Haggis and bagpipes

Oh aye! We’re bloody back from bloody Scotland and have to say bagpipes don’t sound good there either. Bloody racket.

Fortunately, though, I think Kate and I had about the best Scottish experience we could ask for. It could only have been better if I'd have gotten smashed on single-malt scotch, painted my face blue, and ran down a hill yelling like a madman while launching 50-foot cabers toward my wimpy tartan-clad, haggis-eating, bagpipe-playing enemies. Oh aye! That'll do!

Known as Alba (alá Jessica) in Gaelic, Scotland is rugged, foggy, and unwelcoming. If the weather and music weren’t enough to drive any sane lad away, the food certainly would do. Just think about the word “haggis.” Sounds like a skin disease....

Actually, to be fair, Kate and I really did enjoy our time there. Here’s a summary of our trip, interspersed with various, non-related but somewhat relevant pictures:
We landed near Glasgow late on a Saturday night and got a little lost trying to find our hotel. Eventually, after driving up and down hills that could very easily have been in San Francisco or Tony Hawk's skate park, we found what looked like a university section of Glasgow filled with happy, drunk, Scottish locals. (Those are all synonyms aren't they?)

In this energetic section of town, we found our place and said goodnight to the hilly city on one of the most comfortable beds I think I’ve ever slept in. We could've gone out and gotten as punch-drunk as the rest of the lot, but decided rest was more important. Saturday night’s all right for fighting, I suppose, but not with our itinerary.

I say that because the next morning we ventured up, up, up – way up – to the northern part of the Highlands, to a little town called Fort Augustus right smack on the southern tip of the blackwater cauldron known as Loch Ness. The intent was to rent a canoe from this place called “Monster Activities” and “accidentally” fall in and “get eaten” by the “mythical” Loch Ness “monster.” Unfortunately, unbeknownst to us, Monster Activities was "actually" located on a smaller loch to the south called Loch Oich, "which," also unbeknownst to us, did not have "a" terrifying resident creature. (Below is our interpretation/impression of Nessie):

But, rent a canoe we did, and it was great. While gliding on the equally black loch, we got close to some sheep (which I called deer for some brainfart reason) and passed a couple boats (which I called trucks for the same brainfart reason) and let our imaginations run wild about Nessie’s smaller sister who lives in Loch Oich.
On our way back from canoeing, we drove around the bottom portion of Loch Ness and tried to do some Nessie spotting through the arriving mist. Unfortunately, Nessie was no where to be found. But Yeti, Sasquatch, the unicorn, the Little Mermaid, and skinny Oprah were all there, however, drinking and partying on what looked like a floating frat party. Nessie probably wasn’t invited because of the way she sulks when she drinks. Something about not having any friends… blah, blah, blah.

At our hostel that night we ate some haggis – which was actually pretty good – and some curry – which was also good – and watched a Scottish movie starring Ewan MacGregor called Shallow Grave. Two thumbs up in a Z formation from me.

The following day was our most important on the trip as we drove an hour south to the biggest town in the Highlands – Fort William, home to about 15 people – which is also the “Outdoor capital of the UK,” they claim. Plopped right next door to the city is the roundtop mountain called Ben Nevis, the highest point in the UK, and home to more sheep than you can count before you fall asleep. The hike was awesome. It started out warm, so we took our jackets and sweatshirts off early on. But by the time we finished the three-hour trek to the top, the icy mist had plodded in and sat on us, making us ch-ch-ch-chilly enough to don our new Scottish gloves we bought the previous day. It seemed like it should have been home to lots of evil Scottish ghosts up on top of the rocky mountain. But we weren’t scared. At one point, Kate actually climbed to the top of an abandoned weather station, making her at that moment the highest person in the UK.
After a confusing decent filled with lots of sheep odors, we forged into Fort William for a heartburn inducing fish-and-chips dinner and a decent night’s rest in bunk beds. The next day we drove slowly back down to Glasgow to forage for more Indian curry dishes. But it was at this point that I noticed that Kate has an unfortunate desire for a catnap whenever food is nearby.

