aikido

When I was younger (much younger), I remember getting signed up for some summer classes at the Northridge Park community center. We’re talking twenty-plus years ago. I remember seeing other kids my age, shouting something (counting?) in unison, doing jumping jacks on tatami mats. They wore white robes. They were learning how to beat up other kids; kids like me, who were instead signed up for piano lessons with the overbearing old man. I reckon that overbearing old man was part of why I would eventually rebel against the ivory, giving up a bright future on my Yamaha keyboard.

Fair enough, I never got beat up, but it would have been so cool to earn a black belt. Whatever: I eventually blocked out the painful memories and picked up the alto saxophone, earning me the respect of all the babes in high school. Hell, I practically dated Winnie Cooper (sorry: perhaps an arcane reference)! I’m all growns up now and in Belgrade, and all but forgot about this episode of my life (well, the piano teacher/karate bit). And then Miloš told me about and invited me to the aikido classes he takes three times a week. As all the memories returned, a puddle of tears collected at my feet. I would earn my black belt, damnit, even if it is too late to regain my dignity. So I tagged along, ironically checking my dignity at the door.

Like most of my time in Belgrade, for every five minutes of instructions in Serbian I got an average 30 seconds’ translation. Still, as awkward as it was to try and join the routine, I got to rather enjoying the classes. I tried to pay for the class but (yes, you guessed it) my money was refused on the grounds of my visiting guest status. My favorite class was when we ran around the room (fast) for 20 minutes before proceeding to do all manner of squat-jumps, somersaults, and the like. I pushed my old out-of-shape body much too far and ended up barely limping home later that night—it was great to have such a thorough workout.

All went well until one class when my foot ended up under Miloš’s. No big deal. We switched sparring partners and then, long story short, my other foot’s big toe made an audible (to me, anyway) snap as his foot came down on it in an awkward way. It got pushed back and mildly fractured. I, expertly playing the part of wimp, buckled down in pain. I limped home that night and, between my toe and my increasingly-busy work schedule, never ended up making it back. Alas, my black belt would have to wait until my return to Boston…

München

I hit the ground running in Munich. First things first, Andy and I split a couple of sausages upon my arrival at the train station. With my eight hour meat-fast finally over, we went on to bigger and better things, tasting through several of Germany’s finest brews back at Andy’s flat. Not to underdo the evening, we met up later with a few of Andy’s friends and colleagues at a smoky, crowded bar, complete with attitude-ridden servers. _EnglishAndy showed up just in time for the second round and, living up to my English stereotypes, made it his mission to keep each of our pints optimistically half-full. It wouldn’t have been so bad had we called it a night at a reasonable hour, but of course we crawled from pub to pub, prioritizing morning headaches over good night’s sleeps.

We had a huge day ahead of us, so it wasn’t a huge surprise that we overslept, waking only as _GermanAndi was waiting at our door. It was the classic late-for-school moment, and we played the parts, fumbling in our respective hazes, packing painkillers for the excursion. We piled into Andi’s beautifully-restored 1971 Alfa Romeo coupe, and met with his girlfriend for a typical Bavarian breakfast, complete with spongy floating sausages and pretzels. Breakfast was good. The rest, however, was a picturesque dream of a day.

We took the Alfa to an old-timers’ rally and spent some time gawking at the remarkable rides—some weird, some cute, and some downright sexy. Andy and I ventured into the fairgrounds, taking a look at a rather typical Bavarian carnival—rides that make you puke, food that makes you balloon. We stepped into a mini-me version of the huge beer tents that line the grounds for Oktoberfest. Fish on a stick (not that processed thing we call a fish stick back home—a real trout grilled on a stick), ham hocks, and crispy pork roulades—the foodstuffs of Atkins dieters. And of course their antitheses: liter-sized mugs of beer. Still full from breakfast, I still had to try some of the local spaetzle-and-cheese (beats the Kraft version), and another version prepared with ham and kraut (needed a little more ‘stuff’ mixed in).

