The (Mostly Comedic) Highlights: German Bangs & Dierks Do Europe 2016

July 22nd

Detroit, Michigan

We hit the tarmac and switched our phones from airplane mode to find text messages from concerned friends.  We glanced at one another confused, then back to the cell phone to discover news reports pronouncing something of a suspected terror attack that had been committed in Munich a few hours prior.  This happened to be the final destination of the flight we were preparing to board in about 20 short minutes.  We gathered what information we could from scanning the web: the shooting was being described as “acute” terror and three suspected gunmen were reportedly still on the loose, with a high-speed chase underway, and the entire city on lock down.  Though these sorts of things sadly occur daily throughout the world, I couldn’t help but acknowledge the dull ache in the pit of my stomach resulting from the uncertainty that would accompany arriving blindly to a foreign city with potentially nowhere to go.

Nonetheless, after a quick conversation with a German woman at the gate, and few text exchanges with our mothers, we proceeded with our plans.
Twelve hours later, I had laced up my shoes, and was running through the city streets, soaking up the German sun, as I admired fresh produce carts and couples chatting over espresso and cigarettes on the sidewalk cafe.  All was business as usual in Munich.  It was difficult to fathom that a mere half day prior, the couple we’d spoken with at breakfast had been forbade by local Polizei from setting foot on these very streets.

 

July 23rd

Munich, Germany

I suppose someone once suggested getting to know a city by becoming lost in it; we will go ahead and pretend the like is why we did just that; all the while gawking at old brick buildings, adorned with flower boxes on the windows.  We walked and walked until we’d worn fresh blisters into our heels, finally arriving at the Hofbrauhaus for our first German meal.  This authentic beer hall was complete chaos, just as I’d hoped it to be: packed with locals, chants audible throughout, and smelling of liters of bier (and a hint of sweat).  After being advised the entire “wine system” was down (whatever that meant), watching Amelia work her way through a liter and a roast, and offering our struggling server a few words of encouragement on what we learned was his  first day on the job; we set off in search of some grapes.  The search came to a screeching halt, or perhaps a full sprint depending upon how you look at it, as the sky erupted with thunder and raindrops resulting in Storm #1.  Upon entry to the hotel bar, to enjoy some Riesling, Amelia assured me I looked decent.  Moments later, the bartender appeared with a stack of towels that he proceeded to offer me; my loyal travel companion burst into tears and admitted I was in fact, glistening.  The first of many moments I would be envious of that little black umbrella she’d stowed in her purse.

July 25th

Salzburg, Austria

After spending two hours locked in a train car with a dozen and a half elementary school aged Japanese girls, braiding one another’s hair and playing strange games, we hoisted our luggage onto the platform and hailed a taxi: Salzburg, Australia (as Amelia would accidentally proclaim it later that evening).  We stashed our bags in the hotel room, conveniently located in the heart of Aldstadt, and took our new friend Johannes’ advice.  What was originally described as a leisurely stroll up to the Hohensalzburg Fortress proved to be more of a hike.  My hair had long since transformed into Afro status in this 95% humidity and I was embracing it.  Our reward at the top: the most breathtaking view of this quaint city along the river, skirted by the majestic Austrian Alps.  We made our way through the castle, noticing a dark cloud rolling in overhead.  We determined it best to begin our journey back down, but did so far too late.  Halfway down the dirt (now mud) path, we were warned by a couple of British Scout Masters that we “ought wait it out”.  In the words of AD, “it’s officially our first Austrian storm!”

The showers seemed to slightly subside after about 15 minutes and we made a break for it, finding ourselves soaked from head to toe for the second time in three short days since arriving on this continent.  Exhausted and delirious, we forced ourselves to remain awake a few more hours, strolling through old cobblestone streets, taking selfies with Mozart and admiring, in the words of my friend Amelia, “a big ass fountain” and some “old shit”.  We stumbled into a cute little Italian place, where we discovered Austria was indeed a friend to the gluten frei.  I made it through dinner, but only after being ordered to excuse myself from the table and take a quick lap, to keep from drifting off while Amelia captured the European Pokemon.  We resorted back to the Goldener Hirsch where the Pokemon catcher herself, proceeded to break an entire cabinet of wine glasses, on a desperate hunt for the room service menu (which we later found hiding beneath my bag), and finally allowed our heads to hit the pillow for some sleepytime.

July 27th 
Bavarian Alps

Two things we had forbidden ourselves from doing on this trip: referring to the train as the “douche bahn” and talking about Hitler.  On Wednesday morning, we visited his bunkers, not by means of the D-bahn, but instead, a tour bus guided by another new friend: Johanne.

