Day 1+
Shaved and showered and sitting in an economy hotel room as hot as the surface of
Venus. Writing with this cool pen/pencil that the Metabo folks gave us. The ball-point
pen’s crappy, but the pencil’s kinda cool. We’re supposed to have a buffet
lunch in about an hour.Day 3?
In bed at 12 and up at 6 – oh my. Now on the bus from Cologne to Stuttgart. My
writing looks like I’m still drunk from the night before. The Metabo Powers That Be
[MPTB] say it’s a 4-5 hour trip. Just what my ass needs, more extended sitting. But
it gives me time to expand on yesterday’s topics.
Sitting Next to the Pig
I’m sitting on the 767, waiting to depart Kennedy. Seating is 2-3-2. I’ve got an
aisle seat and the crew is just about ready to seal the hatch and there’s no one next
to me. Huzzah!
Nope, sorry.
Some moke in his 50s come waddling up in a bad suit with his
pants pulled up on top of his belly. He wants his seat. Next to me. He wedges his fat
keister next to me with appropriate contortions, grunts, and farts and settles in, taking
about 125 percent of his seat. Where’s that extra 25 percent coming from? Guess.
Mealtime comes and I’ll give you three guesses about his
table manners. Time’s up. What has he won, Johnny? For a lovely parting gift he gets
a seven-hour flight next to a guy who chews with his mouth open and smacks his lips while
he eats the delectable airline food. The film was Red Corner with Richard Gere.
He’s an American framed and put on trial for the death of a Chinese woman in China
– and not the nice one. After the third hour in the air, I envied Gere his Chinese
prison cell: it was so much more roomy.
The Flight was Shorter than I Thought
We were flying East, so we were heading toward the sunrise, that makes for a short night.
I got about two hours sleep before the crew decided we were in day again and turned on the
cabin lights. The inflatable neck pillow that come in the Metabo care package we got
before the trip worked great – no stiff neck from sleeping sitting up. Lots of
support for the head. Too bad you look like an asshole wearing it.
Before beddie-by, dinner was touted as goulash. They got the
ghoul part correct. It tasted like the living-dead, though I could tell my seat partner
enjoyed the hell out of it from the appreciative noises he made. The goulash came with
speatzels and a roll and for dessert there was some kind of apple stuff. We also got a
tiny bottle of red wine with dinner. How European!
Breakfast was much more disappointing. It was just out of
refrigeration. There was some kind of blueberry muffin loaf and a croissant.
Butt Posters
I knew I was in Europe when I saw an advertising poster of a woman’s butt in a thong
in the airport. I couldn’t tell if it were an ad for a tanning salon or a promo for a
Buns of Steel video. Maybe I should have gone back and examined more closely for
the sake of this report, like for 10 or 20 minutes maybe.
Maxwell & Maxwell, Jr.
Brad [the editor of my sister magazine, Welding Design and Fabrication, and my
erstwhile traveling companion] and I got off of the plane in Germany. I deplaned first and
waited for him. While I was waiting, three German cops ["Mr. Fawlty, don’t
mention the WAR!"] go hustling down the jetway bearing short little automatic weapons
– remember these are the people who invented the Schmeiser machine pistol – and
I remember telling Brad that it was a bad idea to bring that three-kilo chunk of tar opium
with him [just kidding]. Brad came out unscathed and I never did find out what the Gesta .
. . I mean police were after. Maybe there were some unregulated smoked almonds aboard.
We went through Immigration – they just looked at us. We
went through Customs – they just looked at us. Then we waited a long time for a bags.
A long, long, time.
We took the tram from Terminal 2 to Terminal 1 and then a skyway
to the Frankfurt Airport Sheraton. We were supposed to stage at Maxwell’s in the
hotel. We found it and it turned out to be a hotel restaurant. That was closed. We parked
out bags and took turns making pit stops. A closed restaurant didn’t seem right. I
stood guard over the bags while Brad reconnoitered. He came back and told me that there
were two Maxwell’s. Maxwell’s Restaurant [where we were] and Maxwell’s
Bistro. Pretty popular fella, this Maxwell, to get two joints named after him. We retired
to Maxwell, Jr.’s
In Junior’s we found the Metabo crew in their blue denim
shirts. Only Americans. I didn’t wear mine because it was too small – don’t
ask what size it was. We joined the crew in coffee while we waited for the rest of the
editors to straggle in. There were all sorts of delays for group members because of the
weather. One woman [Halle? I’m awful with names. Some say the reason for that is
because the person who can’t remember people’s names is too self-centered. I
don’t care what they say, I’m never at fault.] had to haul ass in a rental car
from O’Hare to Minneapolis to catch a flight because O’Hare was closed. We had
to leave without one member of the crew [Mary Ruth] from Michigan.
