"You must not mention the war, never the war, must not not NOT exacerbate tensions between Germany and Britain at this time of fiscal uncertainty in the Eurozone...and while you're at it, leave the Jews out of it too."
Thus is my preparation for mein very first trip to the Fatherland and if you think careless humour at the expense of one of the darkest hours of Europe's troubled history constitutes a dreadful lack of respect for the sensitivity of the subject you can sod right off because there's plenty more non-PC merriment where that Fawlty Towers reference came from.
Yes, no sooner am I back in Madrid than we are off on our grand Abenteuer across the Alps to a land flowing with...well if not milk and honey then plenty of beer and bratwurst! We've been talking to each other in our best German....accents (well, its all about getting into the spirit of the thing) for the last month and the stage is set for our journey to Frankfurt Christmas markets.
And true to form we are no sooner in the queue for Ryanair discussing the cut and thrust political issues of the day i.e Merkel driving the Euro train all guns blazing into the abyss when one of our party becomes an instant heroine when she utters the thoughtful phrase;
"I mean, what ever happened to not letting Germany take over the world?"
And so it begins. Incidentally, I rather believe Cameron had the same thought last week...
Take off, landing and a couple of hours of sprechensing with a German girl called Teresa later we were in Frankfurt Hahn and were in for a surprise.
Let me clarify; we have not a word of German between us. It was all we could do to stutter out Vier to the bus driver in a tragic attempt to communicate that we would like four tickets to Franfurt centre please (diabolical Michael O'Leary rubbing his hands in glee at his cunning use of satellite airports...airsmallnaturalcoves more like) Thus we were unable to understand any of his furious verbage and gesturing which occured when we hopped on the bus, found no seats, people perched on the steps down to the WC and when we turned around to say "My good man, there is no space for us weary travellers!" what came out was "Ahhhhhhhhhhh?"
"Seeet, seeeet!"
He wanted us to sit. He had a fearsome moustache. And so sit we did. In the aisle of the coach, for two hours into Frankfurt itself. It was like a wonderful hallucinogenic dream and definitely not like being transported. Most certainly not. Why, White Christmas was playing softly on the radio and the lights on the Autobahn seemed almost like the twinkling of Christmas trees. The occasional elbow in the back of the head nonwithstanding, its always nice to try new seating arrangements.
Frankfurt am Main (or Main-hattan given the striking cluster of skyscrapers which give a very New York-esque skyline) has definitely gotten into the Yuletide spirit by going mad on wee twinkling lights and an iciness that threatened to crystalise our bone marrow. Even the Christmas trees were freezing their baubels off. But that did not deter us as we tottered up to our hostel to be greeted with the first clue of exactly what sort of trip this would be.
WOS! World Of Sex! Peep shows daily! Unpronounceable German of a dirty nature!
Granted, the fact that we play Spot a Prozzie for teh lolz on any given Madrileno night should have long ago stripped us of any residual squeamishness about a sex shop next door and to be fair we were most appreciative that the mannequinns were themselves in a holiday mood dressed up like Mrs Claus after half a bottle of vodka and and a twinkle in Mr Claus' eye. But still...
The second clue came as we tottered up to our dorm room. Twas my first experience of a dorm room. I had great expectations of making friends from around the world, of like minded eurotripping individuals...of perhaps sleeping with my passport and euros secreted about my person. What I, nay, none of us were prepared for was Crazy Wolfgang.
Picture it if you will; we're all sitting on bunk beds, planning dinner when the door clicks ominously and He enters; giving the phrase two left feet new and terrible meaning. He is cloaked in weirdness and a fog of cigarette smoke and cheap beer. He appears to be as old as time itself. He raises his head, cocks it to one side and sways at us like a snake charmer.
"British?"
We make no reply. The silence that follows this query is loud yet nevertheless you can hear four young female minds panicking at once. It sounds rather like mice screaming.
"You like this?"
