the online journal of jordan e.: januari 2003

torsdag, januari 30, 2003

We're getting down to the grind here, people.
Grades for the whole semster in the German university system are entirely based on either one paper, one test or one presentation, all of which usually occur at the end of the semester, which is just about now. Chaos! Stress!
Actually, not really for me. I already did my presentation about German and American food and drink for Landeskunde Deutschland. (Meagan and I demonstrated German and American styles of eating with giant silverware and baked cookies and pie for the class. Plus we honored the Thüringer Bratwurst with titles like "the best wurst in Deutschland," so we gained even more brownie points with our Thüringer-crazy professor.) As for papers, I only have to write one (about the image of Christianity in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice), but that doesn't have to be done until July. So, really all I have to do is take a grammar test on the 5th of February. Oh, and spend a week in "intensiv russisch" class with the rest of the students in my Russian class.
All is looking quite well, then. I think I'm just going to avoid all the Germans who are pulling out their own hair and frantically flipping through loads of textbooks. I have a feeling that if they knew my schedule as of late they just might resent me.

tisdag, januari 28, 2003

Backorder
Content isn't going, going;
It's simply being Yours.
Your love abounds me in every state;
Even behind these waiting-room doors.
You're forever, always, ever good,
But most definitely right now.
Don't let me forget your greatness;
Don't let me unfold from this bow.

Why do I keeping asking, asking
When your directions are so clear?
You've got big plans for the future,
But for now waiting time is here.
Now my roots can thicken;
With the strength found in you so firm.
I'll shake with hallelujah
Until the end of this waiting term.

We wait in hope for the Lord; he is our help and our shield. In him our hearts rejoice, for we trust in his holy name. Psalm 33:20-21

I'm waiting for God to reveal a lot of things to me right now - plans, directions, and understandings. I have to remember that this period isn't a complete halt in the growth of one's spiritual life. It's during these times that God seems to teach the most; about things you didn't even think you'd need to know. But most of all, it's a time of rejoice and praise; God is good all the time - when you're going and when you're waiting.

torsdag, januari 23, 2003

War-huh What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. Say it again...
Edwin Starr, the master behind this classic, isn't the only one who has been thinking along these lines lately. Yesterday outside of the campus Mensa (cafeteria center), there was a big banner that read, "Kein Blut für Öl!" (No Blood for Oil!) with a table of students dispersing pamphlets and other anti-war publications; I was fowarded an anti-war petition to sign from a German and political conversations between the localers here always inevitably become George W. Bush ripping sessions. It's obvious that where I am, war is the devil.
Yet, as uninformed as I am about this situation, I would have to disagree. And in fact, I think my view can best be portrayed through an analogy of a basic bunion of the foot:

Your struggle with a bunion begins once you acknowledge that your slightly deformed toe wasn't always like that and the new curve it has taken on is not a good thing. So, out with the open-toed shoes and on with the old penny loafers, you say - (you'll just cover up that crooked stinker with a pair of Hush Puppies.) As time elapses, however, you notice that not only do you have a bunion, but warts have also begun to appear. Warts belong to toads and Aunt Bev, you say - not your ugly foot! You know what should be done next, then - you should march yourself to the pediatrist and get that hoof taken care of. But what a pain the pediatrist would be; that would mean bills, having to take off work and of course dealing with that doctor whose son graduated with you.
So, you buy a Dr. Scholl's insert and some Aspirin and settle with toughing it out.
Before you know it, though, the messed up bones in your toe have affected the bones which lead to your ankle, which disturb your knee and eventually put you in a motorized cart with a really cheesy mini license plate which reads, "LV2RIDE." The bunion was your demise!
I have come to understand that that bunion could be Hussein and if we just let him be, he may use his capabilities to be the demise of the world or at least cause a lot of hurt in it. And we all know that bunions like Hussein don't correct themselves. After all, it's common knowledge that a bunion delights in its own bunionness. Instead, it takes an outside source to eliminate it, as costly, inconvenient and uncomfortable it may be. That little bit of pain on our part equals a whole lot of security in the end. Not to mention, those strappy, little sandals can finally be resurrected from the depths of your closet.

