Trier

Beth and I kicked off the holiday season with an evening at the sauna then a long weekend down in Trier, Germany for the annual Christmas market.  Here are a few pics from the trip.

Trier is a bustling little market town with an interesting Roman history.  The streets were crowded with shoppers, with the ancient Roman gates in the background.

Porta Nigra  (The Black Gate - 200 AD)

The third largest baths in the Roman empire are in Trier - it was an important city on a very hostile edge of the empire.

So important in fact, that emperor Constantine spent much time here (probably planning his actions that would lead to the eventual fall of the empire - IMHO).  This massive, yet innocuous looking building is his original throne room - once part of a vast complex.

This part of Germany is all about wine.  The hillsides were covered with highly improbable vineyards.  Some of the hills were so steep that there were little cog train lifts to service the vines.

 We then took a nice drive up the Mosel river to discover many class German villages and hundreds of vineyards.  

And finally, a little video of the market for my mom...including cheesy animatrons...gotta love the goats at the end.  Merry Christmas everyone!

Hobbits?

Living in the country with the tallest people in the world, Beth had to stop and make a pose when we came across this itty-bitty door on our last trip into Amsterdam - it isn't often that she has an opportunity to feel tall around here...

 
 ...and even less often than to feel like a tall, Dutch sexpot!  

Where's the kick?

I’m growing restless… again.   I wish that it were a simple midlife crisis.  You know the cliché – big boobed coed’s.  Fast cars.  Hair transplants.   But it’s not.  This restlessness has happened many times before.   I think that it’s time to just admit that it’s an integral part of who I am. 

A good but-not-seen-often-enough friend put it in context for me a few weeks ago when Beth and I went into Amsterdam to meet her for drinks.  She’s from Macedonia and has experienced the same feeling.  Between us, we could finally articulate it.

We’ll call it The Expat Addiction, although for me it started very domestically.  The cross country adventure right out of college.  The move to Boise.  The move to Virginia/Pennsylvania/Maryland (10 in total).  All for the same restless reasons.   And with each step, just like with any self respecting addiction, the dose had to be more extreme to get the same feeling.  

It’s the kick that you get walking along a canal in a far-away city that you now find yourself living in.  Taking in the architecture.  Talking with the different people and learning their culture.  Discovering the hidden places and discovering more each day about yourself.  Pushing your limits.  Testing your boundaries.  It’s an experiential addiction that thrives on newness and uncertainty.  It's the possibility to reinvent yourself, again and again and again.

But as you become more shore footed, and the newness wears off, and the views become “ordinary” and life becomes easy and you slip back into being you, then for me at least, it loses its appeal.  It loses its kick. And for anyone who knows me, I need “kick” to survive.

So what the hell am I going to do about it?  I need some serious therapy to help me figure out how to revive the kick in my life without moving another 3000 miles.   And more importantly,how do we nominate Beth for canonization for putting up with this crap?  Even though it has nothing to do with big-boobed coeds, she’s still a saint in my book! 

Getting old doesn't suck (that bad)

39 seconds...Doesn’t seem like much, does it?  But after five more years of life’s relentless momentum pushing me toward “old fart”, I’m quite happy with it:

2005 Amsterdam Marathon, 3:52:39

2010 Amsterdam Marathon, 3:52:00

Strasbourg and the Vosges

We took a little road trip and a long weekend down to the Vosges mountains for some hiking, then spent a few nights in ultra-international border town of Strasbourg.  It was a great little getaway with many unexpected discoveries, like stumbling into some overgrown WWI trenches and watching a giant nutria begging for bread on the banks of a Strasbourg canal.  Here are a few pics from the trip.

Funky mushrooms in them thar hills!

There were loads of abandoned castles.  We picked this one as the destination for this little hike.  We started out in some beautiful vineyards, then wound our way up the mountain along the original cart path - the only way up!

It was an interesting mix of disiduous forest and alpine terrain....we even rousted out a monster wild boar!  But he scared the bejeebers out of us and I didn't get a picture.

Once we reached the top, the view out to the wild mountains was almost as beautiful....

....as back across the valley of vineyards and villages below.

And here is a link to a 360 video from the top of the highest tower.

Each afternoon after a day of hiking in the mountains found us on the sunny terrace of the only watering hole in the tiny village where we stayed.

 Then it was into the city for a few days of great food, great wine, and great relaxation.

The famous Strasbourg church...tallest building in the world until 1876.

The narrow alleys, canal locks, waterfalls, and half-timbered buildings of Petit France....

....contrasted sharply with the ultra-modern EU government buildings on the outskirts of the city.

