Oops, we did it again - rented a vacation home in some place we have never been before and finally I decided that I have to develop a list of questions to ask of every landlord I ever intend to rent from again.
Firstly, I have to say, that I am a strong believer in renting homes vs staying in hotels for a number of reasons, mainly having to do with space and second bedrooms. The reader of the older posts in this blog might recall all the nights Uli and I spent sitting and quietly reading in various bathrooms around the world while Max slept in the bedroom. The alternative was hardly any better: very early nights.
So here is my personal list of important citeria to inquire into aside form the obvious which is generally addressed in the ad or posting anyway (# of bedroom, bathrooms, internet access, location, location, etc.)
let's start with the bedrooms: as this place here in Guadaljara proves again an apartment with 3 bedrooms doesn't automatically sleeps six, even if the ad wants you to believe that. Going forward I will ask very specifially about the size of the bed and not be content with a general "sleeps two" or "double" type of discription. Sure, the beds here might sleep two: 3 year olds, or sub-zero size runway models: a 6'2" guy and a 5'10" gal won't sleep a minute in those beds together especially with Mr. 6'2" being a tosser and turner. Next times it is inches, centimeters or whatever other objective measure might exist.
Moving on to bathrooms: there seems to be a rule that all the bathrooms in every single vacation home is furnished and outfitted by a straight male who never shaves. I cannot otherwise explain the lack of adequate lighting, mirrors or both in pretty much every bathroom I have ever set my foot into. I mean, come on, a single 25 W bulb in a ceiling fixture mounted in a way that it is in my back when standing in front of the mirror. I am not even thinking eye-liner here, or eyebrow tweezing - simply putting in those awfully slippery, bouncy soft contact lenses is pretty much impossible. Worse yet: no mirror at all. I can't even brush my teeth without a mirror, nor can Max by the way, as it seems vitally important to him to make faces at himself while brushing.
So next time I will ask pointed questions about light fixtures, bulb wattage. Petty? Maybe, but a bad bathroom spoils a lot of good vacation vibe.
While I am on the topic of lighting: I think 25 Watt bulbs should be outlawed worldwide. There is nothing really, one can do with a 25 W bulb - for anything you actually need your eyes for they are too dim, things you rather do in the dark - well, they are too bright. But somehow the vacation home landlords of this world must all buy them in bulk.
Heating system. Here she is in Mexico complaining about the lack of a heater. You might think me crazy but hold on, you might change your mind when I tell you that Mr. 6'2"-I-love-snow-camping slept in his jacket the first night here because it was "unseasonably" cold, the blankets don't deserve the name, and - silly us - we didn't come equipped with ski underwear. The four last times when I was really cold - as sleeping in my jacket cold - I was in Baja California, Southern India (okay, at 1,500 m in the Western Ghat mountains), southern Spain and now Jalisco (I seem to vaguely remember being awfully cold in southern China as well at some point or another back when I traveled there). "Unseasonably" cold just seems to happen an awful lot to me. Since the Mexicans, Spaniards, southern Indians and Chinese probably won't all install heating sytems on the odd chance that I might pay a visit I will going forward inquiring in the availability of plenty of warm (ideally down) blankets in all rooms and for all people and in all seasons.
Kitchen: another important reason for renting a house/apartment is the kitchen that allows for such boring activities as preparing breakfast or even the occassional lunch or dinner - a really great feature especially if you travel for an extended period of time. Restaurants can get old for all but the most hardcore restaurant enthusiasts like Max. Now kitchen to me implies: fridge, stove, oven, maybe microwave, sink - and stuff like forks, pots, knives to cut veggies with, pans, dish towels, a collander - enough to fry eggs, put butter on a roll, prepare pasta plus sauce and on an adventurous day maybe even a salad. One would also expect not to find rats in that room, and it should be reasonably clean. The things I have seem (as in dead rat behind the stove), the money I have spend on buying dish towels, pans, spoons, ....
Nobody really expects a milk foamer though our place in Spain had one, plus similarly useful things like lemon slice squeezers - which come in handy when taking high-tea - a potato masher, and an apple corer - which really never come in all that handy.
So, unfortunately, the next time I rent a place I will have to pretty much get a complete inventory of the kitchen to be sure I will actually be able to spread the butter we bought on the bread we bought rather than having put layers it on with a steak knife and fry my eggs in a pan that has a 25% incline.
Other than that: wireless Internet access is crucial, if not available its BYOR (bring your own router) plus IT department (in this case fortunately the husband doubles as IT department).
Forget about TV, even if you happen to speak the language somewhat tele novelas get old real fast as do Bollywood movies.
"Close to the center of the city" means very different things to different people, just like an "easy ride by bus". Thank Sergey and Larry for Google Earth!
"Quiet" also means very different things to different people, loud music until 2 am night seems perfectly normal to most Mexicans but the same thing in Germany (or Boston for that matter and here I am speaking from experience) can land you or someone you know in jail (albeit for a very short time).
Can't wait to rent my next place. Better start now, as it will take some time to find the perfect house!
"
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Izamal, the yellow city
Last year we discovered Izamal by chance when we had to take a detour on our way to Chitzen Itza to get gas. We didn't have much time then but made a note-to-self to go check it out next time we were around. That next time was now and so we took a little trip to Izamal and staid for a couple of nights.
We traveld the local way this time: by bus. It is a short distance from Merida and we knew we wouldn't need a car while there. It was all in all a pretty pleasant way to travel and I was surprised to see that when it comes to punctuality the Yucatecos are more German than the Germans. When we got to the terminal three minutes late (okay, we thought we were 27 minutes early but an unexpected schedule "adjustment" had happend overnight) the bus had already left. So we boarded the next one 45 minutes later and took of on the minute. This, though, is where the similarities to the German bus system end. We made countless unplanned stops for people to get on and off just there and I can't be sure but had the sneaking suspicion that the occassional little detour occured to accomodate a passenger whos house wasn't on the main route. Vendors entered the bus on one end of a little town bringing on board a steady supply of popcorn, fried I-don't-know-what-but-I-know-it-ain't-healthy stuff, tacos and sweets and got off on the other end, no doubt to hitch a ride with the next bus going the opposite direction. It was a good way to get a feeling for all of those little towns that aren't in any guide book because they simply have nothing to offer what the American or Eurpean tourist would care to see. Some of these twons (actually all of them) can only be discribed as extremely modest and that would be an understatement. Poor little houses, some with dirt floor, tiny with what must surely be roofs that leak like crazy during the rainy season, unpaved roads, the smallest "spuermarkets" known to mankind and always a central plaza with a church.
The whole trip of just uner 2 hours could have been relaxing and educational if it wasn't for the bored 4 year old next to me seeking entertainment. The game he had thought up this time was to find as many as possible silly answers to the question: why do policemen carry guns? Needless to say that after about 30 minutes the answers got exceedingly silly and after about an hour we had to both declare defeat (we were taking turns) - neither one of us could possibly think of even the most outlandish reason.
So we finally puttered into Izamal with its yellow houses (in my humble opinion they are of a light orange color but people keep telling that I am color-blind which is nonsense as color-blindness is recessive and resides on the Y chromosome which makes it impossible for me to be color-blind unless I have a novel and very rare mutation on my x chromosome - but I'll leave the genetics for some later blog). Anyway, I like to think that I have a refined understanding of color that allows me to differentiate between shades of light orange that mere mortals can’t possibly ever achieve.
So we schlepped through town, with the little rollerboard in tow (highly inappropriate choice of luggage) until we found our B&B – a pleasant surprise with small little huts in a lush green setting, a pool and Germans and Americans ever which way you turned.
Izamal therefore knows tourist but they are few and far between (outside the walls of the B&B, that is). If you take the cars, motorcycles and blue gleaming TVs out of the equation you’d feel like you are in a different century (or two).
The central plaza with the huge yellow/orange convent dominates life. At 7 am there is more going on there than at 7 pm (this ain’t nightlife central). Vendors setting up stands to sell a lot of fried I-don't-know-what-but-I-know-it-ain't-healthy stuff, tacos, peeled mangos on sticks (yum, healthy!), traditional clothing, religious paraphernalia etc. Little old ladies come paddling on huge tricycles loaded down with everything they need to make all the unhealthy I-don’t-know-whats, set up candles with the picture of the Virgin Mary, or walk around with one to three grandchildren in tow to get the morning’s supply of tortillas. They generally wear the traditional white embroidered dress and it absolutely beats me how they can keep these things so sparkling clean. I just take one step outside in my khakis and black t-shirt and I am dirty (let’s not even talk about Max …) and here the little old ladies run around all day in those bright white dresses, peeling mangos – an infamously messy undertaking- riding bikes, sweeping and not a d... spot.
