German Beef Jerky Packaging

I always find myself in a group of people who wind up rolling their eyes whenever I decide to vocalize something I was fairly certain everyone was already thinking. Sure I have a "Dirty Mind," but these days, how can you not?

In a Social context, this type of observation usually has about as much grace as Rosie O’Donnell ice skating with a jet engine duct taped to her head. [ed. note: I’m sorry, Rosie. I don’t know you. Maybe you skate well. I have no way of knowing.] But in a Comedic context, I have about 100% accuracy. To me. Because I think I’m hysterical. And in the end, that’s what really counts.

So maybe I don’t have that censor sitting in my brain waiting to hit the bleep button, and maybe, often, the world would be a better place if my thoughts were telecast with a 5 second delay. It would certainly be more decent.

So here’s your chance. I won’t spoil it. And you can sit and enjoy whatever G-Rated images float through the theater in your mind.

I dare you.

German Efficiency

Our stay in the Munich Hauptbahnhof lasted about an hour, long enough for us to order a couple of mutated cheese-filled croissants, obviously the result of years of German Pastry inbreeding. Then we walked over to get our tickets to Benediktbeuern (which means Knife-sharpening Bavarian Hunchback, or something similar), where the farm was.

Contrasting sharply from the chaos that filled the SNCF ticket offices of Paris, I immediately felt a sense of calm and order.

You meet with a helpful information agent (who speaks English), who cheerfully instructs you where to proceed.

You take a number, and wait comfortably on one of the 12 upholstered benches.

[You also notice there aren't any black people, but, well, this is still Germany we're talking about]

When I eventually made it to my agent (who also spoke English), I outlined the several trips I needed help with. He printed detailed instructions for all of them: timetables for each trip, for each stop on the trip, and all the stations in between. Then he gave me an option for the return trip up to Köln.

HIM: This one, here, only has 1 connection, instead of the earlier one, which has 6.

ME: Well, yeah. One connection sounds much easier. And that one leaves at?

HIM: 8:32.

ME: Okay, so we'll only have a twenty minute wait before the train at 8:30...

HIM: Two.

ME: Hmm?

HIM: Two. The train is at eight-thirty-two.

He even circled it on the paper, like a Safari Guide showing you "Here is where it's safe to swim...Over here? This is where all the crocodiles are."

To Munich!

To Germany!

Leni thought it would be fun to stay on a farm in Germany (before our home-exchange near Köln).

Roxy absolutely loves animals. I absolutely love hauling 3 suitcases, a stroller, a bag of f**king snacks that never gets any lighter, and a toddler all over Europe, so, what the hell, it seemed a perfect fit.

We had already bought Eurail Passes, so train would be our preferred method of travel. And because we're Americans, we thought it would be no problem whatsoever to book our tickets at the last minute. And by we I mean my wife. As it turned out, the only room we could get on the overnight train to Munich had 6 beds in it, 3 of which were occupied.

I asked the ticket agent if he thought it would be uncomfortable for us, as a family, to share a room with complete strangers.

He puffed his cheeks out, expelling air out of his mouth in that very French way that means "I'm thinking" and "how the f**k should I know?" at the same time.

"Non," he replied. Except it sounded like "Non?"

Which meant if the bunks were any bit as accommodating as the bathrooms [that picture is to scale, by the way, of the WC on the train], we were totally screwed, non?