Gigantic sycamores on the banks of the river...

and plenty of hot French chicks!  

Park Duck

Quack! Quack!

It was me who threw the stone - at least that’s how I remember it - and I was very proud of that fact at the time. We had been fishing all morning along Loyalhanna Creek and were just hanging out near Long Bridge in Darlington waiting for my sister to pick us up. Like most normal 13 year old boys, we were bored and showing off and getting into trouble now that the fishing was over. It was me, Danny Klosky, Vic Merola, and three ducks floating lazily down the river. Not wild ducks mind you, but big, fat, white, corn-fed, domesticated ducks. 

The stone skipped once off the placid water and caught the lead duck square in the head. It never had a chance. “Holy Shit! Nice shot!” shouted Vic as he went splashing into the ankle-deep water to get the limp duck before it entered the rapids. I had no idea why he would want a dead duck when he came out of the creek holding by its feet it like an African safari trophy. Danny asked him what he was going to do with it and Vic responding in that typical Vic matter-of-fact-what-a-stupid-question tone, “We’re gonna eat it!”

So we found a filthy plastic bag tangled in the brush along the river and shoved the dead duck into it just as my sister pulled into the Road Toad parking lot and beeped her horn. When we got home, Danny took the bag and dropped it in the bushes between our houses. The dead duck would be fine there in the sweltering summer heat until we were ready to eat it later that afternoon. We agreed to meet out in the woods at 3:00 to prepare our feast. I was in charge of BBQ sauce, Danny would bring the butcher knife, and Vic would bring a bag of potato chips. 

At 3:00 we started a fire, built a spit, and cleaned the duck. Fifteen minutes later the duck was slathered with BBQ sauce and searing over the flames. By 4:00 the BBQ sauce was golden brown and our roasted duck looked ready to eat. We devoured it, not even noticing that the meat underneath the lovely exterior was barely warm, let alone properly cooked. Needless to say, by 8:00 that evening I was vomiting so profusely that the event remains a story of legend in my family even to this date. And people wonder why I never had kids…

So, why this story now? Because yesterday on the train I was reading the free rag (Metro) that is handed out at all the stations and came across an article on how to catch, kill, and prepare a Park Duck. The author (who remained anonymous because killing park ducks is illegal even in anything goes Holland) would put on a business suit so as not to raise suspicion and then go sit on a park bench, distributing bread to the witless ducks. He even divulged his strategy for getting the ducks close, then throwing a piece of bread just beyond the lead duck so that it would have to turn its back, thereby giving the “hunter” a chance to pounce, grab it by the neck, give it a quick “whirl” to kill it, then shove it into a waiting bag. Good stuff. But most importantly was the preparation bit of the article. This guy gave several of his favorite recipes for properly cooking the little beasts. Mmmmm. Park Duck. Lekker! Happy hunting!

So Incredible

We managed to catch a few dry hours in between the incessant rainstorms last month and biked over to Bloemendaal for an outdoor concert. The venue is a small, intimate amphitheater tucked into the North Sea dunes. We’ve seen several shows here, and even with a sold-out crowd of 1000 people, there is never a bad seat in the house.

This latest concert was Ilse de Lange. We’ve always liked Ilse’s music, a blend of pop, folk, and country with heavy influence from James Taylor and Neil Young. But neither of us was prepared for her energy and presence on stage. Maybe it was the cozy outdoor setting, or the unique bond felt between residents of this damp, little country when sharing an evening of dry weather together, but when we biked home later that evening, we both commented that it was one of the best shows that we’ve ever seen. Not only did Ilse perform flawlessly, but she created a genuine connection with the crowd.

The sound quality is very poor on this home-made video, but it shows a bit of what I’m talking about.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gYBp3FotwRo 

And the Dutch-Hollywood production version....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6MVcBM4P74&feature=fvsr

Summer Classics

The summer’s weather has been pretty lousy here in Holland this year, but even the brooding skies couldn’t put a damper on this past weekend’s classic festivals.

We started on Thursday with the inaugural evening at Haarlem Jazz. They’ve swapped out the main tent for an open-air podium this year which we found much nicer, especially since the stage was transparent and you could see the historic city hall behind the performers.

Then on Saturday, we got up early to get Sage out into the woods so that we could leave her for the day while we joined our friends on their boat for SAIL Amsterdam. SAIL only happens every five years, but it is the largest festival in the country. To see it from a boat was really special - a once in a lifetime experience for us.

Boarding the boat in the quiet harbor at Penningsveer – the only calm waters of the day.

It was tough to find a mooring in the crowded waters and whipping wind as we waited for the sluice at Spaarndam.

