Ought vs. Naught.

Dearest ones of all;

Güten naht from Deutchland, gems. I have only now, already two weeks into this journey, figured out how to sign in to this place. Generally, I am rather lazy when it comes to writing for an expectant audience. I will write as I please and the outcome will be as scattered and jittery as my current mindframe (thanks to three incredibly strong capuccinos, consumed in rapid sucession), woe is me-- I am as good as drunk today from the caffine alone. But here I am, all the same.

Okay, jittery piano hands aside; please know that I am happy and full. In the clarity of hindsight, it usually takes me about two weeks to make the dreaded 'change of pace' when I travel. The transition from working seven days a week like a wild stallion to doing absolutely nothing usually takes its toll. This trip has been no exception to the Kroeker rule, so I am surprisingly at ease with my lack of correspondance and overall laziness. Thank you for your patience friendly readers. These are my European days (children cover thine eyes):

This morning I woke up begrudingly in a twelve bunk-bed mixed dorm after being transferred from a glorious three bed private suite shared with my lovely travelling companions: Kit and Rabbi-- to an open backpack and a fresh cum stain on my rolled up black sheet. Nestled in the corner at the top of my pack, I stopped in my tracks and surveyed the damage with sleepy eyes. Horror and mirth collided in an instant and all I could do was scream in utter disbelief and then raise a fist in damnation to the masterbateur du jour (who I might add had long escaped my potential wrath). So, two weeks into this trip and the token dorm-room-pervert jerked off into my back pack. As my father would say (and probably not in this exact context...) "scenarios like these only build character". With Kit physically gagging in the corner of the room, and Rab and I long having dropped to our knees in hysterics over the soiled sheet, I had no choice but to take the advice of my dear Mave and "let hilarity seep in". Suffice is to say, we will no longer be roosting in twelve bed mixed dorms... fuck me sideways that story trumps all!

I suppose I need to back up the bus a bit. We flew into Londontown two weeks ago and have been eating and drinking like queens ever since. When we were not roosting on benches smoking LONG cigarettes, drinking merlot out of paperbags and getting mistaken for locals in Amsterdam (!!!), we were either on our knees in the Tate Museum in London (me at least... squatting on the floor with my giant hardcover journal open in my lap, paintset and brushes strewn about, babes to my right and left drawing the same wall-piece as me in the National Gallery) or sitting fur-clad in cafes in the Netherlands sipping copious amounts of espresso. Okay, first it was London which was a bit of a shitshow--we did everything in terms of unspoken tourist obligations--whether it was Shakespeares Globe Theater, riding around in double decker busses, seeing the London Bridge and the London Eye, the changing of the guards and old Buckingham Palace. We went to every museum known to man and shat our pants at sight of Big Ben. Cliches aside, I was in heaven. The London experience got us off on a good foot.

After London we hopped a train to Amsterdam, which proved to satisfy my every expectation and dream of what I thought the city should be, within the first 24 hours. Our hostel was TOO nice for only 15 euro a night and we met some good people. The Red Light District was laughable and we wandered with wide eyes. All the while, a line from my book 'The Unbeareable Lightness of Being' kept ringing in my head, "the women in the windows looked like giant, bored cats, bathed in red". We slipped into a comfortable rhythm in that city filled with more bikes than people; the warmth of the people and quaintness of Dutch living definately instilled a desire to return again someday. I also stood face to face with some of the most phenominal art work I have ever seen and studied: Rembrandt's "The Night Watch" was so captivating I held my breath to the point of near death until an ugly little dutch girl brought me back into reality with a fierce glare and stomp of the foot. Yes, Amsterdam fared us well.

Now we are in Berlin, our last night here. The train into the city was almost as majestic as Rembrandt's work. I asked myself at least one hundred times why I hadn't been born a Dutch goat farmer and about two hours later I realized what a fool I was for thinking such a thing. Dutch goat farmers would never get mistaken for a local while smoking on a park bench along a canal in Amsterdam! (It must have been the Gravol talking). I wrote in my journal today that "Berlin is everything I thought it NOT to be". At first glance, this historic city is sterile and unforgiving, but after being here for five days, I have begun to see it in a new light. In the first few days I was comsumed with a sort of second hand embarassment for this city run to ruin by the most brilliantly stupid and hideous leader mankind has ever known; but after a few enlightening tours around Berlin, I have come to see it more as a city of rebirth and renewal instead of a simple crime scene paved over. Berlin is one hell of a constuction site, but with a bit of patience and persistence I understand it as an effort to rebuild the glorious architecture that once lived.

Today I looked my heritage in the eye in a very unconventional way. I spent the day in it's entirety alone and decided that the best way to start such a day would be to find breakfast. Insert my heritage here. In a dingy cafe buried somewhere underneath the S Bahn Ostbanhof train station, I fell in love with Germany and everything of the German variation. In a muted and wild array of hand signals and passionate eye contact, I managed to order a giant steaming plate of the BEST fried potatoes and easter ham that I have ever tasted from a giant and wild German cook. It is funny that moments like these can make or break one's day, but that meal alone hit a chord in my heart. While I ate with the power of a thousand starved demons, everything that had occured in the past two weeks came to a head in my mind and I felt so proud to be Mennonite. God bless steaming plates of ham and potatoes. I might even go so far as to say that I found (part) of my heart in that very display of food this morning. Maybe. I still have yet to find a devilishly European to stamp my passport. So to speak. HAHAHA.

On this glorious note, I am off to join my dear ladybirds in yet another meal of thanksgiving. Be well all.

This trip is looking up, save for the bedsheet incident; I can feel my character building before thine eyes.

Prust (cheers).
Madge.