I just checked the calendar and was amazed it’s only February 3rd. Can it be I’ve been suffering in every cell of my body for only two days? How is this possible? It feels like an eternity, like time has slowed down… like… like it did when we were moving. *shudder*

While you may think I’m exaggerating for sympathy or effect let me assure you this is not the case. The road I have to travel to bring my son to Kindergarten is so steep the city doesn’t salt up there in the winter because the city trucks can’t reach it. After I go so far up the road disappears completely. I will provide pictures, I promise. I was so traumatized yesterday I forgot to grab my camera.

My body is rebelling at this forced mountain climbing and it looks like I may lose four toenails on my left foot and three on my right from the pressure of having my toes forced against the inside of my shoe due to walking a prolonged steep incline. I have a blister on my left big toe that is the size of the toe itself, one on each heel, and various on the soles and toes of each foot. I’ve been working on those for the last two days and just this morning seeing signs of healing.

The nail on my left big toe is purple and black. My left leg from the knee down is swollen double the size of my right. Michael just took me to the mall last week and bought me a gorgeous new pair of black Nike’s which I can’t wear because my feet are too swollen to get them on. I’ve got to go back and get a bigger pair of boots with a decent sole on them or I’m going to end up breaking my neck.

It takes an hour to make the trip, thirty minutes up, thirty down. Down hurts just as much as up and by the time I get to the bottom my thighs and calves are shaking and everything feels weak. On a good note, the muscles in my behind and the whole lengths of my legs are hurting in that good way a muscle hurts when it’s getting the right amount of exercise, so things continue like they’re going and I’m going to have a very developed lower body.

Enough about me… Oliver lived and as is his way, hasn’t told me a thing about how his days have gone. I expect to hear little snippets now and then, a bit at a time as he processes it. So more on that later. So far no bruises, so that’s good.

Yesterday morning Isabel woke up sick, and being a baby couldn’t communicate this fact. So I got her ready as usual, dressed her, made her a bottle and we hit the road. Michael dropped us off downtown to do some shopping and as I got her out of her car seat I noticed her coat was a little wet. Sometimes she gnaws on the side of her coat so I made a mental note of it but didn’t dwell. Michael had no sooner driven away and I started to walk further into town when she let fly, and boy did she let fly!

She puked all down the front of her coat, into her coat, all over her shirt, into her hood. It was caked in her hair, covered the whole back of her head, in her snuggli, and leaked through to pool in her stroller seat. There was puke EVERYWHERE. I don’t know where it all came from. There is no way her little body could’ve held that much liquid, she must’ve borrowed some from somewhere.

I grabbed the needed items from the first store I hit, did a 180 and made a bee-line for home. I then spent the rest of the morning cleaning puke off of everything we owned until it was ready to go mountain-climbing again.

This morning Ollie is sick – no puke yet but I’m just biding my time – and I’m scheduled to take both kids in for shots in about an hour.

That’s all I have time for for now. Tune in next time when I expect it’ll be worse. But just think, aren’t feeling good right now that you’re not me? :)

Today is Oliver’s first day of Kindergarten in our new community. He begins first grade this August so it’s a very important occasion. Today he’ll meet the brats children he’ll be attending school with for the next four years. While Kindergarten isn’t requisite here it’s our wish he gets to know the kids and hopefully makes a few good friends. Or gets in his first fistfight, gives the aggressor a righteous Kentucky butt whoopin’ and proves he isn’t going to be pushed around. Whichever. With Kindergarten you never can tell. So while mom’s sitting at home worrying and typing this post, Ollie’s up on the hill being scrutinized, judged and either accepted or gang-beaten by his peers. But no worries. Thanks to the social health care system we’ll get him stitched up in a jiffy.

As far as preparation for this rite of passage, his father and I met with the Kindergarten leader a mere two weeks ago and were given a short list of items he should bring with him on his first day. Top of this list were rubber rain/play pants, because, and I quote, they are going out to play no matter what the weather is. Flood? Hurricane? Tornado? Mud slide? No problem! Your baby is gonna be right out there in it. Toughens ‘em up for a future in the quarries, to be sure.

