My mind is awash in a sea of emotions. I don't know what to think! It's all happening so fast.
I have to catch a train to Paris in seven hours, but before that I have so many last minute things to take care of in Munich. But to top it off, I am dreading my train ride because I have done this before. The train from Munich to Paris is torturous. I sit in a small cabin with two benches facing each other, three people to a bench. It's uncomfortably close, the seats don't recline, and I over-heat easily. By the time I arrive in Paris (6:53 in the morning) I am going to be one grumpy mo-fo.
Deep breaths. In... and out...
That's better. Often I get that feeling like there are so many things to do that I can't even decide where to start. I just need to breathe.
Well, writing in my blog is not the most productive of activities I could be doing right now. I need to 1. Track down a rogue package that is currently somewhere in Europe, 2. Send numerous bills to Berlin, 3. Finish packing, 4. Put credit on to my cell phone, 5. Stop sweating, 6. Make it to a meeting at 2:30, 7. Make my train, 8. Pee like a race horse, 9. Meet with hot Brazilian chick in Paris, 10. Get my game face on.
Alright, I need to stop typing. I might not be able to post for the next few days, so until that time: be good! my most beloved reader.
Adieu, Tschuss, Cheers,
Matt
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Multiplicity
After reflecting on my last blog post where I reflected upon my writing from the previous night, I realized, after reflection, that I might have a problem: multiple personalities. My worries were only further justified on my walk home today from the subway station.
As I was walking along, perusing antique book shops, fine tobacconists (looking at some of the packaging on these designer “cigarillos” made me question whether my decision to abstain from The Leaf was wise) and sipping on my multivitamin juice I thought about the different manifestations of Matt and the forms they take. To my surprise, this short five minute walk demonstrated many of them. Here were some of my thoughts:
"I hate escalators. I can never just step on to one and enjoy the ride like so many other people. I have to wait and time my entry just right so that I don’t lose my balance. And the dismount? Heavens no! I can’t get it right. I look like a freakin poindexter, analyzing the precise moment that would ensure a safe landing. Otherwise, I am that guy who trips, though I more often trip going up stairs then down. I actually just tripped going up the escalator the other day in the city center. There is no graceful way to pull it off. I have tried the “Nothing to see here people” approach and just get back up and ascend faster. Failure. I feel fake. Yet, I have also tried the “Silly me!” approach where I take my time getting back up, laugh out loud to myself (a little forced), and look around for recognition. Those around me don’t appreciate the humor."
"I freakin love cute dogs. Not the “toy” ones that can sleep soundly inside a crushed thimble. That’s just unnatural. No, I like medium dogs; the ones that reach up to my knee, for example. Big ones scare me and drool. Fuck drool. Medium sized dogs rock."
"Dude, that guy is so ugly."
"I hope Natalie wants to go out tonight. I could use a drink, and I need to get my game on with some ladies."
And without further delay, I present to you my findings. I have spent hours digging through the cavernous depths of my soul in search of these incarnations, and I hope you can look at them and remember where you were when you first met them. You may laugh, you may cry, but in the end, they are all just figments of my imagination:
Name: Matt the Romantic
Latin name: Mattisimus bogartamus
Distinguishing characteristics: Gaze affixed skyward. Charming smile with possible dimples showing. Collared shirt. Blazer. Willingness to spend large sums of money.
Motto: “I think I’m in the mood for a Syrah. How about you?”
Paraphernalia: Wine glasses. Tea bags. Candles. Frank Sinatra records.
Best known location: That trendy, low-lit wine bar downtown.
Name: Matt the Ham
Latin name: Mattisimo dramaticus
Distinguishing characteristics: Wild gesticulations. Variations in pitch and volume of voice. Eyes wide open. Booty shaking. Attention seeking. Leaping on furniture.
Motto: “I look good. I mean really good. Hey everyone, come see how good I look!”
Paraphernalia: Fake microphones. Guitar. Bottle or can of beer. Costumes.
Best known location: Any party with more than 10 people but less than 30. Trinity College.
