Ba-doom ching!
I wonder if the camels are bored of the view by now
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
I Took Many Pictures In Egypt
Temple of Karnak. Columns were unbelievably big.
Nada at Karnak
Man who made a gun out of cardboard, Karnak
Desert Desert
Oldest stone building in the world: Step pyramid of King DjoserPalest arms in the world: Richard Hewett
Great camels of Giza
Rachel's camel bit mine
View of Garbage City from Coptic Cave Churches, Cairo
More Pictures
Seriously, if loving turkey-flavored chips is wrong, then I don't want to be right. 
Entrance to Luxor Temple
After Samir told me to stop asking so many questions, I told him that in America we would settle this dispute with a dance-off. In slippers. Pictures
Me with our tour guide Samir. At Saqqara. Before he asked me to stop asking so many questions. 
If I had known they sold turkey-flavored potato chips in Egypt, I would not have waited so long to visit.
The man driving the tractor we were riding on to Hatshepsut's Temple
Hatshepsut's Temple
Cairo Pics
A typical bus in Cairo.
A typical Cairene kid working under a typical car on a typical street in Cairo.
Me and a man who showed us around a mosque in Cairo (from left to right).
A guy on the street who really wanted to be in a picture.
The Train Station In Luxor
(This picture is not actually the train station in Luxor, but you get the idea.)I think the people of Egypt could not be any nicer.
My friend Nada and I got in the good habit of telling people that we were married so as to cause fewer problems. One man at the train platform was not deterred. He asked if we had any children. When I told him no, he offered to give me his wife and four children, in exchange for Nada. "Then, very soon, we will all have children! Because **I** have no problems." I couldn't tell if he was kidding or not. And then I thought of the two German girls laughing at my sausage-eating stick, and rued the fact that my genitalia had been mocked on two continents in the last two weeks.
When a train pulled up to the platform, a group of four Egyptian women were in the car directly in front of us. This was not our train, so we stood there and watched all the commotion around us. The women in the car smiled at me and waved. I waved back. That made them giggle uncontrollably. I think it was four generations of women from one family. I had no idea what to do next. I asked Nada if blowing them a kiss would be wildly inappropriate. She said yes. The train stayed at the station for at least 20 minutes, so it took every ounce of self-restraint to not go ahead and do it. Since Nada nixed the kiss, I thought about offering them some of my vanilla wafers, but I didn't think that would be as fun. Or as illegal and deserving of the death penalty.
The kids next to me, however, did receive some vanilla wafers.
Another man offered five million camels for Nada.
Suddenly, a giant hacksaw fell out of the luggage of a man walking down the platform. He looked around for a second, then calmly wrapped it back up into his luggage (which was a sheet wrapped around his saw....and who knew what else). Nada and I discussed how this was quite interesting, since at the front gate they had airport-like security. We were waved through without a bag-check, but all of the locals (like Sawman) were being checked. How did his saw get through? If they didn't mind a gigantic hacksaw on the train, what exactly were they looking for? A cannon? Plutonium? A lightsaber?
As I am about to click on "Publish Post," I think of a phone conversation I had with my mother today which included her saying, "Many of my friends read your blog, you have no idea." If you are a friend of my mother's and are reading this, I apologize for using the word "genitalia." I promise that this is not a reflection on her parenting skills. She is worth many more camels than a woman whose son nonchalantly tosses around words like "genitalia."
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Goodbye Very Much
I arrived to Cairo at 3am on Saturday morning. The wonder has not ceased since. We are staying with Linda and Pressley Wicker, who are friends of one of our family's friends.
My friend Nada got in yesterday, and I was trying to explain to her how I feel like we are inside a giant bubble in the Wickers' apartment, and outside is a kind of magical wild chaotic zoo of amazement.
The Wickers live in a neighborhood called Maadi, which is on the Nile River, just south of the center of the city. But "the city" contains a population of 20 million people, so it's difficult to tell where it begins and ends.
Driving in Egypt is kind of a do-it-yourself adventure. There are few lines in the road, and where they exist, they are not followed. People just honk liberally, as if that absolves them of any wrongdoing. "Beep beep -- I'm coming, you better watch out," seems to be the prevailing attitude. If there is a car to the driver's left, and a car to the right, and neither is going fast enough, then the driver creates a lane in the middle, gives a couple honks, and drives through. Families crossing the road, donkeys hauling food, minibusses traveling the wrong way on the highway -- all can be hindrances.
