On the Occassion of Sisyphus' First Book

Sunday, December 7, 2008, the premiere of my first book at the Urban Think! bookstore in downtown Orlando. 27 years of writing, and three years effort to arrive at this day. There's so much to say about why I had to publish, and why I fought to overcome every obstacle that presented itself:

On the Occassion of Sisyphus' First Book

I have studied every facet
of the boulder I have been pushing
as it rolled by underneath my straining brow
as it was fogged by my striving breath
as it spun below scrutinizing eyes
like the topographic map of my life:

This chink, the place where I lost control of the stone.
This polished surface was ground down by a gravel slope.
This side is where I learned to hold the boulder steadily,

When the effort defined my identity.


I became this boulder on this mountain.
I married the futility and became the task.

And over and over and over and over and over, again
the question was asked
how long can this last?

Eventually, I fell asleep pushing,

unconscious struggled under stone ,
dreams burgeoned shaking bones.

There are a thousand reasons every day
to not tell the truth,
what you feel, not to say
to chop down a cherry tree and
frame that little punk Washington . . .
to hide your wounds and words away.

In the end,
two endings:
to fail, surrender my effort, abandon my stone.
Or to understand what the pushing means, and push on.

The pushing has made me strong.
The hurt assures I know.
Having to tell you, has pruned my shame.
Writing it down means I grow.
The use of my youth, is now that
I loved you all with my truth.

Finally, I am not the boulder. I am the bolder.

Help Me I think I'm Fallin'

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then catch a load of these words:

The weekend before my foot surgery, I flew to Nashua, New Hampshire to visit my friends Joy and Dave. I communed with mother nature just following the peak of autumn color.

Best recommendation is to visit The Cheese Shoppe in Concord, Massachusettes. It is Mecca for all things tastey, cheesey, and winey (like me - a Winey Weinbrenner). Hope the pictures inspire. This must suffice for now.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends and family, Drew.

Why Niagara Rhymes with Viagara

Work ordered me to Hamilton, Ontario. Hamilton is a small city in the North America rust belt half way between Buffalo, New York and Toronto, Ontario. It has a lovely setting on a ridge overlooking Lake Ontario, but let's face it - a hundred years of industrial development followed by 20 years of recession can spoil even the loveliest of places. Despite the smokestacks and weedy sidewalks, lower Ontario is lovely. The vineyards East of Hamilton lead up the ridge to tidy white barns and silos set on broad green pastures. If someone discovers what to do with cracked sidewalks and telephone poles, Hamilton will be rich beyond their dreams. Until then, it needs a coat of paint and an economic renaissance.

On the way from Buffalo (who has a lovely little airport), I drove by Niagara falls. Beautiful. Powerful. Moving. Whomever declared the Canadian side prettier than the American side, has not been to the American side recently. Prospect Point, Goat Island and Luna Island all provide breathtaking views of the falls just as the Niagara river pours over the brink. The Canadian side seems far more developed with towers, hotels, and urban structures. In any event, the falls are lovely and worth a visit if you're in the region. Pictures soon.

Prague Hates Me (and the Feeling is Mutual)

In the spectrum of touristic paranoia, I rate pretty high. I'm suspicious of cloaked figures in dark alleys (I don't care if he *was* a puppeteer!), and avoid speculative investment in famous bridge infrastructure. In short, I may have just fallen off the apple cart, but I'm armed (if only with apples).
But my Thursday in Prague chaps my hide like a sandpaper thong attached to a jackhammer in an earthquake zone.
Upon arrival at the Prague h.nh. train station, my mother was seized by the need to have an apple turnover and a peach iced tea. I should mention also, that this main train station is under construction . . . and all normal signage is obscured by scaffolding, plastic, and graffitti (immer!).
To be a complete drama queen, I should also, also, mention that I am carrying six weeks of clothes in a suitcase that is so heavy, the wheels keep popping off. -- Can you feel my pain yet?
So I'm off my game, I'm chasing my Mom with my bag, a laptop computer and my carry-on. After she got her turnover, sated, she relented to finding a taxi. This took nearly 20 minutes, and when we finally found the taxi queue, there were no taxi's there. We waited another ten minutes . . . until two cars finally came into the queue. The first was a black station wagon marked "Transport Vehicle", the second a conventional taxi cab.
I had been warned about Prague taxi drivers (See also thieves and crooks). So I avoided the unmarked car and went for the taxi. The taxi driver, second in line, said that no, I had to go in the unmarked car ahead of him. Nearby there were two policemen. I (stupidly) assumed that if two policemen, and another taxi driver would have no reason to refer a tourist to an unsafe situation. I would be wrong. But I would also be tired, and distracted.
To make a long story short - we paid 980 for a taxi ride that shoul have cost 300 Krones. There is drama and comedy in the story . . . as we should have suspected we were being robbed, when between the two of us, we did not have enough money to pay the scam fare.
Upon entering the hotel, we were told we had no reservation (but they took us in anyway).
Now without any cash, in a foreign city, we went to change our traveler's checks. (You will have to read my separate rant: American Express is worthless.) The American Express bureau moot, we went to a bank, that refused to change money for us. Finally we ended up at a tourism rip-off Bureau de Change paying an exhorbatant rate on top of the worst Exchange rate in the last 30 years.
Today, we went to see Prague Castle. It is a government run attraction and national icon. Entrance to the compound is free, as is entrance to the Cathedral. But to see the palace the art galleries and the other chapels on premise . . . $50. This does not include the cost of the audio-guide in English . . . ANOTHER $50.
So, I'm standing there blinking - just having lost $100 to see a castle . . . only to discover that the palace is empty - no furniture, no decor - empty rooms. And that the audio tour does not explain the art, and function of most of the compound. Rooms were closed, and facades were covered during restoration . . . So, I'm standing there blinking - realizing that I did not pay $100 to see Versaille, or Vaux Le Vicompte, Chambord, the Forbidden City, the Tower of London, Neuschwanstein, the Vanderbilt Mansion . . . etc. And they were all in mint condition!!
We all know what it is to pay too much for something. We all go to the movie theatre and complain about a cola that costs $4, and a hot dog that costs $8. Imagine if everywhere you went, everything was priced ridiculously expensive. If you were asked to pay $7 for a glass of water, or if the ketchup and butter that was brought to your table cost $2 each on your bill.
If you can imagine this, then you will begin to understand what it is to get by in Prague. Everything everywhere is competing to be the most expensive, instead of the least. Every bureau de Change is coordinated to worsen your exchange rate. And there is no alternative, except to not change money, not to shop, not to eat. In the end Prague loses, because their customers decide to spend less and leave earlier.
What are the Praguites thinking? Karlovy Vary and Cesky Krumlov made such a beautiful and positive impressions . . . it's not the Czech people. There is some evil afoot in Prague that is punishing English speakers for being here.
I'm here to convey the message loud and clear. No matter how beautiful the gothic spires are . . . do not bother coming to Prague unless you just want to burn money on C-quality attractions.
Sad but true. Someone has stolen the soul of the Czech Nation . . . working in the name of Western Capitalism.

I'm in Love - Cesky Krumlov!

Few Americans are aware of the small Bohemian village of Cesky Krumlov. It lies southwest of the larger Czech city of Cesky Budejovice, on the Austrian border. The town is a jewel of red tile roofs on a strategic series of oxbows in the Vltava river . . . the waters of which wend their way to Prague from here. Cesky Krumlov has been tremendously preserved, thanks to a 19th century celebration of design called Historism. This aesthetic followed the Roccoco, and was a conscious attempt to integrate design elements of the classical, medieval, renaissance, baroque, and roccoco. The end result is that all of these periods are represented in the buildings, towers, steeples, public squares and castle interiors. Wandering about this Czech town is like playing in a time machine. Krumlov features the second largest castle in the Czech Republic (after Prague) and has been declared a UNESCO world heritage site (second to Venice). In addition, you can raft down the river in inflatable canoes, hike in the grassy hills, or just sit in the mountain air and dine on the delicacies of Italy, Austria, Hungary, Germany, Bohemian, Monrovian, and of course American cuisine. Normally, I would keep a secret like this to myself, but the secret is out. All of Europe visits here, and the Czechs can use the tourism income to preserve the area. So on a hot summer day, this perfect setting is populated by sneaker wearing, tank top sweating, ice cream cone weilding tourists instead of the beautifully costumed aristocracy that watched over this land.
Hotels are numerous, but I can personally recommend, Pension Barbikan Room 6.

