So nice to see you after all these years

We’re going to a reunion this summer, a three-day fest on the Rhine gathering together former employees and spouses of Hong Kong’s German-Swiss International School.  My wife was a teacher there in the early nineties, had been for three years before I landed in early 1994, got a job, found a girlfriend, broke up, met K, moved in, married her, had our daughter, quit my job and then moved to Germany.

Along the way I met many of her colleagues, some of whom we’re still friends with after all these years.  Looking over the list the other day of those slated to attend, we smiled and said how much we were looking forward to seeing many people who up to now have existed only in that place and time we filled before moving on. 

There are at least a half-dozen I want to have a long catch-up with.  One of K’s girlfriends back in the day will I hope recall an incident barely a week after I’d started going out with K.  The three of us were at a bar somewhere up near The Peak and Karin was wearing a dress that showed off that great figure she still has.  When K went off to get some drinks I turned to her friend and said something like, “damn, she looks fantastic, doesn’t she?”  She gave me this horrified look and spat back, “WHAT did you say?”   With the loud music and her not understanding English very well, she thought I was making a pass at her the moment K’s back was turned.

But as much as I’m looking forward to the reunion, there’s a certain dread about it too.  Not that I might feel like an outsider, because I do know a lot of the people.  It’s just that I know exactly what’s going to happen.  If you’ve ever been to a high school reunion, you know the drill.

Not long after you arrive you’ll see the people you’ve been thinking about all these years and you’ll rush over and greet them.  After the first excitement of recognition has blown by you’ll have the catch-up gab, the what-you-doing-now where-you-been-in-the-meantime chat, the great-to-see-you-again tap on the arm for good measure when you go refill your drink.

It will go on like that until someone gets up to make a speech or the buffet is served.  With any luck the food will be decent and drinks flowing.  By now you’ll have coalesced into groups you used to hang out with ‘way back when, avoiding those you don’t know or only had a superficial relationship with.

The evening will be a pleasant one and it will all end a bit too soon.  If there are events the next day and evening, you’ll enjoy them, basking in the memories and nostalgia which, if the atmosphere is right, will come in bunches.

As the last event draws to a close and everyone drifts off saying their final farewells, there will be hugs and shoulder shakes and thumps on the back, cards swapped, telephone numbers, email, website and blog addresses scribbled on the back of napkins or scraps of paper, and sincere looks exchanged as you look each other in the eye and say, “It’s been so much fun to see you again after all these years.  We must keep in touch.”

But you know what?  You won’t.

A few bloggers I’d like to meet, but maybe not in the sauna.

For personal reasons it was lucky that I was unable to attend the 2006 Whiney Expat Bloggers’ meetup in Bonn, but to make up for it I had a great time with many of Germany’s English-language bloggers in Dresden last year.

Now that we’re all having to decide where to meet up in 2008, you may be forced to get out a map to find the town of Wiesbaden because the voting seems to be headed in that direction. Wiesbaden? Where? What? And perhaps above all: why Wiesbaden?

Is it because the place is famous for and dominated by a huge spa?  Do you realise that if we were to meet in Wiesbaden and not go to the spa, it would be like squeezing into a small diner for lunch never once mentioning that 800-pound gorilla plopped down in the corner?

And of course you all know by now about German spa and sauna etiquette, right? I know some of us like to bare all online, but…

Anyway, I haven’t heard much of the place, so I thought I’d ask my wife and favourite German for her opinion, seeing as how I was pretty sure she’d never been there before.

So have you ever been to Wiesbaden? Never.

What have you heard about Wiesbaden? Pretty, with rich people.

Why rich? It’s not that far from Frankfurt, but it’s smaller, - anyway, not nearly as ugly as Frankfurt.

What have you got against Frankfurt? It has no soul. It’s just business and banks.

Would you go to Wiesbaden? Why should I?

Well, there’s going to be a bloggers’ meetup there. At least that’s the way it seems to be going. Are you going to this meetup?

I’m asking the questions for now. If you were to pick one place in Germany you think we should meet, where would it be? Hamburg.

You can’t pick Hamburg. (laughs) OK, Leipzig or Weimar. They’re two cities I’m interested in getting to know.

By the way, I like your haircut. You look very good at the moment.

So there you have it. Hamburg balcony poll results confirm a swing in sentiment away from Wiesbaden and toward Leipzig or Weimar. Besides, how can you not trust the opinion of someone who makes an observation like that?