In the sluice.

The boat traffic kept building on the North Sea Canal approach into Amsterdam….

…until it was a virtual traffic jam on the water. You could walk from boat-to-boat! Beth and I were stationed on the sides with grapple hooks to push boats away that might get too close.  There were many shouts of "Full thrust reverse!!!"

Sail 2010 Video 

This YouTube video shows a bit of the craziness of boats weaving in and out of the channel.

But seeing the tall ships against the backdrop of the city was spectacular.

Het Ij was filled with all kinds of boats…

…loaded with all kinds of passengers.

Then we did a daring dash across the Ij and made for the calmer waters of Amsterdam’s canal rings.

We found a great mooring by this old tower for lunch.

It was a great place to sit and watch the boats go by.

Beth and I hopped off the boat and said our goodbyes…

…then jumped on a train back to Haarlem where we got Sage out for another walk before heading back to the city center for an evening of funk at the music festival.

Now it’s time to recharge for next weekend – a proper sendoff for summer.

Smoked!

 Beth and I are ramping up our training for the Amsterdam Marathon in October. The last time that I ran this marathon, I had only trained at the bare minimum levels, which got me over the finish line in decent time but left my body in a sorry state for the next week and a half. I couldn’t even come down a flight of stairs without wincing in pain. 

So this time around, I’m going to be much better prepared. In addition to already running between 25-30 miles per week-- well ahead of schedule for the October race, I’m also incorporating a day of cross-training with the bicycle into the weekly routine. Last weekend I managed to get Beth out on one of these workout rides with me. Normally she’s more of a “watch-the-scenery-go-by” cruiser on the bike, which is fine with me, but this time she agreed to break a sweat. 

So we took off out of town on one of my favorite loops – into the dunes behind Santpoort, across Landgoed Beekesteijn, through the tunnel at Velsen, then a nice wide arc around Spaarnwoude and back into Haarlem through the village of Spaarndam. It’s a modest 40K, so I set a pace that would get a little burn into the muscles and sweat onto the brow, but not push her so hard that she wouldn’t enjoy it. She held up like a trooper and was all smiles at her accomplishment as we were coming back across the last dyke and pedaling hard against an angry headwind. We had the landmark radio tower of Haarlem directly in our sites and were talking about how good that first cold beer would taste. 

And that’s when we heard the familiar “Ring, Ring” of bikes coming up on us from behind, wanting to pass. I pulled in front of Beth to give them room, expecting the usual suspects -- Lycra clad athletes on carbon-fiber racing bikes, tucked into a tight, drafting formation.

But instead, two late middle-aged riders, on grocery-getter granny bikes (complete with saddle bags and baskets), blew by us like we were standing still – pedaling effortlessly with their faces held high and their hair flowing majestically against the ferocious head wind. 

The look on Beth’s face was priceless.

So priceless in fact, that I still haven’t told her about the extra-fat hub I noticed on their back wheels, the telltale sign of an electric-assist bike. She still thinks that we got smoked by a granny-fiets-- a fact that I insisted would NEVER have happened if I were out biking on my own. Fortunately, she won’t be reading this blog entry until I’m safely cruising at 30,000 feet above the Atlantic.

Fab Four (days)

 Oddly enough, I had never been to the United Kingdom before. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to go, it’s just that I always thought I’d save it for later on in life-- when I’m older and would appreciate the ease of traveling through a country where I know the language.

My UK friends frequently told me everything that I was missing – the rugged beauty of Scotland, the quaint countryside of Wales, the urban sophistication of London. Funny, but none of them had ever mentioned Liverpool as a “must see” UK destination, which is where I found myself this past week on a business trip. I think my friends would be appalled, but I actually liked it.

Rebuilt from the ashes of massive German bombing during the war, then rebuilt again after post-war industrial failure and dreadful urban blight, Liverpool is in the process of reinventing itself yet again. I snuck away from work one sunny afternoon to see what the city was all about.

A new multi-tiered city center serves as an anchoring hub between the older, eclectic shopping streets, the historic financial district, and the high-rises along the wharfs.

Bold Street - one of those eclectic ones with funky bars and shops.  The church in the background...

 ...was destroyed during the bombing.  They left the shell as a monument.

 Liverpool also used to have the largest Chinese population in Europe.  But again, the district was destroyed during the bombing and never rebuilt.  All that's left is the gate, and one block of shops.

Crowd control at a street car rally?    That's one tough crowd!

 

Rally car getting ready to rumble.

 A view from the famous Albert Docks - the place where the latest reinvention started.

And of course, the reason for the trip - The University of Liverpool.