The streets are lined with immense amounts of trash. Everywhere. Towering buildings surround the highways and streets, and as Linda says, "It looks like bombs have been dropped all over the city." But the reason for this is simple -- when Egyptian landowners build high-rises on their property, they don't have to pay city taxes on the land until the construction is FINISHED. So they figured out that if they leave the buliding unfinished, and start housing tenants anyway, they can collect rent from the tenants without paying city taxes.
My friend Greg loves having fun with new people. Especially new people who he doesn't know, and a trip to Mexico made it clear that he especially loves having fun with ones who don't speak English. Greg would not be able to contain himself in Cairo. Down every street corner I turn, at every stop light the taxi stops, people want to talk to me. People yell, "Welcome to my country!!!" People scream, "Hello!!! How are you?? What is your name??" from across the road. People invariably smile and wave whenever eye contact is made. It is remarkable. For about six city blocks, a truckdriver stayed along side our taxi last night, just so he could keep waving and giving the thumbs up to us whenever we came to a stop.
I have been offered mint tea from shopowners, cigarettes from taxi drivers, bags of bagel chips from perfume salesmen, and complete chicken/vegetable/potato dinners from store-owners whose shops I have wandered into.
Linda took me on a walk through her neighborhood yesterday. We stopped at a butcher shop with crates of ducks and chickens. Two local women were seated, haggling with the owner about how much to pay for a large duck. I told Linda I would love to see how they killed it. The woman told Linda that they were haggling over the price, but it would probably be killed soon. As chaos whirled all around us, everyone within earshot laughed at my curiosity.
The owner of the shop picked up the duck behind its wings and pretended to toss it to me, then asked me if I wanted to hold it. I said thanks, but no thanks. Finally they finished the job, laughing at my shock/horror the whole time. Thank goodness it wasn't a chicken, or I would never be able to visit Chik-Fil-A again.
Then we walked to the bakery. Piping hot loaves of bread were pouring out of the oven, so we walked past the front counter of the bakery to go watch. The men tending the oven were excited to see us, so they asked us what we'd like. I gave one of the men an Egyptian pound (about 18 American cents) and said that we'd just like to try the bread. He looked at the coin for a while, then said "Hmmm....20." Linda said, "No, no no, we just want to try the bread...20 pounds? Won't one pound get us a taste?" He said, "Hmmmm.....No. Twenty." We shook our heads again and said, "No, please we just want a sample." After paying $3 for cab rides all over the city, a loaf of bread couldn't cost a whole pound. A crowd had gathered around us at this point.
Then the man started scooping up loaves of bread and placing them on the window in front of us. Linda and I both realized we had just purchased 20 LOAVES of bread for the one Egyptian pound. We scooped up a few, handed the rest to the onlookers, then left. Everyone was waving and saying goodbye, welcoming us to their country and hoping we'd come back.
Linda went home and I wandered the streets some more. "Hello!!!!", "Welcome!!!!" and "What is your name!!!" rained down from all over.
I passed two young kids on the street who both giggled at me. "What is your name??" one said. My name is Richard, what is your name? Between bursts of laugher, one said "Mohammed." I asked the same question to his friend. "Mohammed," he replied. "Well Mohammed. Nice to meet you. And you Mohammed, nice to meet you too." I asked them what they were doing this afternoon. They said "Yes, Cairo, we live in Cairo." I said, no no -- are you all playing today? Do you have school? "No no, we love to play PlayStation," and pointed inside. We all laughed and I told them to have fun. They smiled and said, "You have fun too!!"
I told them goodbye and started to walk down the street, they waved and said "Goodbye!!!!" I walked about 10 yards and heard "Goodbye!!!!" and turned around to see them waving and smiling. I waved and yelled back, "Goodbye!!" After another ten yards, I heard the same thing, and I turned and yelled back. This happened about six times as I walked almost two blocks. Finally, they both yelled "GOODBYE VERY MUCH!!!!" and I turned around to see them waving enthusiastically, about two crowded city blocks away. I jumped up and waved, and shouted "'GOODBYE VERY MUCH!!!!!"
My friend Nada got in yesterday, and I was trying to explain to her how I feel like we are inside a giant bubble in the Wickers' apartment, and outside is a kind of magical wild chaotic zoo of amazement.