Name: Matt the Recluse
Latin name: Mattima humanophobias
Distinguishing characteristics: None known. Not seen in public. Rumored to be napping.
Motto: “Nahh… maybe I’ll come out tonight.”
Paraphernalia: Books, laptops, bed, headphones.
Best known location: Bed. Behind closed doors. Shower.
Name: Matt the Drunk
Latin name: I’m Puerto Rican, not Latin!
Distinguishing characteristics: Eyes crossed. Hiccups. Slurred speech. Unsteady gait. Hitting on most women within 15 meters.
Motto: “Dude, where are all the chicks?”
Paraphernalia: Alcoholic drinks.
Best known location: Wherever the party’s at!
Name: Matt the Near-Homo
Latin name: Mattiboy houliopus
Distinguishing characteristics: Discussions on fashion and Project Runway. Dancing. Singing. Musical theater. Being buddy-buddy with the real gay guys.
Motto: “Houli once said I was 3/5 gay, except that the other 2/5 is that I like girls.”
Paraphernalia: Tight jeans. Skinny black tie. Perfectly groomed facial hair.
Best known location: Indie clubs.
Name: Matt the Reed
Latin name: Matthew Richard Reed
Distinguishing characteristics: Talking to himself. Mumbling. Funny dancing/singing. Playing Halo. Writing blogs. Reading history books. Drinking cappuccinos. Traveling. Giving tours.
Motto: “Hey everybody welcome to Munich! My name is Matt....”
Paraphernalia: Black man-bag. Passport. Pens. Notepads. My green jacket.
Best known location: The streets of Munich/Paris
I'm sure there are others, but just reading these is scaring me.
-Matt
As I was walking along, perusing antique book shops, fine tobacconists (looking at some of the packaging on these designer “cigarillos” made me question whether my decision to abstain from The Leaf was wise) and sipping on my multivitamin juice I thought about the different manifestations of Matt and the forms they take. To my surprise, this short five minute walk demonstrated many of them. Here were some of my thoughts:
"I hate escalators. I can never just step on to one and enjoy the ride like so many other people. I have to wait and time my entry just right so that I don’t lose my balance. And the dismount? Heavens no! I can’t get it right. I look like a freakin poindexter, analyzing the precise moment that would ensure a safe landing. Otherwise, I am that guy who trips, though I more often trip going up stairs then down. I actually just tripped going up the escalator the other day in the city center. There is no graceful way to pull it off. I have tried the “Nothing to see here people” approach and just get back up and ascend faster. Failure. I feel fake. Yet, I have also tried the “Silly me!” approach where I take my time getting back up, laugh out loud to myself (a little forced), and look around for recognition. Those around me don’t appreciate the humor."
"I freakin love cute dogs. Not the “toy” ones that can sleep soundly inside a crushed thimble. That’s just unnatural. No, I like medium dogs; the ones that reach up to my knee, for example. Big ones scare me and drool. Fuck drool. Medium sized dogs rock."
"Dude, that guy is so ugly."
"I hope Natalie wants to go out tonight. I could use a drink, and I need to get my game on with some ladies."
And without further delay, I present to you my findings. I have spent hours digging through the cavernous depths of my soul in search of these incarnations, and I hope you can look at them and remember where you were when you first met them. You may laugh, you may cry, but in the end, they are all just figments of my imagination:
Name: Matt the Romantic
Latin name: Mattisimus bogartamus
Distinguishing characteristics: Gaze affixed skyward. Charming smile with possible dimples showing. Collared shirt. Blazer. Willingness to spend large sums of money.
Motto: “I think I’m in the mood for a Syrah. How about you?”
Paraphernalia: Wine glasses. Tea bags. Candles. Frank Sinatra records.
Best known location: That trendy, low-lit wine bar downtown.
Name: Matt the Ham
Latin name: Mattisimo dramaticus
Distinguishing characteristics: Wild gesticulations. Variations in pitch and volume of voice. Eyes wide open. Booty shaking. Attention seeking. Leaping on furniture.