European Toilets Stink

A word about the noble toilet, before I continue with my travel blog:
American toilets are wonderful. Good ones are comfortable. They come in custom colors and sizes . . . and some do not even look like toilets.
My favorite thing about American toilets are that they are not very interactive. My plan for a toilet is to arrive, poop and leave. That's it. When I'm done with a toilet, I want to flush and go. I have discovered that American toilets feature superior shape, volume, and water placement. Allow me to explain in graphic detail. (You have been warned.)
Europeans design their toilets so that you have to become involved with their function, collective use, and upkeep. In short, you will have an ongoing relationship with the toilet. You cannot arrive, poop and leave.
First you must mount the toilet, typically in a tiny room too small to enter, turn around and close the door. It appears as though the toilets are installed in these rooms first, then the walls are built.
Secondly, you poop. This part I'm sure you've got (. . . except for those pesky two-year olds who keep leaving comments about their binky. You kids go to bed already!).
Third, you flush. But similar to the paper-plastic connundrum faced in grocery stores everywhere, you must choose the size of your flush in Germany. Little Flush, or BIG FLUSH. There are consequences for the entire planet . . . whatever your selection. If you choose little flush, and you fail to rid the world of your dark matter, you must decide yet again, if what remains is worth a little flush . . . or if you are tired of gambling with the fate of the world, you can just go for a BIG FLUSH, knowing that you did your best . . . but you cannot risk the careless wantoness of yet a third flush.
But wait there's more. Now you must begin to touch the toilet. You must lift the seat, and pick up the toilet wand used by the thousand toileteers before you. You must wand the toilet clean, and scrub if necessary those highly adhesive bits that you've cast off.
Fifth, you must then flush again, with the wand . . . so it is cleaned and you can put it back.
You may now touch the toilet lid again, to close it.
Now you may leave.
Why is this elaborate ceremony needed? Because the toilet is shaped like a funnel. Deep. All-wall. Very little water. One supposes that the Europeans are more water conscious . . . except with every flush a firehose of water is propelled through the funnel.
In the Aral Gas Station in Mulheim An Der Ruhr, the Men's room toilet, has no water . . . but a ceramic tray to catch all the steamy goodness left there. This is a truly interactive toilet. Smell-o-vision. When you flush there is a 50-50 chance that your little friend may be ejected out of the bowl into the room with you. "Say Jello to my Littol Freend!" indeed.
I would go on, but let's not exaggerate. German toilets are different . . . but they are not the worst. The worst, can be found at the mountaintop Drak Yerpa Caves in Tibet. A brick pit teetering on a hillside 14,000 feet in the air. Alien beings come there to die. I have faced these organisms head on (as I could not bring myself to contribute) and survived to tell the tale.
Germany is not this. But why, I ask you, are the people who make Mercedes and BMWs designing their sewer system in this way?
One positive aspect of this system, is that the Germans have clean restrooms. Everyone is required to participate in the cleaning of the toilets . . . or suffer the suspicions of co-workers and fellow toileteers. Talk about your collective guilt!
Frequently, . . . heck Typically! Most establishments charge to use the bathroom. You cannot even get in, unless you've got cash (30 - 50 cents). Some have monitors and janitors on stand-by (why I don't know, when you are expected to participate in the bathroom's cleaning). I have been victimized by just such a janitor in Plzen, Czech Republic. When she demanded 5 krone from me, I gave 50 (stupidly) . . . and got no change. This means that I paid about 3.50 to pee in a train stain that was in the process of being cleaned by a lady janitor. The gaul! For $3.50 I should have been able to decorate a golden brick in a Bohemian Palace!! I have complained about this shakedown ad nauseum . . . and my family has told me to "Let it Go!" . . . That's what lead me to their clutches, I tell you!!! Anyway . . .
In the Block House Restaurant on Adenauerplatz . . . the toilet actually has a bleach dispenser with graphics on how to clean the water closet after yourself. I mean it's one thing to tidy up . . . but the graphics explain how to use toilet paper to spread the bleach over the entire toilet and then wipe it off. Is this my job as a guest? I think not!
Pictures will *not* be provided . . . so move on to the next blog yous!

You Know You're Old When

I spent the week working in beautiful Mulheim an der Ruhr, a river-town in Western Germany between Dusseldorf and Essen. It is lovely, peaceful . . . and a great place to relax. I stayed at the very nice Hotel Am Ruhrufer, but more importantly ate every night at their amazing Thai Restaurant!


However, one morning while I was getting a pot of hot tea at the hotel breakfast buffet, a Swiss man moved my food, setting, computer and what not to another table . . . because he wanted to sit where I was. I thought for ten seconds about whether this was a misunderstanding . . . that perhaps there is another way to indicate that the table is occupied, besides having all of one's things at it . . . or whether the man was perhaps mentally ill. I don't think either was the case. I think this was just a pushy guy. Freakish. Anyway, here is a pastoral view of the Ruhr river from the dam where his body would be burried, if in fact there was a body, which there isn't.

You Know You're Old When

You know you're old when, you go to the Love Parade . . . (the German underage drinking, smoking, and can't tell you if you don't already know festival) . . . and you want to send a million people to their room (with a plastic bucket and a mop).
But allow me to explain in graphic detail:
I'm working 20 minutes from where the Love Parade is scheduled to take place. I recall the Mandy Moore film, Chasing Liberty, and I think about how cool it would be to say that I too have been to the Love Parade.
Despite not having a lover, I am a "Lover." I love. Ich liebe dich. I could parade my love around. I support Love (but sadly the relationship is not reciprocal - Love mostly sits on my couch and watches TV with his hand in his pants . . . but I digress).
But I'm torn. My issue is that this same weekend, I want to visit my family/friends on the Belgian Shore. I must either choose between seeing a once in a lifetime sexually charged cultural experience . . . or domestic tranquility with a family that I see once every five years - who has a new baby.
I decide that the optimal course is to do both: Yes, take the baby to the Love Parade.
No, no. I mean go to the Love Parade, but leave early and drive to Belgium in a rental car.
This plan however is an exercise in logistics:
I try to rent a compact car. They have no compact cars left, so they give me, for the compact car price, a brand new Mercedes Benz. I'm not joking. A brand new silver Mercedes with black leather interior.
Then I realize that I have to drive this expensive luxury car through the Love Parade to some unknown parking plaza for a million people. The hotel concierge admonishes me to take the train, and leave the car in the local station parkingplotz. "It will be safe there, and when you return, you can leave for Belgium."
So, I go by train, and materialize at the Dortmund HauptBahnhof.
There is a 20 minute pilgrimage with a million other people to the highway in front of the sports arena. Everyone is dressed excentrically (a shabby effort compared to the average pride parade). It looked more like a Hookers and Vickers party. All the young ladies were dressed in fishnet and heels, and the young men . . . were wearing the last five drinks they had imbibed.
I literally saw some poor African family, dressed-up for travel, emerge from the train station in the midst of this carnival. They, clearly conservative, were confused and appalled by their circumstance. As they pondered the scene, a 16 year old rained his small intestine over their luggage.
(I hope you're not eating as you read this.)

Anyway, so a million German youths show up early to the Love Parade (The Germans are nothing if not punctual). We have a two hour wait. There are food boths and souvenir stands . . . most are empty. The young people pose an elbow insert a cigarette and light up. For the next hour 1 million teenagers smoke like crack junkies in fishnets.

I wish I could get my hands on the bastard that sold 30% of the drunken youths whistles. Not party whistles. Not new years day musical whistles. He has sold them coach Baker's "Give me 50, with a smile Weinbrenner" whistles. So the second-hand smoking is enhanced with the continuous din of 15,000 drunken peeling whistles.

The hot smoke and the noise disstabilizes the atmosphere. It begins to rain torrentially on one million German teenagers who are hunched over cigarettes, deafened by whistles. There were four people with umbrellas. I was one of them. 100 people tried to stand with me under my small umbrella. It was not Love, but it *was* intimacy. Others used garbage bags and jackets to augment my "regenschirm." Soon I was the center ring of the Barnum and Baily's Irish Cream Circus.

