The Stork Has Landed

I had an assortment of blog ideas I was considering writing to commemorate our return to America. Some of these ideas are really good, as well as humorous and heartfelt. 

This post is not one of them.

Unfortunately, the temporal vortex that has caused me to arrive home 2 hours after I left on an 11 hour flight has left me befuddled. So I desperately need to sleep and collect my wits (of which, I have a vast quantity to collect), before I have anything worthwhile to contribute. Potentially, I will write a heartfelt and humorous retrospective on the trip as a whole. I've been peculating some thoughts about it that I would like to write down and share. This, however, will be at a later date if I ever get around to it. The really good stories I would never share on the internet anyway. We'll see.


So in the meantime:

Aw yeah.

Sarah and Matt Took a Drive

The one thing on Matt's "Must Do" list in Europe was a trip to Nurburgring, the famous race track, also known as "the Green Hell". Frankfurt is less than a 2 hour drive from there and lucky for us, they were set to allow tourist drives on the track Monday evening.

Matt and I set out a little before noon, as Nurburgring also purported to be a tourist trap with plenty to do. It turns out that with only 2 people on-board and all of the suitcases and piles of crap removed from every storage space, our beloved Tilly is actually a fun little car to drive. She was perfectly capable of reaching 170 km/h on the motorway. And yes, we finally found a portion of the Autobahn that was  open and not under construction. 

We passed all manner of automobile on our drive. As we got closer to the track though, the general character of what we pass grew more intriguing. We had just been lamenting the fact that we had not seen a Lamborghini, when one ambled by us going the opposite direction. Giggling like little kids, we continued our drive.

We found the visitors center and they talked us into the "behind the scenes" tour. It was excellent! We got to visit the old paddock, a little museum, the new paddock, the winners platform, the media center, and the viewing platform. The platforms provided an excellent view of the Grand Prix track activities. It was just a track day, but we got to see innumerable expensive cars roar by down the stretch. It was loud and awesome!

After our tour, we conducted the requisite swag shop stop. After all, you can't visit one of the most historic race tracks and have nothing to show for it! Then it was off to the go-kart track for Matt. The photo is self explanatory!

Then it was time for our own drive of the famous road track. We rented a tiny Suzuki Swift rather than subject Tilly to the rigors of the track. The Suzuki was the only car they had that used a regular manual transmission instead of paddle shifters. It was also the smallest car they had, in every sense. Given the reputation of the track, this seemed sensible anyway for a first time track driver. Matt was a tiny bit disappointed, especially when the guy who did our orientation called our car a go-kart. It wasn't an ordinary Swift though either. It was equipped for racing. No back seats, roll cage, Bilstein shocks, racing tires and suspension, upgraded breaks , etc.

We got our orientation, then had to wait until the track opened for tourist drives at 5:15. We were among the first in line. They opened the track, we swiped our pass, the gate swung up, and off we went.

What happened next is more or less a literal and figurative blur. There was lots of shifting, a small amount of swearing, a lot of sweating, a comment from Matt about being glad there was an"oh shit" handle on his side, a near catastrophe when someone illegally passed us on a corner, and lots of tail lights. 20.832 kilometers, 73 turns, and about 17 minutes later, we were done. It was amazing! Matt no longer regretted the small car either, allowing as how "it was pretty great". We both agreed that we probably would have died in a more powerful car. 

If I lived here, I would buy a season pass and go all of the time. Doing this track in a car I was familiar with would have been even more awesome, but alas, I had to "settle" for a rental. 

Flags of Meine Väter

We had the immense good fortune to be in one of the largest cities in Germany on the night Germany won the world cup. This would have been a very difficult event to plan and the probability is high that I won't ever experience it again. The enthusiasm generated by the event was comparable to that which was rampant in Seattle when we one the superbowl. In the case of the World Cup, though, it was an entire country.

We were being boring and watching The Game from our hotel room while drinking self-imported Czech beer - as previously blogged. When Germany scored their goal, Frankfurt roared. Seemingly every inhabitant of the city screamed simultaneously. You could literally feel it in the air. As if a million voices suddenly cried out in drunken stupor, and ... actually ... just kept on yelling. Also: honking horns, setting off fireworks, and generally engaging in light hooliganism. This only escalated when the game ended and Germany had won.

Seeing as how I might not get another chance to participate in a country-wide party in a foreign land, myself, meine Frau, and Matthew took to the streets of Frankfurt. We headed towards the sound of dull roaring and explosions; figuring that's where the party would be. We were almost immediately passed by a police car headed post-haste in the same direction. I took this as a good sign. When I noticed that the police officer was leaning out his window waving a German flag, I took it as an even better sign.

I suspected there might be shenanigans afoot throughout Frankfurt. As we were representing our home country, though, we of course conducted ourselves with dignity.

