Frankfurt

On our journey to the Oktoberfest celebration we had an extra day to hang out in Frankfurt, Germany. 

We flew in on a loaded 747 and were surprised to find a short line at border control. The passport agent was chatty and asked us why we were stopping in Frankfurt. Not in a “what is the purpose of your visit?” tone - more intimating “why in the world would you stop here?” 

He went on to explain that most flights from the US used Frankfurt as a hub where travelers would transfer to another flight to a more popular destination. He complimented our sun tans, welcomed us warmly and waved us on through to the vacuous luggage arrival hall. Our bags were easy to find as they traveled around the desolate carousel. 

My son, Tyler, met up with us later in the day and Kim did some research to find an entertaining activity. Options were limited so we settled on the half-day Rhine river tour.  The marketing itinerary outlined 6 hours of adventure through the Rhine Valley and the pictures of castles, wineries, and restaurants were compelling.

We arrived at the tour office 15 minutes early as instructed where we stood on a sidewalk for 45 minutes with some other people waiting for something to happen. 

Public restrooms are extremely difficult to find in Germany. If you are lucky enough to find one they usually require exact-change in coins. I asked the tour office where I could find one and they told me to go to the hotel about 2 blocks away, walk past the check-in desk acting like I belong there, make two left turns, down some steps, etc. etc. 

The tour operator had miscounted and it turned out that the bus was too small for the Rhine Valley group. So they pulled us aside, introduced us to our driver, and put the three of us in a sedan. 

Our driver explained to us that he was new and he didn’t know where we were going so he needed to follow the bus. We made our way through the streets of downtown Frankfurt on our way to the famous Autobahn (the hi-way with no speed limits). Our sedan followed the tour bus very closely so that no other cars could cut in and separate us.

I couldn’t see anything in front of us aside from the back of the tour bus, but as our speed increased I figured out that we were zipper-merging onto the Autobahn.

On cue - our driver delivered his scripted comments “Here in Germany we have no speed limits on the Autobahn. As a result, our drivers are skilled and there are no accidents”.  Accelerating through 100 mph with a tour bus inches ahead of us - the brake lights suddenly came on and we swerved out of our lane, through the next lane and skidded on onto the gravelly shoulder. Before our driver could recover another car took our place immediately behind the tour bus. For the next 15 minutes we surged, swerved, and nudged our way back into position. 

The brake lights of the bus were about eye level to me in the sedan’s passenger seat and for the next hour the focal point of my universe alternated between glances at the speedometer and those lights. 

Eventually we could see the Rhine river to our left as the road coursed along its west bank. On the far side of the river we could see some mildly interesting castles. Our driver called out the names of the castles as we passed - along with a short, scripted phrase describing something notable about them.

Almost two hours after the time we arrived at the tour office we reached a small parking lot beside the road. We were told to get out and wait. It turns out that our harrowing ride in the sedan constituted the first part of our scenic tour.

We stood in a parking lot for probably 20 minutes. No restroom for miles. There was a statue of some guy beside the parking lot - and it turns out this statue was part of the tour. This was at a time shortly after a movement in the US decided that we should tear down any statues of people who ever owned slaves. I decided to fill some time on google to figure out if this guy owned slaves so I could make some quippy comment. It turns out that Germany didn’t really do slavery the same way the US did. In fact, german colonies in the confederate south were opposed to slavery (see Wachovia North Carolina). This observation is based on 5 minutes of google searching - so I wouldn’t use this fun fact in an intellectual dinner conversation. 

I later mused to myself that statues of people in Germany might be worthy of a tour stop because every time they lost a war the latest batch of statues got taken down.  I just thought that up… I’m not really a student of history in that way, so be careful repeating it as some kind of factual observation.

The next phase of our 6-hour Rhine Valley tour was the “river boat cruise”. It became apparent that we were standing in this parking lot with a statue and no restrooms waiting for the neighborhood ferry to come by so we could clamor down a rickety walkway and jump aboard. This ferry boat was doing double-duty getting people home from work/school and serving as a “river cruise tour” boat.

