the matches resume and the streets and cafes will be full.  Besides, the weekend is coming.

Glad I could take the time last evening to simply catch my breath.

see you out there
bryan

Barista Problems, Brilliant Minds, and Body Flushing - Just Another Week's Report

It's been a good week.  Maybe not the best week ever, but that would be a pretty big ask, and I personally don't like to inflate the expectations.  It's kind of like those folks who head out for the night on the town with plans to make it the "best night ever," only to find themselves severely disappointed at the end of the evening.

Sure, I was pretty disappointed in myself right after I watched the dumbest movie on Netflix at the start of the week.  It was not so much that I was disappointed in the quality of the film, but rather the irritation with myself for simply not turning off the TV and not throwing away 2 hours of my life.

This week I continued my goal of drinking about 4 to 5 liters of water each day.  It is a whole lot easier to do when the temperatures are as warm as they have been.  Overall, I am quite sure that my body appreciates what I am doing.  Yes, going to the Klo every 15 minutes can be a bit annoying, but the benefits certainly outweigh the negatives. 

At the Kiosk on Monday evening, I was telling a friend about my recent water chugging initiative, and the word "chug" became one of the words of the evening.  There is really not a German equivalent, though I suppose saufen could work. 

(Quick pause while I step away from the computer to visit the bathroom; it's 10am and I have already drunk a liter of water). 

So, as we continued our Kiosk Abend, Teddy told us about his concern that his season ticket to the Eintracht had not yet arrived.  Normally, the pass arrives to the ticket holder a few weeks after the season ends.  I pointed out that this was a World Cup year, and sometimes that changes up the summer schedule a little bit.  He conceded this point, but was still curious as to why it had not arrived.  Furthermore, he wanted to make sure that he was home when it arrived in the post, so he hoped that it would arrive before he started his holidays.

At the kiosk, there is a little counter where one can rest their beer (or whatever), but the space is not huge.  Our group is usually 4 to 5 guys, so we take up a little bit of room.  This regularly means that other patrons will ask if we are part of the queue.  Sometimes it can get pretty busy for Papri (the nice woman who runs the kiosk) and people do try an make sure that there is some sort of order. 

At any rate, this particular evening, a blind guy with his guide dog approached the kiosk, and I moved out of the way so as to give him sufficient room to get to the counter.  He has come by the kiosk before, and I had noticed that with all of us standing there, it might appear that we were all waiting in line.  Meanwhile, Teddy was continuing his complaint about the delay in getting his season pass, and wondered aloud if he should call the ticket office.  As the guy waited for Papri to give him his change, he turned to us and said, "Did you not read the notice that they sent out, saying that the season tickets would not be sent out until the end of June, so don't bother calling?"

We were all a little surprised, not least of all, Teddy, who sheepishly clarified that he had not read the "fine print" from the notice.  The guy continued chatting with us for a few minutes, and explained that he had always been a season ticket holder to Eintracht, also.  When he was younger (he is around my age, I think) he still had his sight, and apparently once he started losing his sight and knew he would eventually be blind, he made the decision to continue going to the stadium for the matches.  It turns out that there is a little section in the stadium where a fan can sit and have access to a sort of "play by play" podcast.  So, he attends all the home matches, too. 

I think this is a really cool thing.  I never have considered this before, and it gave me something to think about.  Teddy immediately asked if the guide dog got to go in the stadium, too, which is a question I wanted to ask, myself.  The guy answered that his dog had to remain at home, but the access to the stadium was sufficient.  With that, he wished us a pleasant evening, and headed on his way.

It is experiences like this that make the Kiosk evenings so absolutely brilliant. 