We finished the trip by walking around Glasgow some more and trying to rid ourselves of all our liquids and liquid containers before boarding a plane to leave the UK. Those Brits are serious about their liquid laws, and are unsymphathetic to my raccoon-like condition that forces me to drink while I eat dry, crumbly scones. No bloody sympathy.

A Night In Cologne

Last Friday, the 22nd, Justin and I made a quick trip north to Cologne (Köln) to visit our friend John. John is a Chicago friend who I worked with, and more importantly, took the train with, in Chicago.

John had been in Europe for about 10 days attending a wedding in Hamburg and going on a side trip to Poland. Justin and I met John on the eve of his departure back to the states and toured around with him for a while.

We met in front of the famous Cologne Cathedral (see picture above, though I think I shouldn't have used a flash) and wandered the streets of this hopping town. Justin and I had only been in Cologne once before, five years ago, for all of ten minutes, and we definitely got a better feel for the city this time around.

John said his trip was great, but that northern Germany and Poland are so used to their own cultures that they don't really want or accept foods from other places. He said he really had a hankering for some tropical fruit, such as pineapple, but couldn't find it anywhere.

After walking for a bit around Cologne's pedestrian zone, we picked a very good dining establishment thanks to advice from John's travel guide. This popular, beer-hall-type restaurant, was crowded, but not with the crush of tourists I expected. Most of the patrons seemed to be locals who enjoyed the restaurant's Kölsch (a local beer served in small glasses which they put in front of you without you asking or ordering) and the traditional Friday-night special of potato pancakes called Reibekueche (probably due to Cologne's strong Catholic population). The food was great; we all enjoyed our potato pancakes (with salmon, ham-and-cheese, or with applesauce) and the overall atmosphere. Unfortunately, John couldn't find any pineapple here, either. So, downtrodden, we settled the bill and headed into the night for a bit of tasty ice cream. Luckily, that cheered John up a bit and we were able to happily walk around some more and find a cozy seat on a park bench overlooking a large statue of a decapitated head.
The next morning Justin and I picked John up at his hotel and then loaded into the car (well, the boys and John's luggage were in the car; I was strapped on top) for the drive down to Wiesbaden.

Once we got back to our apartment, Justin made a wonderful pancake breakfast for the three of us. The guys then headed out for a walk around Wiesbaden while I handcuffed myself to the computer to get some work done. On their walk, John thankfully found what he was looking for - he was able to finally sniff the tropical yumminess of a tiny pineapple at our weekly market before calling it a morning and heading to the Frankfurt airport.

It was a very nice to see John, however brief the visit was.

Moral to this blog: You don't even have to come to Wiesbaden to see Justin and me. We will actually act as an airport shuttle service for you and throw in a free breakfast if it means we get to spend some time with our dear readers/friends.

The End

Dachau

On our way back from Oktoberfest, we visited the Dachau concentration camp. Although I don’t want to say much about it, I would like to give some information on the camp, just to let you know how it differed from Auschwitz or some other concentration camp.

The Dachau concentration camp is located on the outskirts of the town of Dachau – one of the smaller northwest suburbs of Munich. It was the first camp of WWII and served as the prototype for the others that followed. Because it was the prototype, things here were held to higher standards, so to speak. Better records were kept; more stringent rules were imposed on the prisoners; more visits from high-ranking officials were conducted; etc.

To many, Dachau symbolized concentration camps.

The camp started imprisoning people in 1933, when Hitler came to power. Here is a picture of a poster from just before then, when the Germans (like many others in Europe and the U.S. at that time) were poor and starving due to depression-era economic issues. This poster reads: “Our last hope: Hitler”


But it wasn’t until later, in 1941, that Dachau was used for “extermination purposes” as part of Hitler’s “Final Solution.” Around this time, the camp – and many others – became exceedingly overcrowded with prisoners and keeping them alive as prisoners became less important than exterminating them, whether through arbitrary murder or experiments. Here is a picture of the reconstructed beds that the prisoners slept on. Dachau was constructed to hold about 5,000 prisoners, but toward the end it held over 30,000.