fredag, januari 17, 2003

Nighty-Night
Did your parents ever tell you bedtime stories? Maybe your mama and papa made you the main character of exciting adventures and wild discoveries; perhaps you fell asleep dreaming of princesses and fairies; or maybe you were one of those "excitable" children who were forced to do deep-breathing exercises and eat tryptophan-loaded turkey before bed time. I, for one, heard some good sleepy-time tales from my mom, the queen of bedtime stories. On the spot she would make up the most creative little plots with clever voices and accents, bringing us through foreign lands, making us heroes and concocting futuristic scenes. I swear that sometimes after a real whizbanger of a story Jonah would practically be in a state of comatose still imagining the elaborate tale.
My mom's stories weren't all butterflies and swingsets, though. Like the rest of her brothers, she finds pleasure in freaking out little kids (when I was really little she used to sing "Rock-a-bye Baby" to me Marilyn Manson style because it made my lower-lip quiver every time). Therefore, we were often subject to the hearing of "Slewfoot," a tale about a pig-eating,bloodthirsty, three-legged black bear or even "Newman," which was about an evil, runaway slave. She says these bedtime gems were the original work of her dad, Harold Johnson, the same man who would pretend that the car was stalling in the middle of bridges.
Noting, then, the long line of child-scarers that winds through my maternal family tree, I wondered whether I, too, would develop this desire to frighten little tykes.
Well, apparently this phenomenon doesn't skip generations because, as of late, it has become pretty clear that I also find much pleasure in scaring little kiddies. I, however, have yet to stoop as low as to tell about the sinister, training-riding slave, "Newman" while kiddies are about to enter dreamland. (The closest I got was telling my cousin Gus about a little boy who was all alone in a house who followed scary breathing/growling noises all the way to a closet where he found grandma inside choking on a bone. I know, it was a weak ending, but I had to think of a fast explanation.)
Years from now, when I hopefully have little kiddies of my own, it might be a different story, though. I might be telling them the variated story of "Slewfoot" - now known as "Baby-eater" and that if they don't be quiet I'm going to call the Boogey Man up from the basement. If only someone could warn them that they would be better off to go straight to sleep after brushing their teeth...

torsdag, januari 16, 2003

The Truth Will Set You Free
I just discovered some unsettling news. Remember that custard pie I made for Thanksgiving? Yeah, the one with leprosy? One little detail that I chose not to include in that story was that after attempting to eat most of it for a 10€ bet, I sort of hurled it all back out minutes after.
Well, today I find out from Amber, the girl who lent me the many eggs to make the pie, that these eggs had been in her possesion for over two months. I'm still trying to understand exactly why she allowed me to cook with eggs that had obviously entered their expiration period, but at least I know why I had a barf attack upon consumption of that thing.

onsdag, januari 15, 2003

Der Herr der Ringe
I saw Lord of the Rings last night in the theater...in German. As I have not read the books and I don't know much about Tolkien I don't make the best critic. However, I still found things that I liked and disliked.
I liked...
...those tree people. In German that leader tree was called Herr Baumbart (Mr. Tree beard), which I thought was kind of a peculiar name (yet logical). I especially liked when he came across all of the chopped down trees because no matter what the language, you knew he was saying, "I be one made tree now, foo'."
...Smergol (sp?). What a very realistic, computer-generated creature! I actually had pity for the little guy, too.
...the crusty king being restored. I liked it not only as a spiritual parallel, but also simply because if he hadn't been exorcised I was going to suggest he purchase some Neutrogena facial lotion.
I disliked...
...the Zwerg (dwarf). If I recall correctly, he wasn't just the source for comic relief in the last movie. In this one he was all about dumb one-liners and Laffy-Taffy jokes.

All in all, it was good, though.

I know I am risking the chance of getting Mr. Cecil Muttonchop (my brother Jake) miffed at me, but this little piece of my mom's recent email is too funny not to share:

"Unfortunately a little mousie got in the house and we can't seem to find him. There are 16 traps set up all over the house. Very scary!! Jake came close to going into convulsions the night we saw him. He was shaking and crying very hard. Kind of funny actually."

My advice to you, Jacob, is to take a nice warm bath, have a cup of tea and then go downstairs and sing "Pretty Woman" on your karaoke machine while wearing your knee-high rubber boots (you know, just incase Mr. Mouse reappears). Everything will be all better then. I promise.

måndag, januari 13, 2003

God called himself, "I Am." That's some pretty crazy stuff now that I think about it. It's seems so incomplete, so irrational. Really, who names themself a pronoun and a helping verb?
But God is no average bear. He begins all and is limitless just as this sentence that can be finished with so many of His eternal truths.
I am strength.
I am love.
I am guidance.
I am sovereign.
I am eternal.
Come to think of it, Jesus also used it in John 14:6 as, "I am the way, the truth and the life."
You get the point.