Michael and I then took an entire week and a half, scoured three cities and several clothing stores trying to find rubber play pants with no success. We finally located a pair at the zero hour on Saturday at Toys-R-Us. Looks like the only place to find rubber clothing is at a toy store. Who knew. And does anyone else find that slightly disturbing?

I spent last night scurrying around ironing, laying everything out we’d need for the trip, getting everyone bathed and making a plan to ensure the morning ran smoothly. We planned everything down to the last detail, even the bus numbers and what time they ran. I thought I had it licked. Cue the clowns.

We went to bed at around 11:00pm, as usual, but excited as I was I didn’t fall asleep until a bit after midnight. Isabel then began getting me up every forty-five minutes to an hour screeching. Who in the world knows why. First I thought she was cold so I put her in bed with us. *SCREECH* Her mouth sounded dry so I got up around 2:00am and got her a bottle, fed her and lay her back down. *SCREECH* She doesn’t like to sleep with us so I put her back in her own bed after about an hour thinking that with the bottle she’d be more comfortable and rest a bit. *SCREECH* Lather, rinse, repeat every 30-40 minutes. She finally fell asleep around 6:00am when the alarm clock went off.

I rose, got Ollie up, fed him, told him to start getting dressed, and then couldn’t find his hat. We then searched for a whole half hour for his hat. Finally found a substitute and out the door we went. Daddy offered to take care of Isabel until I returned.

We walked to the bus stop and checked the driving plan which told us the Deutsche Bahn website we checked was a bald-faced liar. There was only one bus which went to our Kindergarten – not three – and it only ran once per hour. We ended up waiting in the snow and wind freezing our patoots off for about fifty minutes only to have the bus driver tell me he could take us about a city block and drop us off but he wasn’t going up the hill with his bus today.

*SIGH* Fine.

We got off the bus, walked back home, I dressed the baby and loaded the stroller in the back of the car and Michael drove us to the Kindergarten at the top of the world, the way of which is straight up. Kissing the street straight up. I had to fight off a mountain eagle with my diaper bag on the way back.

Then I had to go to the bank and on the way Michael called me about seven times trying to fill me in on the drama going on with his work (I’ll let him tell that one), but it seems no one but us and the 2-3 houses on each side of ours has taken care of their sidewalks, so it was a real fight getting that stroller through town and back home so there was no way I could talk to him. I even got cussed by an able-bodied woman with a teenage son for not going fast enough. Apparently she found the four feet of sidewalk on either side of me too scary to navigate alone. Since I’m trying to be a better person I waited until she was too far away to hear me before mumbling something about what she could pucker up and kiss as far as I was concerned. If I’m the only one who can hear it it doesn’t count, right?

I finally made it home, carried my baby up the stairs like a kitten, dancing to keep from peeing on myself. I just looked out the window and it’s snowing really hard, big clumpy flakes I’m going to have to walk back up the mountain through, pushing that stroller. And the weatherman just said we’re going to have winter until April. *sigh*

I think I’ll take my camera on the way back. Who knows, maybe I’ll see a mountain goat.

As soon as we’d been scanned, patted down, sniffed by dogs and passed our drug and terrorist tests we were allowed entry via two armed guards. Then we had to pass before another individual who eyed us suspiciously from behind a massive wall of monitors and more safety glass. The American government do take their security seriously.

We showed off our mad reading skills once again and found our way to the correct ‘Citizen Services’ offices where we waited. And waited. And waited. There were number boards and we were to wait until our number showed up there but I found out by chance when the baby decided she needed a walk down an adjoining hall, we were watching the wrong board. By luck alone I happened to glance up and see it was our turn.

We then went to the assigned cubicle where we were interviewed and had our applications checked by a very nice lady behind even more safety glass who gave us tips on how to reduce our fees, advice on how to fill things out more efficiently and was generally amiable and helpful to the extreme.* Kudos to the powers-that-be for moving the Consulate away from the (overworked, underpaid, tired of the general public’s idiocy?) grumps of Düsseldorf to the cheery and quite attractive fairy godmothers of Frankfurt.