The Wickers live in a neighborhood called Maadi, which is on the Nile River, just south of the center of the city. But "the city" contains a population of 20 million people, so it's difficult to tell where it begins and ends.
Driving in Egypt is kind of a do-it-yourself adventure. There are few lines in the road, and where they exist, they are not followed. People just honk liberally, as if that absolves them of any wrongdoing. "Beep beep -- I'm coming, you better watch out," seems to be the prevailing attitude. If there is a car to the driver's left, and a car to the right, and neither is going fast enough, then the driver creates a lane in the middle, gives a couple honks, and drives through. Families crossing the road, donkeys hauling food, minibusses traveling the wrong way on the highway -- all can be hindrances.
The streets are lined with immense amounts of trash. Everywhere. Towering buildings surround the highways and streets, and as Linda says, "It looks like bombs have been dropped all over the city." But the reason for this is simple -- when Egyptian landowners build high-rises on their property, they don't have to pay city taxes on the land until the construction is FINISHED. So they figured out that if they leave the buliding unfinished, and start housing tenants anyway, they can collect rent from the tenants without paying city taxes.
My friend Greg loves having fun with new people. Especially new people who he doesn't know, and a trip to Mexico made it clear that he especially loves having fun with ones who don't speak English. Greg would not be able to contain himself in Cairo. Down every street corner I turn, at every stop light the taxi stops, people want to talk to me. People yell, "Welcome to my country!!!" People scream, "Hello!!! How are you?? What is your name??" from across the road. People invariably smile and wave whenever eye contact is made. It is remarkable. For about six city blocks, a truckdriver stayed along side our taxi last night, just so he could keep waving and giving the thumbs up to us whenever we came to a stop.
I have been offered mint tea from shopowners, cigarettes from taxi drivers, bags of bagel chips from perfume salesmen, and complete chicken/vegetable/potato dinners from store-owners whose shops I have wandered into.
Linda took me on a walk through her neighborhood yesterday. We stopped at a butcher shop with crates of ducks and chickens. Two local women were seated, haggling with the owner about how much to pay for a large duck. I told Linda I would love to see how they killed it. The woman told Linda that they were haggling over the price, but it would probably be killed soon. As chaos whirled all around us, everyone within earshot laughed at my curiosity.
The owner of the shop picked up the duck behind its wings and pretended to toss it to me, then asked me if I wanted to hold it. I said thanks, but no thanks. Finally they finished the job, laughing at my shock/horror the whole time. Thank goodness it wasn't a chicken, or I would never be able to visit Chik-Fil-A again.
Then we walked to the bakery. Piping hot loaves of bread were pouring out of the oven, so we walked past the front counter of the bakery to go watch. The men tending the oven were excited to see us, so they asked us what we'd like. I gave one of the men an Egyptian pound (about 18 American cents) and said that we'd just like to try the bread. He looked at the coin for a while, then said "Hmmm....20." Linda said, "No, no no, we just want to try the bread...20 pounds? Won't one pound get us a taste?" He said, "Hmmmm.....No. Twenty." We shook our heads again and said, "No, please we just want a sample." After paying $3 for cab rides all over the city, a loaf of bread couldn't cost a whole pound. A crowd had gathered around us at this point.
Then the man started scooping up loaves of bread and placing them on the window in front of us. Linda and I both realized we had just purchased 20 LOAVES of bread for the one Egyptian pound. We scooped up a few, handed the rest to the onlookers, then left. Everyone was waving and saying goodbye, welcoming us to their country and hoping we'd come back.
Linda went home and I wandered the streets some more. "Hello!!!!", "Welcome!!!!" and "What is your name!!!" rained down from all over.
I passed two young kids on the street who both giggled at me. "What is your name??" one said. My name is Richard, what is your name? Between bursts of laugher, one said "Mohammed." I asked the same question to his friend. "Mohammed," he replied. "Well Mohammed. Nice to meet you. And you Mohammed, nice to meet you too." I asked them what they were doing this afternoon. They said "Yes, Cairo, we live in Cairo." I said, no no -- are you all playing today? Do you have school? "No no, we love to play PlayStation," and pointed inside. We all laughed and I told them to have fun. They smiled and said, "You have fun too!!"
