Christmas Time in Berlin

Frohe Weihnachten! from "Bear-lin"

Christmas in Germany usually brings to mind the Christmas markets, called Weihnachtsmarkt or Christkindlmarkt in the south, that pop up in cities and towns across the German-speaking lands, the most famous being in Nuremberg. These markets resemble a little Christmas village full of stands selling gifts like ornaments, dishware, hats, gloves, and crafts, as well as a variety of food and Glühwein or mulled wine, of course. My favorite variation of Glühwein is Feuerzangenbowle translated literally as "fire-screen-bowl." It is made by dousing a cone of sugar in high-proof rum and igniting it over a bowl of Glühwein, with the molten sugar and rum being slowly stirred into the wine. 


Although many American Christmas traditions come from Germany, there are some distinct differences between the holiday in the two countries. For Americans, Santa Claus and St. Nicholas are synonymous when in fact, this is not true. Santa Claus is an old man with a glandular problem compounded by his poor diet who lives at the North Pole where he runs a sweat shop, and is a Scandinavian myth. St. Nicholas, or Nikolaos of Myra, was a Greek Bishop of the early church known for anonymously giving gifts, particularly in people's shoes, according to legend. In Germany, St. Nicholas Day is on December 6th, when children get little gifts in their shoes, usually chocolate gold coins or a little chocolate statue of St. Nicholas. The two are easily confused because of the beards and the fact that the modern Santa Claus, known as der Weihnachtsmann in German. The tradition of who brings the presents on Christmas Eve varies. It seems most "believe" it is the Christkindl, or "Christ Child", who brings the gifts, others believe der Weihnachtsmann brings the gifts but in a break. A marked difference from the US is that in Germany Santa does not break into your house in the night for the reward of milk, cookies, and carrots for his reindeer. Instead, he comes to the door while one of the male family members is mysteriously gone, asks the children if they've been good or bad, and sometimes asks them to perform a carol for him. He then distributes presents and goes on his way, a few minutes later, uncle Fritz comes back to learn that he just missed der Weihnachtsmann, ach Scheiße!

Also, the timing of Christmas in Germany is different. Traditionally the tree is erected on the 24th and kept up for the Twelve Days of Christmas until January 6th, the original date of Christmas now known as the Epiphany or Three King's Day. Germany is of course home to the advent calender, but advent is also celebrated by progressively burning four candles arranged on a wreath. This exercise becomes increasingly dangerous as the wreath dries out. 

I visited a couple of Christmas markets in Berlin this year. One a Scandinavian themed market at the Kulturbrauerei with Nordic twists on mulled wine and Christmas baked goods. Another is the biggest in Berlin at Alexanderplatz complete with ice-skating rinks and rides. Alexanderplatz was once the parade ground of communist East Berlin and is know one of the major shopping hubs in Berlin flanked by a couple of large malls. The best Christmas market is at Gendarmenmarkt in the city's political and governmental district. It costs one Euro to get in but is more prettily decorated and the quality of the food and crafts is better than at the other markets. It has security guards dressed as 18th century Prussian soldiers and a stage where Christmas-themed programs are performed. While sipping Glühwein I caught an abbreviated performance of "The Nutcracker" put on by a ballet troupe; the poor girls were performing on an outdoor stage in near freezing weather. It reminded me of decorating the tree with my own mother, who would put on the music as she recalled her own years performing in the ballet, but never getting to perform the coveted role of the Arabian dancer. After watching the performance at the Christmas market, I had the music stuck in my head for about 3 days, when I finally drowned it out by humming the theme to "The Great Escape" for an hour.


Well, I am headed off to the airport in an hour and then we will fly to Dublin. Next time I will report on my Christmas in Ireland at the house of Maeve's mother, Marian. Until then, Merry Christmas and thank you for all the support and feedback on the blog! This is a vehicle that makes it much easier to stave off homesickness by keeping in touch with everyone back home. 

The Tummy Owwa

It has been a rather unpleasant couple of weeks, and this is not a blog post I would recommend reading while dining. I woke up in the early hours of the Tuesday before last with terrible stomach pain, thinking that I had caught the stomach flu that Wolfram had the week before. I spent most of the days that week resting in bed and drinking stomach-ease tea until I had to go pick up the kids, waiting for the bug to run its course. As the weekend approached it seemed to be getting better and I had a fairly normal weekend. Sunday night I went to a goodbye party for a friend of mine, but only stuck around for a few hours and two beers, before heading home around 11. A few hours later I awoke to the horrible cramps and pains I thought were now gone, but were now, in fact, accompanied with a disturbing amount of blood. I went to the doctor first thing in the morning, trudging through windy and rainy weather, and was then quickly a referral for the emergency room of the nearby hospital, St. Hedwig's. After blood tests and an ultrasound I was told (in German) by the doctor that I had an inflamed large intestine and colon, as well as enlarged lymph nodes in my lower abdomen. The young, tall doctor with thick, black-framed glasses and neatly parted hair said that they did not yet know the cause, most probably a bacterial infection but that I should prepare myself for the possibility of it being cancer, and would now be checked into a room in the hospital so I could be prepared for my colonoscopy the next day. 


Needless to say I was shocked and dismayed, when I went to bed the previous night, this is not the day I was expecting to have. German doctors do not receive much in the way of sensitivity training, and even though I knew that at age 25 the chances of me having colon cancer were extremely small, no one likes having the big C-word dropped on them with an empty stomach. I had left the apartment in such a rush that I hadn't even taken time to get something to eat, and was now being told that I would not be eating today, in preparation for the next days procedure, which was the second shock. I did not plan on having a colonoscopy for at least another two decades. I also did not realize that you have to drink a liter of a very disgusting liquid that is essentially Mr. Plumber for your Gastrointestinal Tract, twice. So I called Maeve to let her know that I was terribly sorry, but would not be able to pick up the kids that day, and probably not the next. She then had to have the kids with her during a serious and confidential meeting with the Irish Ambassador, during which little 18 month-old Caoimhe prattled away and threw things at his legs, but apparently he showed remarkable grace under fire. 