*(An aside regarding the filling out of the forms. In my experience there is no way whatsoever to do this correctly. No matter how much preparation you put into it you never know what info they’re going to need in what order. It’s a ‘Kobayashi Maru‘ scenario, or in other words, a test of how well you handle frustration and disappointment. I’d attempt to counter it with a classic ‘Kirk Response’ but unfortunately I can still hear people over my own awesome. ;)

We finished at that cubicle, then went back downstairs and paid, then it was all over but the swearing(-in). After a short bit we were brought before a Consulate Officer, again behind safety glass, which makes me wonder if these people are extremely unpopular or do they get attacked on a regular basis or what? But yes, again with the tank-resistant safety glass.

Then it got a little weird. Or should I say weirder. I was questioned but didn’t have any prior notice that I was going to be questioned. I mean, it didn’t say on the website there was going to be an impromptu psychological test done without my permission or informed consent, and the ability to gain a passport for my baby was dependent on whether or not the Consulate Officer felt I was trustworthy, but that was exactly what happened.

Michael explained later in the car that the reason for this was because he could have lured me over here, killed me, gotten another woman to come in and impersonate me and basically steal passports. I then spent the remainder of the trip looking sideways at my husband and marveling at the evil plans his mind could concoct on such short notice. I also made a mental note to write a letter of explanation and rent a safety deposit box should I discover he’d taken out any more insurance on me than was absolutely necessary.

But back with the Officer… as he stood there reviewing what I’d written he suddenly looked at me very intensely and asked where I’d gone to school in the U.S. In the milliseconds that passed between the last word leaving his lips and my sudden realization of what was going on, my mind went completely blank. Then it began having lightening speed paranoid conversations with itself along the lines of “WTF? Why does he want to know this? Exactly what does he want to know? Kindergarten? Gradeschool? High school?”, so I asked. He said high school. As I told him where I’d attended my mind was frantically scanning internal folders for every piece of information I had on my old school in case he asked more in-depth questions like what kind of bricks they used in the building and what they served for lunch on Fridays, etc.

He didn’t. He asked where I went to college. I told him and how many years, which I fudged on a little to make myself look better. Then I thought hey, these people may, if they wanted, have access to CIA files on me. Better revise my story and Dear Lord don’t let him ask my grade point average. Thank you, Amen. But apparently I was sufficiently confused and flustered enough to prove I was telling the truth and he didn’t question me further. Isn’t that funky, though? It makes me wonder if he hits you with a random question you know the answer to, if your response is too cool and collected whether soldiers magically appear and escort you to the secret questioning room with the electrical shockey things like on 24. I say wonder because no, I don’t really want to know. May I speculate on that question forever and ever.

He then asked my husband and I to raise our right hands, which made the both of us feel very solemn, and swear before God and the President of the United States that everything we had written on the applications was true to the best of our knowledge. We said it was and he congratulated us on being the proud parents of the newest U.S. citizen. I thanked him and left feeling like I’d just navigated a mine field and won a race. As we made our way back to the car I found myself dreading having to go back and do this again in five short years – minus the drunken meanderings hopefully – but relishing the fact it was done for now and my parental duty to my precious babes had been fulfilled.

Now we just have to do the same for the German passport and I’m making a bet that it isn’t half as complicated. Oh, and we received our new passports, sent from the U.S. itself no less, in a little over a week. Talk about service!

That’s the end of this story thankfully. Next more on what’s happening with us in the new year, including further suspicion and complaining that the blog hobby is breathing its last, and my mulling over turning this site into a hobby blog where I don’t have to share anything or tell long, mostly uninteresting to anyone but me stories. We shall see.

When we last left our heroine she was sleep-deprived in a Frankfurt hotel room thinking seriously about jamming her husband’s smart phone up his slightly hung-over hoo-haw. I mean, he’d live, right? How serious could the sentence be? On the bright side my being more or less kept up all night by what I sometimes like to call FATE and other times call MY FAMILY meant we were on time for breakfast for once.

