The Transatlantic Monthly

Did You Know It's An Election Year?

2008-10-16T06:23:00.000-07:00

Well, the Transatlantic Monthly is back online after a brief 7-month hiatus. You know how it is, with moving and all...?

In case you didn't know, it is an election year. Sure, there has been the same-as-usual aligning of Demmies and Republies to their respective champion. But also a surprising number of "flex" votes, as moderates and undecided fence sitters wait until the last debate to hear those elusive magic words from the candidate they will eventually support.

Fortunately, Katie and I have no shades of gray. This election has polarized us politically and maritally - I'll claim the positive charge because I'm writing this, Katie can have the negative charge. I offer up these real life, untouched-up photographs as proof. Katie Douglass is a gun-toting, dark-framed-glasses sporting, dyed-in-the-wool-sweater wearing Sarah Palin disciple. And I, John Douglass, like to spend my free time at farmer's markets hanging out with my multiethnic politico celeb friends Igor and Barack.

My friends, yes we can.

FCK

2008-04-15T06:16:00.001-07:00

Question: What is red, white and green?

Answer: Besides the Italian flag, a football match in Cologne.

FC Koln, our closest and therefore home team, took on Bayern 1860 in a heated match up. Well, a heated match up for teams in the 2nd Bundesliga, which I guess means that the team is 1 less skilled than teams that play in the 1st Bundesliga. This was our first football match in Europe so we joined in with a group of teachers from the international school around the corner. I had no idea what to expect. After the game, I was "in the know". It helped that quite a few of the chants were the ones we had learned previously during Karneval.

Notable notes: (1) Koln's mascot is a goat named Hennes that wears a red and white scarf, hangs out on the sideline and occasionally has a microphone thrust into his face. The people go nuts when they hear Hennes bleat "maaaaa". It is endearing. (2) Also, the main goalkeeper is a Columbian guy named Mondragon that occasionally lives in Florida. My friend, who was at the game, is a Columbian guy named Cordoba that occasionally lives in Florida too. They are basically the same person, despite the name, vocation, and 1-foot height differential. (3) Katie loves the practicality of plastic beer mugs whose handles can be nested, thereby enabling the carrier to transport 6 mugs per hand.

The game was not terribly exciting, ending up in a 0:0 tie. No shoot-out either. The 47,000 fans walked out of the stadium in Germanic orderliness, so there was little chance of street lamp climbing or flipping over of cars. This was not the stereotypical crazed fan sport that Americans hear of. More like going to a sporting event with friends, cheering on a team, and going out to a pub afterwards. Rioting is played out, anyway.

Karneval

2008-03-31T07:27:00.001-07:00

Now that Karneval has been over for several months, I feel that the air has cleared enough to write about it. Don't be misled, the level at which Katie and I celebrated the holiday was nearly puritanical by German standards. But it was enough for me and my timid American liver.

Karneval is an obsession particular to the Rhine valley and generally not celebrated elsewhere in Germany. The holiday officially begins at 11:11 am on November 11th and ends on Fat Tuesday. I remember this year's November 11th very distinctly - not because I was cracking a beer with my friends - but because at that exact moment I was in front of a congregation delivering a sermon. In the brief dead airspace between points, you could hear distant honking of car horns and people whooping and hollering.

Being that Karneval spanned November 11th to February 5th this year, I was a bit confused. Four months is one major whopping holiday, even by European standards. Everyone kept saying over and over: "It is gonna be awesome." But whenever I asked them exactly when those awesome times would take place, everyone just looked at me and said "Karneval". Perhaps I was being a Dummkopf for trying to contain a spontaneous thing like partying within time limits.

Here's the scoop. After the kickoff on November 11th, the partying is fairly low-key until the Tolle Tage, or crazy days. During this time there is Weiberfastnacht, where the women rule by "taking over" the city hall and perform acts with chilling symbolism, such as cutting the ties off of men. The merrymaking continues into Rosenmontag, or raging Monday, with massive street parades. The following day is Fastnacht, Fasting Night aka Shrove Tuesday, and at sundown the party grinds to a halt as Lent officially begins. Time to repent!

Around 11:00 AM on Rosenmontag, Katie and I put on our costumes (she was a cheerleader and I was a self-made character I like to call Skillet, an 1840's style gold panner) and pedaled into Bonn to meet up with some friends to watch the Umzug, or parade. I greeted a friend with the usual "Hello", who responded with a kind yet stern look. "Hello" sounds too much like "helau", which is the way that they greet each other in Dusseldorf - the sworn enemy of Cologne/Bonn. Furthermore, he explained, to avoid any more cultural mistakes, every self-respecting Bonner uses the Kolsch greeting "alaaf". They also say "Karneval", never calling the holiday "Fasching", which is a Frankfurt thing. (If this regional warfare sounds strange to you, try getting a Pennsylvanian and Ohioan to sort out the whole "pop" versus "soda" thing.)

