Different Strokes

Where is the light switch? Oh that’s right, it’s located on the outside of the room.  It would be too easy to have it located on the inside.  Since this is Germany, there has to be a process to entering a room. First, one must turn on the light to the room one is entering. Next, the door must be closed. Then, simply enjoy.  But, what if one wants to turn off the light, say to go to sleep without having to open the door? That’s a great question, and one where the process to turn off the light begins.  First, one must open the door. Next, the light must be turned off. Thirdly, sleep can resume. But, what if I am  sleepy from a long hard day, want to stay in bed and turn off the light which presumably most people in civilized cultures would like nothing more than to do? Move to America!  So many times I’ll be in the room, close the door and….DOOH!! After the 12^th time in a single day, I usually just sit in the dark.

It’s these seemingly little differences that accumulate up to create this alien world known as Germany. Sundays, businesses are shut down, but the powers that be don’t stop there.  They even shut off the traffic lights around the mall areas to save energy!    In a restaurant, any restaurant, you have to pay for water. The bus boy coming around with a big jug of unlimited tap water anytime your glass is empty is not happening.  Beef is expensive, way more expensive than in the states. A thick juicy steak with some veggies is going to cost you a week’s salary. But if you want some pig, here’s a dump truck full for 3 euro! The refrigerators are smaller, for energy efficiency and because people don’t “Costco” shop. They purchase a few items for a couple of days, not for next year’s Christmas Eve Party.  Many apartments don’t come with kitchens. You have to buy them! Cabinets, refrigerator, dish washer, sink, the works. When you do get that place, 3 months deposit is required instead of 2. Untrusting bastards. The first floor is really the second floor. A two-bedroom is really a ONE bedroom.  To open a door, you pull, not push. To get off the subway, you have to push a button to open the door!  The German engineers have built a microwave that has somehow harnessed the power of the sun. They are incredibly strong!  All German’s stare. They love it!  Hint for tourists*; reciprocate by crossing your eyes and sticking your  tongue out to the side to make them stop. Instead of paper towels, the bathrooms have this self cleaning towel roller thing! That’s where I get off the Save the Trees train.  Can a brother get some paper towels please!  Serving size is smaller, even at the supermarket. Quality over quantity I guess. Book stores are still thriving….for now. Starlight Express the musical is STILL going on here! Do u want to know where the American pop star goes when they die??? They come here with the same song and talk to some guy named David Guetta. REMIX!!!!. The mighty McDonalds has even identified these differences enough to market to them.  They’ve decided that Germans will buy even more burgers with sausages on them. Not one, but 3 sausages on them!  http://www.werbejunkie.de/mcdonalds-huettengaudi-teil-3-mit-camenbert-chicken-und-schuhbecks-feines-zweierlei/

And then, there is the language. I’d like to go back in time and kill the Roman who decided 2000 years ago that Latin wasn’t hard enough.  That it would be much easier if certain things were referred to as der, others as die and what’s left over as das.  This bastard is laughing is ass off at those of us who are know paying are hard earned money to learn this disaster. How dare he randomly fuck with people like that? If only I could invent a time machine, and make him suffer.  How you like my DER in your eye bitch! It’s not the fact that these pronouns exist. This isn’t an arrogant American pleading with the Germanic speaking world to “get it right’ and just speak English. I in fact love the distinctness of a place and want to firebomb McDonald’s as much as anyone else.  It’s the randomness of there being. There is no method. A table is der, but a lamp is die?  For one to even place masculinity in a table is retarded. 

I believe that one day soon, all of these differences will fade away and I will see the Christ Child’s light.  That just over the horizon, my shoulder will be clear of bruising from trying to push through the door.  That my hands will finally be dry after washing them in the bathroom, and using the nasty towel rolling device.   That der, die, and das will become drinking buddies of mine.  That the train won’t leave without me getting off because I pushed the button.  That love for sausage will conquer my addiction to steak.  That a kitchen will be seen as just a room, that you have to pay to fill.   That I can one day proudly say I have assimilated and am truly home.