I told them goodbye and started to walk down the street, they waved and said "Goodbye!!!!" I walked about 10 yards and heard "Goodbye!!!!" and turned around to see them waving and smiling. I waved and yelled back, "Goodbye!!" After another ten yards, I heard the same thing, and I turned and yelled back. This happened about six times as I walked almost two blocks. Finally, they both yelled "GOODBYE VERY MUCH!!!!" and I turned around to see them waving enthusiastically, about two crowded city blocks away. I jumped up and waved, and shouted "'GOODBYE VERY MUCH!!!!!"
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Viva La Polska
"What do you think the turnover rate is for tour guides at the Auschwitz concentration camp?" Ben asked me.
I had just found my American drinking partners for the evening in Wroclaw, Poland.
"No, seriously -- how long do you think you could last there as a tour guide?"
Ben had known me for about 15 seconds, and what Ben didn't understand was that I would take the question very seriously. He, his friend Dan, and I discussed the question at length. Ben had just been to visit Auschwitz. "There's a Radisson like right across the street. And how could you ever say, 'I live in Auschwitz?' What the hell?" (Please click on that link, the headline is incredible.)
My main question was whether or not the Auschwitz tour guides acted like a person at any other job -- started to loosen up after a couple months and crack jokes. You know, mess around with other employees.
We settled on probably six months as the longest you could make it, but our conversation was interrupted by a bachelor party group from London. It included the groom-to-be wearing a Speedo and a cape, and a really short guy who kept laughing hysterically to himself, eyes closed. We bought them drinks. Then left for a club.
Ben is fearless. After explaining to me how he had been in Kosovo before arriving in Poland, he found the biggest group of Polish girls in the club and sat down right in the middle. I ended up talking to one who told me that her father is "Very involved in the city politics, I don't know how you say -- he's very important." She also told me much about her German boyfriend of four years. And how they live together.
Soon after, she asked me if we were going to another club after this one. She suggested that she show me "some good clubs, the best in Wroclaw." But alas, I was prepared for this little trick.
Two nights previously, in Poznan, a girl had asked to "show me the best bars in Poznan." I declined, citing the muscular, shaved-headed, Polish gentleman with his arms around her who was kissing her ear. "Him?" she said, "I don't like him." After I told her that he probably liked her and that I'd pass on the invitation, she insisted. Before I could respond, the gentleman placed his arm on the bar and yelled something in Polish. "He wants to armwrestle you," she said. "And I would like to leave," I said. She laughed and told me that she would come with me. "Uhh, I don't think that's the best idea. I appreciate the offer, but goodbye."
She again insisted. I told her that I needed to use the bathroom, to buy some time and try to figure out how to get out of this situation.
I had nothing.
She cornered me as I exited the restroom, asking if I was ready to leave. I told her that I should probably just be going -- then her male friend decided to grab my arms and place me against the wall. And shout at me, in Polish. She yelled at him, then insisted that she would still like to show me around Poznan. I waited for him to finally ease up a bit...then I sprinted up the stairs, out of the bar, and down the street as quickly as possible, screaming "No thank you!" over my back.
So back to Wroclaw.......so the mayor's daughter asks me to hang out with her, despite her live-in German boyfriend of four years. I had learned my lesson in Poznan. I said a couple of indistinguishable words in English, then ran out of the bar, as fast as I could.
The next day, outside I noticed a lot of drunk burly men wearing scarves and shirts of ridiculous colors. I had learned that in Europe, this means a soccer game is being played somewhere in town. I jumped into the nearest internet cafe and tried to find out as much as I could about the Wroclaw team. Deciphering Polish to the best of my ability, I reasoned that they were playing tonight at 8pm in a stadium about 1.5 miles from where I was. Sounded like a fine walk to me.
I found the nearest drunk burly Pole with an electric green scarf around his neck and asked him to confirm what I had learned. He said, "Yes! There is very big match tonight. VERY big. Biggest in years here. But no tickets left, tickets are all sold."
I thanked him and tried to figure out a decent place to watch the game on TV. Ah, screw it, I thought. I don't have anything better to do. I started walking down to the stadium.
Not knowing exactly where it was, I followed the smell of booze and the radiance of electric green. And the swarm of armored police vehicles.
Forty-five minutes later, I was outside the Wroclaw soccer stadium, wondering if Polish people would understand the phrase "ticket scalpers."