After picking up a few more friends, we made our way into the old town part of Bonn, where the massive Umzug takes several hours to snake its way through. We stood on the sidewalk as people riding in floats tossed out a remarkable variety of goodies: candy, flowers, ping pong paddles, cigarette lighters, condoms, soccer balls, plastic cutlery, napkins, tissues, individually wrapped sausages, and mini bottles of alcohol. All of these things were constantly raining down on the spectators, so as another ping pong paddle went whizzing past my forehead I decided to give up on defensive maneuvering. Proactively screaming "Carmela" with the rest of the kids, I caught treats in my goldminer's hat.

People around us were in a spectrum of costumes. A large portion of those are dressed as French or Prussian soldiers, which is an throwback and intentionally ironic reference to the soldiers that occupied Cologne in the 18th and 19th centuries, when the celebration of Karneval was prohibited. The rest of the costumes were specific to the age of the bedecked. Older festival goers were dressed as your average run-of-the-mill clowns in baggy, checkered, colored clowny gear. The college grads to retirees ran the whole gamut from oversized party hats to zombie makeup. Perhaps making a social statement, the teenage group tackled the sexual tension of Karneval issue head on by going as cavemen and sexy cats. Meeeow. At one point, a girl who looked about thirteen years old walked past me with a plain white t-shirt, upon which was written in black marker a simple message: EASY AND AVAILABLE. That sight basically reinforced all of my fears about becoming a parent.

After the parade we headed to the Music Box, a pub down the street, to continue the festivities. Inside, hoards of costumed twentysomethings were drinking and participating in Katie's favorite activity... group singalongs! The Karneval songs are all upbeat with simple lyrics that are either about Koln's football club or nothing at all. The speakers blasted the same CD on repeat for the next three hours and gradually the pub filled to the capacity of about 15 people per square meter. I made it as far as learning the motions to a couple songs and inserting the words "drink", "Koln", and "ayyyyy" to tricky choruses. Katie was a shade better, but is a real pro now that she bought the songs on iTunes.

By six o clock the street sweepers had cleaned up the filthy gutters and the diehards were in the pubs, arms around each other and singing the same songs over and over again. Katie and I rode our bikes back home, convinced that the period between Nov 11th and Fat Tuesday really is something to get excited about.

Meteorologistics

2008-02-06T11:01:00.001-08:00

Strange things afoot here in Deutschland. First, I wake up one morning to a blood red sky. Then, after threatening a couple of times in November, it finally snows in February. What is going on here?

Where there's smoke...

2008-01-30T15:46:00.001-08:00

Our last stop on the travel circuit with Katie's parents was Amsterdam. As usual, securing a room for the night was the first order of business so we set the car's GPS to a budget hotel on the outskirts of town. The hotel was full but they arranged for us to rent an apartment down the street for one night. It was minimally furnished and had the same spongy carpet and white walls that was in my friends' first apartments after they moved out of their parents' houses. Once again Katie and I snagged the double bed while Bill and Dorothy slept on the two singles.

Even though the wind chill kept the outside temperature below freezing, there was an extraordinary amount of movement on the streets. Swarms of tourists were wandering around, alternating between examining their guidebooks and squinting at street signs. Locals were easy to spot, as they moved at a much faster pace and didn't have Canadian flag patches stitched to their backpacks. Impervious to the biting wind, the stylishly dressed city dwellers were either running errands with several bags in each hand or walking intently to or from their places of business.

And then there were the bikes. There were at least twenty-five bicyclists for every one car on the road. The rules of traffic in Holland appeared to be more freeform than Germany's, but there are stipulations. First of all, one's bicycle must look like it would be more at home on a dirt road in the Guizhou province. The newer it is the faster it will be stolen. Secondly, one should only be limited in adding accessories to one's bike by the availability of frame space to weld things to - that means crazy utility bicycles with a wheelbarrow attached to the front, a basket on the handlebars, a massive trailer big enough to haul a piano in back, and a few water bottle cages thrown in for good measure. Also, bicycling should, before all else, be a family affair. I saw a woman riding on the side of a busy street with two small helmetless children in kiddie seats behind her and a baby balanced on her lap. (Once I also saw twenty acrobats simultaneously riding a single bicycle, but c'mon, they're professionals.)

We made our tour through the city to hit all of the big spots. The Anne Frank house was moving (emotionally, not literally) and well worth waiting in any line. The Rijksmuseum was undergoing renovations and consequently a good portion of their collection was not on display - I recommend taking a pass until the full exhibits reopen. The Van Gogh museum has a great range of the master's works and some from his friends and influences. The red light district is never more than mildly interesting to all but those people going there for serious intentions. The city of Amsterdam is currently in the process of disassembling that particular center of seediness, which may or may not change anything. In Berlin I saw the "world's oldest profession" practiced with more visibility than anything in Amsterdam.

