Christmas is coming

This year, in a few days from now, Germany will be the home to one hundred and twelve thousand six-hundred and ninety-seven Weihnachtsmärkte and Christkindlmärkte (Christmas Markets), of which approximately seven thousand are in the final stages of preparation here in Munich [FN1]. Christmas Markets in theory are actually kind of nice. They look like they have a wondrous, magical-like atmosphere where people are having fun while strolling about with friends, shopping for hand-made wooden ornaments, and keeping warm with Glühwein and fried/roasted/boiled German fare. Most of the markets open up on the Friday before the first Sunday of Advent, meaning that the charming (looking) pop-up towns will open their doors to us in just a week's time.

Munich's first Christmas Market dates all the way back to 1310, while the Vienna December Market -- a forerunner to today's Christmas Markets -- is even more ancient with a launch-date of 1294 [FN2]. The CM tradition is billed as an avenue for family and friend get-togethering, relaxation, and living an embodiment of the Christmas Spirit which, not being all that religious and therefore not having all the details, I understand reflects a celebration of the miracle of the birth of a child whose Mother was so good at sticking to her story that not only did her husband believe her, but unwittingly (one presumes) launched a worldwide religion that now counts over two billion partisans. The truth is, however, that the only miraculous thing happening here is the fact that these markets are still going strong seven centuries after their initial creation, and that some people actually seem to genuinely enjoy attending them.

Christmas Markets are crowded. Like really, really, really crowded. I think I've mentioned here, meaning on this Blog, that Bavarians make an impressive brew. Glühwein, on the other hand, is just absolutely and terribly disgusting. You can maybe stomach one on the first weekend for novelty's sake. After that, however, you would have to be one thirsty mo-fo to be ordering seconds. The stench of the abomination of mulled wine floats in the air above the markets, and since there are so many of these markets (see introduction, supra), it makes its way like a Beijing smog cloud throughout the city on an anthropomorphic mission to really just piss me off. The smell is like a very special kind of vomit whose burning acidic composition enters the sinuses and, as my pal Dave Pirner [FN3] once said, nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd, and the same can be directly applied to emesis as anyone who has had the unfortunate luck of being on a plane when one soldier (metaphorically speaking) goes down (commences to spew chunks), you're going to get some kind of snowball-chain-reaction thing going on, and basically that's what the whole Glühwein season makes me feel like.

Christmas Markets are also invariably cold and wet, and being wet -- rather than, say, snowy -- they feel even colder than they would be if it were in actual fact colder and therefore cold enough so that the rain could become snow and things wouldn't be as wet and therefore not feel nearly as cold (even though it would be colder). Now, this is of course not the Christmas Markets' fault in any way, but since December in Germany doesn't regularly get cold enough to snow (but does get cold enough to be miserable), an activity that encourages/requires you to come stand around outside during a time of year that, on average, experiences these temperatures can, in fact, be faulted for those same meteorological conditions, even though the CM itself has no direct control over same.

The next problem I have with the Christmas Markets is another one related to nausea, and this time it's not with what you drink, but with what you eat. All Christmas Markets have perfected the art of food preparation where the food looks and smells just fine, but after a few bites, all basically goes to hell. You see, these unfailingly-deep-fried delicacies that include oil-drenched Käse Spätzle with Sauerkraut, fried dough covered in apple sauce, and of course -- remember this is Germany -- all manner of Wurst, start off tasting just fine. Then, before you're any the wiser, a chain reaction seems to set off within the depths of the intestine that causes a number of things to occur, including: (1) you not wanting to have anything to do with even the mere thought of taking another bite; (2) headaches, indigestion, irritable bowel syndrome, &c.; (3) swearing to never order food at another Christmas Market ever again, so help me God.