The ferry stopped for less than a minute and we were hurried onboard by our guide. He stayed ashore so he could drive to meet us at the other end. As the boat pulled away he shouted out the name of the stop where we were supposed to disembark. I wasn’t sure I heard him clearly and shouted for him to repeat it and he did. 

Even though we paid full fare for our tickets on the ferry - the restroom still cost .50 euro. Based on my experience - there are very few .50 euro coins in circulation in Germany. No-one ever had one when I asked. And the machines don’t give change. Obviously they could - but they don’t. It is a racket. The same country that can design and build Mercedes, BMW, and the worlds most advanced pharmaceuticals can’t or won’t deploy machines that can make change for a toilet.

If you are going to Germany for a visit, I recommend that you hoard as many .50 euro coins as you can carry. Those that you don’t use you can sell to other tourists for a steep premium.

As we boarded, we were given a sheet of paper that served as our tour guide during the “cruise”. As we passed by the same castles in the reverse order that we just saw from the car - the descriptions on the paper were the exact same words our driver had memorized and shared with us.

We enjoyed a delicious German beer and took some pictures from the top level of the boat. We had been separated from the bus people when they put us in the sedan. They were now sitting nearby but we hadn’t really interacted with them. 

I had finally started to relax when we realized that we should pay attention to the upcoming stops so we got off at the right place. We glanced at the other group and assumed that we could follow their lead - but they were drinking and having a great time and I saw no evidence that they were paying attention.

Kim wanted me to go ask them which was our stop, but I told her that I knew we were supposed to disembark at Ass Man’s House. The other’s must have heard me say it because they all got quiet. Kim was startled and said “Stop it. You are embarrassing me”. Being fairly confident that the guide told us to get off at Ass Man’s House - and also being fairly confident that the other group had no clue where we were going - I repeated myself in a loud voice so that the others would hear “We are going to Ass Man’s House”. I heard some giggling from the other table and Kim was not amused at my lack of refinement. 

Five minutes later…

I was redeemed... Sort of.

Mayan Enlightenment

Our swanky cruise through the Panama Canal was deep in the heart of Maya civilization. Passing through Chiapas, Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, etc. We had a free day coming up and it looked like we would have about 7 hours to explore.

Kim and I were in luck. There were several tours listed in the chic catalog that Liane, our travel agent, had arranged to be delivered to our cabin along with a posh tray of welcome wine, stinky cheese, and chocolate mints.

I brushed the cracker crumbs off of the cover and we browsed the list.

The first option was a grand tour that would journey deep into the heart of Maya. We could visit extraordinary sites that are accessible only via multi-day-donkey trek or helicopter. Since the ship was only in port for 7 hours - there wasn't enough time to get to the helicopter pad - so a private charter plane adjacent to the ship's port would be waiting to whisk us away.

We read on...

The expedition would reveal the secrets of the universe and the very meaning of life. Also noted - a session that would reveal how the 2012 Mayan-end-of-the-world debacle was a misunderstanding caused by illiterate Americans who simply didn't understand the Mayan word for "end of the world".

We were intrigued. 7 hours. Private plane. Meaning of life. hmmm....

The price for this excursion was literally more than my entire first year of college tuition, room, board, and beer money. Literally.

The further we read down the page - the more affordable the tours became.

We got to the last item. Page 2. Back of page 1. Almost missed it. Tequila Tasting Tour - $49.

We discussed the options. Narrowed our choices down to two. Mayan Meaning of life or Tequila Tasting tour. We discussed the pros and cons of each... and quickly reached our decision.

The bus to the tasting tour was hot and crowded and the trip was long. We rode with expectant anticipation. A once in a lifetime, grand exit, experience of rare tequila tasting. We had visions of strolling through agave fields surrounded by streams and highlands with plumes of volcanic gas rising against a brilliant blue sky. We convinced ourselves that we made the right choice.

