I can’t believe it’s not clutter!

We hauled. We unpacked. We arranged. We unpacked. We rearranged. We unpacked.

And after all that unpacking, we bought some stuff and unpacked that. It got me so frustrated I had to get this step-stool stuck on my head.




Phones are even confusing; here's a pic of a European phone plug.

Unless you’ve done it before, you have no idea what it’s like to bring all your electronic devices to Europe hoping that they’d work if you just buy one of those voltage-changer-thingies. Well folks, let me tell you, it ain’t easy. Those voltage-changer-thingies don’t come easy or cheap or one-size-fits-all or user-friendly or in fun colors.

Nope, they come in ugly colors and are very difficult to work with. Most plug-in-voltage-adapter things convert U.S. plugs to mainland Europe plugs, but we bought one and tried to use two others that convert U.S. plugs to U.K. plugs. The old tenant also left two of them with broken fuses (who knew they contained “fuses”?). Some have switches; some don’t. And some things, like lamps and computers, don’t need ‘em. It’s like Harry Potter flavored jelly beans. Most are bad, few are good, and the ones that are good still give me bumps on my tongue after I lick them.

But, after days of confusion and small electrical fires, we’re unpacked, hooked up, and ready to blow a fuse.

Our place is great, btw. I just asked Kate what she likes about it and transcribed her comments. Here’s what she said:

“I like that it’s old, it has high ceilings, the kitchen is functional, that it’s painted colors – it’s not just white – that it has views of trees out of all of the windows, it has an office that fits two desks, it has built-in shelving units because there’s NO CLOSETS IN GERMANY, the bathroom is like two times the size of our one in Chicago, no, like FIVE times – our bathroom in Chicago was like CRAZY small – it has a balcony that Pecos likes to watch the day on, did I say it has views of trees? And the office is really great – it fits two desks…”

On and on it went. But, I’m happy here; Kate’s obviously happy here; and Pecos is continually spooked by the mysteriously loud clangs that toll from the church every fifteen minutes. His ears go back and he tatters closer to mom, eyes aglow with unknown fear, every time that happens.

This is the view from the front door. I feel it’s a bit too Martha Stewart Living, but, hey. What do I know?




And here’s the office (with two desks) that I'm writing this from. You can probably guess from the wires that this is where the first electrical fire will be.

A break from our normally scheduled program

I know there are some individuals who read this blog who feel there is too much dog here, but bear with me. If you've been to my parents' house sometime in the last 15 years, you most likely met Barney. Sadly, Barney has eaten his last marshmallow, chased his last rock, and wagged his last wag. Barney passed away Sunday night.

Please give your pets (or someone else's pets) some extra love for me. Pecos seems to think I have already given too much love to him and I have officially infringed on his strict 22-hour a day sleep schedule. I hope all the furry, feathery, and scaly ones in your lives live as long and happy a life as Barney did.

P.S. Liz, is this better than charades or worse?

Moving in

Finally. We're happy to report that after months of living enslaved in a small hotel room, eating out every day, getting maids to clean our place, and having free television and laundry, that we're finally free.

Last Tuesday we got our keys to our new digs and have been cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. We've also been buying lots of Ikea stuff, putting together lots of Ikea stuff, and, of course, getting frustrated with Ikea stuff.

But the greatest happiness of all is unpacking our goods and thinking, "why do I still have this shirt?" At least that's me.

More pics and updates to come shortly!

Yay for blackberries

My mom has a blackberry. My boss has a blackberry. But I now have 650,000 of ‘em.

Or something like that.

Kate and I took Pecos to one of his favorite haunts this afternoon – a sunny wheat field that has since gone fallow, leaving in its place acres of high grass, clumps of dirt so brown they looks like coffee grounds, and twigs galore. This is Pecos’s turf. Ain’t no one gon’ mess with Pecos on his turf.

But before Pecos could gambol off into the sunset, Kate and I stumbled upon one of nature’s miracles: a merry prairie of blackberries.