And now: A few bloggers I’d like to meet who weren’t there last year. Not a complete list and in no particular order:

• Charlotte of Charlotte’s Web. That is, if we don’t interfere with her novel-writing.
• Headbang8, the man behind Deutschland über Elvis
• Jen of HeisseScheisse. Yes, I know you were in Hamburg long enough for us to meet but it didn’t work out.
• Tatiana.
• Beaverboosh. He’s actually blogging from Norway, but being Canadian he gets a free pass, if not ticket.
• Cathy, the woman behind the blog and the book Planet Germany.
• Jul.
• Indie of Indeterminacy. OK, we’ve already met, but it would be great if he could attend.
• Click-clack gorilla.
• And last but not least, azahar, who is going through a rough time.

Oooh, kind of a stealth meme. How did that happen?

if facebook were real life

My Facebook usage has followed a path typical of millions:

Curiosity.

Sign-up.

Enthusiasm.

Disappointment.

Boredom.

Scrabulous.

Yep. After eight months, all I ever use it for is to play Scrabulous. Why? This will give you a clue. Enjoy.

Metaphorically speaking, memes are like, whatever

I have been a meme avoider the past few weeks, but can wriggle out no longer.

I know I’m not alone, because based on what I’ve been reading lately, a lot of people hate memes. Hate writing them. Hate receiving them. Hate reading them. One blogger has gone so far as to declare his site a meme-free zone. In his sidebar, he writes:

Many thanks to those of you thoughtful enough to tag Deutschland über Elvis with a meme. Owing to the large number of such requests, the tedium of the subject matter (usually personal details I am loathe to disclose) and the lack of sufficient online friends to forward, this blog will no longer respond to memes. Thank you for your understanding. Now fuck off.

But before the ever-so-diplomatic Mr. Headbang8, Esq. undertook such drastic measures, he did tag me with a meme. And since I understand the well-intentioned thoughts behind recognising the efforts of fellow bloggers, and in the spirit of camaraderie, I am now going to do an all-in-one cluster-fuck meme.

The first one is for headbang and Renal Failure, who both gave me the E for Excellence writing award.

Headbang has ordained that I come up with three of my own examples based on that most likely bogus viral list of boneheaded high school essay similes and metaphors.

Here goes.

She had such a bad cold, her nose was running like water from a tap that needs fixing but nobody ever bothers to get around to it, because plumbers are expensive, you know.

Her eyes were twinkling like Liberace’s diamond-encrusted jacket used to, except that Liberace was a man, and a total poof as well, so I doubt if that counts, considering that when her eyes were doing all that sparkling, she was looking into the eyes of her man-hunk of a lover, who did have his effeminate side, but he wasn’t a poof, at least not that anyone knew at the time, though you never know for sure.

He struggled to find the right words to say, kind of like when you are uselessly flipping through the pages looking up a word in the dictionary because you already know the meaning but not the word you want, so you don’t know where to look.

I would love to stop here, but the memes and awards have been piling up and it really is time to clear the desk.

Expatraveler and Mr. Peace have nominated me for a writing award. A Lion’s Roar writing award for powerful words. An award named for the cry of an animal who sleeps all day, wakes up in the late afternoon, spends most of the evening prowling around preying on the youngest and oldest among the weak and defenceless, eating all he can before leaving the shredded scraps to the hyenas.

Oy vey! This is something to be proud of?

My good people, as much as I appreciate your recognition, can we call it the Hyena Award instead? I feel more comfortable as a hyena. The strongest jaws in nature, to match my mouth and the trouble it’s gotten me into. Happy to be who I am, if not king of beasts. Often heard laughing, mostly at myself.

There, that’s better

Photo credit: our 2006 trip to South Africa

Az over at Casa az in Sevilla has given me a Champion Blogazine Editor award, which Archie started. To quote Archie, the award honours…

Those who create an online magazine full of interesting and differing articles. Some original work and some work found elsewhere and given a personal spin. Bloggers who give us, not just the minutia of their day but add other content to amuse and educate us. Who trawl the world of cyberspace to bring us the best available news and information.

I appreciate this one very much, az. Here I was worried that all I do is throw against the wall whatever crosses my mind or field of view, and hope some of it will stick. The experts say that’s a no-no. Apparently, the rule is, you have to have a theme. Like, a blog about Stuff White People Like.

Believe it or not, another blogger gave me that Lion’s Roar award too, but I can’t find the link to it anymore. Was I de-awarded? Did the link die? If you’ve given me an award, tagged me with a meme, thought you liked this blog and told me so, and I failed to acknowledge it, I humbly beg your forgiveness. I may do it again, however. In true Canadian fashion: sorry.

© 2008 lettershometoyou

Views of a London long weekend

Since the weekend was already a week ago, better wrap this London thing up with a few photos.