He thrusts a CD case at us, waving it like twas the Stone Tablets and he was Moses. We had to say yes, those plastic things have sharp edges. We were all staring at a pink cover emblazoned with a name resembling Chumbawumba wondering if we could get away with replying "British yes, and we got the damn Yanks involved the last time you people tried something like this so piss off!"
The Great and Terrible Wolfgang then decided to stagger off for a while; in which time some of us ran down and had urgent lawyerly chat with reception and the rest of us wondered about using some chalk to draw a sort of Maginot Line or at least learn to sleep with one eye open.
Relocation, relocation later we were ready to hit the town, lack of German regardless and find a recommended restaurant we had high hopes for. Now the normal setbacks occurred; indeciphirable maps, crazy men headbutting tram signs and jabbering away at us and the like but eventually we rocked up at a dark little tavern with the name "Proletariat" proudly displayed ouside.
Inside we were greeted by a man with the most beautifully done make up I've ever seen in my life. I was tempted to ask where he'd got that just-so shade of Cherry Plum. He wore black and held himself in the manner of kings. For the sake of cultural mick-taking lets call him Fritz.
Fritz let forth a stream of German. We hold our own;
"Veir" we counter proudly; indeed there are four of us, now he must lead us to a four seater table. Easy peasey ja!
I say table, I mean bench of scrubbed dark wood with trestle chairs. The tavern is lit by candle bulbs, there are exposed beams of wood, gingham curtains, eartherware jugs and a hum of chatter in German which lets us know we are in for an authentic night. And so we find that Fritz not only speaks English but can recommend us specialities. I opt for the schnitzel; in poetry speak, I'm feeling the food, not German, no good.
Schnitzel turns out to be breaded chicken and not something like jellied goose livers and it is the first time in the history of comedic writing that such a circumstance has produced disappointment. However the green sauce with it is yummy and germanic and complements the chicken so well its almost like it wants to get it into bed.
But the schnitzel is nothing, nothing (yes I Bold and Italiced) compared to the Apfelwei or apple wine. This substance is served in large stoneware jugs painted blue and goes down a treat. We are asked would we like some soda water with it. We wonder why. Fritz informs us it is to dilute the wine. We look at him as though he has sprouted another effeminately painted head. Dilute the wine? Certainly not. It is then that Fritz chuckles and informs us of an old German phrase "The liver grows with practice." It is then I glance around and note that every table has bottles of soda water surrounding one lone jug. I then stare thoughtfully at our now diminished second pitcher of apfelwei and wonder if this is one of those times when we feel sober as judges until the time comes to get up whereupon we feel dizzy, black out and wake up in French Legion uniform on a steamship to Calcutta.
Dinner comsumer, free chocolate pudding from Fritz om-nommed, bill paid we wander back into the frosty German night to make our way back to our hostel on Kaiserstrauss which we will later come to learn is the vice trade, red light, repent ye sinners centre of Frankfurt am Main.
But to get to that later you'll have to tune in next time where you will find debuachery, political protest, culture, Christmas spirit(s) and much more lurking in the city where any citizen would be proud to proclaim "Ich bin ein Frankenfurter!"
xo
Wednesday 14 December 2011
Sunday 4 December 2011
Franco my dear, I don't give a damn
"Shake, shake, shake señora; shake ya body line!"
Back in the USSR boy...that is to say in Banco de España Metro station where three lads, possibly from Jamaica, possibly taking the piss, are giving the steel drums the beating usually reserved for Rangers fans who, after stumbling the wrong way out the pub, drunkenly find themselves looking at a sign saying Falls Road. Well, would be if the sign weren't covered by a tricolour. There, Harry Belafonte, the Beatles and Northern Irish political homour all in one. Who says you don't get value for money?
Anyway I wouldn't mention the dynamic trio but relentless Caribbean rhythms coupled with a now rare sunshiney afternoon have induced me to just go for it and shuffle out a one-two step while going past them. They love it and Award for Most Dreadlocks gives an extra special drum roll. Fellow metro passengers suspect I may be higher than a kite.