Motto: “I look good. I mean really good. Hey everyone, come see how good I look!”
Paraphernalia: Fake microphones. Guitar. Bottle or can of beer. Costumes.
Best known location: Any party with more than 10 people but less than 30. Trinity College.
Name: Matt the Recluse
Latin name: Mattima humanophobias
Distinguishing characteristics: None known. Not seen in public. Rumored to be napping.
Motto: “Nahh… maybe I’ll come out tonight.”
Paraphernalia: Books, laptops, bed, headphones.
Best known location: Bed. Behind closed doors. Shower.
Name: Matt the Drunk
Latin name: I’m Puerto Rican, not Latin!
Distinguishing characteristics: Eyes crossed. Hiccups. Slurred speech. Unsteady gait. Hitting on most women within 15 meters.
Motto: “Dude, where are all the chicks?”
Paraphernalia: Alcoholic drinks.
Best known location: Wherever the party’s at!
Name: Matt the Near-Homo
Latin name: Mattiboy houliopus
Distinguishing characteristics: Discussions on fashion and Project Runway. Dancing. Singing. Musical theater. Being buddy-buddy with the real gay guys.
Motto: “Houli once said I was 3/5 gay, except that the other 2/5 is that I like girls.”
Paraphernalia: Tight jeans. Skinny black tie. Perfectly groomed facial hair.
Best known location: Indie clubs.
Name: Matt the Reed
Latin name: Matthew Richard Reed
Distinguishing characteristics: Talking to himself. Mumbling. Funny dancing/singing. Playing Halo. Writing blogs. Reading history books. Drinking cappuccinos. Traveling. Giving tours.
Motto: “Hey everybody welcome to Munich! My name is Matt....”
Paraphernalia: Black man-bag. Passport. Pens. Notepads. My green jacket.
Best known location: The streets of Munich/Paris
I'm sure there are others, but just reading these is scaring me.
-Matt
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Turn the Page
I was sitting in my room listening to some good ol’ feel good tunes last night when Bob Seager came up on my playlist. It was a favorite of mine: “Night Moves”. Listening to the song made me reflect, oddly enough, on American culture. Man, nothing is quite like young teenagers in love in the United States. There is something special about it.
This song conjures images in my head of driving around in the guy’s beloved vehicle with his sweetheart sitting in the passenger seat, with autumn closing in. The stars are out… at least those visible behind the street lights. Outside the weather is chilly, and chilly enough to need a warming arm around the shoulder or a snuggle in the jacket. Scenes that flash through my mind include beaches, highways, and parking lots. To me, they’re always moving. Always exploring. Teenage love involves a fair amount of exploring.
Perhaps I am grafting my own memories on to the song. I am fortunate to have had a nice high school sweetheart and pleasant memories associated with her. It’s funny looking back at how young and truly naïve I (we) were… but it’s nice. We are greatly different people today, but that shared experience shall always be there. A nice thought, if you ask me. It was truly the only time in my life that I was completely ignorant of “love” and what to expect. We were just being honest and open. From then on, there are always expectations and standards to live up to. I don’t think that purity can ever be found again. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but it’s just an interesting thought.
[I wrote this last night after feeling somewhat sentimental. Re-reading it now (it's 2:00 in the afternoon) and after spending the entire day in the Foreigner's Office trying to get a visa... the only thing I can say is "Matt. Grow a pair."]
Cheers,
Matt
This song conjures images in my head of driving around in the guy’s beloved vehicle with his sweetheart sitting in the passenger seat, with autumn closing in. The stars are out… at least those visible behind the street lights. Outside the weather is chilly, and chilly enough to need a warming arm around the shoulder or a snuggle in the jacket. Scenes that flash through my mind include beaches, highways, and parking lots. To me, they’re always moving. Always exploring. Teenage love involves a fair amount of exploring.
