While this arabesque figurine maybe hidden in the corner of all the glitz and glamour of this random monastic church near Goslar, Germany, it did not go unnoticed. This is how I roll. When I travel, I am WAY more interested in the fine, intricacies that the road provides, even in the large tourist traps or the random alleys. Those small minutia you discover are your secrets, of which many I have kept. The story behind this monastery is a great one that I will tell later. More intricacies and writing to come. Apologies for the bog blogs I have.
Dear readers. I have no idea the name of this town. At the time of taking this picture I had already consumed a beer, eating a meal consisting of potatoes and a large ham steak and tried to hit on a German scientologist, which undoubtably was an epic fail for the record books. It’s in Germany and yes, that is a horse on a building, one of many of it’s kind that inhabited this nameless place. Enjoy.
We were rushing for the border. Day 3 and we were crossing from The Netherlands into Germany. And yet, our Dutch friends never ceased to amaze us. This museum sign is literally in the middle of nowhere on some back country road. Since of our hurry we never did get to check it out. Lucky for me, the internet let me have a second chance. PS, my friend biked all the way to Budapest, this being his only faux injury. No poles with museum signs were harmed during the taking of the picture.
The crash museum website:
Belgium Beer is lovely. Maes particularly, from what I remember, sparked my fancy for being both refreshing and strong for a light beer. It was the name that I wasn’t a fan of.
Why? Well…I shall give the shortened account of my dilemma. Germany is a country that I will fondly remember for several reasons. Asides from the obvious, history, architecture and the short that are attached to the suspenders, there is an overlooked Germanic food that doesn’t get enough attention and I don’t believe has a fan club. Until now. Doner Kebabs, the Adonis of foods, the thing I will eat even after consuming All You Can Eat fill in the blank blank. If Doner Kebab could think, was a practicing Catholic, who loved playing practical jokes on members of the HA, bye bye Judaism, say hello to one missing persons who is most definitely a Catholic. The discovery of the amazing bit of culinary cuisine in Germany was riddled with mysteries…Why was this a Doner, not a Donair or a Gyro that just tasted way awesomer? Where was this mythical smorgasbord of meat, sweet sauces and pita from? If you don’t know what it is…you have been living without real love. This is what you’ve been missing:
Okay. Back to the point of the picture. One of the mysteries at the where Doner Kebabs came from was answered incorrectly by a Native German in Munster. Turkey was there birthplace…he was sure of it. I trusted him, boy was I foolish. So my feverish search for the creme de la creme of Doners was heading the completely wrong direction. I thought, well Germany makes some pretty tasty doners, with perfectly sliced meat, nice, homemade pita and equally distributed sauce. Surely countries closer to Turkey could top this. The letdown was multiplied again and again. Each country I came to I tried to consume my favourite past time, but time and time it was a terrible experience that tore at my very soul. The pita was store bought, the veggies pre sliced and heated, the meat was spiceless, limp, with no give and the sauce was tobasco spice, as opposed to hot and sweet. But the biggest offence is the additions. The first was the jump off point for the downward spiral of this epic champion. Corn aka Mais, of the canned variety, of the probably punctured can that has sat on the shelf variety, was added to each and every Doner. It was laid on like beans. It was like people ate this unfit misrepresentations and I grew more and more callous, because they did not know what they were missing. Way to go mais…way to send the okay to Bulgaria to put french fries all up in the Doner. Shame on you.
Svoge. A town like many others where we stopped to enjoy the lush scenery for a few, idling moments, just enough time to catch our breaths and then we were off, down another hill or along the side of another mountain pass. Time is so crucial when you’re on two wheels and have some place to be. You can’t meander as much as you’d like to meander, you can’t bask as much as you’d like to bask. But it gives you a postcard, a reminder of where you’d like to return to. I’d like to return to Svoge.
After conquering a few days before of torrential down pour, that made it so the road and the sky were one, constant, grey, maniacal flood, it was nice to have a middle of the road weather day, not too hot, not too cloudy, not to wet. The Bulgarian country side was new to us as we headed through beautifully lush, jutting cliffs, switchbacks that seemingly played tricksters, luring you to plunge from wheel or panier first into the brown, slow moving Iskar River below. Towns like this in the Sophia province, seemed to appear out of no where around every bend, looking like small hamlets, yet a bit more sterile and grey in architecture. It was quite a surprise that the lead up to Sophia, the capital, was miniscule, off tune slide whistle, as opposed to a whole cavalcade of wind instruments, blowing, red in the face, with victory!
Yessiree. I am a Jew. Through and through. What that means is that my family can make you feel guilty for committing atrocities that you didn’t commit, let alone weren’t born in the same decade that they happened in, so that even if you had an inkling of wanting to kill us all, which, God, if you meet some of my family members…..(holds breath and exhales sooo very slowly). So anyways, my mom, also, just so happens to be a Jew as well. But like an American who thinks they’re flag is also a fashion statement and something to plaster all over your house and lawn, my mom finds it hard to not mention the fact that something in the conversation is Jewish, or was Jewish, or once she gets through with it, will be Jewish. I am a Jew by culture and food. Nothing more. But, I love my mother dearly and am also still and yes, I am still in a wee bit of awe when I see something Jewish. It’s kind of like seeing Canadian Geese in another country, I mean, they exist there, but in your head, the image doesn’t sit right. Canadian Geese in Mexico, really? Maybe it’s the opposite situation as it is with humans.
Anyways. So I took this picture to make my mom happy. Was she happy with this picture? Welp, she hasn’t seen it yet, so hopefully it will garner the admiration, which I so seek out by appeasing the little old yente in her. Love you mom. Whoopi Goldberg is still not Jewish, but don’t worry your gaspritzin punim, Drake is.
Southern California, near the Mexican border. That’s Mexico on the horizon, I could feel the sweltering heat hit earth then, evaporate, upwards, smacking me constantly in my red, red face, making every pore of my body produce enough persperation to fill an Olympic size swimming pool for all the population of India. What I wouldn’t have given for a pool right now. Fact is, my camel like body, made it possible for me to go long stretches without drinking, or noticing, that I was utterly parched and dehydrated.
Why did I take this picture? Was it the goal in sight? Take a closer look. The heat brought out the illest sense of humor.