The view from my room in the hospital

I then met my roommate, Georg (pronounced "gay-org"), a stout little man of about 70 who was having similar tests as I, insisted on busing both his dishes as well as mine, and enjoyed watching courtroom TV shows, which are slightly more entertaining in German because of the language; I often think Germans are at their funniest when arguing with one another. He chuckled as he watched me drinking my Tummy Plumber, as well as every time I had to get up and use the restroom. The rush to the restroom is really annoying when you have an IV station to drag along, as is the nurses yelling at you for carrying it instead of rolling it. That night at dinner, I enjoyed a filling cup of broth while Georg ate a pork chop with mashed potatoes. I had a hard time getting to bed with the stomach pain, finally falling asleep around midnight. I was awoken the next morning at 5 for my second liter of Tummy Plumber, being told that I would have my colonoscopy later in the morning. It was December 6th, St. Nicolas Day in Germany, which means people usually get a little chocolate Santa, including me. I, however, was not allowed to eat mine, I just had to lay there looking at it while he stared back with a mocking little smirk on on his face. I thought to myself, "just you wait, fat boy, we will see who is smiling at the end of the day." 


Finally at quarter past one in the afternoon, 36 hours since I had last eaten, the nurses rolled me down to the internal medicine ward of the hospital. Thankfully I was being put under for the procedure with propofol, nowadays known as the "Michael Jackson Special." Unfortunately, they do not do it before you see the device used for the procedure, which looks like a four-foot black garden hose attached to a remote control for a Predator Drone. The doctor was named Merkel, but I did not get a chance to ask him if he was related to the Chancellor before a fuzzy wave accompanied by white noise swept over me as the propofol coursed through my veins. I woke a little more than an hour later in the hallway, next to a poster showing the various kinds of cancerous growths that can exist in the abdomen. I was still disoriented but grabbed the chart that was tucked in behind the pillow to read the results, it was short but had some key words that I was not familiar with which made it hard for me to fully understand what was being said about my large intestine and colon. I did understand that Dr. Merkel wrote they were verrottet meaning "dilapidated." Normally that would have been very concerning, but considering my toxicological state I just loudly said "fuck it" and tucked the chart back behind my pillow and closed my eyes, dreaming of the little chocolate Santa. I awoke a half hour later as I was being brought back up to my ward, but now into my own room where my things had already been moved. Dr. Merkel came in shortly thereafter and told me that the blood tests confirmed what he found, that I essentially had a very bad case of food poisoning, a bacterial infection that had inflamed my lower digestive system, and would need to stay in the hospital for a few days, isolated in my own room. I could go for walks in the hall, but only if I wore the green smock and latex gloves that the nurses wore every time they came into my room (which I declined to do). He said the fact that I had not transmitted the illness to anyone else, especially the small children I take care of, was a testament to my personal hygiene. I told him that was great, but I hadn't eaten in a day and half and wanted food NOW. He said they would bring me some in a bit but that I would have to work my way up to full meals. He left and there was only myself and the chocolate Santa, on whom I proceeded to exact my delicious revenge for his smirking.

The room where I was isolated like Quasimodo 

While waiting for the elevator on the way to my procedure, I looked out at one of the internal walls of the hospital that had purposefully not been renovated. Its read brick was badly pock-marked with bullet holes, a reminder of the battle for Berlin. After enduring a terrible bombing campaign, the ruins of the city were then the site of a weeks-long street battle that cost hundreds of thousands of lives. When allied observers first came to the city, it was so badly damaged that they thought it would have to be abandoned and rebuilt on another site, left as a ruinous monument to the folly of National Socialism. The German people had other ideas; once the bullets stopped flying and the looting of the Red Army stopped, they simply began rebuilding. Long lines of common people, handing bricks and stones off to one another, sorting and piling, formed across the city and the country. Among all the rubble there was a feeling that they could finally look to the future, that they had survived, and there was work to be done: etwas muss getan, "something must be done." From that feeling of hopefulness amid apocalyptic devastation I drew strength, which I needed because at that point I was as weak as a newborn puppy. I encourage you to Google images of Berlin at the end of the war, that it could be rebuilt is a testament to the gumption of the German people. 

"Parking Forbidden" not relevant to the post but
something I found amusing

The next four days were pretty quiet, mostly spent resting and getting IV infusions. I was alone in my room, decorated only with a crucifix, with Jesus looking at me as if to say, "you think you've got problems." I used the time as an opportunity to practice my German, I watched TV in German, spoke German with my nurses, and read a book in German that had been a birthday gift. It is called "Papanoia" a play on the word paranoia and is about an American who falls in love with a German woman, and then moves to Berlin with her in the same district as where I live, Prenzlauerberg. Looking forward to living the cool bohemian lifestyle of a young couple in Berlin, they instead soon have a baby on the way. Having recently lost his job, he has to become a stay at home dad to a precocious little girl, finding himself to be an unwelcome outsider among all the organic food obsessed yoga-moms that are his new peers. As the only male Au Pair I know, I found the story very easy to relate to. I also became a fan of a TV program about zookeepers and the animals they take care of. The best part was the narrator who sometimes voiced the assumed opinions of the animals, usually slightly sarcastically contradicting or making fun of what the zookeeper was saying in a low, slow tone of voice. Most of the people seemed to be fairly normal, except for those who worked with birds, I noticed the bird-people were odd without fail. For example, the guy taking care of the penguins who was trying to reason with the dominant penguin named Fritz, so that it would stop pushing off other penguins when they tried to climb up to the highest rock, where apparently only he and his mate Babe were allowed to stand. Other highlights included elephants enjoying being bathed with power washers because it feels like a light massage, and then get rewarded for sitting still with a snack in the form of a wheel barrow full of food. I also gained new appreciation for the term "going ape shit" after seeing what happens when you stand too close to the cage where a mother monkey has a newborn baby.

A taste of home: a chicken pot pie I made
(not the culprit of my illness)

Luckily, because I was in a smaller hospital, the food was actually pretty good and the nurses were attentive and nice, for German nurses, who tend to have a reputation for being fairly mean. They were pretty good about keeping my thermos full of tea, and would bring me extra cookies in the evening if I asked nicely, which I always do since I come from a long line of cookie scoundrels (that means you Grandpa). The worst part of the hospital stay was the daily discussion of a chart I had to fill out every time I went to the bathroom with the cute nurses who got me up in the morning. There are two dates I definitely won't have to worry about, ever. 