OK, so that’s a little queer. But we were extremely happy to have found that Pecos’s playground is encircled by patches of blackberry bushes. (And not the digital ones that my mom and boss have). So, Kate and I did what any other ambitious hunter-and-gatherer would do: find an empty poop bag and fill it with the delicious fruits.

So, I don’t think we really gathered 650,000 of them. But we did get a bunch. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Neither of us even stretched or bent down to reach one. And we only plucked for 15 minutes.

Anyway, we were excited. Or at least I was. Now if only I knew how to make jam….

Baked Bean Ward

First, thanks to all of who participated in the car naming. We were impressed with the creative names provided by Mac Willershmidtendorfenlagerbutt, Hugo Von Weekendtrips, Anonymous (though I think it's Phil), and the Ward's Sr. Ultimately, the winning name was picked by Josh Korr.

Josh suggested the name Li'l Bean, which matches the shape and size of the car perfectly. My initial idea for the car's name was Baked Bean. Justin and I enjoy pretending we're from Boston and saying things like, "Bring the Ka around front," and "Where did you pok (park) the Ka?" So I thought Baked Bean, as in Boston Baked Bean, would suit the car. Josh simply reaffirmed the name. Of course, let's also remember that beans are my favorite food and Pecos likes them too so we're a bit partial to having a family member named Bean.

Now you all must come to Germany so you can meet and take a spin in Baked Bean Ward.

Watch out for another exciting poll next week when we ask you which picture to put on which wall in our new place.

Cabin fever

The hotel workers here know our names. They ask us about our weekend trips and how our dog, Pico, is doing. They raise their eyebrows when asked a stupid question (like, where are the ice machines again?) and get embarrassed when I request my FULL bill – all 62 pages – to be printed.

Yes, by the time we leave the American Arms hotel next week, Pecos and I will have stayed here for 120 days. Flat. We’ve seen the seasons change through the wide, double-paned windows flanked by hideous floral curtains. We’ve heard the tukatukatukatukatukatuka of luggage rolling on the bricks underneath our second-story window so many times that it lulls us to sleep now. And we’ve eaten so many vanilla and peach yogurts from the daily continental breakfast that the “good” bacteria in my intestines is probably becoming homicidal from the congestion.

Our toilet stinks, the TV’s broke, and the shower makes Kate’s hair squeak. I think the Kashi cereal box that’s been sitting by the TV now for four months said something the other night. We’ve bought so much stuff in the past several months that this place is starting to look like a squirrel’s nest in October – packed, packed, packed. I think I’ve contracted cabin fever. Or maybe that’s the cheap hotel soap. Aaarrrrhh!

Whew. Glad that’s out…

Despite all that, we’re still pretty happy. The government’s been paying the bill, we haven’t made a bed in months, and Pecos is happy having less territory to defend. Being without a kitchen has also allowed us to sample a lot of the restaurants in the area. Has that made us put on a few pounds? Sure. But who’s counting?

When we say goodbye to room 220 in seven days, it’ll be bittersweet. Kate and I will be excited to see our old stuff again and rearrange furniture enough times that our downstairs neighbors will start to lose their hearing. But we’ll have to say goodbye to the Kashi box, the peach yogurt, and the blue speckled rug that has shown up in the background of all our Pecos pictures.

C’est la vie.

Until the next post where we show you our new place…..

Nameless car

Good news: we just bought a new car. Well, not "new" as in "can I smell the interior?" new. But new for us. And we're very excited!

It's a 2002 Ford Ka. It's Italian (born in Naples) and has only had one owner.

It's purplish-blue (also known as "Deep Navy") and it has lots of the usual features (power windows/locks/steering, CD player, ABS, airbags, etc.). It has 36,000 km on the odometer and is superfun to drive. It's very Euro. It's inexplicable, but everytime I'm in it, I put on a little German accent and feeling like singing "Da, da, da!"

It's got a small engine (1.4 liters), but is pretty eco-friendly. The unfortunate slogan is "Nothing stands out like a Ford Ka." Whatever that means.

But here's the problem: it has no name.

We need your help coming up with one and will consider just about anything, especially names uncomplimentary to Italians.

Attached are some pictures to help you....