Kudos to God on that one.

Last tales of England...

SW London Vineyard
I really wanted to go to a Vineyard church while we were in London, so I researched the location before we went so we would be ready to go to the SW London Vineyard on Sunday morning. However, with even that handy tube, it took us much longer than expected to get to the stinking area of the church.
We exited the East Putney tube station at 10:45 for the 10:30 service and began looking with despair at the crude map which pointed a topsy-turvy way to the service in the Elliot School. Not even seconds after unfolding that paper did we hear, "Excuse me, do you know where the Elliot School is?" There was a guy behind us with an American accent trying to get to the same place. Funny how God sets things up like that.
Adam, the guy behind us, turned out to be a Canadian living in London and who is a member of this Vineyard (he had never attempted to get there by foot before, that's all). He walked with us all the way there where we finally arrived in time for the beginning of the talk. The sermon was very good - it was basically about lighting that fire underneath us, ridding ourselves of all the excuses and then actually going for God when he asks us to.
However, I was still bummed out that I had missed the entire worship part, something that I was really looking forward to (in English!). At the end of the sermon the pastor said there would be one more worhsip song, though. Feeling that this would be my only shot at some congregational worship in English in a long time, I asked God that it would at least be a song I know. The band played "I Love Your Presence," my favorite worship tune.

In the glory of your presence
I find rest for my soul.
In the depths of your love
I find peace, makes me whole.

I love, I love, I love your presence.
I love, I love, I love your presence.
I love, I love, I love you, Jesus.
I love, I love, I love your presence.

Meagan can attest to this: at that point, I lost it. I wasn't sad or tired or hurting - those were just tears of gratitude and realization of my unworthy state. He had provided someone to get us there, a service that was just like home (something I really needed) and a little gift through a simple song. I don't know why He does good things for me, but I'm so thankful that He does.

English Breakfast
My last meal in London was the famed English breakfast: fried eggs, fried sausages, fried ham, fried mushrooms, fried tomatoes, fried potatoes and....fried blood pudding - yes a basic injection of cholesterol, as William warned me. By the way, do you know what blood pudding is? Here's the recipe in case you ever open a bed and breakfast:

Black Pudding (Blood Pudding)
1 qt. Pig’s blood
3/4 lb. bread crumbs
1/2 lb. suet
Salt and pepper, to taste
1 qt. milk
1 c. cooked barley
1 c. dry oatmeal
1 oz. powdered mint
Mix all ingredients together in a bowl, pour into a large pan and bring to a boil. Pour in a wide shallow bowl and season again if necessary. When cold it may be cut into slices and fried.

I ate a bite of the stuff.
I almost upchucked.

This is the last word on the this commenting biznatch...there's a different service now. Feel free to post your deepest thoughts and opinions. Amen!

Alright. All looks like it might work, but as you can see, you can't type anything in the feedback box. Does anyone know why or how I can fix this?

nevermind...I erased it all.

To bring back one of our favorite 7th grade interjections..."Psyche!" I have found something called Reblogger which does work (too bad it's ugly). But, now at least the commenting may commence.

Got Comments?
I have just (hopefully) installed a commenting system so my tens of faithful readers can give their two cents worth. Please do!!

Onward through London...