Finally on Friday the doctors said my blood work looked much better and agreed to let me go home and continue my recovery from there. Looking forward to a quiet evening, I received a call about an hour after getting home that some friends of ours had their apartment broken into, and that they, their Au Pair, and two little boys would be staying with us that night and would be over within 45 minutes. Just my luck...


I am doing much better now, and am almost eating normally again, I should be myself again in another week. I just have to drink lots of fluids and try to not over exert myself, not an easy thing to do with two kids whose combined age is less than 5. It was good to come back and find that I was missed, I had a panicked thought one night in the hospital that the family would figure out in my absence that they didn't really need me and I would be promptly fired upon my return. That was not the case, and tomorrow life goes back to normal. So here's too good health, washed hands, and thoroughly cooked chicken!

The Coming of Winter

The Reichstag at night, seat of the German Parliament

It's been quite a month here in Berlin. I would like to apologize for how overdue this blog is, but I've been occupied these past couple of weeks, and I don't mean that my room has been filled with people living in tents and banging on drums. Just this week I submitted an application for a scholarship from the DAAD: Deutsche Akademsiche Austausch Dienst, the "German Academic Exchange Service." Although the economic crisis has made scholarships like this more competitive than ever, I still hope that I will catch a break and get a chance to return to academia. It would allow me to pursue an MA in European-American Studies at Universität Regensburg, which is an internationally accredited degree program examining the relationship between the named continents from an interdisciplinary perspective, principally historical, political, literary, and social. Regensburg is a city of 150,000 (30,000 of whom are students) located in north-central Bavaria on the Danube river. The city is one of the best-preserved in Europe; it was relatively undamaged during WWII and it's medieval town-center is a UNESCO World Heritage site. The cities icons are it's Gothic cathedral and medieval stone bridge. In spite of it's quaint setting, the university has a reputation of being very welcoming to international students, part of a larger project by the state of Bavaria to gain more international recognition for its institutions of higher education.

"There is a life after the Euro!" The Greek-centered crisis
in the European Union leaves many Germans wanting to
return to the Deutsche Mark on the anniversary of
German reunification

This has also been a month of milestones. Caiomhe took her first steps which I was privileged enough to witness, and now she is assuredly but cautiously walking all over the place. It was also recently the 50th anniversary of the Cold War standoff that saw American and Soviet tanks lining up only a couple hundred meters across from one another at Check Point Charlie, an event preceding the Cuban Missile Crisis. Unification Day also came to pass this last month, a national holiday that is no where near as big a deal as our 4th of July. When I went out take part in the festivities, I was thoroughly underwhelmed by the celebrating or lack thereof. Germans are still fairly uncomfortable with any expression of nationalist pride, and the holiday itself is a compromise. The day the wall actually came down, November 9th, also happens to share the date of Kristallnacht "The Night of Broken Glass" which resulted in the ransacking of Jewish homes and businesses, as well as the burning of Synagogues across Germany and Austria. Therefore, the day of formal unification, which happened on October 3rd the following year, was chosen. Rather than a day of barbecuing and fireworks, it is mostly a day people spend quietly with their family and friends. There were some food/drink stands as well as a stage with music around around the Reichstag and the Brandenburg Gate in the afternoon, but the mood was still pretty reserved. By the time night came, it was all over, so I walked around and took a few pictures of Berlin at night. In another big milestone yesterday, Ireland took the Guiness Book of World Records title for having the most people dressed up as Leprechauns in one place at one time, reclaiming the title from The Tonight Show with Jay Leno and beating their count of 224 with a crowd of 246. Maeve called me to ask if there was any reporting on Irish radio of the official visit to Berlin, the preparation for which she has been working on for sometime. I unfortunately had to tell her that the live coverage of the Leprechaun story seemed to be overshadowing it, eliciting some weary laughter from her end of the line. 

A contradiction on four wheels: a Mini-Cooper SUV

Here are some other amusing stories from the past month. In Sweden, a moose was stuck in a tree after it got drunk eating the fermented apples that were still clinging to its branches and had to be removed by members of the local fire department. This is about as exciting as life gets in Sweden, once a land of fearsome vikings, now known for modular furniture and generous maternity leave. Here in Berlin, I came across another interesting animal-related story. When riding on the U-Bahn (subway), you can stare at other passengers, which is quite normal and disconcerting for people who aren't used to it, or you can look at the Berliner Fenster, meaning "The Berlin Window." It is a screen in the subway car that has a slide show of short news summaries covering headlines, sports, entertainment, the weather, and also includes a daily cartoon from around the world, a quote of the day, and advertisements. I probably average more than an hour a day on the U-bahn so I consider myself to be a Fenster connoisseur. This past week they had a slide about a local resident/weirdo who has been walking around with a goddamn parrot on his shoulder for 30 years. The last line of the story read "women may have come and gone, but the parrot has stayed with him." Really, a guy who constantly has a big, mean, squawking bird on his shoulder can't hold on to a girlfriend? It would be hard to get through an intimate evening with your feathered friend constantly whistling and butting in asking for crackers. I would like to see profiles on the women who actual gave this Jack Hanna wannabe a shot. My first instinct would be cat-ladies, but I think there would be too much conflict between the animals. Second guess would be a girl with dreadlocks and Birkenstock sandals, but the bird would probably start tearing away at her hair in an attempt to build a nest out of it. The only possible explanation would be a woman resembling the Chiquita banana lady, except for she has a bowl full of birdseed on her head instead of fruit. I think the true test of a man's appeal to the opposite sex would be if he could get women with a parrot on his shoulder, but I don't even know if a Jude Law or a George Clooney would be up to the task. Johnny Depp might be able to because of the success of those cheesy "Pirates of the Caribbean" movies, but then we just get back to the question of what kind of women would feel comfortable with the possibility of being exposed to bird lice. 