There were a whole bunch of horse drawn carriages around town, basically horse-taxis which I first thought where for tourists but there weren’t enough tourists around to keep half those horses busy. So, upon closer examination, I concluded – validated by empirical data – that the locals were hiring the horse taxis to get around town. Crazy scientist that I am I collected data until it was too late for us to actually ride one of those things …
To be continued
We traveld the local way this time: by bus. It is a short distance from Merida and we knew we wouldn't need a car while there. It was all in all a pretty pleasant way to travel and I was surprised to see that when it comes to punctuality the Yucatecos are more German than the Germans. When we got to the terminal three minutes late (okay, we thought we were 27 minutes early but an unexpected schedule "adjustment" had happend overnight) the bus had already left. So we boarded the next one 45 minutes later and took of on the minute. This, though, is where the similarities to the German bus system end. We made countless unplanned stops for people to get on and off just there and I can't be sure but had the sneaking suspicion that the occassional little detour occured to accomodate a passenger whos house wasn't on the main route. Vendors entered the bus on one end of a little town bringing on board a steady supply of popcorn, fried I-don't-know-what-but-I-know-it-ain't-healthy stuff, tacos and sweets and got off on the other end, no doubt to hitch a ride with the next bus going the opposite direction. It was a good way to get a feeling for all of those little towns that aren't in any guide book because they simply have nothing to offer what the American or Eurpean tourist would care to see. Some of these twons (actually all of them) can only be discribed as extremely modest and that would be an understatement. Poor little houses, some with dirt floor, tiny with what must surely be roofs that leak like crazy during the rainy season, unpaved roads, the smallest "spuermarkets" known to mankind and always a central plaza with a church.
The whole trip of just uner 2 hours could have been relaxing and educational if it wasn't for the bored 4 year old next to me seeking entertainment. The game he had thought up this time was to find as many as possible silly answers to the question: why do policemen carry guns? Needless to say that after about 30 minutes the answers got exceedingly silly and after about an hour we had to both declare defeat (we were taking turns) - neither one of us could possibly think of even the most outlandish reason.
So we finally puttered into Izamal with its yellow houses (in my humble opinion they are of a light orange color but people keep telling that I am color-blind which is nonsense as color-blindness is recessive and resides on the Y chromosome which makes it impossible for me to be color-blind unless I have a novel and very rare mutation on my x chromosome - but I'll leave the genetics for some later blog). Anyway, I like to think that I have a refined understanding of color that allows me to differentiate between shades of light orange that mere mortals can’t possibly ever achieve.
So we schlepped through town, with the little rollerboard in tow (highly inappropriate choice of luggage) until we found our B&B – a pleasant surprise with small little huts in a lush green setting, a pool and Germans and Americans ever which way you turned.
Izamal therefore knows tourist but they are few and far between (outside the walls of the B&B, that is). If you take the cars, motorcycles and blue gleaming TVs out of the equation you’d feel like you are in a different century (or two).
The central plaza with the huge yellow/orange convent dominates life. At 7 am there is more going on there than at 7 pm (this ain’t nightlife central). Vendors setting up stands to sell a lot of fried I-don't-know-what-but-I-know-it-ain't-healthy stuff, tacos, peeled mangos on sticks (yum, healthy!), traditional clothing, religious paraphernalia etc. Little old ladies come paddling on huge tricycles loaded down with everything they need to make all the unhealthy I-don’t-know-whats, set up candles with the picture of the Virgin Mary, or walk around with one to three grandchildren in tow to get the morning’s supply of tortillas. They generally wear the traditional white embroidered dress and it absolutely beats me how they can keep these things so sparkling clean. I just take one step outside in my khakis and black t-shirt and I am dirty (let’s not even talk about Max …) and here the little old ladies run around all day in those bright white dresses, peeling mangos – an infamously messy undertaking- riding bikes, sweeping and not a d... spot.
There were a whole bunch of horse drawn carriages around town, basically horse-taxis which I first thought where for tourists but there weren’t enough tourists around to keep half those horses busy. So, upon closer examination, I concluded – validated by empirical data – that the locals were hiring the horse taxis to get around town. Crazy scientist that I am I collected data until it was too late for us to actually ride one of those things …
To be continued
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Merida Revisited
Almost a year after we first came to Merida as part of our sabbatical (I have settled on calling it sabbatical, everything else, e.g. six-month vacation or tour halfways around the globe, or extended trip just sound way too luxurious, especially in light of the current economic situation. "Sabbatical" at least implies some type of work or study) we are back for another mini-sabbatical or poor-economy sabbatical - just three weeks ;-)
We all worked hard over the last six months, including Max who's English has gotten much better and who has pretty much managed reading in both German and Spanish (still slow, but what do you expect from a 4-year old) and so we decided - against better judgement and the backdrop of a tanking economy that we would go after all. Life is cheap in Merida, we decided, we can have lunch or dinner at the food stalls of Santiago Parque for $10 between the three of us, which seems to be the price of a pound of coffee or a loaf of bread plus a bit of butter at Safeway these days. I guess we have become Americans after all - casting aside our frugal European roots and engaging in a bit of dancing on the volcanoe just before it is about to erupt.
I was curious about how it would feel to get back, familiar, strange, new, old, interesting, exciting, none of the above? It is actually hard to tell for me because I was sick and tired (literally) when getting here but since then it has been fun to rediscover Merida. I think it is fair to say that no revolutionary changes have happend since we left in mid-February for India. Little differences we noticed: there seem to be somewhat more renovated houses around - but maybe we just gotten more used to some of the delapidation around us and so it doesn't register as much anymore. There seem to be fewer "Se Vende" signs on houses, last time around, every other house seem to be on sale, now I'd say no more than 20%. We were obviously speculating why that is: less sellers, or fewer buyers so people just took those, which have not been moving forever off the market. A new law seems to be going into effect on Jan. 1 subjecting foreigners who sell their houses to a 28% capital gains tax - which will probably put a big damper on the desire and ability of foreign house owners to sell them after Jan 1.
The Meridians are a jolly as ever, we went to the Zocalo last night - a normal Monday evening - and found it buzzing with people, vendors, musicians (unforunately of the pan flute type), kids playing, lovers smooching, families milling about - if anything it was even bussier than when we were last here.
We got here on Christmas day and for this first week Pamela was staying with us. We had a few adventures together the biggest being exploring Campeche, the capital of the Mexican state by the same name. It is one of the three states that makes up the Yucatean peninsula, together with Yucatan and Quintana Roo (where Cancun is). According to all accounts Campeche is a beautiful little town and an UNESCO World Heritage site. I had really wanted to go there last time around but somehow four weeks proved to be too short for the trip. So this time it was high on the list and since Pamela wanted to see it as well we took off Saturday for a two night trip.
And, indeed, it was lovely. Little colonial houses in all colors of the rainbow plus all pastels conceivable to mankind plus a few others I don't have names for. In the center of town a big iglesia, busy with people, a wedding going on on Saturday night, people out and about, kids playing with the square closed for cars on Saturday and Sunday and the big old wall around town that successfully kept the pirates out for centuries. We staid at a nice hotel, eat at a very nice seafood restaurant that was very kid-friendly on top of everything. The weather was warm but not overly hot and so the idea of moving to Campeche crossed our minds more than once.
From there we went to explore Edzna, another big historic Mayan temple site and found out very soon what the weak spot of Campeche is: street signs. But the huge detour, the illegal U-y across a grassy middle lane and the dent to the rental where worth it, Edzna was definitely worth the trip although Max kept whining that he really wanted to go to Uxmal instead. (in Max's world nothing is worth trying for the first time, only things that have been done before - by us - are worth doing).
Sunday night Pamela took Max out for "bread and games" while Uli and I walked through town (carefully peeking around corners to avoid bumping into them) and eventually had another nice dinner at the seafood restaurant, this time without constantly checking whether somebody is about to pull the tablecloth off the table, screams on top of his lungs or borrows his fingers to the knuckles in his nose (a new obsession).
