Taking a Döner for the Team

I like Döner Kebaps, I really do.  In fact, it was one of my main staples during my first few months in Frankfurt, mostly due to the fact that it was one of the few things I felt comfortable ordering in the German language (albeit with lots of pointing and gesturing).  

Ironically, towards the end of the summer in 2006, a little Kepab shop opened up in the village where I was living in Spain.  It was new, semi-fresh, and was almost the only take-out option available.  At that time, I was eating more and more meals on my own, and all too frequently I had no real desire to cook. 

Although I was a semi-regular customer at the Spanish shop, I noticed very quickly that the venture was going to be short lived.  Almost every time I went there, there was a new employee, and fairly soon the quality started to drop off.  At the time, I sort of assumed that it was simply a type of food that Spaniards are not so keen on.  

On the topic of fast food, I grew up loving it, just like every other kid.  Once I turned 21, I tended to migrate towards pub and bar food, preferring deep fried more expensive (but certainly better quality) snacks as opposed to the dollar menu stuff was the rage at all the fast food places.  

By the time I was 25, the only time I ate fast food was after a heavy night out in the pub or clubs enjoying good music and plenty of beers.  There was always that second wind that you caught on the way home when suddenly you think that you are starving and, as the judgement is already impeded by (I already lost count) beers, the logical decision is to pull into the nearest drive-through that you find on your way home. 

Sure, I was also in these drive-throughs with some frequency, and invariably seemed to order enough food for a family four, then proceeded to drive home and consume everything at 2h30 in the morning.  

Fortunately, I eventually moved on from the habit, and by the time I was hitting 30, my fast food experiences were limited to maybe one or two late night runs to Whataburger a month.  Maybe less than that.  Those are fond memories, and I always liked the breakfast burrito wraps they offered.  

The wrap thing kind of stuck with me, which is what got me interested in the Döners again several years later in Spain.  My previous experiences with Turkish food were more formal; there was a great Turkish restaurant in Dallas that our family liked, creatively known as Cafe Istanbul.  I greatly enjoyed eating there, but since all the dishes were served in a sit down dining experience, I sort of overlooked the fact that had I simply taken everything on my plate at Cafe Istanbul and shoved it in bread (either flatbread or a panini kind of thing), I would have a Döner Kebap or Dürüm.  

I find this humorous, because in those days that I was also going to a place called Chipotle, which offered some fresh burritos in a fast-casual environment.  I do not know if they ever had drive-through, but I am glad I always ate in, because those things were super hefty and tended to get out of control very quickly.  On the Chipotle note, their advertising campaigns back then were brilliant:  usually one or two foil wrapped burritos would come thumping into the picture, with a witty statement like, "You can workout with them before you eat them," referring to their size and resemblance to dumbbells.  

So, I am in Frankfurt at the end of 2006, looking for a quick meal solution, and discovered my local kebap guy.  Early on, I always went for the Dürüm, which is the wrap version, and I always tended to get two, so I could work out before eating them.  Those Dürüms were just as hefty as the Chipotle burritos, but filled with thinly shaved beef, lettuce, tomato, onion, other veggie, and covered in a garlic cream sauce.   Delicious.  

Being new to Germany, I was glad that the guy in the kebap shop was so friendly; he always went out of his way to make me a "real good döner."   Turns out he was the neighborhood drug dealer, but somehow he remained friendly even after he knew I was not a customer.  As I got to know my neighborhood better, I realized that the actual owner of the imbiss was an OK guy, and that my little fast talking "real good döner maker" was only working there temporarily; he soon moved on to another local.  

For those first few years of life in Germany, I regularly ate kebaps, and frequently as part of my late night routine on the way home from the pub.  Late night experiences in the kebap shops are very similar to the late night drive-through experiences the American reader can relate to.  A bunch of drunk people, in a very small place, all talking at once, with varying levels of sobriety, which creates kind of an exciting atmosphere.  I never liked to stick around very long, but once or twice (thanks Chris) did spend a few late late evenings at my local shop, listening to someone playing the guitar, and watching others slumped over their kebaps, somehow managing to keep the sauce from getting all over them. 

I think it was the sauce that finally got me.  A little garlic sauce goes a long way, and a typical kebap has a good quantity of sauce added to it.  One day, I simply had had enough, and rather abruptly stopped eating döners.  This made things a little awkward with my relationship with the local OK kebap guy, who I saw about 50 times per week as I walked by his shop.  We still nod a greeting to one another from time to time, all these years later, but I know that he is a little pissed off that I went from frequent flyer to nothing without any warning. 

Through the next years, I did trade kebap stories with friends.  One of the things that never went away was that as the evenings got later at the pub, someone would always announce how hungry they were, and at closing time, someone would stagger into the nearest kebap imbis on the way home.  I used my own personal experience to deter myself from making the same error.  I will spare the details, and simply state that waking up with one side of your face using a dürüm as a pillow is not particularly pleasant, and garlic sauce does NOT come out of your hair as easily as you might think. 

In fairness to kebaps, late night eating while drunk is never really a good idea, regardless of the cuisine.  This is why you rarely see a line at the Taco Bell drive-through between the hours of 8am-10pm...no one goes there except late at night, with sometimes horrific consequences.  (Fire sauce in the eye is another personal experience that I will leave for another tale.)

So pretty much the last 10 years, I have been kebap free.  By that, I mean literally that I have only eaten maybe 10 kebaps in total.  

So, fast forward, now, to January 2021.  Freshly employed, my company sent me to a small town in the east of Germany to spend some time onboarding, getting to know the site's operations.  

I was a little antsy about things.  New job, global pandemic, high infection rates in Germany (we were and are still in lockdown), and a pretty direct message from the government stating that one should NOT travel if they could avoid it.  My boss made it clear that I needed to be in Sömmerda, so I worked with the local site and got booked into a local hotel for the next four weeks.  

One of the challenges with the lockdown is that no restaurants could offer anything other than take-out.  As a result, many restaurants elected to simply close up, without offering anything.  This applied to hotels, also.  Hotels were allowed to offer a limited breakfast (similar to all German hotel breakfasts), which was kind of a trick in itself.  More on that later.   But, the hotels are not allowed to offer any dinner services.  

So, on the train ride up to Sömmerda the first Monday afternoon, I was thinking about my options for meals, not just for the next day or two, but for the next four weeks.  A little research on the internet showed that  there was very little.  The 1 mile walk from the train station (generous description) to the hotel confirmed the limited food opportunities; I saw NOTHING.  

At check-in, the woman at the hotel gave me a little map of the village (printed, but it could just as easily have been drawn by hand by a four year old) showed some little markings of establishments in the nearby area.  There were a total of 10 places within about a 10-25 minute walk from the hotel, 2 of which were grocery stores.  4 were actual restaurants, and the other 4 were more of the imbis type. 

I went up to my room, unpacked, and then got out the google maps to get more familiar with things.  Keep in mind that it was the 10th of January, and winter in Germany is cold.  

The first thing I realized was that on Mondays, only one restaurant (of the 8) was open.  The rest were closed as part of normal operations; most German restaurants use Monday as their Ruhetag.  I had forgotten about this because I rarely eat out on Mondays, and currently rarely eat out period (not just because of the pandemic, I simply do more cooking these days).  

For clarification, my hotel was situated in a residential neighborhood.  The nearest supermarket was about 25 minutes walk away, and no kiosks or gas stations anywhere.  Thus, I ate from the minibar, which was a bag of peanuts, a bag of chips, and a bag of M and Ms.  That, along with a bottle of water, came to a total of 12 euro.  While eating, I checked out the local restaurants, and found that the four sit-in places (currently, supposedly open for take-out) were not really the kind of places suited for take out.  They had pricey, limited menus, but none of the restaurant websites really promoted take out dining for antsy people living in region where the corona infection rate was really high.  

I was also discouraged as I read up on the 4 "take-out" places.  2 rated as "close to shit," and, somewhat more promising, the other 2 rated from better than adequate to pretty darn good.  Unfortunately, the pretty darn good place was a bit further from the hotel, as opposed to the adequate place, which was about 2 minutes walk from the front of the hotel.  

The following day, I walked the mile from the site back to my hotel, and stopped in at the local restaurant.  It was one of those super super fast casual type of restaurants which offers kebaps, burgers, pizzas, and pasta.  Hence the "better than adequate" rating, as such restaurants are not really good at any one thing.  Instead, they provide a mediocre quality of dining.  

I was not there to be on vacation, and I am a pretty easy going guy.  I just wanted a place to grab a bite to eat, and knew that I would likely be a repeat customer for the next few weeks.  I ordered a döner kebap that first evening, with everything.  

And I was pleased.  4 euro for the sandwich, and another 4 euro for beverages (2 liters of water).  

"I can eat this again tomorrow," I thought to myself as I finished my dinner in the hotel room.  

The following evening, I returned to the establishment, and found the same three guys working.  I was slightly annoyed that they were not wearing masks (just like the day before), but I had the impression that they were all from the same family.  Besides that, the two other customers who were also ordering (and, as it turned out, staying in my hotel) were wearing masks, as per regulations. 

I was a little surprised that the three employees did not seem to recognize me.  It was if I had never been in there before, even while I ordered the EXACT same thing as the day before.  But, 8 euros later, I was enjoying another döner, and figured that I could make it work for the next few weeks.  

The following evening, I surprised myself as I made a little change up:  instead of a döner sandwich, I elected for a kebap pizza, which was simply a pizza with kebap meat as the topping.  It was also tasty, but I was also feeling glad that the next evening I would be back in Frankfurt for the weekend. 

That was the plan.  Up to Sömmerda on Monday afternoon, work at the site Tuesday through Friday morning, then return to Frankfurt Friday afternoon, arriving home around 18h30.  