I remained in a good mood during the next several days, even though the heat and humidity was starting to annoy me.  Of course, the oceans of water I was consuming kept my body pretty fluid.  I had a chance to skype with just about everyone in my family and it was good to catch up, even with the frequent interruptions ("I'll be right back, just need to step down the hall a moment")

Thursday morning, I started having some problems with my espresso machine.  The normal pressure for proper espresso should be between 9 and 12 bars.  I was suddenly only getting 4-5 bars.  This usually meant that the coffee was too coarse, so I had to adjust the settings on my grinder.  Unfortunately, this proved more difficult than I thought, and I ended up wasting about 250 grams of coffee as I mucked around with my machine.  I exhausted my supply without resolving the issue, so, after a quick trip to the bathroom, headed to my local Rösterei and purchased another kilo or two of coffee.  It was extremely hot and humid, and I was feeling really frustrated. 

Once I got back home, sweating heavily, I picked up my phone to send a text to Nadja, saying, "it's hot."   Out of nowhere, suddenly the skies turned grey, the bottom fell out, and for the next 30 minutes, I experienced one of the finest storms I can recall in the past 5 years.  The temperature dropped about 8 degrees. 

It was awesome.

I changed the content of my text message to "hooray for rain" and pressed send.  Nadja and I had been caught in a rain storm a few weeks ago, which required me to dash home and get her a rain jacket so that she could walk home.  This storm from a couple of days ago was much more lively.  Rain was blowing into my kitchen, but I didn't care.  I felt like that guy from the 80s 7up commercial.   We traded a few more messages, and then finally the rain subsided, leaving things quite a bit more pleasant than they had been earlier in the day. 

My coffee machine seemed to react, also.  After a couple of adjustments to the grinder, my coffee was back on track, and I was back to 11 bars of pressure.  In fact, I seem to have gone from one extreme to the other, but personally I like a bit more oomph in my espresso.

So, as the work week came to an end, I traded a couple of mails with Chris, wishing Lori and him a happy anniversary.   He gave me the quick update that his oldest daughter was off to a little college experience for the next few weeks.  We had discussed this last year, and, not only was I quite impressed and proud, I was very thrilled that she would likely be going to my alma mater (re:  bacon roo post from a few weeks ago).  As it turns out, she will be going to another strong school for this academic experience.  Still, it is a great opportunity for her. I am really pleased.

Let me be clear, this is not really a Doogie Houser thing, but it is quite remarkable.  She is a 7th grader, after all.  For me, I like the contrast of a girl who is quietly brilliant, but very apt to misplace her sunglasses and/or manage to get her tennis shoes wet by slipping into a fountain, sometimes simultaneously.  Of course, that does not sound too different from the average college freshman, all things considered.

For me, I think it just cool.  We need to encourage our young folks to pursue education, and let them find their way. Another friend of mine has just started taking her 8 year old daughter to the library more frequently, and is amazed at how she is really getting into reading.

I have always been an avid reader, and have very fond memories of spending time in the library myself as a child.  I firmly believe that the experience helped me to be a pretty good student, and here years later, I can proudly say that I am a guy with an ever so slightly above average intelligence that has to urgently go down the hall to the gent's.  Again.  3 liters (now) of water doesn't like to sit around for too long.   Should make for an interesting afternoon sitting outside the pub, which is where I am headed as soon as I finish this piece.

see you out there
bryan

Random Things from a Really Quick Month

It is just crazy how quickly time seems to be flying by.

Just one month ago, my father had just returned to the states after his visit to Frankfurt.  It seems like last week that he was here.  Meanwhile, lots of things have happened during May, but nothing too dramatic.

About a week after my dad got home, I got a letter in the mail from the Finanzamt, basically demanding that I submit my tax return from the year 2016.  This came as a bit of a surprise, and I got a little anxious for a week or so as I tried to figure out what to do.  It wasn't so much that I did not know what to do, but rather why I was being asked to do it now.  Furthermore, it was a little strange that they would ask for a return from a previous year as opposed to the current year.

I asked a few friends for their advice, and eventually went to a local tax guy around the corner from my house.  Fortunately, he was able to take a few minutes to discuss my situation with me, and helped me to understand a few of the finer points of the German tax laws.  In the end, we agreed that he would file my 2016 return for me. 

