Cosmic Porcelain Prank

One of my favorite events of travelling with first-time visitors to Italy is when they go into their hotel bathroom and come out with a puzzled look on their face. With somewhat hesitation, they ask, “What’s that thing beside the commode?”

The answer to this question is easy: “It’s a bidet.”

But that just dodges the issue, so they have to ask, “What is it for?”

Now that is a delicate issue. There’s hardly any polite way to answer that question except maybe to say, “To wash your…” and let them fill in the blank themselves.

A second later, their brain does just that and a big smile spreads across their face, as if they have suddenly been let in on one of the secrets of the universe.

The bidet always leads to a lot of other questions to which I never know the answer, such as, “Where did they come from?” “Who invented them?” “Can you get them in pink?”

Whatever, the final effect is that the person always seem to now enjoy being in on such a delightful secret. The subject comes up again and again during the trip, always with a big smile on their face, a smile that someone gives away that they indeed tried the thing out in a private moment.

Nasal throw rugs

Several years ago, I had a colleague who was known for one highly distracting characteristic: long nasal hairs. Those hairs sometimes stretched halfway down to his upper lip. I always asked myself why his wife didn’t do something about it. But that may have been a lot to ask for. Rumor had it that she didn’t have much to do with him because he was a chronic womanizer. She simply let him provide her with a nice house and life, and let him do whatever else he wanted as long as he kept up his end of the financial bargain.

When we had staff meetings, I often had trouble concentrating on what our boss was saying because of those long hairs. I had a barely suppressible urge to jump across the table, pull out a pair of nasal hair clippers, and go to work. Of course, I simply had to tolerate the situation.

Instead, my mind busied itself with all the things someone could make out of those hairs. For example, a sweater for his wife’s Chihuahua. Or a pair of net stockings for her. The fellow was nearing fifty and sported clearly salt-and-pepper hair, including those nose hairs. That opened the option of sorting the hairs into piles of white only and black only bunches, and weaving together white stockings for Monday and black stockings for Tuesday, or the opposite. It didn’t matter as long as the hairs got used for a good purpose.

The hairs were also so numerous and dense that they could have been used to make even larger items such as salt-and-pepper throw rugs for the bathroom, or Holstein-patterned living room curtains, or polka dot men’s underwear, even though I suspect they might have been rather scratchy.

Even though I haven’t seen the fellow for 9 or 10 years, I often think about those hairs. They were simply too real and too good (or bad?) to forget. In the depths of winter, I even wonder whether those hairs might have made wool-warm socks. I should have asked the fellow to save up a couple of bags for me to weave together.

Louder than...

One thing I miss here in Germany are the rip-roaring thunderstorms that I grew up with. Those storms offered a little bit of everything: loud and rocking thunder, lightning and its cracking sound, wild wind, rain, sometimes even hail. That is not to say that we do not get thunderstorms here. We certainly do, but they are milder and generally softer in sound compared to the ones in the South. Tornadoes are also relatively rare here. Only a few are recorded each year in comparison to the numerous ones found throughout the States. In other words, storms are much safer here. Still, I do miss the loud, rollicking, cracking thunder of an almost-violent weather storm. In the meantime, I will have to satisfy myself with the pretty rough winter storms we get here, something that usually not a concern in the South, except for the occasional ice storms.

Hardy Threads

The other day I was trying to grasp the concept of nothingness. It left me baffled, especially since nothingness is something in itself. Contradictory? Who knows, except maybe Stephen Hawkins.

While worrying about this, I noticed that I had a plastic coke bottle in my hand and that I was screwing the top on and off, on and off, on and off. Then that captured my fascination. Such a simple design yet universally used and virtually failproof. It left me wondering exactly how may screw-on/screw-off cycles it would take before the top no longer worked. If anyone knows, please let me know.

As in at

One German word I have always found amusing is “Rathaus”. Everytime, I see the word in print, I immediately think “rat house”. Just chalk it up to a puerile mind. By the way, the spoken word is pronounced rot-house, and there’s admittedly nothing all that amusing about that. But if you mistakenly pronounce the word as “rat house,” every subsequent attempt at being serious is a lost cause.