Of course we're back in Madrid!
But all is not well in the Pridelands, Simba. The term "credit crunch" has been given a new and dreadful meaning as a series of unfortunate events conspire to leave us pondering the ultimate "get 40 credits or its strike, yer out" from Cambridge, there is the curious case of the noises in the nighttime coupled with the magically disappearing electricity bills. Roll up roll up folks, see the mysteries of Spanish banking. Watch as we transfer money to Natural Gas, marvel as you continue to recieve notices of payment due!
There's the Virgin Mary perched atop the fuse box we are afeared to take down least the "electric seetiation" gets any worse (blog soon to be available in Ulster Scots). There's the sensation of sheer defeat as we turn our radiators on and don winter coats in the capital of "sunny Spain." One enterprising chappie has scratched the "S" off the tourism board's disgustingly cheery motto leaving the slogan "Smile, you are in pain." Well done that man; its enough to make you want to take your Erasmus grant and run off to Benidorm; sun loungers, Irish bars, expats, you name it, we've got the stereotype! Ah, maybe in the interests of plausible deniability you should all forget I was drawing up this grand scheme.
But not to worry, as Jane Austen said, "Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery!" Or other keyboards and it is on that note that I must draw your attention to an astounding bit of good news and a bit of an in joke!
It all started when I wandered into that famous Starbucks, the friendliest in the world, last week. I had been overjoyed to see their Holiday menu proudly displayed on a cheery green and red background and had at last, seeing as it was now December, decided I could now treat meself to a Toffee Nut Latté.
I wandered in, shrugged off my coat and, like Houdini sauntering out of the audience after they've seen the chest he was locked in crushed under a ton of steel, the response was instantaneous...
"H'Aileen!! Pero, adonde te has escondido? Pues, no importa mujer, que hay?
Aileen! Where have you been hiding? Ah, sure it doesn't matter, what's new?
At once, I was wracked with a terrible realisation! The dear staff of Starbucks hadn't seen me in a month for when my darling relatives came over in the autumn time they brought me a laptop! A laptop to swap with my own poor excuse for an internet-recieving model! One day I'm a regular caffeine addict tapping out entries from my seat in the corner and ordering "lo normal" my usual, the next I've woken up on my bed, still fully clothed, cradling the laptop, surrounded by Stumbleupon, Facebook, Sporcle, Wiki, Imdb, Watchseries and all sorts of unbelieveable internet garbage. I had abandoned my beloved Starbucks! Of course explaining all this requires an advanced level of Spanish or at least the will to communicate so I summoned my best "sorry to have jilted you" smile and uttered;
"Que hay? Pues, parece que hay Navidad! Teneis el toffe nut latté? No lo hubiera perdido por nada!"
What's new? Christmas is here! Do you have the toffee nut latté? I wouldn't miss it for the world."
And so all was well.
Apart from that there's quite a lot to get caught up on! I realise Paris took over from those heady days of Halloween and internet explorature (because I don't trust them thar new fangled Chromes and Firefoxes) and so you missed carving pumpkins (messy fun) and introducing Cambridge Formal hall to our piso (even messier fun, damn international rules) and the realisation that if I won the Lottery I would invite the Cambridge expats of Madrid and environs to a lunch on a Wednesday, then triumphantly tell them all to get the f**k home quickly, grab a bag, I've got us flights, hotels and formal tickets WE'RE GOING TO CINDIES TONIGHT!
Then of course, miss out on all of Thursday, come up smiling on Friday morning, gather those that Erasmus made us leave behind in Cambridge then tell them to get the f**k to College quickly, grab a bag, I've got us flights, hotels and as much free entries with chupitos as possible WE'RE GOING TO SPAIN!
Of course, granted by Sunday there would be a lot of confused, still hungover people making an involuntary exchange pan-Europe with no idea where they are nor why they've woken up cuddling a policeman's helmet but sure, that'd be half the fun.