In terms of experiments, the Russian prisoners of war were the most popular victims. Two experiments we read about were seeing how long victims could live while immersed ice water or in vacuum chambers.

None of this was really known, however, until April 29, 1945, when the U.S. Army’s 42nd Infantry Division freed the prisoners here. Disgusted by what they saw, the U.S. troops forced the local citizens to help clean the facilities; but this request was met with indignance, as the locals claimed no knowledge of the camp’s activities.



Although a lot of people think holocaust equals Jewish intolerance, but really there were many other religions, races, and types of people who were segregated as well: Gypsies, Poles, Soviets, homosexuals, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Communists, dissidents, the disabled, etc. Yes, the Jews were target #1, but the total amount of concentration-camp death is estimated at 6 million Jews and 4.5 million non-Jews.

It is said gay men suffered the worst treatment, not only from German soldiers, but also from other prisoners who may have seen a way to gain favor by disrespecting an easy target.


Overall, my impression of the place is that it was more sterile and hollow than I expected. Almost void of feeling. Especially this room, the “Brausebad” or shower bath, where prisoners would have been gassed after being told they were going to be showered.


It wasn’t as emotional as a trip to the Holocaust museum or even as emotional as a PBS documentary would be. But, regardless, it was an educational experience for us – just a weird, stark contrast to Oktoberfest.

Gemütlichkeit in Beer Mecca

Kate and I hoisted our frothy steins and burped out a hardy “Prost!” (cheers) when celebrating the 196th anniversary of Crown Prince Ludwig’s wedding in Munich this past weekend.
Yes, it was Oktoberfest and it was wunderbar!


We were joined on the four-hour trek south with Chicagoans Peter and Shannon – who just “coincidentally” planned their trip to see family with the commencement of the biggest drinking event of the year. Serendipity, my ass!

We arrived at the vomit-carpeted fairgrounds, called the Theresienwiese, just after noon on Saturday, 16 Sept., the first day of the festival. Actually, because the tents had JUST opened and the first keg was only “officially” tapped at noon, there was no barf to be found, only loads of horseshit.

What we did find, however, were swarms of hops disciples, many clad in traditional beer-devotee outfits such as this unfortunate-looking bloke here.

After a good walk through this Disneyland for alcoholics (complete with those heave-inducing spinning teacups), we were able to wedge our way through to the tent portion of what’s billed as “the world's largest fair.” This was where the beer is kept.

Because of a recommendation from Peter, our undemocratically-elected beer Führer, we headed toward a smallish tent that served Augustiner Bräu – Munich's oldest brew, dating from 1328.

Actually, it wasn’t a bad recommendation. Apparently, there are only six allowed Oktoberfest brew tents – Spaten, Paulaner, Hacker-Pschorr, Hofbräuhaus, Löwenbräu (pronounced LER-ven-BROY), and Augustiner. And Augustiner is distinguished among those as having the best eats – more than just pretzels and sausage.

So, although it tried our patience, we were finally able to get four seats inside this fabled hall and partake in the ultimate display of overindulgence. We each gorged ourselves with a Maß (a one-liter stein of beer) as well as some robust Bavarian chow.

Luckily, we were sober enough afterward to totter to a nearby grassy hill and nap our cares away. Some call it passing out. I call it rejuvenating. Here’s me asleep – Kate was nice enough to decorate me with grass and rocks while I dreamt of the nice bosomy lady who served us pretzels (see pretzel girl, above).