The London Eye
We made our reappearance after dark to visit one of the UK’s most popular tourist attractions…the rotten London Eye. This monstrous ferris wheel rises 135m from the shore of the old Thames. 135m, my friends! In the States, that would equal 442.913 feet of pure terror. I begged Meagan to let me hang out on the ground while she rode the 30-minute revolution, but she basically forced me to fork over the ₤8.50 in exchange for what I thought would be the kiss of death. (You see, I am very afraid of heights – but in a very odd way. When I am high up with out ample railings or other strong, stationary objects between me and the fatal edge I feel like I can’t control my feet and that they will walk their way right over that edge.)
Lucky for me, though, the cars of the London Eye are actually huge glass bubbles with a nice bench in the middle. However, the ride is in constant motion so you have to manage to hop on one of the mobiles while is cruises by. You’d think ₤8.50 would be enough to at least secure a comfortable boarding procedure here, people. We safely got on, though, and even better, with a family from Liverpool – you know, the place where the Beatles are from. At least that’s what the dad told us, who was super excited for the ride. Though his wife kept telling him that volume was key, he continued his ecstatic rants and raves, which was fine with me, as I was quite enjoying his northern accent.
His poor little boys weren’t so excited, though, as they, too, seemed to have cases of acrophobia. Unfortunately for them, the diaper bag was filled with disposable cameras filled with film to burn. Somewhere between the flashes (which could have triggered an epileptic fit) the dad yanked one of the boys over by him for a guide a quick photo-op. The little lad squealed and yelled, “Let go of me! You nearly smashed the window!” “Hmm,” I thought to myself, “maybe this guy isn’t the safest person to be riding in a glass bubble 450 feet above the ground with.” I began inching my way to the other end of the capsule until I got by the door that read, “DO NOT LEAN AGAINST THE DOOR.” My feet got that special “these-boots-were-made-for-self-propelled-walking feeling” so I put them in reverse and headed back near the Public Enemy.
At that point, one-half way around the giant wheel, Mr. Hyperactive officially qualified for a shot of concentrated Ritalin. You’d have thought we had just discovered the 8th Wonder of the World with his commentary. The guy had a point with the extreme raving, though. The view of the city with an illuminated Big Ben, Buckingham Palace and the curvy Thames was really cool.
Meanwhile, the dad had taken off a shoe.
I was also getting more and more comfortable with the Deathstar. Just as soon I started feeling at ease near the window, however, there was another sequence of flashes and then a cry for help that went a little like, “What are you trying to do? You nearly threw me in the water!” It seemed that Child #2 had received his turn to pose for the camera.
The father had other things on his mind instead of comforting his panicked son, though. He recalled that three-quarters through the ride, a photo is taken of each end of the bubble from one of the metal shafts and then is available for purchase. While he made sure for the second time that we were ready for the picture, he realized that at some point during the ride he had taken off that shoe. He frantically crammed the sneaker back on, nearly sick that his stockinged foot might blemish the photo. (I then realized he was the definition of an irregular heartbeat.)
He got that Nike back on lickety-split with time to spare for the family to arrange themselves before the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Not long after the picture we cautiously walked off the moving chamber and were told it was great sharing a capsule with us and that they really enjoyed the ride. The owners of the London Eye could only have been more pleased. This family was pure profit. After all, they were heading to the ticket counter to get tickets so they could experience the ride during tomorrow’s daylight hours and you know that friends and family of the Liverpool crew can expect their 2003 Christmas card to come with the official London Eye portrait.

The British Museum
Meagan had hoofitis (her feeties were not in good shape from the previous day's trekking) but we managed to get around town anyhow with the help of the Underground. After checking out Covnent Gardens, we went to the British Museum.
I wasn't sure what to expect from the very general name - petrified fish and chips, perhaps? Queen Victoria's dentures? Or maybe the world's only audio clip of dumb Mr. Bean? I wouldn't have really minded any of those things, but the stuff that actually was there was much cooler.
The museum has loads of artifacts from Babylonian times, a huge ancient Egyptian display with mummies and stuff, middle-age things, Viking paraphernalia, etc. They had an exhibit by the artist Antony Gromely, too. He does this series with crudely shaped clay human figures. His deal is to make mass quantities of them (with the help of entire communities) and fill the floors of rooms. At the British Museum he filled a room with 35,000 of the critters. It's cool to see, but one kind of wonders the point of it.
Anyhow, the best part of the place, in my opinion, was the Reading Room. Built a long time ago (how's that for journalistic accuracy?) it's a library that was used for cardholders to come and study, read a novel or do research. Past readers in this joint included Mark Twain, Thackary, Dickens, Karl Marx (who came every day for thirty years) and others. I thought that was amazing! I was tempted to break into the cases and look through the pages for Thackary's notes, Dickens' fingerprints or some stray moustache hair from Twain. I even thought to look at the ancient chairs to check out what could have been the buttprint of Virginia Woolf, but then I came to my senses. Buttprints? Yeah, I had done enough discovering in that place.

