I have alot of trouble being in the right place at the right time.
It usually has nothing to do with me, or my efforts to do well. It's simply the Unfathomable Forces that Govern Our Universe (UFGOU) paying undo attention to fucking with me: I was a soldier during wartime (right time), but served in the only heavy division in Europe not to fight (wrong place); I spent a long weekend in Berlin (right place), but couldn't get there until two years after the wall fell (wrong time); I'm writing this here (wrong place) and now (wrong time), and not drinking in a Munich beer tent during Oktoberfest (right everything).
But for the first time in a long time, the UFGOU smiled upon me as loyal wife Lady Lethal and I spent 10 days with family in Germany.
The primary mission was to serve as the godparents to our niece, now about 15 months old. Lady Lethal's brother and wife were getting irritated over the baby's lack of christened status, and we finally got it together and got ourselves over there.
If you've never flown to Europe, it's a long flight. If it's been a while since you last flew to Europe, it's longer than you remember. Alot of Frankfurt airport is new and shiny, alot is old and smelly, most of the rest of it flows between the two, and about none of it is open at 5 a.m, when we got in. The only people around seemed to be an inordinate number of bathroom attendants. What was odd was that the number of bathroom attendants in no way reflected the actual cleanliness of the bathrooms. We took a pic of ourselves looking quite haggard that we find funny but will nonetheless not share.
The German border police were nominally dour but well within predicted norms. Absent were the security teams I remembered, with one man with an MP5 and a sidearm, and a kamerad with a sidearm and a German shepherd. Instead were uniformed kids with pistols who managed to both be highly visible yet not actually move around much. They must train for that. Anyway, the unamused chap who stamped my passport gave me the first exposure to sustained spoken German I've had in years, so it was a good intro for the next few days.
Got our connecting flight to Amsterdam, which from Frankfurt is akin to getting the shuttle from JFK to Hartford. Lady Lethal, me, and two dozen working stiffs in suits. Nice suits, but shabby shoes. To a man. I'll have to explore that more later.
Schiphol airport in Amsterdam is cleaner, brighter, far less smelly, and an all around better space than Frankfurt's. Thumbs up. Minor quibble though for the powers that be: do please reconsider the recording that implores in a caring, sing-song, female voice to "mind your step". I heard it about every 6 seconds when I was within 100 feet of every conveyor-belt sidewalk. After the 6 or 700th time, I got it. Thanks for looking out for a brother though.
My wife's brother and father picked us up and we made our way to the house, which is just over the border into Germany. Not that there's a border anymore. It's not even delineated in any obvious way, beyond a smallish sign. Little different from the "Connecticut Welcomes You" signs hereabouts, and that's kind of frustrating in its entirely anticlimactic, pedestrian manner. Go all the way there looking for good pics and mild adventure and it looks like rural Connecticut- even the signs. Only thing missing was a Home Depot and a Wal Mart.
The village where we stayed is outside Kleve , in the northwest corner of the country. Saw plenty of Kleve and environs. It and the surrounding towns lie on what the regional tourism marketeers promote as the Via Romana, an old Roman road that is still in use. The road connects all these towns and suburbs, and has done so since those towns were Roman garrisons. There's a fair amount of museum displays, signage, and and ancient burial mounds to make it quite an interesting region.
And that Roman heritage is not limited to the east side of the Rhine. Nearby Nijmegen and Arnhem in the Netherlands also promote their Latin history. The Museum Het Valkhof in Nijmegen devotes a significant amount of its space to ancient art and artefacts. And let me add that America by no means has a monopoly on unruly children. The Het Valkhof was inundated with some sort of field trip from a local school, and unsupervised guttersnipes abounded. But we managed to enjoy ourselves despite the unceasing hand-under-the-armpit farting noises and relentless giggling.
Arnhem too had its share of ancient museums and curios, but we opted instead for the touristy, expensive, pungent yet thoroughly enjoyable Openlucht Museum. We didn't get tired of seeing all the nifty windmills of all sizes and function, working shops and trades, and the extra-yummy yummies from the bakery. For more recent events of historical import, we located the Airborne Museum as well as the Frost Bridge, better known as "the bridge too far".
And of course no trip to Europe would be complete without an obligatory visit to the local castle. Castle Moyland is an old fortification that is now an art gallery, but in its checkered past has served as vacation spot for Voltaire and headquarters for the British 3d Infantry Division.
We finally did get around to having a christening- remember that? The reason we were there? The local church was fairly unremarkable as such things go, and only about 130 years old. It had been spared major damage in WW2, which is remarkable because we saw a photo of Kleve proper the morning after a serious bombardment. From the view of an RAF recon plane, the city looked like 10,000 blackened toothpicks scattered and piled around a few scorched bits of masonry: beams from homes and buildings clinging to a few standing stone walls and chimneys. Doubly creepy was that town landmarks are readily visible- kind of like having a picture of Hiroshima the day after with an arrow pointing to a pile of rubble saying "you are here".
As it happened, the baby was christened on September 11th. The significance of the date completely escaped me until the priest's sermon (is that the right word?) before the actual ritual. My German is fair on my best day, but from what I could understand at the moment and from what I can recall today, his piece was rather stirring. He described the September 11 attacks in some detail, and tied them into the atrocities in Beslan. The running theme of course was children, and how important it is for Christians to continue bringing their children to Jesus, and involving them in the religious community, and that because our civilization values our children as we do, will ultimately prevail over terrorists. He had alot more on this theme, but when he said it it wasn't at all cheesy- believe me at that moment, in that place, it was moving.
The ensuing festivities back at the house saw my father in law and I enjoying some Cohibas (note to eavesdropping government agency: I absolutely did not bring any contraband back with me), lovingly sipped with Tucher hefe weizens and later, a smooth Erdinger pilsner thanks to good neighbor Tobias. Tons of food, tons of drink, music, dancing, and general frolic. These are primarily Poles, remember, who do not celebrate with one drinking hand tied behind their backs. One new experience was a thoroughly disagreeable Bulgarian spirit papa brought from Poland. Not sure what in the Bulgar character compelled them to create not simply a potent brew, but a spiteful one, but the lesson is clear. Safety tip for loyal readers: if it originated in Bulgaria, keep it out of your mouth- that counts double for liquor.
Although the weather soured on us and we didn't make it to Amsterdam, we weren't that disappointed. Everything else came together in a pleasant, memorable, and refreshingly uncomplicated manner. We balanced family stuff with nerdy tourist stuff pretty well. And somewhere in there I turned 33.
Right place, right time.
We will plan to go a little later next time though- we flew back 2 days before the first keg was tapped for Oktoberfest.
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