The rain stopped. The music began. Thumping. Hooting. A roar from the crowd. Then it went off. No music.

The music began. Thumping. Hooting. A roar from the crowd. Then it went off. No music again. The Love Parade was in fact teasing one million sopping wet, deaf, emphysema victims with nothing to defend themselves but whistles.

A third time, the Love Parade began. Thumping so loud that the whistlers never knew what hit them. They could whistle their brains out, but, only, between, the, huge, deep, base, rattling, every, tooth, in, their, drunken, little, heads . . . .

I (old, wet, and sober) decided the writing was on the wall. The crowd was shoulder to shoulder for 30 acres. Now was the time to get, while the getting was good. I would buy an electronic CD later, and re-experience the event in the privacy of my luxury Mercedes. Did I mention that it was a MERCEDES!

I pressed my way back through the crowd, like a ornery salmon swimming upstream in a river of beer with an expensive camera (mixed metaphors, ay?). The torrent of people never ended. The crowd was contiguous back to the train station. As it was already packed at the Love Parade, I could not imagine what the next million people were going to do when they arrived. I didn't stay to find out.

I rushed to catch the train back to the Mercedes.

Halfway between Essen and Dortmund, a torrential rainstorm soaked the German landscape. I, snug, in my commuter train felt I'd made a good decision in leaving. Then the train came to a stop. An unintelligible voice garbled over the loudspeaker. I asked someone near me if they understood. They did.

Apparently, Love Parade Hooligans had gotten into a fistacuffs with the Engineer of the train currently in the Essen Station. As a result the Polizei had arrived to arrest the thugs and take the Engineer to the hospital (krankhouse - still cracks me up to say that - - because it makes me think that this is where all the krank calls in the world come from . . .).

The Hooligan train was blocking Essen station. All it's passengers had decided to quit the train and walk on the rails in the pouring rain to Dortmund . . . so all trains had been ordered stopped until the tracks could be verified as clear.

In short, I sat in a stopped train for three hours!! I was frosted. Stupid Love Parade. Stupid Concierge. Stupid Hooligans. Stupid Rainstorm . . . etc.

In the end the train commenced movement, to another town . . . where a very nice girl from Albania invited me to join her in her friend's car, who was coming to pick her up. This I did. Bless that young woman!

I was off like a dart to Belgium - three hours late!

On the way to Belgium, I came upon a Smart Car going 140 Km/Hr (See also "Nuclear-Powered Golf Cart") . I passed it of course, if only to preserve my self-esteem. I mean one cannot allow a golf cart to blow one's doors off - no matter how fast it is going. I seriously thought about throwing an ice cube from my new silver luxury Mercedes at the Smart Car, but realized that the ice cube would knock the Smart Car over and it would explode and kill everyone inside (the ice cube being equal in mass to the Smart Car).

I thought to myself, if I were in a Smart Car and it was going 140 - there would be screaming. Even if I were driving. This is tantamount to hurtling off a cliff on a lawnmower. Screaming is entirely appropriate.

But suffice to say, I got to Belgium . . . where the next Blog entry will begin.

Would You Believe

Every day when I come to work, people call me "Morgan."
I say, "No, I'm Drew."
They respond "Morgan."
"No, really. Drew!"
"--Morgan?"
I just say "Okay, Morgan." and walk away.

At night the same colleagues come in and tell me to "Fire Abend."
I say, "I can't fire Abend."
"9. Fire Abend."
I respond, "Listen. Give Abend a break. I'm sure he's got a family."
"Fire Abend."
"Okay. I'll fire Abend."
They walk away, and I figure I've given poor Abend another day off the chopping block! Hey, I wonder if Abend's first name is Morgan?

I came home yesterday, from a day at three museums . . . to THIS :

Yes, the fish and the frog were going at it in my bed. Their obvious awestruck reaction is due to my now infamous discovery (evidence captured on film). It goes a long way toward explaining where guppies come from.

I asked them what they had to say for themselves. Wordlessly, fish puckered up. Frog arranged the following message:

Who am I to judge, really (but they can get their own room, right?).

Next is the story of the teeny tiny Diet Coke who lived in a Shoe. How small can a Diet Coke get? They make one small enough to remove one set of finger nail polish (or tooth enamel) - I always forget the urban legend. It's adorable. If you feed it and care for it, it will mature to a healthy two litre bottle. Who, I ask you needs, just a swig of Diet Coke? It has zero calories to start with!! It's not like you are going to reduce the health impact? If anything, it becomes a slip and fall hazard . . . The jury says, NO!

Lastly, in the art museum, I happened upon this scene: Patrons viewing a photo exhibition of found images. I realized quickly, that the patrons themselves were formally staged, and unconsciously coordinated . . . all fixed on the same thing (a wall of text). Germany's Next Top Model? What do you think?

Berlin's Top Ten

What are Berlin's top ten things to see and do? I'm glad you asked.

By bus or bike, are the best ways to see Berlin's sites. You may buy a DB pass and sort the route out for yourself, or buy a "Yellow" bus ticket . . . and let a driver transport you along an appointed route between the monuments. Of course, one man's monument is another man's tourist trap. You could spend six months in Berlin (and the environs) and not see everything there is to see. If you have six months, no problem. But for the weekend visitor, these are my recommendations:

1. The Museum Insel and Berliner Dom - Like London and Paris, Germany has looted the world's ancient history of its most spectacular works of art. You can find a littany of museums, parks and churches on the narrow stip of land between the Spree river and its opposing canal. Of late, Berliners are disassembling the East German congress building (full of asbestus) and hope to build a replica of the original Berlin state palace (that inside will be a shopping mall). Quel damage! But the museum island is the epicenter of the new Berlin, and provides more than a single day of distraction.

2. The Brandenburg Tor and Unter Den Linden - The main street of Berlin has been rebuilt from ashes and ruin. It is beautiful, clean, and tree-lined. The boulevard from the western gate of the old city extends to the museum island, passing Humboldt University, Bebelplatz (where the books were burned), St. Hedwig's Catholic Cathedral, the NeuOpernHaus and the War Memorial. Walking the length of Unter Den Linden gives you a sense of the conflict between old and new Berlin. Both are omnipresent and engaged in a new synthesis.

3. Denkmal for the Murdered Jews of Europe - This memorial lies between Potsdamer Platz and the Brandenburg Tor. It is an undulating field of mausoleum-like cubes, covering an underground information center about the Jewish Holocaust. In my opinion, it is a more successful monument than the Jewish Museum of Daniel Leibeskind.

4. Checkpoint Charlie, Berlin Wall and Topography of Terror - A divided city, country and world becomes tangible at this border between east and west, then and now. Interestingly, the remaining wall in central Berlin is now protected by a wall (See picture), because too many western tourists were breaking off chunks as souvenirs. Now the Berliners are tasked with preserving something that was once the bane of their existence.

5. The Reichstag - Take a parliament, build it up, have an anarchist burn it down, enable fascists to take over the country in its absence, and bake in several world wars for about 30 years. When done, set in a cold war for another 30 years until ready to decorate. Clean the parliament, modernize it, and top it off with an architectural icon (a transparent dome that reflects the environment through a spiral staircase). Serves several million a year, hopefully for a long time.

6. Charlottensburg Palace - Set in beautiful parklands in the heart of the city, this palace anchors Berlin in the history that preceded the 20th century.

7. The Berlin Zoo, Tiergarten, and Siegelsaule. What's not to like: Animals, food, ice cream, and Elsa the Golden Angel.

8. The Gendarmenmarkt - Berlin's most beautiful square is the Baroque incarnate. French flourishes surround museums, cafe's and concert halls. It's just a beautiful place to "be."

9. Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtnis-Kirche - The most successful synthesis of the old and the new is the memorial church. The destroyed cathedral is bookended by a blue jewelbox lantern-like church and bell tower. The site can be experienced from outside and inside (the living house of worship). You must most especially visit inside the remaining ruin, featuring beautiful mosaics of German history. The buildings seem to change their character over the course of the day, and year. Photographed in the morning, at midday and night, the buildings metamorphize and reflect light in a broad range of moods.

