Well boys and goyles, I've finally gotten around to procuring and retyping that letter I wrote while I was visiting Brandon in Egypt. I've neglected to edit it for readability, so I apologize ahead of time for my excessive use of parentheses. Since I was writing in ink when I originally wrote the thing, I wasn't able to reorganize my sentences at will, so I just tacked on afterthoughts as parenthetical asides. So here it is in all its glory:
I’m happy to report that I made it to Egypt safe and sound. This is my third day here (the very beginning of it) and Brandon and I have already made the foray to Alexandria and back to Cairo. Before I mention anything about that little expedition, I’ll give you some of my first impressions of Cairo from the first few hours after stepping off the plane.
The first thing I noticed – and it hit me like a brick in the face (or the lungs, as the case may be) – was the air pollution. At first, I thought that perhaps it was a localized pocket of smog around the airport, but when we got out of the taxi near Brandon’s dorm, I still felt like I was breathing air with a consistency approximately equal to that of a concrete slurry. Of course, just as I was thinking this and quietly gasping for some O2, Brandon was telling me how that particular area, the island of Zamalek in the middle of the Nile, is where the rich Egyptians move to because of its relative cleanliness and dense foliage (both of these are extremely relative measures). I’m not surprised that over 30,000 people in Cairo die every year due to pollution related illnesses. From what I can tell, its almost entirely car pollution that hangs in the air like pea soup with occasional chunks of ham and pork fat. Brandon said there are a few power plants in the area that contribute to the problem, but that industry accounts for only about 13% of Egypt’s economy, and, so I gather, isn't large enough to produce that much floating filth. (On second thought, I now recall reading somewhere that there are several foundries in the city that aren’t controlled with regard to their pollution output. I suppose I could believe that to be a significant factor – I’m pretty sure most foundries that used to operate in the US have been moved to other countries, since it was virtually impossible for them to meet American environmental standards.) Anyway, you get the idea. I guess you get used to it though; I didn’t have so much trouble breathing last night. I guess it’s probably a bit like taking up smoking.
The second thing that struck me, or rather, would have struck me were it not for my excessive agility and dexterity (yeah, right) was the traffic here. I thought driving in Mexico was crazy! Oh, how sheltered a life I have lived! Brandon and I just about bit it when we crossed ten lanes of traffic in Alexandria, none of which showed any signs of slowing. Perhaps the cities here are designed to be so hazardous to pedestrians as part of some sort of sick eugenics program meant to weed out the slow and weak members of the population. To be honest though, I haven’t seen any pedestrian/car accidents since I’ve been here. Perhaps all the slow people have already long since become human pancakes.
Though I expect cities to have their fair share of litter, I’m sad to say the beaches of Alexandria have an even worse time of it than the city streets. Not only were they choked with the random bits of garbage blown from the streets, they were also host to whatever flotsam happened to be carried in by the waves. The result was a sandy strip of land that bore far more resemblance to the top layer of a landfill than a sunbathing area (which I guess isn’t that much of a problem, since Egyptians don’t really sunbathe.)
I will balance all these negative observations with a couple of very nice things I’ve noticed. First off, most people here (with the exception of minor bureaucrats, whose only job it is to stand outside national points of interest (i.e. The Great Library (the new one that is)) after closing hours and prevent people from so much as even getting close enough to look at the building’s façade) (yay nested parentheticals!) are extremely friendly and helpful. A disclaimer about the shopkeepers should be made though. I just came back from the Egyptian Museum a few minutes ago, and on my way about four or five “friendly” people came up to me – apparently I look kind of Egyptian, but my camera bag was a dead giveaway that I was a tourist – and proceeded to ask me if I needed any help, ask me where I was going, and to tell me that they thought the US was an awesome place and that I was a cool guy. Then they’d tell me that they wished me a pleasant journey, and of, why don’t you come by my shop so I can give you some tea, etc., etc. I’ve heard this whole spiel from Brandon – rather, stories about it- so I knew what to expect. I actually did go into one guy’s shop where he sold perfumes and colognes, and they actually seemed like quality products at fairly reasonable prices (although that’s by US standards, so they were probably hideously expensive by the Egyptian metric), but I really wasn’t interested in buying anything. After turning down the tea, politely chuckling at the invitation to visit the guy’s family’s cottage off somewhere outside of Cairo, sampling different fragrances, sitting through the demonstration of all the perks of alcohol-free perfumes, etc., etc., I lied and said that I had only 50 Egyptian pounds on me, 10 pounds less than the cheapest product and told him that I needed to go meet a friend, which was not entirely untrue. Concerning the money though, I had just gotten cash out from the ATM the night before and had about 250 pounds on my person. So, this is when I said I would come back another day to which he replied that he would be away at a trade show for two weeks, but he would sell the small bottle for 50 pounds. When I got up to leave, realizing he was going to make a sale, he told me to stop by during the week and maybe he’d be there. Heh… trade show? Yeah, right.
Before that guy was another one who was trying to get me to buy some beer and cigarettes for him from one of the nearby hotel duty-free shops, but I got my way out of that one by telling him I didn’t have my passport on me (another lie). After both of the above guys, some more tried approaching me, but I pretended to not speak English, replying to them in German.
Anyway, where was I going with this? Oh yeah, if you neglect the people who are friendly because of profit seeking motives, people here seem to be genuinely enthusiastic about helping other people out. I think an easy way to separate these two categories of people is that the former group tends to approach you, while the genuine ones are the people you go up to in the street and request help from. In the US, people will give you the information you request of them, but here, the people you ask are really, really excited about the fact that you’ve just asked.
I’ve gained another perspective on this matter today. Brandon and I went to the Coptic Museum and then wandered around the Coptic quarter of the city (this is Cairo I’m still referring to). The neighborhoods we ended up walking through were what Brandon said were probably middle to middle-upper class areas, a fact apparently indicated by the mere presence of tress, since the poorer sectors are so densely populated, there simply isn’t room for foliage. Anyway, as we made our way through the area, many people just waved to us and said hello - in English, since I guess we were pretty obviously tourists - and then went along on their business. Many of the people who said hello to us were kids, some of whom did end up asking for money, but most of whom were just being outgoing and terribly cute.
Two other things I enjoyed about this less affluent part of the city were the reduced level of traffic and the apparent absence of government oversight and intervention. As I mentioned before, traffic in the wealthier areas of the city is rather frightening and over whelming, but in this sector, a good part of the car traffic is replaced by donkeys and horses, generally drawing carts of produce or hay (or something that looked vaguely like it). Though one has to be careful where one steps, with natural land mines abounding, it was a nice reprieve, not having to worry about becoming a fly on a windshield.
The second item, which I only noticed after Brandon mentioned it, was the complete lack of visible security forces and other governmental personnel, In the part of Cairo where we have been spending most of our time, there are one or three or five police officers with AK-47s or some other automatic weapon positioned every half block or so, and while I’m sure this is very effective at preventing any trouble by would-be criminals, it’s also more than just a little disconcerting. It seems to be a direct instrument of the authoritarian government for use in quelling not only crime, but any sort of political protests or uprisings as well. There’s definitely a Big Brother effect here, always being observed by government cronies. One redeeming thing about the situation though, is that it seems like many of the security forces don’t take their jobs too seriously, and are therefore often more preoccupied with eating an ice cream cone than observing my potentially suspicious / subversive activities. (My pen has run out of ink, so it’s time for an exciting new color!)
Back to the point though. These somewhat poorer areas seem to not be on the Egyptian government’s list of high priority security zones, so one can walk around those parts without the stress that comes with passing through such a heavily armed area as the main city center. This is not to say that I have panic attacks when I walk around the heavily guarded areas, just that I can’t say it’s my favorite thing in the world. Brandon just mentioned something – there are 140,000 US troops in Iraq, while Egypt’s security forces number around 1,000,000; one of these countries has an insurgency, the other does not. Perhaps he has a point.
I had some much more organized thoughts on this particular point, but they’ve completely escaped me, so I’m going to quit and avoid slipping into redundancy, if I haven’t already done so.
Something I’ve grown used to in the past couple days is the call to prayer five times a day. If it’s a good crier doing the singing, it’s actually quite soothing, especially when napping around 9:30 in the evening, just after the sun has gone down.
