30 June, 2002`

I know that it has been awhile since the last time I wrote. But as it so often happens in life, there are many times long periods-lulls-that go by, in which there occur very few events that would be of any interest to report. However, given enough time, what few events do occur tend to accumulate. Although there is still not much to relate at this time, it has been long enough now that I feel I should at the very least report what little there is. After all, I don’t want everyone to think that I have fallen off the Earth-and, in doing so, possibly injured my leg again!

A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to visit my first castle. A lady from work and one of her friends took me there and we spent a good portion of the day touring it. Although they did not allow any photography inside, I got plenty of film and photos from the outside. Some of the best shots were of the castle from a distance up on top of the hill. In preparation for the upcoming hike in New York, which would take place one week later, I had bought my new hiking shoes and this was my first opportunity to give them a trial run-err, trial hike. To get to the castle we had to ascend a trail that was rather steep and alternated between wooden steps and a paved path. The way up was quite a workout and I couldn’t help but wonder “how did they manage to get the castle up here?!”

Once we managed to arrive at the top, we arranged for a guided tour. Since the tour was exclusively in German, I had to rely on my two companions to translate the interesting parts. The tour was rather short considering the size of the castle. Since it is still currently occupied by one of the heirs, only certain sections are open to the public. One of the first parts that we got to see was the former queen’s chambers. This consisted of her sleeping room, dressing room, a room for her servant, and some other rooms that I can’t fathom the use of-yawn! Where’s the dungeon?

The last room that we visited was the treasure chamber. Upon hearing that this was where we were headed, I became all flittertated. We descended a spiral staircase and ended up back outside in the courtyard where we all regrouped and prepared to visit a room that, like dark towers and dungeons (hey, what about that dungeon?), is something exclusively characteristic of a castle. The anticipation was overwhelming.

We were then directed to a door that led back inside of the castle. My mind was racing. Where would this lead us? Perhaps down some dark corridor that gradually descended down stone steps, spiraling toward a large wooden door with a padlock? A corridor lit only with torches, water dripping down the stones, and cobwebs barring our way. Once behind the wooded door we would surely see suites of armor warning uninvited visitors to beware. Gulp!

We left the courtyard single-file in an orderly manner. When we again entered the castle we were greeted by a well lit interior of white plaster walls with various suites of armor and antique weapons on display. The tour guide explained that this small room was the armory. Oh, yeah! I almost forgot that castles are supposed to have armories-but was this all? Oh well, at least we still had the treasure chamber before us. We continued through another ordinary, nondescript door into a large well-lit room with lots of windows and fluorescent lighting. Throughout the room, in glass cases, and hanging on the walls, were various antiques, some jewels, paintings, and old clothes and uniforms displayed as they would be in any other museum. The tour guide explained that this room-the treasure chamber-used to be the kitchen. It was now converted into a small museum where people could view many of the old antiques and other things. Where the hell is that dungeon?! Oh well, at least we got to see the queen’s dressing chambers-yawn!

Despite the lack of dungeon and a proper treasure chamber, I did enjoy the day and was able to joke with my two lady companions about the differences between what I was expecting and what we actually saw. They were a little disappointed about the lack of dungeon as well, because, as they explained to me, they wanted to leave me in it.

Afterwards, we went out to dinner at a very unique little restaurant that had an outdoor patio, an indoor cellar, a banquet hall, and regular dining facilities. In addition, there was an outdoor petting zoo and a barn that was closed off to the public, but attached to the main building. At first we decided to sit outside on the patio. But after hearing the squeals and the violent rustling coming from inside the barn, we elected to eat inside in the main dining area. Apparently, this particular restaurant is rather “self sufficient.” They appear to be one of their own biggest vendors. (So much for GFS!-Gordon Food Service for those of you who are not familiar. )

Once we finished eating, my coworker’s friend had to leave, so the two of us remaining finished the night off at a disco. For those of you reading this who are conjuring up visions of Danny Tarrio, leisure suites, and Bee Gees, I should inform you that outside of the US people still refer to what we call night clubs as discos. Unlike in the US, the word disco does not have a negative connotation of something extremely tacky that should have died with the closing of the 70’s.