I heard a man on his cell phone speaking English. When he hung up, I asked if he thought there would be scalpers selling tickets. He looked puzzled. "Uh, I think you just buy your tickets here at the gate, mate." Plenty of tickets left.
He was fine with me tagging along. We waited for his two friends to arrive, then we got in line to buy tickets.
My newly acquired soccer-watching crew consisted of two British guys and an American who all had been living in Wroclaw for 4-5 years. All of them taught advanced conversational English.
A gigantic water cannon rolled by, distracting everyone's attention.
We sat in a section directly behind the goal. All three guys explained to me that their students had warned them to never, ever go to a soccer game in Wroclaw because it's really dangerous. We discussed the debate that takes place in the presence of countless policemen and a water cannon -- "Am I safe because there IS so much security around? Or am I unsafe because they NEED so much security around?"
The Wroclaw team had advanced to the top Polish league for the first time in the last seven years. This was their first game of the season. The stadium looked like the average American high school football stadium....and was not even full. They explained that the concept of "advance ticket sales" hadn't really caught on here yet, and people don't really feel safe coming to the games. They also told me that the first two weeks of the season had been postponed due to a bribery scandal involving almost every single referee in the league. And that Poland's president is a former child actor. And that Poland's former prime minister who just left office was the president's identical twin, and also a former child actor.
I turned the conversation to more jovial matters. English Matt was engaged to one of his previous students. American Matt was married to one of his previous students. "Rob, what's taking you so long? Hee hee," I joked. He didn't look pleased. "Actually mate, I'm divorced from one of my students."
I went down to the concession stand. And bought a sausage that was bigger than my arm.
Hoping that Rob had forgotten my marriage remark, I asked English Matt more about his engagement. Yes, she was a student. Yes, he had been teaching her. Yes, she was from Poland. "If you can believe it or not, she's actually from Auschwitz. Isn't that crazy?" My head almost exploded. I probably spit out a piece of gigantic sausage.
"Yeah, and it's really funny -- I would never ever want to live there. Like can you imagine living there? What the hell? But I went to meet her family a few months ago, and they were trying to convince us to move down there. I told them that there were no jobs for English speakers, but they said no no no, that wasn't true. They told me that they're always looking to hire people at the concentration camp."
I had just found my American drinking partners for the evening in Wroclaw, Poland.
"No, seriously -- how long do you think you could last there as a tour guide?"
Ben had known me for about 15 seconds, and what Ben didn't understand was that I would take the question very seriously. He, his friend Dan, and I discussed the question at length. Ben had just been to visit Auschwitz. "There's a Radisson like right across the street. And how could you ever say, 'I live in Auschwitz?' What the hell?" (Please click on that link, the headline is incredible.)
My main question was whether or not the Auschwitz tour guides acted like a person at any other job -- started to loosen up after a couple months and crack jokes. You know, mess around with other employees.
We settled on probably six months as the longest you could make it, but our conversation was interrupted by a bachelor party group from London. It included the groom-to-be wearing a Speedo and a cape, and a really short guy who kept laughing hysterically to himself, eyes closed. We bought them drinks. Then left for a club.
Ben is fearless. After explaining to me how he had been in Kosovo before arriving in Poland, he found the biggest group of Polish girls in the club and sat down right in the middle. I ended up talking to one who told me that her father is "Very involved in the city politics, I don't know how you say -- he's very important." She also told me much about her German boyfriend of four years. And how they live together.
Soon after, she asked me if we were going to another club after this one. She suggested that she show me "some good clubs, the best in Wroclaw." But alas, I was prepared for this little trick.
Two nights previously, in Poznan, a girl had asked to "show me the best bars in Poznan." I declined, citing the muscular, shaved-headed, Polish gentleman with his arms around her who was kissing her ear. "Him?" she said, "I don't like him." After I told her that he probably liked her and that I'd pass on the invitation, she insisted. Before I could respond, the gentleman placed his arm on the bar and yelled something in Polish. "He wants to armwrestle you," she said. "And I would like to leave," I said. She laughed and told me that she would come with me. "Uhh, I don't think that's the best idea. I appreciate the offer, but goodbye."
She again insisted. I told her that I needed to use the bathroom, to buy some time and try to figure out how to get out of this situation.
I had nothing.
