Movin' on up

We're finally moving into our house. It's a nice duplex on the top of a hill. It has a decent yard for Barley, off-street parking, and a garage. All this talk, well, it makes me feel like singing....

Well we're movin on up,
Zur die Nordseite.
To a deluxe duplex das ist weiß.
Movin on up,
Zur die Nordseite.
And we've got die Zahlungsfaehigkeit.

Fische braten nicht in der Küche;
Bohnen brennen nicht auf dem Grill.
Took a whole lotta tryin',
Just to get up dieser Hügel.
Now we're up in the grosse Ligen,
Gettin' our turn at bat.
As long as we live, ist du und ich Baby,
There ain't nothin Unrecht with that.

Well we're movin on up,
Zur die Nordseite.
To a deluxe duplex das ist weiß.
Movin on up,
Zur die Nordseite.
And we've got die Zahlungsfaehigkeit.

Das Fassmeister haben dreisig jahres!

That's right folks,she's 30 today. We went to a bierfest in a town near Frankfurt called Offenbach. The beer was very good. Tomorrow, we celebrate the 30th anniversary of August 6th, 1976. As far as I can tell, her and Barley had a tough day, they're both asleep already.

Why would she choose paper?

Tonight we sent off one of our ex-pat friends back to the States. Apparently, it was determined that the best way to do this was to go to the local American bar and sing karaoke. Genau.

The good thing about this bar is that this is where I will come to watch the American sports. NFL, NCAA, MLB, they'll show it all. Which game, however, is not up to me. Hey, at this point I'm not picky.

So, after a few hours at the bar, drinking Lichen bier, we head home. Barley (meine hund) has been confided to his Haus since about 6PM, and needs to hit the poopin' grounds before we hit the hay. That's poopin', not puppen, which is the German word for doll. I mean, really, that's pretty much what guys think of them anyway, puppen.

On the way up, I tell the Fassmeister that we need to decide who is going to take das Hund out. My best suggestion: paper-rock-scissors, best two out of three.

First round in the elevator... I get slaughtered. I go with paper, she takes the scissors. Unfortunate. Genau. There's a little nervousness in me, as we take the second round after egressing the elevator... she takes rock and I'm paper again. Winner winner Wiesel dinner.

Now it gets hard. What will she do, take the rock again, trying to throw me off? Or, go back to the scissors, getting back to the winnng game?

One... two... three... shoot! paper-paper

My third paper in a row. Oh, now it gets interesting.

One... two... three... shoot! paper-rock

What the &^*%? Why the heck would she choose paper? Seriously?

Without elaborating, Barley was gentle on me. Now would be the time for a good grilled cheese.

Gute Radfahrt!

So, our bikes showed up today. More proof that Germans make up their words after they experience an event. The German word for a bike ride is Radfahrt. If you've ever ridden a bicycle for an extended period of time, you probably understand. There may be no better description for how you feel after you've relieved a little GI pressure during a prolonged sitting exercise than "Rad Fart!."

So, about 4PM we get the bikes back to the hotel and I suggest to the Fassmeister that today would be a good day to break in the Rads (bikes). She's willing, though skeptial. You see, a few days before, we went down to the local bookmonger and bought some very descriptive maps of the bike trails around the area. I was uber excited. (You see how my German is just coming right along? I switch between English and German like I am a native. Truely, I am some sort of super Deutschemeister. Genau.) Anyway, I was beaming over all of the cartography I had of the region and was ready to test the accuracy of the maps. Das Fassmeister was aware of this. She has also experienced one or two of my "quick" trips when some sort of new gadget caught my eye. Maps can easily be that gadget.

A few comments about the German bike trails. The ones we rode today were great. They go through the trouble to lay a different color brick on the sidewalk if that area is reserved for bikes. The trails are mostly bike and pedestrian only, not just areas that they suggest bikers use. I am thoroughly impressed, and excited about our future biking prospects.

Anyway, after "convincing" her that we'd just roll from the hotel, down this little stretch, a rects here, a links there, and we'd be back in time for a nice dinner, she agreed. She, gullible as she is, buys into the whole thing. Two and a half hours later, one ANGRY Fassmeister.

Problem is, I suggested dinner. Due to this oversight on my part, the thoughts of schnitzel and beer never left the Fassmeister's mind. At one point, I even suggested to her that we could stop for dinner, and complete the rest of the trip half buzzed on Pilsner. Unfortunately, she took me up on this offer a short time later. Probelm is, the Germans rarely accept anything other than cash, and our current holdings were limited. I waited for just the right moment, and mentioned this situation right about the time she dismounted the Rad... not necessarily my best idea. (Humorous though it may have been.) We eventually found a Gelbautomat (ATM) and ate at a restaurant near the hotel. It took two beers for here to stop complaining about the saddle sores. Unfortunately, the third beer brought the complaints back. I can't wait until tomorrow.

It's fest season! ... Wabbit season! ... Fest Season!

Apparently the Germans spend the entire summer drinking at fests every weekend. These weekends usually start on Thursday and stretch through Monday. That leaves Tuesday and Wednesday to prepare for the next fest.

Every town has one. Most seem to have several, spread out over the summer. One theory is that the summer in Germany is so short, they try to make the most of the available outside time. To do this, they celebrate what they do best... beer. Occasionally, they will celebrate wine. They do this only to piss off the French. Problem with this theory is that they also choose to celebrate the end of the summer with the biggest fest of them all (Octoberfest, in case you're clueless). Then, they spend all winter drinking to try to forget how g*****n cold it is. When they sober up, it's spring, and time to fest again.

Not that I'm arguing.

My theory is that the fests are German socialism at its best. The government doesn't want to have to tax the whole population to pay for the 7 million "lower income" citizens (we call them carnies) that refuse to work real jobs. Instead, just have them peddle cheap beer (they can drink while doing this, mind you), and they can keep whatever they make, and don't spend on the other carnie games. It's always the other carnie-types that are playing those games anyway. You know who you are.

It's win-win for the government. There's so much beer here that it costs them to store it. This way, they keep the lower, lowerclass in good shape through the winter, and save on beer-storage fees. So your typical festival goes like this. It's set-up like the little carnivals that roll into American towns. Standard carnie games, some new ones that are quite unique, and rides. But, and this is the important part, the beer. As one friend once mentioned to me, "Oh my God, the BEER!"

No Miller Lite, no Bud, just quality beer. Served chilled (yes, I said chilled) in a glass (yes, I said glass) mug. True, you usually have to give them 2 Euro or so to borrow the glass, but when you're done with it, you give it back, and they hand that 2 Euro right back. Yep, payment for responsibility. And get this, no one breaks the mug over their friends' head, throws it into the river, urinates in it**, or runs off with it. They all return it. Not that they care if you do, they've got your 2 Euro.

** unless absolutely necessary. Say, hypothetically, you have only 3 Euro with which to purchase one more beer, and you really have to pee. It is likely the toilette costs 0.50 Euro. After some quick mental math, and a scan of the lack of shrubbery, one has to make a choice. I'm just sayin....

Needless to say, we've been to a few fests. We'll talk more about specific fests in upcoming posts. I will take this time to post the first of my photos involving me, Wiesel, and the smiling wurst. It is a trashcan. A very jolly little trashcan. I want one. But, pictures of one will have to do. This one comes from the first fest we went to. That fine specimen between me and the wurst-can is our dog, Barley. He's a fan of Germany.