Because I was not at home, I had had to adjust my shopping trips, which meant that Friday evenings the fridge would be empty.  No problem, since I was not feeling like cooking anything, anyway.  Thus, my Friday evenings turned into routine pizzas from my local pizzeria.  Earlier when I mentioned that I was not eating out much over the past year, this included the absence of pizzas.  

For my second week in Sömmerda, I tried to plan ahead.  At the train station, I picked up some water and snacks to try and avoid the mini bar prices.  Upon check in at the hotel, the young woman working at reception was very friendly.  I had not seen her the previous week (though I was almost certain that she was the daughter of the hotel owner) and listened as she apologized that the hotel had no current dining service.  She showed me the little map (that I had seen the previous week), then went on to point out her favorite kebap place.  She went on to say that the place closest to the hotel (where I had eaten the previous week) was not that great, and the other kebap place was MUCH better.  She described her favorite kebap and indicated that she ate there about twice a week, minimum.  Someone of her age (approximately 20 years old) and her figure (she was very fit) reminded me that kebaps, while considered fast food, are not totally junk food.  

That Monday evening, I went to the hotel employee's favorite kebap shop.  They, too, offered pizzas, burgers, and pasta.  Again, I ordered a döner, and again, was best pleased.  

Unfortunately, the weather for my second week in Sömmerda was not so pleasant.  It was not just the cold but also the rain and sleet that happened to fall during the inconvenient times when I was walking home from work.  This left me with less desire to hoof it 10 minutes to the cool kebap shop and instead opt for the local (less tasty) solution.  

Although I had been in their shop three times the previous week, the guys did not seem to recognize me when I walked in that Tuesday evening.  Again, I ordered a döner, and found myself comparing it to the döner I had eaten the previous night.  While I could tell a difference between the two, I found both to be fine, and let us be clear:  I am not a restaurant critic.  If I like the food and it tastes good, then hooray. 

The next two evenings, I opted for the kebap pizza, and told myself that kebaps are healthy.  The hotel employee certainly appeared to be having no issues, and she includes them in her diet.  One evening as I waited for my pizza, one of the employees did strike up a conversation with me.  He asked me if I was Swiss, which was a new one for me.  In all my time in Europe, no one has ever mistaken me for a native German speaker.  If anything, people might think I am from Britain.  

Once I told the guy where I was from, he immediately wanted to talk about boxing, stating that "the best boxers come from the US."  I have no idea, since I do not really follow the sport.  The famous boxers I know were probably active well before the guy was born.  At any rate, I appreciated the chat, thinking that at the very least he was recognizing that I was a repeat customer. 

Week 2 came to a close, and week 3 started, the meal routine identical.  Monday evening to the "cool" kebap place, where I would extend greetings from the cute hotel employee to the nice guys working, then Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursdays back at the "hello, who the hell are you?" gang at the place across from the hotel. 

Something I have always experienced when speaking German with someone in a new environment is that my counterparts need a moment or two to get adjusted to my accent, my communication style, or whatever.  I had already experienced this at the Sömmerda site, where I found that many employees did not have a lot of experience speaking with someone speaking their language as a non-native speaker.  To try and better explain myself, I use an example of Spanish from Mexico, South America, or Spain.  A native speaker will notice a difference almost immediately, but someone speaking as a second language needs longer before they can differentiate.  English speakers will relate to the difference from the northern states in comparison to the southern states in the US, or an Irish or a Scottish accent.  Even now, I need a moment or two to adjust myself to a strong Scottish accent.  

German is no different.  I still have trouble with the dialect from Bavaria, and just the other day was listening to a Swiss person speak German and got completely lost.  

Over time, I recognize it is not personal, and it is not necessarily my accent that stands out.  I am not deferring all responsibility, instead merely highlighting that communication has several aspects. 

In the company site, the employees I was meeting for the first immediately noticed that I was a non-native speaker, then quickly adjusted as our conversation continued.  

In my kebap shop, the guys had some difficulty understanding me (hence the question about Swiss German), and ultimately I concluded that it had more to do with the likely fact that these guys were buddies with my little drug selling kebap guy in Frankfurt as opposed to it being an issue with me being able to communicate in the local language.  

After all, if you go into the SAME place every day for 3 days straight, and order the SAME thing, you would probably assume that the following day the person is going to sound just like he did previously. 

Here I was in Sömmerda, eating at the same place 3 straight weeks, and it was like groundhog day every day. 

Not to insult the local area or the particular employees, I do have to point out that my little pizzeria guys each Friday evening started making my pizza before I even got to the ordering window.  

As my fourth week of travel began, I was thankful that I had to walk a mile to work each morning, and likewise walk the mile back to the hotel each evening.  I figured the additional fitness routine was helping to prevent me from becoming a fat bastard who ate döners every day.  Again, while they are healthier than what I consider to be junk food, perhaps 4 weeks of said diet is a little questionable. 

Because I am a creature of habit, because the weather was still pretty cold, and because I was a little lazy, and because I was curious to see how the little trio of Moron and Moron's two brothers would react to me visiting them 4 weeks in a row, I went right back to the local kebap shop for my last week.  (The onboarding session was planned only for the 4 weeks.  After that, I would be doing home office for the next little while)

Well, the fourth week went just like the previous three, at least from the kebap perspective.  Each evening I ordered my döner, grabbed a few liters of water, paid up, and went back to the hotel.  Besides the one evening where I talked with the guy about boxing, hardly any other conversation with them took place.  Each time I went in, it was if they had never seen me before. 

So, to tally up, I ate 15 döners last month, more than I had in the previous decade.  And the guys who served me have no recollection that I was even there. 

Food rating:  better than adequate

Service rating: I had low expectations, and certainly the guys did not exceed those expectations, but I would tell a friend, especially if that friend was a spy who wanted to remain incognito. 

Will I go back?  Sure I will, but I do hope that my return trip is without lock down restrictions, so that I get to explore some other options. 

What is on my menu for the upcoming weeks?  Certainly nothing with garlic sauce, and, while I do consider myself to be a satisfied customer, I am currently finding it difficult to even look in the direction of my local kebap shop on my street. 

Am I going to post anything on yelp?  No.  

It was all about taking one for the team.  After all, someone has to. 

see you out there

bryan

Busting Pipes and Jeans

My father mentioned in passing yesterday that my nephew had recently purchased some new vintage jeans, the kind of jeans that my sister and brother-in-law wore years ago.  True, the information is third hand, but "years ago" suggests that I was wearing similar jeans at that time, too, so I spent last evening (as well as a couple of hours lying in bed) thinking about my own jeans wearing history. 

For me, it started with Toughskins, a house brand of jeans that I believe Sears offered to all boys in the 1970s.  I will not bother to research how popular they were, but I do know that I was one of many kids at school who wore these jeans each day on the playground.  The name stayed true; an afternoon of heavy playing outside with Adventure People (Fisher-Price) or various trucks (Tonka) allowed for plenty of opportunity to crawl around on the hands and knees in the dirt, grass, or rock garden (as we had in our front yard, complete with a couple of very dangerous yucca plants).  

Toughskins had a kind of rubbery, leathery patch on the back of the jeans, exactly where the Levi's thing is on jeans.  This was the one part of the apparel that was not so tough.  The patch came off fairly easily, but I found it to be a perfect addition to the other makeshift toys I tended to use with my action figures, etc. For example, said patch could serve as a cover of a little hole that I had dug in the yard for a figure to hide in, or to be used as a little raft for a guy to stand on in a river (which was located right at the curb of the street, sometimes turning turbulent after a heavy rain.)  This made for some fun times having to go chase the little group of figurines down the block, frantically trying to rescue them before they got to the storm drain, where they would drain away never to be seen again.  (Note - Had the book IT been published during my childhood, I NEVER would have been playing in this fashion.)

At any rate, the toughskins always held up.  I always grew out of mine as opposed to wearing them out, despite the tremendous wear and tear they took.  They probably saved the life of my butt cheek that one day that I decided to "sit" on a cactus that was planted in the yard of one of the houses that we passed by on our way to and home from school.  

I recall very clearly that we would buy these jeans at the Sears store at Valley View Mall.  The boys section was right at the entrance to the store, and the jeans were always at the front, next to the Husky section.  I was always intrigued by the Husky section; the society labelled size used for those boys who were on the "big" side, even though they were little kids.  At the time, I did not know that many overweight kids, but there was always one or two in every class.  Today, I would think of Mo, the bully who intimidates Calvin (from Calvin and Hobbes) as husky, and come to think of it, many of the bullies in elementary school were on the "larger than the average student" scale.  

Husky was a funny word, and we did not use it much.  In fact, I had to ask what the word meant (in context of the children's size) during an early shopping trip when my mom said, "No, that is not your section," when I went to the jeans rack. And, I do not recall ever using the word husky on the playground at school, partially because I had learned that it was not the politest way to describe someone's size.   People my grandmother's age probably used the word more frequently, much the way that her generation helped to generate the use of the word "spaz" or "hyper."  Ironic that these terms were used by adults who thought that they were just stating the facts, despite the negative connotations.  

Spaz was a word that we DID frequently use on the playground, primarily because it was even more fun to say than husky.  And, spaz covered a whole lot of topics, especially in the imaginative world of a child.  

But, it was a negative word, and even though I did drop it from my vocabulary, along with the other aforementioned words, I remember being dismayed from time to time when hearing an adult refer to a rather active, overweight child as being husky and hyper.  

Our family was not goody-goody (though if anyone came close, it would have been my mother), but we did discuss acts of right and wrong, as well as the significance of how hurtful words could be.  As a result, we knew the words, but we also knew how devastating the words could be, particularly when you are the recipient.  