Lessee, what else...There was the switch on of Christmas lights in Sol square, presided over by not even one token celebrity but a sterling mariachi band, finally realising that "Tienes fuego" means "Do you have a light" not the literal translation of "Do you have fire?" thus stopping my reply of "M'not Prometheus mate" and the visits (plural) to the great Prado museum where I saw Goya, Picasso, Monet, Matisse, Caravaggio, Rubens and much much more and what has now become my favourite art gallery. Mind you I could count the number of art galleries I've been to on Captain Hook's remaining fingers. Reason for my fervent admiration is that I've never been so sure the best way to experience a place would be to wait til 'twas empty, then slide across the vast echoing halls of marble on stockinged feet to Shaggy's Mr Bombastic (the Mr Bean version of course). Superb stuff...
But there I leave you, for I am now watching snow sweep across the UK with an expression of glazed horror, occasionally shaking my head and muttering "No, no, no, no, no" for, though at any other time the seasonal precipitation would be welcome, I swear by all the gods I will NOT be snowed into Madrid on Christmas Day." If things should deteriorate so by the 23rd December (otherwise known as date I flee the Iberian penninsula) Ryanair cancels its flights I have already designed my hitchhiking route from Madrid to San Sebastian to Orleans to Paris to Callais to Dover to Birmingham to Holyhead to Dublin to home. And I promise, if this should happen, I will make a special live blog and keep you all updated and amused this Yuletide season.
Before all that though, there is time to worry about getting snowed into Frankfurt which is our destination this weekend and, if all goes well, my first time in Germany should make for an interesting blog.
xo
Back in the USSR boy...that is to say in Banco de España Metro station where three lads, possibly from Jamaica, possibly taking the piss, are giving the steel drums the beating usually reserved for Rangers fans who, after stumbling the wrong way out the pub, drunkenly find themselves looking at a sign saying Falls Road. Well, would be if the sign weren't covered by a tricolour. There, Harry Belafonte, the Beatles and Northern Irish political homour all in one. Who says you don't get value for money?
Anyway I wouldn't mention the dynamic trio but relentless Caribbean rhythms coupled with a now rare sunshiney afternoon have induced me to just go for it and shuffle out a one-two step while going past them. They love it and Award for Most Dreadlocks gives an extra special drum roll. Fellow metro passengers suspect I may be higher than a kite.
Of course we're back in Madrid!
But all is not well in the Pridelands, Simba. The term "credit crunch" has been given a new and dreadful meaning as a series of unfortunate events conspire to leave us pondering the ultimate "get 40 credits or its strike, yer out" from Cambridge, there is the curious case of the noises in the nighttime coupled with the magically disappearing electricity bills. Roll up roll up folks, see the mysteries of Spanish banking. Watch as we transfer money to Natural Gas, marvel as you continue to recieve notices of payment due!
There's the Virgin Mary perched atop the fuse box we are afeared to take down least the "electric seetiation" gets any worse (blog soon to be available in Ulster Scots). There's the sensation of sheer defeat as we turn our radiators on and don winter coats in the capital of "sunny Spain." One enterprising chappie has scratched the "S" off the tourism board's disgustingly cheery motto leaving the slogan "Smile, you are in pain." Well done that man; its enough to make you want to take your Erasmus grant and run off to Benidorm; sun loungers, Irish bars, expats, you name it, we've got the stereotype! Ah, maybe in the interests of plausible deniability you should all forget I was drawing up this grand scheme.
But not to worry, as Jane Austen said, "Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery!" Or other keyboards and it is on that note that I must draw your attention to an astounding bit of good news and a bit of an in joke!
It all started when I wandered into that famous Starbucks, the friendliest in the world, last week. I had been overjoyed to see their Holiday menu proudly displayed on a cheery green and red background and had at last, seeing as it was now December, decided I could now treat meself to a Toffee Nut Latté.
