My Affair with Poet

Carless in Seattle, I took the lite rail downtown and then hopped on the monorail to the shopping district.  Sauntering along the sidewalk in the sun with just a siren on a cup of java as my companion, I was thinking about an upcoming trip to Sonoma.  Outside of the San Francisco Bay Area, I would need a car.  I pictured myself crossing the Golden Gate Bridge in a white convertible, blonde hair snapping in the wind, sun glinting off the fake diamonds in my Prada sunglasses.  Ah, California!  I snapped out of my reverie when I realized I was directly across the street from the office of a car-share rental office.  I went in, signed up, and exited with my new card—literally the key to thousands of vehicles I had yet to know.  I would soon be zipping my way to NapaSonomaland.

My credit card and insurance approval happened right away but, three days later, the car-share system still wasn’t recognizing me.  I called customer service and left a message.  I thought since I couldn’t talk to a real person—this was probably wasted effort.  But the next day—at the airport boarding gate—I received a voice mail message on my cell phone saying that the glitch had been fixed and I was declared “ready to rent.”  So, there I was, moments before departure, making my car-share rental reservation.  I checked my email while waiting for my luggage, and discovered that I’d been assigned a car in the area I’d calculated would be most convenient to BART—and would be well-populated with tourists at the time of night I was arriving. 

I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area.  My blood still contains residue from painfully learning to drive in the City’s hilly terroir.  But figuring out where I wanted to disembark from BART had been a challenge.  My flight would arrive in evening: That meant riding BART after dark, in a big city, during a recession.  I would have my adored Cole Haan handbag (the one that reeled in admiring comments from women who love fashion) over my shoulder and be pulling a suitcase and a Tumi computer bag.  Any one of these items could attract unwelcome attention.  I didn’t want that sort of excitement to add to my tales of what I did on my summer vacation. 

When I made my car rental reservation, I selected Market Street as the pick-up point.  A welcoming light shone from a Starbucks store just on the other side of the BART turnstile.  I wrestled my bags into a corner of this Italian style (Read: No seats) coffee shop, and ate what was to become my dinner.  Several more e-mail messages from the car-share rental dispatchers had blipped their way into my inbox.  I derived comfort from knowing that some digital dispatcher somewhere out there was tracking my progress.  But the last e-mail message explained that the dispatcher—who was terribly sorry for any inconvenience—had to redirect me to a different car than the one I selected.  The problem, it seemed, was that the white convertible was in need of some basic maintenance—wipers and such—so I’d been matched with another car not far from the location of the first.  I was going to rendezvous on a street corner in San Francisco with Poet. 

My sleek convertible had morphed into a Prius, my flight had been delayed, the sun had set hours ago, and my worried friends in Santa Rosa were calling every half hour to find out what had happened to their house guest.  The car-share rental dispatcher was worried about me, too.  The reservation time for my rental had passed and they noticed, via radio frequency identification (RFID), that I’d not yet picked up the car. 

Fearful that my reservation might be cancelled if I didn’t soon reach the car, I struck out for the teeming streets.  Within the first few yards, I encountered an out-of-order elevator.  I stood in front of the dark cavity and tried to picture myself tackling the stairs with two rolling suitcases.

A homeless man—sitting on the concrete, his back against the stairway entrance—instantly comprehended my plight.  He directed me to a working elevator (he knew his street) and I emerged from the underground where—as though cued by a director to hit his mark at that corner—a taxicab pulled up.  I thought of him as my taxi-angel; he arrived just when I needed him, just as my plight was beginning to edge toward absurdity.  He was my Ukrainian dancer lifting my luggage in an effortless orchestration of urban efficiency.  Igor had lived in the States for 17 years, spoke good English—and happily—he understood my challenge.  I was looking for a car I had never seen in the parking lot of an auto repair shop whose location I knew only from the email I had opened just moments before in Starbucks.  Oh, and I had never rented a car-share before and wasn’t at all sure how to get into the car.  

Igor assured me that he never abandoned the ladies, and that I need not pay him extra to stand guard while I tried out my untested key card.  Then there was the small matter of starting the car.  Neither Igor nor I had ever driven a hybrid.  My solicitous car-share partners had anticipated that, too, and included easy step-by-step instructions in their e-mail for using the keyless entry and making the Prius go.  The instructions were perfect.  Igor had something new to brag about at the taxi stand, and he took the well-deserved tip.

Deprived of both map and bird's eye view, I really didn’t have any idea where I was.  I swiftly struck out with the confidence of the truly ignorant, only to find myself winding my way up Telegraph Hill to Coit Tower.  It was a fast trip.  As I swung round the no-parking loop, I was able to see that there was nothing to see.  San Francisco was wearing her pea-soup cloak. 