Well, it was approximately one week prior to this that I heard about the celebration in New York for Dr. Andrew Bernstein’s book, Heart of a Pagan. And it would be just one week later that I would be flying across an ocean to be there for it. Within those two weeks I discovered a very significant difference between Germans and Americans. The Germans just do not have the adventurer’s spirit that is so characteristic of Americans.

I first touched a glimpse of this upon observing their reactions to the fact that, not only did I come here to stay for an entire year, but I also sold my house to do so. Part of this reaction of course is due to the fact that Germans are not as wealthy as Americans (due also in part for lacking the adventurer’s spirit) so that if and when they do manage to own a home, they do so for life. For Germans, owning a house is a lifetime commitment. Because of a lack of new construction, many of them have to settle for old run down houses and buildings that they must put all of their time, money, and energy into renovating.

Originally, I thought that these economic factors were the entire reason for them being shocked upon hearing of the sale of my house. But when they heard that I was flying back to the USA for just a weekend-and on such short notice-they were incredulous. My upcoming trip was the talk of the company. One girl even accused me of having “too much money.” I told her that I had not even begun accumulating the amount of wealth that I want to have one day. And when I talked about how I was going to buy not just one, but many houses upon my return, and that I would rent them out to other people, the idea of such a “complicated” business venture had her shaking her head as if she wanted something unnamed and not to be understood to leave her mind before she could identify it. I discovered that what people like her did not want to identify, and why they shook their heads so vehemently, was the idea that personal wealth is something that can only come from personal effort. And since they lack the adventurer’s spirit, they will never be able to enjoy life the way we Americans do, nor will they have any more future security than what their parental government is capable of “providing” for them. Speaking of the adventurer’s spirit, did I mention they have no Karaoke over here?

Okay, for those of you reading this who are not familiar with the events that would take place a week later in New York, I will fill you in. For those of you who were there, feel free to jump down a few paragraphs (approximately halfway into page five), or read on and verify the accuracy of my account.

On Friday, June 21 I drove from the small village in southern Germany where I currently live to Zurich Switzerland. From there I flew across the Atlantic Ocean to arrive in Newark early in the afternoon. After driving through two foreign countries and flying across an ocean, it was not until I arrived back home that I began to have problems and got lost. For those of you who are not familiar with Yahoo maps, I tell you now “don’t ever use them!” I was turned around and lost in the Bronx/Yonkers area for over an hour-places that I only heard about (and nothing of it good) on TV. Eventually I was able to get directions from some nice people who proved to me that you can’t believe everything you see on TV. (Another irony on this adventure is the fact that I have no problem finding younger people in Germany who can speak English, but just try and find one at a gas station in New York, USA.) When I eventually made it into Hawthorne, the city were Andy lives, my Yahoo directions had me looking for a street called Mozart-a street that does not exist anywhere in the city of Hawthorne. (Do you suppose they call it Yahoo because it’s run by a bunch of yahoos?)

Undaunted, this adventurer continued on. I eventually found my way to the much revered home of Andrew Bernstein and his wonderful wife Regina. And it was my first time meeting Regina. Until then I had only heard of her from Andy whenever he would mention her in conversation or sometimes during his lectures. For those of you have not met her, let me tell you that she is a wonderful lady and it was as much a pleasure for me to meet her as it was when I met Andy Bear for the first time. (If you don’t know the significance of “Andy Bear”, I can explain later, or you can ask Amy.) By the way, Andy and Regina if you are reading this, I would just like to thank you again for your generous hospitality.

Eventually Robert, Amy, and Katie would arrive later that same day after flying in from Michigan. I had asked Amy to buy me a copy of Andy’s book because I anticipated that I would have difficulty ordering it online while in Germany (thank you Amy!). Because of this, I had not yet read the book and Andy made it my homework assignment to do so before hiking up Breakneck Ridge the next day. I was not able to finish by that time, but I did make significant headway by the end of the evening and can actually boast having read much of it in the home and in the presence of the author himself. By the way, for those of you have not read it, I recommend going to Amazon.com and purchasing a copy. I personally guarantee that you will find it to be a religious experience-in a good way!