Finally, there is the matter of the trinkets which is I suppose what puts the "Market" in Christmas Market, and so clearly form an important part of the whole venture. The principal problems here are really two-fold. First, you think to yourself, you know what? I'm going to go down to the local Christmas Market (remember there really are thousands and so there's always a local one) and pick up some gifts. The problem is that it's mostly junk. I use the term trinkets very deliberately as trinkets is the most apt description for most of what's being sold. Wooden dolls, cheap toques, paper lanterns, Coca Cola place mats, bead necklaces, and religious novelties of all kinds. Some things I guess are kind of neat (once) like the Christmas Pyramids and the smoking incense doll things, but then of that small subset of items, we lead to the second half of that two-fold problem I mentioned earlier: it's still all junk! The stands give off the aura of hand-made, local-made, German-craftsmanship, but turn over a wooden whirlygig candle-powered windmill machine "painted by an artisanal hand-crafting German painter" or some such thing, and you'll see the "MADE IN GERMANY" sticker just covering up the smaller "MADE IN CHINA" stamp beneath. These stands are for one thing, and for one thing only: ripping off tourists! [FN4]

Despite all this, however, there is one good thing about Christmas Markets: it means that Christmas is coming. And that, in turn, means several other things, including: (1) some de minimis amount of time off of work, or if you're really lucky, something on the order of three weeks away from it; and (2) soon, the Christmas Markets will go away for another year.

Bah humbug! [FN5].


[FN1] All cited statistics are estimations on the part of the author.
[FN2] Wikipedia.
[FN3] Who turned 50 this year, by the way [FN3.1].
[FN3.1] And on the topic of Soul Asylum in general, did you know that they released a new album about a year and a half back?; "In 2012, Soul Asylum are pretty much off everyone's radar and they're back to recording for a small indie label, so it makes a certain sense that Delayed Reaction is their best album in ages." How about that?
[FN4] So beware.
[FN5] I actually really love Christmas time including being with family, the joy of giving and receiving gifts, delicious food and drink (not from German Christmas Markets), including Booze Soup (TM), Christmas parties that are basically just a concentrated form of the previous points, and a whole bunch of other stuff. But I thought that the "Bam humbug!" fit nicely at the end of this here little rant. Frohe Weihnachten!!!

Past while recap

Dear Long Suffering Readers: first, I apologize that you have been deprived of Pemulis, gastronomic photography, and other indiscriminate musings on European Life for so long. I personally would like to blame the always-present need for pencil-pushing -- aka work -- for getting in the way of the growing of this creative outlet. It really drains your vital mind power throughout the day and then, when you get home at the end of it all (for one more day), one just doesn't exactly have the gumption to take a seat and start piecing together witty words and phrases for the consumption of the Internets-at-large. That being said, here I am to entertain you all in a 'past while recap' so that you may feel safe and secure in the knowledge that you are up to snuff, as one might put it, on the current machinations of the protagonists of this blog's lives.

Galopprennbahn München Riem

Two Saturdays ago, we attended the Pastorius horse race here in Munich -- the biggest purse (155,000 euros) in Bavaria. There were 5 races throughout the afternoon, culminating in the grand Pastorius. I used my PhD-level knowledge of statistics to devise an unbeatable system. It is in the process of running through the EC patent system and I can therefore not disclose its particulars at this time, but the general idea is to bet on a horse that has no statistical snowball's chance in hell of winning as otherwise you don't really win any money. Overall, we spent a whopping 5 euros each (1 euro per race) but were quickly up to an astonishing 30+ euros by the final race thanks to decisive picks by yours truly and our entourage. With a 1 euro bet on my favourite horse "Pennyking", we were up more than 14 euros!

By the final race, we were feeling confident. We had won money on 3 out of 4 races; we were sizzling! So naturally we bet it all on the final race on a horse that had odds of 34 to 1. If that horse won we would be heading home with over a thousand euros!!! But he didn't win... Oh well...

Deutschland Cup 2014

This past weekend we attended our second Deutschland Cup (see http://grenoblewmd.blogspot.com/2013/11/munchen.html for last year's version). This time the participating teams were Slovakia, Switzerland, Germany, and Canada! These aren't just any Canadian hockey players though. In fact, Yahoo! Sports (and apparently most of the North American media that happened to cover it) call them "Euro-Canadians" as these are players who play in the Euro leagues such as in Switzerland or Germany.

