A bad case of the hollows.

Yeah, this band is rad. I love new music that gets under my skin. Angry words about how fucked-up stuff is. Makes me wanna burn it all down. Singing at the top of my lungs … before I cough up a ball of phlegm the size of my head. Calls me back to Berlin, to that basketball court where it all began. At 11:11 (or was it 3:32?) last night I fell asleep only to wake up within 20 minutes. I read some Gadamer. Watched porn. Went back to bed more frozen than when I first laid down. Sometime around 2:00am I woke up to the sound of Spic-O-Rama, but without that adorable John Leguizamo. I dialed 9-1-1 on speed-dial to report the disturbance. Today’s shot. Tomorrow probably too. It’s now 4:00pm, and I’m only thinking about the things I should’ve already done by now instead of the things I have to do next. Can’t use the sink downstairs because of the leak. Don’t know when I’m going to get back to the gym that overcharges me on a monthly basis. Sick of the scams all utility companies pull with new service contracts. The bruises up and down my arms have finally faded from the boxes and boxes of books I moved. Ordered two new books from Amazon today. Eventually I’ll bruise myself by moving them as well. Benjamin’s greatest fear was losing his library. Before I slip away into nonbeing, I wanna pile everything I still possess into a gasoline-soaked mound and flick a match in its general direction. Just to see what would happen. Dreading Friday. Not because it’s my birthday but because it’s the anniversary of when the sky over Texas caught fire and rained down on our heads. Dead astronauts and all.

Listen when your hair gets pulled. Don’t get caught. It’s gonna be alright. As soon as the embers die.

As I lay me down to fall asleep
with my demons dying and my pilot light weak.
I curse the last six months I’ve been hiding behind a mustache.
To those last ten years I’ve been howling at a paper moon: Fuck you.

R.I.P.

Stockhausen 1928-2007

I am the walrus.

There's nothing quite as funny as the number of drugs I've taken over the past few months (years) to help me sleep. But the week of Thanksgiving, I stepped down from the Amitriptyline pony I've been riding since September. Now I've reverted to constantly waking up throughout the night and then waking up for good around 4:00 AM every morning. What's funny is that I don't seem to mind too much: with the meds, I was groggy even with eight hours of sleep, and now without them I'm considerably more awake. Even when I'm tired. The next step: get off this shit Rozerem that never did do anything it was supposed to do. According to several friends, it only makes me angry and bitter. I certainly have felt very on edge since I started on it in May. At first I thought it was just all the coffee I was drinking in Europe and all the shitty administrative annoyances I had to endure in Marburg. But it wasn't. Well, at least not just that. Even without the strong Euro-kava, I've been one angry fucker all term.

And yesterday I grew even angrier after spending almost three hours at the dentist office. One must suffer if one wants to be beautiful. And yes, my teeth are indeed beautiful. For the first time in my life. Too bad it took throwing almost $700 at them before they took on the glamor sheen of celebrity. But I'm only now enjoying my first coffee since yesterday morning. And I'm sipping it through a straw. And I must go brush my teeth immediately after I'm done. But even with the unbearable pain, the expense, and the inability to eat or drink for most of the past 24 hours, it really is worth it.

Once, on an osobowy (oh-so-slowly) train from Warsaw to Szczecin during the summer of 1991, my compatriots/companions decided to sing songs by the Smiths to help me sleep. (And to support my growing dependency on angst and ennui.) I need those friends now to sing me to sleep....

• Asleep
• Unlovable
• This Night Has Opened My Eyes
• Back To The Old House
• Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now
• William, It Was Really Nothing
• Girl Afraid
• Half A Person
• There Is A Light That Never Goes Out
• Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me
• Reel Around The Fountain
• That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore
• The Boy With The Thorn In His Side
• Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want
• Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others