Here's an example:

I believe that I have previously mentioned that I collect flags. The above flag is the German variant flag featuring the stylish eagle coat of arms. It's a very slight modification on the government-only flag. If the emblem was rounded it would be official and illegal to fly for anybody who isn't the German government. Since it has a point at the bottom, you can buy it from a tourist shop in Nuremberg, tie it around your neck like a cape, and book it down the midnight streets of Frankfurt making airplane noises. Flag codes are strange like that.

My flag was very popular. I got many a high-five, cheer, and picture taken. We passed a pub whose streetside patrons fell over themselves (literally) to get a group photo of us holding my flag aloft and chanting. It turns out that you can fit in easily in Germany if you wear a flag and can yell 'Deustchland' repeatedly.
There's enough footage of this happening that l've probably ruined any future presidential aspirations for myself and my immediate family. On the plus side, though, there's no shortage of strikeable poses when one is wearing a flag. The following is one I call The Count:

Other noteable poses include:

The Dramatic Point

The Excessive Flourish

The Patriotic Planker

The Jumping HolyShitThatTrainAlmostHitMe (limited performances)

It was only a matter of time, however, before the excellence of my flag was coveted by the assorted flagless of Frankfurt. I can't blame those who were unfortunately sans-flag on this most flag-worthy night for feeling jealous. If America had won the world cup, but then I noted a man in lederhosen frolicking through Seattle bedecked in the ol' stars and stripes, I too would start feeling a little left out. So it was only natural that one of the woefully bannerless approached me

I turned - after receiving a particularly strong hand to the shoulder - to find a moderately intoxicated man clutching a half-full beer stein and attempting to communicate with me in broken German. I responded in equally broken German to let him know that I didn't really speak German because I wasn't German, but was, in fact, from America. This was met with great amusement, and triggered a response in English from the gentleman stating that he was also not German. He was, in fact, from Russia. Also: he really wanted my flag. Again, I can't blame him. It was, after all, one of the greatest flags in my collection.

When I still had it.

The flag pursuer (whose name sounded like 'Antoni', but it was loud out there) asked if I would be willing to sell my flag to him. I was not initially very keen on this idea and expressed this sentiment to Antoni. After all; my flag and I had already been through so much together. Antoni, however, in a demonstration of his country's ongoing economic progressiveness, and appealed to my sense of capitalism.

My newfound friend pulled from his pocket a crisp 50 euro bill wich he proffered along with the assurance that it was a good deal. Which it really wasn't for him, seeing as how I bought the flag one day previously for 7€.

Regardless, Antoni seemed to have a greater need for the flag than I, so I selflessly accepted his his offer and bedecked him in his new flag-cape. I hope it served him well and continues to through the rest of his travels. I know that there isn't a chance in hell any self-respecting German would have sold Antoni their flag that night, and he was overjoyed to have acquired one. So I think everybody wins.

Below is the final picture taken of myself and my dear flag. After I had passed it on to Antoni, who is also featured. I have no idea where he is or if his name was actually Antoni. We didn't speak each others' languages very well, and I'm pretty sure he was shitfaced. United in our shared bizzare ( and possibly unhealthy ) fascination with flags, however, I feel as though - if only for that one night - we were brothers.

Germany Won the World Cup

These short videos fail to capture the ensuing frenzy. Explosions, singing, sirens, horns, yelling, more sirens, fireworks, general crazed exuberance. And more sirens. The last part of our crew just finally returned, having extricated themselves when it appeared that car tipping was about to commence. 

Once More Into the Breach

The country of Germany being the metaphorical breach. For, once again: Deustchland waxes.

We've returned to the land of the euro. Also the land of a language I can stumble my way through, omnipresent light beer, and outrageous prices. I've somewhat circumvented the latter two by buying Baltic porter from Czech at unbelievably low prices ( equivalent to $1 per half liter ) and exporting it to Germany via Tilly's trunk. Our noble steed is now further laden with 24 bottles of Master Special Dark straight from the source at Plzeňský Prazdroj brewery in Plzeň ( Pilsen ) Czech Republic - the birthplace of the pilsner. Although the brew I elected to mass-purchase is their porter, I obviously didn't miss the opportunity to also drink pilsner while visiting the genesis of pilsners.

I've never really been a fan of pilsners in the States. They're certainly not infused with muskrat anus like an IPA, but I've never found one to which my response was more than 'meh'. Or, as they say in Czech ... 'meh.' However, straight from the source has warranted a much more positive response. Here there's light pilsners, dark pilsners, everywhere a pilsner pilsner. It's all suspiciously smooth and imminently drinkable. This extends beyond just the pilsners to essentially every Czech beer I've sampled. I'll be drinking my porter in Frankfurt while watching Germany play in the World Cup final ( Which should equate to an enjoyable experience ). When I get home, I'll attempt to find some Czech beer that gets imported through non-Tilly means. The Special Dark, though, is only available in the Czech Republic proper and Slovakia, so I will soon part ways with it for the foreseeable future.