So there we were, all prettied up and ready to go at ten minutes till opening time. I was sallying toward the door in anticipation when Michael brought me up short. He’s always bringing me up short, by the way, being much more sissified dignified than I am. He pointed out the obvious fact that in order to maintain a proper German impression we might not want to be the first ones in front of a closed cafeteria door prancing like a pack of slobbering dogs at feeding time. I hadn’t considered this because I was too busy prancing and slobbering. There’s nothing like wandering the streets of a strange city at night slightly drunk to help one work up an appetite.

Apart from that I wanted to get going and get business taken care of because our appointment was in an hour and the last time we visited the good folks at the Consulate it didn’t escape my attention the way they belittled people who were found crossing lines. Lines being, for example, showing up late. Not having the proper paperwork. Stowing your passport in the back pocket of your jeans then running them through the wash. It’s little things like these that make the folks at the Consulate positively grumpy, and I don’t like to make soldiers and other people trained to kill me grumpy. But for the sake of domestic peace I bent to the master’s will and hung back until we could make a more fashionable entrance. Then I deposited the baby in a child’s chair and attacked the breakfast bar in a display of speed-eating I’ll bet they haven’t seen the likes of in a long while. I know the two other hotel occupants seemed highly impressed.

We finished with half an hour to spare then rushed to the parking lot to drive the ten minutes our navigation system told us it would take to get to our destination. I was acting all smug about it, too. Not only was I going to impress them with my attention to detail, my promptness, the fact that the child whose passport I was renewing was even more of a little gentleman than the last time they’d seen him and the baby I was bringing to declare was obviously exceptional, they were going to be positively wowed by the fact I had remembered this time not to sign the forms until I was in front of the Consulate officer, like it warns you not to do about fifty times on the website and twice on the actual form itself. That was my beautiful dream but as you probably already well know, reality takes you down the path of its own choosing.

Of course we were late, and of course I blame this on FATE (aka MY FAMILY, more specifically, my husband). That and the fact our navigation system is a pathological liar who desperately needs therapy. As we were backing out of the parking lot a city truck blocked and cost us ten minutes. Then on the way my husband needed to stop at an ATM because he wasn’t sure he had the right amount of cash on him, except he couldn’t find an ATM. And then while he was at the ATM he remembered he needed something for the baby to drink so he stopped at a bakery. Then we ran into construction. Then, not really knowing which gate we were to enter, he parked in the first parking spot available to us, which of course was as far away from our gate as was humanly possible, so we were late and found ourselves running half a mile to our entrance positive the punishment for this was at the very least a public caning.

There is a smidgen of cool to this story, though, and here it comes. When we got to the gate there was an enormous line which meandered from the door all the way down a long sidewalk to the street. Space for two queues had been cordoned off. One was empty and the other was filled with people, so naturally our herd animal instinct prompted us to stand and moo with the rest, except that thankfully I can read and apparently will do so when bored. The signs in the other, completely empty line read ‘Citizen Services’ and I thought, hey, I’m a citizen! So we switched and stood in that one a little sheepishly thinking any moment someone was going to come and shake their head and list all the reasons we were inferior for not understanding simple line logic. Except they didn’t. When we got to another sign at the front of the ‘Citizen Services’ line it read that applicants would be taken one from the line at the left, then one from the line at the right, and guess who had just gotten into the line at the right thereby jumping ahead of about 60 people? That’s correct. Me and FATE.

A beleaguered man behind safety glass in a concrete cubicle was helping a lady from the left line, and as she walked away the lady standing behind her charged forward just as I attempted to go. For all I knew this lady had been there all morning waiting in the cold, so I halted a bit and waited, unsure of how he would handle it. He handled it by pointing to us and telling her it was our turn now and she’d have to go back and read the signs again and wait. At that point I’m surprised the closely watching crowd didn’t hear the HEH! that exploded unbidden in my head. In self defense, they couldn’t have fathomed my elation at 1.) being a citizen, and 2.) being a citizen who could read. (Thank you Sesame Street!) I’m also surprised they didn’t attack us for all the grumbling and dissension I heard coming from that direction. Heard, because I didn’t dare look back over my shoulder. I suspect it was only the men with the guns who prevented our being snatched bald and flung to the back. Yes sir, I want you on that wall.

