Please Pass The....Gas?

Jason Field, my good friend from back in the States, left last Friday morning after having spent a solid week with me in Germany. We had several blog worthy adventures during the course of his stay, and I will relate them to you in good time, but before I do so I would like to take a few minutes to update you on what I've been doing since he departed.

I went to the gym around 10:00 AM on Monday and began my workout with a few sets of high clean pulls. The gym was all but empty, and with the exception of one I'll say 26 year old man, I was by myself in the free weight section. Some time after my second set this 26 year old German went into the other room to retrieve a stretching mat. He quickly returned, and began to stretch in the corner. Not more than 30 seconds after the commencement of his stretching routine, a loud, wet sound drove forcefully out of his butt. I quietly chuckled and prepared to begin my next set when yet another burst of flatulence erupted from the corner. I steeled my mind and focused on the set at hand, but quickly realized that this man was on a mission. I estimate that this man farted approximately 200 times over the course of the next 5 minutes. I was stunned, awed, and truly impressed.

The week went slowly after that. How could a Tuesday compare to that incredible Monday? How could a Wednesday even hope to shine the shoes of those farts? Why should a Thursday even bother to show up, knowing it can't win? But Friday...oh Friday, you were electric.

My parents flew into Germany on Friday, and after a rather long baggage claim fiasco they got lost for 2 hours trying to find their hotel. At around half past 6 in the PM I saw Bob and Arlene strolling up to practice. They hung around in the rain until I was finished, got harassed by Kacee and his incessant barrage of balderdash, and took me to dinner to celebrate Bob's 56th birthday. They both nearly fell asleep at the table.

We are now in Prague, which is sweet, but it took us over 6 hours to make the 3 1/2 hour drive. I won't bore you with the details of this amazing city, but please check back soon for the wild adventures of Ben Field's brother, Jason Not Michael Field.

Train Scam

Most people associate Germany with order and rigidity.  It is thought of as a country strict on rules and regulations.  Upon my arrival in Germany I was told that everything in Germany must be "correct."  Every rule must be followed - every law observed.  

And for the most part, this is true.  Our ball-club is fined if our scorekeeper turns in a score-sheet with even one error.  The train scheduled to arrive at 1:04, 1:24 and 1:44 arrives at 1:04, 1:24, and 1:44.  But I have found a few areas where German culture is extremely loose and inefficient:

Train Tickets (at least for foreigners):  

In order to ride the German rails one must purchase a stripe ticket.  The price of a 10 stripe ticket is 11 Euro, and the trip from my town of Vaterstetten into Munich costs 4 stripes each way (2 if you're 20 or under).  I have been on the train approximately 12 times and have been checked exactly twice.  Neither time did I have a ticket, and this is the reason:  

When a ticket checker sees that you do not have a ticket, he first asks you if you have your passport.  Whether you do or you do not, you say that you don't.  The checker does not investigate this further.  He will proceed to ask you if you have your drivers license or a credit card.  Again, you do not, and again he believes you.  At this point the checker will ask you for your name and address, and of course you are now anyone you want to be.  He hands you a ticket for 40 euros and you thank him.  You exit the train and throw the ticket in the trash with a smile on your face, because you ride the rails for free.

The Postal System:

Even if you want to be honest with the train ticket checker, you will never receive a bill.  I'm going to tell you why:  

I ordered a new camera off of Amazon.de after my coach broke mine a few weekends back. (For the curious commenter, he did pay for it)  I typed in my name and my current German address , paid via credit card, and patiently waited.  A few days later I thought I may as well let the people with whom I'm staying know that I was expecting a package.  Before leaving for the gym one day I told Melanie that I was expecting a new camera to arrive via post in the next few days.  She responded with a look of utter dread, asked me to remind her what my last name was, and told me that she believes it had already come.....only she sent it back.

It turns out that without addressing the package to Nat Ballenberg c/o Family Kirchlechner, the German mailman will return the parcel to sender.  Since Melanie was home at the time, the postman asked her if the name on the package was someone in the house that he didn't know about.  She said no.  What is the line of reasoning behind that?

"Well, I do have this kid staying with me.  His name is Nat, which is an extremely common name.  I don't know his last name, but this package is addressed to Nat Ballenberg, so....yeah....it's probably just a mistake.  I won't even ask, just send it back."

Stop Signs:

They don't exactly exist.  I have seen exactly 1 stop sign in two months.  There is however a general rule of the road.  When at an intersection, one must yield to any cars coming from his right.  This sounds fine in theory, but in reality it is stupid.

Think about a general "T" intersection.  In the U.S. the  car that can no longer go straight either has a stop sign or abides by the road rule stating that he must stop before making the turn.  In Germany, this car has the right of way to turn right without even looking.  Instead, the car on the main road must slow and yield to any lunatic flying around the corner from his right.