The days are getting colder and shorter, about 40 in the day and freezing at night. This means that one of my favorite Berlin activities is becoming increasingly difficult to attend, Mauerpark Karaoke. As you may remember from a previous post, Mauerpark or "wall park" sits on the former border of East/West Berlin and used to have the wall going right through it. On the outside of the stadium there is an outdoor theater capable of holding a couple thousand people, and on Sunday afternoon it is full of spectators for karaoke. The size of the audience, although friendly, means that the people who sing are (with some occasionally painful exceptions) pretty good. Others include stag or hen parties from England, and the singer has often been up for a day or two and is a few hours from crashing. There is one man who is a fixture of this Sunday afternoon ritual, a resident of Berlin named Detlef. He is a short, stout man known for his thick grey beard, usually clad in some kind of hokey-looking sweater. Every week he is met with thunderous applause as he sings the same song, "My Way" in German. I took a video of his performance a few weeks ago but am having trouble uploading it so I will attach a link to one of his YouTube videos instead (yes he has several). At the beginning of the video he says, "in daily life I actually have little contact with people, there I keep mostly to myself, and meeting new people and relations between people are something that isn't really in me. So it is something I can do better in performing before people." I encourage you to watch the entire video as he gets more and more into his performance as the song builds.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T5CNW5RBirE

Wine-Covered Hills and Seas of Tourists

Tourist hordes in Florence

In the second week of our trip to Italy we made excursions to Firenze (Florance), Siena (Sienna), and I made an overnight excursion to Bologna (Baloney--just kidding). It is said that people who visit Italy fall into two categories, those who love Florence and those who love Sienna, and I am most definitely in the latter group. 


Here are a few reasons why I'm not real big on Florence. First, you literally have to fight your way through the crowds to see the sights, many of which require long queues. While waiting in these lines, you are pestered by peddlers of all kinds, from Balkan beggars to random African dudes selling an even more random assortment of crap and who don't take no for an answer. These people arrive in a similar manner as Cubans arriving in Florida, in crappily built boats that often require rescuing, but the Italians are so laid-back they don't seem to care. There are also street "performers" doing the "see how long I can hold this pose and throw some money in the hat" routine. I get the guy who has powdered his skin completely white pretending to be a statue of Da Vinci (even though he was from the village of Vinci and not Florence), I even cut the fat guy dressed up as cupid some slack, but what does someone dressed up wearing ancient Egyptian death mask have to do with anything? Second, unlike most cities in northern Italy which are built on hilltops, Florence on a valley floor straddling a river that becomes quite stagnant in the Summer. This combined with all the tourist buses makes the place stink. The only reason why they were able to defend the city in the old days was that the surrounding mountains form a sort of outer wall for the city, and its strategic position on key trading routes ensured it always had enough money to hire top-notch mercenary armies. Third I found the city overall to be architecturally disappointing, perhaps I had been de-sensitized after being in Tuscany for so long. My expectations may have been high, but I just found it to be plainer than expected. Finally, everyone makes a big deal about the cathedral in Florence, and it is indeed very big, but save for the inside of the dome and fresco of John Hawkwood, it is pretty boring inside, nowhere near as ornately decorated as the cathedral in Sienna, which is only slightly smaller. I will concede that it is worth visiting Florence just to see it's greatest museum, the Uffizi. The Uffizi is one of the greatest art museums in the world, holding paintings such as Botticelli's The Birth of Venus and possessing one of the most comprehensive collections of sculptures you can find. Interestingly enough, there was a stone carving directly in front of the Venus expressly put there for blind people. I first thought, who would be cruel enough to bring a blind person to an art museum. Second, Venus's breasts look a little worn from all the attention they're been getting from these poor blind bastards. I only had two hours to tour it which meant I had to power walk through rooms of less interest so I could have time to take in the art that I most wanted to see, and stare into the eyes of all the busts of the Roman Emperors. Most of the sculptures there are in the Hellenistic Greek style but are actually little more than cheap 2,000 year-old Roman copies with only a handful of actual Greek statues.

Fresco of John Hawkwood
in the Cathedral of Florence

I was willing to endure the wait to get in to the cathedral just to see this fresco of John Hawkwood, and waited until lunch time to go when the wait was only 30 minutes (rather clever if I do say so myself, and I do). John Hawkwood is one of my favorite personalities from the Middle Ages. Living in the late 14th century, he was an Englishmen who traveled to Burgundy to fight in the Hundred Years War as a condottieri, or mercenary captain. He eventually made his way to greener pastures in service to wealthy city states of northern and central Italy. The Italians in that time were mostly focused on trade and much of their manpower was vested in great fleets to that effect, they used their wealth to hire private armies to do their fighting for them. These condotierri were the Blackwater of their day, commanding mercenary companies that were essentially pre-packaged armies to supplement the city-states' own militias. John Hawkwood was one of the most astute condotierri of his day, not only as a soldier but as a politician, playing the Italians off one another, accepting a contract from one city-state then demanding money from another not to attack. He was sometimes paid not to become involved in conflicts, and I admire a man whose so good at his job that he gets paid not to do it. He commanded the Papal armies for some time but his most consistent employer was Florence where he became a hero. Therefore a huge fresco is dedicated to him in the cathedral, it was originally to be a model for a bronze statue of him, the funds for which never fully materialized. 

 Cathedral of Sienna

No matter which city you love, everyone loves what lies between: the region of Chianti. On our way to Sienna, we made a couple of stops to do a bit of wine tasting. It was a beautiful day and the Italian countryside had the look and smell of California with the same tinge of unbelievable fiscal irresponsibility. At one winery, the people who went before us in the tasting were a young English couple who bought a couple of overpriced bottles, and then unsuccessfully tried to hint their way into a dip in the pool by asking if there was anywhere to swim nearby, nice try limeys! 