Bullet-Point Friday

• Ah, the last of the Bullet-Point Fridays!
• I started this segment when I returned from Germany and began the fall semester just to ensure that throughout the long and difficult term I would sit down at least once a week and post something on my blog. And now it’s almost over.
• Well, not quite: I still have to submit another essay Monday. My research on the Redon painting has been fairly interesting, but—ohmygod!—I have no energy to just sit down and pound it out. I wrote about half of it Thanksgiving Day. While most of my compatriots were stuffing turkey down their throats, I was fasting and writing—what I tend to do best on that holiday. And I spent more than three hours at the museum Wednesday, so I have plenty of information to write about. Just tired.
• I exhausted myself with the first essay due before Thanksgiving. And thankfully that proved to be worth the effort. My professor wrote that I was “gifted.” (And I’ve hence decided to start a “Gifted & Talented” program for my Ph.D. curriculum! Too bad few of my colleagues will meet the requirements….) Of course, I started the research and reading on the flight to Germany last July, so it’s fairly accurate to say that I’ve done some serious thinking about my topic over the past 4½ months.
• Perhaps I will start my Bullet-Point Fridays again come January. But I think I’ll change the name: no good ever came from bullets. And “bullet points” imply a reduction and a leveling that I hope to never be guilty of.
• I submitted my translation portfolio for the term this morning. I feel like after the first draft I was no longer doing translation but merely leveling, making the text palatable to the pack of illiterate philistines who were in the class with me. After several classmates complained that one particular sentence was “hard to understand,” I declared, “Perhaps I should just translate it back into Polish, and then we’ll see how well you understand it!” If nature abhors a vacuum, then I’m certain she would indeed hate my classmates as much as I do.
• So, it’s time to go to bed. I still have so much more work to do over the next couple of weeks: exams to write and grade, essays to grade, grades to submit. And my winter break is quickly filling up with things wanting to be done and read. (And I’ll try to write so much more consistently throughout the week that Bullet-Point Fridays will be unnecessary.)

Nur ein bisschen

All throughout the German language course Saturday morning I kept thinking that the grammar my teacher was going over was too easy for me and that I should transfer to a more advanced level. Then we had to open our mouths and introduce ourselves, and the realization that I have absolutely (or at least almost) no vocabulary under my belt or in my head hit me square in the face. Worse: we had to read a short passage from the textbook and then translate it into English. I started to think that perhaps I should drop down a level instead. Or two. Maybe I'll just ride it out for a couple of weeks.

I like my teacher. That's an improvement over the angry (and smelly) Romanian from this summer. She talked about being a girl during the Berlin Airlift, jumping up and down on the mounds of rubber at Tempelhof with excitement when the one plane would tilt its wings to let the children below know that it was going to drop chocolates with tiny parachutes down to them. I almost always like people who can share stories from the Cold War. I wanted to shrink her and put her in a tiny box for my desk and make her jump for joy every time I lifted the lid and dropped a Hershey's kiss down for her.

I especially liked how she introduced herself and then immediately admonished us not to pronounce her name "like Americans." Now that's the German efficiency (and domineering) I can get behind! Ah, we shall see, no?

Bullet-Point Friday

• Insomnia - Since returning from Germany two weeks ago I haven't been able to sleep past 4:30 AM. Most days I'm awake before then. (I'm usually in bed by 10:00 PM every night.) I'm just about at the breaking point physically as well as mentally, especially when I have as much work to get done during my typical day-to-day as I do. I fear my philosophy course--the one I'm teaching downtown--is suffering because by the time 11:00 rolls around I'm yawning and ready for a nap. I have an appointment with my neurologists (sleep doctors) Tuesday morning. Hopefully they'll put me on some better medication.
• Next Friday I fly to San Francisco to hang out for a couple of days with the ever-lovely Pani J. I'm looking forward to the escape from Dallas--yes, even though I've only been here for two weeks! Even more, though, I'm excited about spending time with one of my absolute most favorite people in the world. Jola and I were neighbors in Warsaw for almost a year, and I know I wouldn't have been able to last that long in such a miserable city without her continual friendship, insight, and hilarity. Can't wait for those long chats over good coffee while staring out over the Bay.
• Tomorrow I begin the German language course at the Goethe Center. Am I ready to focus yet again on that language in an attempt to develop some sort of fluency and literacy after such a crappy experience this summer? Stay tuned to find out.
• Exercise - Will I ever return to my pre-Europe schedule of hitting the gym 4-5 times a week? I'm afraid that all the weight I lost while in Germany was just muscle mass. I miss the sweat. I miss the endorphins. Ah, sweet endorphins! Perhaps before the German class tomorrow I can make it to the Y for a quick 30-minute workout.
  

Köln

Just a week-and-a-half ago I spent a blissful couple of days in Köln by myself visiting museums and enjoying the culture of one of Germany's largest and oldest cities. Click on the image to see some of the highlights of that excursion.