A really nice scene was going on on the central square (typically, that was the only time in the week since we got here that I leaft the house without my camera - we were just going to have dinner and it is dark outside anyway ...): tables were set up and around them clustered large groups of little old local ladies (mainly) playing Bingo with old boards with numbers and symbols and glass thingies like the ones sometimes used in flower vases to fill up the bottom to mark the numbers they had. In front was a table with the "lotteria" lady who would use a megaphone type thing to call out the number she had drawn out of an old and odd contraption and everybody would go to work busily and place their glass thingies. The winner eventually called "lotteria" and the games was over. I could have staid and watched for hours but Pamela and Max were just around the corner playing mini-golf (that is Max was on all fours doing - something - and Pamela stood by looking a little puzzled from afar) and since Max hadn't spotted us jet it was wiser to make a quick exit.
Now we are back in Merida, its New Year's Eve and despite everything we heard or assumed the city is dead quiet. We had expected and gone as far as promised Max a big fiesta with fireworks and dancing on the Zocalo, tons of fun and opportunities to play with kids and bewitch little old ladies but nada, nothing. The Zocalo was extermely quiet, most stores are closed and several people we talked to told us that this is family day. Many people seem to be celebrating in Progresso on the beach and here we walked through completely deserted streets. All a little puzzling to me, they never skip an opportunity to celebrate here - and now this.
So it is Margaritas at home and surely Jan 5 and 6 - the birthday of Merida - will be celebrated in a big way with musica und bailar, comida typica de Yucatan y fuego artificial (fire works). It better - we already promised Max to make up for the disappointment.
We all worked hard over the last six months, including Max who's English has gotten much better and who has pretty much managed reading in both German and Spanish (still slow, but what do you expect from a 4-year old) and so we decided - against better judgement and the backdrop of a tanking economy that we would go after all. Life is cheap in Merida, we decided, we can have lunch or dinner at the food stalls of Santiago Parque for $10 between the three of us, which seems to be the price of a pound of coffee or a loaf of bread plus a bit of butter at Safeway these days. I guess we have become Americans after all - casting aside our frugal European roots and engaging in a bit of dancing on the volcanoe just before it is about to erupt.
I was curious about how it would feel to get back, familiar, strange, new, old, interesting, exciting, none of the above? It is actually hard to tell for me because I was sick and tired (literally) when getting here but since then it has been fun to rediscover Merida. I think it is fair to say that no revolutionary changes have happend since we left in mid-February for India. Little differences we noticed: there seem to be somewhat more renovated houses around - but maybe we just gotten more used to some of the delapidation around us and so it doesn't register as much anymore. There seem to be fewer "Se Vende" signs on houses, last time around, every other house seem to be on sale, now I'd say no more than 20%. We were obviously speculating why that is: less sellers, or fewer buyers so people just took those, which have not been moving forever off the market. A new law seems to be going into effect on Jan. 1 subjecting foreigners who sell their houses to a 28% capital gains tax - which will probably put a big damper on the desire and ability of foreign house owners to sell them after Jan 1.
The Meridians are a jolly as ever, we went to the Zocalo last night - a normal Monday evening - and found it buzzing with people, vendors, musicians (unforunately of the pan flute type), kids playing, lovers smooching, families milling about - if anything it was even bussier than when we were last here.
We got here on Christmas day and for this first week Pamela was staying with us. We had a few adventures together the biggest being exploring Campeche, the capital of the Mexican state by the same name. It is one of the three states that makes up the Yucatean peninsula, together with Yucatan and Quintana Roo (where Cancun is). According to all accounts Campeche is a beautiful little town and an UNESCO World Heritage site. I had really wanted to go there last time around but somehow four weeks proved to be too short for the trip. So this time it was high on the list and since Pamela wanted to see it as well we took off Saturday for a two night trip.
And, indeed, it was lovely. Little colonial houses in all colors of the rainbow plus all pastels conceivable to mankind plus a few others I don't have names for. In the center of town a big iglesia, busy with people, a wedding going on on Saturday night, people out and about, kids playing with the square closed for cars on Saturday and Sunday and the big old wall around town that successfully kept the pirates out for centuries. We staid at a nice hotel, eat at a very nice seafood restaurant that was very kid-friendly on top of everything. The weather was warm but not overly hot and so the idea of moving to Campeche crossed our minds more than once.
From there we went to explore Edzna, another big historic Mayan temple site and found out very soon what the weak spot of Campeche is: street signs. But the huge detour, the illegal U-y across a grassy middle lane and the dent to the rental where worth it, Edzna was definitely worth the trip although Max kept whining that he really wanted to go to Uxmal instead. (in Max's world nothing is worth trying for the first time, only things that have been done before - by us - are worth doing).
Sunday night Pamela took Max out for "bread and games" while Uli and I walked through town (carefully peeking around corners to avoid bumping into them) and eventually had another nice dinner at the seafood restaurant, this time without constantly checking whether somebody is about to pull the tablecloth off the table, screams on top of his lungs or borrows his fingers to the knuckles in his nose (a new obsession).
A really nice scene was going on on the central square (typically, that was the only time in the week since we got here that I leaft the house without my camera - we were just going to have dinner and it is dark outside anyway ...): tables were set up and around them clustered large groups of little old local ladies (mainly) playing Bingo with old boards with numbers and symbols and glass thingies like the ones sometimes used in flower vases to fill up the bottom to mark the numbers they had. In front was a table with the "lotteria" lady who would use a megaphone type thing to call out the number she had drawn out of an old and odd contraption and everybody would go to work busily and place their glass thingies. The winner eventually called "lotteria" and the games was over. I could have staid and watched for hours but Pamela and Max were just around the corner playing mini-golf (that is Max was on all fours doing - something - and Pamela stood by looking a little puzzled from afar) and since Max hadn't spotted us jet it was wiser to make a quick exit.
Now we are back in Merida, its New Year's Eve and despite everything we heard or assumed the city is dead quiet. We had expected and gone as far as promised Max a big fiesta with fireworks and dancing on the Zocalo, tons of fun and opportunities to play with kids and bewitch little old ladies but nada, nothing. The Zocalo was extermely quiet, most stores are closed and several people we talked to told us that this is family day. Many people seem to be celebrating in Progresso on the beach and here we walked through completely deserted streets. All a little puzzling to me, they never skip an opportunity to celebrate here - and now this.
So it is Margaritas at home and surely Jan 5 and 6 - the birthday of Merida - will be celebrated in a big way with musica und bailar, comida typica de Yucatan y fuego artificial (fire works). It better - we already promised Max to make up for the disappointment.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Back in Sunnyvale
In this last post of the Travel Adventures with the Tool-Kid blog I am going to try and explain how it feels to be back in Sunnyvale, back at the place that Max still wonders about - as in "This is our home?"
We returned in the middle of the night. Uli's friend Andy picked us up at the airport which was very fortunate and helped a lot given that neither of us really knew what time it was - actually and in our bodies. Max had been really great, he actually slept voluntarily on both flights, just sort of curled up on top of us, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. I guess he has become such a traveling veteran that he doesn't find flying exciting enough anymore to stay awake. Needless to say that both flights - from Vienna to Chicago and from Chicago to SFO - were just absolutely awful. On both flights every last seat was taken so when Max slept we were either standing in the aisle or he was lying on top of us which - trust me - can get pretty uncomfortable after three hours. I learned that one can't sit on the floor in a plane, I got up so Max could stretch out and had that silly notion that by the door in the back I could just sit, cross-legged and read a book for a bit but - oh no - that is against regulations: one has to stand. So I crouched down and - you guessed it - that wasn't allowed either. Seems like ones butt has to have a certain clearance from the ground - everything else is forbidden. In Chicago we had one of these "delayed incoming flight" thingies going and 94 people on the stand-by list. We started with about 2 hours delay after sitting for at least one hour on the tarmac - an all time favorite of mine.
But we eventually made it back in one piece. Only the bag we got in India which accompanied us on Indian planes and trains as well as on European planes, trains, cars and busses and survived all of that in very good shape got destroyed on the very last leg of the trip between O'Hare - where we cleared customs and it was still okay - and SFO. No surprise really, that's when the United Airlines people took over, carelessly dragging it around by one handle thereby ripping the top apart.
As an aside, United Airlines accomplished something rather rare, 10 years ago I was a loyal customer. I'd fly United even if it cost a little more, they were my airline and I liked them. Now I hate them, I hate them with a vengenance and if there is anything I could do to make live miserable for them I would. The managed in a few short years to turn me from a loyal customer into an enemy. That is not a small accomplishment! Those kids at O'Hare dragging bags around with the most bored expression possible - taking obvious pride in being as destructive as humanly possible without using outright violence or putting knives or explosives to the baggage they are entrusted with - convinced me again that the golden rule of flying is to avoid any and all American airlines (and United in particular) if you can at all help it and if this means stopping over in Karachi it is probably worth doing.