Beautiful floors of the cathedral in Sienna

Sienna...amore mio, I fell in love with Sienna. Perched up on a hill with most of it's walls still intact, Sienna is often overlooked by tourists and much better managed; its narrow cobblestone streets remain unmolested by tourist buses. Shortly after arriving we had one of the better Gelatos I had in Italy, although served in such a generous amount so as to make its consumption a race against time and stickiness. Sienna is a more elegant city than Florence, it is smaller, the buildings closer, the feel of the whole place is more intimate. The cathedral in Sienna is probably the most impressive I have ever seen, inside and out, it is an unbelievable ornate testament to the craftsmanship of those artisans who worked on it for generations. It was begun during the Gothic era and finished during the Renaissance and was originally intended to be the largest cathedral in the world. What exists today was actually intended to be the "arms" of the cathedral that run North-South (churches traditionally are east-oriented) but it's further construction was blocked by the papacy, which did not want it's expansion of St. Peter's to be outshone. Nonetheless, it is a gorgeous cathedral filled with ornate frescoes and unbelievable stone floors depicting biblical scenes. I was lucky to get a picture of it's green and pink marble facade basked in the light of the late-afternoon sun. After prying ourselves from the cathedral, we headed to the central plaza, the Piazza del Campo. It is home to a yearly horse race dating back centuries, in which the districts of the city are pitted against one another in a frantic stampede before a cheering mass of thousands. Our experience was much more quiet, as the sun went down we had dinner on the Piazze del Campo and I had one of the best pizzas of my life, made with bacon and mascarpone, it was also one of the most unhealthy, but I figured the red wine from the day's tasting would balance it out. On our walk back to the car I was amazed to see a store for Champion athletic wear, advertising zip-up hooded sweatshirts for 125 Euros that you could pick up at a Costco back home for $30. Then again, wine that would cost a couple bucks in Italy you'd have to give your first born son for in the US.

Me in the Piazzo del Campo

In the final days of our vacation I had the opportunity to make an excursion of my own to Bologna. A greatly under-appreciated city that is largely ignored by tourists, Bologna is considered by many to be the culinary capital of Italy, and is home to Europe's oldest university. It was a very important Medieval city so naturally I decided to make my way there. I caught the train from Pistoia and had to change in Prato. I waited on the platform for the train and noticed that it was running late, but decided to take an Italian attitude and not worry, there were about ten other people milling around waiting for the train. A few minutes later, a family from Chicago asked me if I was taking the train to Bologna and I told them not to worry that sometimes things run a bit late in Italy. Shortly thereafter, a conductor asked us if we were going to Bologna, then informed us that the train had come in on a different platform and already left, and that an announcement had been made over the loud speaker, but only in Italian. An hour later, I was on my way to Bologna. After arriving, I felt a bit pressed for time and took a taxi to the cheap little hotel I had book just outside of the walls of the old city. The woman at reception spoke no English, but after handing her my passport she found my reservation and handed me my keys. The room was Spartan, but spacious and neat, with a shared bathroom, and only 30 Euros for the night and a 20 minute walk from the city center. After grabbing a quick bite to eat and a Birra Moretti, the only Italians beer worth drinking, I headed the nearest gate and inside of the wall. Bologna is a very old city even for Italy, it feels like the buildings are looming in towards you, partially because of the beautifully decorated covered sidewalks which the city is famous for. I made my way to the central plaza with it's fountain of Neptune and cathedral, whose outer facade was unfortunately obstructed by renovations. I stopped at the nearby site of the original university, and visited the world's first operating theater where examinations of cadavers were exhibited under the watchful eye of an Inquisitor. I then headed to the renowned antiquities museum to take in some Roman and Etruscan artifacts, only to arrive ten minutes before it's 3PM closing time and being turned away. It was my own fault for not paying better attention while preparing for my excursion, but I was nonetheless forlorn and in need of spiritual renewal. So, I headed south to the Basilica d' San Dominica, wherein the Capella holds the bones of Saint Dominic, founder of the Dominican order. Saint Dominic was an ascetic, known for leading an unbelievably humble life even though he was born into a wealthy family. A student during a terrible famine, he sold his books (which would have been unbelievably valuable at the time) so that he could use the proceeds to feed the starving-poor most affected. Were he to see how unbelievably beautifully the Capella is that houses his remains, he would turn over in his ornately-decorated marble sarcophagus, for which an angel was carved by a 19-year-old Michelangelo.

A nice marble table to get carved up on

 Bologna is full of churches that aren't even mentioned on tourist maps but are nonetheless incredible edifices and examples of craftsmanship. After taking in a dizzying amount of them, I headed back to the hotel to get off my feet before heading out to take in some of the night life. I came back to the hotel and found a guy working on a Vespa in front of the door, after he saw me standing at the reception desk he came in and asked my what I needed. Thankfully he spoke very good English and was able to give me the restaurant recommendation I was looking for, something not too touristy or expensive between there and the university district. He gave me the name of a place 5 minutes away and clear directions on how to get there. I certainly got what I asked for. No one at this place spoke English, especially the staff. The very comprehensive menu was only in Italian, and after looking over it for 20 minutes I ordered some dishes that I could recognize a few words in: some kind of pasta with asparagus, some kind of meat, and red wine. I ended up with a pasta course of asparagus and squid (which thankfully I like) that was delicious, a thin-cut, pan-fried, breaded pork cutlet that closely resembled schnitzel, and a rather large carafe of wine, all for about 20 Euros. I thoroughly enjoyed my feast out on the patio as I watched a couple of silly little girls raise all kinds of hell running around, sporadically fighting with each-other, and knocking over the restaurant's potted plants. After the unexpected carafe of wine I found myself feeling quite social and headed to the university where I earlier seen a stage being set up and found they were having some kind open mic night with people reading poetry and playing music, one group actually laying down some pretty respectable blues music. I met a group of Erasmus students while there, a couple of girls, German and Dutch, and a couple of guys, Greek and Chinese. Erasmus is a program by which people study at different universities throughout the course of their degree so as to receive as diverse an education as possible. As the open mic night drew to a close we headed to a bar nearby that is well-known for doing all kinds of creative shots ranging in taste, and in the spirit of Erasmus, took in a variety of shooters, some tropical, some involving fire, some having absinthe and others whipped cream. These bartenders knew their stuff, but I guess being in one of the oldest university towns in the world sets a precedent for having good nightlife. It came time for parting ways, and I headed back to my hotel for some terrible Italian TV and to down a very large bottle of water to ensure that I caught my train in the morning, which I did, fresh as a daisy.