That evening was one that will live in my memory for a long time. I was once again with my best friends and we were gathered for a very sacred occasion in the home of one of our favorite Objectivists and dearest friend. I kept thinking about how I was spending the night in the home of what we consider in Objectivist circles to be a celebrity. And yet, because it was so right, it seemed so natural. Rather than the excited dumbfounded giddiness that common people experience upon meeting their favorite movie/rock stars, I felt a calm serenity and happiness like no other that I had ever experienced. It was a wonderful end to a day of traveling that I would liken to finding the Holy Grail or the Fountain of Youth at the end of a long quest. But, true to the adventurer’s spirit, we would not rest on our laurels. In fact, the journey was only just begun.

The next day we awoke bright and early to begin our “pilgrimage” up Breakneck Ridge to hear Dr. Andrew Bernstein deliver his “Sermon on the Mount.” Many of you reading this probably do not understand the significance of this hike, so I will take a brief moment to explain it now. Andy’s novel, Heart of a Pagan, is the story of Swoop, a basketball player who comes into a small town in rural Iowa with two goals in mind: winning the national championship and inspiring everyone in the town by showing them a vision of human greatness. The theme of this novel is the greatness that is possible to each man when he views Man, not as something depraved and worthy of contempt, but as something heroic deserving of worship and exaltation. The main character, Swoop, is an inspirational hero who overcomes great odds-extremely great odds-in order to pursue his goals and achievements. Swoop has the heart of a pagan because, unlike the Christians, he upholds the Ancient Greek ideal of what Man can and should be.

As an aside, something very unique to this novel, that I found enjoyable, is the fact that it is narrated through the eyes of one of the people that Swoop inspires. All too often in movies and literature today, the main characters are people who are crippled, mentally deficient, or some other such handicap. I am reminded of a passage from Atlas Shrugged:

…And Dagny realized [that the woman] was Kay Ludlow, the movie star who, once seen, could never be forgotten; the star who had retired and vanished five years ago, to be replaced by girls of indistinguishable names and interchangeable faces. But at the shock of the realization, Dagny thought of the sort of movies that were now being made-and then she felt that the glass cafeteria was a cleaner use for Kay Ludlow’s beauty than a role in a picture glorifying the commonplace for possessing no glory.

Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged-pg. 727

In such books and movies we are supposed draw inspiration from the weak as if this were man’s natural state. The audience is supposed to feel pity for these people, or at best inspiration that they had to overcome some great odds to live with, rather than overcome, their particular weakness. The other message, left unstated, is that those who do not have to overcome such obstacles are not heroes because they could never know or understand what it is like. Furthermore, people without handicap are regarded as irrelevant and incapable of inspiring others-or worse, guilty for not having suffered. (Why should a man repair his Mercedes Benz after sustaining a blow from a rock thrown by a kid trying to get help for his crippled brother? He should let it remain damaged as a symbol of his guilt-albeit unearned-for not taking notice for himself.)

Not so in Heart of a Pagan. In this novel, the heroic main character is a physically fit specimen who has a perfectly athletic physique, the mind of a great philosopher-and no unearned guilt. He is a hero of perfected mind and body. And the person whose eyes the story is told is Diggs, a cripple who draws inspiration from Swoop. The novel shows us that if such people as Diggs are to manage, they need inspiration, not pity, in order to overcome their disabilities. And it is the Men of ability who are best capable of providing such inspiration, and these Men should be regarded as heroes rather than condemned for having an “unfair advantage” over others. Throughout the novel, Swoop defies all odds to overcome and achieve his goals. (By the way, Andy. If they ever make your book into a movie I would like to suggest a theme song that would be wonderful to hear as Swoop goes running down court and soaring to the basket. “This is My Time” by Sasha. I don’t know if it is heard in the US, but it is a big hit over here in Germany.)