Czech us out

The Czech Republic has a lot to offer, including cheap eats, good beer, a nasty language, and charming cities. The biggest and best of these cities is Prague, the aggressively capitalistic capital that is making up for 45 years of communist oppression with the sales of shirts that shamelessly read, "Czech Mate," "reality Czech," or "Will you take a Czech?" Barf.

Bad puns aside, with rolling green hills and unspoiled forests encircling the "City of a thousand spires," Prague is awesome. Rick Steves says its his favorite place to take a stroll. Kate says she hates Rick Steves. But both agree that it's definitely worth a revisit - any takers?


On this trip we met up with Chicagoans Sarah Barnes and Paul Bhasin, a musical couple who were touring the towns in this small Eastern European country because of brass performances Paul was putting on. Their accompaniment (pun) was great and exciting and really allowed us focus on exploring for the sake of exploration, no strings attached.

Their visit didn't end on a high note, unfortunately, as Paul probably broke one of those small bones on his foot when he overestimated the adroitness of my balance. Yup, after we were both talking about how we each have put on a few pounds in the last couple months, Paul saw a grassy field and decided that he wanted to do some calisthenics - specifically, he wanted to imitate the circus performance of muscular and poised gymnasts by having me stand on his shoulders while he walked around.

Well, as you can see, flabbery will get you no where. I fell and the full force of my 180 lb. frame landed solely on the sole of his foot, bending it in an unnatural position and causing him tremendous pain for the remainder of his trip. Sorry, man. Next time we'll have to play chess or something.

OK, so getting back to Prague.... Known as Praha to the beer-drinking locals, Prague is possibly the most confusing town to navigate because of its small streets, masses of gawking tourists obscuring your view of street signs, and boisterous groups of Brits celebrating a Stag party in the rowdiest fashion. But, if you can make your way through it all and manage to abide by all the rules (like this sign that says, "no hackey-sacking!") then you'll find the beautiful sites that you're looking for.

One thing we were wary of was the artistry - the con artistry, that is. With capitalism came entrepreneurial con artists with inexplicable math skills who work at exchange booths and or who work as ordinary waiters that double charge your credit card. Although we think we survived unscathed, there were probably a couple times that danger, in one form or another, lurked ominously near - like in this picture where an unsuspecting Kate and Paul are oblivious to the danger of the imposing, carnivorous cathedral peaking over the facades of nearby buildings, ready to pounce and devour its favorite prey: young, lost, American tourists.

But despite all these dangers, Kate said she'd love to go back. Especially so she too can take advantage of the galleries, cafes, boutiques, and gawking tourists.

Below are some more pics of our weekend adventure. In one of these, my cocky self-assuredness and attempt to be cool gets in the way of my sight, as I somehow am blind to the fact my belly and underwear are both showing. Nice. Another one shows more proof of the smallness of my shirt.

The others are just too cute to exclude.

Living with zee Chermans

So we’ve been living in this country called Deutschland for about four months now, but we haven’t said much about the town of Wiesbaden where we actually live. So here’s some info with some pictures sprinkled throughout:

Wiesbaden, which a recent visitor (Rob Homeyer) phonetically spelled Veesbaaden, is a town with about 300,000 of zee Chermans. The Yankee population totals about 5,000 peeps, so it’s really quite often (and quite unfortunate) that you see the gray Disney characters sweatshirt that has marked American travelers for the better part of 20 years. But, I guess if you compare that to the equally stereotypical spikey hair, chunky-glasses-wearing, small-collared-jacket sporting European who’s probably sporting a speedo underneath his tight jeans, they kinda equal out. Man, I’m going to hell.

Anyway, as unassuming as the town may seem, Wiesbaden can be known as the Forrest Gump of all German cities, being that it has inadvertently and unexpectedly found itself at the center of many significant historic events. Let’s discover Wiesbaden:

HISTORY
Like many European cities, Wiesbaden dates back to the time when dinosaurs had their own advanced civilization (like in that show with the purple dino baby with the frying pan who says “not the mama!”), but continuous occupancy of the city began with the Romans in the year 6.