And don't get me started on four way intersections.  What if four cars get there at the same time?  No one is legally allowed to move, and because this is Germany, no one will.

I'll keep you updated as I find more inefficiencies in the world's most efficient country.

Picture Book Style II

Australian Kacee really wanted to check out the Australian bar in Munich, so a few of my teammates and I decided to accompany him.  The plan was to check out the bar, grab some dinner there, relax a little while, and head home.   That is not what happened.

Having known myself for over 24 years I knew there was a good chance that I would enjoy nothing on the menu and decided to eat at home before accompanying my teammates into the city.  One look at Outland's menu proved me right.  I am not one to try exotic dishes like crocodile or emu, so a menu highlighted by these doesn't exaclty jive with my whole grilled chicken thing.  That being said, I tried crocodile.  After instantly turning down Kacee's offer to try a bite of his chicken-looking meal, I reconsidered.  "When will I ever have another chance to try crocodile," I thought.  The answer was never, and that changed my mind.  And although all I could think about while I chewed was this crocodile hunting prey in Australia, it really wasn't that bad.  

It was still early when my teammates finished their meals, so we decided to check out a second destination.  Having no knowledge of the city we left this part up to 18 year old Kevin, a phenomenal kid with seemingly no knowledge of Munich.  Here is a picture of our fearless leader guiding us towards our second stop:

The confident face of our fearless leader.

After asking directions several times and looking hopelessly confused for half an hour, Kevin brought us to the part of Munich I would frequent only if looking to be stabbed in the chest and left to die in the sewer.  This shady part of town is home to a row of about six to ten clubs, including Americano,  our second destination.  

My hopes of being asleep before 3 AM were dashed within five minuts.  After Kacee and Tom each downed 2 shots and were half-way through their first mixed drink I decided I better strap up and prepare for the long haul.  

It was early still, so we hung out by the bar and talked for a while, but soon enough the club began to hop and it was time to break out the business cards:

"Excuse me, ladies.  I'm Ted Mosby.  Architect."

"What does this mean?"

"You know: mind of an artist, hands of a master craftsman."

"Huh?"

"I'm an architect.  And my name's Ted Mosby.  But it's not, and it's a joke."

(blank stares)

At this point I decided to call in the cavalry.  I waved my boys over and we proceeded to take about 80 pictures and start a dance party with these Eastern European girls.  (They were from Poland, or Romania, or Slovakia, or Czechoslovakia, or something else ending with vakia.  I don't really care.)

Yeah.  I have a really sweet beard now.

We were far too awesome at dancing and picture taking for our Axis allies, but after they left we needed a little breather and caught some cool air under the fan until Kevin spotted a bachelor party.  Obviously, I broke out Mosby.

"Ted Mosby.  *click...wink*  Architect."

"What is this?"

"Your last chance before you tie the knot."

"Huh."

"Forget about this.  Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials."

We had found new compatriots and started a new dance party around the time of my interaction with the bride to be, but it was not until The Pirates of the Caribbean theme song came on at 2 AM that my night really peaked.  

In the corner of the club there was a tiny stage with a pole.  This area remained unoccupied for most of the night.  After placing my new friend's scarf around my head like a bandana I jumped onto the stage, grabbed the pole, and proceeded to 'play pirate' for the next three minutes. 

After my stunning stage performance

The dance parties eventually took their toll, and at 3:07 we decided to call it quits.  Kevin, who had been in charge of all things travel related, relayed to us that we had yet again missed the last train home, and after a few instances of Kacee trying to befriend strangers on the street we found ourselves safely in a cab.  

20 minutes later I was at home, already reminiscing about a night that could have only been better had Tom not broken my camera, which, by the way, will cost more to fix than it will to buy a new one.  So boo.

Audy Rodriguez

Sorry it's been so long since my last post.  I've been caught up with ball the last few weeks.  With that in mind, allow me to present you with a player profile on my teammate Audy Rodriguez.

Name:  Audy Rodriguez

Team:  Baldham Boars

Birthplace:  Dominican Republic

Age:  37 (or so he says)

Nickname:  none

Nickname he has for everyone else:  Jim (pronounced 'Jeem')

Languages spoken:  Spanish, German, English

Languages in which he is fluent:  none

Favorite saying:  "Forget about this, Jeem."

Position:  Third base

Highest Level of Baseball: Minor League affiliate of the Toronto Blue Jays (probably about 15 years ago when he was 22 and claimed to be 17)

Actual Conversation Between Audy, Jan-Phillip, and Nat Ballenberg:

Nat:  (to Audy)  Do you have any kids?

Audy:  Huh?

Nat:  Hijos?

Audy:  I have a son.

Nat:  How old is he?