We climbed to the peak and gazed into the alps, dressed in pockets of misty fog; the air was eerie. I crept to the tip-top in hope’s of securing the most jawdropping view, and was warned and threatened by Amelia that she was not about to push a wheelchair across the cobblestones should I fall and break something. From the nest, we made our way down, the steepest hill in all of Germany, to the quaint town of Bertschesgaden, which I’m referring to as the Aspen of Europe.  The evening concluded with our second official Austrian storm, when our relaxing champagne cocktail hour on the dock was quickly transformed into a refugee camp for the boat tour gone awry.  This trip is all about themes (in the event you have failed to notice), so of course the evening couldn’t end without broken glass #2, as I somehow managed to throw my champagne flute into Amelia’s lap.  Cue, sleepytime.

July 28th

Enkenbach, Germany

Train game was on point this day.  Around 6:45pm we arrived in the “infamous” Enkenbach, where my childhood neighbor Amy resides with her husband Marc, and three sons: Tobin, Jonah and Doren.  We followed Amy’s explicit directions asking us to exit the train platform and “follow the dirt path”.  A site, we were, as we stood with our luggage, staring down this path that appeared to lead nowhere, just in time for rain to begin: enter Storm #4 and that damn umbrella.  In the distance, I believed I saw two little blonde heads.  It had been at least three years since last visiting Toby and Jonah; highly unlikely either would recognize me.  At any rate, I waved; they waved back and came darting toward us in their superhero costumes – to the rescue!  In less than two minutes, we had arrived at the Holt Haus, where cousin Shawn was also taking up residence for a couple of nights.  After a home cooked meal of beef stew, and a few lessons in German, Amy put the boys to sleep, while Shawn, Amelia and I headed to our favorite corner gas station, for a few bottles of wine.

The next three days would be spent throwing the football with Toby, watching Jonah make out with his ice cream, and unsuccessfully attempting to make Doren laugh.  We would also pay a visit to Gartenschau in Kaiserslautern; this wonderful concept in Germany where kids can play at the park, while their parents drink beer.  On our final night, I proposed that Amy should ditch her plans for momcation at the spa in Baden Baden and join us in Switzerland for a girl’s weekend. A hard sell that was(not).

July 31st

Zurich, Switzerland

We said our goodbyes and left the boys in Daddy Daycare (aka under the supervision of Marc and Shawn) and made a bee-line for Swiss Country.  We climbed the staircase from the underground platform at Zurich HBF to find ourselves in, wait for it, Storm #5, and surely, our heaviest rainfall to date.  The three of us searched for signs of the street car through muddled vision, before, concluding, “bye felisha, let’s get a taxi”.  Five kilometers and fifty francs later, we arrived at the Sheraton Zurich, with our (unannounced) third guest, and were disappointed to learn that no larger rooms were available.  Being the resourceful women (we claim to be) we pushed the two twins beds together, to form one giant bed. I slept in the crack for two nights; fearful I’d slip through to the floor each time either Amy or Amelia stirred (but never did).

My German phone flashed with Manuel’s instructions to “meet under the big fat ugly angel, next to the clock”.  The three of us glanced up, smiled, and found ourselves in agreement with his description.  We proceeded to tour the city alongside our Swiss friends, which included Manuel’s entire clan: his wife Corinna, his three-year-old daughter, Lavinia and his nine-month-old son, Keanu.  We saw the sights, and enjoyed the occasional moments of comedic relief from Lavinia randomly undressing herself in public and being ejected from the stroller.  We ended the day with a scenic train and small climb to Utilberg, the top of Zurich.  The lake glistened and the green stretched for miles.  We sat for a few moments to absorb it all before heading to the park.  Never one to pass up the fun, I climbed into the swing.  My hips didn’t quite fit into the seat the way I remembered them to, but nonetheless, I pumped my legs back and forth, rising into the air and enjoying the simple pleasures of childhood alongside my new little friends.  By now, nearly sunset; we opted to make our way back into town to consume more things covered in cheese.

Our final day in Switzerland proved to be among the greatest, as we headed to Europe’s largest waterfall, gently perched along the Rhine River.  We shared stories, and sips with Manuel, and apologized for not coming equipped with Gulfstream G6.  We threatened to never return home, but alas, said our farewells, and made our way back to the hotel to pack up our things.  It was at this point that I discovered I’d lost my American sim card, and Amelia proclaimed that I would forever remain “German Bangs”.

 

 

 

For Mom, on Mother’s Day.

A few years back, my mother told me a story about one of the first dates she went on with dad.  She was a college freshman at the University of Houston, and they had planned to meet at the intramural fields early one morning.  Mom awoke hungry, and consulted her mini-fridge, only to find the options slim.  In an effort to quickly satisfy her need for sustenance, she reached for a cold beer.  I’ve never asked this of my father, but can only imagine him to be startled (or perhaps intrigued) upon sighting this raven-haired beauty, strutting toward him, early morning brew in hand, as if it were perfectly standard behavior.

I’ve come to refer to this story as the time mom had a beer for breakfast. I love it so much, because it says nothing and everything about her, all at the same time.

