Chasing Clichés (aka Around Town, II)

In Yes, Chef! A Memoir, one of Sam's favorite books, celebrity chef Marcus Samuelsson writes that his philosophy of cooking is to "chase flavors." I've decided that my philosophy for the rest of our not-yet-limited-but-already-all-too-short time remaining over here will be to chase clichés.

To kick off the cliché campaign, J and I had homemade fondue made by a real, from a mountain town, pension-accruing-even-while-a-postdoc Swiss (thanks Martin). [Blogger's note: whereas conservatives grossly exaggerate the generosity of the American welfare state, I romanticized the Swiss: Martin informs me that his pension is in fact frozen while he has a postdoc in Germany.]

I think we did pretty well.

Next, we've decided to embrace German, Kaffee, Kuchen, and Eis culture as enthusiastically as possible, which is easy to do considering a small gelato is 1€, or about a third of the Avenues price. Germans do not need an excuse to walk for ice cream or cake. And although sometimes I miss American-style coffee houses with plenty of seating and bottomless mugs of coffee, I love how the lines between cafes/coffee houses/bars/restaurants are completely blurred here. This sign says it all.

As just noted, the situation need not be perfect for an ice cream or cake. Often it's so cold that you need to wrap up so you can sit out on the main square and have a sundae (blankets provided).

Sometimes you need to have a quick Kuchenpause standing up on an expedition in between rain showers. Beats energy bars. 

Ah but when the weather is finally nice for a few hours ... watch out for thousands of Germans converging on their nearest ice cream parlor. It got so bad in Berlin this spring that one store owner was sheepishly forced into increasing prices (nice problem to have) to try and diminish the crowds his neighbors were complaining about. Here in Tübingen, we have competing gelaterias right across the cobblestones from each other near the entrance to Old Town, and on one sunny and warm weekend day -- ok, the warm and sunny weekend day, and one of two total sunny and warm days so far this calendar year -- the following resulted.

We did not wait the 30 minutes. And anyway, when in Germany, we prefer "Spaghettieis." Yup, the "carbonara" is in the background. I could write a whole entry on the Italians in the German imagination ...

The cakes are great, often filled with cream and fruit and not so much actual cake. 

The grocery store (!) where we bought the above claimed that it's a "Holland cake," but my Dutch officemate, Susanna, was perplexed by this characterization.   

In the coffee department, even though one can find the odd Tasse Kaffe here and there (amazingly, it's more expensive than an espresso -- if only Radina's would charge less for an espresso than a cup!) -- I just can't seem to convey the notion in a store that I would like our beans ground thicker than cocaine. (And remember, we are forced to buy them store-ground because of the home coffee grinder problem.) I've tried every phrase we can muster from Google Translate -- please grind them for a paper filter and/or an American-style maker; please grind them more coarsely than normal; I don't use an espresso machine, so please grind them coarsely; God Damn it, stop the machine! -- but every time, the beans come out like powder. I swear this happens even when I see the employee adjust the machine to a coarse setting. Of course, part of the problem is that the German verbs for grind and paint are indistinguishable to a non-native speaker (mahlen and malen), so I guess the coffee purveyors just give up (and press "default: extra fine") after they determine that I'm the strange American who wants his coffee beans painted.

With the help of the Bettymobile, we've also mastered the German castle and church excursion. The historian in me is tempted to provide a detailed summary of each castle's family, and its relative significance to the Thirty Years War, but I will resist (feel free to email me). Suffice it to say that we enjoyed the hike up to Hohenzollern. Ever notice that official pictures are always better than the ones you take?

From the castle we enjoyed a romantic view of the German countryside.

Hohenzollern has a beer garden, of course. And to think they say Swabia has no beaches.

This beer garden also gave us the chance to embrace the cliché of the vegetable-not-called-potato-less meal (unless, like the Reagan administration, you consider ketchup a vegetable).

I'm not exactly sure where Schloss Sigmaringen is. At that point we'd driven around Swabia twice and been drenched on what should have been a great walk along the Danube. But the place was tremendous (and if you ever need an Italian restaurant recommendation in the town ...).

Churches we've seen in abundance, as well. One of our favorites was nearby Zwiefalter. I'm not a religious historian, but I think the place may have been Catholic. Or be Catholic. It's unclear what the place is now because Napoleon secularized it, and the grounds how house an asylum. [Blogger's note re: Brent's comment below ... I should have made my sarcasm a bit clearer here. We've seen enough stark Lutheran churches to know that this over-the-top Baroque one is Catholic.]

Even better, this place is 50 meters away.

The brewery was closed; you have to call ahead with a group of 15 to get a tour ... so score a point for U.S. beer culture on the matter of tours and tastings. But score one for the Germans with places like this, about 3k outside of Tübingen. The Dinkel Acker Jubiläumsbier was excellent.