On a side note, Oktoberfest sees more than six million inebriated visitors annually, only half of which are Japanese tourists. Actually, to be honest, there weren’t that many Japanese. In fact, I’d estimate about 75 percent of the people there were Germans, including this one – Marc Kratzer, a Nuremberger who we met while he was doing an internship in Chicago.

Marc is awesome. He is sometimes a bad influence and sometimes a crazy driver – but he’s always a good friend.

And a slob.










And a hick.







OK, so remember six million. Well, I mentioned that because I wanted to bring up that there is only available seating for 100,000 people. So, in case you’re bad at math, things can get tight.

Anyway – back to the story: Later that night, we heard that one of the most popular and hard-to-get-into tents – the Hippodrom – was hosting a gathering for one of the largest cigarette manufacturers in Europe – Davidoff. So, after a failed attempt at honesty, we veiled ourselves in the guise of being VIPs for the luxury brand and, amazingly, were believed by a gullible guard.

This tent, home of the Spaten-Franziskaner-Bräu, is a very trendy and posh tent, which has been known to attract the occasional celebrity. Unfortunately, being one of the smaller tents at the fest and hosting other illegitimates like ourselves, this place was packed tighter than Dolly Parton in a dirndl.

As you can tell, we didn’t quite keep our sobriety in check. But neither did anyone else. Especially not this guy. Oh…oops. That’s me.

Turkiye

A lot of you may not know this, but Germany is filled with Turks. In fact, there are an estimated three million brown, happy Turkish people living in Germany – making the largest non-German ethnic group (and the largest non-Christian group) in the country.

Much like history would predict, once the Turks come to a call a place home, they don’t want to leave. They came by the truckloads in the 1950s to be “guestworkers” in many of the factories that helped Germany become the economic wonder of Europe. Well, they never left. They set up a bazillion döner kebab restaurants (döner kebabs are the most popular fast food here - they're like gyros but better) and apparently found the better life they were looking for. There’s even a part of Wiesbaden that the locals like to call Little Istanbul.

Anyway, I went to the Mediterranean part of their ancestral homeland in late August for work to shoot some video for an upcoming Army Corps of Engineers commercial (yeah, life is hard). I was only there for a couple days, but I was able to get a glimpse at the culture of a people that now make up almost 4 percent of the entire German nation.

It all started with the flight. I realized I was landing in warmer climes when the applause broke out on the plane. It was loud and sudden, exactly when the wheels of the plane touched ground. It lasted for not more than seven seconds. Maybe less.

I was in Adana, the fourth largest city in Turkey – about 15 miles from the Mediterranean and about 70 miles from Syria. It was after 1:30 a.m. when I landed, but the plane was filled. When I stepped out on the tarmac, my glasses fogged immediately. Other than the stifling humidity, the first thing I noticed were the palm trees, alluding to weary travelers like myself the proximity of unseen – and probably alluring – beaches.

After getting my bags, I found my driver and was on my way to the U.S. Air Force’s Incirlik Air Base. Incirlik, pronounced Injurlik and literally meaning "place of fig orchard,” is about 5 miles east from Adana. On the way I passed the Sabancı Merkez Camii mosque – the second largest mosque in Turkey – located on the Seyhan River by a bridge that was built in the 6th Century under the reign of a certain Byzantine emperor named Justinian.

On the way, I noticed a pick-up truck coming toward a stoplight on the outside lane of a two-lane road. He came to the red light and made a complete stop next to a tractor trailer who had been waiting. But after standing there for a moment, the pick-up turned on his hazards, and proceeded to slowly make a U-turn around the tractor trailer. This was NOT Germany.

The next two days passed without incident. I did my job on the Air Base and ate some less-spicy-than-anticipated Turkish food. I’d been to Turkey once before, spending a few days in Istanbul – and really enjoyed the richness of the experience. The culture, cuisine, and coffee are so much different in the Arab world that it’s hard to get a good understanding in only a couple days. The best you can hope for is some bazaar bargain hunting and an iron gut.

