Trip: Two (German Breakfasts, Captain Beefheart, Green Sauce Addiction)

Despite our best-laid plans to rise early and grab each day of the trip by the tender bits, we slept. And slept. And kept sleeping. By the time we arose, Lydia had laid out a hotel-worthy spread on the small kitchen table. I felt like the rock star that I never was. This was also the beginning of our month-long love affair with German, and Continental breakfasts.

(Continental as in, the Continent of Europe. Not "Continental" as in rising from your faded mauve bedspread in an anonymous Interstate hotel that's more Soviet bloc than 'Merican, padding down the taupe staircase to a small room blaring ticker-tape talking-head news-babble, to hotplates filled with unripened melon, brown-and-serve mystery links, and waffle batter that is the consistency of a loogie. And to think I used to love staying in hotels.)

The base of the German breakfast is, of course, bread. But not an CO2-aerated loaf of fluff; no. In this case, small rolls known as "brötchen", literally, "little bread." Topped with sesame seeds, or pumpkin seeds, or thoroughly burnished pumpernickel, they are baked each morning and best fresh (although later they become delightfully crusty).

At approximately 11:30 in this photo; notice the spread of five spreads.
Homemade banana jam; Nutella (of course); a marzipan spread (my new drug); a second homemade jam; and peanut butter (I think). Yowza.

Atop the bread, use one of the above spreads, or cold cuts and cheese. Or spreadable cheese—a magical substance tough to find on this side of the pond, plain or flavored with herbs or seasoning. Later in our journey I would discover quark, a soft, spreadable-yet-agreeably-sour cheese whose closest relative would be cream/neufchatel. Except quark is clearly the wealthy, sexy relative in this family tree.

Eggs are soft-boiled, and served in a little egg-holder. Amelia immediately found these adorable—though I don't think any have turned up in our house yet. The Germans we were around cracked off the top piece (okay, they scalped their egg), seasoning as they ate the egg out of the shell-as-vessel. Handy, and a hell of a lot easier & less messy than peeling. And Lydia had fresh fruit. And yogurt. And clementines. And juice. And coffee. How did we make it out of the house again?

After post-breakfast lazing, we finally coffee-d up enough to hop a quick train back to Frankfurt, where the day & sky became increasingly gray. We headed for the Museum für Kunsthandwerk (Museum for Handicrafts...basically), which had some large historical book-art exhibits. Lydia (studying rare books) hadn't made it yet, and as I'd recently left the library, and Amelia knows some bookbinding, we had to go. Housed in a modern, white-and-large-windowed building with slowly sloping lamps and open display rooms, we picked through a large room full of small-run books you could handle. A personal highlight was a book of Beefheart poems & lyrics alongside his paintings.

("The dust blows forward 'n dust blows back /
And the wind blows black thru the sky /
And the smokestack blows up in suns eye")
Captain Beefheart, "The Dust Blows Forward And The Dust Blows Back" from Trout Mask Replica

(Amelia & Lydia in front of yellow Forsythia. The Main River runs through the background. I think we'd just eaten, hunched over on a blustery riverside bench, an amazing couscous salad, and beet salad, and marzipan roll, all from a convenience store in the train station. Beats snapping into a Slim Jim.)

After snagging some quick looks at some amazing graphic Japanese advertising, and funky furniture from the 60s and 70s, we headed out just before closing, walking along the Main till we crossed on the Altë Brucke, which was covered in clumps of cheaply-inscribed padlocks bearing pithy love claims. We continued walking and sight-gazing all around the reconstructed Altstadt (rebuilt after the war to look "old", as very few buildings survived).

(Frankfurt am Main. I told you it was gray. I also failed to read my phone's instructions, and thus took VGA-quality pictures for the entirety of the trip. I have no excuse for my pathetic lack of preparation.)