Whatever happens when you're traveling, new things will be learned. I learned that driving around Amsterdam elevates my stress levels because there are precious few places to park and things pass by too quickly for me to know if it is interesting enough to stop and check out. Dorothy learned the not-so-subtle difference between a coffee shop and a cafe. Based on an informational sign in the window, she also calculated how many grams of magic mushrooms she would have to ingest to take her brain out for a spin. However that was as far as things went, as Dorothy kept in line with her motto about "doing high risk things in a low risk way".

For the final night of our trip, we ate dinner at a nice Dutch restaurant on the outermost canal ring of the city. Katie made Michael Pollan proud by eating a local venison dish, Bill and Dorothy had the hare's leg, and I idiotically opted for the pork satay, which tasted fine but lacked the game chic credentials of my dinner partners' choices. Just as it was everywhere on our five day trip, we were served huge plates of pommes frites (french fries) with our main courses.

On the following day, which happened to be my 27th birthday, we visited a museum and walked around for a little while longer. Then we drove the 3 1/2 hours back to Bonn and ate doner kebabs, a symbolic act to acknowledge that we were finally back in Germany.

Flanders

2008-01-18T12:59:00.000-08:00

What other people have in mind when they visit Belgium is their own business, but I expected to see waffles, mussels, and with some luck, Jean Claude Van Damme. The first two we had in spades while visiting Brussels, the oh so cosmopolitan yet unofficial seat of the EU. Because Brussels is effectively located in Flanders, the language doubles to French and Flemish (local Dutch dialect) and there is a different vibe too. Flanders is generally more wealthy than Wallonie, the tourism industry is more firmly embedded, and people will automatically start talking to you in English before any other language.

Brussels has a beautiful historic centre that is surrounded farther out by a mishmash of glass and steel buildings and crumbly ornate facades. We stood in the Grand Place and turned around in a circle, getting the architectural equivalent of a sampler platter of Gothic and Baroque styles. The city has been very intentional about conserving this landmark square, and even with reconstruction of one of the buildings the overall effect is very harmonious. Every chance he could get, Bill indulged his sweet tooth on the Belgian waffles, or gaufres. We went to a crowded multilevel restaurant on a narrow street and had some lunch. I ordered the moules provençale and was kicking myself for it afterwards, because it took a perfectly good plate of mussels and turned it into nachos by dumping cheese and tomatoes on it. We only needed to follow the gawking tourists to locate the Mannekin Pis, which is a charming little statue of a cherubic boy eternally urinating. Check it out for yourself if you must, just remember that it is no special thing in Europe to see someone peeing in public. I could have easily spent a week wandering around Brussels and sitting in brasseries drinking famous Belgian beers. But the show must go on...

We drove straight from the Ardennes on January 1st to Bruges, where I had reserved a quad (what was I thinking?) in a tiny hotel on the edge of town. First we went to an ice sculpture exhibit (Bill's expression sums it up for me) and had a major pileup on the ice slide. Then we walked into the town. Because of the numerous canals that wind in and out of the buildings, Bruges has earned the moniker Venice Of The North - but it also has to share that illustrious title with St Petersburg, Amsterdam, Stockholm, and a slew of other watery burghs. I will admit that Bruges is beautiful and the city has immaculately preserved the medieval charm that it (probably) held at its zenith, but keep in mind that everyone else knows that too. Souvenir shops and trendy, overpriced restaurants abound on those cobbled streets. Every few minutes a horse drawn carriage went clattering by with a chilly looking British couple remembering the comforts of automobile travel. In the afternoon we jumped into a minibus where we put on headphones and listened to a prerecorded tour guide talk about nuns and guilds. We spent an hour driving past all of the sites that we had previously walked through and everyone fell asleep except for me. The driver collected the fee as we got out of the minibus and it ended up costing about 70 US dollars for 4 people. Such is Bruges.

The coast of the North Sea is a twenty minute drive west of Bruges. We drove out there in the evening and walked along the boardwalk in Oostende. Elderly women in fur coats walking their dogs were out en masse and children barely old enough to walk were careening in and out of the crowds in their various rented pedalcarts. All of the waterfront property was limited to a continuous wall of condominiums that had all the charm of a Soviet office building. When we walked out onto the beach and stood by the calm water, I half expected to see the cliffs of Dover, but instead there was fog and a few dimly lit ships in the distance bobbing up and down.

[As a sort-of footnote, I am happy to report that my opinion of Belgian beer has much improved. I previously thought of the Belgian varieties as tasting too mouthy and sometimes cloying. The golden ales have excellent flavors and are surprisingly refreshing, as are the pilsners. A Trappist dubbel really got me questioning my unbridled allegiance to pale ales. Sadly I did not try any of the lambic beers, but that is for next time. Also, the Belgian beers pair really well with local cuisine, like the Flemish beef stew. What would you expect from a culture that takes their beer brewing as seriously as the French do their winemaking?]

Wallonie = Friendly French

2008-01-16T07:56:00.000-08:00

[I am very pleased that blogger/google has beefed up their weblog publishing tools. This is officially the most advanced word processor that my computer currently has access to, given that I am Microsoft deficient at the moment. But don't expect any big changes or improvements. After all, a hack with a Stradivarius is still a hack.]