Our friend Douglas works hard for the money, and on a Friday night, he likes to nip around the corner to the local for a beer or two and have a bite to eat. We joined him. After dinner, the ladies bid so long, so the two of us ordered a couple more, then a couple more. Sometime toward the end of our evening we got talking to the people at the next table, who were laughing a lot and taking photos of each other One asked if we’d like to have our photo taken. Sure! Just don’t put it up on some website or some BLOG. So they took our picture. Then I asked if I could do the same.

I told them that I have a blog, and that I was going to publish it. They were OK with that, so I gave them this address. Hey guys, I hope the rest of the night was fun.

(Guaranteed not photoshopped.)

If you’ve got time in London to do some touring, but not much, at least check out the Tower of London. Sure it will cost you five times more than what Ryanair claims their tickets cost to get in, but once there, you could spend the whole day poking through crannies and getting lost in corners. We took the tour, offered free once you’re in. Hang around the entrance, and if you spy this guy, make sure you take a tour from him. Name’s Kevin, and he’s an absolute scream.

Douglas lives at the London studios where Alfred Hitchcock shot many of his earlier movies. It’s been recently converted to residential and offices, but the great director’s legacy lives on. This sculpture dominates the central courtyard. Not sure what the watch symbolises, but then again, I may just be exposing some cinematic / cultural illiteracy or complete laziness to go looking on Google for the umpteenth time today. Sometimes, I just like to keep a little mystery in life.

We dropped by St Pancras station, the new terminus for the Eurostar train via Channel Tunnel from Paris. It’s stunning, and even on a Saturday, swarming with people. I’d love to have seen it when it was dirty and gritty.

Canadian readers will get a kick out of this one. We all knew the guy was a crook, and now he’s finally in prison. But why did they waste all that time with a trial? He already came with a warning label, and you can find it within a shout of Buckingham Palace at the Canadian war memorial there, just inside Canada gate.

The Millenium Bridge is one of my favourite spots in London. I know, not very original, but there’s something about the way what looks from afar like an almost impossibly flimsy thread of steel has become such an important link between two of the most iconic sites in the whole city: St Paul’s on the one side, the rejuvenated Tate Modern on the other.

The Tate Modern’s turbine hall is stunning even when it’s empty. Right now it mostly is, save for a crack running the entire length of the floor. It apparently took weeks to install, and it’s interesting to look at up close, but I don’t know. It left me rather cold.

I’m putting in a shot of the same space a year ago. I tell you, whizzing down those slides was one hell of a lot more fun.

Our lives are intertwined with Hong Kong. It’s where I met my wife and where my daugher was born. It’s also where I met Douglas, who began as a colleague and remains a friend. We gravitated to Chinatown, not because we were hungry for barbecue duck or pork, but to re-live in some small way the atmosphere of what to us is so familiar. It also reminds me of Vancouver, because the sights and smells are to be found there too.

Actually, I lie. I would kill for a place in Hamburg to get decent barbecue pork. We bought a box of it and ate it like candy on the way home.

Saved the best for last. I don’t post photos of my wife or daughter, but the swirls of colour on this one somehow work. Happy accident.

© 2008 lettershometoyou
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Snowdrops and crocuses, heralds of spring

Sometimes you have to get out of town to see what lies ahead.

Snowdrops and crocuses,

Heralds of Spring

Snowdrops and crocuses,

The birds will sing

When all the world is bare,

Springing up here and there,

Blossoms of beauty rare,

Heralds of Spring.

It’ll still take about two or three weeks for them to appear in Hamburg, but in London they’re already out. These were spotted this past Saturday in the park alongside The Mall near Buckingham Palace, their quiet voices of light and colour reminding us that greenery will soon return to carpet the land. I was so thrilled to see them, I stood up, turned around and sang those lines out to my wife, my daughter, and my friend Douglas, whom we were visiting.

They always come back to me every Spring.

If the words sound a bit sing-songy and child-like, they should. In what I now recognise to be merely an early training exercise for that 1970s Village People hit YMCA, Mrs. Fairburn had her Grade One class (spot me if you can) stand by our desks and act out the words as we sang, drooping our arms and hunching forward for the snowdrops, standing on tip-toes and reaching up to the ceiling for the crocuses.

So unexpected to come across them midst the hurried, sometimes frantic bustle of London. But that’s what I like about visiting cities. Not so much the layers of history at the Tower of London, the grandeur of the Tower Bridge or the hulking immensity of the Tate Modern, but the little details you come across and only take notice of because you’re visiting.