My mother told me once how proud she was of me when I was describing a classmate standing in a group across the parking lot as my mother picked me from school.  I simply indicated that I was referring to the girl in the big sweater (instead of suggesting that she was overweight).  Although I remember the incident, I had never really considered describing the girl in any other way. 

Back to jeans.  As a preteen, my mother took me a local store for my age group for some new jeans for the upcoming school year.  Somehow, my mother got talked into purchasing some jeans that were on sale, on sale because they were the previous year's style.  That is why, as an 11 or 12 year old, I was wearing Selfridge bell bottoms.  In the store, I was excited to be getting multiple pairs of jeans.  A few weeks later when I realized that I was the ONLY one wearing silly jeans, I was none too pleased.  

I did not grow all that quickly, but I eventually got through the experience, and by the time I was in junior high and certainly high school, I was wearing Levi's.  

Things were easier back then.  There was only one decision to make, really: which size. 

During the end of high school and through college, I did regularly wear jeans, but I also wore pants, mostly black pants, but sometimes gray, and I still own a pair of houndstooth pants that are fucking awesome.  

So, circa 1990, I had blue jeans from Levi's, and black pants from wherever, but usually from Structure or the Gap.  

By this time, I was pretty much at full height, and size was pretty straight forward.  I did start to migrate more and more towards black jeans, but once in a while I would wear blue, and that is pretty much how things have continued for the past 30 years.  

For the most part, I never got caught up in the various styles and fits that Levi's started offering.  In fact, their selection has made things all the more difficult for me when making the infrequent purchases. I stick with the same version, simply in blue or black, but to FIND that version in the store means you have to wander through lots of shelves and racks of all the other offerings; acid wash, skinny, flexi, boot cut, straight leg, etc.  

Sigh, I guess things could be worse.  Ultimately, it is a great thing that I have been wearing the same size for about 25 years, and, because of the cost of Levi's in Europe, I tend to stock up on jeans during stateside visits.  

Unlike toughskins, which might have been dyed with lead paint, my jeans these days tend to fade with time and washes. I tend to wash my jeans semi-frequently, though I am aware of the process of never washing them.  I personally feel that is a little gross.  Sure, the jeans do fade with time, but I can now wear them out and then get more, since I do tend to like a darker color, especially since I try to wear jeans as often as I can in the workplace.  (We will discuss work apparel in another post)

Normally, this is not a tremendous issue.  Despite being unable to travel stateside the past 18 months, I have a reserve stock of jeans, at least 3 or 4 pairs.  However, there has been no need to get them out into action, since I have plenty of other jeans already in circulation.  My routine, wear the jeans until the button fly doesn't work well; with time (and washes), the buttons sometimes don't stay fastened. 

Last year, as I was unemployed and not having to (not being able to) go to work, I just wore whatever jeans I grabbed from the closet, usually choosing the older pairs that had been worn more times.  The logic here, of course, is that any video call involved only the torso.  Likewise, for the few months we were not in lockdown, I tended to wear shorts, as it was the summer period.  

This is all significant because I sort of got off track and could no longer identify which jeans were suitable for public wearing as opposed to for sitting around the house. 

As luck would have it, I discovered that I had unfortunately taken the wrong jeans with me when I went to visit one of my company's facilities a few hours away from Frankfurt during the month of January.  I was there every week for four weeks, and after the initial visit, I decided to dress slightly more casual, partly because the weather was pretty wintery (snow and rain) and partly because the site just dressed more casually. 

One day during that second week, I was standing outside with some folks and I realized that ALL of my buttons on my jeans had come undone.  This was the pair of jeans that was normally assigned to the weekend or stay at home days, but had somehow slipped into the suitcase.  When I say that the buttons come undone, I actually mean that they hardly work...they barely button.  Not because I have put on weight in that area, but simply because the fabric has become so relaxed.  Perfect for sitting around the house, but not great when standing in front of a few people while you are telling them how happy you are to be there.  

I took more care in packing the following week, but still came up short, as I only managed to select another pair of jeans where the buttons were ready to stop holding.  

I share this information because if anyone else happens to be looking for vintage jeans, I may have a few pair on offer for them.  I am actively retiring these so as to avoid future embarrassment in the workplace.  

Now, it might be a bit of a stretch, but busting out of jeans, which is kind of how it feels when the buttons come undone without any use of the hands, got me thinking about the recent weather in my home state.  Since we are looking at history, I will point out that the mentioned Sedgefield jeans that I wore?  That was in 1983. 

When I did purchase my first pair of black jeans?  1989. 

And when did I notice that I had a jean bursting problem most recently? 2021. 

Isn't it interesting that those are the years that Texas has experienced the most severe winters.  

In all seriousness, my thoughts and prayers are with everyone going through the tough times in Texas at the moment.  That husky spaz that went to Cancun the other day is not the role model I think of; I know better.  I know plenty of people who are dealing with all the challenges of freezing pipes, power outages, and general feelings of "it is cold as fuck,"  and I can only cheer and send happy thoughts your way. 

Keep it vintage. 

and keep the faith.

bryan

stay tuned for more adventures...including a tentative title, "colon blow, and how much fun it is to eat kebaps for 4 weeks during your onboarding at a new job."

Dang, Another Wasp Just Flew Up My Nose and Other Summer Highlights

Well, I could start this post by saying that I have been really busy these past six weeks, unable to find time to write something because I have been on holiday, or too occupied with work, or something along those lines.  

But that wouldn't be truthful; I am not working currently, and the vacation destinations (at least in Bryan terms, where vacation typically means family visit) are a little bit out of reach for obvious reasons. 

On the other hand, the lack of posts is not due to lack of material, either.  My father remarked the other week that he was starting to get tired of hosting the weekly virtual happy hour with his friends, on account that there was nothing new to talk about.  I understood his point, but also was threw out conversation topics to him, suggesting that there is a TON of stuff to talk about right now. 

Then I realized what the issue was:  motivation was missing.  He simply didn't feel like hosting the gathering.  For the quick language lesson, er hat keinen Bock, er hat keine Lust, el no tiene ganas de charlar...

It's been kind of the same for me.  This is not the first time (and I know it won't be the last) that I have struggled with getting the motivation flowing in sync with the subject material.  For me, I tend to want to have something a little humorous to discuss in the piece.  This is usually pretty easy for me, as there is something always happening that strikes me as funny.  Here, I can use funny as "ha ha funny" or funny, as in "weird as shit."  Both instances provide suitable material, and it can be a little bonus when the incident involves both.  

So, the last six weeks have been filled with little ups and downs, moments of flat out bust a gut laughter, along with a few times of melancholic reflection.  

Fortunately, I do keep a Tagebuch, so am always ready once the urge to write a blogpost resurfaces. 

And this morning, the urge returned, and if anything, it serves as a nice alternative to searching for a job. 

July has always been sort of a so-so month for me.  There is usually no football going on (except for those years when the Euros or World Cup are held), and things are just generally pretty slow.  Despite that, we have a lot of family birthdays in the month.  This year, my brother-in-law celebrated his birthday, then received his gift of my sister returning to Spain a couple of days later.  A week after her return, my nephew turned 18.  

As happy as I am that my sister and her family are finally back together in Spain, I recognize the emotions that are attached to this event.  After five years of living stateside, my sister and family have once again left their Texas home.  The five years passed quickly, and so many things happened during that time.  I was particularly attentive to my father, who, depending on how you count, is going through another empty-nest experience.  Meanwhile, my sister will have a lot of memories and experiences from the past five years that she will be reflecting on.   I find this significant because of my own experience of moving abroad 15 years ago:  I wanted so desperately to go, to get there, but when it came time for the goodbyes, that was tricky.  And, while I know I made the right decision for me to leave the states and relocate, there is not a single day that passes where I don't take a moment to think of all the fantastic friends, family and experiences I have from my home town.  (queue the song by JJ)

In the middle of July, I had to adjust my daily routine.  I still talk to my father almost daily, usually during my early afternoon (his early morning).  However, my sister is suddenly back in the same time zone, and like myself, is unemployed.  Thus, she tends to call me during her morning coffee session (just like my father), which is around 10am.  Suddenly, my days were filling up with conversations lasting several hours.  

I am a big family guy, so this extra chat time is a good thing.  I am very grateful for it, especially since I know that someday I will be working again and less able to have a skype conversation in the middle of the day.  

During the month, I had several friends who were able to visit their families, and even though I was a little envious that they had the opportunity to safely spend time with family, I was more happy that they were actually using that opportunity.  I actually thought deeply about this while I was watering Nadja's plants, which is probably why I almost drowned one of them.  I was thinking how cool it was that she was getting some time to hang out with her own sister. 

As part of my standard routine right now, I do spend several hours a day looking at new job opportunities, applying for positions, and constantly assessing myself on the direction I want to take.  This, too, is proving tricky, especially since summer is not particularly the most active time for the job market.  Throw in a worldwide situation and things can appear a little bleak. 

That being said, I am really pleased that I am sticking to my guns (excuse the expression) and remain on my plan:  to find what is best for ME.  Some days can be busier than others on the job activity front, and I have the good sense to recognize this.  When it's just not "working" on a particular day (ie. no tengo ganas de buscar trabajo, or Ich habe keine Lust auf Arbeitsuchen), I find other ways to keep busy. 

I continue to work on my German skills, finding new sources for various drills, comprehension practice, etc.  This includes a youtube channel where the hosts interview people on the streets of Berlin, asking them various questions about life, society, you name it.  It's quite interesting, and I am really enjoying it.  Sometimes they have guest learners on the channel, non-Germans visiting Berlin, and they get involved in practicing the interviewing of people on the street.  This means that I get a chance to listen to other non-native speakers, and I am recognizing that my accent is not nearly as bad as I thought it was.  And my German is still coming along nicely. (Pause while some of you are thinking, "Hasn't he been there for 14 years now, and he's still talking about the slow progress on language learning?")