Sunday morning after church we hopped into our station wagon rental and drove directly westward into Belgium on the ol' A3. Looking out the passenger window, I watched the flat farmland and clusters of white German houses transition to rolling green pastures dappled with grey stone Belgian cottages. Within two hours we arrived at our destination Thon, in the northwestern edge of the Ardennes. The chambre d'hotes (B&B) that we were planning to stay at was dark and no one was in sight (perfectly normal, because I had not actually confirmed our arrival with the owners). Great I thought, ironically, and went to the stable next door to see if someone could help me. I opened the door and, faced with an impenetrable wall of grey-white cigarette smoke, felt the instinct to drop to my hands and knees and crawl towards the nearest exit. But I was already standing in the entrance way, so I sucked in a deep breath and walked into the middle of the room. Through watery eyes I made out the shapes of what looked to be patrons sitting on stools and bartender standing behind a counter. In first year level French, I asked the bartender if she knew the owners of the place next door. In a matter of minutes and a few Belgian beers, the family that owned the B&B arrived and made up our rooms. Notes to self: virtually every stable in Wallonie has a bar, and the Wallonians are generally very gracious hosts.

Despite some middle-of-the-night creeping around by Dorothy, we slept well and in the morning had the quintessential crusty baguette with various spreads accompanied by a cafe au lait. I stepped outside to check out the scenery and immediately recalled the green hills of West Virginia's mining country, home to the first generations of my own americanized ancestors from the Douglass clan. Katie and Dorothy came walking up a horse path that was made into a Sleepy Hollowesque tunnel by overhanging bushes. The temperature was well above freezing, and in the wintery mist everything took on the look of being permanently wet, like it had never been dry nor would it ever be.

We drove to the mid-sized town of Namur and passed by the town square and casino - too early in the morning for that - on our way up the impressive mass of stone and earth that composes the citadel. From the citadel we could see the river Meuse make a sluggish arc through the soggy city, only broken up by a measly looking dam and small lock. Bill was clearly impressed by the view at the top. "Manure, is it?" he asked. "Close" I said, "Namur".

From Namur we continued on to Brussels and tooled around there for the rest of the day. For the sake of regional distinction I am going to include that in the next section on Flanders - even though the city is in itself a distinct province of Belgium.

We arrived back at the B&B in Thon to spend the remainder of our evening inside. It was New Year's Eve, so Katie tried to chill a bottle of champagne in the bathroom sink and tough it out to midnight, but it never happened. After a couple games of euchre and gin rummy the Lewis's were off to bed and I followed suit. About an hour later, the skylight above my bed lit up with explosive bursts of color and I heard the muffled sounds of revellers in the nearby town singing Auld Lang Syne. Katie and I went outside to witness the efforts of the local pyromaniacs. Far off in the distance we could see the glow of a larger firework show and hear the booms - Liege perhaps? I imagined that lumbering squadrons of Luftwaffe planes were flying over our heads in the darkness, on their way to drop their loads on the Allies. Admittedly, this mental construction I probably owe more to Band of Brothers than history books. Once the damp air gave us an adequate chill, we jumped back in bed and started off the new year in proper form, by sleeping for the first 8 hours of it.

The Tower Infernal

2008-01-11T09:27:00.001-08:00

Katie's parents came for a visit and put in some serious traveling. Naturally, our first trip was to Cologne for some window shopping, touring the Lindt chocolate factory, and eating and drinking at the Fruh Kolsch brauhaus. I slipped up on the order of events and planned the walk up the 509 steps to the top of the southern spire...after all of the shopping and beer drinking. Mea culpa. Bill and Dorothy made an excellent showing with 200 steps gained before the turnaround. Unfortunately, I was not there to assist because I only have one speed for going up stairs and it is somewhat brisk. Coupled to that is the fact that the only way to the top consists of a single spiral staircase, where descenders have the outside railing and about 2 feet of the step, and the ascender has about 1 foot of step that diminishes to nothing on the inside. Halfway up the spire hangs the largest free swinging bell in the world, named "Dicke Pitter" or "Thick (St.) Peter" in the local dialect. I was fortunate enough to be there for the "klang" and let me tell you it was LOUD. Katie and I had a rendezvous at the top viewing platform, where we checked out the remarkable 100 meter high view of the very horizontal city of Cologne.

A Good Kind Of Burning

2007-12-28T07:57:00.001-08:00

Instructions for a Feuerzangenbowle party: 1) make large bowl of punch from dry, red wine, cinnamon sticks, cloves, lemon, and orange peels 2) heat up punch over flame 3) extinguish flame with lid from a pot to avoid melting table, measure out smaller amount of kerosene, and relight 4) soak large cone of processed sugar with 108 proof rum and place on slotted metal platform over punchbowl 4) ignite rummed up sugar with a match and admire ensuing flames 5) serve punch to your friends and don't be stingy 6) watch movie Die Feuerzangenbowle 7) wake up following morning with headache.