I wandered in, shrugged off my coat and, like Houdini sauntering out of the audience after they've seen the chest he was locked in crushed under a ton of steel, the response was instantaneous...
"H'Aileen!! Pero, adonde te has escondido? Pues, no importa mujer, que hay?
Aileen! Where have you been hiding? Ah, sure it doesn't matter, what's new?
At once, I was wracked with a terrible realisation! The dear staff of Starbucks hadn't seen me in a month for when my darling relatives came over in the autumn time they brought me a laptop! A laptop to swap with my own poor excuse for an internet-recieving model! One day I'm a regular caffeine addict tapping out entries from my seat in the corner and ordering "lo normal" my usual, the next I've woken up on my bed, still fully clothed, cradling the laptop, surrounded by Stumbleupon, Facebook, Sporcle, Wiki, Imdb, Watchseries and all sorts of unbelieveable internet garbage. I had abandoned my beloved Starbucks! Of course explaining all this requires an advanced level of Spanish or at least the will to communicate so I summoned my best "sorry to have jilted you" smile and uttered;
"Que hay? Pues, parece que hay Navidad! Teneis el toffe nut latté? No lo hubiera perdido por nada!"
What's new? Christmas is here! Do you have the toffee nut latté? I wouldn't miss it for the world."
And so all was well.
Apart from that there's quite a lot to get caught up on! I realise Paris took over from those heady days of Halloween and internet explorature (because I don't trust them thar new fangled Chromes and Firefoxes) and so you missed carving pumpkins (messy fun) and introducing Cambridge Formal hall to our piso (even messier fun, damn international rules) and the realisation that if I won the Lottery I would invite the Cambridge expats of Madrid and environs to a lunch on a Wednesday, then triumphantly tell them all to get the f**k home quickly, grab a bag, I've got us flights, hotels and formal tickets WE'RE GOING TO CINDIES TONIGHT!
Then of course, miss out on all of Thursday, come up smiling on Friday morning, gather those that Erasmus made us leave behind in Cambridge then tell them to get the f**k to College quickly, grab a bag, I've got us flights, hotels and as much free entries with chupitos as possible WE'RE GOING TO SPAIN!
Of course, granted by Sunday there would be a lot of confused, still hungover people making an involuntary exchange pan-Europe with no idea where they are nor why they've woken up cuddling a policeman's helmet but sure, that'd be half the fun.
Lessee, what else...There was the switch on of Christmas lights in Sol square, presided over by not even one token celebrity but a sterling mariachi band, finally realising that "Tienes fuego" means "Do you have a light" not the literal translation of "Do you have fire?" thus stopping my reply of "M'not Prometheus mate" and the visits (plural) to the great Prado museum where I saw Goya, Picasso, Monet, Matisse, Caravaggio, Rubens and much much more and what has now become my favourite art gallery. Mind you I could count the number of art galleries I've been to on Captain Hook's remaining fingers. Reason for my fervent admiration is that I've never been so sure the best way to experience a place would be to wait til 'twas empty, then slide across the vast echoing halls of marble on stockinged feet to Shaggy's Mr Bombastic (the Mr Bean version of course). Superb stuff...
But there I leave you, for I am now watching snow sweep across the UK with an expression of glazed horror, occasionally shaking my head and muttering "No, no, no, no, no" for, though at any other time the seasonal precipitation would be welcome, I swear by all the gods I will NOT be snowed into Madrid on Christmas Day." If things should deteriorate so by the 23rd December (otherwise known as date I flee the Iberian penninsula) Ryanair cancels its flights I have already designed my hitchhiking route from Madrid to San Sebastian to Orleans to Paris to Callais to Dover to Birmingham to Holyhead to Dublin to home. And I promise, if this should happen, I will make a special live blog and keep you all updated and amused this Yuletide season.
Before all that though, there is time to worry about getting snowed into Frankfurt which is our destination this weekend and, if all goes well, my first time in Germany should make for an interesting blog.
xo
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)