The answer is very simple:  Yes, it is that fucking difficult to learn German. 

Take this example.  The other day I heard the expression "auf Wolke sieben," which is pretty close to the English expression "on cloud nine."  However, why is it only cloud seven in German?

No clue. 

Funny (both ha ha and strange) is that I caught the expression in both languages, during some film viewing.  I tend to watch most everything with German subtitles, regardless of the broadcast language. Right in the middle of a dark, violent Scandanavian film, someone uttered the comment (they were trying to find a happy place), and the very next day I was watching, erm, "The Kissing Booth 2" and one of the characters (who obviously was already in their happy place) said the same thing.  

Before we jump on the fact that Bryan keeps watching silly teen coming of age movies, where the characters have vintage cars, hefty allowances, live in houses where they can jump off their bedroom balcony into the swimming pool to play with their friends, get into ivy league colleges without blinking, and basically seem to have a pretty easy life, I would like to point out that  I enjoy these films for their realistic portrayals of fantasy.  It is so realistic. 

The mom in said movie happens to be played by Molly Ringwald, and she is a favorite of mine from several well-known and well-loved films from our own teenage years.  And if you want to make the six degrees of separation comparison (or something like it), watching that movie prompted me to spend the rest of the weekend listening to the Go-Go's.  I had forgotten just how good that band was, and it was even more than just the fact that I was 12 years old when I first heard them, and when I started my crush on the lead singer.  Go figure.

While we are on the topic of sharing dirty laundry, this is probably a good time to talk about the water flosser I purchased last week.  My father, who is the least fortunate in our family when speaking of dental issues, purchased a flosser earlier in the year, and had been talking about how much it was helping him.   I was at the dentist recently, and had an excellent check-up, but they suggested that I consider something similar to my routine. 

Like most of the rest of the planet over the past six months, I, too, have had the urge to go on on-line shopping sprees to buy "stuff." 

Thankfully, I have resisted most of the urges, partly because I am on a budget, and partly because I know I just don't need a lot of the stuff that seems cool.  I was talking to a friend of mine in Köln a few weeks ago, and she mentioned that she was really pleased with her Roomba-type vacuum cleaner.  This prompted me to at least look at the available selections, but in the end, I reminded myself that it would be best to wait until a full salary is coming in to my bank account again, and even then, it might beHOOVE me to really justify the expense, especially since my current hoover works just fine. 

But, last Friday, I received my water flosser (marketed as a "spa experience in the mouth,") which was a treat for myself after the interview I had had the previous day, which went rather well.   I charged it up the required amount of time, then filled the little tank, switched it on, and almost immediately shot myself in the eye with a burst of water. 

My father had already mentioned that "it can be a bit messy," when using the product, but at the time I dismissed that as a generational thing.  I almost selectively "forgot" the experiences I had had back as a teenager when I was using a similar product that I had received one Christmas.  At that time, it was still pretty fun to play around, hosing water in whichever directive suited. 

It took me a few minutes before I found the right way to use this new product, and each day I have been able to reduce the amount of water that gets all over the place (ie...not in mouth), and I believe it to be money well spent. 

Besides looking for work and improving dental hygiene, I continue my routine of getting to know myself better, through music, meditation, study, ready, goofy movies, thought provoking cinema, and constant reflection.  

For social activity, things are still a little limited, for obvious reasons.  I miss getting to play with people with frequency, and it is a bit challenging when there are no colleagues to chat with, for equally obvious reasons. 

Thankfully, things remain mostly under control in Germany, and people (for the most part) are following the rules.  I might question how people are measuring their social distancing, but at least no one is really squawking about wearing a mask.  

I am frequently standing outside the pub, visiting with friends, neighbors, and enjoying the time outdoors.  That is one of the nice things about summer; everyone is happy to gather outside.  For me personally, I have a limit to how many people I want to be around, but I am encouraged to see people out and about.  

The pub scene is a big part of my life, always has been and I was remembering all the places I have considered to be "locals" (local pubs, that is) in various cities, and have wondered how they are coping with the current situation.  

My little place here in Frankfurt is doing pretty well, and (again) for the most part, taking the right precautions.  Maybe it is a little easier right now because no-one wants to be inside; we will worry about what happens come autumn a little later. 

The drawback to spending time outside in the summer is the increase of various insects.  It's funny (both ha-ha and strange) how the number of wasps that make pub visits varies from year to year.  This year seems to have seen a sharp increase, likely related to the comparison to last summer, where there did not seem to be as many.  

Four years ago, Chris and family trekked over for the month, and among all the wonderful experiences from that year, I also got to see how SC handled being harassed by wasps.  SC had way of starting to wail, which would gradually turn into an impressive scream as the mental state went from "calm, cool, collected" to "flip right the hell out."

At the time when I first experienced this, I was reminded of a distant siren that got closer and closer as the vehicle neared.  Then, when all calmness is nowhere to be found and you are in freak out mode, it's simply an explosion of sound and movement. 

I am a huge huge fan of The Far Side, mainly because of my appreciation for absurdity.  There was a cartoon (among thousands) that always made me crack up; the one where the guy who cleaned out the reptile room at the zoo (and had done for the past 40 years) one day realized that snakes gave him the heebie-jeebies.  

The mere thought just makes me smile, and that's interesting especially as I am always having heebie-jeebies about snakes. 

Similarly, Eddie Izzard tells a story of a bee keeper who one day, experiences a very similar feeling, one of freaking out from having all the bees around his head. 

All of these things went through my mind as I was standing outside of the pub with my beer, looking cool in my sunglasses, watching some wasps flying around looking for people to bother.  I was congratulating myself for staying calm when a wasp landed on my arm and stayed for a few more seconds than I would have liked. 

Seconds later, the coolness factor took leave as my eyes opened widely in surprise as a wasp made a crash landing as it tried to go up my nostril.  For a second it was stuck fast, and I decided to skip the "distant siren" portion of the wailing and proceed to flip right the fuck out.  

I don't think any of the passing traffic stopped to appreciate the little dance I did, but I wasn't really concerned about that at the given moment.  I had other things on my mind.   

When I was in elementary school, I decided one day during lunch to put a couple of red hots up my nose, for no other reason than I was simply a stupid seven year old.  For a brief moment, I could not get the piece of candy out of my nose, neither by blowing nor by trying to get my finger inside to remove the foreign object.  (You would have thought that such ridiculous antics would have ceased after the time I stuck my finger in an electrical socket the previous year, but no, that wasn't the case.)

At any rate, before anything dramatic happened, I managed to get the red hot out of my nose, and order in the school cafeteria was restored. 

With the wasp, it took slightly longer, mostly due to the mental distress.  In all my life I have never had such an incident occur, and in my opinion, the only other place where a wasp could go and trigger the same reaction is right up the leg of my shorts into my boxers.  

I felt violated and quite disturbed, until I realized that the wasp was probably just as surprised as I was. 

But, like SC did so well four years ago, I minimized my movement (physical movement that is...my brain watched 2000 horror films in 3 seconds) and the wasp moved on to another victim. 

A friend standing next to me did ask me about the noise I just made, since he had not ever heard me make it before.  I elected not to answer the question, preferring to move on to another topic of conversation.  

A couple of days later when the EXACT same thing happened, I did decide to explain the origin of my little (hey a wasp flew up my nose) noise.  He knows SC, too, and could relate to the explanation. 

In these times, I think it is important to appreciate the experiences, however funny they may seem. 

Sure, I would prefer more experiences like "hey, we just won the FA Cup again!" as opposed to "hey, another wasp wants to see what Bryan's boxers look like" but you know, we have to take it as it comes.  And there is also something waiting to happen, like burping while your mask is on after having consumed 5 beers.  I actually lost consciousness when that happened the other day, if only for a second. 

So despite the blazing heat we are having right now in Frankfurt, there are plenty of reasons to continue to enjoy the summer, even with the wasps. 

keep the faith and stay safe

bryan

Knowing Beans and Other Barista Tricks

The past couple of weeks have been very enlightening for me on the espresso preparation front.

You'd think that in all my barista years that I would have a pretty good grasp of how everything works, and certainly I would be familiar with my machine.

I stand corrected.

Two years ago when I really upgraded myself to a high quality espresso machine, I knew from the get go that I wanted a Siebträger (portafilter), as I prefer to be involved in the whole activity, rather than getting a fully automatic machine.  I did my own research as well as seek guidance from a friend who is particularly enthusiastic about espresso.

I got my machine and have been absolutely thrilled.  My buddy gave me some suggestions on products to clean and backflush my machine, and for the most part I have done my regular maintenance.  And, save for a few minor incidents, my espresso shots have been pretty darn good.

The other week, however, I started noticing some leakage around the brew head, and this was a little concerning.  Normally this means that the espresso machine needs to be serviced, and with products like mine, that service is better performed by an authorized repair center.  At the time I purchased my machine, I elected to purchase online, as my local espresso machine retailer did not offer products from the specific manufacturer that I wanted.  That also meant that they offered no service for that manufacturer.

I checked the official (Italian) website of my manufacturer but was unable to get much information about service in Germany.  A few additional searches also resulted in diddly squat.

"A little concerning" in my definition is pretty simple.  On a scale from "mildly curious" to "holy shit panic," a little concerning slots in at level 2 or 2,5.  In other words, not a big deal.  For clarification, my dishwasher that currently takes 14-15 hours to complete it's wash cycle is at level 3,5 ("damned annoying but manageable - wait til it takes 20 hours")

Of course I mentioned my situation at the kiosk one Monday, and Mono (who not only has an espresso machine but is also capable of taking the thing apart and putting it back together; he knows how stuff works) asked me about the last time that I had descaled (entkalkt) my machine. 