I forget if I’ve mentioned the taxis yet. I could go reread what I’ve already written, but quite frankly, I’m just too lazy for that. I’ll just assume I haven’t and apologize if I have. Anyway, all the taxis here, except for the shiny new looking ones by the airport, are these imported, secondhand Italian and Soviet tin can taxis, mostly made by Peugeot in the late 70s and early 80s. I don’t think I’ve seen a single taxi with a working speedometer or clock, but about 75% of them have some sort of colored LED lights build into the headlights, color changing lamps in the headliners, or musical brakes. For some reason, the taxi drivers didn’t seem to care if little things like door handles worked, so long as they had a tricked out car.
You know what makes me sick? How people back home complain about how taxes are too high and how the government is stealing their livelihood, when there are people – so many people – around the world who make only a fraction of what the average American can afford to pay in taxes. When I was in London several years ago, I had dinner with my friend, Sanjay, and his aunt at an Indian restaurant where the bill came to 110 British pounds for the three of us. Now, this was in fact the most expensive meal I’d ever eaten, but the fact that I could afford to have it (actually, Sanjay’s aunt paid for the whole thing, but the point is that I could have paid for it) is what I want to use for the sake of example. The conversion of my portion of the bill comes to 440 Egyptian pounds. According to Brandon, the average monthly wage for a lower class Egyptian is 300 Egyptian pounds, or about $55 USD. I was able to eat my way through a month and a half of someone’s wages in an hour or two. Yesterday, a little boy came up to me and tried to sell me some tissues for 25 piasters (about 6 cents), but I didn’t have any bills smaller than a 20-pound note, so I refused. He followed me for about a quarter of a block, and at one point tapped me on my arm and looked me right in the eye while making motions that he wanted money so he could eat. It just about broke my heart. If there weren’t so many like him, I would have given 20 pounds, but I can’t help all of them. I feel bad now though. I really wish I’d given him something.
A few nights ago, Brandon and I met two American girls and a Swedish girl at the hostel we were staying at here in Cairo, with whom we quickly became friends. One evening, we all went out for shisha (none for me though), drinks, and then went dancing at the Hard Rock Café. Well, one thing led to another and the following night (maybe it was two nights later), Brandon found himself in charge of doing laundry for one of the girls, since he had free access to a washing machine in his dorm. (Now, if you’re wondering why I haven’t just been staying in Brandon’s dorm this whole time, it’s because they would have charged me $20 USD per night, which would cover only the privilege of staying in the building and not such exorbitant luxuries like a bed, or even a pillow. For a smaller fee, we’ve been renting a private, two bed room at a hostel, which even includes breakfast, if you can call a hardboiled egg and a piece of bread “breakfast.”) Anyway – excuse my handwriting for the next little while, as I’m currently on a train bound for Luxor, and it feels like the shocks on this car are probably the original equipment from the 1970s – we were going to start the laundry, go to dinner, pick up the dried clothes, and then bring them back to the girl at the hostel before 1:15am, which is when she needed to leave for the airport. It was all according to plan, and we were in a taxi, merrily making our way back to the hostel when I realized it: Brandon had forgotten to grab her bra, which he had hung up to dry in his closet. Since we were already running slightly late, per Brandon’s modus operandi, it brought an “oh shit!” expression to his face. We were faced with the choice of making the girl late getting to the airport by turning around and fetching the lost garment, or being accursed of being bra thieves. Clearly, the only option was to turn back. This would also make for an interesting situation back at his dorm, since the male and female wings of the dorm are segregated to the point of having armed guards protecting the entrances, ensuring that there is absolutely no fornication. In an environment like that, a guy walking around carrying women’s underwear is likely to draw more attention than a raised eyebrow, and is unlikely to go unnoticed, if not by the gender police, then by the three to five armed guards monitoring the metal detector at the front door. Fortunately, Brandon had the good sense to stow the contraband unmentionables in a bag, and had the good fortunate that bags are only inspected on the way into the building and not on the way out. After a taxi ride back to the hostel fraught with traffic violations (but what taxi ride here isn’t? The trip to the train station this evening involved a shortcut that constituted driving about a kilometer down a single-lane, one-way street in the wrong direction), we sprinted our way up the stairs in the building and conducted a high-speed hand off, as we ran unto the girl on her way down to catch her taxi. Hmm… As I read that story again, I realize that perhaps it was one of those ‘you had to be there’ incidents. Oh well.
After so proudly resisting the scams of shopkeepers and street vendors for almost a week, I’ve finally fallen victim, completely of my own doing. When we were walking to the main square near the hostel to catch a cab, I saw one of the street merchants selling cologne, one of which was in a bottle of the same brand my dad used to wear, but hasn’t been able to find anywhere in about 15 years. (I’m going to take a break here because the bouncing of the train is making it bouncing of the train is making it way hard to write. Don’t get your hopes up though; I’ll be back soon! * Alright, I’m here again, this time with better penmanship. Did you miss me?) On an impulse, I bought a bottle of the stuff for 15 pounds without even smelling it to make sure it was real. Well, the fact that I paid about $2.75 USD for it should have been my first clue that something was fishy, but had I taken the time to examine the goods before running off with them, I would have realized it was an old, dinged up bottle that had been refilled with cologne of the proper color, but smelled nothing like the real thing. Though it was really an insignificant sum I was swindled out of, it still serves to rekindle my frustration with the Egyptian approach to business. Except for a very small minority, I don’t think Egyptians are familiar with the concept of making money by selling legitimate goods and services rather than tricking people into buying crap. When Brandon and I were going to the Egypt Air ticket office to book a flight from Luxor back to Cairo, we had three or four people come up to us and try to convince us that their friends could get us a much cheaper flight, and besides, the Egypt Air office was closed, a complete and flagrant lie, since I could see it across the street and there were clearly people inside. When we got to Luxor this morning, some guy volunteered to show us where our hostel was – which is incidentally called “Happy Land;” ‘Yes sir, could you please take me to Happy land? I love padded walls!” – but en route, he told us he was the owner’s son and that they had just had a large group come in and fill all the rooms and that he was going to take us to another hotel, also owned by his father. Again, yeah, right… As Brandon would say, “And I’m Hosni Mubarak’s son!”
Oh dear. I think Brandon needs to see some bikini clad women, stat! He seems like he’s dealt with it fairly well until now, but I think going on five months of living in a country with a national policy of near universal sexual repression is starting to wear on him. We met this girl at our hostel tonight, and later on he kept talking about how attractive her ankles were. He said something to the effect of, “That much ankle is like porn to me.” He’s getting desperate here and needs immediate treatment.
Well, I think that’s all the news from Lake Woebegone, or at least all that I care to write for the time being. I’ll talk to you soon! Bye!
Sincerely, honestly, truthfully, and sometimes hyperbolically yours,
Michael
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Airplane Antics
I'm back in the US now and I promise to write about Egypt once I temporarily reclaim a letter I wrote in which I detailed many of my thoughts on the country. Until then, I'll tide you all over with a quick account of the highlights of my plane ride from Paris back to Detroit last Saturday.
Two amusing things that happened on the flight that I thought I'd share with you all. The first involved a French woman who spoke very little English, a stewardess who spoke absolutely no French. Excessive pantomiming ensued. At first it began as simple miscommunications concerning the type of food they wanted, but later in the journey, the French woman took out a cigarette and proceeded to waggle it in the corner of her mouth for a few minutes, the rolled tobacco leaves just waiting to be lit. I felt a sinking in my stomach, awaiting what would surely be a terribly embarrassing exchange between this oblivious Frenchie and the stewardess.
Eventually the stewardess returned to the row with her snack cart, and as she started down the aisle, the flight attendant on the other side of the plane said to her in a very loud whisper, "Jane," (or whatever her name was) "meet me in the galley!" Clearly the other one had spotted the contraband first and now they had to discuss their strategy for addressing the situation. The first stewardess came back out and said to the French woman, "Hey, you know you can't smoke that in here, right? Nooooo... smooooking... Understand?" She then she attempted to communicate the concept of a no-smoking sign through her poorly cultivated charades skills, although I'm not sure why she bothered, since there was a nicely illuminated version, directly over every single seat, readily available for pointing at. Then there was some sort of incoherent spouting from the French woman, but apparently the stewardess is really good at understanding very broken English, since she then said to her fellow attendant, in a nice loud voice so everyone could hear, "Oh, it's not a real cigarette, it's just rubber." Then she turned back to the French woman. "Okay, remember, you can't smoke in here. People like you freak us flight attendants out." I'm pretty sure the French woman - who, by the way, had a voice a little bit like ET - didn't understand anything that was said, since her only reply was a chuckle that consisted mostly of the sound of phlegm loosening from the back of her throat, accented with a sibilant whistle of air being forced through the gap between her front teeth. The "fake" (I couldn't confirm it, and wasn't too convinced of the veracity of the story) cigarette continued to waggle, taunting the flight crew, as if to say, "Zo vhat if she lights me? De vorld is full of merde! C'est la vie!"