10. The Fernsehturm (The Television Tower). During the advent of mass communication, in the 1950s and 1960s, West Berliners erected a tall radio tower (Funkturm) that was supposed to be a modern Eiffel Tower for Berlin (It had a viewing station and elevated restaurant, but is nowhere near as beautiful as the Tour Eiffel). For many years this was the highest view of Berlin. The East Germans would have none of it. The radio tower offended their national pride and heroic aesthetics, so they designed a superior tower (that to me looks like a papal wand or 1968 Christmas ornament) and had the Swedes install it over Alexanderplatz and the Karl Marx Alley (read as communist parade route). 28 years later in a unified Berlin, this symbol of communist pride is capitalistic tourism headquarters. A fitting tribute, no? My favorite thing to do is wander through the park below the tower photographing the numerous statues, fountains, churches and Town Halls, and then to ascend the tower in a tiny elevator to eat ice cream in the rotating restaurant. If you can manage to do this late in the day, you can watch the sun set. Then, Berlin lights up like a Christmas tree!

Rostock and Warnemünde

Three hours by car north of Berlin, on the Baltic coast (called the Ostsee here), there are two superlative twee coastal communities called Rostock and Warnemünde. Rostock is a red-brick shipbuilding center with broad streets and parks. The town square is festooned with cobblestones, fountains, scupltures and cafe's. From Rostock, one can board a modern commuter boat to the coast proper. Here, featuring a broad arcing strand of sand is a fishing village - now resort of Warnemünde. Where fishing boats used to dock along manmade canals (like Amsterdam) luxury sailing yachts park. The freshest "Fish-bread" sandwiches are made in the fish market, and the town (on the alternate bank) is beautifully decorated with flowers, sidewalks and cobbled alleys. I lucked out, and the weekend I visited there was a wochenende fest. Food, drink, art, souvenir and jewelry stands lined the sidewalks. I even managed to go for a "schwimmbad" in the Baltic Ocean (another off my list Sonya). It was cool, but bracing! Aside from severe (yet temporary) shrinkage, I am now prepared to join the polar bear club in Orlando. In short, if you're in Germany on a warm, sunny summer day and want to wander at your leisure amongst the flowers and parklands of the north, head for Warnemünde.

Happy Fourth of July!

Many of my friends have written to me to gloat about having the day off, while I in turn must work in Berlin. Others have forwarded their sympathies, that I will miss fireworks and apple pie. Why not at all my dear readers!

Today, July 4, 2008 . . . The New American Embassy opens on the Pariser Platz in Berlin (this is the plaza directly behind the Brandenburg gate (that 20 years ago was still in East Germany). We share the plaza with the French embassy (thus Pariser Platz). In any event, tonight, weather permitting, there will be an opening ceremony and the American Embassy will set off fireworks over the Brandenburg Gate. It is a mere coincidence that it is the fourth of July . . . but a happy one. I'm sure every American in Berlin will be out to see the display. There are two issues: Due to the high latitude, it does not get dark in Berlin during the longest days of the summer until nearly 11pm at night. The fireworks are scheduled for 11:30 apparently. Secondly, it has rained all day. I hope that the setting sun will calm the weather, and that we'll get a clear night sky.

The embassy is quite controversial because of it's location between the Brandenburg Tor (Gate) and the Jewish Holocaust Memorial. It is said that the architectural firm that designed the embassy, made several politically incorrect requests of the German government, which included moving the Brandenburg Tor to accommodate the embassy, or moving the Holocaust memorial to accommodate the embassy. I don't know if either story is true . . . but I can believe some remote beurocrat would innocuously propose such a faux pas. The embassy succeeds and fails on different levels. The structure is understated;the stone, shape, and situation complements the setting. The building is truncated and blocky though, not matching the heighth of the surrounding structures, and for this many in Berlin have complained.

Too late. The building is there, as is, and ready to open. I'll let you know how it goes next week.

Update: Well, Friday evening was a bit windy and rainy. So the U.S. Embassy decided to set off the fireworks an hour and a half early (one assumes because it was dark enough). As a result I missed the fireworks, and was standing at a subway station 3 miles away, when I heard them going off! When I finally made it to the Unter Den Linden U-bahn station . . . a thousand pissed-off Americans were standing outside a fence wishing they had not believed the Embassy telephon operator - who advised us all that 11:30 was the time. I put my camera over the fence, and took the following picture of our tax dollars at work:

On a positive note, I went back to the Pariser Platz the next day, and attended the street fair. It was well attended, and pleasant in a Federal kind of way (read as the volunteer-organized LGBT Stadtfest was way better!!). I even played their spin the wheel and win a prize game. When I spun the wheel, the needle landed on a suitcase! I was sure I'd won a trip to somewhere (in America?!). Nope. The bored clerk handed me a "New US Embassy" coffee mug. So one of you lucky birds is getting a mug for Christmas in lieu of coal (if you play your cards right).

Christopher Street Day Parade 2008

Where to begin to describe the last three days. I did so many things of such a diverse nature, that the weekend seems like a lifetime. Randomly:

Smoking - The Germans smoke. A lot. In my work, for example, on every floor of my building there is a smoking booth. This is a small kiosk with a uni-directional airflow to the outside - a complicated way of saying that if you're smoking inside it, all the smoke gets sucked out a small hole in the ceiling to the outside world. Or I should say, it's supposed to work that way. In point of fact, the smokers (unconsciously or otherwise) blow their tokes out into the hall. I can a room away smell that someone is on fire, several times a day. In Florida we banish smokers to external patios . . . even asking them to avoid opened doorways . . . but we don't have winters like Berliners . . . and they are apparently not willing to stand in the rain to get their fix.
Recently, embarrassed by an increasing similarity to American health statistics, the German's have begun an anti-childhood-obesity program, and banned smoking inside restaurants. The catch is that since the World cup, and now the Euro2008 Championship . . . Germany has discovered dining al fresco. Cafe tables are scattered about the Ku'damm, and diners are massed around a variety of fare - Smoking. This makes it very hard for a smoke-sensitive American to dine al fresco, without being in a cloud of nicotine. I get the last laugh however, as winter will come, and smokers will have no where to turn in cold weather. Expect to see a lot of stressed out chain-smoking Berliners this Christmas!

What can I tell you about Christopher Street Day Parade (the LGBT Pride Parade in Berlin). First of all, I was under the impression that Christopher Street was a person or a place in Berlin. I would be wrong. Christopher Street is where the Stonewall bar is in Greenwich Village, New York City. It famously is a place where the LGBT community fought back against Police Brutality in 1969 (I believe). This is credited with being the advent of the LGBT rights movement. In short, their Pride parade references contemporary American history . . . that most Americans are uneducated about.

The other amazing characteristic of the parade is that it is not just for the LGBT community. They in fact may be the minority again. Certainly, it's about 50-50. The reason is that non-LGBT Berliners turn out in droves to enjoy the parade, the silly costumes, the street festival and the music concert. The city is so integrated and tolerant, that in the very near future, there may be no need for a parade at all. The streets around the Siegelsaule (Victory Tower) were jammed, shoulder to shoulder, with all of Berlin. Down one alley was a biergarten and bratwurst content that could rival any Fussball fan-mile. It's amazing that this is happening in Berlin, where 70 years ago everyone that was different was arrested and sent to concentration camps: Jews, Romanische, Homosexuals, the Disabled, etc.

The other interesting factoid is the Berlin, for a majority of its history, was reknown for its tolerance. After the 30 years war, the Germans provided the Huegonauts sanctuary in Berlin, even allowing them to build a Cathedral in this otherwise protestant town. There are other examples, but Berlin has a long long history of being a cross-cultural crossroads. That fact is still overshadowed by the early 20th century.

The rest of my experience can be shared through the wonder of the Internet.

Brunch - On Sunday, I thought I'd go to a nice brunch. My guide recommended the Intercontinental Hotel pool deck overlooking the Teirgarten. Off I went to brunch in style. When I arrived, I asked in German, "Wieviel Costet das Brunch?" (How much is brunch?) Very polite and cosmopolitan, no? Well the MaitreD', a lady in this case, replied "Neun und Zwanzig", which I took to mean Nine Euros and 20 centimes. Off I went into eggs and bacon land. They had amazing scalloped potatos and a brilliant lemon mousse. Still I was trying to cut back, so I ate lightly and avoided the alcohol. I asked for the bill. It came. 29 Euros (Three times more than I'd planned and breakfast for close to $35 dollars. DOH!). As a result I have skipped several meals, and been eating at home more this week.