The Silly-Hat Lunch in Pittsburgh
Flashback to Pittsburgh. We went from Cleveland to Pittsburgh to Kennedy. We had a layover
in the steel town and Brad and I had lunch at a TGI Friday’s at the airport. All of
the staff were wearing silly hats. The Pittsburgh airport is like the Mall of America with
a landing strip attached.
The Occidental Express
The train from Frankfurt to Koln – that o is supposed to have an umlaut above it and
it’s the only time I’ll use the German spelling – was just like all of
those European train rides you see in the movies: six seats – three facing the right
way way and three facing the other. The route was along the Rhine. Very scenic with lots
of quaint views and castles on hilltops. Not the Mad King Ludwig / Disney Cinderella type.
These were built by tough guys as a defense from even tougher guys. They would have made
Prince Valiant homesick for kettles of boiling lead and cowhides full of oil ready for
flaming. We "ooh" and "ahh" over the first half-dozen. By the seventh
or eighth we’re experts at comparing the points between them. Came to find out that
they weren’t manned by defenders of freedom, or even local nobility against barbarous
invaders. They were built by river raiders who would see some succulent traffic coming
down the river, haul ass down the hill, raid the floating caravan, and then make haste
with their loot back to their fortified digs. Nyah, nyah, can’t get us, we’re
behind eight-foot-thick walls! Go pound sand, yah heinnies! The romance kinda wanes when
faced with the truth. It turns out one massive pile of stone is a posh hotel now. I guess
William the Conqueror has to crash someplace.
The 750-Year-Old Cathedral I Didn’t See
Before we got on the train at Frankfurt, we piled off and made our way through a
seedy-looking terminal. NY’s Grand Central is nicer. This looked like Hitler walked
through as a tike. Our Metabo guide for this leg is Klaus-Peter. We board a bus and K-P
points out that there’s some famous [at least to Germans] ancient cathedral about a
block away. I’m on the wrong side of the bus and only catch a glimpse of a couple of
spires in the distance. Not to worry, seems every dogpatch in the Fatherland has some old
pile of stones – that was lucky enough to have been missed from being bombed to
rubble by B-17s – famous for something.
The bus took us to the hotel, not an inconsiderable distance
away, all along city streets. I guess intraurban highways never caught on in the Old
Country.
Vitalis – It’s Not Just For Breakfast Anymore
Along the way to the hotel, I scoped out billboards. One common one was for Vitalis
breakfast cereal: packed with vitamins and hair conditioner; fills you up with wholesome
goodness and give you more manageable hair. Pity the poor German who comes to the U.S. and
tries a slug of what that stuff is here. I suppose they rub Cap’n Crunch on their
heads in Berlin.
Flic-Flac: Circus Or High-Colonic?
Also saw advertising posters for Flic-Flac. The meaning was indecipherable. The ads
contained images of androgynes doing backflips. It was either for a traveling circus
coming to town or for some sort of over-the-counter enema.
Another poster was designed to look to me like a cross between a
Fillmore West rock poster from the Acid Years and a ’50s rock tour. It was for
something called a Flirt Party. I have no idea what it was: A commercial party where you
told people how cute they were? For some reason I kept thinking that hip-dude friend
Michael Seese would probably enjoy attending no matter what it was.
Loogies In The Bathroom
Now for something completely disgusting. Once I was alone inside my room I began to clear
out the crusty stuff that had been accumulating in my nostrils after breathing 20 hours of
dry air. I ended up with a fingerful of crust and mucus. Yech. I went in search of some
Kleenex in the can when there was a knock on the door. How did I know in Germany?
I quickly tuck my hand behind my back and answer. It’s the
American woman leading the tour. She gives a briefcase full of goodies. I thank her, close
the door and quickly get rid of the gross cargo.
Why am I relating this bit of gooey personal hygiene? Because
later, after I take a shower, I find a dried loogie-smear on the sink. I thought maybe it
was me until I find a booger-flick on the tile by the sink: oogie. So much for Teutonic
hygiene, both on behalf of the depositor and the cleaning staff. I have second thoughts
about the toilet seat being sanitized for my comfort.