The other notable item from the flight was the American couple who sat directly in front of me. I think they were just married and were returning from their honeymoon in Paris (what a wretched place to spend one's honeymoon...). They spent most of the flight making out, and not even discreetly or quietly. No, these were big sloppy kisses, with their faces positioned right at the crack between the seats, so every time I looked up, I witnessed two tongues stabbing at each other like Olympic fencers. I'm pretty sure the guy won the bout, probably due to sheer overwhelming strength, but the woman certainly made a valiant effort, parrying and counter thrusting the whole time. At one point, they must have realized that they should save such activities for a more appropriate venue; therefore they adjourned to the lavatory. As was already evidenced, subtlety was clearly not a course taught in either of their primary schools, since they giggled the whole way to the loo, and simultaneously entered in a rather less than graceful manner. I discovered was not the only person to witness the antics (how could I be?), since I doubt that the three of the flight attendants who suddenly took up a vigil outside the lavatory door had all spontaneously decided that they really needed to pee just that second. When the pair once again emerged, it was a walk of utter shame that greeted them. The congregation of attendants outside the door had drawn most peoples' attention, so as they returned to their seats, it must have dawned upon them that that everyone on the plane, or at least in their section, now knew that they had just shacked up in one of the filthiest, most disgusting locales imaginable. How many people have puked in that little closet? How many morbidly obese men have relieved themselves of a terrible case of the traveler's trots in there? How many other people have had sex on that same wash basin counter top? Eww...
If you happen to be on a diet, I hope I've done my part to keep you from eating.
Two amusing things that happened on the flight that I thought I'd share with you all. The first involved a French woman who spoke very little English, a stewardess who spoke absolutely no French. Excessive pantomiming ensued. At first it began as simple miscommunications concerning the type of food they wanted, but later in the journey, the French woman took out a cigarette and proceeded to waggle it in the corner of her mouth for a few minutes, the rolled tobacco leaves just waiting to be lit. I felt a sinking in my stomach, awaiting what would surely be a terribly embarrassing exchange between this oblivious Frenchie and the stewardess.
Eventually the stewardess returned to the row with her snack cart, and as she started down the aisle, the flight attendant on the other side of the plane said to her in a very loud whisper, "Jane," (or whatever her name was) "meet me in the galley!" Clearly the other one had spotted the contraband first and now they had to discuss their strategy for addressing the situation. The first stewardess came back out and said to the French woman, "Hey, you know you can't smoke that in here, right? Nooooo... smooooking... Understand?" She then she attempted to communicate the concept of a no-smoking sign through her poorly cultivated charades skills, although I'm not sure why she bothered, since there was a nicely illuminated version, directly over every single seat, readily available for pointing at. Then there was some sort of incoherent spouting from the French woman, but apparently the stewardess is really good at understanding very broken English, since she then said to her fellow attendant, in a nice loud voice so everyone could hear, "Oh, it's not a real cigarette, it's just rubber." Then she turned back to the French woman. "Okay, remember, you can't smoke in here. People like you freak us flight attendants out." I'm pretty sure the French woman - who, by the way, had a voice a little bit like ET - didn't understand anything that was said, since her only reply was a chuckle that consisted mostly of the sound of phlegm loosening from the back of her throat, accented with a sibilant whistle of air being forced through the gap between her front teeth. The "fake" (I couldn't confirm it, and wasn't too convinced of the veracity of the story) cigarette continued to waggle, taunting the flight crew, as if to say, "Zo vhat if she lights me? De vorld is full of merde! C'est la vie!"
The other notable item from the flight was the American couple who sat directly in front of me. I think they were just married and were returning from their honeymoon in Paris (what a wretched place to spend one's honeymoon...). They spent most of the flight making out, and not even discreetly or quietly. No, these were big sloppy kisses, with their faces positioned right at the crack between the seats, so every time I looked up, I witnessed two tongues stabbing at each other like Olympic fencers. I'm pretty sure the guy won the bout, probably due to sheer overwhelming strength, but the woman certainly made a valiant effort, parrying and counter thrusting the whole time. At one point, they must have realized that they should save such activities for a more appropriate venue; therefore they adjourned to the lavatory. As was already evidenced, subtlety was clearly not a course taught in either of their primary schools, since they giggled the whole way to the loo, and simultaneously entered in a rather less than graceful manner. I discovered was not the only person to witness the antics (how could I be?), since I doubt that the three of the flight attendants who suddenly took up a vigil outside the lavatory door had all spontaneously decided that they really needed to pee just that second. When the pair once again emerged, it was a walk of utter shame that greeted them. The congregation of attendants outside the door had drawn most peoples' attention, so as they returned to their seats, it must have dawned upon them that that everyone on the plane, or at least in their section, now knew that they had just shacked up in one of the filthiest, most disgusting locales imaginable. How many people have puked in that little closet? How many morbidly obese men have relieved themselves of a terrible case of the traveler's trots in there? How many other people have had sex on that same wash basin counter top? Eww...
If you happen to be on a diet, I hope I've done my part to keep you from eating.
Friday, June 22, 2007
And I used to wonder why people called me strange
Excerpt from a recently written letter concerning a typewriter I bought at a flea market in Konstanz:
I was out walking about the downtown area here in Konstanz this weekend when I happened upon the biggest flea market I'd ever seen. The thing started at an intersection next to the river, near my university, and stretched into infinity in two directions. It was almost midnight when I happened upon this giant bonanza of secondhand commerce and it looked like the entire population of the city had come out to investigate the wares and had no intention of leaving before sunrise. The place was PACKED. Never before had I needed to walk sideways down a city street in the dead of night in order to make my way through the throngs of people blocking the way. When I began walking down one of the infinite rows of merchandise, I was unaware of its infinite nature. About a block down the line, I happened upon a very nice looking manual typewriter, of which I asked the price. The guy manning the tent told me to make an offer. "20 euro?" "Okay, sicher," he said. I hemmed and hawed for a while. "Möglicherweise später..." I wasn't ready to commit.
We (myself and two friends who were with me) continued on in search of treasure, picking our way over heaps of broken rotary-dial phones, trashy German romance novels, and used baby clothes that were held together more due to the adhesive properties of the spit-up that probably covered them by the material of the garments themselves - I couldn't verify this for sure though; spit-up stains are difficult to identify by flashlight illumination. Eventually, I spotted another manual typewriter, this time a smaller portable version, complete with carrying case. "Wieviel kostet es?" "Fünf euro." "Nur fünf?!" "Ja, genau." (As you can see, my German has progressed to the point where I regularly hold deep, philosophical conversations.)
I leapt at the bargain, accidentally knocking over two old women and a Chinese vase of Ming origins as I flew through the air. I'd always wanted a manual typewriter, since I tend to be silly and backwards in my tastes. At a price less than that of some sandwiches, I couldn't pass it up. Unfortunately, my new toy weighed on the order of an ass-ton and a half (with one ass-ton equaling the weight of 2000 donkeys)(and mind you, this was the portable model) and we still had the better part of an infinite distance to cover before reaching the end of the market. About an hour later, judging from a fractional sense, we'd made approximately zero forward progress. (I feel like this would be a good place to analogize my situation with a mathematical limit, but perhaps I'll refrain for everyone's sake.) My arm by this time was being held onto my shoulder by a few thin sinews of muscle that hadn't been torn free by the weight of the typewriter, so after running a quick cost/benefit analysis of the situation, I decided that heading back to my dorm and returning later to investigate the rest of the hodgepodge of miscellaneous offerings was probably a wise course of action.