Of course we peeked in the wonderful red sandstone Frankfurt Dom, saw some cool modern architecture in a block full of townhouses, had our minds blown by the seemingly endless parade of pedestrian-friendly/only zones, saw a mall with a hole through the roof (take that, Circle Center), viewed the skyline from a 6th floor rooftop pedestal full of French teens...and then, finally were starving enough to seek out a meat-filled German dinner.

(On the way up to the viewing pedestal, we scooted via escalator past various women's clothing joints who featured, in various states of weathering, faded coloration, and creatively cut; shirts/vests/swimsuits/pants made out of or containing the American flag. Odd. This wouldn't be the last time I was confused by German fashion choices.)

Just off a main shopping artery, we curled down a staircase to Apfelwein Klaus, a Frankfurt traditional German restaurant featuring the regional specialty...Apfelwein. The dimly-chandeliered, rustic-cellar of a room had long wooden tables with benches on either side, and coat hooks lining the stone walls. I was into the idea before we even sat down to peruse the meat-heavy menu. Since the ladies were set on varieties of Schnitzel, I had to be the odd-one-out and ordered Tafelspitz, which turned out to be an enormous, simmered hunk of tri-tip beef. It was drowning in another regional specialty, which I would soon worship at the altar of: Grüne Soße. A beautiful, light-but-creamy medley of hardboiled-egg, vinegar, oil, and seven heavenly herbs, I believe I threatened (and not idly) to bathe in the stuff.

(The worst picture of a meal. Ever. I didn't want to give myself away as a tourist by using a flash. Even though I dumbly looked up when the waitress asked me a simple question. Two schnitzels in the background, Tafelspitz in the foreground, sidled by a bowl of Grüne Soße that I gamely tried to finish by dipping any leftover meat scraps in. And possibly eating with a spoon. Freak.)

The Apfelwein was much drier than any American version would be---almost like a sour-edged, punchy cider. We emerged from the meat-booze cellar into the freshly-minted night air, and strode around to clear heads and eyes. We found our way into a train station just opposite the opera house, and rode back to Mainz. I bought a bottle of beer at the station to accompany our walk back to the apartment. Lydia's roommates Till, Nanette, and Johannes were all hanging out at the kitchen table, and lured by Johannes's very kind offer of more beer, we/I stayed up until the wee hours talking politics, jobs, gas prices, the word "fuck", hitchhiking, airports, and more.

(Frankfurt's opera house at night. I believe kids were skateboarding on its steps during the late afternoon, while around the side of the building, rich folk walked down a red carpet to a fancy bistro. These two things seem to co-exist peacefully, another attribute of the ability to live with people that seemed so prevalent throughout our jaunt. As Americans, it seems like we're always trying to get away, to not hear our neighbors, to erect a fence or buy land out in the boonies...)

west, vol. 8

-i woke up next to the bald & bearded andreas butler. considering how many times i've lived with the dude, this may have been the first time waking up next to the man. though the bed was the most comfortable thing i'd slept in or on since leaving indiana, i knew i had to get up. the pound of bacon in the fridge (or was it two?) wasn't going to cook itself. i wandered down to the kitchen, started some coffee, and grated several pounds of potatoes, diced a few onions, tossing them together in the biggest plastic bowl i could find. had to get the starch started first, essential in an 8-person breakfast.

-unfortunately, only two of the burners on the stove functioned, and they were the smaller ones. i turned them both to high, began sauteeing the taters-n-onions, warming the oven to keep everything evenly done. midway through the bacon fry, bodies began to rise, lurching out of sleep towards the downright magical combination of onion, oil, bacon, and coffee. i don't know what the first explorers ate while winding out of the mountain passes towards the pacific ocean, but i like to imagine it was the same combination of pork fat, rough-ground coffee, and starch. i am nothing if not a descendent of lewis & clark.




The scene of the crime. Modelo-addled as I was, I managed to finishing everything simultaneously, a heroic breakfast achievement.

-after finishing the potatoes & bacon, slipped them in the oven and whisked two dozen eggs with some milk & a block of american-orange cheddar. scrambling these over a small burner took longer than expected; tyler stepped in to keep stirring (and sipping the day's first brew) while i washed the hot tub & cigar off of me.