Katie and I completed our first Feuerzangenbowle party at our friends' apartment in early December. Seven of us assembled around the living room table and cheered Marcus on as he ceremoniously prepared the punch and ladled it out. After a few cups of the fiery brew, I felt an irresistable desire to know more about the German electoral system, which Fabian kindly detailed for me. Once we exhausted the subject it was time to watch the movie. Die Feuerzangenbowle is a black-and-white about a fictitious author Dr. Pfeiffer who poses as teenage high schooler to prank teachers and perform other zany hijinks. The movie is alarmingly lighthearted for having been made in Germany in 1944, but one should never underestimate mankind's tendency toward escapism. After the movie and punch were finished we hopped on our bikes and sped home. Let me tell you, the two things that you want the most after a Feuerzangenbowle party are a large glass of water and your bed. Better keep a couple of advil on the nightstand too. Just in case.

Seriously?

2007-12-26T11:30:00.000-08:00

Alright, I know what you are thinking right now but let's not rush to judgement. This is merely a picture of Sinterklaas and his two helpers known as Zwarte Pieten. That is, the Dutch representations of Santa Claus and Black Pete. Oh yeah, and Katie. She is playing herself in this picture, both figuratively and literally.

Sinterklaas arrives in the Netherlands by boat from his home in Spain (you might remember that the Dutch were under Spanish rule in earlier times). To all of you scoffers: his priestly robe and mitre are a nod to the original St. Nicholas who was a Greek bishop in Turkey in the 3rd Century. Same as usual, he comes and brings gifts to good children. As for the mischievous Black Petes, they are either slaves, Moors, devils, or simply covered in soot. Apologists have written plenty about these controversial characters, but I have neither the knowledge nor the desire to do so in this blahg.

The implications and connotations of the accompanying picture do not necessarily represent the views of The Transatlantic Monthly, its writers, or its parent company Viacom. Just kidding we're not owned by Viacom.....yet. It is a priceless picture though.

Christmas Markets

2007-12-26T10:22:00.000-08:00

Beginning in late November and running up until December 23rd, the Christmas Markets are the best way to pass an hour or an afternoon or even a whole day on the weekends. In every town square, vendors set up wooden shacks and sell ornaments, clothes, candles, food and mulled wine. Katie and I hit up Bonn Zentrum, Bad Godesberg, Berlin, and Siegburg. Gluhwein, or mulled wine, is the name of the game and now every flat surface in our apartment is occupied by commemorative mugs from each village's market. Drop by our place and I will give you one. Seriously.

The Weihnacht Markt in Siegburg is medieval themed, which automatically bumps up the fun factor by 2. Instead of gluhwein we drank hot mead out of ceramic goblets and watched a burly blacksmith pound steel into rustic ten-penny nails. Maybe in the distant future we are all going to stand around sipping Cosmopolitans and watch an old, weathered robot assemble microprocessors. I can't wait.

Das Erntedankfest

2007-12-26T08:27:00.000-08:00

Should you ever find yourself overseas for important American holidays, do not worry about missing out. Harvest festivals are celebrated on just about every corner of the globe, Germany included, and by the end of November we had observed Thanksgiving to the point of overindulgence. With all due respect to our avian guest of honor, we gobbled our way through five fantastic meals - several kilos of turkey, a cement mixer's worth of mashed potatoes, and enough pinot noir to buoy an aircraft carrier. Now I can see why the Pilgrims wore buckles around their hats instead of their waists. Also, the Law of Conservation of Gender Roles still applies here, as you can note from the pictures. Many thanks to our generous hosts: Nat and Jen, Lori and Ralph, the APC Women's Bible Study Group, the Fellowship Committee, and ourselves (including Tanya, Derick and Amanda).

Just In Time For Halloween

2007-11-15T07:23:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago we took the train into Köln to visit the largest music store in Europe. The music store was alright, but what really impressed me was this bar a couple of blocks away from the Dom cathedral. Check out the spooky animatronic accordion player behind me. Similar to Chuck-E-Cheese, this audacious fellow belts out your favorite drinking songs without a moment's warning. He made eye contact with me twice and furiously wiggled his eyebrows up and down. I looked in the trash can by the door, but that messy-haired bird was not lurking in there and waiting to pop out and crack a joke. Just garbage.

Open Up And Say "Ahr"

2007-10-24T08:33:00.001-07:00

Last Saturday we made a pilgrimage to the Ahr valley, which is the northernmost mecca of red wine making. After a bitterly cold morning and unsuccessful perusing of the final flea market of the year, we piled into the Peugeot station wagon with our friends Jeanine and Markus and drove 25 km southeast to the village of Altenahr. Altenahr, like all of the other villages along the Ahr river, is a picturesque cluster of houses and restaurants that thrive on the business of elderly Dutch and German tourists who come to hike among the vineyards, drink wine, and sing songs with neverending choruses.