So, upon returning to my room - which, incidentally, I like to call The Bat Cave - I was lured away from my bed, where I belonged, by the silky looking, cream colored machine sitting on my desk. It called to me there in the dark of night. It asked me to caress its keys. "I'm so lonely! Won't you come play with me?"
I didn't believe at first that it was actually talking to me, but then it began to ring the bell warning that one is approaching the end of a line. It was trying to get my attention. The motionless hammers looked at me with such a forlorn expression, I couldn't help but go and comfort them. I began by writing random words, simply to test the action of the keys. Then I started writing a letter. To whom, I didn't know, but I felt that writing a letter would be a proper use of such a noble beast.
I asked idly in my letter how the family was, if there was any news since the last time we'd talked, you know, the usual. After coming to the end of my paragraph, I stopped for a moment to think of what to write next, when before my eyes, my Triumph portable typewriter started drafting a response. It said, "I'm so glad to hear from you again. It’s been such a very long time since you last wrote. Billy and Pa are doing fine, though Stephie has been down with the measles, but Doctor Kindman says she should be well in no time at all. He says she has a very good constitution, and that if we keep giving her plenty of chicken soup and the medicine he prescribed, we should expect to see her out of bed early next week." The typewriter continued on for some time in this fashion, until it finally decided that it must be boring me with details and that it would allow me to go about doing more important things. I wrote back, telling it that there was no such thing as an unimportant detail and to not hold back. We exchanged communiqués at length before I finally decided to retire for the night.
When I arose the next morning, I found a message waiting for me. The typewriter was wondering why I hadn't written again for so long. Was I becoming bored with the accounts of the firmness or lack thereof of Sally, our milk cow's stools? If I was, that could be easily omitted from future letters if it meant I wouldn't neglect to write again. I said it was nothing in the letter that had caused the break in message sending, it was simply that I had things to do - namely sleeping - which prevented me from writing as often as my typewriter was demanding from me.
From the reply I received, I got the feeling my typewriter didn't buy my story. It said to me, "I know you have other priorities, but you seem to have been cold and distant recently. Is there someone else? Please, can we just be honest about the situation?" I was affronted by the accusation; I had had this typewriter for only just over a day and it was already leveling this terrible claim against me. "No," I said, "yours are the only keys my fingers dare to dance upon. I know it's difficult being apart for so long," - I imagine time passes much quicker for a typewriter, as I certainly hadn't thought our separation to be of interminable length - "but I need you to trust me if we're going to make this work."
I sat in front of the keyboard for several minutes before the hammers sheepishly banged out a reply. "I'm sorry I was so quick to doubt. You know how I'm prone to crises of confidence." Of course I was aware; if I had been sold for five euro at a flea market, I would start doubting my self-worth too.
We've been steadily making amends since that particular incident, and I feel like our relationship is really starting to blossom. I foresee writing many beautiful letters together. Anyway, I hope you don’t feel like that was too needless of a sidetrack into my personal affairs.
Hmm… what other mundane activities can I turn into unnecessarily long meanderings of a mind prone to hyperbole?
I was out walking about the downtown area here in Konstanz this weekend when I happened upon the biggest flea market I'd ever seen. The thing started at an intersection next to the river, near my university, and stretched into infinity in two directions. It was almost midnight when I happened upon this giant bonanza of secondhand commerce and it looked like the entire population of the city had come out to investigate the wares and had no intention of leaving before sunrise. The place was PACKED. Never before had I needed to walk sideways down a city street in the dead of night in order to make my way through the throngs of people blocking the way. When I began walking down one of the infinite rows of merchandise, I was unaware of its infinite nature. About a block down the line, I happened upon a very nice looking manual typewriter, of which I asked the price. The guy manning the tent told me to make an offer. "20 euro?" "Okay, sicher," he said. I hemmed and hawed for a while. "Möglicherweise später..." I wasn't ready to commit.
We (myself and two friends who were with me) continued on in search of treasure, picking our way over heaps of broken rotary-dial phones, trashy German romance novels, and used baby clothes that were held together more due to the adhesive properties of the spit-up that probably covered them by the material of the garments themselves - I couldn't verify this for sure though; spit-up stains are difficult to identify by flashlight illumination. Eventually, I spotted another manual typewriter, this time a smaller portable version, complete with carrying case. "Wieviel kostet es?" "Fünf euro." "Nur fünf?!" "Ja, genau." (As you can see, my German has progressed to the point where I regularly hold deep, philosophical conversations.)
I leapt at the bargain, accidentally knocking over two old women and a Chinese vase of Ming origins as I flew through the air. I'd always wanted a manual typewriter, since I tend to be silly and backwards in my tastes. At a price less than that of some sandwiches, I couldn't pass it up. Unfortunately, my new toy weighed on the order of an ass-ton and a half (with one ass-ton equaling the weight of 2000 donkeys)(and mind you, this was the portable model) and we still had the better part of an infinite distance to cover before reaching the end of the market. About an hour later, judging from a fractional sense, we'd made approximately zero forward progress. (I feel like this would be a good place to analogize my situation with a mathematical limit, but perhaps I'll refrain for everyone's sake.) My arm by this time was being held onto my shoulder by a few thin sinews of muscle that hadn't been torn free by the weight of the typewriter, so after running a quick cost/benefit analysis of the situation, I decided that heading back to my dorm and returning later to investigate the rest of the hodgepodge of miscellaneous offerings was probably a wise course of action.
So, upon returning to my room - which, incidentally, I like to call The Bat Cave - I was lured away from my bed, where I belonged, by the silky looking, cream colored machine sitting on my desk. It called to me there in the dark of night. It asked me to caress its keys. "I'm so lonely! Won't you come play with me?"
I didn't believe at first that it was actually talking to me, but then it began to ring the bell warning that one is approaching the end of a line. It was trying to get my attention. The motionless hammers looked at me with such a forlorn expression, I couldn't help but go and comfort them. I began by writing random words, simply to test the action of the keys. Then I started writing a letter. To whom, I didn't know, but I felt that writing a letter would be a proper use of such a noble beast.
I asked idly in my letter how the family was, if there was any news since the last time we'd talked, you know, the usual. After coming to the end of my paragraph, I stopped for a moment to think of what to write next, when before my eyes, my Triumph portable typewriter started drafting a response. It said, "I'm so glad to hear from you again. It’s been such a very long time since you last wrote. Billy and Pa are doing fine, though Stephie has been down with the measles, but Doctor Kindman says she should be well in no time at all. He says she has a very good constitution, and that if we keep giving her plenty of chicken soup and the medicine he prescribed, we should expect to see her out of bed early next week." The typewriter continued on for some time in this fashion, until it finally decided that it must be boring me with details and that it would allow me to go about doing more important things. I wrote back, telling it that there was no such thing as an unimportant detail and to not hold back. We exchanged communiqués at length before I finally decided to retire for the night.
When I arose the next morning, I found a message waiting for me. The typewriter was wondering why I hadn't written again for so long. Was I becoming bored with the accounts of the firmness or lack thereof of Sally, our milk cow's stools? If I was, that could be easily omitted from future letters if it meant I wouldn't neglect to write again. I said it was nothing in the letter that had caused the break in message sending, it was simply that I had things to do - namely sleeping - which prevented me from writing as often as my typewriter was demanding from me.
From the reply I received, I got the feeling my typewriter didn't buy my story. It said to me, "I know you have other priorities, but you seem to have been cold and distant recently. Is there someone else? Please, can we just be honest about the situation?" I was affronted by the accusation; I had had this typewriter for only just over a day and it was already leveling this terrible claim against me. "No," I said, "yours are the only keys my fingers dare to dance upon. I know it's difficult being apart for so long," - I imagine time passes much quicker for a typewriter, as I certainly hadn't thought our separation to be of interminable length - "but I need you to trust me if we're going to make this work."
I sat in front of the keyboard for several minutes before the hammers sheepishly banged out a reply. "I'm sorry I was so quick to doubt. You know how I'm prone to crises of confidence." Of course I was aware; if I had been sold for five euro at a flea market, I would start doubting my self-worth too.
We've been steadily making amends since that particular incident, and I feel like our relationship is really starting to blossom. I foresee writing many beautiful letters together. Anyway, I hope you don’t feel like that was too needless of a sidetrack into my personal affairs.
Hmm… what other mundane activities can I turn into unnecessarily long meanderings of a mind prone to hyperbole?