Perhaps I am grafting my own memories on to the song. I am fortunate to have had a nice high school sweetheart and pleasant memories associated with her. It’s funny looking back at how young and truly naïve I (we) were… but it’s nice. We are greatly different people today, but that shared experience shall always be there. A nice thought, if you ask me. It was truly the only time in my life that I was completely ignorant of “love” and what to expect. We were just being honest and open. From then on, there are always expectations and standards to live up to. I don’t think that purity can ever be found again. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but it’s just an interesting thought.
[I wrote this last night after feeling somewhat sentimental. Re-reading it now (it's 2:00 in the afternoon) and after spending the entire day in the Foreigner's Office trying to get a visa... the only thing I can say is "Matt. Grow a pair."]
Cheers,
Matt
Monday, January 7, 2008
Today I booked my train ride to Paris. Arriving at 6:53 Friday morning, I will be met by a collegue who will escort me to the apartment waiting for me in the famed Montmatre district with a beautiful view of Sacre Coure.
Really?
Hell yeah. I'll let you know what happens. Until that time, it's back to work.
Really?
Hell yeah. I'll let you know what happens. Until that time, it's back to work.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Jukebox Hero
I have never really met or seen a celebrity in real life. Until now. I think. I am fairly certain that a few days ago I met a celebrity. I think.
It was on my Dachau tour (which have since ceased and the sky is blue once again). I had an English couple on the tour who were very friendly and chatty. The guy was very English, enough so that I had trouble understanding him. Anywho, we finish the tour and are on the train ride back to Munich. He had some intelligent things to say on the tour, so I decided to grace them with my presence (how kind of me) for the duration of the ride. We got down to talking about why I am here, how long I intend to stay... blah blah. What about him? "I'm a musician." Now I fancy myself somewhat-kinda-understanding of music and the whole "musician" process, so I prodded a little further. "What kind of music?" "Ohh you know, rock."
Hmmm. He has no idea that I also fancy myself a bit of a ROCK GOD. Well, not really (maybe a Rock sub-Deity), but I know some pretty obscure old stuff. Regardless, I must dig deeper...
"Cool. Where did you play?"
"Oh, we opened for the Who in Munich once, but really all over the place."
what. Did you just say you opened for the Who? Ok, this dude has to be slightly famous. Now to find out who he is:
"Would I know any of your stuff?"
"Nahh, mumblemumblemumble"
"Haha, give it a shot. I know some pretty obscure stuff."
"Nahh, don't worry about it. Nevermind."
Either this dude sucks, or he is famous. I ask his name. "Oh me? James mumblemumble". That's it. That's all I got. His name is James, and he purposely didn't audibly say his last name, as he knew I might know him or I might look him up.
Taking all these factors into consideration:
1. He works in the studio now.
2. His band opened for the Who once.
3. He has met Jimmy Page on many occasions.
4. He didn't want to tell me his name.
5. He didn't want to tell me any songs his band played.
I have come up with the following answer:
He was a one-hit wonder.
How freakin cool is that! I didn't say this to him, but in my mind, while talking to him, I was screaming! This dude might be from Stealers Wheels! The Outfield! JOHN CAFFERTY AND THE FUCKING BEAVER BROWN BAND! (wait, his name is James...)
My god. He could be the dude from A-ha. My head is spinning.
-Matt
It was on my Dachau tour (which have since ceased and the sky is blue once again). I had an English couple on the tour who were very friendly and chatty. The guy was very English, enough so that I had trouble understanding him. Anywho, we finish the tour and are on the train ride back to Munich. He had some intelligent things to say on the tour, so I decided to grace them with my presence (how kind of me) for the duration of the ride. We got down to talking about why I am here, how long I intend to stay... blah blah. What about him? "I'm a musician." Now I fancy myself somewhat-kinda-understanding of music and the whole "musician" process, so I prodded a little further. "What kind of music?" "Ohh you know, rock."
Hmmm. He has no idea that I also fancy myself a bit of a ROCK GOD. Well, not really (maybe a Rock sub-Deity), but I know some pretty obscure old stuff. Regardless, I must dig deeper...
"Cool. Where did you play?"