Audy:  (to Jan-Phillip in German)  How old is my son?

Jan-Phillip: (to Audy in German)  15.

Audy:  (to Nat)  15.

Actual Conversation Between Audy, Kacee, Nat, and some random girl at a gas station:

Audy:  (to Kacee)  Jeem!  Come over here.  (Random Girls' name) , this is Kacee.

Kacee:  (to Random Girl)  How do you do?

Random Girl: Hi.

Audy:  (to me)  Jeem!  Come over here.  (Random Girls' name), this is Jeem.

Me:  Hi.

Random Girl:  Hi.

What he says everytime a groundball is hit to shortstop, whether it be hard hit, slowly hit, up the middle, in the hole, or directly at the shortstop:  Fore  (This means forward and is usually poor advice.)

Number of consecutive days he had Kacee kidnapped:  Two days

Favorite Movie:  8 Mile

Favorite thing for him to have me do:  The freestyle rap from the end of 8 mile.

Worst decision of my life:  Letting him know that I know the freestyle rap from the end of 8 mile.

This is all I know about Audy, but let me assure you it is more than enough.  

Two Princes

I know it's been a while since my last blog entry, but I don't want to sacrifice the quality of my posts for quantity.  That being said, practice was cancelled today, leaving me with a day free to do anything I please, but it's cold and rainy, so allow me to write about nothing.

Nothing Number 1:

German pop music, in general, is American pop music.  Their radio stations play the same songs ours do.  Turn on the dial and you're bound to hear Taylor Swift, Kelly Clarkson, and Maroon 5.  There are popular German bands, of course, but for the most part Germans listen to the current American tunes...with one exception.  It has literally been days since I last listened to the radio without hearing The Spin Doctors' "Two Princes."  Now don't get me wrong,  it's a phenomenal song.  But it's from 19-flippin'-'93.  Just for some perspective:  On this date in 1993 Monica Seles was stabbed in the back, and somewhere in some nerdy newspaper there was probably mention of the formation of something called the "World Wide Web."  So yeah, Germans love The Spin Doctors.

Nothing Number 2:

No one has beards over here and it's starting to bother me.  Maybe it's because I grew up staring an awesome beard in the face every single day, but the lack of bearded faces disturbs me.  As an act of defiance I am in the process of growing my own bad ass beard.

Nothing Number Last:

The coach of our youth team was going to be late for practice on Tuesday and asked me if I could run practice for him.  I happily obliged and believe I ran the best practice these little German boys and girls have ever been a part of.  I split the kids up into two groups, going over infield fundamentals with one group while Kacee did outfield work with the other.  There were 10 boys and 2 girls at practice, and I made it a point to make sure that I didn't address the girls as 'guys,' as in, "Hey guys, you need to make sure you keep your gloves down."  About an hour into practice one of the little girls comes up to me and says, "Nett, I'm a boy."

And now I know why I was confident that little girl was going to grow up to be a lesbian.  

Oh, and if you didn't know, those blue words are hyper-links to related websites.  Meaning they're 'clickable'...Dad.

Manual Transmission

Until last night I hadn't driven a stick-shift in 6 years, and even back in '03 I never really drove on a 'road'.  So you can understand my fearful excitement when Kevin tossed me the keys to his  manual transmission automobile last night after he had one too many bottles of golden nectar at the youth center.  You read it right.  I said youth center.

Connected to the kindergarten located down the right field line of The Boars' home field is a youth center.  By ascending steps, one may pass from the youth center proper to the youth center bar.  The bar is more reminiscent of a coffee house than of any bar I've ever seen.  There are several couches, a few round tables with chairs, free wireless internet access, 2 euro bottles of beer, and bags of chips that come gratis.  They serve no coffee, but you can get tea or lemonade.   Bavarian playing cards are available upon request, and the bar is equipped with a projector and movie screen for live broadcasts of soccer matches and Germany's Next Top Model.  If you run out of smokes, don't worry, there's a cigarette machine inside and a smoking porch just out the door.

I don't know about you, but I'm used to youth centers being publicly funded places for nerds to play Dungeons and Dragos and neglected children to tag with four letter words or pictures of the male anatomy.  I'm used to youth centers pretending to be a place free of alcohol and cigarettes.  I'm used to youth centers being an empty waste of space.  I am not used to youth centers acting as the spot for 18-24 year old men and women still living at home and looking to have a relaxing night out without having to go into the city on a school night.  

But back to the driving:  

After an hour or two at the youth center we decided it was time to leave.  Kevin was probably under the legal limit, but didn't want to chance it, and being the only sober person without a car of his own, I found myself in the driver's seat.  I smoothly backed the car out of the spot, shifted direclty into third gear, and somehow managed not to stall out as I pulled to the edge of the parking lot.  As I went to turn out of the lot, however, my six years of rust caught up to me and I stalled out.  I restarted the car in first and made my turn.  As I felt the engine grumble I smoothly shifted into...wait for it...third gear.  