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Hello all, I am actually still alive. I haven't posted anything here in a long while because I've taken to writing letters and postcards instead, and I'm pretty sure those have been reaching most of the people who read this blog anyway, so I don't feel too terrible about my delinquency.
I've got about three more weeks before I head back to the US, so I have to figure out what sort of traveling I'm going to do in that time. I have a friend here who is interested in going to Serbia, but I mentioned this to a Romanian friend of mine, and she said that she'd never been there, but that she heard there wasn't much to see. I think Kurt (not my housemate from Flint) is keen on going just because the US bombed the place in the not too distant past. Maybe I'll go, maybe I won't.
Since the last time I posted, I've been to a couple of places. First to Prague, then to Egypt, and most recently to Berlin. I suppose I probably should write something about Prague, but I think I'll come back to Egypt and Berlin later, since I wrote a couple of letters that really cover those quite well, so I think I'll go about attempting to requisition those back from the people to whom I sent them and perhaps post adapted versions of those letters after I get back to the US.
It's been about a month already since I was in Prague, so some of the details are starting to get a bit sketchy, but there were a few things that still really stand out in my mind. Kurt (this time it's my housemate from Flint), Steve (aka Loud Harold) and I went to Prague together and had a couple rather interesting experiences. The first one that comes to mind is going to "Central Europe's Biggest Nightclub," where we met a large group of Swedish high school kids on a school field trip. I think they were all 15 and 16 years old, which was extremely odd to me, although I guess is more then norm around here. In the same club, we also met a couple German guys who were very excited to hear our thoughts on Germany, and some Canadians who did nothing but talk about politics (which the Germans thought to be an absolutely ridiculous thing at a nightclub).
The other things I remember were Steve getting accosted by a couple of Czech prostitutes who ended up trying to steal his cell phone, Kurt and I getting accosted by a very angry, very ugly woman wanting cigarettes (I think), and talking to a very nice Czech woman and an old German man on our train from Prague back to Germany. We had had a salon compartment on the train, and at first the woman had been talking to the old man in German. After a while, he left to go find his wife, and I began talking to the woman, at first in terrible German, and then switching to English. She told me all sorts of stories about how she used to work in Nigeria and lived in South Africa, and then about all the progress the Czech Republic has made since the end of communism. Then the old man came back, and she asked him if he spoke English so we could all talk together. He said he spoke a little, and then proceeded to converse with us in the most eloquent English I'd ever heard from someone not reading lines in a play. He imparted upon us the wisdom he'd accrued over his years of living, one of which was to learn as many foreign languages as possible. He asked Kurt and I how our German was coming and we admitted that it was progressing very slowly. He asked if we had German girlfriends, and when we said no, he said, Oh, once you get a German girlfriend, you'll be speaking it in six months. (No, since that time I've ended up with a Romanian girlfriend, but unfortunately, my Romanian is no better for it. I guess her English is just too good.) The Czech woman told us that we should enjoy life early on and to not put it off until later. She said that she and her husband planned to work hard and save until they were 55 years old and then they would retire and do all the things they wanted to do in life, but that her husband died when he was 54. Since then, she said, she's been doing nothing but traveling and living life to the fullest, but she regrets that she didn't do it earlier. She also gave me hope that it's never too late to learn another language. She said that she spoke Portuguese (fluently I assumed) and she didn't start learning it until she was 60, and that she was 64 now (or there abouts).
Somehow, between Prague and Nuremberg, our train ended up becoming about an hour late, which makes no sense to me, since we left right on time. Anyway, due to the delay, we missed the connection we were supposed to catch to get back to Konstanz, and this nice Czech woman was so friendly and helpful that she stopped at the information desk in the Nuremberg train station to find out if there was a way for us to make it back to Konstanz that night (since the train we were supposed to be on was one of the last coming into Konstanz that evening). We could have easily gotten this information ourselves, but I was just so stunned by how nice this woman was in having honest concern that we safely make it to our destination. Fortunately, we were able to make the very last train back home and didn't have to spend the nights wandering the streets of Ulm.
I'm sure I've got plenty more to talk about, but I have to go work on a project for school. What?! School work?! Yes, I should have known it was going to come sooner or later. I was fortunate and it came later, but now I have to actually get to it. Hopefully I'll find some more time to write after I'm done with my finals.
I've got about three more weeks before I head back to the US, so I have to figure out what sort of traveling I'm going to do in that time. I have a friend here who is interested in going to Serbia, but I mentioned this to a Romanian friend of mine, and she said that she'd never been there, but that she heard there wasn't much to see. I think Kurt (not my housemate from Flint) is keen on going just because the US bombed the place in the not too distant past. Maybe I'll go, maybe I won't.
Since the last time I posted, I've been to a couple of places. First to Prague, then to Egypt, and most recently to Berlin. I suppose I probably should write something about Prague, but I think I'll come back to Egypt and Berlin later, since I wrote a couple of letters that really cover those quite well, so I think I'll go about attempting to requisition those back from the people to whom I sent them and perhaps post adapted versions of those letters after I get back to the US.
It's been about a month already since I was in Prague, so some of the details are starting to get a bit sketchy, but there were a few things that still really stand out in my mind. Kurt (this time it's my housemate from Flint), Steve (aka Loud Harold) and I went to Prague together and had a couple rather interesting experiences. The first one that comes to mind is going to "Central Europe's Biggest Nightclub," where we met a large group of Swedish high school kids on a school field trip. I think they were all 15 and 16 years old, which was extremely odd to me, although I guess is more then norm around here. In the same club, we also met a couple German guys who were very excited to hear our thoughts on Germany, and some Canadians who did nothing but talk about politics (which the Germans thought to be an absolutely ridiculous thing at a nightclub).
The other things I remember were Steve getting accosted by a couple of Czech prostitutes who ended up trying to steal his cell phone, Kurt and I getting accosted by a very angry, very ugly woman wanting cigarettes (I think), and talking to a very nice Czech woman and an old German man on our train from Prague back to Germany. We had had a salon compartment on the train, and at first the woman had been talking to the old man in German. After a while, he left to go find his wife, and I began talking to the woman, at first in terrible German, and then switching to English. She told me all sorts of stories about how she used to work in Nigeria and lived in South Africa, and then about all the progress the Czech Republic has made since the end of communism. Then the old man came back, and she asked him if he spoke English so we could all talk together. He said he spoke a little, and then proceeded to converse with us in the most eloquent English I'd ever heard from someone not reading lines in a play. He imparted upon us the wisdom he'd accrued over his years of living, one of which was to learn as many foreign languages as possible. He asked Kurt and I how our German was coming and we admitted that it was progressing very slowly. He asked if we had German girlfriends, and when we said no, he said, Oh, once you get a German girlfriend, you'll be speaking it in six months. (No, since that time I've ended up with a Romanian girlfriend, but unfortunately, my Romanian is no better for it. I guess her English is just too good.) The Czech woman told us that we should enjoy life early on and to not put it off until later. She said that she and her husband planned to work hard and save until they were 55 years old and then they would retire and do all the things they wanted to do in life, but that her husband died when he was 54. Since then, she said, she's been doing nothing but traveling and living life to the fullest, but she regrets that she didn't do it earlier. She also gave me hope that it's never too late to learn another language. She said that she spoke Portuguese (fluently I assumed) and she didn't start learning it until she was 60, and that she was 64 now (or there abouts).
Somehow, between Prague and Nuremberg, our train ended up becoming about an hour late, which makes no sense to me, since we left right on time. Anyway, due to the delay, we missed the connection we were supposed to catch to get back to Konstanz, and this nice Czech woman was so friendly and helpful that she stopped at the information desk in the Nuremberg train station to find out if there was a way for us to make it back to Konstanz that night (since the train we were supposed to be on was one of the last coming into Konstanz that evening). We could have easily gotten this information ourselves, but I was just so stunned by how nice this woman was in having honest concern that we safely make it to our destination. Fortunately, we were able to make the very last train back home and didn't have to spend the nights wandering the streets of Ulm.