We started out by hiking up to the ruins of an old castle that towers above Altenahr like a church steeple above a town square. From there we walked along a ridge to the rotwein weg, or red wine path, which is a dirt walking trail that crosses through vineyards whose rows climb up the steep southern slopes of the Ahr valley. Along the path, vendors sell local wines out of the back of their cars to thirsty nordic walkers (people who hike with ski poles, not blond-bearded guys walking around with a horned helmets). We sampled the Federweißer (fresh, still-fermenting wine) and a lovely Fall rosé named Weißherbst. The sun was shining and the temperature never broke 55 F, which was fortunate because the brisk air was the only thing keeping me from laying down among the vines and taking a nap.

I learned that viticulture in the Ahr valley dates back to the 3rd century. Apparently the Romans were not satisfied with just drinking mead and beer, and transplanted some grape vines in strategic locations. I would have thought that the local Germanic tribes hassled the occupying Romans too much for them to do pursue any leisurely pastimes like grape cultivation and winemaking, but that just goes to show you how little I know. Who among centurions or barbarians could resist the bouquet of a fine pinot noir? Certainly not this american.

While the rest of Germany is lauded for reisling, the region through which we hiked is renowned for producing excellent Spätburgunder, the german word for pinot noir (insert favorite Sideways quote here). This is due to an advantageous geological situation in which the moderate temperatures of the greater Rhine valley, the slate covered slopes of the Ahr valley that hold the sun's heat throughout the night, and the deep cold-trapping river bottom team together to provide a suitable climate for red grapes. As we walked along the trail, the volcanic slate was constantly coming loose and sliding down the hill in pie-sized chunks, giving the odd feeling that those hills could never survive the sloughing off of its members, despite the fact that it had been happening for at least nineteen hundred years.

We followed the switchbacks down into the town of Rech. On the far side across the river is a converted barn that functions as restaurant for just four months out of the year. We took a seat around a barrel and ordered up some of Rhineland's finest spreads on homemade bread. Pretty standard fare: headcheese, liverwurst, congealed bacon grease with crunchy bits of bacon, blood sausage, and oddly enough a plain old slice of cheese. It may been the cold weather or the hiking but Katie made her most impressive showing to date in the category of foreign food eating.

A large group of middle-aged women were singing an unknown song as we waited for the train back to Altenahr. They stopped once we climbed aboard and settled down into the warm seats. We looked out the windows as the sun sunk behind the hills of the valley and the long shadows faded into dark evening tones. Out of the train, back in the car, driving towards Bonn, almost dark, and then finally dark when we arrived back at home.

I could have easily gone to bed, but the final game of Rugby World Cup was going to start in a few hours. Drat. Good day though.

Oktoberfest

2007-10-14T12:01:00.000-07:00

Imagine yourself in early nineteenth century Bavaria during the month of October. You were lucky enough to get your name on the guest list for Prince Ludwig's marriage party and now you are sitting on a cushioned chair in a lovely garden area outside of Munich and having a pretty good time. People in frilly starched outfits and powdered wigs are sitting around listening to latest works of Beethoven and complaining about how Napoleon has turned a progressive democratic nation into a neoimperialist power. "I have heard rumors that France is going to invade Russia," someone says, "supposedly they have intelligence that the Russians are destabilizing Europe." "Disgusting," you say, but with little conviction because your attention is really focused on the peasants in the nearby field who are are trying to set up for the big horse race tomorrow but keep on getting their utility wagon stuck in the mud. A servant comes around with more wine, so you refill your glass and wander over the to ballroom where the noblemen and noblewomen are mincing around with clasped hands aloft, their bodies rotating mechanically in predetermined steps like music box figurines. One of Ludwig's second cousins lurches out from the middle of the dancing crowd and leans out over the marble railing, convulsing in a fit of gutteral expulsions that sound to you like Dutch. He wobbles back into the ballroom a few minutes later with watery eyes, straightening his wig and dabbing the corners of his mouth with a silk handkerchief. Someone rings a bell and all the guests slowly make their way to the dining hall, and you hope that you don't get stuck sitting next to the random couple from out of town that nobody knows. Still, this party is a pretty good time and maybe even ranks in your top five. Who knows, there may even be another one next year?

Now fast forward to modern times. You emerge midday from the tightly packed subway car and ride the escalator up towards the light, arriving in front of an archway announcing "Wilkommen Oktoberfest!" You walk through and find yourself in a sea of people on the giant parking lot known as the Wiesn. To your left are rows of amusement park rides and carnival games, and to the right are rows of massive white beer "tents".

Deciding on a large clockwise loop, you stroll past rollercoasters and vendors selling shots of vodka and check out the other festivalgoers. Lots of guys in red checkered shirts, lederhosen, and feathery caps. Women in dresses that range from the conservative length traditional peasant wear, to the more common strappy sexed-up miniaturized dirndles. Gangs of teenagers in oversized mad hatter party hats pass by every few seconds, with their arms linked and singing "ole ole ole ole..." Most everyone is standing upright or at least propped up by a friends, except for the guy sprawled out in front of the phone booth, who is wearing a commemorative Oktoberfest/movie t-shirt that reads "300: Tonight we drink in Hell".