As an added bonus with our tour... during the long ride our local know-it-all tour guide regaled us with the story about how foolish we were to believe the 2012-Mayan-end-of-the-world business. This lecture must be included with all of the tours. He parsed words and condescendingly explained how we were all dopes who mistook the "end of a phaaaaaaaazzze" for "end of the woooorrld".

The bus came to a stop - double-parked in the middle of a hustling and crowded street near a town square. We were ushered off the bus amidst a sea of honking cars and delivered into the vortex of chaotic street vendors shoving all kinds of stuff at us. On the far side of the crowd, I saw our tour guide arguing with the owner of a liquor store / cafe. He slipped him some cash and the argument ended.

We made our way through the swarm.

After some time, the rest of the group made it into the building and we were led to the tasting room.  I don't think the owner was expecting us and there was a scramble to get tables, shot glasses, and tortilla chips set out.

The owner greeted us and explained that we would be treated to three shots of various tequilas for our tasting pleasure - followed by a final taste of the highest quality, most exquisite offering.

Three shots turned into about 10 and the group got lively. Some silly games were organized and a haphazard margarita-making contest was held.

It was almost time to get on the bus and head back to the ship - so the liquor store owner quieted the group and made his announcement that the time had come to bring out the good stuff. He disappeared behind a wall and emerged with ceremonial grandeur and presented the prized libation.

We enjoyed a single taste of it, endured the street vendor gauntlet, and slept on the bus ride back to the ship.

Walking back onto the ship our group was jovial and enlightened. I saw the group returning from the private plane tour and they seemed somber and circumspect. Yikes. I don't want to know what secrets of the universe they uncovered. I can just wait until the end and find out.

On reflection of our experience, I shared some details with some friends back home. It turns out that you don't have to make an arduous trek thousands of miles from home in order to reach our state of supreme tequila enlightenment.

Dear readers, you are all in luck. My friends Greg, Joe, Brian, and Marci were able find the rare pinnacle of fine tequila

in Boner Springs, Kansas.....

or the tiny village of Paola, Kansas...

or even in a state-run Utah liquor store...

The End of My Posse

In a previous entry, I shared how a posse formed around me in response to a threat from my new nemesis.

A few days passed and not much happened on this front. Morrie #1, Morrie #2, the other guy, and I would smile and nod as we passed each other from time to time. Some awkward moments of deciding whether to stop-and-chat or keep moving. I always kept moving. I always had a book, meal, drink, nap, or Kim waiting for me.

My nemesis alienated everyone on the ship and spent his time alone. Whatever inner-demons were tormenting him that night at dinner must have continued to damage his ability to connect socially.

Meanwhile, other cliques were forming. Regular groups started gathering around the pool, the bar, the card room, etc.

I wasn’t participating in any of this socializing. My agenda was set and I was content.

One member of my posse, Morrie #1, approached me one morning. “Ummm.. hey… Bryan… there is this group who meets in the pool every afternoon. Ummm… you really should maybe come and hang out… we haven’t seen you around much… these are really good guys … and, hey, one of them works in the same field you were in. That would be good, right? You could meet him, right? I can introduce you...you know… I think it would be good”

My complacency was leaving my posse without a core and they wanted to merge with the other posse. It was very nice of him to let me know and invite me along. I smiled and said “Sure, that would be great. I’ll watch for you guys”.

Over the next couple of days, Morrie would shout out or wave or point the other guy out so I could go introduce myself. Out on the deck, in the showroom, across the dining room. It never really was a good time for a meet and greet. I didn’t recognize the guy – so I was pretty confident he didn’t work at the same company I did. I assumed I would eventually meet him.

The day finally came. Kim and I were on the upper deck reading and the leader of the other posse was in the pool by himself, waiting for his buddies to arrive. He shouted up to me and summoned me to join him in the pool for a drink. So, I kissed Kim good-bye, took my beer and headed down to join him.