Anyway, here we were back in our house that really didn't look much like ours mainly because all out personal stuff was still stored away and also because it feels strange to return after such a long time and find that things are essentially the same but just not quite. I opened the cupboard without looking wanting to take a glass out but wait, where the glasses used to be are now the bowls and where the bowls used to be are now the plates and what is the cheese grinder doing next to the wok? I am sure there are very good reasons for storing the cheese grinder next to the wok and it is a perfectly legit thing to do - I just can't imagine ever doing it.
Then we started the search for Max's bed which I found pretty quickly but his blanket remains unaccounted for to this day. I know I will find it in some unlikely place and then I will remember how I put it there thinking that I will never forget that I put the blanket in - say - the freezer and promised myself that I would never forget that I stored it in such an ingenious place.
The first week was all about putting stuff away and doing necessary repairs and modifications (the grass-green wall in the walk-in closet would fall in that category and - in case you wondered - it looks awesome). We slowed down quite a bit by now and so there is still chaos abound but at least the clothing is organized, the kitchen sort of and the bathroom mainly. Don't ask about my office and don't even think about asking about the garage.
The first week was full of surprises of the not so good kind. I knew about the gas prices, about $4.50 per gallon and therefore almost 4 times as much as in 1999 when I came here, but I wasn't prepared for the 50 - 100% price increases in other products. My trip to the farmer's market prooved eye-opening: the bretzels I used to buy at the German bakery used to cost $1. A bit much but okay as a once a week acknowledgement of my German heritage. Now the same darn things are $1.75 and with that 75% price increase in just 6 month they are off the shopping list. I will miss then dearly but I am not crazy - bretzels I'll eat next when I am back in Germany. Then there was the visit at Max's favorite Chinese Dim Sum place ("oh, yummy, spinach!" form my child who would rather die than eat an ounce of spinach at home). This is how it used to work: we drive there and by the time we entered the parking lot I would jump out of the car and with no regard to good manners or bodily injury to others or myself bolt into the place pushing people aside as I run. I would run up to the counter and from afar start screaming something like "table for three" or just "three!". At this point they would hand me a small piece of paper with a number scribbled on it, generally something like 57 or 83. Then I would wait, eventually Uli and Max would join and we would hear them call "number 24, party of 4" or something like it. Eventually 57 or 83 would be called and we'd get a table. So, this time I did just that, jump out of the car, run to the counter, yell "party of three" and the hostess looked at me a bit strange and said "follow me". I was like "did I hear this correctly? Follow her where?" but she was already marching into through dining room and pointed at a table in the back. I said: "I don't like that table, I want another one up front" and she said "just give me a second" and indeed by the time Uli and Max arrive three seconds later I was already seated at a different table, tea being served and the Dim Sum ladies with her carts where upon me. The explanation came later when it turned out that the lunch which would have cost us maybe $25 six month ago now was $37. Ticker-shocked we vouched to eat at home more frequently!
Max is back at Nelly's and still really likes going there. There are a couple of boys his age now which I am very happy about. I felt for a while that he needed more peers and now he has got them. His Spanish has unfortunately disappeared but seems to be coming back all right although Nelly told me on Friday that my little Latino who used to speak perfect accent-free Spanish ("Max no tiene accento") now speaks with a noticable German accent. The rolling Spanish "r" has become the German in-the-back-of-the-throat "r". We'll be working on that!
By now we are sort of moved back in - boxes still everywhere. The initial enthusiasm for cleaning has dwindled to a trickle especially since I have started working on a consulting assignment and I have to admit developing a strategy for a company beats cleaning the floors or putting underwear away any day. We are back but I still wonder whether we are home. I love our Eichler house but the sterility of the Californian suburbs is getting to me: no real city centers, one has got to drive everywhere and everything is so darn far. But no matter where you go it sort of all looks the same: gas stations, Home Depots, car dealerships, a million little Indian, Thai, Chinese, and Japanese restaurants (all of which I love) in faceless buildings, shopping malls - by now emptier than I have ever seen them because even the last person seems to have understood that they need to save money and stop spending more than they make on a regular basis. I miss walking to the center like we did in Merida, Florence, Kochi, Sevilla, Malaga, Konstanz, Vienna, and Graz where there are people walking, shopping, eating in outside restaurants, hanging out and playing in the parks. I miss old buildings, good bike paths, houses that aren't a mumbo-jumbo of French Country mixed with Hacienda and a bit of Old English castle thrown in for good measure (the Eichler buildings like ours being the exception to that).
I find myself checking flights, mainly to Merida because I really liked it there and because its the closest from here. Predictably the prices are crazy right now and so this is just day dreaming. In my head I have started to plan the next "sabbatical" - I have never been to Istanbul and really would like to see more of Eastern Europe, especially Albania, then there is Laos and South Africa and Namibia, Chile, more of Central America .....
If it ever comes to that I will let you know. Until that time: Good-bye, Tschuess, Ciao, Hasta Luego, Pinne Kanam (Malayalam), Servus and So Long.
We returned in the middle of the night. Uli's friend Andy picked us up at the airport which was very fortunate and helped a lot given that neither of us really knew what time it was - actually and in our bodies. Max had been really great, he actually slept voluntarily on both flights, just sort of curled up on top of us, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. I guess he has become such a traveling veteran that he doesn't find flying exciting enough anymore to stay awake. Needless to say that both flights - from Vienna to Chicago and from Chicago to SFO - were just absolutely awful. On both flights every last seat was taken so when Max slept we were either standing in the aisle or he was lying on top of us which - trust me - can get pretty uncomfortable after three hours. I learned that one can't sit on the floor in a plane, I got up so Max could stretch out and had that silly notion that by the door in the back I could just sit, cross-legged and read a book for a bit but - oh no - that is against regulations: one has to stand. So I crouched down and - you guessed it - that wasn't allowed either. Seems like ones butt has to have a certain clearance from the ground - everything else is forbidden. In Chicago we had one of these "delayed incoming flight" thingies going and 94 people on the stand-by list. We started with about 2 hours delay after sitting for at least one hour on the tarmac - an all time favorite of mine.
But we eventually made it back in one piece. Only the bag we got in India which accompanied us on Indian planes and trains as well as on European planes, trains, cars and busses and survived all of that in very good shape got destroyed on the very last leg of the trip between O'Hare - where we cleared customs and it was still okay - and SFO. No surprise really, that's when the United Airlines people took over, carelessly dragging it around by one handle thereby ripping the top apart.
As an aside, United Airlines accomplished something rather rare, 10 years ago I was a loyal customer. I'd fly United even if it cost a little more, they were my airline and I liked them. Now I hate them, I hate them with a vengenance and if there is anything I could do to make live miserable for them I would. The managed in a few short years to turn me from a loyal customer into an enemy. That is not a small accomplishment! Those kids at O'Hare dragging bags around with the most bored expression possible - taking obvious pride in being as destructive as humanly possible without using outright violence or putting knives or explosives to the baggage they are entrusted with - convinced me again that the golden rule of flying is to avoid any and all American airlines (and United in particular) if you can at all help it and if this means stopping over in Karachi it is probably worth doing.
Anyway, here we were back in our house that really didn't look much like ours mainly because all out personal stuff was still stored away and also because it feels strange to return after such a long time and find that things are essentially the same but just not quite. I opened the cupboard without looking wanting to take a glass out but wait, where the glasses used to be are now the bowls and where the bowls used to be are now the plates and what is the cheese grinder doing next to the wok? I am sure there are very good reasons for storing the cheese grinder next to the wok and it is a perfectly legit thing to do - I just can't imagine ever doing it.
Then we started the search for Max's bed which I found pretty quickly but his blanket remains unaccounted for to this day. I know I will find it in some unlikely place and then I will remember how I put it there thinking that I will never forget that I put the blanket in - say - the freezer and promised myself that I would never forget that I stored it in such an ingenious place.
The first week was all about putting stuff away and doing necessary repairs and modifications (the grass-green wall in the walk-in closet would fall in that category and - in case you wondered - it looks awesome). We slowed down quite a bit by now and so there is still chaos abound but at least the clothing is organized, the kitchen sort of and the bathroom mainly. Don't ask about my office and don't even think about asking about the garage.