"Nie." 

There is no direct German expression that is equivalent to "you don't know beans," but if there was, Mono would have used it, as it was certainly an appropriate time to do so.  Ironically, beans are a critical part of espresso (for obvious reasons), but I will come back to that in a minute. 

I grew up drinking tap water, and never really thought much about water until just before a family trip to Mexico when I was about 14 years old.  My mother was particularly concerned for us, and for the whole trip made sure that we only drank bottled water.  Bottled water was not really a big thing back in the 80s, at least not in Texas.  It wasn't until my sister moved to Spain (a decade later) that I got more accustomed to buying drinking water, and by habit, I continued purchasing bottled mineral water for the next 15 years. 

Upon my arrival in Germany, I was regularly buying crates of drinking water at the supermarket, and stayed very strict on crunching up the empty plastic containers for recycling.  In fact, I had built up a little stack of empty crates in my kitchen, prompting my German teacher to ask me where the empty plastic bottles were. 

It was during that lesson (which started with her saying, "you don't know beans") that I learned about Pfand in Germany.  I had never lived anywhere that had container-deposit legislation, so in fairness, it was not something I immediately noticed, even when I saw fellow German shoppers lugging empty crates of bottles back to the store.  I somehow assumed that those were glass containers, and since I was using plastic, I just continued putting my empty plastic bottles in the yellow container, just as I had done in Spain. 

My German teacher set me straight, and since that time, I pay attention to the Pfand.  That said, I actually have progressed further, and while I still purchase bottled water (for drinking) from time to time, I tend to re-use the plastic bottles with water from my tap, as the drinking water in Frankfurt is really good (and clean). 

True, I have always been aware of the difference between soft and hard water, and yes, Frankfurt water is considered hard.  But it has taken me a little longer to grap the full significance of what this means for an espresso machine.  Fortunately, Mono patiently took the time to explain how best to entkalk my machine, and that more than likely, I would certainly see an improvement in how my machine would operate after the process. 

The very next day, I went to my local Drogerie and purchased a natural product for descaling machines.  I had hoped for a product specifically designed for espresso machines, but in the end, the process works about the same, even with a standard descaling product.

Such products use citric acid to get the lime off of the components.  (Sorry for stating the obvious)  The process worked really well, and would have been an exceptional experience had it not been for the fact that I did not rinse my machine quite sufficiently, which meant that my next espresso was a bit lemony (not to be confused with orangey from the other week), but that quickly went away as I flushed more water through the brewing filter. 

My espresso machine was working better than before, but I was still noticing a bit of leakage.  During my "here's how you descale your machine, you dipshit," discussion with Mono, he mentioned that he did filter his water for use in his machine, so as to minimize the build up of lime and stuff in the machine.  I had never really considered doing this, but gave it some consideration over the next couple of days.

Since March, I avoided going to a lot of speciality shops, not because I did not want to support the economy, but more in the interest of safety, etc.  So, I have been using some espresso bean purchased from my local supermarkt instead of going to my beloved Rösterei.  But, having a freshly descaled machine prompted me to go out and get proper coffee bean again, so last week I returned to Wacker's, where the friendly woman greeted me excitedly, knowing that I was not the only customer to have gone through a lock-down for the previous months.  Furthermore, she immediately knew which type of bean I wanted (since I buy about 1 kilo every 10 days), and kind of giggled and gushed as she said, "hey, the beans are just freshly roasted and delivered!  They are still warm."

The roasting company is local, and deliver to their little shops, of which there are 3 or 4 around Frankfurt, including the one in my neighborhood. 

It was a nice little experience, and I returned home, eagerly anticipating my next espresso.  Quick pause to state that I am still satisfied with the beans that I purchased from my bio-markt, but as good as those beans are, they just cannot compare to a local roaster. 

During those few days between descaling and new bean buying, I did order a more professional descaling product, which arrived the same day as my trip to my roaster.  I had purchased the product on the reputation of the brand alone; all my other espresso maintenance product comes from the same manufacturer; they know what they are doing.  However, the instructions for the descaling process were a little vague, so (as you do), I did a quick search to see if anyone was using the same product to descale the same espresso machine.  Strangely enough, I only found one video experience, shared only a few days prior.  I found this unusual because the manufacturer of my espresso machine is pretty widely known, and the cleaning products are almost industry standard.  Why only one experience?

Well, I watched the video, and could easily connect with guy who made the video; he did so because he, too, found the instructions a little vague.  His video was informative, and I figured I would know what to do the next time I needed to descale. 

Meanwhile, I realized that as a little "bonus," my espresso machine manufacturer had included a little water filter with the complete unit, indicating it was a really good idea to use to improve the quality of my espressos.  I installed the little filer as instructed, and got ready to use new bean, fresh water, and a freshly descaled machine for a brilliant espresso.

And it was great. 

I almost made a homemade commerical, then wisely reconsidered as I noticed my next shots were all over the place.  Or, perhaps better expressed, not even really coming out of the filter. 

I had forgotten about how my guatemalan beans behave in my grinder, and furthermore, had not recognized just how all the changes I had made to the machine were all factoring together.  On top of that, we have had the warmest temps so far this year, combined with extra high humidity. 

Again, I understand how all these factors come into play, and while I DO know my beans, I know that you have to be prepared to tweak a little during grinding, shot pulling, etc. 

But, I got there in the end, and even with the weather being somewhat uncomfortable, my coffees are quite the delight. 

Filtering my coffee water (in the interest of the machine as well as the flavor of the espresso) seems like a long term plan for me, so I opened up the user's manual to find the product code for their special water filters.  They have one for 35 liters and one for 70 liters, and I really just wanted to do the finanical calculations on how much the water treatment would cost over the course of a year. 

My rating scale momentarily triggered a 7,5 as I read the statement in the user's manual:  do NOT under any circumstances, use a descaling product in your espresso machine.   How the hell I overlooked that sentence when I first bought the machine (or over the past couple of weeks) I do not know, but as I continued to enjoy my espresso and immediately placed an order for some water filters, I took a moment to reflect.  It's not as if my machine was going to suddenly explode, or fall apart, or something really really horrible just because I descaled it. 

I made a mental note to inform my youtube buddy (who clearly did not read his owner's manual, either) then considered the power of public service messages.   Indeed, the manufacturer should know better than anyone else on how their product should perform.  In the interest of marketing, they will throw out the DANGER - PANIC - VERBOTEN kind of messages that immediately capture the attention. 

Consider the messages that the flight attendants said for the better part of 2 decades:  don't use your mobile telephone during the flight, as it could interfere with the aircraft equipment, which hinted strongly that any malfunction of the aircraft could result in a very unfortunate situation. 

I have been a little dismayed over the years to see how casual people adhere to this message during flights, though I do recognize that the message is not nearly as strong as it was 20 years ago.  That being said, I still avoid using my mobile on any flight, full stop.  I see no point in creating further risk just for the hell of it, and to be honest, I still take it as seriously as lighting a cigarette while filling up the gas tank:  why would you do it?

At any rate, I think a one time descale on my machine will be okay, especially if I continue filtering my water in the future.  In the event that my machine craps out or attacks me or something, I will be sure to provide an update via this blog. 

keep the faith
bryan

The Fury and Disappointment Leads to Hope

Earlier in the week, I was dusting off some music that I hadn't played in quite a while, including several pieces by Joe Jackson, who remains my all time favorite pianist.  It has been over a year since I have recorded any arrangements where I play and sing; it seemed like an appropriate time to do so again.

To be clear, I have several JJ things in my repertoire, most of which I have been playing around with for the past thirty years.  I have found Jackson's works always challenging for two main reasons.  First, my voice is somewhat better suited for other stuff; it's not just my face that reminds someone of Tom Waits.  Second, playing and singing at the same time is not that easy.  Jackson's arrangments are pretty technical, probably because he is not merely a pianist, but rather a composer who can incorporate a lot of different genres into a song based on a simple little melody.   Check out his latest album and you will hear what I mean. 

As I did a bit of internet research on various versions of songs, I came across a fair amount of comments.  I couldn't help but take a few moments and read a few of them.  Although many (if not most) were very positive, I still came across statements that riled me.   Okay, I might agree to some exent that he is an underrated performer; such a remark can be considered positive.  I was more irriated when reading comments where Jackson is compared to other artists. 

I never like reading the comment "poor man's xxx," when used to describe something, particularly when it comes to music.  I feel that such statements are rather negative, despite the intention of the person who made the remark.  I seem to be fan of a lot of groups/musicians who get categorized in this way;  the Alarm (poor man's U2), Richard Butler (poor man's David Bowie), or in the case of JJ, a poor man's Elton John.  The self-centered part of me takes offense as I wonder why I like so much music that isn't widely embraced like the super famous artists mentioned, but the realistic part of me quickly remembers that I don't really like music for the masses, anyway.

I have to be careful, here, because I regularly make my own comparisons, as we all do.  Hell, I just acknowledged my resemblance to Tom Waits, and 14 years ago I had to sheepishly explain that I was the one who told my nephew that Actimel is actually Jägermeister for kids.  Making comparisons can quickly lead to expectations that can result in disappointment. (I will come back to this point in a minute.)

On the music front, I think of the band the Smiths.  In school, as I regularly discussed music with anyone and everyone, I found it significant that everyone tended to agree:  the Smiths were just so unique that one couldn't compare them to other groups.  At the time, your music exposure came from a lot of interaction with other listeners, and your horizons could quickly be broadened in a 5 minute conversation.  "If you like this band, then you will love these guys, etc."