Feeling brave, you and your friends wait in line in front of one of the larger beer tents. After 30 minutes, the security guard lets in a group of you, plus the guy in the wacky hat that has been pleading non-stop. Inside is a massive room of wooden tables and benches with people, mostly Italians and Australians, standing on them. A band is leading the beer drinkers in what sounds like a Mexican Ranchero music sing-a-long. This looks like interesting, so you wander the aisles looking for an open space at a table. After combing the entire tent while silently cursing the no table no beer rule, all you can do is sigh and head though the haze of tobacco smoke to the door. Too bad, even the guy dressed up in a women's dirndle got a place at a table.

You are back out in the sunshine, but it could be worse. Prospects for getting a spot at other beer tents are looking slim considering the long lines just to get into the places. You overhear someone say that only the people there before 9 in the morning had a shot at getting a seat. Still, the carnival stuff was fun and you tell yourself that with some proper planning, next year's trip will be more successful. Feeling wiser but with twinges of disappointment, you sidestep a puddle of vomit and cross under the archway that says "Auf Wiedersehen Oktoberfest!" and head for the subway.

One For All

2007-10-08T14:26:00.000-07:00

October 3rd is Deutschen Einheit, which means that everybody gets off work and spends the entire day milling about in the sunshine in celebration of Germany's unification. I suspect that a significant part of the population spends the day grumbling about all of the stores and banks being closed on the only days that they have to run errands. As for myself, I say "hey, alright". Let the cheques bounce and the morning bowl of cereal be milkless, these holidays are about being with family and relearning how to hold a conversation.
We visited the nearby Sülz vineyard, producer of excellent reislings and other weisweins. Outside the farmhouse, wooden tables and chairs are set up in the grassy yard for visitors to sample the wines and local delicacies. I am loathe to use the word quaint, but cutesy fails to capture the feeling as we sat in the yard, admiring the nearby long-haired cows and their lazy grazing, next to the older couple cutting tubers for the house potato salad, and toasted to the unification of East and West Germany. Idyllic is probably a better word.
Grape smuggling is a crime in Germany, but don't tell that to Katie. No amount of sulphur dusting could keep this woman from sampling the varieties on the vine. We walked around the steeply pitched rows and examined the plants, pretending to know more about botany than we actually do. I envisioned grafting hops plants onto vine stock and wondered who would be bold enough to drink my resulting wine-beer chimera.
The inertia of this midweek holiday caused us to take the rest of the week off. This may sound slothful, but please keep in mind that we have Fridays off anyway. Plus, things are brewing for the upcoming weekend...

There Be Dragons

2007-10-04T03:15:00.000-07:00

Sunday afternoon, we set our sights upon the Drachenfels, or dragon's remains. Perched atop one of the Siebengebirge overlooking the river, the Drachenfels is a former 11th century fortress and current pile of rocks, about which a veritable slew of dragon legends have been told.
We recruited friends Tonya and Derick and bicycled over in the mild autumn sunshine to the base of the mountain. Along the way we were momentarily sidetracked by a biergarten by Bad Honnef and the subsequent exploration of the island it is on. Neverthless, we tarried on and soon found ourselves walking up the hypotenuse of a 321 meter high mountain. Halfway up I snapped a few pictures of the schloss Drachenburg, which we might have spent more time if it had the more climatic top-of-the-hill spot.
Up at the top, we marveled at the statues, plaques, restaurants, and coin-operated binoculars. A handful of people, including ourselves, climbed around the ruins and pretended to be dragons or stood at the edge trying to figure out the panoramic function on their cameras. Katie and I reenacted Wagner's famous battle between Siegfried and the dragon Fafner. Having satisfied all dramatic and sightseeing needs, we returned to our less legendary and non-magical apartment.

America's Next Top Model

2007-09-25T03:13:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday night we participated in the grand spectacle known as the International Charity Fashion Show. Members of the APC, UN, and their friends collaborated to raise funds and awareness for children's charities in Germany, Kenya, Peru, and India. Under the white hot lights, models decked out in their home country's garb strutted their stuff in front of a sold out audience at the Bonn International School gymnasium. Suprisingly enough, not a single beat of Right Said Fred's catwalk anthem was heard the entire night. Go figure.
Katie modelled the finest in Wyoming cowgirl wear, donated by our lighting director Lisa. I was a member of the stage crew, which really meant that I ran around for a couple days trying to borrow socket wrenches so that I could work on the wood and metal catwalk.
The three hour event was a smashing success, and people shimmied and shaked their way through the night at the afterparty in the school cafeteria. During this time, I was in the gym breaking down all of the elements and wrapping cables, which was also fun in a different, final way.