The Romans liked the place because it had thermal springs. Eventually its springs turned into famous bath houses known the world over. In the 1800s, the town became one of the premier hot spots for traveling European dignitaries, including Goethe, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Richard Wagner, and David Hasselhof.

Germany's then-ruler, Kaiser Wilhelm II, loved the spa city so much that he used his own money to supplement the operations of the "Royal Opera," which drew in affluence. In fact, during the late 1800s, there were more millionaires living in Wiesbaden than any other German city. During World War II, Wiesbaden has a history like no other. Much like in the movie Magnolia where it rains frogs at the end, Wiesbaden had some other type of weird, edible rain: Chocolate. Here’s the story, as told to me by some guy at my work:

Once the Americans landed on D-Day, we took control of the Air Base at Chievres, Belgium, and we combined with the Brits to start day-and-night bombing raids on the manufacturing centers in the area. Frankfurt. Darmstadt. Stuttgart. Mainz. One of the fighter jets on the American side was shot down while flying over Mainz (Wiesbaden's twin city located directly across the river) and the body of the killed Soldier was dragged around the city and hung up in public as a whipping boy. Sort of the prize sap that the locals could propel their hate upon. Well, of course this atrocity was caught on tape and put across international press, which so infuriated the American public that the expression, "Save one for Mainz" was established, meaning, ‘hey Soldiers, every time you fly a bombing raid, save one for Mainz.”

So for the rest of the war, every bomber on every raid flew back over this area and dropped a bomb on Mainz. Except for the central church, the city was literally annihilated.

So what about the chocolate? Well, just to prove the point, Wiesbaden, the other side of the river from Mainz and always the land of aristocracy and wealth, got the opposite attention. Because Wiesbaden had no strategic importance to the war effort – and mostly just to show the locals in Mainz that the bombing WAS in fact personal – Hershey bars were dropped here.

Later, in 1947, Wiesbaden became the site of Air Force Headquarters in Europe. One of the Air Force’s first big missions was the Berlin Air lift, which famously provided around-the-clock flights to Berlin, dropping food and provisions to the West Berliners and famously saving them from oppression under a communist rule. This effort all happened from Wiesbaden.

TODAY
Today, it’s a pretty, upscale, cobblestoney town with lots of old folks and fountains that spew forth VERY hot liquid. The fountains spew hot liquid, that is...not the old fogeys. It doesn’t get much tourism, other than those brave old souls who bare it all at the “textile-free” thermal baths. It has a lot of ice cream shops, shoe stores, and is perfect for walking. Think downtown Annapolis, but bigger. And instead of Annapolis’s harbor, sprinkle some hot-water fountains around.

Oh, and to complete the Forrest Gump analogy, in 2009, the U.S. Army Forces in Europe is going to move its headquarters here, making it the focal point of all Army actions in 91 countries on three continents.

REGION
Wiesbaden is in the Rhein valley, known for its white wine and topless blondes who perch themselves atop large rocks and lure sailors to their watery death through their siren songs.

Its valley location makes summers warm and winters mild. Overall, I’d compare the weather here to that of Vancouver, Canada – it rains enough that moss grows on trees and grass is always green, but there are tons of sunny days, so Pecos can enjoy his walks without cowering under my umbrella. This summer has apparently been a “hot” one, with the last couple weeks having consistent highs in the 80s. Hot, but not Texas. The winters see snow, but not too much and at infrequent intervals. Usually an inch here, an inch there and it’ll always melt (or get rained on) in a week.

Nightfall doesn’t come until 10:30 in the middle of the summer – and the sun will rise at about 5:30. But, as with nature, the opposite is true in the winter, with daylight lasting from 8:30 – 4.

It’s about a 20-minute drive to the Frankfurt airport (the biggest in Germany) and a six-hour drive to Berlin. We’re about 1.5 hours from France, three from the Netherlands, and four from Switzerland. Within a six-hour drive are the following: Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague, Salzburg, the Alps, Paris, and the best cheese in the world.