The Smiths held a rather wide appeal with lots of different people.  I remember wearing my beloved Queen is Dead t-shirt to school, and was in deep conversation with a guy wearing Ropers and a western shirt (it was Texas, of course) about how much we liked the new album.  A friend of mine who regularly wore his mohawk in liberty spikes walked by in the hallway, pausing just a brief moment to state that he liked Meat is Murder better.   Later that morning in my science class, the cheerleader who sat next to me (alphabetically, not by her choice) turned to me and told me how much she liked the album, also.  Quite cool that so many different people simply could say, "we like the music just because." 

Years later, my friend Erik told me about the popularity of the Smiths with the Spanish speaking communities, particularly Chicanos.  I was fascinated by this, because I wasn't aware that the music was still influencing so many listeners.  It shouldn't have come as such a surprise, as I already had an album by a Spanish  artist (the lead singer of Duncan Dhu) who had done a wonderful cover of a Smith's song.  But, that guy is just a little older than me, so that made sense.  What Erik was explaining had to do with listeners from the next generation, a good 15-20 years younger.  How cool is now? 

Switching topics.  Indeed, how cool is now? 

Well, if you keep up with current events, things are not particularly cool.  There are lot of things going on that I find very distressing, and it's easy to become enraged as I watch yet another viral video of how someone behaves towards another individual or group of individuals.

It's disappointing, and if I allow it, I might become even more cynical.  But thankfully, despite my similarity to Eeyore, I am more like Curious George.  (Sure, why not bring stuffed animals into this post?)

To some extent, I am finding that I am disappointed in myself, particularly when it comes to accepting who I am because of my gender and the color of my skin.  As I think about things and educate myself, I realize that as open as I am, in heart, and mind, and in character, it has not been enough.  So, I read more, I discuss more, and I acknowledge my biases as I seek to understand what I can do as a white male to take more ownership, so I can understand all sides more clearly. 

It's a positive thing, and what's even more encouraging is that during a conversation with my father this past week, I learned that he is doing the exact same thing.  We talked about his time at college in Texas in the early 60s, and likewise his time in the military, where he met and served with people from vastly different backgrounds.  As a child, my sister and I were taught about the importance of equality, diversity, and tolerance.  But, she and I were not really informed about the experiences my parents had during the previous generation. 

That wasn't enough.

I wrote an essay condemning racism during my first year of university, and as I reread that paper this morning (yes, thanks to McKee, a lot of my archived work has survived and is stored in a little box in my German flat) and saw the comments from the professor, who gave me an A for such an "excellent, genuinely felt and expressed work,"

That wasn't enough. 

I don't have all the answers, but I am asking questions.

And learning. 

And hoping.

keep the faith
bryan 

Insanity's Circus Rides Again

It's funny.  As much as I enjoy writing and expressing my thoughts, I do notice that when things get particularly nutty, I seem to sort of dry up and stop posting the latest updates in the life of, erm, Bryan.  Part of it maybe has to do with the "if you can't say something nice, then don't say anything at all," thought process that I have.  Part of it is also that I do not want to use this blog to write editorials; it's not that I don't have loads of material and opinion, but rather that I prefer to keep some of that stuff a little closer to me, a little more private, despite the front row glimpse I tend to offer about my personal life through my posts over the years.

Furthermore, when things start to get really distressing, the tone of my posts typically tends to become more dark and cynical, and I much prefer to try to bring out the more humorous side of things.  And sometimes that just really isn't possible. 

I think that explains why I have not put up a post in a few weeks. 

But, I woke up this morning thinking about all of this, and once again find myself typing away at the keyboard,

The day after my last post, I met up with the guys for our first Kiosk Abend in almost 10 weeks.  It was a great evening, and we were all delighted (relieved) to be out and about sharing our stories of being cooped up at home the previous weeks.  All of us were cautious, and curious.  It may sound strange that I considered that to be a highlight of the evening, but we were all taking our first steps back out into our new normal society, at least for that week. 

The following Monday, we all met up again, and I noticed immediately that we were all feeling a little more relaxed.  And, it was rather comforting to see more and more people on the street (most of them behaving themselves) as life was starting to "open" back up. 

Outside of Mondays and trips to the store and little walks around the block, I was still keeping close to home.  I had a few things I was trying to get sorted out with my mobile telephone contract, and I was still waiting on some stuff for the Arbeitsamt. 

During that week, I happened to watch a charming little movie about a French woman who won a speed typing contest.  Sure, it was a romantic comedy, and the actress was a little combination of Audrey Hepburn, Audrey Tautou, and Grace Kelly all together.  Just writing that sentence brings a smile to my face. 

Seeing the movie had provided me some blog material, and I took the next couple of days to collect my thoughts.  The film is about a young secretary in the 1950s who starts competing in speed typing competitions, and goes on to (sorry spoiler alert) fall in love with her boss.  I loved the film.  As light and charming as it was, I was thinking about the stereotypes of the roles of women during the 50s (til present day), and how so many of them were secretaries.  My mother was a secretary, herself. 

However, as a guy who learned to type at a really early age, I found myself wondering how I would have fared in the speed typing competition.  From the get go in typing class in 7th grade, I was typing a good 30 words per minute FASTER than my other peers.  On a manual typewriter (like the one the girl used in the film), this was pretty darn good.  At the time, I did not realize that my piano playing was giving me an extra edge.  It wasn't until I got to college that I truly noticed the advantage; I tended to wait until the very last minute before typing up my papers, and can remember multiple times in the computer labs (where our school had computers for students to use) machine gunning away, banging out 10 page papers in a handful of minutes.  Other students were noticeably startled when I would enter the lab and start pounding on the keyboard. 

As most readers are aware, I never went on to win any sort of speed typing competition (I didn't know that they had those), but still, I topped out at about the same speed that most executive secretaries were hitting, and I always thought that was neat.

A nice French romantic comedy is always a big help in keeping the spirits high, but a couple of days later as I read some news reports the world suddenly became a lot more bleak.  I almost felt guilty about my enjoyment of the film, during a time when the world was suddenly boiling over. 

So, my thoughts have been a little dark over the past couple of weeks as I have prayed and cried and reflected on the recent events.  I looked on with distress at the actions and words of so many different people, in various cities in the states, including my hometown.  I became angry as I tried to understand something that is simply not so easy to understand. 

Again, I in no way intend this piece to be a commentary on how things are going in the world, and I do not discount the significance of the impact that this is having on our society, even as I am constantly saying to myself, "what the fuck????"  and not just because my dishwasher takes 14 hours to cycle through a wash. 

I went to the pub the next Saturday afternoon, my first visit back in 3 months, and took a lot of comfort greeting friends and acquaintences, many of whom were also venturing back out for the first time.  As we traded experiences and stories, "wtf" was used regularly, particularly when current events came into the conversation.

Later that evening I had a quick video call with my nephew, who was on a graduation-farewell tour, driving around to visit some family friends before he returns to Spain later this week.  I have been thinking about him a whole lot in recent weeks, as his 5 year experience in the states comes to an end.  When we were on the brink of turning 18, I think most of us were in a constant state of bewilderment, and the words "what the fuck???" seemed to be uttered with great frequence.  At least, that was the way I felt.  My nephew is going through that experience now, with the unfortunate bonus of  living through a worldwide pandemic and racial tensions which are reaching absurd proportions. 

If he hasn't already said it, I am sure within a few days he, too, will be regularly asking "¿qué cojones?" but at least he will be able to do it in multiple languages.

And I think that is what we are all needing right now.  A bit of continued solidarity and understanding in our efforts to find peace in the world, on whatever scale. 

Last evening, I had a pleasant experience at the dentist, partly because the check-up went really well, but more importantly,because my Zahnärtztin was so postive, despite the troubling times.  She went out of her way to ask me about my health, the health of my family, then went on to ask me about my work situation.  As I explained that I was currently looking for new opportunities, she responded with the postive affirmation that she was quite sure that I would be okay.  And this coming from a woman who I've only seen once or twice per year over the past decade.   Yes, she is a very nice person, but despite feeling flattered that she cares about me, I know that she cares about everyone just as much. 

It was a nice reminder that the world isn't a completely shitty place. 

So that experience helped me feel like scribbling a few thoughts down again this morning, and I am happy to report that this piece took me only 8 minutes to type.

We are definitely living in some crazy times, so it's certainly fitting for me to not forget what it's all about. 

keep the faith
bryan

A Week of Smells, Stress, Sleeping Late, and a Little Swedish Humor

This past week started off with me having a catch up chat with one of my former colleagues.  I had wanted to speak with him before my departure from the company, but he got busy with his own work tasks, and it took him until last Monday to give me a ring when he had a spare moment.

He had not picked up on the fact that I had left the company, so was a little surprised and sorry to see me go.  We worked well together over the years, and shared very similar work styles (and frustrations).  During our call he told me about his latest frustrations and challenges, and once again (as if I really needed it), I was reminded that this new adventure is going to be a good one, at the very least because I can leave behind all of the negativity of the not so pleasant elements of my last job.

That night, I slept really really well, and woke up the following morning feeling really refreshed.  I was a little suprised that I had woken later than normal, but quickly noted that normal is kind of fluid right now.  After all, it is not as if I need to be up and at 'em bright and early each morning; there is no place I actually need to be.  Come to think of it, there really isn't anywhere I can be, right now, other than at home.

This does not mean I have nothing to do.  As part of the ranks of the unemployed, I need to spend x hours per week looking for work, and this week, just like last week, I have stayed on track.  Of course, what exactly constitutes "searching for work?"  Is it sitting at a computer reading through various online job boards?  Is it sending out a bunch of emails to various recipients requesting that they review my CV?