As I drove toward the dark hills of Petaluma, I thought how lovely it would have been to roll back a sun(moon)roof to see the night sky overhead.  But I’m afraid my awe would have been disrupted by a fundamental need to navigate by the stars.  I had to place several calls to my waiting friends in order to make the correct turns to get their ranch; it had been many years since I had made this drive.  On that trip, I had referred to a detailed map, folded just so; and it was broad daylight.  But, here I was, with a well-charged phone that had become my lifeline—first, connecting me to the arrangements and exigencies of the car-share guardians, and then to my friends, who were keeping the light on for me.

As Poet and I cruised along the winding roads on the gum-drop hills of our wine country adventure, I could feel myself turning greener.  I also became aware that Poet, whether he liked it or not, was a pick-up car.  Men would spot the car-share logo and go out of their way to ask me how I liked the rental service and what I thought of the Prius.  Those men accompanied by wives just cast my way the sort of look women give to someone walking a sweet, cuddly puppy.  They kept their hands in their pockets, but their faces softened and their eyes brightened at the sight of that sweet little car.  To be honest, I never disclosed to these California conservationists that I happened to be driving the environmentally friendly hybrid because the wipers were worn out on my first choice: A hot, 6-cylinder manly chariot of a convertible, that I know blared Beach Boy tunes in all the intervals where Poet chose to be his quiet, erudite self.

Poet and I became close.  There was something particularly intimate about the long silences when Poet was in his electric mode.  We were so in tune, that I suspect I was subconsciously reluctant to end our relationship.  No matter that I hate long goodbyes.  I drove around San Francisco for about two hours during evening commute before I was able to relocate the exact spot at which I had picked up my Poet, four days earlier in a dark fog reminiscent of London’s East End.  I learned that you can’t ever make a left hand turn on 19^th Street while heading west, that it is difficult to find a gas station at which one can buy a map in San Francisco, that you need to seriously consider if it is safe to get out of the car when you do find a gas station, and that drug addicts who hang out near the restrooms (which you have strongly begun to need after a two-hour tour of the city) at gas stations will suggest that they can get you anywhere you need to go; they have connections.  It became increasingly clear to me that requesting a GPS in future car-share rentals, particularly in cities that I did not frequent, would be a good thing.  As it were, the cost of the map that I did ultimately buy—no doubt risking my health, if not my life, in the process—probably cost about as much as adding a GPS to my car reservation.

As I remember, it seems that I even had trouble finding a place to pull over in San Francisco.  This is the only reason I can come up with for not using my option to text my concerned car-share rental dispatcher and ask for an extension.  As I negotiated the frenetic traffic that is an essential aspect of the commute-time experience, my devoted dispatcher was sending text alerts that my reservation was nearing an end.  I got a bad mark from the car-share company for not returning Poet on time.  Apparently, Poet didn’t speak convincingly in my defense.  But I don’t hold it against him.  It was all part of the experiment to try on a car-share arrangement.  And despite our starts and stops, I have fond memories of Poet.

Lux and Veritas

In the interest of truth (in advertising) and light (as in, shine a light on it), this blog is a departure from what I usually write.  Lately, I have been mentally collecting product packaging issues with some of the products that I buy and generally like quite a lot.  I am truly fatigued from buying products that are packaged in such a way that they are accompanied by a message that the manufacturer or brand marketing people think I am a complete moron.

The list of culprits: 
Arm & Hammer Whitening Booster
L'Oreaal Kerastase Lumiere Nutri-Sculpt
Estee Lauder Idealist Pore Minimizing Skin Refinisher

Each of these products comes in an opaque bottle that does not allow you to see the amount of liquid contents you are buying, nor  can you squeeze out the last drops because the bottles are rigid, and you can't even take the top off the L'Oreal bottle in order to use a Q-tip to get the last dabs.  Do you try these strategies to try to get your money's worth on expensive products?  In addition, Arm & Hammer and Estee Lauder weighted their bottles with an excess of plastic in the base so that they feel like they have much more product in them than they do.

As of my last exploration of the Estee Lauder product listed above, tthe container has been changed to a slightly more accessible bottle that conforms with the other skin care products in the line-up. 

