Predictable.

This is Part 2 of the Wir Gehen Nach Deutschland series, which is, apparently, a series now, because I just called it a series, just now, and there are eleven of them, which is bonkers.

Part 1: Fashion Scarves in Fucking Charge

Part 2: Predictable

Part 3: Noishenvantengutencastlestein v. Hitler's Casino

Part 4: Beating Hitler at His Own Game

Part 5: Inhale

Part 6: After the Fox

Part 7: Like Mountain

Part 8: But You Know. Sweden.

Part 9: It's Fine

Part 10: Kiss Off

 Part 11: Red Man Says Nein

Munich feels like walking through a hugely-proportioned, freshly-scrubbed Bavarian village on mute. Polished professionals with calculated relaxation. There are no loafers dallying about a city like Munich, and there's little room for pissing around, which is ridiculous because Falcor lives like, right there. 

Falcor and I are now best friends and it's about fucking time.  You can ride him, and they play The Neverending Story (Die Unendliche Geschichte!) song and film you on a blue screen so you look all Atreyu-y.  It's basically the most amazing thing you could ever do ever, and our first day was a jet-lagged daze crammed into a list that happens after a colon: plane lands in Munich.  Hug goddamn everyone who I love and haven't seen in forever.  Go to Bavarian Filmstadt.  FALCOR.  Beers and beers and beers.  Save the world using naught but the power of my fucking imagination and a single grain of sand. 

There were beers, and they were done very efficiently. We drank gallons in an exceedingly organized manner and never all at once, which is a nice way to have a day of dreamy chuckles without ever approaching lazy or belligerent.

On Sunday we rode a ski lift to the top of Blomberg.  They have a slide going down the mountain for the last 3/4 of a mile, but it was frozen and that was horseshit.  Either way, it was all very darling and cozy and smart, and there were signs with blue and white striped poles and a tidy Bavarian inn that served actual coffee and cold beers.

* There's no coffee in Munich, which is like saying "winter is coming" or "there's always money in the banana stand" because it doesn't really fucking mean anything until some German bitchslaps you in the face with what it really fucking means.  All coffee is espresso because it saves time, and they don't like it when you call it express-o because that shit is wrong.  The Germans don't understand that when you want a big coffee you want a pint dangerously spilling with dark, scalding, thick dirty water, not a giant cup filled halfway with slightly darkened water, which is the amount of coffee they think you need because you're a nancy-ass that can't handle her coffee.  But coffee leads to bathroom breaks and hypersensitivity, two things they don't have room for in Munich. Still, I like dallying over cup after cup, because half the fun of coffee is wasting my time and getting caught up in enjoying it and then paying for it later. Repercussions are half the fun of consumption. Silly Germans.

So the back at the top of the mountain, tables were full of serious hikers and people wearing assertive endurance garb that states, without guile: "if you're going to be outdoorsy, fucking do it right." There was this permeating sense of al fresco throughout it all.  Kind of like, "no, we are not eating outside, we are dining al fresco." Hiking and drinking and doing all of these things that are awesome, but with a twist of validity.

As a person who loves wandering astray--and I mean that damn literally, I love getting lost and I love the stress and immediacy of finding my way back--but lives in a land that is actually a grid, where you can plot things and where the major hills are streets that rise over highways, and also as a person who is fucking wicked out of shape, there was a ten minute uphill trek that nearly goddamn killed me.  Dude, that?  Is the worst.  It's like, I'm out of shape enough that it could be mockable, but I'm so fucking determined to not look out of shape that it becomes sad, and as a result I don't want to try anything because I'm afraid people will feel sorry for me and fuck you for feeling sorry for me, and then I'm angry before anyone can try doing anything.

Man, remember back when I was solid peasant stock?  I could throw hay bales and build fences.  I did throw hale bales and build fences.  Proudly.  Ain't no way I could do that shit now.  Staying fit is so much easier when the shape of your life demands it, but now I have to make the decision to do it because there's this desk in front of me, automatically, for ten goddamn hours a day. 

We rode the ski lift back down to real life, and Gyna and I rode together all awkwardly and I feel terrible because throughout the entire trip down all I could think about was that. Up there, two paragraphs up about my abrasive inferiority.  I keep on trying to fix it and it keeps on punching me in the face, and the more menial I feel the more aggressive I become which is soooo fucking predictable because I'm trying to justify my self-worth, I'm trying to take the things I'm good at and turn them into something positive, but again, predictably, I never quite get there and in the end I'm still sad, angry Rassles who uses her blog as failed self-therapy.

Hot damn, I hate being predictable. 

When I decided to give up hating on things for Lent it worked, but then it was over and I didn't try to stick with it because I am weak. 

Look at this: I started out talking about my vacation that I loved.  I was going to talk about how amazing it was to see Gyna, about how crazy it is that she is a legit grown up and how well it suits her, about how proud I am of her for moving abroad and creating a life and taking chances and making friends, about how I'm sad that she really is a grown up now and she's moving up on and onward and I'm really just kind of laterally spreading. 

I was going to talk about how glad I was to see MoLinder again, about how well we travel together and how we're both just up for making shit up as we go along and if we want to go to Salzburg, we're going to go to Salzburg, and if we want to go to Sweden we're going to go to Sweden.  We do things the same way like that - head to a place with a hundred ideas and live through the first story we stumble across.   The only time things get stressful is when there's a schedule, but as long as we don't have any time constraints or any real things we feel like we must do, everything is always awesome. Being around MoLinder is also good for me, well, because her bitterness makes me look like a peach. 

I was going to talk about how much fun I had traveling with my sister, which I was kind of worried about.  But she proved herself to be up for anything, throwing in ideas as we walked the streets and not really giving a shit if her ideas weren't chosen.  She never freaked out when we weren't really sure if we were getting on the right train or the right bus and she totally just went with it, which is a big sacrifice for her because she is a SCHEDULER.  I almost said "big step for her" but it's not really a step, because that would insinuate one thing is better than another, and I really don't believe that.  I just believe that one way is more comfortable for me.

I used to think that when you traveled, if you didn't really get to "know" a city your trip wasn't as good as another. Too many Robert Frost poems and Kerouac, I was caught up in the romantic adventure of freedom and I was completely missing the point:  the point is not to do what no one else has done, the point is to do whatever the fuck you want and not give a shit what everyone else does.  Because you can.

Okay, once again: Lent starts after this post.

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