The first week was full of surprises of the not so good kind. I knew about the gas prices, about $4.50 per gallon and therefore almost 4 times as much as in 1999 when I came here, but I wasn't prepared for the 50 - 100% price increases in other products. My trip to the farmer's market prooved eye-opening: the bretzels I used to buy at the German bakery used to cost $1. A bit much but okay as a once a week acknowledgement of my German heritage. Now the same darn things are $1.75 and with that 75% price increase in just 6 month they are off the shopping list. I will miss then dearly but I am not crazy - bretzels I'll eat next when I am back in Germany. Then there was the visit at Max's favorite Chinese Dim Sum place ("oh, yummy, spinach!" form my child who would rather die than eat an ounce of spinach at home). This is how it used to work: we drive there and by the time we entered the parking lot I would jump out of the car and with no regard to good manners or bodily injury to others or myself bolt into the place pushing people aside as I run. I would run up to the counter and from afar start screaming something like "table for three" or just "three!". At this point they would hand me a small piece of paper with a number scribbled on it, generally something like 57 or 83. Then I would wait, eventually Uli and Max would join and we would hear them call "number 24, party of 4" or something like it. Eventually 57 or 83 would be called and we'd get a table. So, this time I did just that, jump out of the car, run to the counter, yell "party of three" and the hostess looked at me a bit strange and said "follow me". I was like "did I hear this correctly? Follow her where?" but she was already marching into through dining room and pointed at a table in the back. I said: "I don't like that table, I want another one up front" and she said "just give me a second" and indeed by the time Uli and Max arrive three seconds later I was already seated at a different table, tea being served and the Dim Sum ladies with her carts where upon me. The explanation came later when it turned out that the lunch which would have cost us maybe $25 six month ago now was $37. Ticker-shocked we vouched to eat at home more frequently!
Max is back at Nelly's and still really likes going there. There are a couple of boys his age now which I am very happy about. I felt for a while that he needed more peers and now he has got them. His Spanish has unfortunately disappeared but seems to be coming back all right although Nelly told me on Friday that my little Latino who used to speak perfect accent-free Spanish ("Max no tiene accento") now speaks with a noticable German accent. The rolling Spanish "r" has become the German in-the-back-of-the-throat "r". We'll be working on that!
By now we are sort of moved back in - boxes still everywhere. The initial enthusiasm for cleaning has dwindled to a trickle especially since I have started working on a consulting assignment and I have to admit developing a strategy for a company beats cleaning the floors or putting underwear away any day. We are back but I still wonder whether we are home. I love our Eichler house but the sterility of the Californian suburbs is getting to me: no real city centers, one has got to drive everywhere and everything is so darn far. But no matter where you go it sort of all looks the same: gas stations, Home Depots, car dealerships, a million little Indian, Thai, Chinese, and Japanese restaurants (all of which I love) in faceless buildings, shopping malls - by now emptier than I have ever seen them because even the last person seems to have understood that they need to save money and stop spending more than they make on a regular basis. I miss walking to the center like we did in Merida, Florence, Kochi, Sevilla, Malaga, Konstanz, Vienna, and Graz where there are people walking, shopping, eating in outside restaurants, hanging out and playing in the parks. I miss old buildings, good bike paths, houses that aren't a mumbo-jumbo of French Country mixed with Hacienda and a bit of Old English castle thrown in for good measure (the Eichler buildings like ours being the exception to that).
I find myself checking flights, mainly to Merida because I really liked it there and because its the closest from here. Predictably the prices are crazy right now and so this is just day dreaming. In my head I have started to plan the next "sabbatical" - I have never been to Istanbul and really would like to see more of Eastern Europe, especially Albania, then there is Laos and South Africa and Namibia, Chile, more of Central America .....
If it ever comes to that I will let you know. Until that time: Good-bye, Tschuess, Ciao, Hasta Luego, Pinne Kanam (Malayalam), Servus and So Long.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
The Internet Black Hole Called Austria
Okay, so I owe you about three weeks worth of blogs - it turned out that Austria is so not happening when it comes to Internet access. All during our time in the countryside we didn't have access with the exception of one 30 minute period where the neighbor must have turned his router. I was exstatic announcing "Ladies and Gentlemen, we have Internet access" to Jasi and Uli but no sooner had I said that and blissfully started surfing it was gone again. Looks like the guy turned it on long enough to do his biweekly email check and then turned the router off again right away to conserve energy (we are talking Europeans here). Graz was hopeless altogether - no internet access at all, nada, nothing, not even an unsecured connection out there in our little hotel. A smokey Internet cafe down the street was all there was to be had. In Vienna we actually did have Internet access at our friends' place but we were there for such a short time that I just didn't have the the leisure of sitting down and write.
No we are back - I can't believe it - but more about that later. First a quick summary of the Austrian experience.
Austria was the most travel-intensive of our locations mainly because Uli wanted to cram a lot into the four week period and secondly because it really isn't such a great idea to stay in Fohnsdorf, his home village, for too long. I really get along with the in-laws fine but a week is enough, after that I can't guarantee for anything. So we did what we always do in Fohnsdorf, took little hikes, went to the local shopping mall, visited a few old churches, ate too much stuff that by no stretch of imagination can be called healthy, hang out with Uli's brothers and parents and ate cake at Tante Gerti's - and this time around we had the added "fun" of watching soccer.
Then, for one week, we stayed in a wooden cabin in a remote valley (well, as remote as things get in tiny Austria) called Johnsbachtal. Imaging "Sound of Music" if you are an American and imagine picturebook Alps if you have never heard of "Sound of Music" and there you have it: high, impressive, ragged mountains, green lush valley with little river, morning mist and evening Alpen glow. Old farm houses, a small church, six to eight restaurants, a small store with the wackiest opening hours and in the middle of all of that idyll our little cabin.
I have to say it is really cool to wake up, walk outside the cabin and look at a bunch of imposing mountains in all sorts of conditions - from sunshiny blue sky to grey, dark, cloudy dangerous skies but after a week I was ready to reenter society. We used the week well, though, I did three hikes none of which I thought I could do as easily as I did. I wasn't even particulalry sore after the couple of 2400 feet plus climbs and the really long hike I took with Jasi where we didn't climb all that much but covered a lot of ground. But Max had the best time of all of us thanks to the farmer and his 24/7 open door policy on the tool shop. You have no idea how many dangerous and therefore exciting things there are in a farmers tool-shop and how many others can be declared dangerous, explosive or otherwise impressive by an imaginative 4 year old. The other bonus was a tiny little cabin, not more than 15 square feet in front of the cabin. It had a chair, little table, cup and plate and a few other things and was declared promptly to be the exclusive property of Max. We grown-ups had to come visit and were served tea (imaginary), salad (grass), cake (stones or so), and the famos but entirely made up "trauberries" - a delicacy of Johnsbachtal. We three grown-ups took turns and each had countless teas every day while Max was talking away like only 4 year olds can - without a break, free flow of consciousness and no regard to the boredom of everybody else around.
As much fun as it was after a week of idyllic remoteness I was ready to face society again.
I was ready for houses, streets, cars and the occasional restaurant that serves something other than Styrian specialties (pork, pork and a bit of beef for a change served with small slivers of tomatos and yummy but serious baked desert, e.g. pancakes with jam and powdered sugar)
The third week in Austria we spent in Graz. Graz is the second largest town in Austria with a whopping 250,000 people but it is interesting beyond its size. It was the Culture Capital of Europe for 2003 and it shows: the architecture is an interesting mixture of old and super-modern. I totally love it: those palaces and historic buildings right next to something glass-metal modern I find creatively stimulating. One of the places I saw and really am intrigued with is an artificial island in he middle of the river (the “Mur”), its made of steel and glass in the shape of a mussel. It houses a cafe plus play area for the kids and is light in neon blue at night - cool! Then there is the modern art museum: I looks like a UFO, others say it looks like a model of a stomach and I guess it is a bit of both - totally organic shaped with little nubs sticking out, green glass with light circles flashing at night. I can understnd if one doesn't like it but one has to admire the guts and the vision with which that building was put next to the Mariahilfer Church, the historic houses and ubiquitos restaurants. I happend to like these things - every age has its style and we are looking at cities now and see buildings from many different centuries, why not add a 21st century flavor to it as well? Anyway, as always we walked around a lot, climbed the steep stairs up to the watch tower (pretty much the only thing left from the formerly proud castle which was destroyed by Napoleon - because he could), went to playgrounds, walked some more, met some friends and relatives of Uli's etc. At the pace we are used to go by now a week was over in a blink of an eye and before I knew it Jasi was gone back to Germany and we packed our suitcases and made our way to the train station and on the train to Vienna.