Well, those things are part of it, but I am also taking time to quietly think about a variety of things:  the right industry for me, how I want to approach new opportunties, and most importantly, what kind of job is going to help create a better balance for me?

Each day I spend some time sitting in the recliner in my living room and just let my thoughts flow.
It's a pleasant experience, made even more so by the gentle "whssshhhh" sound that my little airwick product that shoots out a little mist of scent every nine minutes.

Several years ago I purchased the product on a whim while I was browsing in the grocery store.  I figured it would help out in my kitchen, where smoking is permitted, so long as the balcony door is open.  It proved effective, and I have continued to buy refills as I need them.  I even bought a second thingy for use in another room in the flat. 

The problem I have encountered, however, is that my favorite flavors are not readily available in my local supermarket.  There are a couple of scents that I really like, and others that are okay, but not fantastic.  Not surprisingly, the scents that I most like are the ones that seem the most natural.  Thus, the ocean spray scent is not really a favorite, nor is the one that "smells like Grandmother baked cookies,"  Both just strike me as a little artificial.    I much prefer something that smells a lot more natural.

Natural scent is not always a good thing, either.  Once I went to the pub immediately after putting some tea tree oil (a scent that I quite like) on a small wound.  True, tea tree is rather pungent, which is why one of the bartenders exclaimed "Aggh! What is that?  That smells like crap!"  soon after I had walked in the door.  I was kind of glad that some other people had walked in with me, so that he never discovered who the offender was.

Then again, I am prepared to make some pretty strong arguments that tea tree is a much more pleasant alternate to some of the odors that tend to linger in the same pub.  All too often, I can recall moments where I have been in the jacks during a full house, including some poor soul in the stall.  Those of us at the Pissoire are all frantically trying to hurry, and I am quite sure we are all thinking the same thing, "Oh my gosh, what happened to that guy?"

One of the few times I have been able to make my friend Mono laugh out loud was when he told me about an odoriferous encounter he had with one of the pub staff, a girl who had some unfortunate body odor.  I happened to experience the eye opening odor a couple of nights later when she was next on shift, and the following day I remarked to Mono, "Let's just hope that it was teen age spirit..."

But I digress.

My most favorite scent happens to be citrus, primarily from orange.  I absolutely love it.  Years ago I happened to be in a Body Shop and came across a shower gel with an orange scent.   I stocked up, and was really really pleased.  Others were, too, it seems.  Once, I got sort of picked up in a bar, which was rather surprising.  Her opening line was "Wow, you smell really good," and I was momentarily taken aback until I glanced at her t-shirt, which had "I love oranges" printed on the front.

Sadly, nothing really else really came from that evening, except for a mental note to myself to stock back up on my mandarin shower stuff.  This actually has become more complicated than I expected, as said shop now only offers that flavor through their online shop, and it costs 3x more than their normal line of products. 

I do tend to peruse the available flavors on the shower gel aisle, always hoping to find another "super orangey" product for use in my shower; one that is in my price range.  Sometimes I can find something that is a bit orangey, but more often than not, usually only lemon or lime are available. 

But that's okay, because I like those scents, also.

During one of those shower gel shopping trips, I found myself in the airwick section, and discovered a new scent:  mandarine and limette.  I won't call it "hoarding," but I did buy two 2packs, and returned home to refill the units in my kitchen and living room. 

It's awesome. 

It just makes thing seem naturally fresh and orangey. 

So, earlier this week while I was on the recliner, my mediation session was quickly heading towards a napping session, but one of those cool nap experiences where you are so deeply relaxed but not completely out of it.  The whole time I lay there, my internal clock was counting the 9 minutes, so that I could hear the little "whssshhhh" when the airwick sent another little burst of citrus into the room. 

It was so comfortable, and my thoughts wandered.  At one point as I enjoyed the Duft, I realized that the smell reminded me of my favorite breakfast cereal, Fruity Pebbles.  Ironically, this is not a cereal known for natural flavors or natural anything, other than the obvious ability to enable a young kid to eat three bowls in a single sitting, then suddenly be able to run 2 miles to the grocery store and back in record time. 

I have not had Fruity Pebbles in many years, but I like the way that this lingering Duft gives me just a little fresh (and citrusy) reminder. 

I won't question how "natural" the scent from my airwick is, but simply enjoy that it seems natural.  I don't think it's toxic; only a few times have I inadvertently gotten too close to the dispenser (while checking to see if it really was dispensing every nine minutes) and gotten a surprising faceful of citrus.  As one could expect, it doesn't taste anywhere near as good as it smells.

Fortunately, the ice cream section of my supermarket has just started offering, yep, you gussed it, "zesty lemon and mandarin."

I must say, sitting in a living room with a little burst of citrus shooting out every 9 minutes and enjoying a little container of a similarly flavored ice cream is a rather nice way to spend an evening, especially if you are watching a modernised German version of "The Love Boat,"

Which is what I did a couple of nights during this eventful week.  In one of the episodes, a recently fired doctor was on the cruise, but during a beach party was called into action to help a woman suffering from a severe stomach problem.  The plot really thickened as they all discovered that they would have to do emergency surgery in the middle of nowhere.  Out came the "portable emergency surgery kit," (which apparently was stored on board the ship in the captain's quarters) and the doctor, along with the captain and the social director (who was not on cocaine) proceeded to find a quiet place in a hut and perform the needed operation.  Meanwhile, the other passengers were entertained by learning to dance salsa a little further down the beach. 

The captain made the executive decision that they would all stay overnight on the beach, as the patient needed a little more time to recover from the op.  So, everyone else drank cocktails, and the next day they all were able to reboard the ship and continue on to their next location.

Upon arriving at that next location, the doctor and his wife parted company with the ship, passengers and patient, so as to meet up with his son, who was living in the region with his family.  The doctor and son went to a building site (where the son worked), during which time a worker had an unspecified accident.

Again, the doctor was called into action, but he quickly realized that he did not have the tools needed to take care of the emergency.  Fortunately, the son's father-in-law was a local physician, and despite the rural location, happened to be in the vicinity.  He quickly assessed the situation, then grabbed a coconut, some tubing from the jeep they were using, and carved a needle out of a plant stalk, then went on to do some sort of coconut milk transfusion on the poor guy lying there in the rubble, and minutes later, order was restored. 

That all seems natural enough, right?

"whssshhhh"

The sweet overload to my senses prompted me to start watching another series, even though the evening was growing late.  I stumbled onto a Scandanavian Noir series, and to help build the complete contrast, I almost made myself some late night nachos, thinking that a little salt would help offset the sweet. 

However, I got caught up in the program and quickly forgot about snacks.  I had expected the program to be just as dark and bleak as all the other great Nordic shows are, but within a few minutes I realized that I was actually watching a sort of spoof of said shows, and a really great spoof at that. 

As much as I like this genre, it really is at the other end of the "hey, lets go on a cruise and find out we want to swap wifes after 15 years of being friends and neighbors" program spectrum.  I personally like the extremes, though sometimes seeing someone get their face melted off in a barrel of boiling water in a little village just outside of Stockholm can be a bit much.

This spoof was incredibly funny, particularly since I am so familiar with other works, most of which received some sort of nod during this program.  For example, the detectives were preparing to sneak into a dark and scary house of the suspect who had just knocked someone's head off (with, ironically, a coconut) and they all agreed to use the code word "Wallander" if any of them got into trouble.

The whole series (8 episodes, 30 minutes each) is filled with little funny suprises like that, all while following a standard police procedural format. 

Of course I stayed up to watch the whole thing and finally went to bed just before dawn, never having known that the Swedish have such wonderful senses of humor. 

I kept all of this in mind later on in the week as I tried to get some documentation together for the Arbeitsamt.  I got very anxious as I struggled to make sense of the complicated German system.  Fortunately a couple of friends came to my support, helping with the language but more importantly, just providing encouragement.  It wasn't quite as easy as performing surgery on a beach with a Planters Punch in my hand, but I still got it done, and am quite prepared to provide a postive report on my productivity to the local civil servants. 

My fresh start is, "whssshhhh," staying fresh. 

see you out there
bryan

Rereading But Not Repeating

This is definitely the year for firsts, as in, "Hey, this is the first time I have ever worn a protective mask to the grocery store," or "Gee, I have never gone 2 months without hugging someone." 

Or, "Gosh, I sure am hearing a lot of people use the words 'absurd' and 'unprecendented' in the same sentence, and they keep repeating the same sentence over and over."

On the subject of firsts, I will add a personal feat:  for the first time in my life, I have read a series of books (15 in total), and then immediately reread them.  Actually, I just finished rereading the 13th book this morning, and helped answer the question that I had been contemplating since I started over with the first book last month. 

Why would I do that?

Sure, I love to read, always have.  My parents would sometimes have to beg me to stop reading and go outside and play.  I always loved going to the library, and it might have been because of me that my local public library put a limit on the number of books that one could check-out at a time. 

True, I am also a fast reader.  I am not talking Evelyn Wood speed, but the phrase "zip through" definitely comes to mind. 

Since I grew up in a family of readers, avid reading seemed normal to me.  Therefore, I was always a little surprised to meet someone who did not read with the same enthusiasm.  As I have grown through the years, I have the fortune of befriending a broad spectrum of people, some of which are equally passionate readers, while others are closer to the "nope, only gonna read as little as possible" end of the scale.  And all of that is just fine. 

I do, of course, recognize when it is appropriate to discuss books, or authors, or the pleasures of reading, and I accept that not everyone is going to have such an interest.  (I'll skip right on to the next point, since I have already touched on my feelings about book clubs in a recent post).