Germans find none of this amusing. They love their “rott-hoiser”, which is the pronunciation of the plural of Rathaus (Rathäuser).

In Germany, these “rat houses” are very serious business because they are basically the same thing as a city hall or county seat in English. They are the place where official business takes place.

But once the mispronunciation “rat house” got centered in my head, there is no getting it out. I often make the mistake of mispronouncing Rathaus when speaking to Germans. Mostly, it leaves them puzzled, and they simply chalk it up to an American who has trouble with German pronunciation. But occasionally, I run into a stick-in-the-mud who takes offense at me murdering their language and making fun of it to boot.

The expression on their face can never be mistaken. It is one of indignation, plus the overwhelming urge to punish me for my silliness. Just imagine the expression of an English teacher whose student mispronounces the word “pious” with a short I, and you get the picture.

I guess what all of this boils down to is this: Some things are very childish, but oh so fun in the right hands.

1 Horsepower per Hour

One thing I have never appreciated adequately is the floor under my feet. A lot of hard work and creative energy goes into floor design. Function has to be balanced with art. Occasionally I see a floor that really blows me away. It is indeed a thing of beauty, especially when furnishings are kept to a minimum in order not to recklessly hide the thought and success that went into designing the floor. Another thing that makes me appreciate a good floor is the money that went into it. A high quality and properly designed floor doesn’t come without a price. In fact, a very steep price.

Personally, though, I could never convince myself that investing in a floor to be envied was worthwhile. There’s no one I need to impress, and most of the people I know are also like me: They never adequately appreciate a masterpiece floor.

Instead, I invest in pragmatic things, like the hand cart I use to go grocery shopping with. Rather than dragging heavy sacks from the grocery store to my apartment, I spent a few bucks on the hand cart, which I fill up with groceries and simply pull behind me. I know it makes me look like an odd little old man, but, after all, that’s what I am and I am glad to own up to the truth. The only thing that surprises me about it is that it took me so long to buy it.

After worrying about how it might spoil my image, I finally realized that no one else cares. So that was my personal hurdle to get over. Now I can shop for all the heavy things I want, such as two-liter bottles of Coke Zero, something that I never knew that I needed until getting hooked on them during my last trip to Italy with Cousin A. and Sister E. Somehow, everything in life seems to fit into the overall puzzle that is continuously taking shape.

French Toast

The French Open is just days away, and I hope to catch as many late-day matches as possible. It’s a tournament I have come to appreciate and love. The clay surface is a world unto itself, and only the most coy of players survive. Power doesn’t get it alone. Finesse is called for. We’ll see who’s left standing at the end of the second week.

Of course, some of the best matches occur way before the finals. In fact, the finals can be a bit of a letdown after you watch some of the preliminary matches.

Now that about covers my knowledge of French tennis. The only two French players that come to mind are Marion Bartoli and Jo-Wilfried Tsongas. I remember her for beating Henin in Wimbledon a couple of years, and him for the new face he puts on being French. In other words, I remember them for their exceptions rather than for their accomplishments, sort of the way you remember members of your family. The most interesting ones are not the ones that do everything perfectly, but rather the ones that don’t fit the expected mold. They make the best gossip material.

Perfection in Red

Grocery stores and fruitstands here are now offering big beautiful strawberries. Most of the berries come from Italy and Spain. Strawberries from Germany aren’t yet ripe enough for the market. That will take a few more weeks. In the meantime, strawberries will be everywhere: on menus, in pastry, in marmalade and jam. Fortunately, I never get tired of strawberries, nor peaches. So I will probably be treating myself to a basket of strawberries at least twice a week until the season is over. I would love to have a strawberry pie like I grew up with, but the German’s don’t offer that exact luxury. Instead, they have some other strawberry cakes that are OK, but I have to admit that I haven’t eaten one in at least five years. I always come away disappointed. But a basket of fresh, red berries never leaves me disappointed. The real, unadulterated thing. It’s amazing that Mother Nature developed such a perfect, irresistible fruit!