I have only once been to Vienna for any length of time and that was - more years ago than I care to admit and in the dead middle of a hard winter. So my memories were of theathers. museums, frozen feet, coffee houses and not much else. In fact, I didnn't like it at all then and was never very eager to come back. Coming in the middle of summer, though, was entirely different. Everybody is outside, parks and cafes are full of people, the ubiquitous tourists are everywhere, street artists are out in force by the "Steffl", Vienna's main cathedral. We had very little time but managed to squeeze a lot in: a walk through the city, a bbq with friends, a nice dinner, an afternoon at the Danupe (Max and Uli, me: another walk through the city), a tour of the wine bars - and all of that in like two days.
And then the day which I though wouldn't, just couldn't, come arrived and we were on our way to the airport with six carefully packed and weighed (not to exceed 50 pounds) pieces of luggage. Six months had just flown by and up until the time we landed in SFO in the dead of the night almost 24 hours later (including the usual delay in O'Hare) I didn't believe that our "great trip" - as we had started to call it - was over.
No we are back - I can't believe it - but more about that later. First a quick summary of the Austrian experience.
Austria was the most travel-intensive of our locations mainly because Uli wanted to cram a lot into the four week period and secondly because it really isn't such a great idea to stay in Fohnsdorf, his home village, for too long. I really get along with the in-laws fine but a week is enough, after that I can't guarantee for anything. So we did what we always do in Fohnsdorf, took little hikes, went to the local shopping mall, visited a few old churches, ate too much stuff that by no stretch of imagination can be called healthy, hang out with Uli's brothers and parents and ate cake at Tante Gerti's - and this time around we had the added "fun" of watching soccer.
Then, for one week, we stayed in a wooden cabin in a remote valley (well, as remote as things get in tiny Austria) called Johnsbachtal. Imaging "Sound of Music" if you are an American and imagine picturebook Alps if you have never heard of "Sound of Music" and there you have it: high, impressive, ragged mountains, green lush valley with little river, morning mist and evening Alpen glow. Old farm houses, a small church, six to eight restaurants, a small store with the wackiest opening hours and in the middle of all of that idyll our little cabin.
I have to say it is really cool to wake up, walk outside the cabin and look at a bunch of imposing mountains in all sorts of conditions - from sunshiny blue sky to grey, dark, cloudy dangerous skies but after a week I was ready to reenter society. We used the week well, though, I did three hikes none of which I thought I could do as easily as I did. I wasn't even particulalry sore after the couple of 2400 feet plus climbs and the really long hike I took with Jasi where we didn't climb all that much but covered a lot of ground. But Max had the best time of all of us thanks to the farmer and his 24/7 open door policy on the tool shop. You have no idea how many dangerous and therefore exciting things there are in a farmers tool-shop and how many others can be declared dangerous, explosive or otherwise impressive by an imaginative 4 year old. The other bonus was a tiny little cabin, not more than 15 square feet in front of the cabin. It had a chair, little table, cup and plate and a few other things and was declared promptly to be the exclusive property of Max. We grown-ups had to come visit and were served tea (imaginary), salad (grass), cake (stones or so), and the famos but entirely made up "trauberries" - a delicacy of Johnsbachtal. We three grown-ups took turns and each had countless teas every day while Max was talking away like only 4 year olds can - without a break, free flow of consciousness and no regard to the boredom of everybody else around.
As much fun as it was after a week of idyllic remoteness I was ready to face society again.
I was ready for houses, streets, cars and the occasional restaurant that serves something other than Styrian specialties (pork, pork and a bit of beef for a change served with small slivers of tomatos and yummy but serious baked desert, e.g. pancakes with jam and powdered sugar)
The third week in Austria we spent in Graz. Graz is the second largest town in Austria with a whopping 250,000 people but it is interesting beyond its size. It was the Culture Capital of Europe for 2003 and it shows: the architecture is an interesting mixture of old and super-modern. I totally love it: those palaces and historic buildings right next to something glass-metal modern I find creatively stimulating. One of the places I saw and really am intrigued with is an artificial island in he middle of the river (the “Mur”), its made of steel and glass in the shape of a mussel. It houses a cafe plus play area for the kids and is light in neon blue at night - cool! Then there is the modern art museum: I looks like a UFO, others say it looks like a model of a stomach and I guess it is a bit of both - totally organic shaped with little nubs sticking out, green glass with light circles flashing at night. I can understnd if one doesn't like it but one has to admire the guts and the vision with which that building was put next to the Mariahilfer Church, the historic houses and ubiquitos restaurants. I happend to like these things - every age has its style and we are looking at cities now and see buildings from many different centuries, why not add a 21st century flavor to it as well? Anyway, as always we walked around a lot, climbed the steep stairs up to the watch tower (pretty much the only thing left from the formerly proud castle which was destroyed by Napoleon - because he could), went to playgrounds, walked some more, met some friends and relatives of Uli's etc. At the pace we are used to go by now a week was over in a blink of an eye and before I knew it Jasi was gone back to Germany and we packed our suitcases and made our way to the train station and on the train to Vienna.
I have only once been to Vienna for any length of time and that was - more years ago than I care to admit and in the dead middle of a hard winter. So my memories were of theathers. museums, frozen feet, coffee houses and not much else. In fact, I didnn't like it at all then and was never very eager to come back. Coming in the middle of summer, though, was entirely different. Everybody is outside, parks and cafes are full of people, the ubiquitous tourists are everywhere, street artists are out in force by the "Steffl", Vienna's main cathedral. We had very little time but managed to squeeze a lot in: a walk through the city, a bbq with friends, a nice dinner, an afternoon at the Danupe (Max and Uli, me: another walk through the city), a tour of the wine bars - and all of that in like two days.
And then the day which I though wouldn't, just couldn't, come arrived and we were on our way to the airport with six carefully packed and weighed (not to exceed 50 pounds) pieces of luggage. Six months had just flown by and up until the time we landed in SFO in the dead of the night almost 24 hours later (including the usual delay in O'Hare) I didn't believe that our "great trip" - as we had started to call it - was over.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Day of reckoning with the Garlic Mafia
Today Uli and I went hiking while Jasi looked after Max. As I realized on the way up it was my first longish hike since before Max was born that means in a really long time. About 2600 feet of altitude gain is nothing to sneeze about especially when the route actually is fairly short and therefore steep with a capital S. If I do say so myself: I did better than anticipated, even had a little sprint at the end – where the cabin plus restaurant awaited us and on the way down heard the magic words from Uli: “Would you please slow down.” Yippee! Now, I could bore you with a detailed descriptions of the mountains, trees, plants and animals we saw, with geological or geographical details and such like but instead I am going to tell you about the big complot I realized is happening worldwide, but especially in Europe. Let me preface the story by saying that it is a well-known fact that work-outs bring out aggressions and also tend to have unpleasant and long forgotten bad feelings, experiences and prejudices boil up. The good thing is that work-outs are a good way of dealing with all that unpleasantness in a non-self-destructive way and, normally, once one gets off the treadmill or mountain that episode from 15 years back with the a…. of a boss is no longer a mind-consuming incident.
