EuroYankee

Background:
I was about ready to graduate and leave Wisconsin for good. A German friend invited me to go and see a punk band (coincidentally from my home town) which was playing in a small club downtown.

The scene:
The lead band member of Boris the Sprinkler, known as Rev. Norb, was wearing tights and an M&M costume and bouncing around the tiny stage like an absolute madman.

The action:
This was a tiny bar and it was packed full of about 60 people. I hung back as the front got rowdy. I felt like the film crew was going to show up any minute to catch this last hurrah of over-the-top punk rock fun. As the band began playing “Screamin’ Demon Martians Riding Go-Karts in My Head” the crowd went crazy. I have never stood at the edge of anything quite as mesmerizing or bizarre.

(photo credit: dg jones)

Background:
I’m headed out to report on a fire in which two men were badly burned. The house, which I’ve been told burned to the ground, is at the end of a long, dirt road through the woods on the border between Washington and Idaho.

The scene:
It’s pouring rain. I’m sliding down muddy, potholed back roads in my Honda Civic going deeper and deeper into the forest. Eventually, I come to a house which I figure must be close to where I need to go. So I stop for directions.

The action:
A man and woman answer the door. It’s still pouring, but they don’t invite me in. They look like the most normal middle aged couple in the world. Behind them are some framed front pages of the New Yorker. Classical music is playing (at the center of red neck Idaho). I introduce myself and begin asking about the fire and the victims. They don’t tell me much. The man does most of the talking, while his wife offers a constant stream of muttered commentary in the background which makes no sense. The man acts as if this is completely normal. I begin to feel like I’m in a David Lynch movie, standing in the rain with two people who are clearly crazy. I leave and drive a short distance further to the still-smoking remnants of the house. I’ve rolled down my window to get a better view when all of a sudden a gigantic dog leaps at the car out of nowhere, growling and barking. I nearly shit myself, roll up the window and slide out of there as fast as possible. Later, I find out from the firefighters that the people I talked to were the burn victim’s parents.

(photo credit: gonemissing)

Background:

Christmas Day in Germany is downright eerie. The entire country shuts down as everyone retreats to grandma’s living room for an intimate family celebration. There was literally no one out on the streets when I walked home from the railroad station at 8 p.m. on Christmas Day. The city was dark and seemed empty of people.

The scene:

Except for on one narrow side street between the station and home. This short street encompasses the most picturesque grouping of houses in the city. They’re turn-of-the-century multicolored row houses with cherub moldings and gargoyles.

The action:

As I’m walking down this dark street, feeling completely alone in the world, I begin to hear the faint sound of someone playing Christmas carols on a piano. It stops and starts, but the person is incredibly talented. I notice that all the windows of the grand old apartments are brightly lit, framing one perfect Christmas scene after another. I literally watch three generations of one family seated around a big table, the son getting ready to cut into some big piece of meat. In another, a middle aged man is sitting with his arm around his wife, both of them looking at their Christmas tree (which of course has real candles burning on it), a glass of red wine in their hands. At any moment, I expect the camera to swoop upwards for a bird’s-eye view, honing in on one ridiculously perfect Christmas scene after another.

(photo credit: dev_null)

You know those moments when it feels like you’ve stepped into a movie? Everything seems synched up: soundtrack, visuals, mood, smells. These scenes stay with me for a long time. So that’s my holiday treat for you. Starting tomorrow, I’ll bring you a week-long series featuring of some of my favorite moments when everything just seemed to “come together”.

This series is courtesy of Volkswagen, which brought us the “synchronicity” commercial:

Just a short ode to Milch-Schnitte, a delicious German snack that brings to mind a healthy and not-quite-as-cold version of an icecream sandwhich. There’s a soft-cookie sandwhich outer portion and a sweet creamy filling. This is the junk food of the future. It’s much lighter and less sickeningly sweet than a snickers bar. But it takes care of the junk food cravings. It gets the EuroYankee stamp of approval.

While Americans are used to grocery stores selling lots of things besides food, in Germany that is not so much the case. For the most part, grocery stores are in much smaller spaces, so they predominantly stick to food-related items. Although there’s usually part of one aisle dedicated to a rotating assortment of random specials, such as slippers, mp3 players, electric drills, etc. One discount chain, Plus, has a surprising offer: a house. The add claims that you can buy a pre-fab house (kitchen and solar panels included) for just under 100,000. It would be fun to walk up to the cash register, whip out the credit card, and ask them to add a house to your grocery bill.

I actually got to use the great rug line from the Big Lebowski (albeit in German) the other day to describe the newest member of our household, a 240 cm by 120 cm multi-colored rug. The purchase brings my three-year-long rug search to an end. I thought I would never find one and then, while searching for Christmas presents in Cologne, there it was. I’m curling my toes in it as I write. Yes! Score one for the apartment’s pro-rug faction.

After three years of closely observing how and when Germans use their bicycle bells, I decided it was time to get in on the action. I dang (is that right? I’m really starting to doubt that I can correctly conjugate this verb) this guy who was walking in the bike lane (a big no-no). Of course, like all Germans, he instinctively moved to the side. It’s like they’re trained from birth to get out of the way for bike bells.