I was able to tour around the city of Adana on my last afternoon in town, which was fun, but I didn’t see as much excitement as I’d hoped for. I just sweat under the sizzling sun (for more knowledge about my sweat, zoom in on the first picture of me with the camera).

A coworker who went with me said he had earlier seen a motorcycle with a sidecar going very slowly uphill. It wasn't until he took a second look that he noticed the sidecar contained a none-too-happy sheep. He also said he saw a moped going equally slowly – but this one was only carrying mother, father, child, and several bags of groceries. Just an average day, I guess.

My most memorable experience by far was my hair cut.

The barber's name, I found out while drinking the “Le Cola” he offered me, was Osman. He was short and dark, with big eyebrows. Probably about 20. This was no doubt his father's or grandfather's shop that he was looking over. But, what the hey, I thought. This could be a fun experience.

In fact, it was the most thorough hair cut I've ever received, complete with a straight razor cut on my sideburns, on top and behind my ears, and, of course, on my neck.

Osman was very organized, dividing each section of my head into thirds and analyzing the first sequence of cuts before he started the second.

Afterward, he offered a massage. He started with the hands, popping the knuckles on each one of my fingers and giving me a very masculine but gentle hand rub. Like something I would imagine David Hasselhof would give. That was followed by a neck, upper back, middle back, biceps, triceps, forearms, head (on top and on my temples), and face (between my eyes, for crying out loud) massage.

He also did something I've never seen nor heard of before: he popped my ears. I know it sounds crazy, but with the thumb and pointer finger of both of his hands, he pinched the top of my ear and lowered his head down to mine. Then, in one quick move, he pushed his head upward against mine and yanked the tip of my ear down, popping it. After doing the other ear, he moved to my neck. Now, I've gotten my neck cracked before by some Korean gentleman while I was living in Texas. But this was the Middle East. And I've seen too many Steven Segal movies, so I was admittedly apprehensive. But, I took a sip of my Le Cola, breathed deeply, and put faith in Osman. Osman akbar, I thought. Here goes nothing.

Well, I have to say, it was great. Orgasmic even. Like a chiropractor visit without the $200 bill. Afterward, I sorta felt like I was high – very lightheaded and peaceful. Mellow. Chill. Osman akbar, indeed.

Mr. and Mrs. McBoringson

Dear Readers,

I am sorry we have neglected you for the past two weeks. We have been boring and it has been nice. We've been watching movies, playing Scrabble, and comparing belly-button lint. It has been delightful, but our temporary period of relaxation is quickly coming to a close. We have friends to host, beers to drink, and flights to take. This means that soon the blog will be jam-packed with pictures, stories, and witty quips. So, be patient, the fun will start again soon.

To tide you over, I do have some pictures to share. I couldn't post these apartment pictures earlier because the rooms weren't clean and the beds weren't made. Fortunately, this weekend we had reason to clean the apartment. We had people over! As in people who don't share blood with us. Yes readers, we are attempting to make friends in Germany. This does not mean that we will forget you, but simply that we will replace you with temporary-insufficient substibutes (just kidding about the insufficient part if you happen to be one of our new friends). Unfortunately, I do not have pictures of said new friends, but hopefully they will appear on the blog in the future. So, enjoy this virtual tour of the some of the apartment, and keep checking back for more posts.

This is the hallway from the living room. Moving clockwise, the doors lead to the guest bedroom, our bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom, and the outside hallway.



I'm waving to all of you in our bathroom mirror, though I look a bit like the boy from the Shining.
Here's the tub, sink, and storage . . .

and the toilet with our beautiful orchid (the shower is to the right).

This is the guest bedroom. The bed is big and very, very nice. You should all come visit just to verify the comfiness of the bed.


Here are Pecos and Justin (who says he looks old in this shot) on our bed.


Pecos wanted me to show his favorite spot in the apartment: his bed under my desk. The office still has some boxes in it, so I must wait to show you more pictures of it.

That's all for now. Have an excellent week!