I'm sure I've got plenty more to talk about, but I have to go work on a project for school. What?! School work?! Yes, I should have known it was going to come sooner or later. I was fortunate and it came later, but now I have to actually get to it. Hopefully I'll find some more time to write after I'm done with my finals.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Irish Adventure - aka Low Cost Airlines: You Get What You Pay For
Finally, could it be? Another update? Why yes it is. I suppose I've got a lot to catch up on, but I think in favor of actually doing that, I'll just pick out the highlights of the past few weeks, since that will probably be far more interesting than wading through a sea of verbosity pertaining to the majestic beauty of pretty much everywhere I go. In addition to that, I'm also going to cheat and use an adaptation a letter I wrote just a little while ago to cover the exciting parts of my Dublin adventure. So here goes!
The beginning of my harrowing adventure of getting to Dublin involved a 3km sprint/jog to the train station around 4:30 in the morning. (I think you've all probably realized that this has pretty much become my M.O. for traveling. Alexa asked me once I actually got to Dublin whether I'd heard of such a thing as a taxi, but quite frankly, I think that takes all the fun out of it.) I needed to catch such an obnoxiously early train in order to make it Frankfurt - about 4.5 hours away - in time to check-in for my Ryan Air flight at 10:15. Once I reached the train station, I was quite tuckered out, and was looking forward to taking a nice long nap until I needed to change trains. Unfortunately, this was not to be, since at the second or third stop, a large group of extremely drunken teenagers boarded my car and began yelling random things in German and English at the top of their lungs. I think my first mistake on this trip was engaging these totally trashed kids in conversation. Don't get me wrong, it was quiet interesting and entertaining, even despite it still being unreasonably early in the morning; the problem was that I either changed trains at the wrong station, or got on the wrong train at the correct station, on the advice of my new found, highly intoxicated friends. They were headed in the same direction as me, and from what I remember, the train we got on departed at the time I had noted on my scrap of paper turned itinerary, so I assumed it was the right one. Indeed, it did go to the right city, but arrived 10 minutes after my final connection to Frankfurt.
Now, Ryan Air requires passengers to check in at least 40 minutes prior to take-off, so I already knew I was going to miss my flight, since the next train would get me to the airport about 10 minutes before my flight, but that was alright, since I knew there was another one leaving in 12 hours, at 10:15pm. I thought I'd get a ticket for the next flight, and then just tour Frankfurt for the day. When I started looking for the Ryan Air check-in desk, I once again realized there was something terribly wrong - namely that there was no Ryan Air check-in desk. Finally, after asking several airport employees who all gave me rather confused looks in response to my question, one of them had a eureka moment and remembered that Ryan Air flys out of Frankfurt-Hahn airport, not Frankfurt-Main, where I was currently standing. Okay, no big deal; I just have to catch a local train to the other side of the city, right? Oh, if only it was so easy!
Twelve euros, 100km and an hour and half bus ride later, I arrived at the proper airport. When booking the next flight to Dublin, I assumed that there'd be little chance I could have my ticket from earlier in the day moved up and become valid for the later flight, since that would fall under the category of customer service, which is one of the non-essentials the low cost airlines have disposed of in the name of price management. I did, however, expect buying anther ticket to not be terribly expensive, since none of their tickets are terribly expensive. I had originally paid about 80 euro for my round-trip ticket. The standard fee for taking the next available flight? 75 euro!
So, after essentially paying for my flight twice, I was greeted with a 10 hour wait before my flight, in which time I could contemplate how ridiculous this whole situation was. 'Why not go see the city?' you ask. Unfortunately, 100km outside of Frankfurt, there is no other city. There is an airport, surrounded by farmland and windmills for as far as the eye can see. Ever seen the Tom Hanks movie, The Terminal? He had it good, being stuck in JFK airport. Frankfurt-Hahn is what I now imagine purgatory might be like. In fact, I began to wonder if that might not be the reality of it. I was there from noon until a little past 10 o'clock at night (mine, I believe, was the last flight that day), and there were about four or five people I saw just hanging around the airport that whole time, like me, but who apparently never got on a plane. Why else could they be there, other than to serve penance for their sins? I'm sure no western government with laws against cruel and unusual punishment would impose a sentence such as that upon any of their criminals. Okay, perhaps I'm hyperbolizing a bit, but only a bit.
I did eventually make it to Dublin, but only after I'd realized that with the amount of time it took me to get there, it may have been quicker to take a train from Konstanz to Paris, take the Eurostar to London, hop on another train there and take it to the west cost of England, and finally take a ferry from there to Dublin. But nonetheless, I made it.
I'm not really sure what preconceived notions I had of Dublin, but whatever they where, they weren't accurate. I think I was expecting it to feel more home-like because of the English speakingness, but at the same time, more exotic than it ended up being. It was really quite the reverse. Though I could understand most people, I realized that it doesn't really matter what language people are speaking, since I don't really talk to strangers any more in English speaking locations than I do elsewhere, so I guess there was a sense of alienation that dawned upon me. I don't really feel that in Germany, probably because I don't expect to understand and take part in a lot of conversation with people, primarily because of the language barrier, but here I did, since I had expectations that weren't met. I really have no idea where I got the notion that Dublin was a pretty city, since everything I've ever read by Irish authors seems to portray most every city in the country as being rather dreary. I guess they nailed that one on the head. This is not to say it's a particularly ugly city (Flint, I'm talking to you!), just that it's really nothing to write home about (though I did indeed do just that). Perhaps I should give it another chance when I have more time to really explore it. I think my limited stay, further impinged upon by the flight fiasco, really didn't give me time to properly experience the city, so although I won't renege on my first impressions, I will put them out there with this disclaimer.
There was one particular incident that really was a lot of fun that I'm glad I got to take part in. On my last day in the city, Alexa decided that I needed to try Guinness in Dublin, since according to her, it's better there than anywhere else. As we were walking down some little street just off the main thoroughfare, we passed this postage stamp sized pub, in which two guys where playing banjo and guitar, while another was singing along with them. We walked inside, each got a pint, and sat down to listen to the music. Apparently the fellow who was singing was one of the patrons, and all the guys in the place were taking turns singing. After he'd finished a few more songs, he came over to me and informed me that it was my turn to provide the entertainment. I told him I didn't know any Irish songs, to which he replied that that was alright, and seeing as I was an American, some Britney Spears would do just fine. I told him thanks, but no thanks. A few songs and about a pint later, I suddenly remembered that I did know an Irish song: "Whiskey in the Jar" (Thanks Mr. C!)
After thoroughly butchering the song, I had many an Irishman patting me on the back, either because they were impressed by the fact that I even knew the song, or because they were simply too drunk to care how badly I sang. Either way, I found myself the receiver of about six or seven insta-friends. Of these guys who started talking to me, apparently one was some sort of Irish dancing champion, while another was a handball champ, another was a boxing champ, and a fourth had played for Ireland's (national?) soccer team. I was never really able to ascertain whether these were indeed big name sports stars, or if they might have played in the minors of their respective sports at one time and enjoyed augmenting their stories for greater listening pleasure.
The week after these particular shenanigans, I traveled down to Camogli, Italy (near Genova), to meet up with Sanjay, his parents and his aunt for a weekend vacation. Though it was a wonderfully pleasant trip, it involved far less ridiculousness, so I'll keep the record of that trip for my personal notes. I should, however, have much to report on in the next few weeks. This Wednesday evening, I'm going with Kurt, my housemate from Flint, to Vienna and then to Prague over four days. The following week, I'm flying to Cairo to meet up with Brandon, and we will be gallivanting across the country, investigating historical sites, talking about the cost effectiveness of Zeppelin air travel, and generally being dorktastic. I will update as more excitement occurs – hopefully this will not involve such excitement as getting detained while crossing international borders and being forced to do complex mathematical problems while doing handstands, but who knows. (I jest Mother, I jest. Don't worry!)
Alright, time to grab a döner kebap!