Fauxhawk

Repeat after Euro-Franz: Don't fear the fauxhawk. The fauxhawk is your friend.

One thing I will miss about being in Europe: having considerably less social pressure about how I style my hair in the morning. Not that that ever stopped me before....

One thing I will not miss about being in Europe: mandatory smoking. Oh sure, there are "non-smoking sections," but each one I've seen still has ashtrays ... right below the non-smoking sign. I've suffered through enough secondhand smoke these past five weeks to equal at least one week of firsthand chain-smoking.

Pieces of Me

If it’s not the hunger and lack of interest in any of the food I find on the streets here—I mean there’s only so many cheese pizzas, cheese sandwiches, tomato salads, falafel pitas, and gummy, cheesy pasta dishes with limp vegetables I can stomach—that will kill me, then it will be the utter inexplicability of my inability to sleep throughout the night. Last night I went to bed at a reasonable hour (11:30), but I was wide awake (again) by 12:45, and I couldn’t get back to sleep until almost 3:00. In the meantime—and I mean this in its meanest and most unreasonable sense—I began reading another life-changing essay by Derrida about Gadamer and the poetics of Paul Celan. And then I took out my iPod and listened to some tracks from my Lazy Sunday Afternoon playlist, just allowing my mind to drift and reflect in a letting-be (perhaps—as if—a move toward Gelassenheit). Perhaps it will be the anticipation of the arriving/letting-go that will finally do me in.

“There are pieces of me you’ve never seen. Maybe she’s just pieces of me you’ve never seen.” These lyrics by Tori Amos continually float through my head. Knowing that people—and ultimately all things, including the great to be (it)self—are ultimately unknowable, I know that I don’t even really know myself. So, how can anyone else know this me that I don’t even know, this no-ing, unknowable I that reverts to a me when faced with the face of the radically alter in its (own/un-owning/un-(kn)ownness) radical alterity? A good question to reflect upon and face at two-fucking-thirty AM. Kids: don’t try this at home without adult supervision. I am a trained professional, and it still hurts when I do it.

I like the subtle subversion of irreplaceability these lyrics hint at: as if to say, you don’t need to replace me with her because we are the same. Do you not see that which draws you to her is also present here in me? Do you not see that the continual/continuing race toward the (metaphysics of the) new is just as questionable as the issue of knowledge of self and other (it)self? We are ultimately reflections of one another, each other: “The killer in you is the killer in me.” (Lyrics by Smashing Pumpkins. Maybe I should just stop listening to music altogether.)

I like how da in German can mean both there as well as here. I like how nach can mean both to(ward) as well as after. This is a great language in which to lose oneself, especially when the first person-pronoun is never capitalized (except, of course, as the first word of a sentence) and the second-person polite Sie is always capital(ized). But true Gesprach takes place only between (ein(e)) ich und (ein(e)) du....

Speak my language.

Ich bin ein Amerikaner

That's right: I'm a donought! After eyeing the Amerikaners over the past couple of weeks, I decided yesterday to take the plunge and actually purchase one just to see what it tasted like.Kinda bland: vanilla cake with vanilla frosting. It could've used a spritz of lemon or some other flavor. Now I wonder what the Berliners taste like....

Spent yesterday afternoon at the super luxerious bath here in Wiesbaden, but as with everything that's supposed to be relaxing, it came with an equal measure of stress. The naked people didn't bother me. In fact, it is always refreshing to be one of the most fit and most attractive people in a room full of naked people. And I was definitely lowering the average age of the bathers. But knowing neither the specialized vocabulary of public baths nor how anything really worked, I ended up going back and forth from the Russian suana to the cold pool. I couldn't remember the order of the recommended bath experience: was it 5-10 minutes in the 45 degree room with 25% humidity before or after the pool of 22 degree water for 20 minutes? And where did the hot foot bath fit in? It wasn't that I was shy and couldn't bring myself to ask questions; I just couldn't find any attendants who knew the answers. And after my severe farmer tan from the bicycle tour of Barcelona, I wanted to spend a few minutes in the solarium soaking in some UVA and UVB rays. But I stayed there only about 3 minutes because the bed turned off and I couldn't figure out how to add more time. Oh, and the most stressful: slipping on the wet floor in bare feet about 2 feet from the top of the marble staircase. I wonder where my body would've ended up: here's this dead naked guy with a farmer's tan and no forms of identification. I'm sure the Germans have a recycling bin out back for that as well. (But don't forget to segregate the bones from the flesh; and gristle goes in a different bin!)