We've all had so much fun around town that at one point I almost captured Ella smiling. She has the best paparazzi-dar I've ever seen. 

Between L4 and L5

In heartrate terms, Level 1 (L1) is easy aerobic training. L3 is medium. The upper end of L3, right where it meets L4, is one’s anaerobic threshold, the point at which the body's ability to prevent the build-up of lactate (lactic acid) seriously deteriorates. One can sustain threshold for about an hour, so L4 is essentially race pace for shorter races. L5 is the heartrate and pace you can sustain for a few hundred meters. It’s reserved for hard intervals, the end of races, and, if you're a guy, when you're about to be “chicked,” aka passed by a woman. (Look, most guys in endurance sports are pretty progressive; please forgive us this one misogynistic term when used in a friendly manner.) Für mich, being on the L4/L5 border is bliss. My body is tripping on endorphins, and although I know the last stretch is about to suck, I also know the post-race beer and fun with friends is just around the corner, the endorphin high will linger, and the traditional race-day whiskey nightcap is just a few hours away. 

I hope I get back there soon.
 
L4/L5 also refers to our lowest two vertebrae, and, unfortunately, I’ve been diagnosed with a problem between then. More specifically, it looks like I have Spondylolysis, which, as Wikipedia puts it bluntly, "is a defect of the vertebrae." Even more specifically, my L4 and L5 are not fused correctly, and I was likely born this way.

According to the Cleveland Clinic,“Spondylolysis is a specific defect in the connection between vertebrae, the bones that make up the spinal column. This defect can lead to small stress fractures (breaks) in the vertebrae that can weaken the bones so much that one slips out of place, a condition called spondylolisthesis.” And according to the good Priv.-Doz. Dr. med. A. Badke Stellv. Ärztlicher Direktor (have I mentioned that Germans like titles?, and more on him in a moment), I have said spondylolisthesis.

Luckily I do not have Spondylosis -- seriously, this is a third term and condition (basically a form of degenerative arthritis). The similarity of the words is Kafka-esque. I have spondylolysis and spondylolisthesis but not spondylosis. Ready for the quiz? I thought about posting the x-ray here, but really the spine is grossing me out at the moment.

So what do an improperly fused spine, stress fractures, and slipping bones mean in the long term? As Kristin and Jason's doctor friend just put it to me, "The good news is that you have had this your whole life, the bad news is that it is now symptomatic." It’s funny that I recently wrote here that my goal remains a marathon p.r.; I guess I should scrub that line from the blog. I hope to remain a moderate runner, and maybe do shorter races (one question I'll ask whatever doctor I see back in the states: will this increase the chances of being in a wheelchair when I’m 70?). My sister got all the swimming genes in the family (I literally can kick for about three strokes), so I guess the way to make lemonade out of rotten limes here is to finally take up swimming. Anyone want to go in on adult swim lessons? The good news, according to Kris Freeman, is that swimming makes you a faster skier. Indeed, I hope above all that I’ll still be able to x-c as much as I want.

But there’s no doubt about it: this is disappointing news, given that running has become a passion -- and running is pretty much the worst thing you can do with this condition. And apparently lifting weights may not be ideal either. My question for the ex-theologians and psychologists who read this blog: if one is cancer-free; not in a Syrian refugee camp; in the SES not getting completely screwed by our nation's anti-statist fetish, record inequality, and stupid turn toward austerity; and devoid of a true disability, how much is one allowed to be depressed about simply not being able to do as much of what ones loves to do? And I am allowed to be feel sorry for myself if this condition actually starts affecting my ability to walk for Eis or to wear a backpack, as it seems to be at the moment?

In the short term, I decided to take one out of the Washington Nationals’ playbook and completely shut down. I stopped everything for two weeks ... and did learn you really can read a lot of history when you don’t have to worry about workouts (and you’ve finally met a 17-year-old goal of getting your inbox to zero). I lifted a couple days ago, and so, of course, the pain returned this morning walking J to the train station towing a suitcase. Argh. Of course, then I felt like a complete jerk getting mad about it after we passed a woman with elephantiasis. ... but in any event, it looks like I’m back on the IR. Maybe at this point, instead of admitting that I’m in athletic limbo, I’ll pretend to be a serious athlete ironically describing the difficulty of finding things to do on recovery days. 

Although the news was not great, Betty and Ella and I had fun at the hospital. Here I am waiting for the x-rays after getting a number.