We chatted a bit. Talked boats, healthcare IT, sports. When the subject turned to football, a voice, Long Island accent, from over my left shoulder said “I’m an ice hawk-ee guy myseff…”

A new guy, Fightin’ Mike, had silently joined us. I hadn’t noticed him when he sidled in.  He went on to lament how they have ruined hockey by limiting the fights and back in his day it was a better game and when he played he was known for getting into fights. I sized him up and he was a pretty tough looking guy. Possibly been in a lot of fights. The way he talked I thought maybe he played in the NHL about 50 years ago. It’s possible. So, I asked him “Did you play?”

Naw, I don’t play – but I got da package. You know on TV. I get all da games. And I watch ‘em all too. I tell ya – the game has changed over da years. Boy, it has I tell ya.” Staccato Long Islander accent where the cadence of the delivery surges and the emphasis rises and falls.

The guy goes for a round of drinks, leaving Fightin’ Mike and me to chat. Others are trickling into the pool and forming a semi-circle. The guy comes back with a neon-green looking concoction that he hands to Fightin’ Mike in the pool. It must be his regular drink.

Morrie is watching me from his lounge chair where he is pretending to read a book – but really just watching to see if the two titans of the HealthCare IT industry are going to hit it off and officially merge posse’s. He gives me a nervous smile and “thumbs up shrug nod” gesture.  A question more than a statement.

Fightin’ Mike is now center stage and leading the conversation. All the guys are listening to him and glancing at me to make sure I’m still engaged and paying attention.

As with many group-of-guy-discussions-over-drinks go – the topic eventually headed south. Below the belt. It took me awhile to figure out what everyone was talking about because the euphemisms the older guys used for private parts and such were not familiar to me.

“You know… da ting about deese cruises… you know da ting that I don’t undustand is… why do they want to spend so much time on the downstairs stuff? I can’t keep her away from my privates! Enoughs enough already. Boy, I tell ya.”

Chuckles and “Here! Here!” toasts from the guys. Glances my direction from time to time to see if I’m still onboard.

These conversations – let’s call them “locker room talk” – started for me on the playground at a very young age. We would gather around and talk about the Rat Patrol TV program, Spider Bikes, The Chiefs… eventually girls. As the sessions played out – we all had questions and we knew nothing, but we thought the other guys knew something. So, we threw out some made-up thing to see if another kid takes the bait and offers up actual information.

We got older, we eventually learned a few things. The gatherings continued at all ages, yet we never learned everything. The “downstairs stuff” has always been mysterious, exciting, and a thing to aspire to more of – not less! What is wrong with these guys?

Now I found myself standing in the pool contemplating my fate– I'd been accepted into this circle - yet I was straddling the past and my future. I understand the cruel biology things that will happen to me if I’m lucky enough to live long. But not now. Not yet. I’m not ready.

My moment of contemplation was interrupted and I was jarred back into the moment by a sloshing, splashing sound next to me. I looked down and saw neon green clouds dissipating in the water, swirling around my leg.

Fightin’ Mike was thrashing around trying to lift himself up onto the ledge of the pool. We were in about 3 feet of water – but he over-estimated his ability to maneuver himself into position. His left hand was flailing and grasping for something to hold onto, water was spurting from his nose and mouth, and his right hand held his drink – which was bobbing below the surface of the water. Ice cubes and neon green liquid escaping into the pool.

He got himself situated. The other guys grimaced and glanced my direction to see if I noticed that Fightin’ Mike was casually sipping faint-green pool water with no ice cubes.

“Hey, guys, I gotta run. Kim is back in the cabin … and maybe she is still wearing her bikini <wink>”.

Healthcare in Costa Rica

During a cab ride in Costa Rica, our driver took time to point out some highlights around his village. He took us slightly out of the way to show us the local hospital.

I asked him if the government pays for healthcare in his country. He was confused by my question. I repeated the question, a bit slower. And I pronounced government as “gu-born-ment” because I thought he might understand the question if I imitated an accent.

“No senor, the government does not pay. It is free!”