This afternoon I head to Koln for a much needed stay in a large city with some culture and nightlife.

Unfit for Life

Learning German is making me even more unfit as a human being. As if having studied Spanish, Russian, Polish, Czech, Japanese, Ukrainian, and Latin have made me either marketable or more lovable! But German is becoming a special case: I’m not learning to communicate (i.e., how to buy falafel from the Turks) but rather to sit in a dark room alone with several dictionaries in order to decode, decipher, un-encrypt—to translate, carry over—semantic meaning from the Devil’s tongue to the language of angels. And I’m learning this “skill” from an angry Romanian woman whose smell I’ve grown accustomed to already.

So, I won’t be making friends in German. That’s involves a specialized vocabulary that my skill set can not at the present time manage. My morning language course, too, can attest to the fact that in German I will be (in the most absolute sense) all by myself: I’m not only alone in my endeavor to take the advanced reading/translation course alone but I’m also enduring, surviving the more remedial—actually the most remedial—course in the program. I’m surprised each morning when the short bus does not appear outside my dorm to carry me off to class with the (other) retards. (But at least I actually brung myself a real wordbook from Amerika to helps me with the studying.)

Yesterday afternoon I spent about four hours translating selections of Kandinsky’s aesthetic theory, and now I have a few pages of Walter Benjamin to tackle, conquer, capitulate to by my next class Monday. Benjamin and Celan are the main reasons I’m here in the first place learning the unlearnable with the unlearned, but I guess I’m not the first to blame my misery on G-d’s chosen.

Now I have five days all to myself. The others—those people—are heading off to the great Benelux conundrum, but I, because of UNRESOLVED ISSUES stemming from the GREAT UNPLEASANTNESS cannot fathom venturing near that part of the planet at this time. Instead, I’ll be visiting some of the cities nearby, exploring the offerings of Dokumenta in Kassel, the sculpture exhibit in Münster, and the great Civilized City of Köln. To further prove just how useless my German is, I will be tackling each new city purely in my native tongue. Halleluja! Hosanna hosanna! Pray that the train union strikes do not keep me in Marburg….

Internationalismus

… or the post where Euro-Franz offends absolutely everyone. (By the way, here "euro" is pronounced "oy-Roh," pretty much how a Jew would address Rosie O'Donnell.)

Sitting at Café Angst yesterday afternoon, I asked myself the following question: is it racist for me to call my professor a smelly Romanian? She is indeed from Romania, and my nose can attest to her smelliness especially after sitting rather a bit too closely to her these past couple of days during our one-on-one sessions. And the next question: why am I in Germany studying German with a smelly Romanian? (I guess maybe a better next question would’ve been: why is this particular Romanian smelly? But my advanced education and intellect preclude obvious segues.)

Then I remembered: my morning language instructor is from Hungary. Quick: what’s German for “What the fuck?!?!” So I am sitting miserably at Café Angst—and no, that’s not the real name of this place, but Café Angst is such a better, more appropriate name for the basement of the Mensa, which is Roman-Germanic for "Student Union Building (SUB)"—slowly realizing that I’m here (heute Deutschland) studying German with a bunch of foreigners (“New Europeans,” I believe is the official term used by the US State Dept.; Morgen die Welt! no doubt.)

I refuse to believe that these so-called new Europeans are somehow better or even similar to the old ones. When are the old Europeans going to export their superior "bathroom technologies" to the east? Will there come a day of no smelly Romanians? Hell, why doesn’t Herr Professor Dingleberry just outsource the whole fucking program to the Chinese? That way, my solid German education would be just as good as poisoned dog food without the messy analogy.

Herr Professor Dingleberry, you must know, is the quintessential oompa-loompa kind of German who has a surreal lilt to his perfect cartoon caricature voice. I suspect he secretly wears lederhosen and plays the tuba.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to accept “feedback” on my German from teachers who misspeak and mispronounce almost every word in English. If I can understand their comments in not only broken but completely butchered English, then certainly any poor slob on the streets here won’t bat an eye when I use the “soft” pronunciation of the German ch instead of the “hard” one. But as the Nigerian woman who sits next to me attested, there are still a few old Hitlerites who appear out of nowhere (history? the bushes?) to scold foreigners for speaking English and/or bad German. Funny how it takes an 80-year-old German fuck to protect the language from a young African and Asian woman who came all this way to study the devil's language and who are simply waiting at a bus stop.