After this image, you might expect a paragraph on the terrible waiting and rationing inherent in the German health care system. Sorry to disappoint. My visit to the hospital indeed brought the contrast between the European and American models into sharper focus … and made me mad once again that the Dems caved in on the public option. I first had back pain more than a year ago, but then I waited several months to see my doctor, and even then -- on a tight insurance-company leash -- he sent me to a personal trainer instead of a back specialist, and did not ask for x-rays. I don't want to even think about how the trainer twisted me like a Bretzel not knowing my condition. Here in Germany, the doctor was motivated by the novel idea of finding out what was wrong with me, and, wholla, I finally got the simple diagnosis. Oh, and the wait for x-rays took about 10 minutes. 

It turns out that Priv.Doz. Dr. med A. Badke’s son has the same condition. I think we really bonded. 

Karlsruhe

One of the great things about living abroad for 6 months is having the chance to visit places off the tourist path. Last weekend, J, J's colleague Bill visiting from Utah, and I took a day trip to Karlsruhe, a city in northwestern Baden-Württemberg, near the French border. My Uncle Jim was stationed in Karlsruhe in the 1950s (the U.S. Army finally left in the 1990s).

The day began with a crowded and noisy train ride filled with high-school kids and twenty-somethings having their first festive beers as they traveled to Stuttgart's Frühlingsfest. The first time we had seen train-goers in lederhosen and bar maiden gear, we had assumed they were going to work at the beer festival -- after all, J used to live in Colonial Williamsburg, so we have the notion that only the employees wear the terribly clichéd historical costumes. But, in fact, Germans of all ages do like to wear folk garb at beer festivals.

When we arrived in Karlsruhe we got a little lost and ended up the cinema multiplex. I wanted to eat here (as I'd never seen a wall of fries before) but was out-voted.

The design museum, our main destination, is part of an architecturally rich three-museum complex, the Zentrum für Kunst und Medientechnologie. Just close your eyes and imagine "German modern art museum." The space was vast.

And the gardens were nice.

We quickly ran through the city art museum. Germans drink more coffee than any other beverage -- yes, even that one -- even if they trail the Finns in per capita consumption -- and it shows in their art.

One painter had my last name. My ancestors hail from these parts, but my genealogy research team hasn't found the connection. Nice painting, though, and sort of reminds me of grandma's art.

The design museum offers a series of interactive computer exhibits. I don't think most people consider it a history museum, but touring it with two computer scientists who research virtual reality turned it into one. We had fun with cameras and computers and screens. 

They had lots of old video games and computers, too.

We spent five minutes in the third (modern art) museum, suffering the indignity of the greeter's comment (especially given that our German lessons [now a group class] have resumed): "If you speak no German, I can speak English." Then we walked to Karlsruhe's main Kunsthalle. J was not particularly enamored of the German "masters" and their proclivity for painting gory religious images, but the Dutch collection is solid. Sure, it may not include a Bruegel, but any old depiction of the frozen Dutch canals in good with me.

On the clock now, we raced to the Schloss, built by an absolutist, tulip-loving, and philandering Margraviate of Baden-Durlach (as you know, a Margraviate was a principality in the Holy Roman Empire that did not enjoy elector status).

Germany has a lot of castles, so they've gotten creative about raising funds. 

I don't think "just married" is the real German phrase, but I can tell you that "Partyservice" is.

Karlsruhe ended on a high note. In an otherwise forgettable Italian restaurant, with a pizza only OK by my new inflated standards, and yet another forgettable Pils, this one a Stauder from Essen, I discovered an actual German, top-fermented, copper-brown ale! [Bloggers's note: I later learned, drinking the bottle I bought in the train station, that the local Pils in Karlsruhe -- Hoepfer -- is quite good, one of the "hoppiest" you can find over here.] Like using the line over a vowel to denote a long sound, writing thank you notes, keeping score at baseball games, and supporting rigorous environmental regulation, Altbiers are relics, in this case of the bygone era before the triumph of lager yeast in the nineteenth century. Altbiers have all of 1% of the market share in Germany, despite being dominant in Dusseldorf. My Diebels Alt from Issum, northwest of Dusseldorf, wasn't as hoppy as I like my ales (no surprise there) but was excellent nonetheless. One of J's favorite breweries actually makes the stuff, so anyone reading this in Windsor please take note.

The excursion as a whole ended on a low note. The Frühlingsfest kids were subdued on the train ride home, having imbibed all day. But the drunk and drinking and singing and worst of all clapping fans of VfB Stuttgart were incredibly obnoxious, not even shutting up when an elderly couple asked them to -- this despite the fact that Stuttgart lost 2-0 that day to the LAST place team in the Bundesliga, SpVgg Greuther Fürth (Fürth is a small city next to Nuremberg). I'm sorry to be a spoilsport, folks, but when grandma is forced to move in a very crowded train, something is wrong. Most of us have been drunk and loud on occasion but also able to cease and desist when publicly chastised. At the moment I'm not sorry we haven't made it to a Bundesliga game.