Random thoughts

· Last week the once wildly popular German Interior Minister, Joska Fisher, faced an investigatory commission on live, primetime television. At issue was his lack of supervision, which, critics claim, resulted in allowing too many visa-applicants into Germany; this in turn has resulted in higher crime.
At one point in the proceedings, Fisher partially accepted fault for the actions of his agency, even going so far as to say, "My mistake was…"
While this was obviously a reluctant apology littered with qualifications, for me it was a refreshing thing to see: a politician actually admitting to having made a mistake.

· The outgoing Czech Prime Minister, Stanislav Gross, is 35 years old. Thirty-five and he's already been a PM. What the hell have I been doing with my life?

· Two weeks ago in Prague I saw some dumbass kid walking around with the number of the beast on his t-shirt.

· Also in Prague: I was riding the metro on one of the newer trains they have – the ones with straps and orange bars to hang on – when the train pulled into a station. I was standing back from the doorway watching all the people negotiate their way in and out when some jasper wearing a long black jacket and carrying a really big duffle bag and an assault rifle nonchalantly stepped onto the train.
Jasper – he had short black hair – looked up and down the train before doing an about-face and standing in the doorway, facing the platform. He was just in front of me.
Two unobservant policemen walked past on the platform.
Jasper put his duffle bag on the ground and it made clanking metal noises. Then he held the rifle with both hands, as if he was standing for inspection.
Fuck this, I thought, and stepped off the train right before the doors closed.
I expected the tunnel to be filled with bullets or an explosion any second, so I hurried up to the street and hung out for a few minutes, mentally preparing myself to help rescue the survivors.
But nothing happened. At least that I heard of.

· Our refrigerator has been broken for three weeks and the landlords have been dragging their feet about replacing it. So we've been using the windowsill for keeping our food relatively fresh. FYI, European birds don't like leftover tuna fish, but do like butter, cheese, and Hungarian salami.

· At a party last Saturday, I had to endure a twenty-minute conversation with a close-talker with bad breath.

· My neighbor organized a wine-tasting tour last Sunday. Ten of us joined a group of 70 or so and walked through the town of Freyburg and into the surrounding hills where the vineyards are located, stopping at six of the hilly plots to taste the white wines produced from the respective fruits.
It was a warm day and the refreshing wine went down a trifle too easy. Plus, some of our group were from Hamburg and had to drive home that day, so I sometimes tasted the wine twice. And if I was quick enough, I could wrangle my way through the crowd for seconds.
Sunshine, springtime, good wine and good friends. It was a truly lovely day.

· An excerpt of my forthcoming novel was recently selected for inclusion in an anthology, which is the first whiff of success I've had in the publishing game. With Jarmila there to share in the excitement, I did the pogo dance, the locomotion, and the moonwalk when I found out. Let me know if you want to buy a copy.

Weekend adventure

A whole weekend of Springtime freedom stretched in front of me. The chestnut trees were blooming, there's less and less need to heat, and the days stretch until like 20:00.

Jarmila had a big presentation at Wye College, England, for which she had to leave at 04:30 Friday morning (poor kid) and after I finished up my own work on Friday, I packed and was off.

I originally planned to travel down to the Thuringia Wald in search of two things: the village where a Christian mystic named Meister Eckhart was born, and the perfect Thuringia Bratwurst. Alas, the distance – five or six hours by VW Golf – finally dissuaded me. I only had a couple days, after all.

Plan B was the much closer Harz National Park, two hours away and very near the Brocken, the highest mountain in the Harz mountain range. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Brocken)

After an idyllic alpine drive, I arrived at the huge parking lot from which most people hike the two hours up the Brocken. But the rain had halfway decided to turn to snow and I found that admiring the Burg was best done from behind the wiper blades.

Which was impressive, but it was also getting along towards dinnertime, so I headed out of the park and down to Bad Harzburg.

A spa town, Bad Harzburg was understandably peaceful, and even had a stream running through the pedestrian area. After parking, I walked the streets until I spotted what must have been the best room in town – it was on the top floor of an old house, and had a huge balcony that overlooked the highest mountain around, the Burgberg.

I rang the hotel's doorbell marked for guests and after a few moments an attractive older lady with short red hair and high beams answered.

I asked for a room, specifically the room with that balcony, and luckily it was unoccupied. As she led me upstairs to check it out, the woman complimented and then inquired about my pidgin German, and this led to a long conversation about my background and what had brought me to Europe in the first place. It was great practicing my German, and she seemed genuinely interested. My being the only guest for the night probably also afforded her the time.

Next morning, as I helped myself to the overdone breakfast buffet, we traded opinions on the Pope's funeral, Charles and Camilla's wedding, Bush and Cheney, and then ultimately the weather.

It was still sleeting, and the coffee hadn't overpowered my mild hangover nearly enough to climb the mountain I had stared at from my balcony.

So I paid my hostess, Heidi – I insisted she not call me Herr Curtiss, and in return she insisted I use her first name – and hit the road. It was 10:00 on a Saturday and I had nowhere to go but home.

I took the most direct secondary road I could find and it led me through all sorts of quaint towns, including one that had a dreamy beer store with at least 50 varieties I'd never heard of… I bought as many as I could carry, and even later took notes on their respective qualities.

The most remarkable town along the way though, was Quedlingberg. The medieval old town is all narrow, cobbled streets that cause you to trip, carved timber store fronts that make you wonder about the lousy place that you're living in, and in the center of it all is an imposing castle fortress that UNESCO decided to protect.

Despite the cold overcast, it was a rewarding two-hour jaunt. I was on my way back to the car when a sign enticed me: coffee and chocolate cake for Euro 1.50.

Well, just yum.

I walked in and ordered a cappuccino and cake from the graying waiter/owner, but somehow flubbed my German grammar. Recognizing me as an English speaker, he seized on the chance to Englisch sprechen – which is cool, it makes my life easier – and then smugly repeated my order back to me in English.

He bustled off and as I sat looking out the front window, a tour vehicle shaped as a train, with separate cars even, passed by. It was full of older people, and I couldn't help but return their good-humored smiles and waves.

The waiter eventually brought my cappuccino and cake and both looked artistically and deliciously prepared.

"Enjoy it," he said.

I thanked him and thought, How could I not?

And then I spooned what I thought was unrefined sugar but was actually parmesan cheese into my cappuccino.

I tried to be a trooper, to spoon out the floaters and choke it down, but no way. I had to ask for another cup. I offered to pay for it, but the waiter wouldn't hear anything of it.

I think he understood full well that the mileage he'd get out of the story was worth much more than the price of a replacement cup.