My mother is sassy and stubborn – a lethal combination if you ask me.  A known hell-raiser, who puts her efforts to good use, has something to say about everything, and never falls short of proving a point. Insanely intelligent; “Em’s mom” was known among childhood friends as the human encyclopedia.  To this day, she’s the only person I know who finds pleasure in dissecting electronics, simply for the sake of understanding the reassembly process. To deem her independent would be an understatement of the highest degree.  Aside from tending to the family automobiles; she’s always operated under the “do it myself” motto.  A master of mending wounds, both of physical and emotional nature; she’s prevented many an emergency room visit. She’s everyone’s rock, executing daily with grace under pressure, detouring the anxious from fear and worry. Rarely on-time for anything, she’ll always make time for those she loves. Her seemingly serious exterior (or RBF) does not overshadow her giant, genuine heart.  She lives without regret, and hasn’t for a moment, refrained from setting goals and chasing dreams (not even after thirty years of managing the chaos that accompanies raising four children).

Often, people tell me I remind them of her.  When they do, I like to to picture her on that day in ninety-seventy-something; a young version of the awe-inspiring bad-ass I now call Mom.  Truth be told, there’s no individual I’d rather exemplify.

To the most incredible woman I know – I love you, Mom.  Happy Mother’s Day.

The Difference A Year Makes

Two-thousand-fifteen.

It was a warm, sticky night in Napili.  I gazed out from the lanai, nervously running my fingers through a humidity-induced afro, as I contemplated the prospect of moving to Seattle.  Much of the concept scared me: departing a job I’d accepted a mere eighteen months prior, bidding aloha to friends I’ve come to consider family, and a place I’ve come to call home.  I babbled to my mother for quite some time through the phone before she piped in.  Although she understood my reservations, she left me with the handful of words needed to bring me to a decision:

“You’re kind of a risk taker.”

Four weeks later, I disembarked the plane at SeaTac to find my name scribbled on the back of a Cheerios box, and a familiar face peering out from behind it.  Randy and I proceeded to drag my five, hardly mobile, suitcases across the Skybridge.

Just like that — Seattle was home.

Shortly thereafter, I traded my bikini for a pair of boots, and my beach tote for a hiking backpack.  I mastered the art of riding public transportation, and gladly welcomed grey skies and relentless precipitation in place of cockroaches and centipedes.  I cultivated an interest in Washington wines, and Winter sports to keep busy during the months lacking any sunshine.  I shed my tanlines, along with a dress size.  I learned to accept the fact that slippahs could not been worn year-round, and that Lululemon tights did not suffice as cold weather gear.  I discerned that I had once again, found myself in good company.  I made a conscious effort to find the good in all things, and did so (most of the time).

So, what difference does a year make?

In my opinion, a heightened sense of adventure, a surer sense of self, a more thorough understanding of what makes the good people great, and how to go about surrounding myself with them.

I suppose, as it pertains to 2015, I’m a believer that “if it scares you, it might be a good idea to try” (Godin).

Piece of Mind

What puts you at ease?

For me, it’s Van Morrison.

It’s tapping my foot to the beat of Brown-Eyed Girl as daddy drums the steering wheel of his old-school Beamer, barreling northbound on El Camino Real.

This is my song.

The warm breeze wrestles wispy strands of hair, obstructing my big brown eyes from sight.  A smile creeps across my face as I smooth the wrinkles from my khaki skort, all the while clicking my white Sketchers against the floor.

Of course, we are headed to Olympic Driving Range, where we will proceed to hit a couple hundred golf balls before dusk invades the blue summer sky.

I stand corrected. Rather, I will hit a couple hundred golf balls.  Dad will not hit one.  He will, however, grab that damn seven-iron and swing it about five-hundred times as he stands behind me, observing.

At some point, Dad will lean in and yank the bill of my black Cobra hat, stating, as if, for the first time,

“Em, you hit the guy in the cart picking up range balls, I’ll take you for a Slurpee on the way home.”

I giggle, well-aware that regardless of whether I manage to succeed: the Slurpee is mine.

Daylight is now rapidly escaping us, and my hands are growing raw.  Dad proclaims that I must end the night with a good shot.  A few attempts go awry before I succeed.

At last, I turn to daddy and shrug my shoulders.  He says nothing, but smiles, and motions me toward the parking lot.

Here we are, again, cruising.  I clutch my Coca-Cola flavored Slurpee tightly between my tiny, tired hands, inevitably suffering a brain freeze.  My eyes begin to grow heavy as the sounds of sweet rock ‘n roll lull me to sleep, sinking deeper into the seat with each breath.

I don’t know that I’ve ever felt more at peace as right here and now.  In an effort to make sense of it, these simple words come to mind: “folks are usually about as happy as they make their minds up to be” (Lincoln).