"Oh, we opened for the Who in Munich once, but really all over the place."
what. Did you just say you opened for the Who? Ok, this dude has to be slightly famous. Now to find out who he is:
"Would I know any of your stuff?"
"Nahh, mumblemumblemumble"
"Haha, give it a shot. I know some pretty obscure stuff."
"Nahh, don't worry about it. Nevermind."
Either this dude sucks, or he is famous. I ask his name. "Oh me? James mumblemumble". That's it. That's all I got. His name is James, and he purposely didn't audibly say his last name, as he knew I might know him or I might look him up.
Taking all these factors into consideration:
1. He works in the studio now.
2. His band opened for the Who once.
3. He has met Jimmy Page on many occasions.
4. He didn't want to tell me his name.
5. He didn't want to tell me any songs his band played.
I have come up with the following answer:
He was a one-hit wonder.
How freakin cool is that! I didn't say this to him, but in my mind, while talking to him, I was screaming! This dude might be from Stealers Wheels! The Outfield! JOHN CAFFERTY AND THE FUCKING BEAVER BROWN BAND! (wait, his name is James...)
My god. He could be the dude from A-ha. My head is spinning.
-Matt
Thursday, January 3, 2008
A Drunk and a Slam Dunk
Giving tours of a concentration camp every single day for nearly two weeks became quite taxing. Depression began to creep into my heart and consume my very being. The nights were darker, the wind colder. Melancholy streets awash with human tears. Poe would feel right at home.
That is until two days ago. It started off as any common tour. A multi-national group of about twenty joined me on my daily exodus to the depths of human evils. Luckily, there was one gentleman who seemed to lighten the mood. He was an American, fifty six years of age, from South Carolina, and a retired professor of accounting. Delightful chap. Asking perhaps too many questions, he was “that guy” in the group. The others stared at him and sort of rolled their eyes, giving me the “I feel your pain” look. But no matter. I have had people like this on my tours before. Simply don’t look them directly in the eyes when addressing the group and try to keep your pace vigorous, leaving as little time in between stops as possible. However, my efforts were thwarted on multiple occasions by this man, as he would sort of waddle up to me and slap me on the back, and offer a few charming Southern phrases. One queer quirk of his was his often embarrassing tendency to chuckle at inappropriate times. I mentioned that the SS systematically and randomly executed Soviet villagers in 1941… and he laughed! Perhaps it is just a nervous tendency of his. Nothing to worry about, I imagine.
We continue the tour while he continues in his rather curious manner until we pause for a bathroom break. He went inside first. For unknown reasons I was cautious to follow him. I needed to tinkle, but something was telling me to desist. Ignoring these inner voices, I entered the facilities. Big mistake. I finished doing my business (it was one of those urinals that scares the crap out of me due to its flushing power), and went to the sink. There was the guy washing his hands and filling his water bottle from another bottle that he had sipped copious amounts of liquid from during most of the tour.
“BLAHAALALHAGAZZO?” he muttered with the bottle cap in his mouth.
“What?” replied I, with a furrowed brow.
Removing the cap from betwixt his lips, “You like Ouzo Matt?”
“What the heck is that?” laughed the boy.
“It’s Greek. Here, try it” sayeth he, as he drizzles a small amount into the bottle cap.
That’s when I suddenly remembered the name “Ouzo”. At approximately the same moment I took the cap in my hands and threw it back like a rock star.
Oh crap. I’m a friggin idiot. It’s liquor! Here I am drinking in the bathroom with a crazy old man... while giving a tour of a concentration camp! The shock of my actions smacks me like a morning hangover. Wait a sec… that is why he’s been so odd on the tour…he’s FREAKIN DRUNK. This dude has been drinking booze since the start and he is totally drunk at this point. I mean, stumbling drunk. Stammering drunk. Slobbering drunk. And here I am, drinking with him! I don't know what came over me. I didn't even think, "Hey, when crazy old man offers mystery liquid, it's best to politely refuse." No, I thought, "Liquid? LET'S DO THIS!"