The beginning of my harrowing adventure of getting to Dublin involved a 3km sprint/jog to the train station around 4:30 in the morning. (I think you've all probably realized that this has pretty much become my M.O. for traveling. Alexa asked me once I actually got to Dublin whether I'd heard of such a thing as a taxi, but quite frankly, I think that takes all the fun out of it.) I needed to catch such an obnoxiously early train in order to make it Frankfurt - about 4.5 hours away - in time to check-in for my Ryan Air flight at 10:15. Once I reached the train station, I was quite tuckered out, and was looking forward to taking a nice long nap until I needed to change trains. Unfortunately, this was not to be, since at the second or third stop, a large group of extremely drunken teenagers boarded my car and began yelling random things in German and English at the top of their lungs. I think my first mistake on this trip was engaging these totally trashed kids in conversation. Don't get me wrong, it was quiet interesting and entertaining, even despite it still being unreasonably early in the morning; the problem was that I either changed trains at the wrong station, or got on the wrong train at the correct station, on the advice of my new found, highly intoxicated friends. They were headed in the same direction as me, and from what I remember, the train we got on departed at the time I had noted on my scrap of paper turned itinerary, so I assumed it was the right one. Indeed, it did go to the right city, but arrived 10 minutes after my final connection to Frankfurt.
Now, Ryan Air requires passengers to check in at least 40 minutes prior to take-off, so I already knew I was going to miss my flight, since the next train would get me to the airport about 10 minutes before my flight, but that was alright, since I knew there was another one leaving in 12 hours, at 10:15pm. I thought I'd get a ticket for the next flight, and then just tour Frankfurt for the day. When I started looking for the Ryan Air check-in desk, I once again realized there was something terribly wrong - namely that there was no Ryan Air check-in desk. Finally, after asking several airport employees who all gave me rather confused looks in response to my question, one of them had a eureka moment and remembered that Ryan Air flys out of Frankfurt-Hahn airport, not Frankfurt-Main, where I was currently standing. Okay, no big deal; I just have to catch a local train to the other side of the city, right? Oh, if only it was so easy!
Twelve euros, 100km and an hour and half bus ride later, I arrived at the proper airport. When booking the next flight to Dublin, I assumed that there'd be little chance I could have my ticket from earlier in the day moved up and become valid for the later flight, since that would fall under the category of customer service, which is one of the non-essentials the low cost airlines have disposed of in the name of price management. I did, however, expect buying anther ticket to not be terribly expensive, since none of their tickets are terribly expensive. I had originally paid about 80 euro for my round-trip ticket. The standard fee for taking the next available flight? 75 euro!
So, after essentially paying for my flight twice, I was greeted with a 10 hour wait before my flight, in which time I could contemplate how ridiculous this whole situation was. 'Why not go see the city?' you ask. Unfortunately, 100km outside of Frankfurt, there is no other city. There is an airport, surrounded by farmland and windmills for as far as the eye can see. Ever seen the Tom Hanks movie, The Terminal? He had it good, being stuck in JFK airport. Frankfurt-Hahn is what I now imagine purgatory might be like. In fact, I began to wonder if that might not be the reality of it. I was there from noon until a little past 10 o'clock at night (mine, I believe, was the last flight that day), and there were about four or five people I saw just hanging around the airport that whole time, like me, but who apparently never got on a plane. Why else could they be there, other than to serve penance for their sins? I'm sure no western government with laws against cruel and unusual punishment would impose a sentence such as that upon any of their criminals. Okay, perhaps I'm hyperbolizing a bit, but only a bit.
I did eventually make it to Dublin, but only after I'd realized that with the amount of time it took me to get there, it may have been quicker to take a train from Konstanz to Paris, take the Eurostar to London, hop on another train there and take it to the west cost of England, and finally take a ferry from there to Dublin. But nonetheless, I made it.
I'm not really sure what preconceived notions I had of Dublin, but whatever they where, they weren't accurate. I think I was expecting it to feel more home-like because of the English speakingness, but at the same time, more exotic than it ended up being. It was really quite the reverse. Though I could understand most people, I realized that it doesn't really matter what language people are speaking, since I don't really talk to strangers any more in English speaking locations than I do elsewhere, so I guess there was a sense of alienation that dawned upon me. I don't really feel that in Germany, probably because I don't expect to understand and take part in a lot of conversation with people, primarily because of the language barrier, but here I did, since I had expectations that weren't met. I really have no idea where I got the notion that Dublin was a pretty city, since everything I've ever read by Irish authors seems to portray most every city in the country as being rather dreary. I guess they nailed that one on the head. This is not to say it's a particularly ugly city (Flint, I'm talking to you!), just that it's really nothing to write home about (though I did indeed do just that). Perhaps I should give it another chance when I have more time to really explore it. I think my limited stay, further impinged upon by the flight fiasco, really didn't give me time to properly experience the city, so although I won't renege on my first impressions, I will put them out there with this disclaimer.
There was one particular incident that really was a lot of fun that I'm glad I got to take part in. On my last day in the city, Alexa decided that I needed to try Guinness in Dublin, since according to her, it's better there than anywhere else. As we were walking down some little street just off the main thoroughfare, we passed this postage stamp sized pub, in which two guys where playing banjo and guitar, while another was singing along with them. We walked inside, each got a pint, and sat down to listen to the music. Apparently the fellow who was singing was one of the patrons, and all the guys in the place were taking turns singing. After he'd finished a few more songs, he came over to me and informed me that it was my turn to provide the entertainment. I told him I didn't know any Irish songs, to which he replied that that was alright, and seeing as I was an American, some Britney Spears would do just fine. I told him thanks, but no thanks. A few songs and about a pint later, I suddenly remembered that I did know an Irish song: "Whiskey in the Jar" (Thanks Mr. C!)
After thoroughly butchering the song, I had many an Irishman patting me on the back, either because they were impressed by the fact that I even knew the song, or because they were simply too drunk to care how badly I sang. Either way, I found myself the receiver of about six or seven insta-friends. Of these guys who started talking to me, apparently one was some sort of Irish dancing champion, while another was a handball champ, another was a boxing champ, and a fourth had played for Ireland's (national?) soccer team. I was never really able to ascertain whether these were indeed big name sports stars, or if they might have played in the minors of their respective sports at one time and enjoyed augmenting their stories for greater listening pleasure.
The week after these particular shenanigans, I traveled down to Camogli, Italy (near Genova), to meet up with Sanjay, his parents and his aunt for a weekend vacation. Though it was a wonderfully pleasant trip, it involved far less ridiculousness, so I'll keep the record of that trip for my personal notes. I should, however, have much to report on in the next few weeks. This Wednesday evening, I'm going with Kurt, my housemate from Flint, to Vienna and then to Prague over four days. The following week, I'm flying to Cairo to meet up with Brandon, and we will be gallivanting across the country, investigating historical sites, talking about the cost effectiveness of Zeppelin air travel, and generally being dorktastic. I will update as more excitement occurs – hopefully this will not involve such excitement as getting detained while crossing international borders and being forced to do complex mathematical problems while doing handstands, but who knows. (I jest Mother, I jest. Don't worry!)
Alright, time to grab a döner kebap!
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
It turned out that the cookout to which I was invited on Sunday evening was an all-Czech affair. I think most everyone there spoke English, and would do so when addressing me, but the rest of the time, it was definitely like watching a movie without subtitles. Maybe I should try to learn Czech next, since it seems like that’s that language that’s spoken most often around my residence, even in excess of German.
One of the people at the party was a guy who was working on his Ph.D. in medieval Bohemian history between the 14th and 15th centuries, and when he heard that I was from Michigan, he asked if I had been to Kalamazoo College, since there’s a big medieval history conference there every year. Sadly, I have never been to Kalamazoo, but I do remember my cousin, Alex, telling me several years ago about what a great medieval history program they have there. This guy is the first person since I’ve met since then who had also heard of the program. I was kind of amused when he said, “I think there are probably about 150 people in the world working on the same area of history as me. I think I know about three quarters of them personally.” I’m wondering if the definition of his field of study is not merely “14th and 15th century Bohemian history,” but something more like, “History and correlations of grain production with beer and soap consumption in the western villages of the northern provinces of Bohemia during the 14th and 15th centuries, as they may or may not relate to the early philosophies of Jean Sartre.”
Apparently Jĭrkĭ and his girlfriend, Anna, had heard me playing guitar earlier in the day, so they asked me to go get it and play for everyone. Regrettably, I know only a few songs to which you can sing, none of with the Czech people knew. Everyone kept requesting Beatles songs, but since most Beatles songs are too high for me to sing, I never bothered learning them. After I went through the few sing-along songs I knew (though no one knew the words, and therefore abstained from the singing), I passed the guitar over to the history guy I had been talking to, and he started playing some traditional Czech songs, to which there was immediately a 20 person vocal accompaniment. Someone asked me why I knew so few songs you could sing along to, and I said it was because none of my friends ever want to sing (I’m looking at you, Andy Baum, Kaitlyn, Alexa…). She looked very puzzled at my answer, apparently unable to fathom how I managed to befriend such party poopers. Now that I actually know people who are willing to sing, it looks like I’ll be learning a lot of Beatles song (much to the chagrin of Andy’s mother I’m sure).