2 minutes later we arrived safely at Kevin's house.

Me: 1 - Stick-Shift: 0

Picture Book Style

For the last few days I've been trying to figure out how to tell you the story of my first night out in Munich.  I was originally going to write a third person narrative, but realized that the story itself was not good enough to be told without my personal asides, tangents, and observations.  I began scribing a poem, but after a few lackluster stanzas decided to scrap it.  For a while I thought the story might not carry enough weight to merit a post, but then I remembered something:  I have pictures.  So here we go - a story with pictures of my first night out in Munich.

A few of the Boars met up at our center fielder's house, but before I could enter I became enthralled with the garage.   By all outward appearances it was a two car garage, but upon further inspection I found it capable of housing four distinct automobiles.  It was somewhat higher than a regular garage, but what made this car house so special was the automated car lift. Take a look for yourself:

This is Kacee excited by the awesome garage.

Before I move forward with the story I need you to know a few things.  First, when my teammates picked me up I was told to go back inside to change into pants.  Apparently the club we were going to wouldn't let me in without them, and although this sucks and I spent a good part of the night sweating, it is sometimes a necessary evil.  Second, I had business cards made up that say, "Ted Mosby Architect."  There is no other information on the cards.  This will make sense to few of you, but suffice it to say that it is an awesome joke from an awesome TV show.

After hanging out for a little while we headed off for the S-Bahn and our 25 minute ride into Munich, but before we got on the train we spotted a few ladies also waiting for the train.  I handed Kevin my camera, got out my business cards, and approached the ladies.  With the lens accuratetly focused, I made my move.  "Ted Mosby...*wink*...*finger point*...*click*...architect." They didn't get the joke but laughed nonetheless.  I got my picture.

"Ted Mosby.  Architect."

Alex and Kacee had stopped at the bank to get some Euros and wound up having to run to catch the train, but once they did and we settled in it was a rather easy, comfortable ride.  We had the back corner of the S-Bahn mostly to ourselves, and my four teammates wasted no time in finishing a fifth of Screwdrivers.  We had a nearby passenger take this photo.

Whoops.  Wrong photo.  That's Kevin proudly displaying his Screwdriver and Chris kissing Alex.  An odd sentence, I know, but true nonetheless.  These two are the weirdest straight kids I've ever met.  I've seen them spoon feed each other.  Seriously, it's the gayest thing ever...not that there's anything wrong with that.  But anyway, here's the picture of the five of us.

Kacee is staring at me like the psycho-killer I'm afraid he  may be.

After about 20 minutes on the train we were joined by a bachelorette party.  Now I've never been to one of these in the States, but I find it safe to assume that American brides-to-be do not go around town with dollar-store crap-filled cardboard boxes tied around their necks by lines of string.  So what did I do?   I gave her friend a business card, made her take a picture, and refused to buy anything.

She looks great!

A few minutes later we said goodbye to our new friends and got off the train.  Expecting to be in downtown Munich I was much surprised to find myself in what could only be called the sketchy outskirts of the city.  Upon exiting the station my boys decided it was time for a much needed toilet break.  Instead of a toilet, however, they chose a bridge.

No need for a caption here.

We took a tram from wherever we were to some even more remote corner of the city, at which point we realized no one really knew where we were going.  We had a name, Backstage, and we had a general part of town, but as to the exact location of the bar we were clueless.  Luckily we ran into some young ladies headed to the same club.

Me, Toni, Kacee, and Josephine...or something like that.

I've been to few clubs that meet expectations, and this was no exception.  Like any club, Backstage reeked of cigarette smoke.  People moved spastically to music pumped at deafening levels.  I left feeling hoarse and deaf, but I left having had a phenomenal time.  It's not the club, or the bar, or the movie you see that really makes or breaks a night.  It's the people you go with, and on Saturday my teammates became my friends.

Chris, Alex, Mattias, Kacee, Kevin, Me

Kevin was in charge of the late night roundup, and with the clock ticking dangerously close to 2:20, the time of the last train home, we found ourselves still wandering the streets of Munich's outskirts.  Kacee had long ago taken off his shoes.  Chris had decided he would go off by himself, and we were in danger of losing sight of Alex, who was falling more behind every second as he slowly made his way next to Josephine.  

After missing our train and getting a bite to eat, we decided it better to take a 20 Euro cab ride than wait another 2 hours for the next S-Bahn.  We got off the train, said our goodbyes, and went our seperate ways.  

I walked up the stairs at 4 am, tired in body, awake in mind, and deaf in both ears.