Bumblers:
Skilcraft toilet bowl brush

This product is made in the USA by blind craftsmen (see below italicized note).  I like that quite a lot.  However, they probably need to hire a designer with sight (or at least with an above average I.Q.) because the product design is miserable.  The toilet brush cannot be removed from the holder with one hand - it catches on the edges, and as you would imagine, this can be messy.  (Remember using old tooth brushes in school to cover paper with decorative spray?)  Also, and i recognizer that the company is proud of their product, the label is stuck across the entire front of the brush holder, and it does not come off.  If you work at it, you are still left with a miserable sticky residue that can collect germs the entire time the brush is in service. Besides, it just looks stupid to have a label on a lowly bathroom toilet bowl cleaner.  It is not Hermes.

Skilcraft {JWODCatalog.com} Skilcraft is a trade name of the National Industries for the Blind, an organization created by the AbilityOne Program (formerly known as Javits-Wagner-O'Day or JWOD Program) to create employment opportunities for blind Americans. Products bearing the Skilcraft brand are commonly used in U.S. Federal Government institutions, including Post Offices. They are also commonly sold in U.S. Military Base exchanges. Products include cleaning supplies, stationary items & office supplies, food service & operating supplies, bedding, mattresses, office furniture, hardware & paints, personal care & safety gear, medical & surgical supplies and environmental products.  Source:  .http://www.angelfire.com/nv/micronations/madeinusa.html

Commendations to:
Dove extra hold  hairspray
This product comes in an attractive lavendar spray bottle (non-aerosol) that can easily be re-purposed.  The labels peel cleanly off both the front and the back of the bottle.  No mess, no residue.  How simple.  How delightful.  Thank you Dove.

Is Munich really Italy's most northern city?

The first thing that struck me about Munich was that the sun was shining.  I'd left my sunglasses in  the village where the sun had not shone brightly for weeks; I was confident that I'd have no need for sunglasses.  There was very little snow on the ground to bounce blinding light into my eyes, but the sun was coursing low across the sky.  Sometimes, coming around a corner, I'd instantly look down to avoid the blare of light.  As the lanes and plazas are uneven cobblestone, I was all the better for it.  But I would rather have donned my black Pradas, pretending to be someone mysterious, and turned my face to the light like a Valley girl (whom, during this central European winter I have deeply envied).

I came up from the U-Bahn at Odeonplatz.  The theatre district is lovely and would be a fun place to linger in the spring or summer.  On this day, it was cool in the shade of the gardens and the enormous buildings.  I was happy to find a Starbucks, and entered knowing I had the look of someone who has too long been without a fix but recalls the ecstasy with a certain level of desperation - no one got in my way!  I got directions from a young lad who looked like he had just had his twelfth birthday, but who was trusted to sell coffee.  He spoke English quite well, but he had no idea what VIA was and I had hoped to buy some directly from a store instead of purchasing it on Amazon.com (which, when you come to think of it, is extraordinary and I am duly thankful for the marketing person who bet her career on that move). Outside, I looked for a place to sit for a moment, to reorder my things after my purchase of a "city cup" from Starbucks, but could not find a bench anywhere, other than in the middle of  square near the shops just before the Marienplatz where there was a long line of benches - absolutely no one was in this square and you'd have to cross icy patches of old snow to get to the benches.  So of course I did, just so that I could comment on the absurd city planning.  Sitting down to people watch was not an option in Munich - at least in winter.

I wandered in the direction of the Marienplatz, a gathering spot for locals as well as tourists.  I heard the 43  carillion bells long before I spotted the steeple of the Neues Rathhaus.  The glockenspiel show is what everyone comes here for, but knowing the bells would sound at 11, noon, and again at 5, I didn't need to hurry.  Because I couldn't see the tower, I was able to separate the sound from its source, and just focus on I the sweet sounds.  The next time the carillion sounded, though, I was in place to watch the show and found myself captivated by the glockenspiel mechanism - and the crowds who had come to view and photograph it.  This neo-Gothic structure stands apart from most other municipal buildings in the square; it is altogether too playful.  Beneath the glockenspiel, is a recess in which a colorful array of 32 life-sized wooden figures dance, twirl, and slowly chase each.around.  The procession, reminiscent of that on a cuckoo clock, includes knights, maids, jesters, and farmers.  In the top half of the tower, the figures represent the wedding of Duke Wilhelm V and Renata von Lothringen that took place in 1568, and a tournament in which a Barvarian knight triumphed over an Austrian knight (of course).  The show starts on the bottom half of the tower with the Schafflerstanz (the cooper's dance) which is significant because it was a demonstration by the intrepid barrel makers that the town was once more safe for habitation after the plague in the 16th century. (Without barrel makers, there would have been no beer.  One wonders about the disruption of the plague on trade.  But, with so many people dying - at extraordinary and terrifying rates all across Europe -  a slump in the economy might not have been at the forefront of people's awareness. Still, one wonders...Why were barrel makers the first ones back in the streets?  It puts new meaning to the expression "Roll out the barrels!")  These brave and industrious barrel makers performed a dance (which may have been enlivened by consumption of their own wares) to encourage people to come back to the streets.  This dance so pleased the Duke - who must have been discouraged by being Duke of a medievil ghost town - that he insisted the dance be re-enacted every seven years (seven being a number of some mythic powers throughout history - locusts and such.)  The next official Schafflerstanz  is scheduled to occur during the German Carnival (Fasching)  in 2012.  The whole show lasts between 12 and 15 minutes depending on the tune that plays.  You know the show has ended because a very small golden bird at the top chirps three times - a bit denouement.  I would have preferred the loud crash of symbols.

