Guten Hunds and French Toast

Here I am in Germany.  The US Army base in Wiesbaden to be exact.  Want even MORE exactitude?  I'm sitting up to the kitchen bar in my daughter's and red-headed-son's apartment . . . and she's perched right next to me!!!  Practically looking over my shoulder as I rat-a-tat-tat on her petite MacBook Pro.  Moments earlier, her husband whipped up the perfect double shot soy cappuccino pour moi -- the loveliest of companions to the four artisanal Belgian chocolates I also savored. Sarah marvels at the size of my stomach.  How I could possibly consume, and completely enjoy, a quad of handmade sweet treats on the heels of the terrific Thai meal of sizable proportions through which we wended our way in the neighboring town of Mainz?  It's a talent, I suppose.  Mind over matter, girl.  My brain cells generate nerve messages which are delivered to my tummy, alerting them to special travel preparations.

It truly is . . . MIND over matter.  I make up my MIND that certain things which normally follow a certain daily order will not MATTER for the purposes of the trip.  Like frequenting a sweet shop several times a day or drinking more than my standard two cups of java a day.  (Still not keen on gastrointestinal irregularities, however.  Gotta draw the line somewhere!)  When I travel to spots known for sights and sounds and people and food, I feel it is only right to push myself to the utmost to enjoy such local pleasures in my own inimitable style.  If you've read my blog over the past couple of years, you'll know this about me.  Just check out my travels with my sisterhood of the traveling cupcakes, the Earth Divas!  A few pounds added to the ol' pontoon (we all came up with nicknames for the areas of our bodies where extra calories tend to congregate during vacation: Derek - inner tube; Jimmy - a kegger; Sarah won't deviate from the truth, referring to it simply as F-A-T) will burn off within a couple of weeks back home, spent keeping up with Hankie Mutt and the deaf Baby Piranha -- not to mention that my suburban reality does not consist of daily trips to quaint regions with boulangeries, patisseries and chocolatiers at every corner, nor shops harboring great wheels of cheeses, hard, soft, and stinky, from various regions of Europe at insanely reasonable prices!

[Oh, I think we've stumbled upon a new nickname that I find rather endearing.  Sarah giggled at something I did -- probably making what my family calls "the ugly face" (my lips tend to purse and my eyes squint, both drawing a bit downward and causing my chin to pock up) whilst my brain spins -- and called me The Mother Of All Pearls.  Classic.  And clever.  My girl.]

I feel like I should close my eyes and envision this epic journey overseas . . . and then drop my pointy finger onto a spot and wherever it lands, beginning, middle, or end, just start telling a story.  So, here goes pin-the-tail-on-the-excursion!

Well, there are dogs.  Everywhere.  Here in Germany.  Over in France, both in Strasbourg and Paris.  And not one of them barked, growled, slobbered, lifted a leg or acted out in any other various and sundry inappropriate or overly doglike manners.  They walked.  On short leashes.  Next to or in front of  or just behind their owners.  Through crowded streets ripe with the scent of breads, meats and sweets; and town squares rife with the odors of babies bottoms, European underarms and French perfumes; and bridges over generously flowing rivers where waterfowl, alive and expired, floated on by.  When owners stopped to chat about their hunds, there was the traditional nose-to-hindend sniffing (between dogs, mind you), but less overt than what my own hound does with me in my kitchen!  Less invasion and more "how do you do?"  At dusk while we lingered on the patio of a brasserie our first night in France, we watched an old dog wander cordially along the cobblestone street in front of us, seemingly with no owner, until the matronly woman materialized on the other end of the block.  MY dogs would have been knocking over the quaint tables supporting the  remains of our spatzle, beer and 'coupes glaces' soporific supper.