EDEN

The most amazing thing occurred on the way to Aldi; I saw a trip listed for 4,999 euro per person, NY to Singapore by boat!!! 39 days!! Only in this country could such an offer even be conceivable. Aldi is a discounter in the same vein as Costco, but Costco could never fathom listing a trip for 39 straight days. Never in all of America’s collective imagination could it dream of taking a vacation for that amount of time.  In the USA, the population lives to work, here, they work to live.  I’m not trying to piss on America by any means, just stating an absolute fact.  Maybe that’s why people are so annoyingly patient here, why the atmosphere is so sickeningly relaxed, and not so rushed. Why the beer tastes better, and the lines don’t seem so long.

Being an ex-patriot, the possibility that I could go on a trip of that magnitude is beyond comprehension. My brain seemingly can’t accept it as reality.  The cruise is all inclusive, includes stops in Bali, Sydney, Goa, flights to the port of embarkation in L.A., and extended layovers in Dubai in a 5 star resort. Screw Disney, Aldi is the place where dreams come true.  For along with having these top notch vacations, they also sell huge blocks of prosciutto de Parma for 11.99.  Prosciutto and a 39 day cruise. What more can a person want?  As well as having all other sorts of goodies like proseco for 1.99 a bottle, they have a bread dispensing machine!  Just push the loaf button, and presto.  Rolls fall out still warm!  Whoever invented this contraption should be knighted.  How the hell can Somalia be starving when they have bread machines?  The warlords should buy thousands and litter the countryside with warm rolls. 

All of these amazing deals and innovations got me thinking about what else Aldi may have up its sleeve.  Perhaps they’ve figured out cold fusion, or invented a healthy cinna-bun.  With inventions like bread dispensing machines and mozzarella for .79 a pound, Aldi has become my Steve Jobs.  It has inspired me to reach for the stars, to go where no Jim has gone before; to the bottle dispensing machine! I know some you of snobs might be thinking that I’ve grown a mullet, and now must be rocking confederate flag t-shirts, but here, everybody does it.  They consider it a public responsibility or something.  The shops bill you the deposit upfront forcing you to recycle to re-coop the money. Here, a bottle collector can be a  full time job that’s worth it. Professional can collectors in the states should save up and check out the dumpsters here.  It’s paradise. Those bastards can make a killing if they can hit a sporting event just right.  Now I haven’t seen an enterprising bum pushing a shopping cart full of empty bottles yet, but I bet they are out there.

For a long while I thought it was all a façade, a collective lie. That these German’s couldn’t possibly be so chill. I roamed the streets looking for road rage, but found only drivers patiently performing the zipper during lane closures.   I arrogantly cut lines at Rossman to try and wake the German dragon, but instead got nothing but kindness; I was short .20 cents and as god as my witness she payed for me! For weeks I wondered how, I wondered why. Then I went to Aldi and found a new meaning for world peace, a blinding alien light cutting through the darkness, the meaning of what Mike Reno/ Anne Wilson were really singing about in their 1980’s hit , Almost Paradise.  In those fluorescent lighted aisle’s, there is peace and cheese, there is gamoodlich and cheap salami, there is the German way. 