Not waiting for the rotten tomatoes to start flying we pranced up to cubicle guy. Suddenly he didn’t look like a scary assassin any longer, but someone’s benevolent grandfather sent to welcome me home. This feeling was furthered by the guard who let us in the entrance door chatting and joking like he’d known us all our lives. I swear I had difficulty keeping myself from throwing my arms around him and hugging him like family when I heard his lovely accent-free American English, and when I entered the magic portal there were tears in my eyes.

To be continued…

Now where were we… Oh yes. Alone on the street in the dark, in the cold wet of a strange city, being solicited by two homeless men while staring at the rapidly disappearing back of my inebriated husband…

I shot my two amorous wannabe companions a scathing glance as if to say “Not even with someone else’s equipment!“, harrumphed as loudly as I could then turned on my heel and shouted at my son once again to keep out of the street and wait for mommy. As I walked away with my chin in the air I heard one of them hiss “What’s her problem?” His buddy, upon hearing and apparently understanding what I’d shouted, said to his friend “She’s British!”, to which the first answered with an audible expulsion of breath, “Ahhhh…”, as if that explained everything. I couldn’t help but laugh as I stalked further away. My apologies to the British community for the bad reputation I left with the street people of Frankfurt, but it was absolutely necessary I assure you.

When I finally caught up to Michael (hitch!-step-hitch!) – and that was a chore because man, he can really move when he’s soused – I asked where he was going so fast. He mumbled he was “trying to get back to the hotel before he lost it”, whatever ‘it’ was, and the way he kept pulling at his behind I assumed it was his pants. I informed him I’d accompany him back to the hotel but couldn’t stay because I had a date later. He was pretty fuzzy but managed to take that in and inquire how it had happened. I told him the story and asked if he would’ve bought me a bottle of vodka, too? He said sure but since I already had plans he’d save the money. Then he grinned at me as if his face would split.

I know I should’ve been angry but when I saw how far gone he really was I couldn’t be. Neither of us knew how badly we’d be affected by that beer, and I’m still not certain why it hit us so hard or what was in it. I guess the moral of this story is not to assume your drink of choice will have the same alcohol content anywhere you order it ~or~ Frankfurt breweries will put hair on your chest!

When we arrived at the room everyone was eager to get into bed and commence becoming unconscious since we were already partially there. I took a closer look and noticed the way the beds were set up ensured that Isabel would have to sleep between us and Oliver would be alone, an arrangement I was uncomfortable with. I suggested moving all the beds together up against the wall so the children wouldn’t be frightened, thereby giving everyone enough room and leaving no one out, but Michael wasn’t hearing it. He couldn’t process any task other than obeying the strong ‘”LAY DOWN BEFORE YOU FALL DOWN” message his brain was broadcasting to his body at death metal volume, and he was prepared to fist fight me if it would hasten the process. So I let him have his way because I’m a better Wii boxer and although our room was pretty secluded I’d still have to explain his bruises next day. This meant Ollie was doomed to sleep alone against the wall, Isabel was with me in the big bed, and Michael was soon sawing logs loudly in the front room, half undressed and limbs splayed in every direction. He was probably drooling too for all I know. I didn’t check, though. I left him alone and stifled the urge to preserve the moment in pictures.

After getting settled I noticed Ollie had fallen asleep fairly quickly but Isabel was a different story. She kept playing all over the bed long after the lights were out and everyone was quiet. She danced on my head, inspected the pillows, looked out the window, practiced jumping me lengthwise, then began standing up and squawking as if to say “THIS IS NOT MY ROOM! THIS IS NOT MY BED!” Then she’d stare intently into the darkness as if she expected a response. Then she’d squawk “YOU EXPECT ME TO SLEEP HERE? THIS IS NOT MY ROOM! THIS IS NOT MY BED!” Lather rinse repeat for about an hour and a half or until I was near tears with exhaustion.

After she quieted I gratefully fell asleep, only to wake back up at around 1:00 so cold I could almost see my breath. Apparently we were supposed to be responsible for our own climate control comfort, who knew. So I cranked the heat up and lay down again listening to the register gurgling into life. No sooner had my eyes closed properly than they popped open again and I was gasping at the heat. I glanced at the clock and noticed it was 3:00, then turned the heat back down to a reasonable level and cursed my way silently back to bed.