Oh, and you thought the Nigerian woman was going to get off easy: I refer to her (in my mind) as the Nigerian communist because what is mine is hers. One day this past week she, throughout the course of the class meeting, had "borrowed" my dictionary, pencil, pen, and notebook. A question I had never really considered asking before: Can I borrow my dictionary again?

Funny how speaking Polish last night after the concert with Kasja was the most normal I’ve felt since arriving in Germany. Looking back at just last week, speaking Spanish (with a lisping Castillian inflection--I sounded like a gay Puerto Rican--redundant?) was pure bliss, being able to express what I wanted and being able to understand the replies. The people I share English with here are not worth the pixels on your computer screens. Besides, there’s no way I could capture their insipid conversations and “observations.” (Case in point: we see a fabric store, and one says, “There’s a fabric store. I like fabric stores.” Gee, thanks for sharing. Why don’t you save that to blog later and just be quiet for now?)

The cute Azerbaijani boy asked me rather rudely in German on the way to the concert last night, “You don’t speak anything other than English?” I replied in Russian that I understood pretty much everything he was saying to the people he had just been speaking Russian to, and then in German I filled out my resume: Polnisch. Spanisch. Japonisch. Suckmydickbisch. I didn’t take it too personally, though, because he’s probably the prettiest eye candy around. When he wasn’t looking, I snapped a few photos of him. What the hell is going on with my fetish for widow’s peaks?

Hillbilly, go home!

It was raining this morning when I left the dorm, so I didn't bring the laptop today. So this will have to be quick. Last night--another sleeping fiasco. I think I'm giving up afternoon coffee altogether. Both times I had one, I didn't sleep but 3-4 hrs. I guess the Germans mix heroin in their coffeebeans. Too bad I can't get an afternoon coffee in the morning before classes.

Tonight is a violin recital by a world-class musician, and the buzz in class this morning included the ever-so-American question, 'Do I have to dress up for the concert?' Fuck yes! you're not on a farm, goddamnit! I thought stupid sorority girls liked to shop and buy pretty things. I guess they all left their fancy dresses in the hope chest at their parents' house. Trash trash trash. Thanks for not even trying to make an effort, now Hillbilly, go home! And burn your passport when you get there.

Euro-Franz gets a new handy

One of the many (mis)adventures yesterday was signing up for a new cell phone. I can now be reached at +49.1520.647-9009 while in Deutschland, Euroland (AKA the United States of Europe). To receive SMS is always free, so let your thumbs do the walking! (For those of you in (Fortress) Amerika, be sure to use the international dialing code 011 first.)

I am especially interested in receiving well wishes for 16 years of moderately good behavior. Perhaps I really did deserve the muffin I had with my afternoon coffee. And now that I (finally) have access to wireless, I should be in contact/touch more frequently despite the fact that this language program is kicking me in the head. (But I'll save the bitchy blog posts for later.) For now, bis bald.

Arrival/Departure

We arrived yesterday morning in Germany without too many travel scars despite the simply lovely family that not only tried to take over our seats before we settled on the plane for the next 8 1/2 hours but also proceeded to talk throughout the entire flight. And by talk I mean whine incessantly, slap one another (mostly a mother-daughter ritual), and--as we from the hills say--holler up a storm. When I logged on to the Internet today I saw a headline about some mother arrested for beating her child on a flight in the US. I followed the link just to see if it was Indira Slapsalotta travelling on to the Gulf States (as in Persian and not "of Mexico"). I felt like hollering myself, "If you don't fuggin behave, I'll turn this plane around. So help me, Allah!" But then I'm not too sure if I'd be able to blog from Guantanamo.

Wiesbaden is even more wonderful and relaxing than it was in December. After a painfully short nap, Stephen and I walked the pedestrian mall, eating a hefty sandwhich at Perfect Day. I also stopped at a couple of bookstores just to see what kinds of gift purchases I could make for my professors who made it possible for me to be here for the next six weeks (by writing letters and suggesting I apply to this program). When Chris and Mary returned from work, we walked back into town for Italian. Last night I slept from 11:00pm until about 5:45am. It was a recent record!