It was in this spirit that we hiked up the mountain on Saturday. We ascended as if we were climbing Mount Olympus. This particular hiking trail had different routes to the top. The white trail was the most difficult, and therefore the one that we chose to climb. It was rough going for many of us-including me. But in the end we experienced a sense of accomplishment like no other. We began as ordinary mortals, but upon reaching the top we were gods. Yes, it was indeed a religious experience. We witnessed the Glory of Man-no, that is not correct; like Swoop, we demonstrated the Glory of Man. At the end of the day, we all had a reverence toward Man the likes of which has not existed since the days of Aristotle. It was all the more significant an achievement because, as in the novel, many of us had to reach down within ourselves and follow the inspiration of Swoop in order to accomplish our goal. As I alluded to earlier, many of us, including me, were not physically fit enough to conquer the white trail our first time out-or so it could have been said. But we conquered it nonetheless-against all odds.

And before I forget, on the way to the top, the time for Andrew Bernstein’s interview with Prodos, an Australian radio host, came upon us. We stopped for about half an hour so that Andy could talk on the cell phone and be interviewed. When he finished the initial portion of the interview, Prodos asked if he could talk with some of the other hikers and a few of us-including me!-got to talk on Australian radio. I can’t wait to see if he archives it on his internet web-site.

At the top of the hill, Andy gave a lecture about his novel. We all sat around him and listened while Robert and I filmed the event on our camcorders. It was quite an event-and quite a site! Throughout the lecture and the Q&A period, other hikers would come to the top of the mountain and see us gathered there. The looks on their faces is best described as bewilderment. To struggle to the top of Breakneck Ridge only to discover a literary discussion group holding session was probably the last thing they had expected. And then, like a patron in a Chinese Restaurant who has just had his egg roll lifted by a complete stranger, they had no idea what to do or how to react. They knew we were doing something important, but they did not know what. They observed the video cameras and hesitated not knowing if it was okay to cut across the path through our small group of intellectuals numbering about twenty. Since they needed to continue along the path, and we were gathered such that the path cut through the middle of our group, some of the hikers who would stumble upon us from time to time would eventually figure out that it was okay to play through. But for some we had to wave them past when we saw the indecision in their manner.

When Andy was finished with his lecture, we descended Mount Olympus to gather at his house for nectar and ambrosia. The trip down was just as adventurous. However, the part that I found most fascinating was the apparent ease with which Katie made her descent. Most of the gang had went on ahead while Robert, Amy, Andy, Katie and I fell far behind. As we struggled down the hill, I would look up periodically wondering where Katie was. Each time, she was just up ahead of us patiently waiting at a spot just short of being out of eyesight. Because we were too busy helping each other (Amy and I were still catching our breaths) and trading off our loads, we never noticed how she got from one point to the next. Because of this, we never saw any effort, if any, she had to make to get to where she was. It was as if one moment she were here, the next moment she was somewhere else. It may sound silly, but this brought to my mind the idea of some sort of forest sprite guiding wayward travelers who are in need, but remaining just out of their reach.

She always appeared very calm, showing no sign of effort, and having a hint of a smile on her face as if amused that us mere mortals should find traveling so difficult while she patiently waited for us just ahead. With her pigtails, hiking cap, and rucksack she reminded me of Heidi of the Swiss Alps. But her manner of going unnoticed made her seem more like some sort of ethereal spirit guiding us home. At one point we stopped to drink some water. As we passed the bottle around I realized after handing it back to Robert that I had completely forgotten to offer some to Katie-not because I did not notice her, but because the thought that she could possibly require any did not even occur to me. Immediately I felt bad, hastily apologized and offered her some hoping that she did not think I was intending to be rude. It did not surprise me in the least when she declined because she did not need any. Wow! Katie Gehrman: Goddess of Breakneck Ridge! Thank you for being our guide Katie, and quite an inspiration. Perhaps we can call you Swoopette?