She cornered me as I exited the restroom, asking if I was ready to leave. I told her that I should probably just be going -- then her male friend decided to grab my arms and place me against the wall. And shout at me, in Polish. She yelled at him, then insisted that she would still like to show me around Poznan. I waited for him to finally ease up a bit...then I sprinted up the stairs, out of the bar, and down the street as quickly as possible, screaming "No thank you!" over my back.
So back to Wroclaw.......so the mayor's daughter asks me to hang out with her, despite her live-in German boyfriend of four years. I had learned my lesson in Poznan. I said a couple of indistinguishable words in English, then ran out of the bar, as fast as I could.
The next day, outside I noticed a lot of drunk burly men wearing scarves and shirts of ridiculous colors. I had learned that in Europe, this means a soccer game is being played somewhere in town. I jumped into the nearest internet cafe and tried to find out as much as I could about the Wroclaw team. Deciphering Polish to the best of my ability, I reasoned that they were playing tonight at 8pm in a stadium about 1.5 miles from where I was. Sounded like a fine walk to me.
I found the nearest drunk burly Pole with an electric green scarf around his neck and asked him to confirm what I had learned. He said, "Yes! There is very big match tonight. VERY big. Biggest in years here. But no tickets left, tickets are all sold."
I thanked him and tried to figure out a decent place to watch the game on TV. Ah, screw it, I thought. I don't have anything better to do. I started walking down to the stadium.
Not knowing exactly where it was, I followed the smell of booze and the radiance of electric green. And the swarm of armored police vehicles.
Forty-five minutes later, I was outside the Wroclaw soccer stadium, wondering if Polish people would understand the phrase "ticket scalpers."
I heard a man on his cell phone speaking English. When he hung up, I asked if he thought there would be scalpers selling tickets. He looked puzzled. "Uh, I think you just buy your tickets here at the gate, mate." Plenty of tickets left.
He was fine with me tagging along. We waited for his two friends to arrive, then we got in line to buy tickets.
My newly acquired soccer-watching crew consisted of two British guys and an American who all had been living in Wroclaw for 4-5 years. All of them taught advanced conversational English.
A gigantic water cannon rolled by, distracting everyone's attention.
We sat in a section directly behind the goal. All three guys explained to me that their students had warned them to never, ever go to a soccer game in Wroclaw because it's really dangerous. We discussed the debate that takes place in the presence of countless policemen and a water cannon -- "Am I safe because there IS so much security around? Or am I unsafe because they NEED so much security around?"
The Wroclaw team had advanced to the top Polish league for the first time in the last seven years. This was their first game of the season. The stadium looked like the average American high school football stadium....and was not even full. They explained that the concept of "advance ticket sales" hadn't really caught on here yet, and people don't really feel safe coming to the games. They also told me that the first two weeks of the season had been postponed due to a bribery scandal involving almost every single referee in the league. And that Poland's president is a former child actor. And that Poland's former prime minister who just left office was the president's identical twin, and also a former child actor.
I turned the conversation to more jovial matters. English Matt was engaged to one of his previous students. American Matt was married to one of his previous students. "Rob, what's taking you so long? Hee hee," I joked. He didn't look pleased. "Actually mate, I'm divorced from one of my students."
I went down to the concession stand. And bought a sausage that was bigger than my arm.
Hoping that Rob had forgotten my marriage remark, I asked English Matt more about his engagement. Yes, she was a student. Yes, he had been teaching her. Yes, she was from Poland. "If you can believe it or not, she's actually from Auschwitz. Isn't that crazy?" My head almost exploded. I probably spit out a piece of gigantic sausage.
"Yeah, and it's really funny -- I would never ever want to live there. Like can you imagine living there? What the hell? But I went to meet her family a few months ago, and they were trying to convince us to move down there. I told them that there were no jobs for English speakers, but they said no no no, that wasn't true. They told me that they're always looking to hire people at the concentration camp."
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
I Can't Even Pronounce It
My uncle and I just returned from the annual festival that takes place in Hannover around the large lake in the middle of town.
He and I were standing there, drinking a beer and discussing why it had been difficult to talk to German girls, and how they hadn't really been interested in talking much with me. The two cute German girls next to us seemed to notice.
Later, when Mark came back with potato pancakes for me and him, we didn't have any forks. I went to the booth nearby, and could only find two toothpick-like forks, but they seemed to work fine.