Who knows; maybe if I ever had an IPA straight from the muskrat's anus, as it were, I would have a different response as well. But seeing as how the only way to have an authentic IPA would be to go to India and have the beer shipped from London via a 6 week unrefridgerated voyage on a rickety galleon with British troops vomiting all over the barrels, I think I'll pass. In their haste to find a good strong IPA, people forget that it was never meant to be good. It was brewed to be so unpalatable that it could survive the aforementioned voyage with less rot taking place than a regular pale ale. Upon arrival, the drowned and partially dissolved rat remains would be strained out, and the remaining sludge would be hastily downed by dehydration-crazed colonists busily dispensing enlightenment from the barrels of a gatling gun.

None of this has anything to do with the progress of our European adventure. I just enjoy a good rant every now and then.

All of that aside ( but I could go on ), I'll be returning to the Czech Republic someday. Particularly the city of Plzeň. They have a liberation day festival where they have a parade of WW2-era US military vehicles and fly 90-year old American veterans out to party with them for the day. Apparently, the 3rd armored division liberated Plzeň from Nazi occupation in 1945 and the city is still pretty happy about it. I wandered over to see the giant 'thank you America' monument ( that is actually what it is called and also what is inscribed on it ).  Despite what a lot of Americans seem to think, most of the world doesn't really care about us one way or the other. They have lives and jobs and mortgages and better things to think about. Here I saw youth sporting hoodies printed with US army regiment emblems. So it was interesting to find a place where my home country seems to be on the 'positive' end of the spectrum, and somewhat actively at that.

I'll be returning to aforementioned home country very soon. We are spending tonight in Nuremberg in a renovated 16th century castle ( amazing ). And then two nights in Frankfurt. Then the journey home. I knew this would happen eventually, but I think its imminence has cast a slight pall over the day.

The solution to which is, naturally, to go have a beer at a biergarten inside the courtyard of a 16th century castle! I will not be having an IPA, but I will toast to the victims of ageusia everywhere.

The Sights of Prague ... Can't Be Unseen.

Prague has been an enjoyable stay so far. We're sequestered in the 5th floor of a very old and surprisingly spacious apartment. Although there's only one bathroom. We immediately instituted a policy:

Thou shall leave the door open when the bathroom is vacant and nobody will get walked in on.

For once, Matthew was dutiful and followed the policy. He also promptly found the flaw in it.

New policy:
Matthew is under no circumstances allowed to leave the door to a bathroom open after use without an industrial exhaust fan present - or optionally, a flamethrower. 

Regardless, ventilation aside, the apartment is nice. So far I haven't gotten tired of the act of throwing open the balcony doors and strolling out with a sigh. There's a mind-blowing view of the Cityscape. A crazed juxtaposition of orange-tiled roofs and countless spires.

We're staying in an area that I believe is called SťůpidToůrisť ( I'm pretty sure that's the Czech name for it ).  As with staying in a building with approximately 10 kilometers of staircase, being positioned in the heart of SťůpidToůrisť has its ups and downs. Example: Although its on an entirely different spectrum than one of our previous stops, there's another noticeable negative aspect of human nature on display here. It's the nature that has caused a city square where an unarmed population previously stood facing down tanks, to now feature souvenir shops and hawkers in shabby costumes loudly selling tours - segway powered tours. This city seems to be stricken by a plague of segways. They must have snuck in on some shipping containers and started breeding. I will attempt to journey out of the schlockier districts later today and see some of the more authentic locales - like a strip club.

After buying my obligatory flag ( which I collect ), my aversion to the throngs of local fauna zooming by on two wheels caused me to decide to return to the apartment for a respite. I had no key, but we had left Dad behind as he also needed to complete his own obligatory behavior; dithering. Repacking, counting his socks, trimming his eyebrows ( apparently they stick out and catch on his glasses ), and other actions that make sense to him. He's going to the symphony tonight, so obviously can't be caught dead with rampant eyebrows or an incomplete underwear inventory.

I ascended the stairs to the apartment and was reminded I worked in a cubicle and lived a slovenly lifestyle. After reaching what was seemingly our door, I knocked politely. Upon no response, I knocked with slightly more force - no answer. This process continued for several minutes with increasing volume and interspersed text messages. Once my knocking had reached sustained cacophony, I was rewarded with disgruntled grumblings from inside the apartment.

The door swung open, steam billowed out, and I stood - patriotic Czech flag in hand - facing a skinny bearded man. He was dripping wet and, if not for the washcloth-sized wrap attempting to pass itself off as a towel, completely naked.

As I overcame my surprise, the terrible thought that I had picked the wrong door briefly appeared. Unfortunately, this thought gave way to greater horror when I noticed the gentleman's impeccable eyebrows.

It was, in fact, my father.

He left me stunned in the doorway and chatted jovially as he dripped his way back to the shower. I think he said something about missing a sock. I'll content myself with the knowledge that it could have been worse - Prague is called the city of a hundred spires, and if not for a single brave washcloth, I could have been exposed to the trauma of one hundred and one.

Reminder: Multiple Authors

Just a reminder that there are multiple authors on this blog. There is a notation on each blog entry that says who wrote it.