Essentially, the whole of Marianplatz is associated with marking or warding off the effects of war or disease.  The large column at the center of the square was erected in 1638 to celebrate the end of the Swedish invasion.  The square was originally named Shrannen but it was renamed Marienplatz (St. Mary's Square) to ask the Virgin Mary to protect the town from a cholera epidemic. Cholera, great floods, the plague, and the incessantly quarrelsome Swedes.  Such was the medieval existence in Bavaria.

I had lunch at a restaurant directly in front of the Neues Rathhaus.  I chose to sit outdoors at a table complete with blankets and heaters (which weren't needed on this day) and a perfect view of the glockenspiel.  While I was eating an enormous bowl of curried goulash ((this was less, I think, a deliberate attempt at fusion cuisine than it was an attempt to prepare food that people other than Germans will eat).  The bread roll seemed more French than German which was too bad because German's do make good bread.  For that matter, so do the French.   Just pass the basket of bread, please.  While I was happily engaged in gustatory and auditory activities, a man, who was busy gazing up at the glockenspiel show, walked past me several times.   He wore the traditional Gamsbart hat, but instead of the fan of chamois neck hair, his flair was an enormous tassel that could have been used to hold back heavy drapes.  If the size of the traditional chamois fan on a man's hat  is meant to declare the wearer's manliness and be a source of pride, this dangling tassel broadcast an unmistakable message.  I ignored this German peacock, except when his back was turned and he couldn't see me quietly chortling to myself.. Bavarians are serious about their Tracht outfits and get all gussied up in their costumes at the slightest excuse.  It is tantamount to Americans dressing up like Yankee Doodle Dandies and Betsy Ross to go to a country fair, sit on the Ferris wheel and stare at 4-H livestock.  Urban Germans, who seem to appreciate the way those who wear Tracht might look to outsiders, like to compare - and justify - Tracht to the clothing that Country Western fans wear.  Be that as it may, and I'm not even  going to mention the state of Texas here, is just a little scary to see Germans so visibly and proudly holding on to their past.

After lunch and listening to a full round of the carillion, I went to the Kunsthalle der Hypo-Kulturstiftung  to view the Alphonse Mucha exhibit.  It was my primary reason for coming to Munich at this time in the winter, and the exhibit was all I had hoped it would be.  As I stood gazing at the two enormous canvases from the Slav Epic, I wondered why it is that Mucha has never achieved the same sort of fame as, say, Caravaggio.  He certainly had the technical skill; his epic paintings are amazing.  His Apotheosis of the Slavs and Holy Mount Athos were the only two room-sized paintings from the Slav Epic on display at this exhibit, which was intended to be a sampling of Mucha's work.  That there were over 200 varied pieces on display gives you an idea of the range of the man's artistic expression. The Slav Epic paintings Mucha so cherished - and to which he devoted a huge part of his life - are extraordinary works depicted in a subtle art nouveau style that is dreamlike and creates a sense in the observer that it is so ephemeral that it will not be there if you look away for an instant, and then look back.  Doubtless, his focus on nationalism was offputting to some and offensive to others. Its tragic that he could not stop painting the Slav Epic and come round to something that would appeal to the masses past the time of the current politics.  Something like, say, the Sistine Chapel.   At least, in Prague, some important pieces of Mucha's are permanently available for viewing:  impressive allegorical paintings adorn the Municipal House; an overwhelmingly beautiful stained glass window graces St.Vitas Cathedral.  Mucha could easily have rivaled Tiffany had he continued with glass as his primary medium.  I need to go back to Prague and spend more time with the art nouveau architecture and Mucha's work.  I want to find out what is happening to the Slav Epic now that it will be moved from the castle in Moravia that has housed it for so many years - a castle, due to its size - is a good venue for the Slav Epic.