Just to get my fix of dog hiney scratching, I dropped several coins in the hands of a young woman seated at a busy corner in Strasbourg, covertly begging for cigarette change: I'm pretty sure I enjoyed the experience every bit as much as the hulking yellow animal pressing his haunch against my short nails.  There's the handsome Rhodesian ridgeback I met this morning -- a magnificent male with "the ability to make handsome babies" (as his kindly and uber-wealthy owner informed me), who really is nothing more than "a horny bastard with an excuse to breed" (as his charming and quite frank mistress interjected while looking with an amused knowing eye at her husband as he walked on by with his prized animal).  "Aren't they ALL?" I mused aloud, casting a wider net on multiple species.  The neighbor across the hall here on base has a four-legged sausage doggie with a coat which continually casts hairs with every jump and rub; he likes to do both simultaneously . . . he's an American dog, of course.  Sarah cooed over a poodle at a rest stop somewhere in the French countryside of the Champagne region.  A genuine Parisian gentlewoman offered up her petite pooch for the petting just a block short of the incredible bakery we happened upon minutes afterward.  And there's at least three other incidents of receiving support for my canine habit.  Need I remind you that the trip's not over yet?

The other ubiquitous element shared by both countries is bicyclists.  And the narrower and more people-laden the streets, the more bikes there are.  The more daring the maneuvers in the face of seeming death-by-auto.  Ladies in stylish black dresses and trench coats, sporting smart flats in the latest fashions, move easily across intersections, behind buses and deftly veer into lanes marked specifically for their two-wheeled transport.  One woman with a glorious display of red hair in fullness past her shoulders remains indelibly imprinted upon my collection of mental snapshots.  I may have captured her digitally but with over 1,000 images on the Canon PowerShot to date, finding her may take some effort.  There were bicycles with baskets; bicycles with fenders; bicycles with mustachioed older men; bicycles conveying the genteel and the starving artist; bicycles sporting small motors at rental kiosks; bicycles both sleek and cumbersome; and even one bicycle with a faux fur seat cover, carrying a log of dark German sausage that could feed a small village.  We toyed with the idea of traversing as tourists on some version of these bicycles but decided we lacked the laissez-faire attitude necessary to remain alive beyond the first hour.  During a driving episode in Strasbourg our first night, right at the start of the dinner hour (a stressful affair for my son-in-law who bore the responsibility of ferrying us all about) my husband expressed some qualms about sharing the road with the seemingly clueless riders of the street cycles.  One maiden in particular kept waffling between our lane and hers, causing my husband to inform Derek, "Try not to hit that one or she'll be French toast!"  We had ourselves a hearty belly laugh which carried us through the next three repetitive miles of searching for a parking garage with space for our Ford Focus.

Derek and Sarah purchased a bicycle rack for their car while we were out and about yesterday.  Next weekend, they will join the reckless ranks of the European bicyclists.  I just hope they wear helmets. And mind their manners.  Even just a wee bit.  I'm sure they will.  The rules of the road, whether via four-wheels with gasoline engine or two-wheels ala bipedal, simply differ from those to which I adhere.  Definitely more entertaining and adrenaline-producing. Most likely, if I remained here for longer than a few months, it would become as old hat to me as it is for the citizenry.  MAYBE.

That's all she wrote.  For now.  Enjoy the pictures.  We'll tour the Louvre and talk food and shopping on the next go-round.  Until then, 'tschuss' (pronounced 'choose/chews,' emphasis on 'ewe'-sound in the middle).  That's the German equivalent of 'Ciao, see you later.'  Jimmy, or Mister Gloria (heh heh), says it with the most humorous of accents . . . and in a slightly girly voice.  We can't get enough of it!

P.S.  The pigeons could carry away a small dog!

P.P.S.  Motorcycles are an entirely DIFFERENT kettle of fish when it comes to two-wheels of a faster, crazier, wilder kind!

 

Check . . . check . . .

I just completed my third or fourth distraction circuit of the day.  Distraction from what? From cleaning up the mess that is my checkbook; a mess which, since Christmas, has grown at a rate more alarming than the disheveled condition of my teen son's bedroom.  (I break out in goose pimples just THINKING about THAT living space!)  I'm one of those who prefers seeing the black-and-red of my household spending on paper - scribbled into those little lined registers tucked in the wallet behind checks bedecked with patterns of birds or polka dots or whatever one finds imprinted on bargain checks bought at various online sites in multiple boxes so as to save even more money.