Sir William Yates of Lincolnshire
The plan was to meet my British buddy William at Yate's (touché!) Pub in Leicester Square at 12 on Friday. We somehow missed each other at that time, so Meagan and I had lunch and waited for him inside. After a while we figured that either a) we had the wrong Yate's Pub; b) he had turned into his Dick Tracy alter ego and was spying on us from the bushes outside or c) he couldn't come. We decided 'c' was the answer, so we headed out. Just outside the doors, however, I spotted a guy wearing a MSU sweatshirt. Moorhead State University, I decided, isn't the everyday trend in London, so I figured we had the right man.
We all had coffee at Starbuck's and talked a little about his huge upcoming trip (he actually already left on the 8th) to South Africa where he will be for five months training and practicing some ministry related things. He also got our perspective on the UK and told us about some American friends who visited him here last year. One, who had forgotten that the cars drive on the left-hand side there, walked right into some traffic and was t-boned by an automobile.
It was great to meet up with him - William is such an encouraging guy. His faith is relatively new (he became a Christian while he was studying at MSU, fall of last year) but it is stinking explosive. Despite parents who don't understand why he believes what he does and why he is going to Africa, he seeks God's direction without seemingly any inhibitions and is obedient to the guidance he receives. Lord bless him as he does big things for you.

The National Gallery
Van Gogh's "Sunflowers," Monet's "Water Lily's," DaVinci, Seurat, Degas. Need I say more? This place was amazing and overwhelming. Just inches away from masterpieces that I've purchased printed on cheap greeting cards and calendars. Holy crappers!

Whitechapel
In the 12th grade, I did a pretty big research project for good, old Witikko on infamous Jack the Ripper. Now that I was actually in London, I was determined to take a little walking tour where the heinous crimes actually took place, the East London Whitechapel District.
When we finally got there Friday night, I dragged Meagan out of the Whitechapel tube station. We made it about ten feet or so on the street and then booked it back in. Apparently not much has changed since Saucy Jack's days. That place was scary!
We tried to go back in daylight, but with the ample lighting we could actually read the sign from the Metropolitan Police which said to beware of pickpockets and other crimes. Okie dokie. If these weren't blatant signs to stay away from a place I don't know what is. Durrnit. I will go on this tour someday. Oh yes. I will.

onsdag, januari 08, 2003

The tales of Britian continue here...

Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II
Now totally delighted with London after the encounter with the phone booth man, Meagan and I made our way through Green Park to one of the many residencies of your friend and mine - yes, Miss HRH herself and her humble Buckingham Palace. It just so happened that it was about 11:10am, the approximate starting time for the daily changing of the guards, too. To summarize the event, one could say the changing of the guards was a basic convening of the men with big, furry hats. They marched, paraded in a marching band, rode horses, did some fancy footwork, etc. All very impressive. And footage, I'm sure, is now available with the help of the many tourists who were video-recording the royal display.

Mr. Ed? That's Sir Ed to you.
Feeling a bit patriotic since the whole furry hat men parade in front of old BP, we walked along a river (with tons of now domesticated fowl and squirrels that crawled up peoples' pant legs for snacks - sweet mother, that was scary! I was just waiting for a rather energetic one to spring up and clip my nose.) to the Royal Horse Guards, otherwise known as the "Keepers of the Horsies." They sit stationary upon the creatures and "protect" the rest of horses from characters like the Phone Booth Man.
On our way there we stumbled upon Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, not to mention an anti-George Bush protest with pictures of him stating, "Wanted for the death of the people of Iraq" among other anti-war banners. It was during this time that we became temporary citizens of Ontario and talked loudly about Wayne Gretzky and our love of maple leaves.

All I Want is Bangers and Mash
Meagan's British friend, George, gave us tons of information and advice about London including directions to a little pub that supposedly had the best bangers and mash when he lived in the limits of London. I was determined to try all of the typical Bristish cuisines, so we set off to find the joint. With the help of a very kind policeman, we finally discovered the Mason's Arms somewhere near Old Bond Street and entered the few-hundred year old establishment. It was a typical cozy English pub down to a fireplace, dark woods and an oriental rug. While I was tempted by the bangers and mash, I opted for the steak and stilton pie, which I thought was very good. Unfortunately, news from George reveals that steak and stilton cheese aren't the only ingredients in this cornish pie. It also happens that ground kidney is a main additive. Mmm...ground kidney.

Paper or Cashmere?
Near the Ritz Hotel a place called Fortnum and Mason caught our eye. Under a coat of arms on the window states, "By Appointment to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, Grocers and Provision Merchants." In other words, this is where the Queen gets her groceries.
We stepped in and found chandeliers, stock-boys wearing tuxes, pretty cases of cakes, chocolates, Gentleman's Relish, teas, bisquits and more. I've never felt so underdressed in the presence of produce. And I wasn't really sure what to do if somebody would approach me and offer assistance. What would I say? "Yes, that goose liver paté does look delish, but I unfortunately forget to clip the coupons this week. So, yeah, I'm just going to have to go with this dried bean I found on the floor."
Alas, I did find something I could afford and that I wanted. It's called Branston Relish and is a bunch of pickled vegetables in a gooey brown sauce. It's actually very good with cheese and crackers, as George has shown me.