To answer my original question:  Is Munich really Italy's most northern city?  Point-by-point, Italy has Caravaggio, Milan fashions, the Duamo, and citizens who greet you with smile (even in Milan).  Munich has Klee, Tracht, castles, and citizens who stare at you with Botox-like blankness.  I would have to say no.  Munich cannot shake off its heavy Bavarian cloak.  Ars longa, vita brevis.  Viva l'Italia!  


The photo of St. Vitas Cathedral window is a file from the Wikimedia Commons and is licensed for sharing under GNU Free Documentation License.

A Perfect Characterization of My Life in 2009

I vaguely remember clicking through the entry form on the Borders Books website.  I didn't attribute much significance to it and had completely forgotten entering the contest.  It was, I believe, one of those late night responses that sneak up on you when your resistance is low and you'd probably buy all manner of things if the right salesperson had access to you at that time of night..  So I was surprised to learn that I won this Argyle Sweater contest and am now part of comic history (I think I already was, but now it is formal.).  Are you listening universe?  It is time to shift Gigi's fate and fortune to the positive side!

The Little Known Difference Between Germans & Danes

Parts of Germany, the more Catholic parts, hold their own holidays.  If you are a German, especially if you are a German Catholic, or a Catholic German, you already know this.  You don’t need no stinking signs on the doors of the town hall, the bakeries, the banks, the small appliance stores, the insurance / investments office, the travel office, the knick-knack store, the antique store, the DHL / paper goods store, and especially not on the discount grocery store to which I walked in the freezing cold on a Wednesday late afternoon.  Since it was Wednesday, I already knew – from previous abortive trips into the Alstadt – that most of the aforementioned shops would not be open.  The Germans, bested only by the French, I believe, seem to think that working 2 and ½ days is sufficiently taxing to grant them a half day off before they have to put nose to the grindstone for another 2 and ½ days.  Wednesday afternoons (and nearly as often Friday afternoons) belong to the folk! 

Heilige Drei Könige, otherwise known as Epiphany, is annually celebrated in parts of Germany on January 6 to mark the three wise men’s visit to baby Jesus.  This day also marks the end of the 12-day Christmas season.  Christians all over the world observe Epiphany.  It is worth noting that when certain Germans – and they know who they are – observe Epiphany as gesetzliche Feiertag, a  public holiday, they are in no small way reasserting the separatist attitude that pervades Germany as a whole and is an elemental aspect of the country’s history best evidenced by the survival of the Federal States as distinct entities.  (Be warned:  This next section is a self-indulgent digression.  Okay.  So the US has a few quirky residual state loyalties, too.  When someone from The South wears a gray uniform and waves a Confederate flag– just for fun, don’t you’all know - they aren’t all that different from the Bavarians dressing up in their Trachten.  I recently saw a boy riding a bicycle in front of the church situated on one of the two short streets that make up St.Wolfgang who was using a cushion covered with the Bavarian flag on his bike seat.  It seems to me that I have seen kids in the South putting Confederate flags to the same use.)

Germany is a Federal Republic consisting of sixteen states.   Epiphany is celebrated only in the German states of Baden-Wuerttember, Saxony-Anhalt, and Bavaria.  Mariä Aufnahme in den Himmel (mostly referred to as Mariä Himmelfahrt) is celebrated on August 15 in only two federal states in Germany:  Bavaria and Saarland.  Buß- und Bettag, the Day of Repentance and Prayer, is observed only in the German states of Bavaria and Saxony, and it a holiday of the Evangelican Church.   Starting to get it?   As you may have suspected about now, Bavaria observes every German religious holiday.  Now I understand why I can greet Germans in this southern village with the traditional Bavarian greeting of Gruß Gott and have them always respond with more than a nod or a grunt, despite their squinty-eyed stares indicating I am not to be trusted and that they know I am probably just masquerading as Catholic. 

Pause here with me for a moment to reflect again on the Day of Repentance and Prayer.  In Denmark, this holy day is called Store Bededag and it is s also a statutory Danish holiday.  The Danish don’t make much statutory, but when they do, it is generally based on the soundest sort of linear reasoning.  For instance, legend has it that when the Nazis demanded that Danish Jews wear stars during the German occupation of Denmark, King Christian X said that all Danes would wear stars.  From what I have learned about the German psyche, this was only permitted because a rule, as any good German knows, is a RULE.  This story gives you, dear reader, a rare glimpse into the mind of a Dane.  Keep it simple - and we don't just mean Danish modern...With the same sort of cut-to-the-chase attitude as his predecessor, King Christian V introduced Store Bededag as a holiday in the Church of Denmark in 1686; he saw it as a collection of minor (or local) Roman Catholic holy days consolidated into one day.  The Church of Denmark has observed this tidy holiday since the Reformation; with typical Danish informality, they have come to call it General Prayer Day, All Prayers Day, or Common Prayer Day.  With our 21^st century knowledge about mergers & acquisitions, most of us would expect a few Saints to be miffed; Saint…CEO…lose your 15 minutes of fame, it must feel pretty much the same.