Today we plan more cups of coffee, more casual strolling, perhaps some sweets, and maybe a short visit to one of the old thermal baths--a mainstay of Wiesbaden. (The "bad" in Wiesbaden means bath; it was known as a Roman spa town a couple of thousand years ago.) Tonight we head to Barcelona, where our all-too-short vacation goes to a whole 'nother level.

Biomap

Since we'll be losing our home in the next few months, I've been thinking a lot about the places I've called home for the past (almost) 40 years. Here's a little map of where I hung my hat. I'll update it when I get more information organized or feel like expanding some of the stories ... which probably won't be for a while since we're leaving for Europe in 2 weeks. We'll fly to Frankfurt to meet up with our friends, then fly to Barcelona for a week before returning to Germany. Afterwards, Stephen comes homes and I settle in Marburg until the end of August. When I get back, we have the pleasure of finding a new home for the next 2 years ... because I swear on a stack of Bibles that I won't live in Texas after I finish the Ph.D.

Simple Things

It really is the simple things that make life worth living. The complicated shit only makes me mad.

I’ve been spending much more time at the local YMCA. Lately I’m exercising at least five times a week, mostly there but also sometimes in the neighborhood. I’ve even been much more able to engage in the senseless chitchat with the woman behind the counter at the Y. I think it’s funny she wished me a happy fathers’ day and then asked if my father was still alive. Do I not exude the fatherly vibe myself? Am I (visibly) at that age where fathers typically die off?

I’ve been diligently reading since the spring term ended, preparing for the courses I’ll be taking as well as those I’ll be teaching this fall. I’ve read some really hard books. I wonder why all knowledge always comes in book format? To study music, you have to read books about music. To study art, you have to read books about art. I’m beginning to hate books more and more.

I’ve been slacking when it comes to studying German on my own. I’ve only gotten through the first six lessons in the Pimsleur program. Last summer I’d gotten through the entire Russian I course (30 lessons) in the same amount of time and had began Russian II. I hope my dedication comes back once I’m actually sitting in class in Germany next month.

Tomorrow I’m returning all the books I’ve checked out to the university library. I have eleven. And the Pimsleur German CDs. I need to get them back since I’ll be gone when it’s time to renew them online. And when I return, the fall semester will already be in its second week.

Today, the CIA released hundreds of pages of internal reports on assassination plots, secret drug testing, and spying on Americans. That’s nothing: you should see the secret reports I keep on the government.

What’s in heavy rotation on my iPod this week: “North American Scum” by LCD Soundsystem, “Everyman Everywoman” by Yoko Ono w/ Blow Up, “Hammering in My Head” by Garbage, “Girlfriend is Better” by Talking Heads, “Bump!” by Nylon Room, and “Guilt is a Useless Emotion (Mac Quayle Vocal Mix)” by New Order. Maybe I should write a book about it.

Frankfurt am Main

My European life and sensibilities have always to some extent orbited around Frankfurt am Main. On my first trip to Europe in 1991, I had a layover at the airport before heading further east. While waiting for my flight, I called my friend Sascha whom I knew from our East Texas community college band days and who was from this city on the Main River. I'll write more about Sascha later.

When I actually moved to Europe to conduct research for my thesis in 1995, I flew to Frankfurt to begin my six-month excursion. Sascha was working in Köln at the time, so I was entirely lost on my own in this strange city that reminded me so much of my own Dallas--boxy glass skyscrapers and all--but remained totally alien to me. The armed guards at the airport I expected from my first time there. And after getting into the city by train carrying a huge backpack, a duffle bag full of books, and a couple of smaller bags, I walked across the street from the main train station--Hauptbahnhof would become one of the first words of German I learned--and checked into the first hotel that looked acceptable. It was run by some Russians who seemed quite confused that I intended to spend the night. The entire night. My experience at the front desk made much more sense after the sun set: the entire neighborhood literally turned on red lights that because of jetlag I ended up staring at all night; that is, when I wasn't watching the guys on the street below get high. The next day I checked into a youth hostel. After a few days of visiting the museums that dotted the south bank of the river, the zoo, and Jonathan Borofsky's Hammering Man in what seemed to be the business district, I left Frankfurt and took the day train on to Prague.