I was awakened again at 5:00 by Michael, who had apparently sobered up enough to play with his smart phone, trying – and not succeeding – to do it quietly. Our room neighbor had awakened him with an impromptu hallway serenade as he left our floor. There was nothing for it at that point but abandon all hope of sleep and get up and get ready to start our day. In an hour and a half I would be back on American soil, of a sort, for the first time in five years.

To be continued…

About three-fourths of the way through the glass Michael suddenly announced he was thoroughly drunk. No warning. One moment fine and the next rocketing out into la-la land. I was surprised and thought he was kidding, but no, he was not. Given the fact we were in public he was putting forth a mighty effort to retain his dignity but I could tell by the slight sway each time he moved and how red his face had become he was slowly losing the battle. At that point I was about halfway through my drink and feeling considerably tipsy when I thought better of it and decided it might not be the best idea to leave the children with a couple of lushes for parents in a strange city. So I set my glass down, we paid and started our weaving way back toward the hotel hoping the cold night air would have some positive effect and wondering what in the world was in that beer.

As we walked toward the rooms I remembered we needed to stop somewhere along the way and buy some milk for the baby’s bottle for the night and early morning, so we stumbled across crossed the street and headed to one of the kiosks along the way. By that time late night was coming on quickly and I began to notice through the haze that was threatening to envelope me all the good working citizens of Frankfurt were most likely home snug in their beds, and the good non-working citizens had come out to play. Two of these were standing and sharing a flask and cigarettes in front of the kiosk.

Michael approached the counter which opened directly out onto the sidewalk and asked the clerk if he had milk for sale and he said no. While they began to haggle over what the kiosk offered that the baby could drink – which from the selection of bottles leaning up against the window noticeably wasn’t much – I noticed the two men beginning to notice me where I stood about four feet away from my husband. That was my first mistake because one look was all it took to pull their strings. They then began enthusiastically plying me with what seemed to be the German version of “Hey baby, come here often?” I glanced furtively at Michael thinking at any moment he would turn around and give them the hard eye or worse, but he stayed where he was clutching the edge of the counter to remain erect and sporadically hitching at his pants like someone who ought to have a hay straw sticking out of the corner of his mouth. I was glad he hadn’t heard any of what the men were saying because I was certain if he had in his current state things would’ve gone bad pretty quickly. He’s never been one to hold back his feelings or opinions. (see ref: the time he grabbed a hammer off a tool table at a flea market and ran into the middle of an emerging gang fight – once a soldier, always a soldier) But no, he was so buried in the concentration it took to buy us something non-alcoholic to drink later that night he never even turned his head.

Suddenly bum number one looked at me and said cheerfully “Hey, you want a drink? If you come with us I’ll buy you a bottle of vodka!” Now, I’m 41 years old and obviously a mother. I don’t know what he thought we were going to do with my two children while he was was enjoying my ‘company’ but evidently he was so into me he was willing to work that part out later. Then there was the fact that my behind could’ve made two of him and his buddy. I was so sure all of this was a huge mistake on my part I looked behind me to see who he was talking to because it sure as heck couldn’t be me, and if it was, he surely hadn’t just gone there, had he?

About that time his friend began to encourage me to accompany them again and I snapped my head around fully intending to order Michael to break the both of them in two, when I noticed Michael wasn’t there anymore. I did a double take, looked around and then felt Ollie shake loose my hand and begin running up the street half a block after the rapidly retreating behind of his drunken daddy. Michael was just that moment swaying his way up to the traffic light, punching at the button and preparing to more or less navigate the crosswalk, while jerking at the waistband of his jeans with his left hand (hitch!) and swinging a bag of water and whatever else in the right. I stood stunned as the light changed and off across the road he went.

It was then I looked back at my two admirers and realized I was standing in the middle of an empty city block alone, on a long stretch of sidewalk… filled with various men… apparently the women of Frankfurt go inside when it’s dark… holding onto the handle of a stroller containing my sleeping baby.

Right, then.