Natural Environs

2007-09-25T01:28:00.001-07:00

We ventured out last week to explore some of Germany's natural features. The Kottenforst-Ville Naturpark borders the western edge of our village, Bad Godesberg. A scant ten-minute bike ride put us at a dirt path, where we made a curvy ascent through the pines onto a plateau of beech, larch and oak trees. On top, we jogged through the network of crisscrossing foot paths and logging roads and looked for animal life, the largest representative being an unidentified raptor.
As with all places that have been inhabited by humans for a long time, the Kottenforst is a mix of old and new elements that are in various phases of regeneration (or degeneration). Where a 10th century circular wall formerly stood is now a ditch in a continuous state of erosion. Other areas that have been clearcut relatively recently are being repopulated by ambitious junior trees and their sapling cousins. Nearby, pyramids of cut timber announced their ownership with spraypaint: Schmitz, Lehman, Müller.
Wooden stands, rustic versions of the ones that the judges sit upon at Wimbledon, are also interspersed throughout the forest. One can either sit upon these and enjoy the sights and sounds of nature, or take aim at a deer and dispatch it with the cool professionalism of a Forest Service employee, who are uncoincidentally the only people allowed to hunt in Germany. Being a new transplant in this land and not wanting to step on any toes, I opted for the former.

Back so soon?

2007-09-13T10:16:00.000-07:00

The Transatlantic Monthy earned its name this week as Katie scuttled back to Ohio to complete the last step in the ordination process: ordination. A generous benefactor from the APC gifted me with a last minute ticket to Dayton, so Tuesday morning I made my way across the pond to surprise Katie - which I did with a flourish, firstly by an unplanned appearance and secondly by hiding under a blanket in her parents' living room. Surprise!

It was certainly no surprise that Katie passed muster before the Miami presbytery, securing the majority vote to become a Pastor of Word and Sacrament in the Presbyterian Church USA. The following afternoon we had the ordination ceremony at Katie's home church and voila, instant pastor (just add 8 years education, 1 year as a Inquirer, 4 ordination exams, 3 month chaplaincy internship, 6 months church internship, a sermon, review by committee, and a final examination by an auditorium full of cranky Presbyterians).

We are now heading back to Bonn on separate flights. Truly, the whirlwind 36 hour tour is the only way to see the States. Time to board...

First Contact

2007-09-03T01:26:00.000-07:00

It turns out that living inside our austere, tidy apartment building are austere, tidy tenants. Yesterday, I answered the buzzer at the door to find an elderly neighbor who immediately rattled off a complaint. I explained that my understanding of german was not great and she waved her hand in the air like she was backhand swatting a fly and said in german that it was "not a problem". As I followed her downstairs to the parking garage, she constantly repeated the The Complaint: a bike was blocking her garage and she could not get her car out.

We arrived downstairs and it became apparent I couldn't do much for The Complaint. The blue bike encroaching upon the white garage space was not mine (note exhibit A). Don't think that I got off easy, because after I explained to her that the bike wasn't mine, she said "excuse me" and immediately followed it up with the lecture intended for the perpetrator.

I feel good about this encounter. It is a reminder that the system is still in place, and compliance with its strict yet simple rules will leave one in the good graces of the others. Providing, however, one figures out all of the rules ahead of time.

Touchdown on Planet Körnerstraße

2007-09-03T00:31:00.000-07:00

With the help of a few kindly souls (Blessiou, Hilary, Iosif, Steve, J. Martin, Andrea, Marian, Ulrike) we moved into our apartment on Saturday morning. To get a sense of the difference that appliances make in a German apartment, please note the before and after kitchen photos.
This is not the quaint Parisianesque loft that we had envisioned, but rather a carpeted, spacious four room Wohnung, fit for a troupe of Romanian tumblers. The bedroom and living room share the same porch platform but are divided by a wall. This is a good thing, because we all know the kind of porch-sitting that one does from the bedroom does not jive with living room porch-sitting.
After moving, we walked over to the international festival in the Rheinaue park. My hat's off to Vietnam and the Phillipines for their delicious food, but the grand prize goes to the Indonesia tent - a veritable peanut and garlic wonderland.

It Has Begun

2007-08-30T01:55:00.000-07:00

Today we have officially been in Germany for two weeks. So much has already happened that it feels like two months. We are currently living on the eastern (and some say the nicer) side of the Rhine in Niederdollendorf. The seven mountains that rise above us are the Siebengebirge, home to the oldest nature preserve in Germany.
Tomorrow we move to our apartment in Plittersdorf or Bad Godesburg - I'm not really sure exactly but they are both suburbs of Bonn. Highlights so far include our trip to Köln to see the Dom cathedral, dinner at the Sion Brauhaus, steak Tatar and blütwurst, cycling the Rhine bike path, hanging out with the truly amazing students that attend the APC Bonn, African Sunday at the church, and experiencing the hospitality of Germans and global nomads.
The weather is brisk and sunny. An early Fall perhaps? Either way, it is beautiful. Let us pray for clear skies for the sake of the helpful people moving us unto into our place Freitag and Samstag!