The Interview

What a day. Woke up at 3:30 in the morning thinking of demons. The new movie trailer “The Devil Inside Me” was to blame. See here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uWPGSbHlI2w After realizing that I wouldn’t be spitting out green bile and contorting my body into shapes that would make a Russian gymnast blush, I had some corn flakes.  With the fear of demonic procession behind, and my hunger assuaged, I could now worry about more important things, namely my first job interview in 6 years.  Though I am a people person, the fear of rejection gives me the bees knees, and zits as big as small children.  Hence a job interview to me is about as horrible as your worst dentist appointment on mushrooms.  Compounding the pain was the fact that later in the day, two Polacks would be coming over to put up wallpaper in our brand new flat.  Time constraints on such a big day can be problematic and give you that not so fresh to death feeling.  Comparable to trying to do Six Flags Theme Park while your wife is in labor.  Further fracturing my chi, was the fact the Voice of Germany started at 8:15 tonight!!  Even though that mattered little, it shows how riddled with confusion I was.  Getting to the new flat to drop off some supplies for my polish babysitting duty later, I quickly changed from old, busted Jim, to hot salty buttery Jim. My suit was crisp, my Donald Trump tie a perfect complement to my brown Steve Maddens. My finger however was not cooperating with the look. It was leaking!!!! A reluctant carrot during the previous night’s dinner prep was too blame. The minimal damage now appeared smeared all over my collar.  Cold water can be a man’s best friend, and thank god it seemed to work. Rushing out the door to the bahnoff with plenty of time, I thought the majority of my crisis’s were over, until I reached for my wallet. Damn.  I was soon in full Olympic stride down the street in the rain.  Making like a Kenyan marathoner up the stairs and then frantically looking for it, and then finding it in the most unlikeliest of places (the bathroom. What the hell?) I raced back down just in the nick of time to catch the train. My body then began to thank me for allowing it to participate in such a magnificent cluster fuck by spasming everywhere all at once. So off I went on bent hubcaps to the center of town.  Right before getting off the bahn, the smelly homeless man who constantly walks along the tracks as though he is looking for his lost contact said hello to me!  After looking at him, I came to the quick realization that I’m in pretty good shape!!! The language schools offices are right in  Frankfurt. The women turned out to be very good at her job, and we talked for about 2 hours.  Hence, it went really well, and she invited me back for the second interview with the head of the Frankfurt office.  Later, back at the residential, the polish dude’s showed up, got to work, and didn’t try and rob me! Somewhere a unicorn has given birth over my joy!

NEW YEARS!!!!! I'M ALIVE!!!!

Happy New Years! Slide Well as they say here. I can’t believe I am still alive today! Last night was nuts. These Germans love shooting fireworks at EACH OTHER!!! The girls, I and Bjorn went rolling down to some bar right on the Main River last night.  Apprehensions were high when we arrived at 9pm to a scene that had no pulse.  Even the guy at the door seemed surprised we were there, but we sat down early and got a bottle of champagne anyways.  Soon enough, the place was packed and we had moved on from champagne to a harder variety; vodka. Why is vodka itself cheap but when you add the two words Red Bull in front, it becomes 10 euro?  I know how much a red bull costs, and that’s exactly why I BYORB bitch! Bjorn and I would rotate paying up for a 3-shot glass of vodka, and then play bartender under the table with the Red Bull I purchased for 1.50.  Pretty soon, we were snapping pictures, inspiring  our girls to,” act like you’re about to bang the guy, you unzip his fly and….and…you can’t find it! It’s WAYYYY too small. Give me that look! Ready! 3-2-1.”   For a whole hour we played that game to the consternation of the tables around us. Yes, we were THAT table. Explosions of too loud laughter, breaking the cool code with a variety of unsavory facial expressions, camera flash going off every 5 seconds like a Japanese tour group, speaking as if we didn’t care because we REALLY didn’t!  If only all my Saturdays could be spent almost urinating in my pants from laughter!  All that changed quickly, when everyone in the place cleared out to hit the streets.  Outside, in a scene straight out of Syria, there was all out war. A mob of Frankfurters had gathered at the River Main to view the fireworks as they do every year, and they came armed with every firework known to man.  M-80’s, black cats, and mortars, were firing from every conceivable angle. It was a full on artillery barrage!  With not a cop in sight, it was every man,  women  and child!? ( what the hell were they doing here?) for themselves. Impromptu firework displays began to pop up like dance circles at a rave.  Everyone in the mob was drinking or drunk.  Pretty soon groups began to square off like in some demented musical, firing anything that could inflict bodily harm.  I began of course filming the drunk mayhem earnestly. Out of the corner of my eye, a young Turkish youth tired to throw an M-80 in our vicinity, but the butter fingers got him.  As I was wiping my brow in relief, the fiend looked up to see me eyewitness news'ing his ass. A sinister smile soon developed on his face as I panned away to more of the debauchery. I now of course knew who HE was aiming at. Pretty soon thereafter,  3 rows of people that were in front of me soon weren’t.  A bottle rocket made a b-line right for my leg. With Chuck Norris like agility, I boot stomped the projectile into the street, and went looking for the Kebab kid.  But I would have been better off looking for an Italian who doesn’t talk without rapid hand movement.  He  and his gang of merry twits had vanished in a swirl of firework fog.   Off to go car-jack some poor defenseless grandpa.  Happy New Year dickwad!!! Then the finale went off. A thick San Francisco mist began to drift over the entire area, straight out of some colonial battle field. My body began to convulse unexpectedly, as Bjorn poured a half bottle of champagne into my already FULL glass. PTSD? No, thank god. I just needed to piss. Pretty soon, the madness was over, and the masses made for the trains.  Vio, Emily, and I consequently lost everyone we were with. Shortly after that, I lost my glasses. Damn it. Not the greatest encore of the evening ever, but the night was one of the most culturally enriching new years I’ve ever had to date. 

