Below are some visual aids for those who might have trouble with word play or be a bit daft.
Soon, we'll have France pictures and a blog for you. Maybe we'll even make Justin's mom (who is visiting us (YAY!)) be a guest blogger!
Kletterwald, which means climbing forest, is an area about the size of a football field that looks a lot like what I would assume basic training looks like, sans military folk. There are literally dozens of trees that are connected through a complicated web of ropes and wires. And crazy people like Kate and I actually pay good money to clamber on these ropes and wires, scaring ourselves half to death and injuring ourselves in the process. What fun!
At first, the average person at Kletterwald will climb to a platform located about 15 feet from the ground and feel confident as they calmly but wobbly walk across 10 or so suspended wooden boards. "That was nothing," they'll say to no one in particular as they nervously wipe their sweaty palms on their pants. "Ha, that was too easy."
Then, panic begins to settle in as they see the next test is to traverse a 20-foot gap using nothing but six or so hanging stirrups. Gulp.
The whole course takes about three or four hours - and after it's all done and your hands are worn from kung-fu-death-gripping the ropes, and your legs are trembling from the exertion-and-adrenaline cocktail, you look back at the tire swings and zip cords and think, "What the hell was I thinking? I need a freaking drink!"
Anyway, Billy...Billy? Billy, pay attention when I'm talking to you! OK, good. Thanks for writing - I hope I answered your question.
Also, Billy, we just thought you should know that there's more to do than just climb trees. In fact, Kate and I recently came back from a short business trip to Holland, where there are lots of things to do. If you ever go there, you should know that there are tons of friendly people in Holland - most of whom are located in and around what's officially called the seedy area. Yes, these friendly people openly welcome all tourists - and especially Americans - into their "coffee shops" so they can show you all the special things that you can't get anywhere else without serving five years with good behavior.
There's also an area called the "Red Light District," which surprisingly doesn't have as many red lights as you'd think. It does, however, have a lot of equally (and perhaps more) friendly people who wave at you through their big glass windows. They all look very friendly and seem to gesture passers-by to go inside and meet them - like there's some sort of freshly baked blueberry pie inside that you absolutely must try.
Holland is also great because they have lots of fatty foods, urinals on the street, and big wooden shoes to climb in. That alone is enough to entice most people to visit. 
So we’ve been here for six months now and I wanted to share my thoughts about living here. I've divided my thoughts into a couple non-exclusive sections, below. Please ask for clarification if you'd like. Kate and I would be more than happy to make up some answers.
Culture shocks: There are two.
First, as I’m sure all you smart, attractive, and seasoned Germany travelers know, the Germans are a very organized volk. Just hearing the words “Kaiser Wilhelm” makes my back stiffen a bit and makes me antsy to clean my desk and gel down that errant cowlick.
But here’s a little-known fact about the Western European Wurstmeisters: They can't queue. Their version of an organized single-file line looks like herd of Soldiers desperately grasping for a spot on the last helicopter leaving Saigon. A jumble. A cluster. And it doesn’t make boarding a plane or waiting for tickets very fun.
Second, and more interesting, is the German's inability to say excuse me. As you know, Western Europe is a bit more densely populated than, say, South Dakota. So space is at a premium – grocery store aisles aren’t as wide, restaurant tables are closer together, etc. In fact, I’m not surprised anymore when older men ask Kate to sit on their laps ... to conserve space, of course.
Anyway, knowing that personal space is limited, both Kate and I felt compelled to use the words “excuse me” when we first got here. I mean, one doesn't want to draw attention to oneself in a foreign country by acting impolite, right.
Well, oddly enough, the German word for excuse me, “entschuldigung,” is foreign language to even the Germans. What does that mean? The Germans seem to have chosen to avoid the word completely, choosing instead to accept day-to-day physical contact as a part of life. For instance, when traversing a crowded grocery store aisle, they plow ahead like Arctic ice-breaking ships, not uttering a word. Or, when entering a subway train, it’s not uncommon to have your feet trampled on or rolled over. If you look up at them as they’re doing it, they’ll look surprised – as if you should be somewhere else.
Some other surprising (but culturally unshocking) things are:
Booze: It’s cheap. A decent bottle of wine is around $2 per bottle.
Cheese: It’s everywhere, delicious, and super cheap. $0.99 for a piece of brie the size of my hand.
Yogurt: Again, super cheap and much better than anything Dannon could make.