After Brunch, I went on the "Fat Tire Bike Tour" of Berlin. "Fat" modifies "tire" in this case, and does not describe me after a huge brunch - thank you very much! Anyway, this "Beach Cruiser Bike Tour" is wunderbar. After two weeks of hauling my patootie around in my sneakers, the sheer joy of sailing across the city on a fluffy new bicycle was magic.

Yes, Bicycle Bullys I've join your ranks on the dark side! If you ever want to see Berlin from street level, and there's good weather. You can do not better than the Fat Tire Bike Tours at the base of the FernsehenTur (TV Tower in Alexanderplatz). Tours are also available in London, Paris, and Barcelona.

Fussball Fever! (Like Boogie Fever with Half the Calories)

Well, it's Friday evening, and I only have time for a quick report. It's been a cloudy blustery day in Berlin, and the Germans are racing about with their RegelnSchirm (Umbrellas). So, nothing too structured . . . Stuff I saw this week in Berlin:

1. T-shirt: "Rare." (Urg? . . . When you think of bloody meat, think of me.)
2. T-shirt: "I'm Shy." (Well I'm Insolent, and you don't see me broadcasting it to the world! . . . oh, nevermind.)
3. Sign on the Office Cafeteria: "Casino" (Because it's a gamble to eat there?)
4. Sign on Jewelry-store: "Schmuck-farm" (Also means, bangle, gem, jewel, or decoration. So now when someone says, "What a Schmuck!" you can thank them. At any rate, explains where schmucks come from.)

Of course the big story of the week was the Turkey v. Deutschland Semi-final Soccer Game (Fussball to the Germans). As Berlin has a very large and vocal Turkish minority population, there was ample support for either side of the game. Thankfully, the game was held in Basel, Switzerland - so to watch it you had to be at home . . . or a bar/restaurant/Diamond Vision scoreboard at the Brandenburg gate.
Again, because I'm not a stakeholder and had to work the next day, I did not paint my face team colors, dress in funny clothes, or take to the streets in my tricked-out Scion. But I was the only one who didn't.
Wednesday night, I found myself back at Taverna Mikas having Greek food and sitting with a large crowd of Germans and Turks watching the game on the restaurant large screen TV. The game started with skillful and agressive playing by the Turkish team. They seemed younger, more angile, and in constant control of the ball. They also scored first. Just before half-time the Germans scored as well. They had to earn their goal, but did so cleverly, with a reflected kick into the goal.
Half-time came with its obligatory onslaught of advertisements and tabloid photography of nubile women and drunken guys in the stands. And then, just as the game resumed . . . and I had asked for my bill . . . the signal went out on the game. Everywhere. The entire neighborhood, for blocks and blocks went to their balconies and went ballistic. An entire nation, transfixed, had just been informed that they were S.O.L on the game (*THE* game). One could almost hear the bricks falling from the ZBD network executives. Within a couple of minutes, a radio announcer had been mixed in, to describe the game play by play in German.
I payed my bill and began the walk home. At some point the signal came back on, because I could hear the same thousand people leaping with surprise back in front of their TVs.
When Turkey would score, fireworks would go off. When Germany scored, there was singing and clapping.
All in all, it was a lifetime memory. In the end Germany beat Turkey 3 to 2. The celebration was peaceful, and they have won the opportunity to play Spain for the Euro 2008 title on Sunday.

Thursday evening, I went for a SchiffFahren (Berliner Riverboat Cruise) on the River Spree. Berlin, like Paris and Vienna, is a river-town, and a convenient majority of the noteworthy buildings, parks and monuments are organized along the river. The trip was made even more special, because it was LBGT Pride weekend in Berlin, and three ships of celebrants disembarked at the same time to broadcast Disco throughout Berlin, while 300 screaming queens with color coordinated Pom-poms went ballistic on their respective Fiesta-decks.
The Berliner's loved it, and my favoriet moment is when a bridge full of pedestrians joined our riverboat in the choreography to the Village People's Y.M.C.A. That's right. Bad disco knows no boundaries. A good time was had by all.
An interesting thing I noticed from the boat, is that along the riverbank in East Berlin where the wall and deathstrip used to be, there are now faux Beaches of imported sand and Miami-style lounge furniture. (Many jokes in poor taste present themselves here, but I'll skip it given the gravitas.) I wondered what happens during the winter however. Ice Skating?

After the Riverboat, I found myself surrounded by a thousand drunk German gays (more or less . . . gay that is . . . they were all definitely drunk, whatever their orientation . . .). As a Teatotaler, I headed for the S-bahn followed by a man in a kilt (Scottish) and two of his German Friends. The two friends were fussball fanatics, and kept repeatly shouting out of their promotional megaphone, "Finale, O-O-O-oh" to the the tune of "Volare'" roughly. The S-bahn came, and we einstieg-ed (boarded) the small trunk-like vessels of the S-bahn. "FIIIIIIINNNAAALLLLEEE. O-O-O-OH". Okay, you get the picture. So did the other 25 people in the car. "FIIIIIIINNNAAALLLLEEE. O-O-O-OH". So without a word, we all began to play that game of -If we ignore them, they will stop. But they didn't. I started small talk with the Scottish man (did I mention he was wearing a kilt, and sitting with his legs crossed on the S-bahn?) . "FIIIIIIINNNAAALLLLEEE. O-O-O-OH". Okay. My gosh, would those two take a pill already! Fortunately it was a self-correcting problem, as one of the drunken man grabbed the megaphone and held it up (out of arms length of the other). As they giggled and struggled for the megaphone a gust of wind sucked that device right out of the train window. THlurp! The one shouted in German. "Hey! Now, it's gone forever!!! Damn" Then very very quietly next to them, I simply said, "Finale. O-o-o-oh." I started laughing so hard, I was crying. I couldn't have planned the phrase better if I'd had to make it up myself. Thus ends to sad fate of a German Megaphone. If the next time you see Jason Bourne running through a German train station in fear of his life . . . look in the background to see if there isn't a megaphone stuck in the rafters.

Schmekt Gut - Berlin's Best Restaurants

The food in Berlin is wunderbar! It competes, in my mind, with California and New York for best culinary city in the world. Like San Francisco and New York City, Berlin is centrally located for access to the best wine, produce and culinary materials in Europe. Also like it's peer cities, Berlin is a multicultural crossroads supporting a wide variety of traditions.

This is a running list of the best restaurants I have visited in Berlin with a note on their locations, price and genre:

Contemporary Lounge-Restaurant

More - I had a Geroestete Champignon Salat that I will never forget at this Miami-esque contemporary lounge and restaurant. If you want to see and be seen in a trendy bar, frequented by the beautiful, manly and flamboyant. This is the place. The decor is the most sophisticated in the area. Motzstrasse 28, 10777 Berlin (Southwest of the Nollendorfplatz S-bahn Station)

Mavie - Another lounge-restaurant with outdoor seating in a fin de siecle style. Perhaps alluding to Paris, the cuisine is fundamentally German. I was impressed by their Goatcheese Salad and Goatcheese Risotto. Motzstrasse 28, 10777 Berlin (Southwest of the Nollendorfplatz S-bahn Station)

Spanish Tapas

Ruz - North East of the HackesheMakt Station (I guess in Mitte), there is an amazing restaurant district. The best of these small independent bistros is the Ruz Tapas Restaurant and Bar. They have authentic Sangria that will make your toes curl, and a wide variety of Spanish Tapas . . . that hasn't been Germanized, or Americanized. The flavors are authentically savory, and dark. Tortillas, and spinch. Wine-cooked mushrooms and broiled meats. There's something for everyone . . . and yet it's all true to its origins. Auguststrasse 63, 10117 Berlin - (030) 28 09 77 88

Italian

Tratoria A Muntagnola - A country trattoria that serves authentic southern italian cuisine in the heart of tree-lined Berlin. A beautiful setting . . . and the cleanest restaurant I've ever been in, barr none! This is casual italian dining executed to the highest standards. A great place for families and large parties. Fuggerstrasse Berlin (Two blocks south of Wittenbergplatz S-bahn Station).