So after hiking up steep inclines for the better part of 2.5 hours and a quick early lunch in the restaurant and a quick descend half ways downs the mountain I realized that the garlic mafia is trying to vilify non-garlic eaters like myself in a major fashion. I do not eat raw garlic, it makes me feel hung-over without being even close to a class of booze, it leaves this disgusting feeling in my mouth and generally makes me feel slightly sick. So, years ago, I forsake the doubtful pleasure of eating raw or half-raw or almost cooked or more-or-less cooked garlic. I have, in addition, a hard time dealing with people who smell of garlic. It just really doesn’t smell that good, right. Sounds like a big deal to you? Not to me, at least not initially, but I have learned that it is a big deal; “big” in the sense of major. If somebody tells you casually over dinner that he/she doesn’t like sage or basil or fried chicken feet is that a big deal? No, nobody would think less of you for not liking sage or chicken feet and nobody would assume that something is fundamentally wrong with you – physically and psychologically, or both – if you told them that cumin just doesn’t sit well with you. Try this with garlic, I dare you, especially in the “alternative/ecologically-minded” circles in Europe and the effect couldn’t be more devastating if you had just announced to everybody that you slept with the hostess’ husband, despise puppies and kittens, and regularly eat endangered animals. You get this “oh my God she is such a wuss”-look, this “spoiled city-brad who despises the way of the real people”, this “does she think she is something better than us” look. Nobody ever believes you that your stomach just wasn’t meant to deal with raw stinky stuff, that your mouth feels rotten after eating it and that – strangely enough – you enjoy neither feeling. However, everybody assumes that you are faking it, that in reality you just feel superior to the common man, that you can’t take the raw and untamed power of garlic and that somehow that it is all in your mind and if you just gave up your evil or stupid ways and embraced the more enlightened path of the common garlic eater everything would be just dandy. You think I am overdoing it? Just another of Tina’s hyperboles! Hell, no. Have you ever heard of people who smuggle peanuts into the food of their peanut-allergic friends? Well, there were cases described on CSI and such like but generally the word used for people displaying such behavior isn’t “friend”, but more like “enemy”. I can’t count the number of times where people – with a smirk in their face like they just accomplished something real clever - said something like “I heard you do not like (nobody ever says “that you have a bad reaction to”) garlic but I smuggled one in the salad dressing/pasta sauce/dip anyway. Do I always realize it on the first whiff? No - ask your peanut-allergic friend whether he/she always notices milligrams of peanuts in every food and I guarantee you the answer is “no”, else CSI wouldn’t have a storyline. But I sure do notice when I wake up at night, feel like I had about a dozen shots of cheap tequila and my mouth tastes like something big and furry died in there – a while ago.
I hope you are not looking at me for an explanation. I am puzzled, I don’t get when, why and how eating garlic ever became the hallmark of a good, decent, grounded person. Why garlic, why not coriander, curry, chilly? Does its stinkiness have something to do with it? Is it the ultimate test of love and commitment? Is it sort of like the wedding vows but instead of “in good and in bad days, in health and in sickness” ”it is “after champagne or five gloves of garlic, wearing Chanel or ‘Eau de Garlic’”? I, for one, am sick of it: sick for justifying that I do not eat that stuff (raw) when it is okay that everybody else doesn’t eat pork or fish or horse radish or butter or anything red or gummi bears, pears, soy sauce, snow peas, …. Henceforth I will just simple say: “I hate the stuff. It tastes like s… and it stinks. Now take that!” The effect will be the same but at least I will feel good about it.
So, that was going through my mind as I descended from the mountains amidst trees and flowers, gurgling creeks and waterfalls, surrounded by butterflies and alpine mammals the rugged grayness of the Austrian Alps rising another 3000 foot around me. I guess I should work out more often to reach such profound, life-changing decisions.
P.S. The farmer has Internet access but unfortunately does the router not work with it and also are they holding a close second position to Greislye when it comes to virus infection. Uli found on a first sweep almost 200 viruses and spyware – no wonder it takes about 10 minutes to open Explorer.
So after hiking up steep inclines for the better part of 2.5 hours and a quick early lunch in the restaurant and a quick descend half ways downs the mountain I realized that the garlic mafia is trying to vilify non-garlic eaters like myself in a major fashion. I do not eat raw garlic, it makes me feel hung-over without being even close to a class of booze, it leaves this disgusting feeling in my mouth and generally makes me feel slightly sick. So, years ago, I forsake the doubtful pleasure of eating raw or half-raw or almost cooked or more-or-less cooked garlic. I have, in addition, a hard time dealing with people who smell of garlic. It just really doesn’t smell that good, right. Sounds like a big deal to you? Not to me, at least not initially, but I have learned that it is a big deal; “big” in the sense of major. If somebody tells you casually over dinner that he/she doesn’t like sage or basil or fried chicken feet is that a big deal? No, nobody would think less of you for not liking sage or chicken feet and nobody would assume that something is fundamentally wrong with you – physically and psychologically, or both – if you told them that cumin just doesn’t sit well with you. Try this with garlic, I dare you, especially in the “alternative/ecologically-minded” circles in Europe and the effect couldn’t be more devastating if you had just announced to everybody that you slept with the hostess’ husband, despise puppies and kittens, and regularly eat endangered animals. You get this “oh my God she is such a wuss”-look, this “spoiled city-brad who despises the way of the real people”, this “does she think she is something better than us” look. Nobody ever believes you that your stomach just wasn’t meant to deal with raw stinky stuff, that your mouth feels rotten after eating it and that – strangely enough – you enjoy neither feeling. However, everybody assumes that you are faking it, that in reality you just feel superior to the common man, that you can’t take the raw and untamed power of garlic and that somehow that it is all in your mind and if you just gave up your evil or stupid ways and embraced the more enlightened path of the common garlic eater everything would be just dandy. You think I am overdoing it? Just another of Tina’s hyperboles! Hell, no. Have you ever heard of people who smuggle peanuts into the food of their peanut-allergic friends? Well, there were cases described on CSI and such like but generally the word used for people displaying such behavior isn’t “friend”, but more like “enemy”. I can’t count the number of times where people – with a smirk in their face like they just accomplished something real clever - said something like “I heard you do not like (nobody ever says “that you have a bad reaction to”) garlic but I smuggled one in the salad dressing/pasta sauce/dip anyway. Do I always realize it on the first whiff? No - ask your peanut-allergic friend whether he/she always notices milligrams of peanuts in every food and I guarantee you the answer is “no”, else CSI wouldn’t have a storyline. But I sure do notice when I wake up at night, feel like I had about a dozen shots of cheap tequila and my mouth tastes like something big and furry died in there – a while ago.
I hope you are not looking at me for an explanation. I am puzzled, I don’t get when, why and how eating garlic ever became the hallmark of a good, decent, grounded person. Why garlic, why not coriander, curry, chilly? Does its stinkiness have something to do with it? Is it the ultimate test of love and commitment? Is it sort of like the wedding vows but instead of “in good and in bad days, in health and in sickness” ”it is “after champagne or five gloves of garlic, wearing Chanel or ‘Eau de Garlic’”? I, for one, am sick of it: sick for justifying that I do not eat that stuff (raw) when it is okay that everybody else doesn’t eat pork or fish or horse radish or butter or anything red or gummi bears, pears, soy sauce, snow peas, …. Henceforth I will just simple say: “I hate the stuff. It tastes like s… and it stinks. Now take that!” The effect will be the same but at least I will feel good about it.
So, that was going through my mind as I descended from the mountains amidst trees and flowers, gurgling creeks and waterfalls, surrounded by butterflies and alpine mammals the rugged grayness of the Austrian Alps rising another 3000 foot around me. I guess I should work out more often to reach such profound, life-changing decisions.
P.S. The farmer has Internet access but unfortunately does the router not work with it and also are they holding a close second position to Greislye when it comes to virus infection. Uli found on a first sweep almost 200 viruses and spyware – no wonder it takes about 10 minutes to open Explorer.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Austria here we are
Last Sunday Jasi and I took the long drive to Fohnsdorf, Uli's hometown in Styria. It's isn't all that far as the crow flies but then there are the Alps - sort of in the middle of everything - and a large detour up to Munich then down to Salzburg and then down south and East along the Mur-Valley. It was a nice drive but - predictably - as we got closer to Fohnsdorf it started raining. That was predictable because I haven't spent a single day in that village over four or five years now when it didn't rain, literally. All everybody ever told me was: "we had such great weather last week, last month, sometime in the past" - didn't help me much as I was sitting there, freezing at like 12 degress Celsius in drizzle or worse pouring rain with a toddler who was taking the in-law's apartment apart out of sheer boredom. And, unfortunately, there are many things in this apartment a toddler can destroy by just looking at it crossly.
We were, though, sort of lucky this time. It hasn't really rained hard since we got here and yesterday it didn't rain at all, it didn't even look like it was going to rain - best day here ever.
So, what did we do? Honestly, there isn't all that much to do here. It's a village of 8,000 people who's claim to fame is that it it Europe's largest village (I guess, I have to read up on the technical definition of the term "village") - and that is it. Being a former coal-mining village, located in a broad valley, it lacks the typical Austrian-steep-valley-and-mountains charm in fact it is more like little Liverpool in Austria. The people are friendly but hard to understand. After many years of practice I can manage more or less okay but once they get started in their local dialect all bets are off. For one they don't want their vowles to be lonesome and so pretty much every vowel gets a companion. To me it often seems random but I am sure there is some method to the madness. Let me give you an example: nice or gentle or cute is "lieb" (pronounced like "leeb") but in Styria it is "liab". Can't have a lonesome "i" now, can you and the "e" doesn't count as it isn't pronounced therefore let's throw and "a" in. "o" seem to get a companion-a as well, the "u's" get "o's" and so forth, and then there are the exceptions. Conversely, diphthongs tend to get divorced - just for the heck of it. Just think of what they make of the name of a nearby town called Leoben! To my horror my little one has started to pick up certain idiosyncracies of the language. It is amazing with what ease he says the most difficult vowel minglings which I, honestly, just can't pronounce. Not sure, though, whether I like him running around screaming: "soa a woahnsiann" ("such craziness" a comon saying meaning everything for "this is starck raving mad" to "this is phantastic").
