“Someday you will die and somehow something’s going to steal your carbon.”
Prancer
Christmas Cheer
Stewart and I have been careful in the purchasing of non-consumable things while in Europe, with the expectation that we would eventually be returning to the States and would, subsequently, have to schlep all of our collective crap back.
We made an exception to our cautious purchasing habits this week, though. I really enjoy the Christmas season, more than any other occasion of the year, and so we bought a live Christmas tree, lights, and some ornaments. Plus some small decorations to put around the home. And a German Christmas pyramid, lol.
It's all been worth it. Our home has a little bit of that holiday feel, and given the lull in my job during the past month I have been home quite a lot and have been able to enjoy it with Stewart. And perhaps more importantly, our whole journey to Europe has been about creating memories, about experiencing new things but also finding out what grounds us from day to day. And Christmas, and the memories of Christmas past, are one of my unique connections that I want to keep hold of.
Plus who knew IKEA sold live Christmas trees for 14 Euros.
Imperius Googlus
This was going to be a post extolling the wonders of Google Maps. It is, even in 2015, an amazing achievement, both in its worldwide breadth and functionality. Plus the fact that it's free, and that its nearest competitor Apple Maps is so god-awful terrible, gives it an enduring wow factor. So I am loathe to criticize.
And yet.
And yet on numerous occasions--today for example--Stewart and I have found ourselves in the Google Maps deception zone: those areas of smaller, typically older European villages where Google knows where the roads are, and their names and directionality, but doesn't know that they aren't used for autos anymore, or at least that being the case a good portion of the time. This afternoon we found ourselves on a cobblestone street in Vipiteno, Italy, that was packed with pedestrians shopping and celebrating the season, but not a single car in sight, and clearly no room for any. But there we were, popped out of a narrow alleyway and nowhere to go. Heads bowed and no other option before us, we continued. It took us nearly ten minutes to travel the 150 meters of shame, with all those pedestrians staring coldly and disapprovingly at us, to get to a normal roadway.
Google doesn't let on that it knows where the deception zones are, and so it doesn't route you around them or otherwise provide warning. You have to be on high alert, keenly sensitive to the often subtle changes of pedestrian traffic, the asphalt turning into brick or cobblestone, or the already narrow streets of Europe getting progressively more narrow. That's the other thing Google seems not to be aware of: the width of streets. We have been on more than one street in Italy, following the direction of the Google Maps Lady, when we got so nervous that we had to pull in the side-view mirrors on our Toyota YARIS. A YARIS.
One additional critique, speaking of the Google Maps Lady. She is always polite, never shrill, and she never lets doubt creep into her voice. She is prompt, and she unfailingly states what her algorithm tells her is the correct route to go. But to her, every word is an English word, pronounced using English grammar rules. And so with every trip I take with her, she is a constant reminder of what I must sound like to the Europeans who silently wince as I butcher my way through their their language.
All right, that's it. I do not want to bite the hand that navigates me, because Google Maps has saved my collective and figurative bacon on innumerable occasions. Despite her flaws she knows far more than I do--most of the time--about where I am and what lies ahead. But I've now developed a healthy suspicion, a cautious tone to counterbalance the undeniably confident voice emanating from my iPhone. Because the deception zone is not a good place to be.
druckebergergassi
"During the era of National Socialism (1933-1945) many of Munich's local citizens avoided going near the eastern side of the Military Commanders' Hall (Feldherrhalle) on Odeonsplatz. Situated on Odeonsplatz was a memorial for those who died taking part in Hitler's Putsch on 9 November 1923. Two uniformed and armed SS guards struck up a pose there day and night as a guard of honour. Anyone passing by was required to raise his or her arm in the 'Heil Hitler' greeting. A large number of people who would otherwise have passed the guards therefore took the detour through the Viscardigasse in order to reach Odeonsplatz. This led to the street being called 'Druckebergergassi' or 'Shirker's Lane' in the everyday language of the locals. With this winding trail of bronze set into the cobblestones on the lane, [artist] Bruno Wank reminds us of this silent form of opposition among Munich's population."
Munich's Christkindlmarkt
Germany might well best the U.S. in the celebration of Christmas. Plazas all around town, flanked by historically imposing buildings such as the Marienplatz, lit up with holiday lights and filled with midieval huts selling traditional holiday crafts and food. A lot of food, including all types of sausages, Gluwein (a warmed wine concoction with which--spoiler alert--one must pace oneself), and of course gingerbread. Thousands of locals, plus two Americans clearly not acclimated to the weather, all sharing in the Christmas spirit.
And they seem to largely pull it off without the plastic, commercialized brittleness that seems to creep into many American attempts to do the same.
Speaking of weather, we probably overdid it our first fill day. After dropping off our holiday cards at the Austrian post office, we spent the greater part of the afternoon and evening outside. We didn't realize how cold we had gotten until is was a little too late (the Gluwein didn't help), and we shivered our way back to our Air BnB a little less-happy than what we would have liked.