As much as I read, I sometimes struggle for new material, much the way many people are frustrated that during the present climate, there is nothing new on Hulu or Netflix or whatever.  I am actually having a little problem with that, too, but that's for another post. 

Meanwhile, over the years I have identified with several books that are what I call "keepers,"  The books are so great that they have to be held on to; one day they will need to be reread. 
The Hardy Boys series comes to mind, as do all the Ian Rankin and Henning Mankell novels.  And the Harry Potter books, I certainly can't leave those out. 

Excluding the Hardy Boys (though no offense is intended), those other authors created such a lasting impression that I went out of my way to gather the collections, even though I had limited space in my apartment at the time.  Then, years later, I moved to Europe, and what did I do? 

I bought the collections again, so now I have two sets.  The books are that important to me, and yes, I have reread them all through the years.  Sometimes more than once.

Several of my fellow reader friends have always shied away from rereading a book, usually saying something like, "I read that already." 

Fair point, but what's the difference between rereading a book, or watching a movie again, or a rerun of a television show?  Or listening to a great song (She Sells Sanctuary), come to that?

For starters (I almost wrote firsts), I think it has to do with attention span and mindset.  Listening to music comes easy, and -enter your favorite song here-  gets played repeatedly on your stereo.  Okay, maybe you don't listen with the same frequency as you might have done while in college, but normally you went a long time before eventually thinking, "Yep, this song is overplayed." 

And even then, you had no problem hearing the song again a couple of days or weeks later.  And years later, you'd pull the album back out for yet another listen.

Although I am watching a bit more TV than I would normally want to, I will kind of dismiss TV programming from this discussion, particularly sitcoms and long running dramas.  Of course, I rewatched 7 complete series of the Andy Griffith Show last summer, and I also own the complete DVD collections of things like Inspector Morse, Life on Mars, and a few others. 

Movies are a little easier to talk about.  We all know someone who has watched Star Wars several thousand times, and for those folks that grew up in the 80s, just about everbody has a copy of the Breakfast Club, St. Elmo's Fire, and Ferris Bueller's Day Off.  And, everyone has their seasonal favorites, especially at Christmas. 

It never escaped me that some of my friends who made the comment about rereading books were the same ones that made sure to watch a movie 50 times. 

The answer is very simple.  We love these songs, these movies, and even the shows.  And we want to repeat the experience of how we felt when listening and viewing.  (re-read my last post if you need a reminder. 

This makes perfect sense to me.  I love to re-experience these things, too.

But why reread an entire detective series immediately after finishing it?

Because it is so incredibly great.  And even though the experience is equally strong, it is not identical to the first time. 

This particular series is written by a Candadian woman who is about 10 years older than me.  Her personal story is pretty compelling, and she seems like a really really nice person.   But one who possesses an incredible ability to enrapture the reader with her character development, plot lines, and thought-provoking style.  She subtly includes some pop culture references with such nonchalance that you almost miss it.  More than once in the series, I have actually burst out laughing at a particular sentence or quip or incident. 

As a series of crime stories, her works are right up there with many of the greats, and to be specific, are on par with Agatha Christie. 

But, what I think sets this author apart is her ability to develop characters so intimately that you feel like you know them.  All of them. 

The author, herself, describes the setting, the location, the characters as a "state of mind."

For me, she brings such a distinctive voice.  It's almost overwhelming.

When I was in college, one of my professors invited me to her office for a meeting to discuss one of my papers about a poet we were studying.  During our session, the professor indicated, with great curiousity, that she was surprised that my own voice was coming through my writing, ironically about the author's work and writing style.   The professor went on to say that it was very unusual (unique, perhaps) for someone like me to have such a voice at such a young age.  I initially took offense at her remarks, as I gathered that she was just dismissing me as one of those students who would go back to his dorm room and listen to an album by the Cult, then write a blog post about one of the songs 30 years later. 

But I realized she was right. 

And it left an impression. 

As a result, when I encounter literary works where all the stars align and I find myself totally engaged, I tend to want to hold on.  And relive the experience.  It won't be the same as the first time, but that's precisely what I look for.

My sister gave me the 14th book of the series at Christmas, and after reading it, I immediately bought the first 13 books, then purchased the 15th book (which wasn't available until a couple of months ago).  I zipped through the first 13 books during the first part of this year, managed to get the 15th book, and as I finished it, knew I needed to go back to the beginning, just to see how the new experience would be.

Sure, I know how the books end, but I don't know what is going to happen.

I am missing my mother today, but am also celebrating her life, as I am with my sister and grandmother, and all the other mothers out there.

keep the faith
bryan

She Sells Sanctuary and Other Magical Triggers

So, it's been an interesting week.  I finished up my last days of vacation before becoming officially unemployed as of the 1st of May. 

Neat.

I did not really go through any emotional goodbyes with colleagues or anything, but I did have a few reflective moments.  I was amazed to find that, despite my acceptance of this unplanned situation, I was not quite ready to shut the door; I did not feel quite ready to finish the chapter and go on to the next. 

A friend asked me several weeks ago, "How do you feel?" and I have constantly thought about the question.  There are so many answers that I can give...and to be truthful, the answers are all over the emotional spectrum.  It's easy to go down the doom and gloom path, especially in this current climate, but what kept winning out were the more postive, fresh start kind of thoughts.

And that got me to thinking about a few music triggers.  Songs that immediately grab you and generate such a reaction, such feelings, such emotions, that one quickly gets postively overwhelmed.

For me, I have an incredibly long list of such songs, from various artists.  "Born to Run," for example.  Or "Rio."  The Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again," also quickly comes to mind.  Hell, I am particularly fond of "Brand New Lover," namely because the hooks were so great.  Many of the songs are anthem like, but others are just darn good songs with an awesome melody, whether they be dark and brooding, heavy industrial, or even poppy songs (that I almost wouldn't admit to listening to).

Most of these songs I first heard when I was much younger, 30-40 years ago.  I think that is significant, because that's an impressionable age for everyone.  And anyone who says they weren't an agst ridden teenager is most certainly not being truthful.  But it is relative. 

Some teens worried about their looks, their popularity.  Others were stressed out about their grades, doing well in school, meeting their parents expectations, dealing with all the emotionally wrecked people who all behaved in various ways.  The not so cool kids were jealous of the really popular kids, but the super social people were terrified that they'd be found out to be superficial.  People were quick to judge, based on looks, behavior, and attitude.  Everyone wanted to be noticed, but no one wanted to stand out. 

That's tremendous pressure.  It's right up there with being cooped up for 2 months at home without being able to go out and meet friends, go shopping, get a haircut, or do all the stuff that makes you feel okay.  Suddenly, it all becomes too much and you find yourself about to explode. 

And then a song comes into your head, and maybe, just maybe, you get a moment to suddenly stop, take a breath, and reset.  And the memories, the feelings that you had when you first heard that song come flooding back all at once. 

Maybe it was me toweling off after a shower during the week and noticing how my very thin hair had grown so long that it reminded me of circa 1985.  Suddenly the intro to the Cult's classic song came into my head, and I completed the drying off experience by air-guitaring around my apartment. 

I first heard the song as a 15 year old, when the song was released.  To this day, the moment I hear the start of the song, I immediately feel like I did when I originally heard it.  Like magic, all the crap associated with being a teenager is pushed aside, and all the postive stuff comes flooding forward.  You feel giddy, knowing that just by hearing the song, you can do anything and everything: you win Wimbeldon and the World Cup (simultaneously), while receiving a Nobel prize later that afternoon.
Your imagination soars with countless amazing things are all happening at once. 

You feel unstoppable. 

What I like abourt this song is the impact it has on so many diverse groups of music listeners, across various music genres.  True, it was (and is) one of probably 10-15 clubhits that, once the DJ put the record on, prompted EVERY single patron to hit the dance floor, including those folks standing in line outside waiting to get in the club.  I remember driving around the city for the next 10 years, and would notice other drivers who were obviously listening to the same song.  There is something really cool about listening to muisc from the car radio and noticing when someone else is listening to the exact same thing.  It didn't happen all that often, which made it all the more exciting, and probably safer.  (This is why radio stations don't play "Born to Run" very often; that song prompts everyone to start driving at least 40-50 mph faster than they were, regardless if they are on the highway, driving downtown, or in a school zone)

I have been in rock clubs in Portugal, beer festivals in Germany, beach parties in Spain, or just sitting in a half-empty pub.  Queue intro to "She Sells Sanctuary," and everyone goes nuts.  The quiet older man nursing his Guinness at the end of the bar even starts tapping his feet. 

And the smiles are everywhere.  People who never dance start cutting a rug bigger than life.  Mild mannered people who NEVER want to show their "other side" suddenly release their inhibitions. 

Talk about letting go of yourself. 

It's an amazing experience, and after I took another shower after the dance-athon in my flat, I started wondering if it would have made a difference had I first heard the song at a different age.  I personally doubt it, but it is relative.  Impressions are funny things, but they hit you at any age.  The fascination comes from the perspective. That's how the triggers work. 

And the point is not to dismiss or ignore the baggage that we carry, whether it be acne, poor grades in school, arguments with parents, frustrations at the challenges of trying to fit in, or things like being unemployed, feeling isolated, figuring out how to explain to your kids why they can't go outside and play with their friends, or watching your 401k flush down the toilet. 

All of that stuff is still there, but how we deal with it is up to us.

And I'd rather deal with it with a smile on my face, feeling like I am unstoppable. 

That's why, when my boxers ripped down the back (during the dancing), I attributed it to the fact that I have been doing a lot of lunges and squats, building up the muscles in my legs and glutes.  That seems much more plausible than saying that the boxers had been washed thin by too many laundry cycles. 

Queue the song.

bryan