Just a Country Walk

Traveling in a foreign country? Do what the locals do, goes the adage. One option for discerning the quotidian is a deep dig on the website of the Undersecretary for Public Affairs for the Department of State. Or you may prefer just to watch people walk.  Focusing on just this one attribute - how the natives go about "walking" - will help you gauge potential culture shock during your journey. Unlike any number of other cultural markers, peripatetic behavior illustrates the spirit of a people, unconsciously.  Already arrived at your destination?  You can examine the headlines of local newspapers, see which books are featured in store windows, talk to a bartender, and queue up where theater performances have the longest lines. Or you can just take your ease on a park bench, and watch the natives walk by.
Of course, in some countries, walking is the primary form of transportation.  Attempts at recreational walking are a sure sign of progressive dementia in third-world regions and will garner you a wide berth by the saner citizens. On the flip side - in over-developed countries -  some urban walking is recreational, and some walking is transportation in its purest form.  In a large urban metropolis where walkers pepper the streets and the parks in generous numbers, walking is viewed as a marker of adaptability. Walkers can easily outpace taxicabs and town-cars locked in metallic embrace at the edges of cross-hatched ("don’t block the box") intersections in Manhattan.

Truly,walking praxis is a microcosm of a country’s culture.  Don't buy it?   Let's take a look at walking behavior in the United States, the United Kingdom, France, and Germany.


In the U.S., most walking is accomplished by running, or by alternating walking and running. Or in the case of American mall walkers, by rapidly flapping ones arms so as to make the upper half on one’s body appear to be running while the bottom half tries frantically, but unsuccessfully, to keep up. Even casual Americans dress for the occasion; there is the ubiquitous pony-tail pulled through a hole in a baseball cap, flagrantly advertised name-brand sweats, and running shoes so technically advanced that they come with software. Male walkers in the U.S. tend to go it alone; in fact, they tend to rollerblade. But the women walk in multitasking pairs, combining exercise with a steady breathlessness praddle, due in even measure to exertion and the exchange of confessional narrative. There is everywhere the sense that the walk must be accomplished as quickly as possible.


There is long history and elaborate, polite protocol for most everything that is accomplished out-of-doors in the United Kingdom; the British make no exception for walking. When walking in England, one is nearly always required to be in the company of a Corgi and to carry a carved walking stick that looks like it could subdue the wildest sort of Scotsman rushing down from untamed moors. The weather is usually and steadily dismal in England, and most months call for wearing something tweedy or a Macintosh. The result is that everyone outside of London appears to be dressed for a healthy constitutional, Royals not excepted.  When a Brit invites you to join them on a walk, they may use the word amble.  But this innocous sounding word, means something decidedly different to the British than it does to the rest of the world. A Sunday amble can entail an earnest look-see from the top of a swelling summit. A Brit, exhibiting characteristic stoicism interlaced with bottomless cheeriness under the most adverse circumstances, will undertake a hearty scramble up cloud-hidden, craggy regions inhabited by seemingly feral sheep when the weather is the most savagely wet and windy. One can readily see that the fun of an amble, then, is the stark contrast to a walk to market.

Nearly everyone has heard that the health and figures of French women benefit immensely from all the walking they do through the course of a day. The French have an appreciation for the art or the evolution of a thing – the lecons de choses or lessons from things - and they have made an art out of walking. A walk in Paris begins with a step onto the boulevard, but soon devolves into a series of pleasant, if choreographed, interruptions through which one must steadfastly hold to the original intent of the walk. Taking a walk in one’s arrondissement offers expected encounters with the butcher, the baker, the greengrocer, the cheese seller; each vendor wants to know how their item was received. How did your guests or your family receive the dinner?  Did you prepare it as instructed?  If your ambitions include doing a few errands while walking, you'll need to run the gauntlet quickly if you are to finish in time to cook dinner. Except that, what the French do not do is run. By all reports, the only regular joggers on the streets of Paris are the riot police and U.S. expats. Except, occasionaly in the spring, after a very cold and trying winter, protesting students can be seen running from the disciplined Parisian riot police who have duly logged their laps.