Talk: Is cheap. (Sorry, Pecos made me say it).
Weather: Much more mild than expected. Actually, like the German outlook on life, the weather is usually partly cloudy. But the summer was warm and sunny, September had perfect weather almost every day and October, although rainy, has yet to force me to wear a jacket. Unfortunately, the thick clouds of despair appeared to have oozed in and will, within a month, probably nail themselves down until spring - like a big puffy pillow over Germany.
Food: Hearty is not a bad term to use here. Neither is heart disease. But that's just German food. We’ve also been pleasantly surprised by the non-German cuisines offered here: Vietnamese, Indian/Pakistani, Chinese. We also have our pick of tapas, pastas, and pizza. No burritos, though. No bagel shops either.
Little things: The military’s commissary – home to the uparmored $160 tactical seedless grape (with a 73% failure rate and designed to withstand a SCUD missile) – is very convenient. We shamelessly buy most of our groceries there. The American theater is small, but offers first-run American movies for cheap ($3.50 per ticket). In fact, we went to see a movie (the Lakehouse) tonight. Public transportation is everywhere. The streets are clean. But the sewers stink.
Dogs: More than any other nation on the planet, Germany loves dogs. More than France even, with their little Frenchie dogs who sip Café O’lé while nibbling on pains au chocolat between puffs of their cigarette. Sure, the Germans have their share of small dogs (Dachshunds, Schnauzers, Affenpinschers) but big German dogs are popular too (Shepherds, Dobermans, Rottweilers). Sometimes they get their own seats at restaurants (not kidding) and they can always find a bowl of water wherever there are shops.
The Euro: I have nothing against the euro. Other than looking like it was designed by preschoolers, it's a good currency. But, being an average American, I know nothing about how exchange rates work. So let me tell you: The price for things looks the same in writing - a menu at an average Italian restaurant, for instance, displays prices like 10,99 for pasta, 13,99 for some sort of chicken parmesan, etc. This leads simple Americans like myself to believe the prices are just like dollars….but I'm wrong. The price in dollars is 25% extra.
Why, you ask? Here’s why: European governments have brainwashed Klaus, Pierre, Guido and the rest of those Europeans into thinking money is for saving. "Save it in seat cushions!" the governments demands. "Under the bed," "In treasure chests!" etc. This saving, however, causes scarcity. And according to my ECON101 professor, when things are scarce, they rise in value. This is due to something called the law of the absolute advantage which states that the aggregate of marginal return causes a variable rate in the futures of foreign direct investment which.... I don't know. I got a C-. Either way, adding 25% to things stresses me out. And it does nothing for my rash I'm starting to develop under my left armpit. I think I might have to spend my insulin money just to buy Pecos dogfood.
Travel: Obviously this is da bomb (although on second thought, I probably shouldn’t use the word bomb when discussing travel). Flights are cheap, gas is OK (we pay U.S. prices), places are close, and hostels are everywhere. And since it's so cheap to fly, we sometimes pay more to stay in a city than to fly there. It’s kind of addictive, in fact – although I can usually control it with the help of my rash medication.
Anyway, if any of you happen to be coming to Europe and Kate and I can stay for free in your hotel room or friend's place, you bet your booties we’ll be there. (Question for the group: why would anyone actually bet their booties?)
Yes, we travel a lot and we love it. It’s so exciting and adventurous that sometimes I think it can’t all really be happening. Like I’m in a major motion picture starring Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger…. No, scratch that. But our adventures probably could be made into a romantic comedy of sorts – starring Chad Michael Murray (me) and Mandy Moore (Kate) in which they travel across all nine continents searching for adventure only to find that what they really wanted wasn’t fine dining on Volkswagonkindergardenweinerschnitzel Strasse, but was being at home, spending time with family.
Well, don’t get too sentimental just yet. We’ve still never dined on Volkswagonkindergardenweinerschnitzel Strasse. But we'll let you know.
Work: My job is great. I seriously couldn’t have a better boss or a better organization to work for. There are travel opportunities, professional development opportunities, and, best of all, there is flexibility over what I do. In my last job, I had no choice over what I did. My boss pushed me around and loomed over me like the Sith, ensuring I did his evil deeds. Here, I have a voice. (Now I just need to develop a spinal cord…)
All in all, living in Europe is awesome. But it's even better when people come to visit! 
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
and the toilet with our beautiful orchid (the shower is to the right).
That's all for now. Have an excellent week!