And before we continue . . . YES . . . I realize that three months and a smattering of days have elapsed since last I visited my blog.  Unfortunately, I'm not paid to write, and that ol' regular gig I have, called 'domestic life,' revved into high gear and kicked the stuffing out of my schedule, my rest and my health to some extent.  That deaf pup which was at the core of my last entry definitely ranks up there in all of that!

So, back to the subject at hand.  Mainly, describing just what the heck a distraction circuit is.  Obviously, an escape or break from the monotony of the agonizing task at hand.  Resting my eyes as they strain between the statement and the registers.  Relaxing my left hand of its death grip on my favorite pink pen (the one I bought at Office Depot while in the company of my baby brother after his release from prison - I've lost the thing twice, and it has returned to me both times, much to my relief).  Suspending my irritation at the lack of discipline I've shown in this area lately.  Every couple of hours, this domestic accountant needs to swim up through the sea of numbers and business names and gulp a few deep breaths of rainy day air.  It's rather a hypnotic, not to mention slightly nauseating, exercise.  AND there's a great reason - aside from practicality - to balance the checkbook on a monthly basis as opposed to the practically semi-annual bind in which I now find myself: having to choke down in one extended visual gulp the amounts paid to doctors, the vet, Wal Mart, gas stations, grocery stores, ATT U-Verse AND cellular, Petsmart and the various sports clubs just vexes to the point of a near death experience!  

My most recent circuit involved three smaller breaks wrapped up into a half hour space.  I pulled away from my desk.  (I'm in my study which is now painted in the garden green and deep plum I chose months ago; and lined with book shelves sporting knick-knacks and memorabilia, rocks and pictures, and books, books and more books.)  Headed downstairs to distract the rainy day dogs with chews which Hank devours with his enormous choppers while Gracie takes forever with her small mouth and newly emerging adult teeth.  Snapped a few shots of the various song birds at the feeder, their feathers darkened by the rain, beaks smacking into the seed with gusto.  Returned upstairs to roll out my back on the big blue exercise ball.  Sat back down to the pages of statements.  Searched and found a few errors which worked IN my favor as opposed to against me . . . a rarity . . . how stressed WAS I to enter an $8 amount at Starbucks as $80?  SCORE!

Before very long, my tummy told me it wanted popcorn; I said I would pop a nice batch of Orville's air corn later.  But I did venture back downstairs to scan the contents of the fridge.  I had myself a half slice of bacon left over from breakfast, along with a half a banana, which got me to thinking about the sandwiches Elvis Presley used to eat, which THEN led me to recall a poster I saw online of Elvis and a gaggle of girls in bathing suits -- the swim shorts he had on were evidently predecessors of the Speedo as far as snugness and lack of length at the bottom.  Because he was in that bent knee, half-swagger, half-dance pose that he's known for, the whole scene just looked kind of wrong to me.  Kinda ewww.  I brushed that mental fluff away and headed back up the stairs for a quick set of eighty-four mason twists for my abs and an extended child's pose yoga move to de-tense the ol' body.  I think I balanced for an entire fifteen minutes before I decided I'd like to blog for a bit.  Started that.  Then, my friend texted to ask if I felt like going out for 'binks and nacks' (drinks and snacks as her son used to say instead of 'drinks and snacks').  For the second weekend in a row, I had to decline her offer.  For the second weekend in a row, she tried to gently coerce me to reconsider.  For the second weekend in a row, I reminded her of how much I hate going out to restaurants and bars but that I wasn't trying to avoid her but merely needed to play catch-up before our trip to Germany next Thursday.  Then we moved into a discussion about cowboy boots and before I finally left that conversation to return to the blog, I ended up BACK downstairs to let the dogs out, check the size of my daughter's boots . . . oh, and grab one of those Drumstick Ice Cream cone-things I bought for my husband.  He better hurry up and snag one because that's all that's left in the box.

Well, that's all I got.  Okay.  Not true.  But it's all I can give for now.  The checkbook beckons.  The deaf pup is yammering away at the back door with that ear-piercing, slightly electronic, sound-barrier-breaking bark that we all hear just fine, thank you very much, little Gracie Helen.

I GOTTA GO!