For the duration of the tour, I could not rid myself of the taste of licorice mixed with the sour sensation of shame.
IN OTHER NEWS:
I am currently watching “My Fair Lady” while writing this. I must say… overrated movie. The acting sucks, it's way too long, and it is obvious that Audrey Hepburn is not singing most of the songs. She is beautiful though. Classicly beautiful. I remember that I had a conversation with my dad before I left, saying that I think that certain woman will always be viewed as highly attractive, regardless of current fashions and styles. Except if they are from the 80's. Cindy Lauper and Tiffany won't make the list.
Speaking of beautiful:
The night after my Dachau tour, I met up with a hot Brazilian chick (and her very nice friend who I was not really interested in... in that way). She had been on my tour the previous day and there was sort of an instant connection. She liked my beard. Her words, not mine. I like where this is going. Also, she's a huge fan of The Police and has seen U2 and the Stones in concert. Attraction? Obvious. We plan to meet at the Indie club at 10:15. An hour before that, I am dancing around my place trying to decide what to wear. I settle on the simple black collared shirt. Classy, sophisticated, not too dressy, but not to shabby. I show up. Alone. Nobody is there. I wait fifteen minutes. Nothing. Shit. Screw you guys, I’m going home.
I show up for my tour the next day at 11am… and there she is. Alone. Hell yeah. She walks up to me, grabs my scarf, re-ties it (tight), pulls me in and says “I am so sorry, I need to make this up to you. I want to see you tonight.” Suddenly and without warning, my balls re-appeared (see previous blog posts).
We meet up that night at 7, as she has a night train. After an exchange of salutations, I stop her and say “First thing first: what’s your name?” She says “It doesn’t matter," takes my hand and we start walking. That was friggin hot. It ends up her name is Fernanda (any Trinity male will know why I kind of chuckled when she said that). We go to a hip, sweaty bar and grab a drink. Once inside, she strips her jacket and sweater off. Holy crap. This just got a whole lot more interesting.
We chat... we break the touch barrier. Nothing happens. She has to catch a train that night (fuck), so we leave the bar. On our way to the hostel where her bags are located, we realize that the train leaves five minutes ago, so we run to the hostel, grab the bag, run to the subway, run to the train station, run to the track… and there is her train, waiting for her. Dammit. I thought the Germans were supposed to be punctual... At the platform, we part ways, never to see each other again.
She was my kind of woman: Exotic. Witty. Intelligent. Dark. She had attitude. She got moxy. She re-affirmed my belief that I will eventually find "that one." It wasn't her, but dammit, it's gonna be somebody just like her. I need to take a cold shower.
Happy New Year (Neus Jahr, or really "Silvester" in Germany) and Cheers,
Matt
That is until two days ago. It started off as any common tour. A multi-national group of about twenty joined me on my daily exodus to the depths of human evils. Luckily, there was one gentleman who seemed to lighten the mood. He was an American, fifty six years of age, from South Carolina, and a retired professor of accounting. Delightful chap. Asking perhaps too many questions, he was “that guy” in the group. The others stared at him and sort of rolled their eyes, giving me the “I feel your pain” look. But no matter. I have had people like this on my tours before. Simply don’t look them directly in the eyes when addressing the group and try to keep your pace vigorous, leaving as little time in between stops as possible. However, my efforts were thwarted on multiple occasions by this man, as he would sort of waddle up to me and slap me on the back, and offer a few charming Southern phrases. One queer quirk of his was his often embarrassing tendency to chuckle at inappropriate times. I mentioned that the SS systematically and randomly executed Soviet villagers in 1941… and he laughed! Perhaps it is just a nervous tendency of his. Nothing to worry about, I imagine.
We continue the tour while he continues in his rather curious manner until we pause for a bathroom break. He went inside first. For unknown reasons I was cautious to follow him. I needed to tinkle, but something was telling me to desist. Ignoring these inner voices, I entered the facilities. Big mistake. I finished doing my business (it was one of those urinals that scares the crap out of me due to its flushing power), and went to the sink. There was the guy washing his hands and filling his water bottle from another bottle that he had sipped copious amounts of liquid from during most of the tour.