Note: That when I ordered "Wasser Ohne Gas" (Uncarbonated Water), I was given a bottle of imported Italian Mineral Water that had river pebbles in the bottom. When I read the label, it was explained that the river pebbles were crystaline in nature, and were intended to impart positive energy into the waters. Exhibit A:






After drinking the water (never mind that there's positive energy silt in them there bottles), I wanted to take my pebbles home with me. I wasn't done with the positive energy, and I wasn't about to let them cast them away like magic beans or something. This was actual, documented (at least by the label) positive energy. When I woke up the next morning . . . Someone call Scully . . . we have an X-file:

Rapallo - Traditional Italian fare with no surprises. A reliable place for a pizza, with a casually fine wine list. They serve Montepulciano-Arroza by the caraffe. MMMMmmm. Kurfurstendamm 111, 10711 Berlin.

Greek

Taverna Makis - Located halfway down the Kurfurstendamm, Taverna Makis serves fresh greek ingredients in a relaxed setting. It is superlatively convenient to the entire Ku'damm tourist corridor, and the sweet flavors of tomaten, gurke, und feta offer a welcome alternative to generally heavy German cuisine. I love to sit at the sidewalk tables and write in my journal. A cast of characters never fails to wander by for inspiration. Kurfurstendamm 96 10711 Berlin. Phone: 323 40 27

Outdoor Cafe'

OpernPalais - On the opposite side of the old Berlin Opera from Bebelplatz, is a perfect green park with large Sycamore and Linden trees. Among the firetruck red geraniums, you can be served common cafe fare and ice cream sundaes that you'll never forget. The food is typical, but the setting is unparalleled. I expected Renoir to appear with a paintbrush at any moment. If you like sitting in the sunshine, eating sweets, and listening to live classical music. You will love a simple lunch here. Unter den Linden 5 d-10117 Berlin-Mitte.

Trofeo at the Meilenwerk - The cafe in the Berlin antique car garage/museum is excellent. I had never had Trofeo (a more refined cottage cheese with an Edamer flavor) before. But I'm sold. The roasted Trofeo salat and the Croque Monsieur were perfect. Wiebestrasse 36-37 10553 Berlin. Tel. 030 20613030

Alberts - Situated on an elevated landing overlooking the Spree river in northwest central Berlin, Alberts offers a quick, fresh lunch with a view. I had the Putengeschnitzeltes (Roasted Turkey Stew with vegetables in a Mushroom gravey). Address: Alt Moabit 59-61, 10555 Berlin. Phone 030-36726707.

Steak House

Although not fancy, pretentious, or reknown, I have been consistently impressed with the "Block House." I can heartily endorse the franchise on the Ku'damm at Adenauerplatz. If you're hankering for something meaty, slightly salty, and cooked to perfection . . . you can do no better than this restaurant. The salads are made fresh, they personally draft their beer, and feature red wines from Argentina and France. Substantial food at a reasonable price, how you need it, when you need it!

Hotel Restaurants

Hotel SpreeBogen has such a flexible facility, that it can be all things to all diners. They offer breakfast, lunch and dinner to their guests, but can easily transition their brick wharfhouse into a buffet line for conventioneers. In any case the food is thoughtful, sophisticated, fresh and delicious. I heartily endorse their restaurant and hotel.

Baked Goods

ErdbeerenKuchen - Strawberry Gelatin Cake at the Croissanterie and Baeckeri at Sickingenstrasse 6 (around the corner from the Buesselstrasse S-bahn Station).

What Makes My Socks So Stiff?

It's not what you think . . . dirty minds.
In most German wohnungs (apartments) there is a teeny tiny washing machine machine in the bathroom.
German washing machines are located in the bathroom, because in centuries-old buildings there probably hasn't been indoor plumbing until the 20th century. By routing water and sewer lines to one room, indoor water usage could be centrally and economically managed. This in turn, is how the term "Water Closet" came to fruition. Europeans regard water closets as "wet rooms" as opposed to the more specific "bath room", "toilet", or "wash room."
Upon being confronted with my teeny tiny washing machine (a front-load washer that fits neatly under the counter . . . like a college refrigerator), I compared it to the air-craft-carrier-ready washer in my laundry room at home (a top-load Kenmore large enough to wash several dogs at once and not get their ears wet - don't ask me how I know this) . . . (and P.S. don't try this at home kids, unless you want the folks from PETA to raid your booty - don't ask me how I know this either. But I digress . . .). I was skeptical, as I often find in some things, size does matter.
As I'm sure you know, front-load washers require less water (because they do not fill up like aquariums) and less electricity (because they use the force of gravity to agitate the laundry. (Here, I'm trying to think of a joke that starts out: How do you know your laundry is agitated? - - but I got nothin'. But I digress . . .) Admirable enough . . . but it seemed that I would have to wash every item by itself over the course of two weeks. My colleagues (the guinea pigs who crashed tested the corporate apartment before me) assured me, that if I gently place my separates in the teeny tiny itsy bitsy washer, and add the teeny tiny itsy bitsy laundry detergent . . . everything would sort itself out.
This I did. First, colors in. 40 minutes later I have a pile of wet clothes knitted into a macrame plant hanger. And wait, there's more. There's no teeny tiny itsy bitsy dryer. What the hey?!
I notice that in the living room, there is a large wire rack resembling a TV antenae. It is in fact a laundry rack. Living in Florida (under its superlative humidity), nothing like this laundry rack would ever work. In fact, the clothes - though saturated - might in fact get wetter under the right circumstances. But Berlin is dry. It's summertime and the Fernsehen is blowing across the wheatfields of Brandenbourg . . . so I decorated the laundry tree in the living room with my holiday undies, shirts and socks. I sang my national laundry day holiday songs and threw a Yule sock on the laundry fire (no, not really. For more information, see "Sarcasm.") I put the whites in the teeny tiny itsy bitsy washer and went to bed.
In the morning, when I awoke I went to check on the laundry. Sure enough the colored clothes were dry enough to move and replace with the white laundry. The issue: the clothese were stiff. I leaned them up against the wall like old waffles. If I'd washed some pants, I could have made a little laundry person to go to breakfast with!
I guess there are worse things in life than stiff laundry . . . and I beg the user community to restrain themselves when adding the obligatory comments on "stiffness." This site is rated PG!! . . .
The end result of my analysis, is that I will be a billionaire the day I introduce ice-cubes to Italy, lukewarm water to the people of the United Kingdom, and clothes dryers to Germany.
On the downside, I would simultaneously expose the Germans to Snuggles the Dryer Bear. It is my sworn enemy, and I cannot abide it until it has been subjected to a serious prolonged regimen of speach therapy!!!!
That would surely put a Bounce in my step!!

Mein erstes Wochenende

The angels in my life could not let my comments of Friday evening go. As a result I spent the weekend enlightening myself, and wishing I’d never thought so much of my warped humor.

On Saturday morning, I slept late. Following my bliss, I set out to slowly explore Potsdammer Platz through Unter Den Linden to the Museum Island (where Central Berlin's most historic structures reside). I felt sure I could find interesting subject matter for photography.

I came upon the new Euopean Holocaust Memorial north of Potsdammerplatz. It is a vast shadowy acreage of grey stone boxes . . . suggesting coffins, a maze, clausterphobia, stepping stones, and great numbers of abstracted figures. A visitor's center is hidden at the far Eastern edge of this sea of stone. Inside, the world comes to terms with this aspect of European history. Though these events are brutal and outrageous . . . I cannot disassociate myself from them. Current political dynamics in the United States resemble the Nazi plan for a final solution. I could no more stop George Bush from invading Iraq, as any number of Germans could stop Hitler. The total effect is to be educated and sobered by the cruelty amongst ourselves, and to apply oneself to improving the world consistently, relentlessly, lovingly . . .

Through the Brandenburg Gate, I traversed Unter Den Linden. There was a book fair in the Bebelplatz, but all the views were obstructed by restoration scaffolding festooned with vast advertisements. In a park beside the Opera House I sat in the OperaPalais restaurant and had a marvelous lunch of Spaghetti Bolognese, and an Ice Cream Sundae for dessert. For part of my lunch a busking violinist played classical pieces under a leafy Linden Tree. The setting, decorated with fire engine red geraniums and cool bright green grass, was a happy contrast to the morning’s survey of European history.