We got here just in time to see Austria loose to Germany during the European soccer championship. Everybody knew that this was the very likely outcome but hopes run high that there would be a miracle, that God himself would intervene on behalf of the underdog. Well, seems like he/she was busy doing something else and so Austria lost, albeit not spectacularly, to Germany. To be on the safe side I had parked our car with German license plates off the street but the Fohnsdorfer took it all in good humor and Dad's car survived untouched. The locals I talked to before the match were in fact accutely aware of the hopelessness of the situation. The busdriver whom I had a conversation with actually recommended that the Austrian team would do better "knitting than kicking" (makes little sense in English but is kind of a cute rhym in German "besser stricken als kicken"). That didn't deter the fans, in fact pretty much the whole nation from showing up in the publich viewing spaces called "fan miles" (large screen TV's, lots of beer) dressed in red and white, with red and white face paint and red and white wigs. Sort of cute how grown men tend to make complete idiots out of themselves when it comes to black-and-white balls.
We visited the local coal mining museum with Opa, who used to work in the pit before the whole operation was closed down some time in the late 70s or early 80s. As usual Max got to sit in places and operate machines and levers other kids don't ever get to touch. I have to admit that the actual pit was a very uncomfortable place: predicatbly tight and low and narrow but also cold when we all had expected it to be warmer down there. I guess we just weren't close enough to the center of the earth yet to feel the heat. Must have been a real sucker of a job, especially in the early days when they did everything by hand and kids - who from the pictures didn't look more than eight years old - where working alongside the men.
Jasi and I took a couple of trips to the local shopping mall but having such limited suitcase space really takes the fun out of shopping. Everytime I see something nice I have to wonder where the heck I am going to fit it and by and large the answer is "nowhere" and so the sale ain't happening.
Other than that there is a lot of sleeping going on, naps in the afternoon and such like. Last night we where outright debauched when between Jasi, Elisabeth (my sister in law) and myself we drank a bottle of Prosecco and two bottles of something that I am reluctant to admit I ever tasted for fear that everybody will think that I lost my mind but so be it: it was some very strange concoction of some type of bubbly alcohol with fruit juice, sugar and yoghurt (yeah, that ain't a typo), it was opaque and came in the beautiful colors of purple (blueberry), red (strawberry) and orange (peach) - the last one we refused to even taste. For somebody who likes her champaign super-dry with a slight yeasty note this would by no stretch of imagination count as a beverage of choice. But, when in Rome do as the Romans.
While we were drinking and chatting Germany scored a surprise victory over Portugal, the clear favorite in this match. We didn't watch the game but Elisabeth's son provided updates on the goals the German's scored and the Portuguese living across the street made sure we knew about the goals the Portuguese scored. Tonight Croatia, Jasi's home country, is playing Turkey for a spot in the semi-finals and so Opa and Jasi are watching while I am writing. I am getting a huge dose of soccer after all and I might want to add: it just started raining.
Tomorrow we will leave for the boonies, that is that remote valley with cabin that Uli selected for our second week in Austria. Allegedly the farmer who's cabin we are renting has high-speed internet access - how the times have changed! So there will be updates from nowhere, or rather Jonsbachtal, a place pretty unknown to humankind in the remote parts of upper Styria.
We were, though, sort of lucky this time. It hasn't really rained hard since we got here and yesterday it didn't rain at all, it didn't even look like it was going to rain - best day here ever.
So, what did we do? Honestly, there isn't all that much to do here. It's a village of 8,000 people who's claim to fame is that it it Europe's largest village (I guess, I have to read up on the technical definition of the term "village") - and that is it. Being a former coal-mining village, located in a broad valley, it lacks the typical Austrian-steep-valley-and-mountains charm in fact it is more like little Liverpool in Austria. The people are friendly but hard to understand. After many years of practice I can manage more or less okay but once they get started in their local dialect all bets are off. For one they don't want their vowles to be lonesome and so pretty much every vowel gets a companion. To me it often seems random but I am sure there is some method to the madness. Let me give you an example: nice or gentle or cute is "lieb" (pronounced like "leeb") but in Styria it is "liab". Can't have a lonesome "i" now, can you and the "e" doesn't count as it isn't pronounced therefore let's throw and "a" in. "o" seem to get a companion-a as well, the "u's" get "o's" and so forth, and then there are the exceptions. Conversely, diphthongs tend to get divorced - just for the heck of it. Just think of what they make of the name of a nearby town called Leoben! To my horror my little one has started to pick up certain idiosyncracies of the language. It is amazing with what ease he says the most difficult vowel minglings which I, honestly, just can't pronounce. Not sure, though, whether I like him running around screaming: "soa a woahnsiann" ("such craziness" a comon saying meaning everything for "this is starck raving mad" to "this is phantastic").
We got here just in time to see Austria loose to Germany during the European soccer championship. Everybody knew that this was the very likely outcome but hopes run high that there would be a miracle, that God himself would intervene on behalf of the underdog. Well, seems like he/she was busy doing something else and so Austria lost, albeit not spectacularly, to Germany. To be on the safe side I had parked our car with German license plates off the street but the Fohnsdorfer took it all in good humor and Dad's car survived untouched. The locals I talked to before the match were in fact accutely aware of the hopelessness of the situation. The busdriver whom I had a conversation with actually recommended that the Austrian team would do better "knitting than kicking" (makes little sense in English but is kind of a cute rhym in German "besser stricken als kicken"). That didn't deter the fans, in fact pretty much the whole nation from showing up in the publich viewing spaces called "fan miles" (large screen TV's, lots of beer) dressed in red and white, with red and white face paint and red and white wigs. Sort of cute how grown men tend to make complete idiots out of themselves when it comes to black-and-white balls.
We visited the local coal mining museum with Opa, who used to work in the pit before the whole operation was closed down some time in the late 70s or early 80s. As usual Max got to sit in places and operate machines and levers other kids don't ever get to touch. I have to admit that the actual pit was a very uncomfortable place: predicatbly tight and low and narrow but also cold when we all had expected it to be warmer down there. I guess we just weren't close enough to the center of the earth yet to feel the heat. Must have been a real sucker of a job, especially in the early days when they did everything by hand and kids - who from the pictures didn't look more than eight years old - where working alongside the men.
Jasi and I took a couple of trips to the local shopping mall but having such limited suitcase space really takes the fun out of shopping. Everytime I see something nice I have to wonder where the heck I am going to fit it and by and large the answer is "nowhere" and so the sale ain't happening.
Other than that there is a lot of sleeping going on, naps in the afternoon and such like. Last night we where outright debauched when between Jasi, Elisabeth (my sister in law) and myself we drank a bottle of Prosecco and two bottles of something that I am reluctant to admit I ever tasted for fear that everybody will think that I lost my mind but so be it: it was some very strange concoction of some type of bubbly alcohol with fruit juice, sugar and yoghurt (yeah, that ain't a typo), it was opaque and came in the beautiful colors of purple (blueberry), red (strawberry) and orange (peach) - the last one we refused to even taste. For somebody who likes her champaign super-dry with a slight yeasty note this would by no stretch of imagination count as a beverage of choice. But, when in Rome do as the Romans.
While we were drinking and chatting Germany scored a surprise victory over Portugal, the clear favorite in this match. We didn't watch the game but Elisabeth's son provided updates on the goals the German's scored and the Portuguese living across the street made sure we knew about the goals the Portuguese scored. Tonight Croatia, Jasi's home country, is playing Turkey for a spot in the semi-finals and so Opa and Jasi are watching while I am writing. I am getting a huge dose of soccer after all and I might want to add: it just started raining.
Tomorrow we will leave for the boonies, that is that remote valley with cabin that Uli selected for our second week in Austria. Allegedly the farmer who's cabin we are renting has high-speed internet access - how the times have changed! So there will be updates from nowhere, or rather Jonsbachtal, a place pretty unknown to humankind in the remote parts of upper Styria.
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