We also found the little shop that provided chocolates for the Queen, though the name escapes me. Meagan and I each had a little truffle, which was very, very good. While we picked out our humble little treats, a man who had to be some Baronet or Sire ordered a box of various sweets that rang up to 50 some dollars. Unbelieveable.

måndag, januari 06, 2003

Happy New Year
With a couple of oversized backpacks and a red purse, Meagan M. Waldahl and I boarded a southbound train at 8:47pm on December 31. Not long after our second train transfer in Bamberg, the clock struck midnight. We sipped a little Rotkäppchen bubbly from mini bottles, watched fireworks from the windows and received a happy new year wish from basically the only other passenger, the crazy lady wearing various shades of yellow, snow boots and horribly scratched glasses. Three transfers later, eight hours of waiting in the Frankfurt airport and a relatively short flight over the canal, we were in London's Gatwick airport with visions of Wallace and Grommit, Big Ben and Her Royal Highness clouding my thoughts. This is where all of those hours watching BBC would pay off...

To the Centre!
Ten pounds was the fare for the ticket from Gatwick to the London Bridge stop where our hostel was. However, the value of that ride was considerably more, as we sat admist a group of personality gems. Straight in front of Meagan was a husky, middle-aged man on a cell phone making plans with his "mates;" a couple next to me chowing down on bags of "crisps" and reading tabloids; a man behind them who could actually be Harry Potter in adult form; a man next to him who was reading Harry Potter; a father and his school-aged son who was rattling off soccer game highlights from the recent Chelsea match; two older, kindly men who were amused with the little lad and were encouraging him to continue his rambling; and finally a man directly in front of me who looked like the stereotypical bodyguard with buzz-cut hair and a natural grimace, but a high-pitched voice. Down to the emphatic "cheers!" and "yeas," it was all so perfectly British - I was just waiting for Hyacinth Bucket to board.

I Forgot My Lifevest
We surfaced from the Underground to find London in a state of downpour. We watched an older business man wade through an ankle-deep puddle which span the entire walkway and soon realized we were amateurs when it came to dealing with rain. We did have umbrellas, though, so we hoofed it to St. Christopher's Inn on Borough High Street, checked in and took a nap. Now seeminly dry out, we decided to do a bit of wandering only to be showered on five minutes after leaving the hostel. Despite the downpour, we saw beautiful Tower Bridge, Monument (built for the great fire of 1666) and an outside view of the Tower of London (built in 1097 and incases the Crown Jewels). Sopping wet, we came back for some sleep.

Little Red Phone Booth
Now Thursday morning (just 4 hours before our planned meeting with Sir William Yates) I decided to call him up to see if the plans were still on. We then found a typical red phone booth (you know, those cool British ones) to ring him up. I tried a few times, but nobody answered. I was about to exit the little station when an older man wearing a Gilligan hat, a big smile and 7 1/2 teeth appeared knocking at my booth's door. "Yer phone ain't working then? How 'bout you come and try mine!" I stepped out of the booth, in awe of his thick cockney accent (think Liza Dolittle before Henry Higgins gets a hold of her). He suddenly whipped out a wrinkled scratch-off game that had fallen out of some issue of Glamour or Cosmo and said, "I got three spades!" and then continued to guide me to the phone booth that was stuck to the other side of mine. At this point, Meagan had already registered the fact that this guy wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed and trotted off to a comfortable distant away from the scene. I, then, was stuck trying to tell this guy that the phone worked just fine, that my friend just wasn't home. He finally got it, though he was still ecstatic at the opportunity to help me and his winning scratch ticket. Before a farewell cheers he said, "Well at least you got yer money back then!"