The following March I retraced my journey back to Frankfurt, hoping that I would get to see Sascha this time. I finally got a hold of him. He invited me to crash at his place for the night, and we went to the Frankfurt Music Fair because he had passes because of his job. I really can't remember now if I spent one or two nights hanging out with him and his girlfriend Ilka, and he doesn't remember either. Regardless, I do remember that he introduced me to Vietnamese food, and he even taught me how to use chopsticks. It became a bit of a joke later when I would come home to Texas while I was teaching in Japan and people would ask me about eating with chopsticks. Replying that I learned to use them in Germany always threw them off.

When my contract in Japan ended in 1999, I intended to move indefinitely to Europe. My friend Ezawa-sensei, whom I was helping translate some English short stories into Japanese, insisted on helping me make my travel arrangements to leave Japan. I asked him to reserve me a ticket to anywhere in Europe--the cheapest ticket--and I would train to Poland from there (I was going to spend about six weeks in Lublin before making more definite plans). My one-way ticket was to Frankfurt. This time, I knew exactly how to get into the city from the airport and where to find a decent hotel that didn't have hourly rates. I felt entirely spoiled sleeping in a human-sized bed and bathing in a human-sized shower after leaving Japan! I spent a few glorious and relaxing days rediscovering the city before heading out east. It was really my first summer in Western Europe and one of the few times I had a pocket full of freshly converted yen.

On this last trip, we went into Frankfurt a couple of times. We trekked along the shops of Ziel Street and spent a few crowded hours checking out the winter market in the Old Town. We also spent a few hours in the bizarrely constructed Museum of Modern Art.

Mainz

The first time I visited Mainz was early March 1996. My guidebook mentioned the Chagall windows at the St. Stephen's Church--some of his last works--so I left my usual base of Frankfurt, deciding to spend an afternoon and night out there. The main train station at Frankfurt, in its strange ability to immobilize me for hours, trapped me in indecision, so I arrived late in the afternoon. After checking into the hostel, I walked about the city of Mainz in search of a church I had no idea how to get to. Assuming that all important churches are in or very near the city center, I headed that way. But I never found the stained-glass windows. Instead, I bought a few postcards with the images for my collection. (I've been collecting postcards since I was ten years old when my best friend Mitzi sent me my first postcard while she was on a family vacation in Mexico.) Vowing to return eventually to see the windows, I returned to Frankfurt the following morning, planning to head to Luxembourg later that day.

On our first full day in Germany, we headed to Mainz to finally see the windows I had sought out more than ten years ago. We had no problem finding the church with the navigation system in Chris's car. We also visited St. Augustine's Church, an ancient Roman gate in ruins, and the winter market.

Heidelberg

The first Sunday we drove about 90 minutes south to Heidelberg to walk through its old town market and climb the hill to the castle. Heidelberg is known for its university--the oldest in Germany--and the roster of important thinkers associated with it: Hegel, Gadamer, Habermas, Jaspers, and Apel. We also saw the site where Hannah Arendt once lived. It's a bit weird, I think, for tourists to use these philosophers as points of interest. I can name a handful of colleagues from my university who would visit this town solely because Hegel walked these streets. I just went to see what I could see, not to do the pretentious "walk of fame" circuit. I swear. We didn't even stop at the university to search for the lecturn where Hegel preached dialectics. (Why do I feel like I need to defend myself...?)

Hildegard von Bingen

Visionary, herbalist, composer, adviser to popes and kings, scholar, theologian, artist, and saint--Hildegard was an early twelfth century nun who spent her life in the villages on both sides of the Rhine River.




We visited a Benedictine abbey in Rüdesheim am Rhein where some of Hildegard's relics are kept and where the sisters still make products according to her specifications. We also purchased a couple of bottles of wine from their Rheingau vineyard: a 2001 Riesling Spatlese Halbtrocken and a 2005 Spätburgunder Trocken.

Later we made it to Bingen itself at the junction of the Rhine and Nahe Rivers to see the historical museum's Hildegard exhibit. Bingen--and really the entire region--was several centuries ago a thriving Roman settlement, so the museum also had a complete set of surgical instruments from those times. There was also a memorial plaque to the "Invincible Sun" Mithra from the ruins--the first one I've seen in person.