Any discussion of walking in Germany will, quite obviously, need to include the Volksmarch. Walkers formidable enough to stroll into the interior of Central Park would do well to emulate Volksmarch aficionados. Pick one big guy to carry a very long pole; decorate it, if you must. This designated leader is charged with the grave responsibility of keeping all the folk together and safe; pass the leader at your peril (He will not hesitate to use the decorated pole.). And, so that bystanders will clearly recognize the collective nature of this exercise, everyone must wear the same Steirerhut, preferably of loden green boiled wool with a small but jaunty red feather tucked under the hatband. The Germany fondness for poles – which extends to the giant (not that size matters) Maypoles erected in villages across Bavaria on May 1st – is further in evidence by the use of (Nordic) walking sticks. These otherwise intrepid marchers, click-clocking their poles along on a path as flawless as post-Zamboni rink ice, must fear some danger lurking in the Jurassic-Park environs; they shuffle along the undulating ribbon of asphalt in herds. As the marchers are out of range of careening wayward cars from the autobahn, the only other probable danger in this sparsely settled land is wild animals or lightening. Just maybe, in the short history of the Volkmarch, rabid wild boars have swarmed down from the forest edge and overrun folk who either let down their guard or were completely jolly due to the many rest stops at local breweries.  I'm told there are more wild creatures in the Black Forest than just cuckoos.  On the Palatine jura, marchers can see – and be seen - for virtually miles.  A volksmarch leader’s pole is the tallest thing on open ground for miles. My bet is on lightening strikes. Perhaps the tradition should be relaxed a bit; that pole could be lowered and carried horizontally. Upon reflection, I wonder if the processions I've witnessed really were Volksmarchs.  They reminded me quite a bit of scenes in a Monty Python film.  Maybe the huddled groups were simply stealing Maypoles from neighboring villages? If that was the case, seems like it would have been more expedient to drop the log in a long bed Chevy and peel rubber.

Bill Bryson, Won't You Please Come Home - To Bavaria

By now, it is clearly evident to the reader that I was raised Protestant, or some such, because it took me so very long - despite my indefatigable quest for knowledge - to recognize the Epiphany practice of the blessing of homes and churches and just about any other structure, apparently. (In my home, we always felt that the house was blessed if we could pay the light bill – illumination being a form of grace.) So it won’t surprise you, then, to learn that I was also flummoxed by the number of churches scattered across these Bavarian Jurassic Park-like hills. The Baroque churches, which look like miniature Orthodox structures, are easy to spot as they are mostly all capped by comfortable-looking onion tops, not unlike what persists over the top of my belted jeans. The Baroque style of construction was a response to the Protestant reformation and the sense that the Church’s architecture could be more emotionally accessible to the people, (In my experience, cabbies in New York City, capably filling the silence as they crawl along 5th or Madison Avenue past St. Patrick’s, will say the very same thing) all the while conveying the wealth and power of the church. Quite effectively, like kindred minarets in the Muslim world, the church spires point heavenward while conveying a sense that Big Brother (literally, fratres) has his eye on the village imbibers from a rather terrific vantage point. Looking across the high moors that make up the Upper Palatine plateau, the only structures that seem to be as prominent as the churches are the breweries, or the places in which one consumes the products flowing out of the breweries. Now it occurs to me (as it probably did to you if your college years were similar to mine) that there is an inherent difficulty in having an equivalent number of taverns and churches in a small town. The good news, here, is that there is a church within walking distance of every neighborhood in the village, an attribute one can particularly appreciate if one’s spouse insists that one is still – after last night - not in a state to take the family car on Sunday morning. No more than about two dozen parishioners can fit in one of these neighborhood churches. An empty spot in a pew would stand out like a sore thumb and, perchance, encourage the priest to head for the doorstep of the budding scofflaw. The company you’re likely to keep while doing your part to ensure the perpetuity of German drinking songs is also the company you’ll see when you slip into your pew - or not - on Sunday. That feeling of brotherhood conveyed by the motto, Einen fur alle, alle fur einen, in letters 12 feet tall on the sides of the breweries, conceivably was fostered by the Saturday night practice of Ale fur alle und alle fur ale. The sense that “we are all in this together, boys, so get your stories straight” would not be lost on der Volk.