1st SOCCER GAME

First soccer game in the books. Offenbach was the town, the Kickers are there team. Everywhere I go in Frankfurt, every single soul seems to despise the entire city. They hate Offenbach so bad, that someone in Frankfurt managed to get every single airplane landing at Frankfurt International to come roaring  over head. It’s as though the Marshall Plan was reinstated and renamed the Fuck U Offenbach Plan.  Let me put it this way, it makes Citi Field seem like a Library. Thank god for the invention of double paned windows or they’d have to rename the team the Insomniacs.

First impressions are important, and this one gave me the shits. I knew it would be a colorful place when the crack head gypsy lady approached asking for the time, but really wanting to see if A)we were the cops B) anyone had a nice enough watch to steal or C) prospective customers. The “I’ll-blow-u-if-u- buy-me-a-sandwich” look in her eye reminded me of the desperate women I used to see in Queensbridge at 1am coming home from work. Thank you crack head lady! Nothing beats a flood of nostalgia before the big game. The stadium is small, comparable to that of a hockey arena in the number of seats.  Do too construction, the bathrooms were closed.  Nine port-o-potties were strategically positioned to ensure fast relief from too much beer consumption. Cigarette smoking was rampant INSIDE the stadium. Thinking how Mike Bloomberg would shit his pants over this made me smile, until 2 14 year olds began to light up 2 feet too close to my poor face.  With the precision of a night shift nurse sucking away on her “last one”, they puffed and pulled each one right down to Brownsville. Since this is Europe, and no one seems to know yet about lung cancer, I allowed my asshole fueled charm to desert me.  I simply pocketed the, “Could you suck on that Leukemia stick somewhere else fuck nuts,” greeting for some other rainy day. Wouldn’t want to start a war over such a silly thing as second hand smoke!

The fan base was thin on attendance, but passionate singing festive holiday songs about having sex with the other players wives (that’s what I’m told.) I’m not just talking about 1-2 people singing but 8000 strong at the same time with great cadence and timing. A truly whimsical magical feel filled the arena after that. My German friends beer fueled laughter and good cheer comprised my personal theme song for the day.  It was great to see the passion they exuded when such classic numbers as the sex song and “GO..GO…OFC” came up.  As god as my witness, my friend Marcus actually was the one that started one of the chants!  A breathtaking honor!  It was through there positive example and good cheer that I was able to break the bond of never wearing another teams colors besides that New York Yankee blue.  In good spirit, I donned a red and white Offenbach Kickers scarf over my other scarf for the entire game. The game itself was quick paced and done before I knew it. The Kickers, our Kickers won.  I now know what it is like to be a Mets fan! On my way to the bahnof to go home, visions of Pittsburg flashed through my eyes as we  drove through this blue collar gem.  As I wished my boys tsschus, Marcus quickly told me that it was finally ok to ,“hide my scarf now. Remember your going back through Frankfurt.”  Sage advice from a wise and merry soul.