“BLAHAALALHAGAZZO?” he muttered with the bottle cap in his mouth.
“What?” replied I, with a furrowed brow.
Removing the cap from betwixt his lips, “You like Ouzo Matt?”
“What the heck is that?” laughed the boy.
“It’s Greek. Here, try it” sayeth he, as he drizzles a small amount into the bottle cap.
That’s when I suddenly remembered the name “Ouzo”. At approximately the same moment I took the cap in my hands and threw it back like a rock star.
Oh crap. I’m a friggin idiot. It’s liquor! Here I am drinking in the bathroom with a crazy old man... while giving a tour of a concentration camp! The shock of my actions smacks me like a morning hangover. Wait a sec… that is why he’s been so odd on the tour…he’s FREAKIN DRUNK. This dude has been drinking booze since the start and he is totally drunk at this point. I mean, stumbling drunk. Stammering drunk. Slobbering drunk. And here I am, drinking with him! I don't know what came over me. I didn't even think, "Hey, when crazy old man offers mystery liquid, it's best to politely refuse." No, I thought, "Liquid? LET'S DO THIS!"
For the duration of the tour, I could not rid myself of the taste of licorice mixed with the sour sensation of shame.
IN OTHER NEWS:
I am currently watching “My Fair Lady” while writing this. I must say… overrated movie. The acting sucks, it's way too long, and it is obvious that Audrey Hepburn is not singing most of the songs. She is beautiful though. Classicly beautiful. I remember that I had a conversation with my dad before I left, saying that I think that certain woman will always be viewed as highly attractive, regardless of current fashions and styles. Except if they are from the 80's. Cindy Lauper and Tiffany won't make the list.
Speaking of beautiful:
The night after my Dachau tour, I met up with a hot Brazilian chick (and her very nice friend who I was not really interested in... in that way). She had been on my tour the previous day and there was sort of an instant connection. She liked my beard. Her words, not mine. I like where this is going. Also, she's a huge fan of The Police and has seen U2 and the Stones in concert. Attraction? Obvious. We plan to meet at the Indie club at 10:15. An hour before that, I am dancing around my place trying to decide what to wear. I settle on the simple black collared shirt. Classy, sophisticated, not too dressy, but not to shabby. I show up. Alone. Nobody is there. I wait fifteen minutes. Nothing. Shit. Screw you guys, I’m going home.
I show up for my tour the next day at 11am… and there she is. Alone. Hell yeah. She walks up to me, grabs my scarf, re-ties it (tight), pulls me in and says “I am so sorry, I need to make this up to you. I want to see you tonight.” Suddenly and without warning, my balls re-appeared (see previous blog posts).
We meet up that night at 7, as she has a night train. After an exchange of salutations, I stop her and say “First thing first: what’s your name?” She says “It doesn’t matter," takes my hand and we start walking. That was friggin hot. It ends up her name is Fernanda (any Trinity male will know why I kind of chuckled when she said that). We go to a hip, sweaty bar and grab a drink. Once inside, she strips her jacket and sweater off. Holy crap. This just got a whole lot more interesting.
We chat... we break the touch barrier. Nothing happens. She has to catch a train that night (fuck), so we leave the bar. On our way to the hostel where her bags are located, we realize that the train leaves five minutes ago, so we run to the hostel, grab the bag, run to the subway, run to the train station, run to the track… and there is her train, waiting for her. Dammit. I thought the Germans were supposed to be punctual... At the platform, we part ways, never to see each other again.
She was my kind of woman: Exotic. Witty. Intelligent. Dark. She had attitude. She got moxy. She re-affirmed my belief that I will eventually find "that one." It wasn't her, but dammit, it's gonna be somebody just like her. I need to take a cold shower.
Happy New Year (Neus Jahr, or really "Silvester" in Germany) and Cheers,
Matt
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