After finding Andi, we were on the road, doing a grand tour of Munich’s surroundings. He showed us some of his favorite (for their fun-to-drive windy country road feel) shortcuts that he’s been known to push to the limit (his dad works for BMW and he has a friend who tests their prototypes). Part of me is disappointed I didn’t take notes as to the names of the places we visited, but the rest of me does/didn’t feel it necessary in the least. Regardless, we motored by just-blooming trees and fields aglow with yellow rapeseed flowers (their harvested oil is used as a sustainable energy source). Everything about the day was wonderful, down to the perfect weather.

It was great to see some of the things you just don’t see anywhere else. On the lakeshore, by a grassy patch brimming with sunbathers, we visited a biergarten alive with clientele who obviously know how to relish a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Not to be taken as a culture of beer-drinking idiots, there are lots of popular alternatives to straight beer—you can drink a thirst-quenching mix of sparkling water and apple juice (any juice, really), or, if you still want a lighter bit of EtOH, that can be had as a sweet mix of hefeweizen (an unfiltered wheat beer) and lemonade.

As it was Sunday, Andi and Andy thought it would be nice to visit a beautiful old Monastery with a beautiful baroquely (my spell-checker says that’s a word) decked-out church. The main draw of this hilltop Monastery, at least on this afternoon, is its (drum roll) biergarten. We sampled the beers and gorged ourselves on cured meat and cheese products (stemming from another cultural tradition here that’s best translated as bread time). The monks also make schnapps, of which we sampled four, in the form of nips that Andy (Andi was driving) and I took turns emptying. Full and buzzing, we finally headed home.

The Sahara (Part 2)

Turban securely fastened, we were en route to the last frontier, a hotel on the edge of the dunes where we'd lunch in the shade before boarding our camels for a three hour tour.

[A little background]
When planning the trip, we were posed with the question of whether travel to the bedouin camp by means of a 4x4, or take the more traditional camel-back ride. Besides EB's desire to certify her Cambelback® truly camel-approved, the camels sounded down-right romantic: riding an age-old animal born by the desert into (okay, well technically we were riding in the opposite direction, but you get the gist) the sunset.
[end background]

Riding camel-back is not comfortable painful. We realized this as soon as we'd started moving, hoping that perhaps the pain would subside, fade into the surreality of riding into the red dunes of the Sahara. The sunlight faded; the pain did not. Lesson learned: if ever faced with the necessity of riding a camel for a prolonged period of time, the best thing you can really do is squirm--fidget, change positions.

Upon arrival at the sandy camp we took our obligatory shots of Berber whisky (mint tea) and made for the top of the nearest dune to spot the last rays of the sunset. Snowboards and sleds in hand, we trekked to the top of the 300m (1000ft) dune. Lesson learned: best practices for climbing sand dunes involves baby steps without exerting much force. This way you can walk on top of the sand rather than continuously sinking your feet in like you're climbing the Stepmaster 2000®.

At the top was a truly amazing sight--a view of Algeria to one side and the sunset on the other. The wind began to pick up as the sky darkened, and we made way back for camp under cover of darkness, literally running down the steep side of the dune. We stargazed for a bit before eating dinner, knowing that the full moon was on its way up and that we'd never see the stars once the moon took over the sky, we took the opportunity to gaze upward for a bit before eating. Nothing quite like staring at the night sky in the darkness of the desert.

Dinner was excellent despite the sandy bread (i'm sure one gets used to it), but the height of the evening was the post-meal entertainment. In came our hosts and their drums. It sounds cheezy to recount it, but it was much cooler than cheezy. We were all caught off guard when asked to sing/play a few of our own numbers for our hosts, but twinkle twinkle and frère jacques and finally our best-performed i will survive seemed to do the trick. We got back to the Berber tunes and tore up the rug. A dance in the brilliant moonlight to ensure a night to remember, and we called it a night. Final lesson learned for the day: come prepared for such outings with songs, jokes, and ghost stories. We Gabe, EB, Lora, Martin, and Andom told some alternatively good (Andom, Gabe) and bad (Martin, me) jokes and stories, and the ensuing laughter was enough to tire anyone out.

Of course the camel ride back was perhaps even more difficult given our already-sore asses, but we endured and were rewarded by breakfast and a largely uneventful, sleepy ride back in the lap of our luxurious 14-seat minibus.