The Duomo
The Duomo in Milan is a staggeringly large church, even by European standards. All of the midevil church accoutrements inside have proportionately expanded as well--there's just an overwhelming number of intricate sculptures, stained glass windows, and renaissance art, all embedded in massive Roman columns and stonemasonry that leaves you gawking. Below is the front door, adorned with impossibly intricate metal work, and guarded by the Italian military with fantastically awesome hats.
Cinquemila (Five Thousand), Part I
I am slowly eking my way towards 5,000 total flight hours, so I thought it would be interesting to show what I've been doing all that time, aside from being slowly shaken to death.
Flight Hour Breakdown
My Navy experience still takes up the largest minority of time, part of it deployed doing anti-submarine warfare (ASW) and a little too much Search and Rescue (SAR), and the other part as an instructor to new pilots coming into the fleet. Helicopter Emergency Medical Services (HEMS) is the next chunk, most of with Air Methods but some in a death-defying stint in a Bell 206 Long Ranger. VIP stands for Very Important Person, and if you are wondering what constitutes a Very Important Person then you aren't one, lol. The "other" section I will need to parse out, but not on a Swiss train to Milan at 9 o'clock at night, which is where I am now. It includes a good deal of non-VIP charter, off-road racing support, and local news support. It also includes about a 100 hours of flying a Cessna 152 in Lexington, KY, where I learned to fly.
Overall, I consider myself quite fortunate in what I've been able to experience, and the different environs in which I've flown. There have been lows, no doubt, and lots of spikes of blood pressure, but so far it's been a magical trip for me. With no offense to KPMG Peat Marwick and Booz Allen Hamilton, I am so thankful I left financial consulting in the early 2000's and returned to the cockpit, and so thankful Stewart supported and encouraged the move.
Somewhere Near Imperia, Italy
Liam The Young, Ed and Stephen the Middle Aged, and Stewart The Elder.
Hide My Arse
Living in Europe has given us ample opportunity to repeatedly break the law. Most of it unintentional, as in virtually every moment we are operating a motor vehicle, but on occasion we have been known to intentionally skirt international dictates.
Most recently it has involved Game of Thrones, the addictive HBO series involving a very complicated and intertwining plot, randomly interrupted by gratuitous scenes of violence and sex. We had yet to the see the most current season, so when we discovered it was available for rent online we happily clicked on 'download' and went to make popcorn.
Except once it determined my computer was in Italy, it cut me off. Not available in my country, it said. Too bad you're traveling abroad, it mocked. Hope you get back to California before you accidentally read all the spoiler posts on Facebook, it sneered.
I had gotten that same message numerous times before, from other entertainment venues and some business applications, but Game of Thrones was the last straw. So I signed up with a company called Hide My Ass. Sporting a clever if not entirely subtle name, it reroutes my electronic devices through any number of portals, of particular interest a U.S. one. And in doing so my true origin disappears from view. So while hanging out in Italy, the Internet thinks my computer is in New York, and wants to download the Game of Thrones. Season Five, complete.
All that is a tad shady, I know. And HMA sells its services under the auspices of people wanting an anonymous online experience, which it provides and is another bonus of using it--those cookies that normally get placed in the bowels of your computer's memory have nowhere to go. You'd think the cookies would show up in New York and go, "Hey, there's no computer here" and then report back to their sender, but fortunately that connection is never made.
If This Is A Man
“Silence slowly prevails and then, from my bunk on the top row, I see and hear old Kuhn praying aloud, with his beret on his head, swaying backwards and forwards violently. Kuhn is thanking God because he has not been chosen.
Kuhn is out of his senses. Does he not see Beppo the Greek in the bunk next to him, Beppo who is twenty years old and is going to the gas-chamber the day after tomorrow and knows it and lies there looking fixedly at the light without saying anything and without even thinking anymore? Can Kuhn fail to realize that next time it will be his turn? Does Kuhn not understand that what has happened today is an abomination, which no propitiatory prayer, no pardon, no expiation by the guilty, which nothing at all in the power of man can ever clean again?
If I was God, I would spit at Kuhn’s prayer. ”
Hedgerow
A little caveat might be needed before this post. I have a near-obsession with a website called Atlas Obscura (AO). AO is a compendium of the unusual, of things and places and happenings I find quite interesting but that you won't find in one of the usual travel guides. Hence the photos a year ago of me next to witches' tombs, or Stewart listening to a musical instrument imbedded in a highway overpass, or two days ago in the northern reaches of Scotland looking at castle ruins that Bram Stoker--it is said--used to help him form the vision of Dracula's.
So yesterday at the guidance of AO we took a small diversion enroute to Edinburgh, to see the world's largest hedgerow, according to the Guinness Book of World Records. It is size and length were impressive (580 yards long and 100 feet high), especially for an organization of bushes that one expects not to see on such a grand scale. But the best part is that the Meikleour Beech Hedge was planted in the Fall of 1745. Standing next to a living 270 year old anything is rather impressive to me, but a hedgerow...well, what can I say.
The Mighty Meikleour Hedgerow
In case you were curious, it takes four people six weeks to trim it, once a decade.