December 30, 2002
We're on way back from Prague now. My name can now be added to the list of thousands of visitors that have been to that great Czech city...this weekend, that is. Despite the hoards of tourists and numerous crappy souvenir shops, the city was wonderful. We arrived there after a tiring journey by train and found our hostel - the one near "Pizza Go Home" and with the sign that proudly states the hostel's "Hours of Quietness" (yeah, English is bit rusty there). After a little nap on those cots, we explored the main shopping district, which serves as a front yard for the gorgeous National Museum, and then wandered into a Czech restaurant. The gulash and onion soup was all very good, but we were unfortunately ripped by the place with mysterious "table charges" and additional "service charges." And besides, we found that the famed Czech beer, Pilsner-Urquell, tastes like liquid arse.
After the huge meal, we did a bit more exploring and found the great Charles Bridge, the ancient (built in the 1300s) stretch over the Moldau which has 30 or so statues on it. Some are of Christ, some are of various saints and others are of stranger things - like St. John of Nepomuk, for instance, who was thrown from the bridge in chains in the 16th century. And then there's St. Judas Thaddeus holding the Gospel and a club, which he was later beaten to death with. And let's not forget St. Ludmilla who is pointing to a Bible that St. Wenceslas is learning to read from and holding a veil with which she later suffocated from. The bridge was absolutely beautiful and provided some great views of the city.
The next morning we set out to take some pictures of it from another bridge and to find the Lennon Wall, which was a product and tribute to the 1989 Velvet Revolution. At this time, university students of the city held a huge protest/riot against the communist state and consequently were severely beaten by the Czech police. This wall, which stands directly in front of the French embassy, was continually covered with messages of peace and John Lennon lyrics and portraits who had become a symbol of pacifism, though authorities regularly whitewashed it. The story goes that at the end of communist rule in Prague, the French ambassador called the mayor and asked that the wall remain with its grafitti. So now one can find it with international messages, burning candles, etc. Due to crappy directions in the guide book, however, we arrived at a false Lennon Wall, which was really just a brightly painted stack of bricks. There were no "All you need is love" quotes or Lennon paintings, but we were somehow all fooled and proceeded to take pictures in front of it. It wasn't until that night that we found the real one.
Between that time, we met up at a cafe and then broke up into two groups, as frustrations are unavoidable when traveling with a pack of eleven. Our group checked out some of the many historic buildings like Prague Castle, various churches and then Josefov, or the Jewish district. There they have an old Jewish cemetery which is about the size of block and contains over 20,000 bodies - that's 12 deep! I guess the crammed in tombstones are interesting to see, but we came five minutes from closing and missed out.
So we ended up meeting the rest at a restaurant called Novometsky Pivovar (the language is very similar to Russian). While waiting for them, a group of Russians sat down at the table next to us and began celebrating a 38th birthday. It wasn't long before a couple of them came over to us with four shot glasses and a bottle of Russian vodka. Before we drank, another one saw Meagan, pointed at her belly and his and said "sisters!" and then tried to force a piece of pig knuckle on her. She got out of the pork treat, but we all had to drink the foul stuff.
On Saturday morning we rose early and once again had our continental breakfast. As I was walking to my seat I took a drink of my tea, not realizing it was still nearly boiling. It all involuntarily came back out in a natural attempt to save the tissue of my throat. We all laughed pretty hard at what looked like a convulsion on my part and then headed to the National Museum to check out Bohemian and Moravian artifacts among many, many other things.
Prague was great. I am definitely planning a return trip for warmer days.

December 26, 2002
Christmas 2002 has come and gone. I spent Christmas Eve with the Wenger family from church at their home. I helped the mom, Waltroud, make supper (pizza...with corn) and Bratapfels (baked apples with stuffed cores). We spent the night playing some serious Uno, opening a few gifts and speaking German. It was a great time.
As for Christmas day, Meagan came down to my room and we opened our little pile of presents together and then cooked up a huge brunch for Heidi and her four guests. We spent the rest of the day playing games, eating cookies and climbing to a castle on a nearby hill. It was a strange Christmas - it didn't really feel like a holiday at all. At the end of the day I begged Chris, who has a natural 'fro, to do his thing with it and see how big he could get it. He ended up needing the assistance of Mandy, who helped him create a 'fro that was a foot and a half in diamater - it was like a Chia pet or something!
I also got to talk to my family, which was very nice. It was pretty early in Minnesota still (Jonah and Jake still hadn't discovered their Santy Claus presents yet). Because of the early hours Jake was pretty funny, too. He said that he wanted a karaoke machine and then sang "I Shot the Sheriff" for me.

fredag, januari 03, 2003

Cheers mate! I am in London right now recording gads of interesting tales and quips. Please check back after Sunday for a full report on the travels through the Czech Republic and this magnificant residency of the Royals.

the online journal of jordan e.