There were significantly more people at the party than on the ridge, and it was a great opportunity to meet other Objectivists. Andy personally autographed all of our books. We celebrated late into the evening, and Robert, Amy, Katie and I again spent the night-as well as Andy’s sister and two other Objectivist friends. In the morning we got up and went out to breakfast and returned to play Frisbee until it was time to leave.

I drove back to the Newark airport without any problems thanks to Andy’s directions-which did not include the Bronx or Yonkers. I flew back to Zurich arriving on a rainy Monday morning and drove back to Germany. I was still feeling a sense of euphoria and it was as if I were still living in the moments back in New York. I had only been away from Germany for a couple of days, but it was all so strange to me as if I had been gone for a year. Once again I was feeling that sense of loneliness that only comes with happiness and not having anyone to share it with. But it was of course the happiness that was the dominant emotion.

Upon arriving at work the next day I had to field hundreds of questions from my colleagues concerning my trip-almost all of which had to do with the flight and the drive. I was so caught up in the events in New York that the flight and the drive all seemed insignificant to me, and I was consistently shocked, puzzled and dismayed that their questions should concern such trivial aspects of my journey. After all, I just spent the weekend with Objectivists in The United States, one of which is the author of a very significant and very important book. A book that has already had a profound effect on my life-an effect that has me looking for gyms, avoiding all alcohol and junk food, filling every moment of every day with activities that will help me achieve all of my long and short term goals; an effect on my life that has me believing that I am God! And they want to know “how was the flight?” This is why loneliness accompanies happiness. How can I explain to them the significance of what has just transpired in my life? How can I explain what a wonderful celebration it was-to these people who think a celebration is just music and beer? I don’t want to talk about the flight; I want to talk about the great Men who perfected the jet airplane. I don’t want to talk about the drive; I want to talk about the Man who invented the internal combustion engine. “Were there lots of trees on your hike?” I want to talk about how great it is that Man can reshape his environment to suit his needs by chopping down those trees to make paper and build homes.

I am very thankful to Robert for transferring pictures and video of the weekend onto a CD. I have relived the moments many times since then. At one point I even showed the pictures to my coworkers so they might possibly get an idea of what transpired. (for those of you who were not on the hike, I will send some pictures in a separate e-mail to spare those who already have them from having to download them with this letter.)

On the same day that I flew to New York, the United States played Germany to see who would advance to the World Cup finals. Now I know that this is not big news in the United States, nor did I have anything more than a peripheral interest in the outcome of the match. But because the people I work with were very excited about the game, and because they were fascinated about the total lack of interest in this game on the part of Americans, I could not avoid staying informed about the events surrounding it. As it turns out, the United States team outplayed the German team by a considerable margin and only lost the game by a score of 1-0 with a goal that should not have counted because it hit a German player on the hand. And as even us uninformed Americans are well aware, players are not allowed to touch the ball with their hands in the game of soccer. Well, this controversial non-call allowed the Germans to win.

Upon my return to work, I could not resist taunting my coworkers concerning their tainted victory-especially after they had done so much talking about how they could beat us with just one player! “Your team did not beat us, the referees beat us.” “We did not know that we were allowed to use our hands.” “In American we put our money to a more noble use than bribing referees.” And of course, because the truth of the matter was inescapable, they could not deny my playful jibes, but only joke in return that we Americans did not understand that bribing referees is an acquired skill, therefore we deserved to lose for not having mastered it.

What transpired next I told Andy about in part when I chatted with him online the other day. However he had to go so I did not get to tell him everything. I noticed that the fourth of July occurs on a Thursday this year and I would have to work that day and miss all of the festivities since I am here in Germany. Out loud I complained “oh no, we have to work on the fourth next week!” Everyone looked at me with a puzzled expression. Only my boss realized the significance and took the bait. He said “Oh, the fourth of July. That’s a holiday for you isn’t it?” I said, “yes, it is the most sacred of all holidays. It is the day America was born.” He replied, “we have that on October third.” I asked with mock surprise, “you celebrate America’s birthday on October third?” This elicited much laughter.