It all went pretty smoothly, and I must admit I was very relieved when I got the confirmation (and bill) that the return had been successfully filed.  That same day, I happened to get another letter from the Finanzamt asking for the return from the year 2015, which sort of irritated me.  Why wouldn't they have just sent out the request for all the years at once?

Anyway, I went back over to the tax guy, showed him my new letter, and gave him not only my documents for the requested year, but being that I was due a small refund for 2016, I figured it might be sensible to file year 2017, also. 

Of course, now all the returns have been completed, and I have paid the guy for his services.  Now I just have to sit back and wait for the government to cooperate and provide my refunds.

May in Germany has four public holidays, which, depending on how you look at it, can be either completely awesome or completely unproductive.  I used to get really worked up about having so many days off during the course of the month, but over the years while I have lived here, I have come to think it is absolutely brilliant to have so many holidays.  Of course, yesterday was our final holiday of the month, and the last public holiday until October.  I actually had to do some work myself, since many of my partners are not in Germany and did not have the day off.  Monthend is always a bit of a production, so the timing was not the greatest.  Still, I managed to enjoy a bit of quiet and did not have to work too much.

The weather finally got warm and a few friends and I have had a few moments where we have had to complain about the heat.  On the positive side, there are many more opportunities to be outside enjoying the various activities that come with the start of summer.  The football leagues ended in early May, and the following weekend, the cup finals were played.  Eintracht pulled off a major upset by beating Bayern Munich, and it was really great to be able to celebrate with all the fans.  Eintracht had not one the cup in 30 years, so this was a really big deal.

With the weather so pleasant, it was not surprising to attend a few cookouts.  Last weekend, I got invited to one that was hosted by a few groups from the neighborhood.  They tend to throw this party twice per year, and for some reason, I never attended previously, despite being invited once or twice.
I had some friends in town visiting, so I managed to get them invited, also.  This made for a fun outing, and I greatly enjoyed their company.  My friend's daughter is soon to be 8, so I was reminded of last summer when Chris and co. were here; we also did a bit of cookout stuff.  This time round, I wisely cut back on the beer consumption, although some of that had to do with the fact that I was trying to compensate.  The previous weekend during the Pokal finals, I had managed to hit the other end of that spectrum, which required several days of recovery.

At the cookout, my buddy Mono said "Look what I got," and pulled a liter of French mustard out of his satchel; it was a gift from one of the guys doing the cookout.  He told me that the mustard was super super spicy (scharf).   A couple of days later at the Kiosk, he gave me a small container to sample.  Indeed, the mustard is quite hot, but delicious.  And, I no longer seem to have any allergy issues that I endured over the past few weeks as the pollen count has shot through the roof.

While my friends and I enjoyed hanging out last weekend, we laughed regularly as we repeated a few of our catchphrases, notably "the chicken just falls off the bone," (which referred to our dinner from Friday evening as well as the Saturday afternoon barbecue) and  "It's all Dad's fault," which is what the daughter said a couple of times throughout the weekend.  This second phrase was circumstantial, and within the context, it was hilarious.  (thanks K, T and H...that was a great weekend).

My friends also introduced me to a really really funny tongue twister (German - Zungenbrecher) about a woman named Barbara who was really well known for her Rhubarb Pie.  If you have the desire, do a search on Rhabarberbarbara and you can better understand why I am so amazed.  I found a video where a girl actually films herself telling the story, and it is impressive.  So, I have been saying "rhabarberbarbara" regularly throughout the past week.

So, here today on the first of June, we start yet another month.  My nephew finishes school today, and I just worked out arrangement where he and his mother will visit me in Frankfurt at the end of the month, which, if anything like the month of May, will just zing right by.

Taxes, barbecue, a little heat, and a bit of Rhabarberbarbara....that's what May was all about.

A good month?  Absolutely.  I would say it cut the mustard.

see you out there
bryan