The girls laughed, then said something to us in German.
Me: I think they just made fun of us.
Mark: Yeah, they just told you that you had a very small stick.
And so it goes.
That wasn't even the silliest interaction of the day with a German female.
A middle-aged German woman literally yelled at me while in line for train tickets, because she was convinced there was an open ticket counter among the long row of ticket counters and that I wasn't heading for it. YELLED.
I didn't think there was one open in the direction she was pointing, but I walked down there anyway....and it was closed. She continued to yell at me. People were laughing (at her? at me? at life? I hoped at her). Finally, I just stood there, scanning for another open ticket counter, until one came open. On my way to it, I had to pass the yelling woman again. She yelled something else at me, even though it was clear to me, the train company, and every single other person in line that she had been wrong. Maybe she was yelling an apology as I walked past. Or maybe it was "Your stick is very small!!!"
It was confusing. And a little scary.
I've spent the last few days in Germany reading The Golden Compass and hanging out with my 10 year old cousin Reid. Some of that time has been spent watching a cartoon called Chowder . It is the weirdest cartoon ever. Reid gets mad because I have been singing to him "Chowder's not your boyfriend, Chowder's not your boyfriend." But he's not mad that he's not Chowder's boyfriend, he's mad because I'm getting the words to the song wrong. I have no idea what the real words are, I just know they involve "Chowder" and "boyfriend."
Speaking of fantastic songs that Reid loves, a major watershed moment in male Hewett bonding was when Reid felt comfortable enough around me to belt this one out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Be6jlCuMvVQ
Tomorrow I head to Poland. To Poznan, Poland. Then on to Wroclaw, Poland.
Today, before buying my train ticket to Wroclaw, I realized that I had absolutely no idea how to pronounce "Wroclaw." Matters are complicated by the slash through the "L" in the word. According to someone on Tripadvisor.com, the town is pronounced:
Vro-tz-wav - Wrocław.
There it is, the little slash in the "L". Good times.
He and I were standing there, drinking a beer and discussing why it had been difficult to talk to German girls, and how they hadn't really been interested in talking much with me. The two cute German girls next to us seemed to notice.
Later, when Mark came back with potato pancakes for me and him, we didn't have any forks. I went to the booth nearby, and could only find two toothpick-like forks, but they seemed to work fine.
The girls laughed, then said something to us in German.
Me: I think they just made fun of us.
Mark: Yeah, they just told you that you had a very small stick.
And so it goes.
That wasn't even the silliest interaction of the day with a German female.
A middle-aged German woman literally yelled at me while in line for train tickets, because she was convinced there was an open ticket counter among the long row of ticket counters and that I wasn't heading for it. YELLED.
I didn't think there was one open in the direction she was pointing, but I walked down there anyway....and it was closed. She continued to yell at me. People were laughing (at her? at me? at life? I hoped at her). Finally, I just stood there, scanning for another open ticket counter, until one came open. On my way to it, I had to pass the yelling woman again. She yelled something else at me, even though it was clear to me, the train company, and every single other person in line that she had been wrong. Maybe she was yelling an apology as I walked past. Or maybe it was "Your stick is very small!!!"
It was confusing. And a little scary.
I've spent the last few days in Germany reading The Golden Compass and hanging out with my 10 year old cousin Reid. Some of that time has been spent watching a cartoon called Chowder . It is the weirdest cartoon ever. Reid gets mad because I have been singing to him "Chowder's not your boyfriend, Chowder's not your boyfriend." But he's not mad that he's not Chowder's boyfriend, he's mad because I'm getting the words to the song wrong. I have no idea what the real words are, I just know they involve "Chowder" and "boyfriend."
Speaking of fantastic songs that Reid loves, a major watershed moment in male Hewett bonding was when Reid felt comfortable enough around me to belt this one out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Be6jlCuMvVQ
Tomorrow I head to Poland. To Poznan, Poland. Then on to Wroclaw, Poland.
Today, before buying my train ticket to Wroclaw, I realized that I had absolutely no idea how to pronounce "Wroclaw." Matters are complicated by the slash through the "L" in the word. According to someone on Tripadvisor.com, the town is pronounced:
Vro-tz-wav - Wrocław.
There it is, the little slash in the "L". Good times.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)