It was about this time I was bringing up the pictures of the trip to New York on my computer because many of my colleagues were interested in seeing them. While viewing the slideshow, one of them made a comment about the three of us, Robert, Amy and me, standing next to the American flag. The self-control that I managed to maintain so as not to loose my temper was like none other that I had ever had to perform. I reminded myself that we had been jesting with each other quite a bit and that these people did not understand the significance or the reverence involved with our flag. Nor do they show any similar reverence for their own, which I will elaborate on further very shortly. My coworker said, “you should be standing next to the German flag since we won the football game [soccer for us Americans].” After suppressing a brief but violent flash of anger, I shot back, “in America our flag stand for something much more important than just a football game.” I was certain that he had witnessed my rage, that I had been unsuccessful at squelching it, but perhaps not since he came back with, “we don’t care about that other stuff here in Germany,” while laughing. I laughed too ever so briefly as he had-just long enough to feed off of his momentum and carry it as my own. In a tone of mock surprise I asked, “you don’t care about freedom, prosperity, and individual rights?” And then I became gravely seriousness and with a tone suggesting the discovery of a new truth that made everything suddenly clear, I continued, “Well, that certainly explains quite a lot.” The words I left unsaid, but unmistakably implied were, “about your history.” I left it dangling in the air because I did not want to be too confrontational, but at the same time I knew that my meaning would not be lost. The guilty and evasive look on the face of my hapless tormentor showed that he knew very well what it was I had left unsaid. It was implied and understood by all. He turned away and did not say anything further while the rest of us admired and enjoyed the rest of the pictures-even laughing from time to time over comments which carried no further hint of controversy.

The next weekend was the World Cup soccer final between Germany and Brazil. Brazil won 2-0. I was invited to watch this game with some of the other friends that I have made since arriving here. A lady who works upstairs and her husband (Sandra and Frank) were the people I was with when I hurt my leg. Her husband is on a local soccer team here and I have had the opportunity to see his team play and meet some of them socially. We watched the game at their soccer clubhouse. At the end of the game, all of the players from Brazil ran and jumped in a manner that I have only seen soccer players and people from Africa do in National Geographic films. Afterwards, each of them acquired a Brazilian flag and paraded around with it in a very undignified manner. Each man either draped the flag over his head, or wrapped it around himself and rolled on the ground with it, or even tied it to his head like a hip-hop headdress. This, I was told by my German acquaintances, was normal behavior after winning a soccer game.

This helped me to understand something that had happened earlier during the halftime intermission. As everyone left the clubhouse to enjoy the sun and get some fresh air, I noticed that German flags were hanging from poles in the room and draped across the floor. I did not notice this until after I had accidentally stepped on one and jumped back for fear of being disrespectful. I looked around expecting someone to chastise me, but instead noticed that everyone else walked over it just the same as if it were a piece of carpeting. Outside I noticed another flag lying on the ground-dirty pavement no less-next to a motorcycle. No wonder my colleague at work had remarked so innocently about our flag, and without a hint of understanding that it could possibly have been offensive.

If the American soccer team intends on celebrating in this same manner should they ever win the World Cup, then I hope they never do. If they ever do win it, I can only hope that they have enough decency not to desecrate the flag or display it in any undignified manner. And if asked, I hope that one among them has sense enough to reply, “in America, sports is an individual achievement. We, the individuals on this team, won this trophy. Everyone knows that we are Americans and that we have won the World Cup, but that is not what makes the USA the greatest country. We do not wait to win football games in order to display our flag. In America we display our flag proudly all year round, and our justification for doing so is that it represents the greatest country on Earth-a country of freedom, prosperity, and individual rights. While other countries believe that their stature is somehow raised by winning a soccer game, that they somehow compare better and are superior to all others for that reason alone, the people in the United States need no such justification. Win or lose, we know we are the greatest country on Earth. And today, this team is the best football team.”