Capella d' San Dominico 

We headed back North the day after I returned from Bologna. Driving up through South Tirol, a German-speaking semi-autonomous region of northern Italy (and it's richest), and past Innsbruck in Austria, before stopping overnight in Munich. I had a chance to once again visit my old friends before resuming the journey with the two poor babies forced to endure such a long car ride. Being in a car with small children for 6+ hours a day is enough even to try the patience and kindness of Saint Dominic. So is trying to cram your stuff into one of those roof-rack boxes you see atop of cars, trying to perfectly jostle the contents so that everything lines up correctly and you can finally lock the damned thing. In the end Wolfram and I were triumphant, fitting all our luggage along with the wine and olive oil we brought back into the car and box, arriving in Berlin last Saturday night with our wits still about us, just a few days before Berlin Autumn's first cold kiss.

Zest for Life and Lot's of Hand-gesturing

San Bernadino pass, not to be confused
with the street in Newport Heights

Two weeks ago the Family von Heynitz and I headed south across the Alps to enjoy some vacation time, taking the same route as great medieval German kings seeking to bring the rich and proud Italian city-states into line with the rest of the Holy Roman Empire. So I, like a middle-aged woman attempting to reclaim her mojo (yes I have seen the movie) headed to Tuscany. Our adventure began early on a Friday morning, pulling sandy-eyed babies out of bed in an act of revenge for all the inopportune times they'd woken us up; heading to a lovely Schwäbisch town to stay with a college friend of Wolfram's on the first leg of our Italian expedition. Swabia is a region of southwestern Germany, existing across the border of Baden-Württemberg and Bayern (Bavaria), with a dialect that, according to Germans, is arguably less comprehensible than the Bayersich that is spoken in the countryside surrounding Munich (where I did my third year of college). Thankfully, our hosts spoke Hochdeutsch (High-German) and were as delightful as they were well educated. This is also one of the most prosperous regions of Germany, for example, the town had an unemployment rate of less than 3%, which statically speaking means the population is fully employed. 

Sunset on our first night in Borgo Casalvento,
with Dutch neighbors in foreground.

The next day we saw five countries in one day: Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Lichtenstein, and Italy. For those who are curious, Lichtenstein is a country that is a few miles across, and has served as a tax-haven for Germans as well as other Europeans for a long time; a Cayman Islands of the Alps. I always wondered how such a tiny country could have endured for so long, until I saw it; Lichtenstein has a few Alpine villages surrounding a small city with an impressive old fortress above it that serves as it's capital, all sitting on some of the most defensible ground I have ever seen. 

And then came Italy, strikingly similar to California in several ways. First, the landscape, second, the aggressive driving, third, the fashion consciousness, and finally, no one seems to work. You walk around a town at ten in the morning and people seem to be just then filing into work begrudgingly before taking a two hour lunch break. Despite the lax work schedule, it sounds like someone is getting chewed-out whenever you walk into any business there. Italy is the kind of place where you can great a great espresso in a gas station and you can't really get a bad meal anywhere. 

Soon to be known as Palazzo d' Kalanzo

Italy is full of beautiful, svelte young women with olive skin and pouty expressions on their faces, along with four-and-half-foot-tall grandma's in coke-bottle glasses who spend their days swooning over the "bambinos"--the change seems to happen overnight. Young Italian men often come in a skinny-jeans wearing type that is more concerned with what the other guys are wearing rather than the girls, juxtaposed with the self-assured jolly older Italian man. The aging process is more apparent, with the creepy Berlusconi style man in between. Italy is a country where the Prime Minister can be brought up on several counts of having sex with underage prostitutes, but not be impeached because he is probably the most productive and successful leader they've had in decades (Italy has had something like 18 constitutions since WWII). Nonetheless, Italians are overall friendly, wonderful people who know how to live life well and I had a chance to enjoy some of this good life. Surprisingly few Italians speak English however, which I admit was a proud assumption on my part. The towns are also full of fat little dogs that are very pushy and seem to have no problem blocking traffic. While there I had my own little friend/enemy, a skinny cat who I caught once digging through our garbage (which I had to then clean up), and who tried to sneak into our apartment so many times that I named him Mr. Kitty. 

The elusive Mr. Kitty

We stayed in a rental apartment in a renovated farmhouse on what appeared to be an old olive farm, judging by all the old olive tress. It was on a mountain in an area known as Baco, above the town of Cantagrillo, near the walled medieval city of Pistoia, less than an hour west of Firenze (Florence) by car. Our first week we found ourselves to be the only non-Dutch family staying there. As part of our package we rented mountain bikes but soon found that our location was so charmingly remote as to make anything more than a short journey more strenuous than enjoyable. I discovered this for us on one of the first days, when, after a hair-raising flight down the mountain to Cantagrillo lasting a little more than five minutes, I then endured a 40-minute Bataan Death March-esque trip back up the mountain, riding less than a quarter of the way up, in which I discovered that I am woefully out of shape and in need of a gym membership. A lot of people do bicycle tours of Tuscany, which seems idiotic to me considering that it is a very hilly region where most of the towns and cities worth seeing are placed on defensible ground. Perhaps these tourists want to be able to brag to their friends back home that they were the only people to lose weight while visiting Italy. 

A gate of San Gimignano

The first week of our visit included trips to the walled cities of Lucca, known for it's elegant palazzo and cathedral, San Gimignano (don't ask me how to pronounce it), known for it's many medieval towers and fresco-covered church, Volterra, known for it's breath-taking, windswept view, and Pistoia, which I found to be a much overlooked destination. This is partially due to the fact that I had a chance to enjoy some of the nightlife there. After a walk around the beautifully-lit city-center, I tried a couple of bars, eventually landing at one which not only had an English-speaking bar tender, but one who was headed to California for a two-month research project. After trying a couple of local wines I asked him to call me a cab to head home around 12:30, he refused, saying that the scene was just really getting good, and that I should stay and let him give me a lift home. A cute Basque bartender then made me a stiff Mojito. A couple hours later I found myself making stops with him at the apartments of two of his friends, allowing me the opportunity to mix with some of the locals in a more natural, non-touristy setting. Good luck in San Francisco Alessio!