The Mystery of the Lights
How universal are light switches? Not as uniform as you think. The room – which is so
small that you have to step into the bathroom to open the entry door – has these
stainless-steel swithplates on the walls with LED pilot lights. The plates are 1.5" x
2". You have to flip those to "arm" the other switches. The bathroom switch
isn’t in the bathroom, they’re part of the general lighting layout. One problem
though is that only light in the bathroom is an 18-watt fluorescent above the mirror.
After several abortive tries, I finally found I had to push and hold the switch to get it
to work. My first attempt was under duress and I spent a few private moments in the dark.
The Lava Room
My room was on the sunny side of the hotel, room 317, and someone left the shades open and
the radiator [radiator? in a new hotel? ah, those wacky Europeans and their steam heat]
set to "Deep Fry." To make sure the ergs were pumping at max, someone had left
the window open. The room was about as bright as the surface of the Sun and about 10°
hotter [that’s in Celsius by the way – I know how to be Euro-chic]. I was beat
from the planes, trains, and autobuses, but I couldn’t have napped if there was a gun
to my head. I would have been like trying to snooze in Yucca Flats 15 minutes after the
Mike Ivy atomic bomb test. Did I mention my room was hot?
So, I showered, shaved, put on fresh clothes, and went to lunch.
A TP Interlude
They use metric toilet paper – or something – in Germany. It’s noticeably
narrower than the home-grown variety. The stuff in the hotel had a perforated surface on
par with an orange grater. Gets you clean, but at what price?
The stuff at the trade show center – Cologne Messe –
looked like recycled newspaper: gray and formless. But it makes sense. Only soft Americans
would want extra-absorbent, quilted, 3-ply, cloud-embossed stuff to wipe our asses.
Which brings me to the bathroom attendants at Cologne Messe. I
had to take a leak and found the Herren’s Room. I opened the door and see a woman
sitting at table inside. Whoops. I thought "Herren" was "men." I check
the international symbol on the door and sure enough, it for guys. This babe – only
in the generic sense, since she looked like a 50-year-old refugee from Gdansk who lived
exclusively on boiled potatoes – is the washroom attendant. Her principle job, from
what I could see, was to sit at the table and collect tips in a saucer and say
"danke."
Some racket.
I couldn’t bring myself to tip the babe for watching me take
a leak. I stiffed her – twice. Just one more nail in the coffin of the Ugly American.
I walked past the "damen’s" room and saw Molly
Johnnymop’s counterpart sitting in there. I wasn’t peaking, the bathroom doors
are propped open. She was drinking a cup of coffee. MMmm farts and caffeine.
It may seem like I’m spending a lot of time on toilets and
bodily functions, but they’re the most striking differences. Besides, it’s no
fun writing about how similar the better points are between Germany and the U.S.
One last note. Toilets in Germany don’t have handles. They
got big square panels installed on the walls above the toilets that you have to press.
See, I told you the differences are more interesting.
Violation of the Geneva Convention
After we’d all decompressed from the travel, we had dinner in the hotel dining room.
It wasn’t exactly fine dining, but it wasn’t pigs at the trough either. The
dining room had the ambiance of a large place where people are fed quickly and
efficiently. How else would anyone eat in Germany? It reminded me of Old Country Buffet
without the booths. The food was immemorable since I can’t remember it at this late
date. What I do remember is the massive amounts of alcohol: pre-dinner drinks, beer and
wine with the meal, and something that may have violated the conventions on the treatment
of prisoners of war: Kirschwasser. Literally it means "cherry water," and
figuratively it will take the top of your head off. I think it’s cherry brandy, but
not like anything you’ve ever had on this side of the Atlantic. It’s a clear
fluid that tastes like Benzine and has the kick of hydrazine rocket fuel. Not only does it
burn going down, it rasps your throut raw and then sows salt in its wake. Reminds me of
the moonshine Granny of the Bevery Hillbillies made: You hold the back of your head as you
take a shot and then steam comes out of your ears. As good as the Germans are at beer,
they could take lessons from Jack Daniels when it comes time for making drinkin’
spirits.
Oh, You Mean "Mein Knopfel"
Back when I made my first abortive attempt at college, I had a one-on-one meeting with my
Creative Writing instructor. This was back in the hippie days of 1970 and this guy looked
like a dark Doug Henning. As we spoke, he asked me the extraction of my last name.