To be continued…

Frankfurt, Germany…

They say there are many Americans who make Frankfurt their home away from home and if this is so, I wonder at the depression rate because it looks as if it must be simply teeming with Dementors. My impression of Frankfurt in the wintertime is that it is one of the gloomiest places I’ve visited to date including the London Dungeon. My apologies to any residents I’m offending but there it is. The city itself seems a dark, depressing, gloomy, lonely-looking place, and greasy to boot.

Everywhere we went it was as if a film of grease had been laid over everything. The streets were greasy, our feet slipped in the film on the floors inside the buildings, the stores, the restaurants. It coated the windows. Anywhere I touched left a a greasy residue on my hand, and I’m not exaggerating for effect. I used a lot of baby wipes on this trip and not just on the baby. It makes me wonder what kind of cleanser they’re using or if the water is just ultra-soft, because I know most Germans are fanatically clean. Or maybe it’s something in the water or air. Anyway, greasy. That was my initial impression and admittedly not a very good one, but the citizens were very polite and welcoming and this made up for a good deal.

My impressions apart from that… the buildings were tall. Taller than I have seen in a long time. I remember when first coming to Germany how short and flat all the towns appeared compared to what I was used to at home. I know now when I visit the States again I’ll probably have a neck ache from staring upward every moment like a chick waiting for a worm, and we obviously marked ourselves as tourists with all the neck-stretching going on as we drove through the center of town, but they were so colorful, interestingly lit and tall. One was yellow, one blue, all had fantastic shapes, and I was told – if my source can be assumed correct and not just pulling the latest one out of the seat of his jeans – one of these holds claim to being the highest in the country although it’s still a work in progress.

Then we arrived at the hotel and when we walked inside we noticed there were three Japanese gentlemen holding what seemed to be some kind of impromptu and very serious conference by a large Christmas tree in the lobby. They conferred first with the clerk at the night desk and then with each other. Confer with clerk, confer with each other. Whip out laptop. Tap a while on that. Confer with clerk, confer with each other. We managed to wedge in during a pause in which they whispered and gesticulated amongst themselves in rapid Japanese, got the attention of the young man at the desk who was wearing a lovely cream-colored vintage polyester leisure suit, filled out the necessary papers and after a bit were assured we were about to be offered the nicest family room in the place.

My first thought after spending the afternoon on the road was that if no one had died in the bed and the bathroom and sheets were decently clean I’d be a happy camper, but upon accessing the room we were pleasantly surprised to discover we’d hit the jackpot. We got the penthouse, baby, a big room with modern structure and a view. There were three beds – a double and two singles – and in addition four rooms, a kitchenette and a huge balcony with a nice view of the sky. Despite the cold I had to be out on the balcony at least 6-7 times before we left, of course, leaning out over the edge considering the distance to the street and wondering why they didn’t have more protective railing installed and how many people could have possibly met their end on the sidewalk below. The Frankfurt hotel industry seems to be extremely trusting. Maybe despite the gloom and grease the majority Catholic upbringing prevents hotel balcony flight attempts, who knows.

After we got our possessions safely stowed we decided to go in search of dinner, so we ventured once more out into the filmy night. Not far from our building was a series of kiosks and restaurants. We slithered and slid down the sidewalk and eventually chose a little Thai place that looked good. There weren’t very many people inside considering it was the main dinner hour and the reason still remains a mystery because I ordered a spectacular seafood dish that was simply delicious. Michael and I ordered Weizenbier with our meal, which was a local brand and came in a long, thick glass and complimented it well. Now, neither of us are regular drinkers except with the occasional meal, but Weizenbier is usually pretty tame in my experience. This brand tasted a little off to me but Michael assured that was because it was made locally and not what I was used to drinking in Aachen, which is very rich tasting.

So we enjoyed our meal and I drank about a fourth of mine, savoring it and not wanting to finish before the meal was over, when Michael found the bottom of his glass. Since it was only about a block’s walk to the room he decided to order another. Thinking back on the situation I should have known this wasn’t a good idea and tried to talk him out of it, but in the past two beers haven’t been a problem and that is usually where he stops. This time was an exception.

To be continued…