Subterranean Beefworks

Meditation from Thais

I had to laugh.

Before I set about writing this entry, I read some old ones, back until early January 2005, and what I noticed is that almost every entry is prefaced by either an apology for not writing in a while, or incredulity that I was in fact writing again. I'm sorry I hav---

And here I am doing it now!

Well, I have been mulling for some time over various loaves I could pinch onto these pages. To borrow what has become a cliché on this site, "a lot of stuff has happened since I last wrote." You have to really look at the frank candidness of that statement to see just how deep the understatement goes. However, unlike the past, I will not make the empty promise that I will eventually tell all the stories and put up all the lovely pictures that illustrate them. History has shown that making promises on Beefworks never amounts to much more than another apology at the beginning of an entry months later. So, just be surprised with whatever ends up here.

Okay, enough enough. Substance. Recapitulation is unavoidable, so I am going to recapitulate.

I saw a lot of places since August 1st 2005. Sometime late that morning I arrived in Cologne, Germany to begin what would become my favorite two months ever. That is meant to sound a little childish, because it is only with a real childlike enthusiasm that I can convey how great it was. Of course, the circus of sneaking friends in and out of my host family's house is only cool as a memory. And slogging angrily and tired after missing the last train home, glancing at every parked bike to see if I could steal it without tools; that can only really be appreciated after the fact.

Though the experiences themselves have left a deep impression, it is small artifact memories that strike me the most.

The sight of this bottle is delightfully evocative. A member of the fiercely "ethnocentric" brewing culture of Cologne (at least in regard to it's Altbier-drinking step-sister to the north, Düsseldorf), Gaffel is pronounced "Gahfell," appropriately similar the english "awful," which conviniently approximates the taste. The example here is backlit well, and provides a nice academic specimin of Gaffel; however, in nature this beer is many times more charming. At one-half liter in volume, a bottle of Kölsch seems at first formidable in comparison to our 12 ounce bottles. And when you hoist them, warm and uninviting out of their bruised plastic case, the glass of the bottle has an almost sinister darkness to it, as if it's contents have turned out the lights to discourage your disturbing them.

You will not hear me complain about the taste of this beer. Gaffel is Gaffel, and that means sitting in the park in the early evening with lovely company, becoming less concerned about unfinished school assignments with each successive sip. Gaffel is struggling through card games at my friend's old apartment, long after the night has ended and long after the departure of any train that would get me home, along with the desire to get on it. Gaffel carries the false hopes of a mouthwash-effect when one ends up sleeping next to somebody they'd rather not offend with their unwashed teeth.

I won't miss my bike, Rocky. She was slow, ungainly, her wheels wobbled, and her tires stank up any enclosed space. Her chain would pop and snap when taxed too much, and still her gears were consistently pigheaded and unyielding. Given her weight, her frame had to have been some alloy of iron and lead which when riding, gave one the impression that one was riding on the back of an unwilling fat woman. Rocky could not coast; even on the steepest inclines, her lame fat ass would gradually undermine what should have been overwhelming momentum, and you'd find yourself stopped before the hill even hinted at leveling out.

And still, Rocky brought me from central Germany to the Baltic Sea last November, and from Prague to Dresden this summer without incident. She was nothing if not faithful. Pictured here are her last known whereabouts. After our final bike trip in Germany, my compatriot and I agreed to leave the bikes in Dresden next to the train station, unlocked, with brief testaments regarding where they had been and our wishes for where they should go. To be honest, leaving her there felt like the end of a doomed relationship, a relief almost. Rocky and I, we both knew it couldn't work over such distances. We had our time together, and we just decided to charish the memories for what they were. Still, I'm left to wonder where she is today, and if we'll ever see eachother again.

A picture taken by a friend of mine In a Cologne park (Volksgarten) in which I spent a lot of time. I am going to close this entry here because it's 5am and I am out of gas. Acknowledging what I said before about promises on Beefworks, I will say that I will try and pick up where I left off. That is, sooner rather than later. I hope this was a good start...

Stalling

Don't mind the nick on my knuckle. It's from the propellers of a small styrofoam plane.

More on this and other themes after I finally get some sleep.