I finally realized that this is one of the primary reasons that I do not like soccer. Aside from it being boring and requiring very little athletic ability, I knew that there was something collectivist in nature about it, but I could not quite put my finger on it until now. In The United States, we watch sports with as much if not more enthusiasm as the rest of the world. But our sports are internal to our country with the exception of a few Canadian teams. We do not watch these games believing that our national identity rests on the outcome. We are already secure on that account. We know that we are watching the greatest athletes in the world without having to compete with the rest of the world. We have a system that inspires greatness and attracts athletes from all over the world to compete in our professional leagues.

When we watch, we do so to honor and celebrate human achievement-not to vindicate ourselves and believe that the achievements of our athletes are equally ours. We know that their achievements are theirs and theirs alone and we thank them for allowing us to witness the greatness. We want to see the best and we have established a system-a system that is only possible in a capitalist country-where only the best, wherever they may come from, can participate. These athletes are not committed to playing for any one particular team based on geographical accident. They play for teams based on a competition that takes place on another level: coaching and management. Coaches and managers must do just as good a job as the players in performing their roles. The players they have on their teams are not there by accident of birth, they are there because the coaches and managers must earn these players by being able to recognize talent and ability, and by doing what it takes to obtain them. Where is the equivalent of Michael Jordan or Scotty Bowman in the world of soccer? And it is not just the professional level that interests us. We are equally interested in sports at the college level and invest millions of dollars there as well. We enjoy seeing players who are on the brink of greatness and trying to determine for ourselves which of them will eventually be the next pro athlete. In what other country do you see such fan support and such fierce competition at the college level-if such even exists in other countries?

I will conclude on a much lighter note. Saturday I went to the city of Tuttlingen for a town celebration with the same two ladies that accompanied me to the castle two weeks prior-Elke and Martine. Elke’s friend, Jochem, and Martine’s mother joined us as well. There isn’t really that much to tell concerning the celebration. It was rather ordinary. There were lots of booths where people sold trinkets, food, beer, and other beverages, as well as music and a few games such as darts and booths where you could win prizes.

But late into the evening, the funniest events occurred as a result of our small language barrier. While it is true that both Elke and Martine speak very fluent English, there are still instances when things do not translate directly from German to English very well. The fist instance occurred when Elke and I were trying to catch up to Martine and Jochem. They had gone ahead to get some sparkling wine. Elke was hungry and saw a booth that was making Crepes-a word that is pronounced slightly different in German. When this quiet, refined, and demure lady suddenly looked at me and declared, “I want to go there and take a crap,” I had to stop and collect myself. I knew that this could not possibly be what she had intended to say. When she pointed to the booth, I exclaimed, “ah!” I laughed a little, but otherwise controlled myself. But still she became curious as to what was on my mind. I had to explain that what she said sounded like something else, but I told her I would spare her the details. The self-control that I exerted to keep from going into guffaws was second only to the self-control I exhibited earlier when I suppressed my rage over the flag comment.

Eventually we were all together once again after catching up to the others and the beverage booth where everyone was sipping sparkling wine. After awhile I noticed that Jochem had slipped away and I asked concerning his whereabouts. Martine explained in a direct word-for-word translation that “he went for little boys.” Although I knew what she meant-that he went to the little boys room-I could not resist feigning shock and then shouting “run little boys! Run!” This elicited much laughter. At this time Elke remembered that I had not told her the meaning of what she had said earlier. With both her and Martine insisting that I help improve their English, I relented. The sparkling wine would have come out of their noses had they not reached up to cover their faces with their hands. No longer feeling the need to control myself, we laughed like this for what must have been five minutes. Every time we thought we were finished, one of us would start to giggle and the floodgates would burst open again.

Well, apparently I had more to say than I thought. In fact, I think this is my longest letter to date! I guess it is not the quantity of events, but the quality and what one can derive from them. Perhaps, like Swoop, I can inspire others with my writing so that many of you will do the same. After all, even though I was able to hear the Red Wings on internet radio, it would be nice if someone could write to me about the events that transpired back home so that I too might feel like I was there-hint, hint. I also welcome hearing about anything else that is going on in your lives that you care to share with me-hint, hint. So, come on everybody, let’s see some letter writing!-hint, …okay that last was a little more than a hint.

Best Premises,

Eric