A tree miraculously growing from
the stone of a tower in Lucca

Even reading a menu in Italian makes you wish that you could speak the language, and thankfully you can kind of fake your way through Italian, at least enough to order a meal or get some prosciutto at the butcher, if you already know a little Spanish, or took three years of Latin in high school. People there tend to express themselves with intense hand-gesturing and miming, making them potentially great players of charades if they were able to hold their tongues.  

Italian bird hunters Davido McHoné and
Bobito Milikenangelo overlooking Cantagrillo

Next week I will publish part two of the Italian adventure, with visits to Sienna, Florence, and Bologna. See you then, and sorry for the long wait since my last blog!

A Carefree Day in Potsdam

The terraced vineyard below Sanssouci Palace

Potsdam, sight of the famous conference between Truman, Churchill, and Stalin at the end of WWII, is a city lying about an hour southwest of Berlin by light rail, and was home to the Summer residence of the Hohenzollern dynasty that ruled Prussia and eventually the German Empire until 1918. The current Prince of Prussia (in title only), George Friederich, who would be Kaiser if the First World War hadn't led to the dethronement of the German monarchy, was recently married to Princess Sophie von Isenburg at the Palace of Sanssouci in Potsdam this past weekend. The name of the palace comes from the French sans souci, meaning "without worry" or "carefree." It was created in the mid-18th century by King Frederick II, known as "The Great," as a place of relaxation away from the formality and ceremony of court life in Berlin. Surrounded by nearby lakes, Potsdam also provided a more tolerable Summer location than Berlin. Frederick the Great is known as one of the greatest military minds in all of history; in fact, Napoleon, after defeating the forces of Prussia in 1807 and forcing a peace with them, visited the tomb of Frederick, saying "If this man were still alive, I would not be here today." 

The Orangerie, a large greenhouse

Grotto below the Orangerie

However, Frederick was in his heart of hearts a sensitive man, a lover of philosophy and music, who did not want to be king. As a young man, he unsuccessfully attempted to flee to England with his best friend, whose decapitation after their capture, he was forced to witness. He himself was spared the punishment for desertion (he was an officer in the Prussian army at the time). Instead he was demoted and relegated to a post away from Berlin for several years, allowed only to return for the wedding of his beloved sister. He was sternly reminded that the throne was his obligation, that his responsibility was to his people, and that selfishly shirking that responsibility to pursue his trifling interests would lead to a crisis of succession jeopardizing the stability of the Prussian state and the safety of his people. During his exile from Berlin his studies were focused on soldiery and statecraft. This experience attributed greatly to his belief in Enlightened Absolutism, that just as it was his subjects' duty to follow his absolute rule as king, so was it his responsibility as god's sovereign representative on earth to see to the safety, welfare, and improvement of his people. It was this feeling of responsibility to the people that differed his brand of Absolutism from the French form propagated by Louis XIV "The Sun King." Furthermore, it was in this spirit that in the 1720's, he made Prussia the first country in the world to have mandatory public education, as well as providing a haven of religious and political tolerance, arguing that such a virtuous system should not fear to tolerate debate and discussion. He enjoyed the friendship and correspondence of Voltaire, although they were known to quarrel. All this took place in the most militarized country in Europe, where social and political advancement was only possible through displays of merit by serving the state, rather than by birthright. It was said that "Prussia was not a country with an army, but an army with a country."

The Windmill (reconstructed in the 19th c.)

 Heavy lay the crown upon the head of this great man, whose palace of Sanssouci was was a small rococo villa in comparison to the lavish baroque Versailles. The sprawling gardens of Sanssouci Park boasted the neatly ordered features of a baroque garden: geometric footpaths, perfectly manicured lawns and box hedges, some shaped into pyramids, fountains (long hampered by poor water-pumping technology), as well as statues, grottoes, colonnades, and temples in the style of classical Greece and Rome. He even had a faux ruin constructed to conceal the water reservoir on a neighboring hill.  It was a place of escape and relaxation that also exhibited how the tastes of the comparatively spartan Frederick who typically wore a simple blue army uniform, differing from his counterparts in the french aristocracy, who were already stagnating in the opulence and disconnectedness from their people that would lead to their bloody demise only decades later. A terraced vineyard lead up to the palace, and the park possessed some 3,000 fruit trees, as well as numerous green houses where oranges, dates, and even bananas could be cultivated, most of which still exists, along with an old windmill Frederick chose to keep for its rustic aesthetic. 

The author's head poking out of the water on the left

Sanssouci is only one of the palaces in Potsdam, and it took a couple of hours to make a cursory tour of the grounds. Since it was the height of tourist season, the wait to tour in the inside was was too long for us, because we had some swimming to do. As mentioned in previous blogs, there is a good-sized minority of Southeast Asians in East Germany, and we lunched at a Thai restaurant in Potsdam. I had a very tasty fried duck breast, which I joked to my companions had come from one of the fat ducks living in the waters of the palace, saying that they probably sent someone running down there, clever in hand, to fill my order. After lunch, we took the train back a few stops in the direction of Berlin, getting off at Schlachtensee. It is one of the smaller lakes in the area, and doesn't require an entrance fee. The Summer having been so rainy and uncooperative, we understood that the more popular lakes would be covered with a certain type of pumped-up, fake-tanned, working class German, somewhat akin to American white trash and more specifically, the 'wife beater' wearing residents of Riverside county who so annoy the residents of beach cities back home. The water of the lake was fairly clear and refreshingly cold, but not freezing as it did not seem to be all that deep of a lake. I nonetheless teased the girls about the man-sized catfish that would come up from the depths of the lake to nip at their legs, and proceeded to play the role of the catfish, laughing like a mischievous little boy. After our dip we enjoyed a bit of sunshine and Rotkäppchen on the banks of the lake. Rotkäppchen is a German brand of sparkling wine or Sekt that was the principle brand available in the old East German state and is still much loved in this part of the country and usually sells for about 4 Euros in a grocery store. Rotkäppchen is also "Little Red Riding Hood" in German, and the brand probably refers to the story, wherein the German version, she brings cakes and wine to her sick grandmother, who for some reason lives alone in the middle of a forest crawling with wolves, a minor plot hole. After our long day we returned to the city for a little cheap pizza and then went to hang out on the Admiralsbrücke, a small bridge in Berlin that people, for some reason, like to loiter and obstruct traffic on until the police come at 10 pm to send everyone packing because of a noise ordinance. All in all it was a very relaxing and enjoyable day, and although caring for two small children isn't quite as stressful as being King of Prussia, it's always nice to get out of town for a day. 