I’ve always pronounced in "no-full," but a lot of people look at those five
short letters n-o-f-e-l and convolute it into "naff-ul," "noe-fell,"
and other variations. When I told the hippie that it was of Lebanese origin, he was kind
of surprised. He had supposed that it was a German variation of Knopf [kah-noff], like the
publishing house. Yeah, I look so Teutonic. Hippie-guy said knopf meant "button"
and the thought my name meant "little button."
While we were having dinner at the Highest Restaurant In Germany,
I was seated across from Klaus-Peter. We began a game at my table about what
everyone’s name meant in German. Now, I thought, I’ll finally see if that hippie
was right.
I asked K-P what "no-full" meant. He looked at me as if
I had asked what 2,4,7 hydroxladine meant in German. The game came to an embarrasing stop.
"I thought it meant button," I said, hoping the hint
would reset K-P’s brain.
Still no response.
"You know, like knopf?" I said, stressing the
"k" the same way you do when you say "know."
The light of intelligence flickered to life behind his eyes.
"Oh, you mean kah-noppff" he said with a Sylvester the
Cat flourish on the last several letters. "Yah, it means buddon."
Thanks. Alright everyone move along, nothing to see here except a
beet-red melon that was once the head of a guy who’s great-grandparents came from the
middle east.
Mr. Free-Ride
About my third week into my job as editor of Gases & Welding Distributor magazine, I
got a cold-call from a PR woman who represented Metabo, a German manufacturer of power
tools.
"Would you like a tour of the Metabo German
facilities?"
"Is it free?"
"Sure."
"Hell, yes!"
I heard nothing else for three months. Long after I’d
forgotten the call – sometimes these things fall through and the firms are too
embarrassed to let you know – I got a care package from the PR firm: A denim shirt
with "Metabo" embroidered above the pocket, a travel bag, a travel alarm, a
four-pack of beer glasses with two of them broken [I found out later that they wanted to
send beer, but US law forbids that – we’re sanitized for our own protection], an
inflatable neck pillow, luggage tags, a small magnetic travel multi-game, and probably
more junk that I’ve just forgotten. All of it was branded in some way with Metabo.
Maybe the trip would come off.
I soon got a call from the PR lady – I don’t remember
her names, so I’ll call her Barbi – telling me that me and my brother-editor
from my sister-magazine [sounds incestuous to me] should get ready to go to Germany very
soon. Yoiks and away!
Now, how does all of this harken back to the title of this
section. Well, there was maybe a four- or five-month lag from the invitation to the actual
departure. After we all arrived in Germany and were aboard the train along the Rhine, one
Goth-clad member of our party, a guy who’s attitude screamed Jewish-New-Yorker let
Barbi know that he no longer held the post of hand-tool editor on American Hand-Tool User,
or whatever the name of the magazine was. He was now a Freelancer [read unemployed and
unemployable].
His brass embarrassed me. He wasn’t about to turn down an
all-expense-paid trip to Germany just because he couldn’t give quid pro quo. Far from
it. He arrived with more baggage and more know-it-all attitude than any six of the rest of
us combined.
Whenever it came to acting like an ass in front of our German
hosts, Mr. Free-Ride was right up front, waving both hands, and going OOH! OOH! OOH!
In the Bowels of the City
One part of our connection to our ultimate destination was by intraurban rail. In New
York, they’re called subways, in Chicago they’re Els, and in Cleveland it called
the Rapid. I don’t know what it’s called in Germany, but it looked and felt like
Charon had put his boat on wheels.
We entered a dank, strangely-lit cavern. Strangely-lit because
even though the light was poor, whatever they were using for illumination hurt the eyes
and made everyone look cadaverous. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see bats –
large, vampirous ones – hanging from the rafters.
Before us was a track elevated on about eight feet of ballast
slag. Was I supposed to roll a rock up the incline forever? Nope, just until the
"train" pulled it. It was painted red and white and had all of the charm of a
Niagra Over-the-Falls barrel after it had clanged down at the bottom of the falls for a
week or two.
Entering it with baggage was as easy as hoisting six bowling
balls through the metal detectors at the top of Pike’s Peak. But, at least the other
riders were surly and looked like they were on their way to 8th Ring of Hell along with
the other Evil Counselors and Sowers of Discord. Aboard were Goths, Visigoths, Hemigoths,
and Gothamites, all looking pissed. Maybe their beerhall putsch hadn’t worked out as
planned.
I rode standing up, trying to keep my belongings from making them
even madder than they were.