I walked into the Berliner Dom and photographed the rotunda. Finally, I hopped over to the HackesherMarkt and Bahned my way to Nollendorfplatz, for Berlin’s LGBT Stadtfest.

Despite the language barrier, the proliferation of beer and bratwurst . . . an LGBT fest is an LGBT fest. I was reassured by the colorful consistency, the confident tolerance, and the respectable coordination of this large and diverse urban community. I noted that everyone attended the Stadtfest, not just the LBGT community. Next to the mosh pit and the DJ turntables were stay at home Mom's with their strollers and fussy babies. Two little boys even tried to join an African drumming troupe in the course of their musical performance. Berliners (considered rude by their German peers) were kind and welcoming to me, especially given my rudimentary German language skills. I've reassured the other Germans that Berliners are not cold and rude.

Sunday, I went to church in the memorial Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedaechtniskirche at 10am. Although I didn’t understand what was said, I could follow the structure of the service, via my Protestant background. Eventually I took communion with the congregation . . . and was surprised to see that German’s use White Wine for mass. Not very bloody, but I guess Jesus did not designate white or red (skipping this set of obvious sommelier jokes).

After church, in my continuing effort to lose weight, I walked from the Halensee Station to Nollendorfplatz (about 1/3 the width of the city). I spent another afternoon people watching in the pleasant summer streets of Berlin, and feeling very much at home in a city where I don’t know a soul. I returned home early to sort out the laundry situation . . . and went to bed sleeping in a Thunderstorm (just like home).

Time for some Touching!

I've noticed over the last two days, that drivers are very courteous on Berlin's roads. They are glad to pause and allow me to cross the strasse, etc. They are speedy, but strategically careful.

Bikers on the other hand are not. Twice in two days, I have inadvertently been walking on the sidewalk bikepath and been very nearly accosted by cyclists:

Incident 1 - Ask not for whom the horn blows . . . - The first time, a rider pedaled directly up behind me like the Hamburglar and then honked a very loud menacing horn loudly, inches from my petrified corpse! This was apparently easier, then say . . . I don't know . . . making a wide swath around me!?!?

Incident 2 - Full Contact - The second time, the rider swerved around me, resuming the bike path millimeters from me at full speed (without a word), deliberately leaning in so that he violently brushed my shoulder.

Analysis: The first case, was my fault, I was not aware that riders were encouraged to take to the sidewalks instead of the road. The second time, I had stepped aside to let a gaggle of school children pass (walking hand in hand), so that they would not have to break their safety daisy-chain. This rider was just being pesky (from the Latin Biggus Assius). Why I oughta!

Now that I'm aware, I may have to use my ACME grappling hook on the next smart-alecky biker. I'm beginning to think that they're on two wheels, because they were deemed unfit for four!!!

A more positive observance: for the second night I have sat outdoors at a streetside cafe for dinner, while the Euro 2008 Football (Soccer) Tournament is played. Crowds of Europeans (all nationalities) gather before large flat-screen restaurant TVs and enthusiastically watch the game during dinner al fresco. There is nothing like watching the collective joy and dismay as goals are attempted, lost and won over the course of an evening. The roar of a stadium crowd pouring out a hundred small speakers across a neighborhood, and the reflection of tiny players scampering across an other-worldly green pitch are unique sensations.

Because I’m jet-lagged and not a stakeholder in the outcome of these games . . . I rise, pay my bill, and wander home on empty streets. As I pass open Kneipes (Pub), homes, restaurants and shoppes . . . a nation is transfixed by the outcome of their game (Germany vs. Portugal in this case). Talk about a unified Germany!!

Last night I went shopping at the Plus grocery store. What a hoot. There are a number of German brands attempting to cash in on the international cache’ of the English language. My favorite examples:

Touching Toilet Paper – The only thing you don’t want to do to Toilet Paper.

Serving Paper Towels – Hey, this steak taste like paper towels!

My Fellow Dog Food – Lend me your ears . . . I bet.

Balisto Yogurt - When you really need an I.C.B.M.

Corny-Free Granola Bars - I bet you wish this BLOG was Corny-free.

Clusters Cereal - Don't spill this in bed, or you-know-what . . .

Silence! The Queen of Table Waters - (I love this!) The next time I'm sitting at a restaurant table next to a screaming Baby, I'm going to order some and send it to their table . . . and have the waiter add "The Queen of Orlando invites you to revel in the Queen of Table Waters."

Funniest Name of a Store:
Ay, Imbiss! An imbiss is a snack bar. And the person who works there is the "imbiss-ile." Next time you see one yell, Ay, Imbiss-ile!

Weirdest Name of a Store:
On the Ku'damm there's a Croissant Shop called: CROBAG
Would you eat out of a Crobag, I ask you?!

You can't say you weren't warned:
All over Berlin there's an Egyption gas station chain called "Agip." "A gip" indeed.

The Mysteries and Wonders of a German Breakroom

Last year, when I was in Germany there was a toaster in the Breakroom that boldly announced, “FingerWeg!! Das ist meine!”, or in German “Hands off. This is mine.” Because I’m used to the expression “Hands off” it's not so funny to my ear. Telling someone to keep their “Fingers away” is tantamount in my mind to keeping “your filthy paws off my silky drawers!” That one would find such a sign in a formal corporate office is even funnier.

This year however, the Toaster is gone. Someone, obviously not German, absconded with the toaster using their pesky delinquent fingers.

Common in a German breakroom is a hot water tap that dispenses immediately, hot boiling water. I found this out the hard way. I tried to hold a glass and wash it while pouring scalding water over it. Doh! To the krankhaus (hospital) I nearly went, yes, very cranky.

The other amazing machine is a jet dispenser that converts common Berlin tap water, into either “light” or “classic” sparkling water. It’s like having the Perrier spring (and a jet) here on the 5th floor of a manufacturing plant! Who wouldn't want to shoot pure mountain spring water through their favorite jet engine, I ask you?

Arbeits Machts Frei?!

Yesterday, a colleague in the office brought in a bushel of cherries (kirchen) plucked from the tree in his yard. This would be the German version of our Floridian private citrus harvests in December. The staff rallied around the conference room table, ate cherries and talked, while spitting pits into their hands and dropping them in a collective bowl. At first I was self-conscious to be expectorating cherry pits with people I hardly know . . . but I got over it, and the cherries were delicious.

I have been able to easily get to work every morning by 8:00am. It boggled my mind at first. How is this possible? Having one's own car does not in fact expedite commuting, it turns out. I don't have to get gas, drive 20 minutes, or park. Apparently the time I spend walking to and from the S-bahn is less time than it takes to drive. I have also noted that the Sun rises earlier, and sets later here . . . meaning that biologically I'm more awake. Oh, yeah . . . and then there's the fact that I'm jet lagged into the next universe (John Lennon says hello).

While waiting for my bag to be delivered, I noticed an ominous red button outside my apartment door. It was situated, as an American doorbell. But I had a doorbell, labeled doorbell in the door. This button had no label, was large and bright and begged to be pressed. What would happen though? I could set off a fire alarm, or turn on a distant heater, garbage disposal, or unknown German appliance. Discretion being the better part of valor, I restrained myself and asked colleagues at work what they thought this button was . . . the Bat Cave? They knew immediately it was the ceiling light for the landing.

One strange aspect of my apartment is that it is decorated with a menagerie of faux animals. There’s a Schnauzer/Scottish Terrier dog, a carp fish, a frog, and a goose. It’s a curious aesthetic, that has the same effect of a velvet Jesus painting. Wherever you go in the apartment, there’s a pair of eyes watching you.

Last night the duck, the dog, and the frog had a binger and then got into it with the fish. It was not pretty, is all I can tell you. I have to bail them out after work.

Live from the Western Front

Convinced that advanced planning is the most integral part of a project, I admit to freaking out in an attempt to address every possible scenario I might face during seven weeks in Europe. I packed and re-packed my suitcase four times. By Monday morning however, I finally reassured myself that my research was done. I was prepared to relax and enjoy my adventure.