The train ride home turned out to be just as eventful. While walking down the aisle in order to find a better seat, I spotted a 6’1” Russian immigrant pushing a 5’5” 110lb nerd who must be majoring in something like calculus at Frankfurt University. The Russian was terribly loaded, mumbling something along the lines of, ”Oh man, what is going on,” over and over while pushing this horribly outmatched guy.  At this point, a few spooked strap hangers phoned the conductor.  He then stopped the train, came all the way back to the car and yelled at the guy to sit his drunk ass down. To the joy of the entire car, a wave of clarity washed over the slovenly bastard and he finally remembered how to sit down.  Soon thereafter, he forget again, raised up and grabbed his entire case of Yen Raki (a Turkish spirit). Being a dickhead magnet of the greatest sort, I was not that surprised when he began wobbling over to the door I was standing by.  For the next 15 minutes, I had the distinct privilege and honor of Mr. Wants-To-Die engaging me in conversation.  Standing at an angle in order to hit him with a right hook if things progressed to the point of no return, he began reciting the line that had become his trademark “Oh man…what is going on.”  I then began to tell him, what was going on.  By the time I had finished calling him a fucktard who was holding up my chances of making it to IKEA before it closed, the train stopped. Quickly, I hit the button to the door, and directed him magically out.  To my consternation, he then quickly wheeled around, case of Yen Raki still in hand, put his food in the door, and asked me to take a bottle for myself.  After smelling his retched breath from 3 feet away for the last few minutes, I politely declined by kicking his foot out the door.  With mesmerizing speed and agility for someone so fucked up, this stubborn bastard put his foot in the door again!, With a vacant, dangerous look, he then  demanded I take a bottle. With IKEA in the balance, and now my life, I took one, and pushed the charmer out the door for good. As the train took off, I turned around with my first Christmas present of the holidays in hand to a standing ovation. Apparently I had been the highlight of the evening for those affected by the Russian scourge.  With friendly pats on the back, and head nods of appreciation, I had become a hero!   

I MISS MY ANGRY NY!!!!

The emotional temperament of the German leaves a lot to be desired.  Gone are the days of random arguments on the subway with unhinged homeless men. If there are yuppie lawyers screaming in pain for the MTA to go to hell, I have sadly bared no witness. An IPOD being worn by a dangerous looking man blaring the news report from Hell 2 inches from my silence starved ears is sorely missed.  Mr. “I Take-Up-Four-Seats-So-Fuck-You” man talking on the phone about how he “fucked her good” with an absolute absence of shame must be hiding just around the corner, but has yet to be identified.  The other day, I thought I had spotted “Too-Important-Too-Hot–Black-Sunglass-Wearing-Mean Girls-Cast Member” rocking her suede boots but she began petting my dog obsessively and with great care after 10 minutes. Fraud.  Ms. “Too -Important-too communicate-or-acknowledge- the- existence-of- you-mere-mortals” girl turned out to be Ms “Thank-You- For -Identifying –The- Fact- That-I-Left –My-Economist Magazine- On –The- Seat” women. Impostor.  Mr. “I’m-fucking-hard-and-am-going- to- stare-at-you-like- I -killed someone” dude turned out to be Mr. “I'm -fucking -drunk-and- will- vomit-in-the- trash- bin- as- soon-as I –get-off-this- train” guy which happened as soon as he got off the train. I miss my troubled meth heads!!  I must confess to sociological discrimination in these instances, but I am desperate.  My false accusations are a cry for help.  The drunk Turks in this country can’t replace the bent Ecuadorians spontaneously breaking into song on the 7 train. The dangerous looking drug addicts here, don’t really instill a true sense of fear; I know they are not capable of turning  the situation into a Criminal Minds episode.  They are all too well taken care of by the social services in this country.  A beggar respectfully approached me the other day on the bahnhof and I actually laughed out loud at his  civil demeanor.  Come on man!! Push me!! Demand I give you at least 5 dollars! Being so angered at his insolence, I broke into an impromptu tutorial about how to beg properly. 