Now THAT’s Railroading
Going back to Frankfurt, our troop was booked on a train that was at the other end of the
spectrum from the quiant choo-choo that took us there. We got aboard
The Unattractive American
I’ve mentioned Mr. FreeRide above. For an unemployed guy, he was sure knew a lot,
or thought he did. He was always trying to tell the Metabo people where their engineering
and development teams went wrong and how they should fix things. For instance . . .
One of the sources of pride for the Metabo crew was a new drill
that prevented people from boring into water or eletrical conduit. As soon as the drillbit
hit grounded metal, the drill would stop. Pretty nifty feature for keeping the plumbing
unperforated or drill users unfried. Not for Mr. FreeRide. He saw the design flaw
instantly. What if you were drilling through reinforced concrete and hit mesh or rebar?
Our hosts assured him that they’d taken that into account. Not a good enough answer,
no sir, not good enough at all.
The money-shot for Metabo was a half-day presentation and Q&A
for the we of the press. The head of Metabo was there, the head of Metabo, USA, was there,
Hitler’s dog was there, everybody was there. Yes, it was as boring as it sounded.
Since we’d been on Metabo’s dime for three days, we all quietly sat through the
presentations and took notes like we cared. Then came the Q&A and Mr. FreeRide arose
to the grandstand. First he told Metabo about how their miracle drill worked. Thanks, pal,
we’d never have known. Then he started going on about American constuction
techniques. It wasn’t enough that he told everyone how reinforcement mesh as embedded
in concrete, he had show-and-tell samples. He’d gone out taxi-riding around Frankfurt
or Colongne, or where ever the hell we were – on Metabo’s expense, of course
– until he found a construction site, whereupon he quizzed German construction
workers.
His visual aids included some reinforcement mesh and some curious
little plastic clips. Turns out that the Germans use the plastic clips to keep the mesh in
the right spot in the concrete, whereas Americans just pull the mesh into where it belongs
and depend on the concrete to hold it in place. Three yawns, a nap, and a cup of coffee,
Mr. FreeRide concludes that the Metabo miracle drill will work as advertised.
I immediately sprang to my feet, bussed him on all four cheeks,
awarded him the Legion of Honor, and nominated him for the Nobel Prize in Physics. Well,
no, not really. Instead I gave the back of his head a good glaring. I wanted to stand up,
apologize to the Metabo people and explain that this kind of behavior only takes place in
people from New York.
Pavlov’s Fish
The second hotel in which we staid was both better and worse than the place with the
Lava Room. The Lava Hotel was so utilitarian, it made my teeth hurt. Nothing decorative at
all. It had the charm of a Tupperware bowl and was about as warm.
The second hotel was definitely older, but still not on par with
a four-star place. It’s lobby was kind of "old," and not very big. Kind of
had a hunched-shoulder feeling to it. It had a very bauhaus floating stairway and below
the stairs was a coy pond built into the lobby floor. No actual coy, but lots of
decorative fish from one-inch to about three-inches.
We were going to go out to dinner one evening and I got to the
lobby earlier than the rest of the crew. Killing time, I went to the edged of the tank and
watched the fish. Within a minute, all of the fish were swimming around at my feet. Wow,
neat trick. Then I figured it out. The hotel staff must stand about where I stood and fed
the fish. The finny little guys were waiting for their rations. Sorry fellas, I don’t
have any krill flakes on me.
The Unattractive American Narks on Hans Punchpress
Back at the Metabo plant tour, our hosts were showing us around. We got to see molten
metal poured into molds, the creation of sandpaper, and how a computerized inventory
system knew where all of the boxes of product were in the factory. My heart was racing.
Part of the tour was watching German plant workers do mysterious
things to metal and plastic using even more mysterous machines. We stopped to watch one
artisan pulling levers, pushing buttons, and forcing materials to assume the shapes he
chose. We were all watching this craftsman do his job when I noticed that in a cup holder
attached to his workstation, he had a half-consumed bottle of beer. It as about half-way
down and the bent bottlecap was on top to keep flying chips of whatsit from getting in to
his brewski. I nudged Mr. FreeRide – this was before I realized his high
dolt-quotient – and pointed at the bottle. It wasn’t enough for this ninnyhammer
to appreciate Hans’ thirst-quencher. Oh, no. Mr. FreeRide had to once again make
himself the center of attention by asking our tour guide if it was standard practice for
employees to take beer onto the shop floor.
Some words were exchanged in German between the plant manager and
Hans – I couldn’t tell what was going on since all German sounds like a 2 a.m.