Despite my inability to understand anything not specifically directed toward me, it was a great time. People kept forcing me to eat more bratwurst, steak, and little mushroom looking things filled with tuna, though I put up little resistance. I think Anna was a little concerned that perhaps I was ill or something when she said, “You have only two beers all night?! Are you sure you okay?” I was extremely flattered by the kindness of these people who I’d hardly ever talked to before, but randomly decided to invite me to join their gathering and to feed me till I was ready to burst.
One of the people at the party was a guy who was working on his Ph.D. in medieval Bohemian history between the 14th and 15th centuries, and when he heard that I was from Michigan, he asked if I had been to Kalamazoo College, since there’s a big medieval history conference there every year. Sadly, I have never been to Kalamazoo, but I do remember my cousin, Alex, telling me several years ago about what a great medieval history program they have there. This guy is the first person since I’ve met since then who had also heard of the program. I was kind of amused when he said, “I think there are probably about 150 people in the world working on the same area of history as me. I think I know about three quarters of them personally.” I’m wondering if the definition of his field of study is not merely “14th and 15th century Bohemian history,” but something more like, “History and correlations of grain production with beer and soap consumption in the western villages of the northern provinces of Bohemia during the 14th and 15th centuries, as they may or may not relate to the early philosophies of Jean Sartre.”
Apparently Jĭrkĭ and his girlfriend, Anna, had heard me playing guitar earlier in the day, so they asked me to go get it and play for everyone. Regrettably, I know only a few songs to which you can sing, none of with the Czech people knew. Everyone kept requesting Beatles songs, but since most Beatles songs are too high for me to sing, I never bothered learning them. After I went through the few sing-along songs I knew (though no one knew the words, and therefore abstained from the singing), I passed the guitar over to the history guy I had been talking to, and he started playing some traditional Czech songs, to which there was immediately a 20 person vocal accompaniment. Someone asked me why I knew so few songs you could sing along to, and I said it was because none of my friends ever want to sing (I’m looking at you, Andy Baum, Kaitlyn, Alexa…). She looked very puzzled at my answer, apparently unable to fathom how I managed to befriend such party poopers. Now that I actually know people who are willing to sing, it looks like I’ll be learning a lot of Beatles song (much to the chagrin of Andy’s mother I’m sure).
Despite my inability to understand anything not specifically directed toward me, it was a great time. People kept forcing me to eat more bratwurst, steak, and little mushroom looking things filled with tuna, though I put up little resistance. I think Anna was a little concerned that perhaps I was ill or something when she said, “You have only two beers all night?! Are you sure you okay?” I was extremely flattered by the kindness of these people who I’d hardly ever talked to before, but randomly decided to invite me to join their gathering and to feed me till I was ready to burst.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
I forgot that stores aren’t open on Sundays here. I have two bananas, five slices of bread, ½ cup of basmati rice, a 75ml can of tomato paste, ¼ of a wheel of Camembert cheese, a jar of chicken bullion, and for some reason, lots of butter. Fortunately, the people on my floor are having a cookout on the balcony, to which Jĭrkĭ has invited me. I have absolutely no idea how to pronounce his name, but that doesn’t stop him from being my favorite person today. He’s also the guy who signed for my Eurail pass when it came via FedEx, so he already had pretty favorable status as far as I was concerned.
Yesterday I ended up having that picnic with Maria, Claudia, and German student from the Fachhochshule, Phillip. I was going to invite some of the other Kettering folks as well, but I think I was the only one who was in Konstanz that day. I met Phillip a week or two ago through Kurt at a party thrown at one of the dormitories near the FH. When I discovered he owned a guitar, he became my insta-friend. I don’t want to sound like I’m only friends with Philip because he has a guitar – he’s really a cool guy anyway – but how can I not appreciate a guitar player? He told me to give him a call sometime if I wanted to come by and use his guitar, so I called him up yesterday and told him he should join us for lunch by the river and bring the guitar with him.
We arrived at the river, armed with sandwich material and some tasty chocolate and cookie morsels Maria picked up from Kaufland, and found Phillip with guitar and blanket in hand. Oh, how I’ve missed my guitar! I was so excited to get to play again. Phillip and I swapped off playing songs until both of us had exhausted our repertoires, at which point Maria and Claudia, perhaps a little begrudgingly, entertained us with a few Romanian songs. After each of us had partially recovered from our food comas, we broke camp and headed home, but with me in possession of the guitar. Phillip doesn’t play it that well and only practices it occasionally, so he said I could borrow it for a while, and when he gets the fancy to play it, he’ll just call me up and ask for it back. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!
When I hang around with Maria and Claudia, I usually end up talking mostly to Claudia, since she speaks very good English, while Maria speaks very good French, but only a little English, German and Spanish. When Maria and I do talk, it’s usually in a combination of the latter three languages, but I think we both find it difficult to get our point across. Anyway, Friday evening I wrote a little letter to both of them in German, inviting them to have lunch the next day. Though I can hardly speak at all in German, I can write well enough to get my point across, since I have time to think and to look up words when I’m writing. Anyway, Maria happened to be home when I dropped the note off, so she read it while I waited and said she’d be happy to go. Later in the evening after we’d come back from the picnic, I found a note tucked into the jamb of my door. Apparently Maria had been so delighted that I’d written that letter in German for her benefit, she returned the favor with a note in Spanish, apologizing that she doesn’t talk very much, since she doesn’t speak English, Spanish or German very well (though I think she probably speaks the latter two better that I do), but thanking me for the picnic and the entertainment on the guitar. It was an incredibly sweet gesture – not to mention her handwriting looks like a work of art.
Yesterday I ended up having that picnic with Maria, Claudia, and German student from the Fachhochshule, Phillip. I was going to invite some of the other Kettering folks as well, but I think I was the only one who was in Konstanz that day. I met Phillip a week or two ago through Kurt at a party thrown at one of the dormitories near the FH. When I discovered he owned a guitar, he became my insta-friend. I don’t want to sound like I’m only friends with Philip because he has a guitar – he’s really a cool guy anyway – but how can I not appreciate a guitar player? He told me to give him a call sometime if I wanted to come by and use his guitar, so I called him up yesterday and told him he should join us for lunch by the river and bring the guitar with him.
We arrived at the river, armed with sandwich material and some tasty chocolate and cookie morsels Maria picked up from Kaufland, and found Phillip with guitar and blanket in hand. Oh, how I’ve missed my guitar! I was so excited to get to play again. Phillip and I swapped off playing songs until both of us had exhausted our repertoires, at which point Maria and Claudia, perhaps a little begrudgingly, entertained us with a few Romanian songs. After each of us had partially recovered from our food comas, we broke camp and headed home, but with me in possession of the guitar. Phillip doesn’t play it that well and only practices it occasionally, so he said I could borrow it for a while, and when he gets the fancy to play it, he’ll just call me up and ask for it back. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!
When I hang around with Maria and Claudia, I usually end up talking mostly to Claudia, since she speaks very good English, while Maria speaks very good French, but only a little English, German and Spanish. When Maria and I do talk, it’s usually in a combination of the latter three languages, but I think we both find it difficult to get our point across. Anyway, Friday evening I wrote a little letter to both of them in German, inviting them to have lunch the next day. Though I can hardly speak at all in German, I can write well enough to get my point across, since I have time to think and to look up words when I’m writing. Anyway, Maria happened to be home when I dropped the note off, so she read it while I waited and said she’d be happy to go. Later in the evening after we’d come back from the picnic, I found a note tucked into the jamb of my door. Apparently Maria had been so delighted that I’d written that letter in German for her benefit, she returned the favor with a note in Spanish, apologizing that she doesn’t talk very much, since she doesn’t speak English, Spanish or German very well (though I think she probably speaks the latter two better that I do), but thanking me for the picnic and the entertainment on the guitar. It was an incredibly sweet gesture – not to mention her handwriting looks like a work of art.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)