Mom dropped me and my "mother of all suitcases" off at the airport curb. I checked in and boarded my plane uneventfully. The flight was ever so slightly bumpy from Orlando to Dulles, but nothing to write home about (I do it here out of sheer gratuitous drama). As we descended into Washington, the skies were dark. We were 500 feet from touchdown, when the pilot aborted the landing and flew 25 minutes south to Richmond, Virginia.

As we flew away, I wasn't too alarmed. We were safe, and the situation was being communicated . . . but what didn't I know? I began to recall the events of September 11th, and considered that I had been landing at an airport in the nation's capital. I had relatives in Richmond if it came to that, but what exactly were things coming to? (Cue dramatic music: dun-dun-duuuuunnh?)

After about an hour in Richmond, it was explained that a wind shear had been detected while we were landing and all scheduled flights to Dulles between 3pm and 5pm had been diverted to other cities or asked not to take off from their origins. The storm was the same system that had flattened towns with Tornados and flooded most of Iowa the previous weekend.

In the plane, we watched Horton Hears a Who, ate granola bars and drank water. It was do-able, and the United Staff were troopers. By 6:30 we were taking off from Richmond. Our savvy pilot, first to reach Richmond, filed a flight-plan as soon as he arrived, so he was the first to depart. I got to Dulles about 7:05 and found that my flight to Munich left on time at 5:28pm.

The airport was a riot of people hording the customer service queue. All wanted to be the first to re-book their seats to their final destinations. I wandered in a stupor about where to begin, and the spirits lead me into the "United Red Carpet Club", a business-traveler's lounge. There I found agents helping dramatically fewer people to rebook their tickets. I had to wait about 30 minutes for assistance, but it was certainly less than the round the block lines in the main hall.

A clever agent named Carlos told me I would probably have to stay overnight and fly to Germany the next day . . . but wait! Then he discovered he could get me on the last business class seat to Frankfurt . . . and glory of glories . . . there were ample seats to Berlin on a consecutive flight. But what about my bags, I asked Mr. Carlos C.? (Note notation of employee name and promise) He made some noises, typed some figures . . . and assured me the bag would be forwarded to the plane in time.

You see where this is going don't you.

So, lickety-split I was off for Frankfurt with a thousand disgruntled passengers. I made it safely to Berlin . . . badly jet-lagged . . . in a sweat-stained shirt and crusty underwear and socks . . . standing at the end of a conveyor belt, waiting for my friend "Baggy" to bring that "hug of home" back into my life. One by one all the other disgruntled passengers picked up their bags and disappeared, until I was there with four other people blinking and listening to the crickets in the arrival hall. To add insult to injury, when the last bag had been sent up, a small sign, written in English, followed. "End of Bags."

There was no mistaking it. Baggy was AWOL. I raised my rotten potato into the sunset colored silhouette and vowed. "As God as my witness, I will never pack my toiletries again!!"

My modest exposure to German enabled me to find people who would rather speak in English to me, than have me pant and cackle out my pigeon German: "Me no bag. Lufthansa take Baggy. Make Bye-bye. Where Baggy?! Baggy Black with zippy thing. When Baggy Come." You get the idea . . . And that was all in English. They had to ask me to come out of the fetal position and stand up. They assured me (like Carlos) that Baggy would come tomorrow. I resigned myself to the circumstance.

Excellent directions conducted me quickly to my corporate apartment in lower Charlottensburg.

The apartment is nicer than I originally thought, and larger . . . with high ceilings and large windows. Many fears were laid to rest . . . but that was all that could be laid to rest. Though exhausted, I could not lay down. I had a mission. I had to find an ATM that took the American Express corporate card. I had to get clean underwear and a shirt for work the next day, and I had to eat. I had gone most of Tuesday with only an airplane fruit-bowl and a croissant in my stomach.

I headed down the Kufurstendam to find the ATM in my crusty underwear and sweaty shirt at 5pm. I felt like a dirty sock. But the rest of the story is uneventful. I did find the ATM, a shirt, underwear, and a bowl of asparagus soup. Yes, they were abandoned there on the Ku-dam by some hoboes. Just kidding. (This will kill my boss . . . a bowl of soup and a bottle of water cost me 9 Euros!!! About 12 dollars USD). I stumbled home and fell into bed at 9pm. I was asleep before you could say "Coma."

Of course about midnight I was wide awake. Hmm. I'm hungry. My mind's racing. It wants to wake up and do something. I indulged. I explored the dark apartment. Thank Goodness a colleague had left a measly half-roll of toilet paper, or I would have been *&^% out of luck. I found T-bags and sugar. I made some hot tea. I found pasta and Vegetable broth powder. I literally made a Lipton's cup o' soup from scratch in a mug.

Back to sleep I went. It felt great to shower and dress in clean clothes the next morning. On the way to the office, the airport called to say they could deliver Baggy . . . but I didn't want to “not show” at work for the second day in a row. I arranged to have the bag brought between 5 and 8pm that evening.

Thanks to my family and colleagues for their support. It got me through all of these minor obstacles. I hope the re-telling made you laugh. Now though, I must get to work.

Great Diving At the Little Cayman

May 15-21, 2008 I accompanied my world adventuring gal-pal Sonya on a SCUBA diving expedition off of Little Cayman in the British West Indies. (For Pictures, scroll to the Slideshow at the bottom of this page.)

I did some of the best diving of my life in Bloody Bay (northwest shore of Little Cayman) in 20 to 110 feet of water. The rugged coral shelf of the northern side of the island holds just enough sand and soft coral to support a rich ecosystem, and so little silt as to provide the greatest underwater visibility I have ever enjoyed (easily 100 feet). I highly recommend both Grand Cayman and Little Cayman. Fun facts to help the traveler:


Best of Grand Cayman

- Full of Beans (Passadora Place, Georgetown) Contemporary Miami Fusion. Does everything well and at the optimal price point. Coffee. Baked goods. Fresh lunches. Soup. This is the place to relax, talk, enjoy the art, music and laid back mid-century modern decor.
- Ristorante Pappagallo (West Bay) Italian/Caribbean fusion. Fine dining in a mangrove setting replete with tropical birds and a thatch roof. A wonderful alternative to the generic beach hotel restaurant.
- BED - (7 mile Beach) Grand Cayman's version may prevent patrons from reclining, per other franchises . . . but the food and wine is so good, you won't miss it.
- Regazzi (Georgetown) Tuscan Italian Grill. Regazzi would seem to have the best wine list and appetizers on Grand Cayman. The variety of flavors and their beautiful presentation make this restaurant a must-visit. Try the melon and proscuitto appetizer and flatbread pizza.
- Casanova (Georgetown by the port) Traditional Italian. Comfort food away from home.
- Courtyard Marriott Breakfast Buffet (7 mile Beach). The best place to eat your own weight in food.
Activities:
- Moby Dick's boat trip to Stingray City cannot be missed. I don't care how many aquariums you've seen and how jaded you are . . . when you hand feed 100 stingrays begging like puppies, it will change your perspective on the world. Go in fair weather for the best pictures and experience.
- Photo from Hell. The ultimate in Caribbean kitsch. Makes a good souvenir and a funny story.
- Shore diving from "Sunset", "Eden Rock", "East End." There's no need for an elaborate SCUBA expedition, there's plenty to see directly off the "iron shore." Outfitters are situated at both locations for convenient entrance and egress. The most important advice: end a dive 22 hours before approaching a plane.

Best of Little Cayman
- Pirate's Point Beach Resort handily beats all other hotels on the island for the best and most creative cuisine on Little Cayman.
- Little Cayman Beach Resort has a great buffet three times a day. The food is good, sometimes better than others, but the prices shock and awe. You are very likely to spend as much on food as lodging at this resort. For the convenience of professional state of the art diving boats and an A+ crew, I must recommend them despite the expense.

Let there be BLOG . . .

I'm going to be in Berlin, Germany for most of the summer. So I thought I would finally establish a travel blog for my peeps.

The photograph at right was taken in March of 2007, when Germany started it's term as capital of the European Union (EU): A turret of the Berliner Dom is contrasted against the TV tower in the Alexanderplatz. The image seems to perfectly contrast the old and the new, the east and the west, the religious and technological . . . and shows how this dialectical city is cohering into a unique world capital for the 21st century.

Stay tuned for in-depth current info on my latest observations on European travel.