What a Month...Not

Dear forlorn blog readers,


I apologize for the month-long drought without my wit and insight, the last two weeks I have been on vacation and frankly there hasn't been much to talk about. The news this past month has also been so depressing that it has been hard not to be affected by it. It is pretty incredible that we are simultaneously witnessing our political system lose whatever pathetic shreds of credibility it once held on to while manufacturing a second economic crisis. This ugly episode just confirms that most Republicans seem to have no soul while most Democrats seem to have no balls. Who would have thought a day would come when the Baby-boomers pined for the reincarnation of LBJ to get Congress to work again. All the while we have created with China the economic equivalent of Mutually Assured Destruction, and are waging four wars. Please, Ron Paul, save us from ourselves. European leadership is proving to be similarly ineffective in solving it's own debt crisis, but should we be surprised that a continent which has been in a near-constant state of war for most of its existence isn't able to work as a single functioning political/economic entity?


While you all have been enduring one of the hottest and most grueling Summers on record, Germany has been having one of it's wettest and crappiest Summers ever. It has rained most of the days since I last wrote, even an escape to Munich for the past week offered no respite, even though normally if the weather is bad in the North of the country it's good in the South and vice-versa. This Summer, however, is so bad that it has trumped this adage. 


The day I left for Munich was actually one of the only sunny days we've had so far, but it was terribly humid. My old housemates in Munich are most hospitable, one guy who is dating a girl in the house was so kind as to let me stay in his room for the week and even provided clean bedding and a towel, a luxury for college students. It is also tough to get them to let me pay for anything as they still treat me as a guest. In exchange for their kindness I agreed to pick up a used espresso machine from someone living not far from me in Berlin, originally a 500 Euro piece of equipment they got for 80. The machine ended up weighing 25 pounds and by the time I got to the subway station lugging the machine and my backpack. I was moving quickly and running late, sweating profusely in the Sun and humidity. As I looked down the long flight of stairs at the subway I caught a glimpse of a taxi parked nearby and decided to not take the chance of running late. The Turkish cab driver gave me a funny look then popped the trunk, it turned out to be a very well spent 10 Euros. I arrived in time to catch my train, but didn't have time to eat before the 6 hour train ride as I planned. No problem I thought, I'll grab something to eat in the dining car. 


I thought wrong, the food service crew's train into Berlin was late and the normal train workers are not licensed to serve food. After some negotiating I was able to procure a Snicker's bar and a bottle of beer for an extortionate price. I successfully napped for most of the train ride to unconsciously avoid my hunger and ate the first thing I saw when I arrived in the Munich train station, which was the German equivalent of a meatloaf sandwich in a dinner roll. I thought I had arrived in the sunny wonderland of alpine foothills but the next morning woke to rain, and it continued to rain for at least half the day, everyday but one, for the rest of my visit. Our one rain-less day (I hesitate to use the word "sunny") we grilled outside of our building and indulged our colons in a variety of flame-kissed meat. We were even so lucky as to be joined by one of the Chinese students in the building, who normally do not mix readily with the round-eyed devils. After about a beer and a half he was drunk and pretty entertaining, reveling in the ability to be openly intoxicated which is very looked down upon in their society. That is not to say there aren't drunks on the streets of China. I have friends who studied abroad in China and said people would get wasted on Baijiu, which is essentially the liquor of the proletariat, a Chinese firewater costing a dollar or two for a bottle. 


Our mobility being impeded by the weather, we focused on feasting, trying to prepare dishes that took as much time as possible while joking around in the kitchen and common room, and playing foosball (table soccer, which they call "kicker") in the basement. One night I made a big pot of my great-grandmother's beef stew which my old housemates remembered fondly, and was appropriate for a chilly and rainy August evening. I also helped with the painting of an old tandem bike that was being reconstructed for a trip to the Czech Republic. It was to be painted with tiger stripes in an allusion to a German children's book. I took it to be a more uplifting story than a Brothers Grimm fairy-tale, which usually involve children who don't listen to their mothers being brutally maimed or killed. The American versions are considerably watered down. 


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It is not possible for me at the moment to deliver the wedding pictures I promised from last time, so instead I will include a short piece about the Christopher Street Day Parade (Gay Pride Parade) in Berlin a few weeks ago.

It doesn't need to be a festival day in Berlin to see Peter Rabbit and whatever the hell the other guy is supposed to be playing for change on the street. In fact, you can be exposed to a wide variety of music just by riding the subway here, from Spanish guitar to Ukulele to some young kid who thinks he's a hippie. I've heard some pretty good blues guitar being played in the subway station and jazz saxophone being played on a street corner. At the subway stop I get off at every day to pick up the kids there is a young guy who plays everything on the accordion from Beethoven to Rock n' Roll, and a woman in the square I cross who is obviously an accomplished violinist. Unfortunately for them musicians, like graphic artists and English teachers, are a dime a dozen in the this town, but from what I hear people playing music on the subway can do as well as 20 or 30 Euro's an hour, while occasionally having to run away from the subway police for performing without a license.  

Look! A real American Indian! Standing as still as a cigar store statue...

There are tons of party buses during the parade blasting music. On the back of this one are posters saying "Save the Sausages" in an advertisement for condom use. It is interesting to watch a gay pride parade on the same boulevard where my grandfather witnessed the armies of Nazi Germany marching out of the city to invade Poland seventy years earlier.  

Here we see the homosexuals of ancient Rome brought back to life for a day. I wonder where this guy keeps his chariot stashed all year, perhaps he owns a bike rental service and uses it for advertising.

 In an unprecedented reversal of opinion, even the Holy See has sent representatives to partake in this day of good will and friendliness. Benedict XVI looks much better in person, I guess Popes aren't elected for how photogenic they are. 


Well, that's all folks!