Saturday argument to me – and we were hustled along. Nothing to see here, move along,
move along.
Mr. FreeRide later told the Metabo powers that be that he hoped
he hadn’t gotten Hans into any trouble, but I think it was just another attempt at
Mr. FreeRide to put himself into the center of attention again.
Beer Machines in the Break Room
Germany was the first country back in the Dark Ages – 1516 – to pass beer
purity laws. These people took their stuff seriously. Malt, hops, barley, yeast, and
water. That’s it. No cigar butts, pencil stubbs, snake heads, or smallpox blankets.
Admitedly, they do make fine beer. In fact, since beer is about as more ubiquitious than
mothers-milk, it’s all over the place.
We were given a tour of one of the Metabo factories where they
made a variety of hand-tools we happened to walk by the employee break room. There were a
couple of vending machines, one of which dispensed beer in bottles. How sophisticated. Put
a machine like that in the Ford plant where my old man worked and you’d have people
falling into the horizontal boring mill or sleeping in the johns, well, more of them
sleeping in the johns.
Buying a bottle of beer and drinking it during a break was no
more unusual than sucking down a bottle of Evian back here. However, it did strike we
American’s as unusual. More on that below.
Me and John Henry – Mighty Drilling Men and Forget OSHA
It wasn’t all happy-fun-time on the trip. We often had to sit through sessions
where our hosts from Metabo actually flogged the merits of their products. For instance:
The name "metabo" came from "metal-boring." Seems that
the first company products were drills. They’ve made their name by their quality
drills and have a great deal of pride invested in them. OK by me. Here let’s show you
just how good we are. I’ll need volunteers from the audience.
Our handler, Hans, brought me and two of my collegues – the
men of course – up to the front of the room and passed out three hammer-drills with
carbide bits, a Metabo and two – pah-tooey – other drills. He placed us in front
of three large chunks of concrete and told us to poke a hole through each. I had the
Metabo and wasn’t about to let down my hosts, so I started drilling away with vigor.
Halfway through the six-inch chuck of concrete, I began to wonder
why I wasn’t wearing safety glasses. Back home, there are warnings on packs of gum
about wearing eye-protection. I was once refused entry on a construction site I was
covering for welding products because I wasn’t wearing wrap-around eye protection and
steel-toed boots.
As the drill-dust mounted and chunks began to pop up out of the
hole, I wondered if there wasn’t a middle ground. I’d hate to end up with the
nickname One-Eyed Pete. Saftey? We don’t need no stinkin’ saftey! We’re
GERMANS!
BTW, I won the race and escaped without injury.
I Said Forget About OSHA!
Western Europe has always struck me as a sinkhole for every New-Agey,
protect-the-worker-at-all-costs idea to come down the pike. That’s an impression that
isn’t true in Germany. As we were walking around the Metabo plant I see people
working lathes without eye protection, women operating heavy equipment in flouncy blouses,
and guys working around molten metal wearing sandals. I wouldn’t have been surprised
to see people running with scissors!
Back here, I once met my brother who was doing summer work in the
Ford Foundry Plant. I didn’t recogzine him at first, he looked line one of the Sand
People from Star Wars I – covered from head-to-toe in hard-hat, do-rag, goggles,
filtration mask, overalls, and steel-toed boots. And all he was doing was watching a
machine do the work from a distance of 50 feet.
Maybe the Germans are just more careful.
It’s a Small Country, That’s Why
The standard lane-width on US roads is 12 feet. I don’t
know if it’s metric, or what, but the lanes in Germany seem significantly narrower.
Most of the time we were herded around in one of those tour busses with seats that are
better than the ones on aircraft. This rolling wonderment even had a full sit-down
bathroom and sleeping compartment for the crew. Put up some red flocked wallpaper and
blacklights and it would make a passable brothel.
BTW, no one used the toilet. It was one of those "We know
what you’re going to do," kind of things. I held my water and kept my fudge
packed.
With the size of this rolling palace, it was amazing that it fit
between the white lines. It seemed that the Mercedes passing us on either side – and
99 percent of the cars on the roads were Mercedes – wwere missing us by inches. The
lanes are narrow enough that you can pass the Gray Poupon while going 950 kilometers per
hour [that’s something in the neighborhood of 32 mph, if I’ve done the math
right]. Why such narrow lanes. I asked one of our hanlders and he just kind of shrugged,
like I’d asked him why people have two eyes: Just because.
Continued . . .