WHAT’S SIMILAR
Other than Jolly Old England, Germany is probably the country most similar to the U.S. The radio and MTV sound American, the TV shows are mostly the same (but dubbed), the variety of food options is similar, and there are no big differences in customs (not like in Bulgaria where nodding means no or like in Greece when you are spit on for good luck). The language is not too distant from English, the gum tastes the same, and things generally work like they should.

WHAT’S DIFFERENT
Germany is the best country for dogs, as they’re allowed everywhere except for grocery stores (for obvious MUST—BITE—WURST--AND--POOP--IN--DECORATED--FRUIT--BASKET reasons). Smiling at strangers is apparently verboten here, but the dour nature eases once you get to know someone. On the deficiency list, Germans are known for being nosey, passive-aggressive worriers who give unwanted, unsolicited advice and have a VERY different idea of customer service. On the plus side, they’re typically environmentally friendly, law-abiding citizens who value quiet hours and Sunday strolls.

Also, A/C is rare, public transport is EXPENSIVE, and the idea of “health” food is a veggie burger suffocated with hollandaise and a side of fries.

OK, that's all. Pictures and a blog of Prague coming soon.

Our first anniversary

Neither Kate nor I are that sentimental. While in Florence, we yawned while swimming through crowded streets filled with passionate Italian couples eating gelato and staring lustfully into each others' eyes. While in Vienna, I think we both chocked back a little vomit while trying in vain to ignore the masses of young lovers making out in the park. And today, on our one year anniversary, we could easily have slept in, watched a movie starring Hugh Grant, and drank the fruit of the vine until we reminisced romantically about the 12 busy months that have passed since we both said "I do."

But instead we went kayaking in the rain.

Well, to be honest, it wasn't raining when we started. But we probably should have taken the drizzle on the drive there as a harbinger of cats and dogs.

Speaking of dogs, Pecos came, too. This was his first kayaking experience, so we were obviously worried that he'd freak out and poop himself in the kayak. But he seemed to enjoy the trip so much that he cried out in excitement while hanging off the edge of the boat trying to catch the droplets of water falling off of the midstroke of Kate's oar.

He even got so excited that, in an effort to catch a droplet, he lept into the water, conducted the worst triple sowcow ever, and completely submerged himself before doggy paddling it toward the shore.

Adding to the unromantic nature of the trip, a passing barge lowered the level of the water enough to get us stuck on some rocks. While trying forcefully to push ourselves off, Kate didn't see the water rush back in and lift the kayak on top of the rock where her hand was. She ended up with a deep cut and an excuse not to paddle back to base camp.

While not overtly romantic, our trip had a certain excitement to it that fit our personalities very well. I can't wait to see what our next year holds....

P.S. Donations of self tanner are welcome. Kate can't read the packages to decipher how to apply the tanner and is unsure of which formulas will turn her into an oompaloompa. Obviously, the need is dire.

A puppy runs through it

Pecos channeled his inner boyscout on our short hike through the green hills of central Germany today, as he bravely piloted us around the highest mountain in the area. Even in midday, the suns rays dull in these mountains, always seeming to get lost somewhere behind the thick green pines.

Today's hike was a dirty one. The rain was off and on, but the little that fell managed to turn dirt into mud and turn Pecos's coat into a superpowered soil magnet. Only inches off the ground, Pecos's pink underbelly wasn't safe either, seemingly mopping up whatever small twig or spek got in it's way.

In keeping with the mantra of the outdoors, I took only pictures and Pecos left only footprints - and a chewed up plastic bottle of nes-cafe he found behind a tree. All in all, we thoroughly enjoyed the hike. Kate even naively attempted to have a relaxing picnic on top of the mountain, but was thwarted by Mother Nature's unending fued against hikers: the inopportune cloudbursts, the blight of the biting bugs, the inexplicable smell of rotting something or other.

But Pecos didn't seem to mind. Heck, he practically thanked god for the bounty of of things to put in his mouth: sticks, pine cones, foreign mammal poop. He'd forge through a mile of studded thorn bushes and miniscule prickers just to chew on a muddy twig.

But he's clean now. And tired. Probably dreaming about that mucky nes-cafe bottle....