-post-breakfast & coffee, we headed out in two car-loads in search of the Nooksack Falls, a winding drive towards the end of the highway. along the way we passed strung-out lines of bikers, whose ability to ride that far uphill disturbed me almost as much as the motorcycle-death-wish-brigade who flew around tight corners, passing a dude (me) driving another dude's (chris) car dangerously close to said bikers. still, it was over 70-degrees, sunny, and the day soon mellowed when we reached the turn-off to the falls.




The top-third of the roughly 90-foot falls. Signs indicated at least 8 people had gone over to meet their fate at the ageless rocks and broken trees below. Despite the warnings, edging up to a precipice was needfully done---not often can you experience the simultaneous feeling of being so close to oblivion & so close to the constancy of nature.

-even when the falls began to busy with a few hikers & tourists, i still felt drawn to the strange age of the place, carved with the sweat of the even-nearer glacier over thousands of years. having recently watched werner herzog's cave of forgotten dreams, another examination of the tiny glint of humanity in the timeless eye of the universe, the falls gave me that sense of being incredibly young, unimportant, and vague, merely sucking up as much sunshine and intense pine aroma as possible in a space more old & venerable than all the cathedrals of the world laid end-to-end.

-enough philosophizing already. after wandering in the woods a bit, getting close enough to the stream for a brave few to take a freezing, fear-no-bacteria gulp, and ben climbing into a tall, hollow tree-trunk; we decamped in search of a trail that might take us up the mountainside a bit. unfortunately, upon finding it, we realized it would involve a 15-mile drive on a gravel path till we even got to the beginning of the trail. we had laid in no supplies, so settled for the horseshoe bend trail, which ran along the Nooksack a few miles further downstream from the falls.




Contemplating the odd notion that I should swim in water meant for mammals with a coat of body fat that weighs more than my car. I would soon give in to this temptation; glacier-flow-swimming as performance-art.

-noting that "bear season" was in effect, the crew made sure to permeate the early-afternoon river's edge with various bird calls, alien mating sounds, caribou grunts, and what was soon to be determined to be the true & actual call of a bear, "huuyh-ahhh!" after weaving up and down the riverbank for a time, the trail eventually came to rest a a spot looking up into the mountains, logs laying across large stones created swirling pools of ice blue water, and small stacks of disc-like stones adorned the sun-bleached dusty rock bed. after building some stacks of our own, the sun had me sweating and shirtless, and i realized that...yes, i needed to swim in the nooksack.

-part of the river had been almost sealed off by a fallen tree, and the fast-running current present everywhere else merely swirled to a crawl in a six-foot circle of two-foot deep, amazingly ice-clouded water. i put my hand in, and it felt cold, but do-able. after cajoling some dudes to join me, and none obliged, the crowd was getting restless; it was swim-or-go-home. next to a sun-soaked boulder, i checked the trail for square-looking hikers, then shucked shoes & clothes down to underwear, and took a deep breath. oh shit!




Pre-dip phase of Operation Tea-Bag the Nooksack. At this point, I'm thinking, "This is very probably not the best idea I've ever had." Soon, I would be in extreme pain and unable to form a cogent defense of what I'd done...

-i stepped into the water. "hey, this isn't bad," i said out-loud. a couple seconds later, as i began descending to get my waist underwater, i realized i couldn't feel my feet. at all. by the time the water hit my torso, both my legs were shrieking in pain. i probably began howling, and jumped up & out of the water. compelled by my near-religious experience, maxson doffed his footwear to wade in. the second voyage was worse than the first---too cold to make the five-foot run back to shore, we opted for the tree trunk suspended over the water, letting the air put feeling back in my toes. courage summoned (or stupidity swallowed); the gap was bridged and seventy degree sand stomped upon in an attempt to regain feeling. the serious pain subsided, and the warm walk back to the vehicles was welcome, fake wildlife calls and all.

part nine & rest of day to follow