The villagers were not seeing me in church so, to counter this, I was doing my best to make appearances wherever there was beer. The problem was, even when direly thirsty, I couldn’t make my way to the bottom of a typical German beer glass, not to mention a decent-sized stein. My posing lacked authenticity. It was as though every passing German could tell that I would prefer a twinkling little glass of St. Germaine to a cloudy wheat beer with a banana aftertaste. I wasn’t winning friends or, for that matter, drinking buddies.
My daughter, who looks Italian or Turkish (note that Germans are not particularly fond of the Turks who flooded into their country after the war and made good livelihoods from the rebuilding efforts, or Italians - you know that story), had warned me that Germans tend to stare openly at strangers. I suspected this practice might be exaggerated in a village where everyone knew everyone else (having shared Saturday night fever, doubtless followed on Sunday morning by mildly aching heads, the suffering made slightly more acute by shoulder-to-shoulder pious kneeling). I thought I’d have a better time of it, given that, with my blue eyes and blonde hair, I look more German than most of the nationals I was seeing. But, this was not to be. I collected blank stares left and right, regardless of my open, smiling, American demeanor (which, roughly translated in Bavarian, apparently meant “simple minded”).
Historian Michael Sturmer had written that German diversity stems from differences in “bread and beer, in customs, language, and the local law.” To this list, I would add religion, and preferences regarding the local wurst. (Long-standing competition regarding regional production of a signature wurst is taken very seriously in Germany and has uncannily elevated the sausage to gourmet status.) How, then, might the Badeners or Prussians differ from the Bavarians? I wondered if this reserved (read: aloof) attitude was Bavarian or just small town? After meeting a couple from Munich on the trail to my village’s very own castle ruins, I lean toward the small town explanation. With virtually no one else on the trail (a condition I’ve come to believe is more common than not because, these are really truly just ruins, with no colorful souvenir shops or re-enactments or traditionally dressed guides), the couple from Munich ecstatically hailed me, and hearing my accent, asked me if I was from California. Not wanting to disappoint them, I said I was, and felt very much like I’d been added to a list like kids who “call” the states of license plates on a very long road trip. The couple, a mother and her apparently dutiful grown son, told me they were on a “castle tour all over,” and then enthusiastically shared with me their colorful brochure describing Hitler’s stomping grounds in a nearby town. I wondered if they would later attach little castle pins to their woolen Tyrolean hats – one for each castle visited and one very special one for the Eagles Nest. Later that afternoon, as their car careened down the cobbled street of the village – one leg of the castle tour apparently completed - they honked wildly and, upon seeing me, hollered something that sounded like “California, here we come.” From where I sat on the terrace of a local establishment, I raised my glass of (unfinished) liquid golden sunshine in return.
In most countries where there is a definite north and south sensibility, those in the other region – which is wherever you are not - seem often to be described by a string of words meant, to some degree or another, to be disparaging - pejorative terms marking them as the “other.” Though dated, Thomas Mann’s Buddenbrooks, provides a good example which is not too far from what one might find implicit even in the language of modern guidebooks. In Mann’s story, a woman born in the north marries a Bavarian but still doesn’t think much of the easy going southerners, describing those from Munich as “without dignity, morals, energy, ambition, self-respect, or good manners” in contrast to those from the north, where “people work and get things accomplished and have a purpose in life.” With these thoughts in mind, I entered the local bank after waiting for it to reopen following an hour and a half lunch break, and contemplated a crucifix on the wall just behind the bank teller. A bank employee returning a little late from lunch hurriedly greeted her co-workers. “Goose got.” “Got what?” I wondered. What could a goose get that one would think important enough to use as an excuse for being late to clock in? And everyone seemed to already know what the goose had gotten because they all just nodded at her, and looked warily at me as though I truly was the village idiot. Unbeknownst to the tellers, I had to walk past a formidable gaggle of geese on my way to the bank, and I appreciated fully that “being gotten by the geese” would not make for a very happy lunch break. The very next day, from behind her low fence along our street, an older woman looked up from her gardening and murmured the same thing - Gruß Gott – and actually smiled at me. In a month’s time, this was the first spontaneous smile that I’d received from a national, other than shopkeepers who gleefully accepted Euros from me (for a .52 on the dollar exchange rate, well they might).

Emboldened by the beer-garden familiarity of the Munich Volk encounter and figuring it worked for the bank teller, I reasoned; why not try to divert my fellow villagers with a hearty southern-style greeting. So I met the stares of the people with narrowed eyes and pinched mouths with a warm smile and a singing “Gruß Gott!” Religious folks everywhere tend to be a bit superstitious, presumably covering their bases - just in case. To ignore someone saying “God bless you” might be living just a tad too close to the edge. Whether because of reflex or a reluctance to invoke dark spirits, villagers on the street greeted me in return. Perhaps I could not so easily unloose my casual American joie de vivre in northern Germany, however, where there are fewer Catholics. Saying “God greet you” to a Berliner is likely to elicit an amused “Not too soon, I hope!”