© 2008 lettershometoyou

Welcome to Ryanair - please excuse our decor

Long-time readers will recall my rather pissy Ryanair post a few months back, written shortly after booking tickets to London online. It wasn’t so much the deceptive advertising that riled me - who, after all, expects to fly anywhere for five bucks? - it was the way they piled on the nonsense charges.

Forcing a party of three to pay €30 to check one piece of luggage, for example. Or charging a credit card transaction fee six times - return tickets for party of three - even though only one transaction is being made. Saying you can avoid the credit card fees by paying by bank debit card, yet refusing to accept my EC card, one of Europe’s most widely used card.

So it was with some sense of dread that we headed for Lübeck airport last Thursday, bound for London Stansted to visit my old friend Douglas, not least because a fellow I’d spoken with a couple of weeks ago told me Ryanair cuts costs by calculating how much fuel to carry by the weight of the load. He said that’s why if you don’t check in at least 40 minutes before flight time so they can start calculations, you have to buy a new ticket if you want to board the plane.

I don’t know, what do you think? Could that just be an urban business legend? I didn’t have to stand on a scale, there were no signs saying those passengers weighing over, say, 120 kilos had to pay extra, and I really doubt they’d cut it so fine they’d risk crashing a jetful of passengers and crew should the plane encounter some delay en route.

Classy eh? I hope that’s not our plane.

But because the ticket ordeal is long past and both flights were smooth and on time, about the only negative thing I have to say about Ryanair is the waiting hall and the plane interiors. You get the feeling you’ve been locked up in some Ryanair-sponsored Second Life prison, sentenced to look at wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling advertising in the most garish, cheap and nasty set-up imaginable.

Once on board, depending on which plane you’re on, you’re either bombarded with vodka advertisements strung along the luggage rack or forced to endure the sight of blinding, bright-yellow plastic covering the seats in front of you and over the entire front bulkhead, again splashed with Ryanair.com.

On both flights we sat through a variety of come-ons squawked over the intercom, selling everything from bus tickets into London proper to scratch-n-win lottery tickets to food - though I didn’t actually see anybody buy anything - as well as reminders that passengers could also order crap stuff from the Ryanair catalogue and have it waiting for them upon their arrival back home. Some of the items included furniture. Furniture! Right. I board a plane, the first thing I’m going to do is ask to see the furniture catalogue.

Service was friendly enough, though I’d say there is a stewardess Ryanair flight attendant badly in need of a reminder that paste-on fingernails and emergency evacuation procedures might one day result in a bit of a clash.

Oh, and one more thing. If you do fly Ryanair, don’t bother paying the extra fees so that you can be in the line-up that boards first. We didn’t bother, were by a long shot not the first ones in line, and though the flight was full, we still had our pick of seats. I figure that Ryanair makes at least an extra €500 on every flight by selling priority boarding. Waste of money.

But hey - I’m not complaining. We’ll probably fly Ryanair again, if they let us.

© 2008 lettershometoyou

PS: This is the first in a short series of posts about London. Four people, three full days, two birthdays, and one bottle of scotch.

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The poetry of spam

Since we’re on the topic of why it pays to look in your spam dump once in a while, I might as well keep running with it.

One of the most beautiful gifts we have ever received is junk. It’s a rusty old pitchfork, it’s a drill bit, it’s an auger - and a candleholder all in one.

The end of the drill bit is covered in gold leaf. Nice touch.

An old friend of my wife - a high school arts teacher who went through a phase tinkering with this sort of stuff - gave it to us as a wedding present. When our daughter came along we had to put it away in a box for awhile, concerned as we were about the possibility of having to explain to the doctors in emergency that we really had no plans to make a shishkebab of our kid.

Spam poetry works the same way. You take scrap that normally wouldn’t merit a second glance to make something new out of it.

Here goes.

(Perhaps based on an old joke repeated in Dresden and buried near the bottom of the dreaded post.)

You spot the pleasant-looking Adonis at a friends group

and fell

gray matter over heels in darling with him.

But alas!

Gorgeous girls have already surrounded him

he seems to be enjoying every bit of the consideration

showered on him by the members

of fairer sex.

Now

what can you do?

Will you leave the coalition

midway

with a broken heart?

Hope.

I had a cherished wand

whose touch

could kind him.

my man

you utter these words to yourself.

This is, of course, a tricky situation.

Turning a straight guy into gay

is something next to

not on.

It by and large depends on your luck.

Still,

our suggestions can definitely be of great help.

If he is an unknown guy,

try to style amity with him.

If he is by now your collaborator

then type an exertion

to take your attachment

to a difficult level.

Don’t run after something

out of the question

instead

opt for a more sensible solution.

After becoming friends with him,

you can ask him

his feelings

on various

gay

issues.

© 2008 lettershometoyou