Sitting in an uncramped train at rush hour that doesn’t smell of vomit is sad. The half  legible intercom announcements joyfully  proclaiming the F train will be 20 minutes late ONLY after already waiting 15 minutes is no more. Now I have to deal with a too efficient system of live updates clearing visible just above eye level.  What happened to having to earn your commute to work???  The cleanliness is obscene. The trash bins are never overflowing with ruble. The tracks themselves are not littered with debris which of course alleviates the fear of fire. What the fuck??? The absence of litter, the infrequency of delays,  the nice beggars, the cleanliness of the stations, it’s all too much for me to take!!!!

Puffmutter

The area that I walk buddy in is quite beautiful and scenic. The path passes through an area that includes apple orchards, and peoples’ private gardens (which are quite ornate in many respects). The path meanders under the autobahn at one point, emptying itself at the edge of a thick wood. I was mulling over the similarities between these apple trees and the ones that came alive to attack Dorothy in Oz when a peculiar sight ruined my groundbreaking hypothesizing; a parked car under the autobahn.  Normally cars are ON the autobahn moving at sickening speeds. It was kind of surprising to see one UNDER the autobahn doing a whole lot of nothing.  At first glance, the station wagon looked eerily empty. I assuaged my worry quickly, deducing through simple logic that he must be an engineer off doing his engineering thing, or simply taking a piss. In Germany, you have to pay to pee. Customarily, the price is 50 cents to 1 euro which is to be paid directly to a guy “working the door” or deposited into a turnstile. With this price point now in mind, I gathered that the latter was almost undoubtedly the reason for the parking of the car in such a shady circumstance. With the eerie car mystery solved, I began to wonder aloud whether or not my dog buddy would take a shit already. Using poor judgment, I had left the house without a receptacle worthy enough of collecting such dignified remains.  At this point I was fearful that a nosy German ( is there any other kind) would catch buddy and I shitting and running. This being a small proper town, the “word” would spread like clamadia on prom night that an Americana was degregating German soil. This being an Olympic year, I knew national pride would be at stake. The town ridicule would be particularly fierce and may drive me toward Obi Won Kenobi status.

Suddenly more pressing issues bore themselves out.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement in the driver’s seat of the station wagons window.  But this was not just any kind of movement, it was vigorous movement.  Upon further inspection I soon deduced from the steamy windows, and the shady park job UNDER the autobahn that this must be some kind of mid-morning fuck fest.  Using the time of day, and the manner in which the station wagon was so haphazardly publicizing  itself, I quickly concluded that it must be some harmless high school kids having premarital sex and smoking a potent form of blue meth. Not wanting to intrude any further, I left without a word.  Only later, upon my reveling of the facts to the family did the truth begin to stir inside me. This was a puffmutter using her skills to pay the bills.

In Germany, prostitution is kind of legal. In Frankfurt, they have a red light area that I have strolled unknowingly through before.  I have seen proper red light areas in Amsterdam mind you, so I consider myself a whore connoisseur. This particular red light district in Frankfurt screams of desperation and AIDS.  Horribly malformed and broken women looking like extra’s from the Martian world of Arnold’s 1990 classic Total Recall plead with you to give them a moment of your time.  The feeling of exhilaration I first found being in being in such a morally ambiguous place was soon washed away under a Japanese sized tsunami of fear. Groups of whores accosted me like Somalian’s around a UN wheat truck molesting me as if I were a human sized Teddy Ruxpin.   I have never been the same since that day.   In small surrounding towns, there are also whore houses, where a puftmother or madam runs the ship. Legally they are supposed to stay on the reservation, but in the case observed, it seems one of the little Indians escaped to go suck a dick.   I wonder if these whore houses give out gift cards.  Perhaps a coupon or maybe a two for one Wednesday deal is in their business plan. Only time will divulge the mysteries of the puffmutter to me.