The game we went to was on Sunday afternoon and was the final game of the tournament: Germany vs. Canada. The tournament format is round-robin and the team with the best record wins. We were purposely ignorant to the meaning of the game that we attended as it might have had no meaning taking all the fun away. Luckily for us, we attended the only game that Canada actually won. Germany was holding a 2-0 lead after the first period, but Team Canada stormed back to win with a final score of 4-2. Unfortunately, however, since that was the only game that Canada won they finished last. Team Germany were the big winners this year, but it was nice to see Canada squeeze out the win!

Running

Three weeks to go until the Florence Marathon. That means we get to start running a little bit less (until the actual day of the race when we'll have to run a whole lot). This past Sunday was a 30km run that we were supposed to do in under 2h30m. It was also supposed to be fairly easy since we should be going the same exact speed in the race but for an extra 12km / 1 hour. Ouch! Man that was hard. I don't think I'm in the right shape to do a 3h30m marathon this time, but I guess we shall see.

Goodbye and thanks for reading. Until next time...

The origins of Pemulis

https://nplusonemag.com/online-only/online-only/posthumous-gratitude/

Race Report: Waldperlachlauf 20km

Two Sundays ago we participated in the fifth annual Waldperlachlauf (Perlach Forest Run) 20km edition. We signed up a few days before to get some racing experience in the legs as we continue to prepare for the upcoming Florence Marathon at the end of November. Both of us have only ever run a 20km running race once before and it was a part of the Roanne-Villerest Aquathlon Longue Distance (see this classic GrenobleWMD post for a reminder). That 20km was only the second part of the competition which in total consisted of first a 4km open water swim, followed by a quick bite of high-fructose corn syrup in the transition area, and then, finally, the 20km run. In that event, after spending around an hour and a quarter swimming the equivalent of 10 times around a quarter-mile track, I ran the 20km in a time of one hour, 30 minutes. Nothing that's going to get me on any track teams, but respectable nonetheless.

Two years later, one Ironman later, one marathon later, quite a bit of running later, and no 4km swim to tire us out beforehand, you'd think one might improve on said time. Nope. All you have to do is cruise along at a hair under 4:30's for an hour and a half and you've got it. Nope. Now, there were of course some extenuating circumstances that we can turn to: (1) the weather in Munich is generally fairly miserable but then lo and behold we woke up on that fateful Sunday morning to a forecast of 25 degrees celsius and not a cloud in the sky when we'd been used to running in 10 degree drizzle; (2) this was a small race with only a few hundred participants and the community volunteers have not quite figured out that you should probably be offering water on a 20km course, especially on the hottest day in Munich's autumnal history; (3) it was a mentally difficult course in that the 20km route actually consisted of completing a 5km loop 4 times -- ouch!; and (4) we're older now and not currently as in good shape.

The race started off well. We hit km mark 1 in just under 4 minutes, 22 seconds. Feeling good. And 8 seconds banked for later on. But the sun was just beaming. Though they called this the Perlach Forest, there was no tree cover, and somehow it seemed that no matter where you looked you were staring at the angry burning sun. Kilometer mark 2 came 4 minutes and 35 seconds later. "Oops" we joked, knowing that going slower than the planned 4:30 was simply a comical calculation error, and nothing to do with being out of shape, tired, or slow. No matter, though. We would re-assess our current speed, re-direct it upwards, and check on things in 1 kilometer time. Plus we had only lost 5 seconds, and therefore still had 3 seconds of the original 8 safely tucked away to be drawn on only if and when they might be needed. Unfortunately, like most Canadians, we would soon find ourselves with a sorely overdrawn account.

Kilometer 3 passed in the same amount of time as its previous marked distance: 4 minutes, 35 seconds. That brought us on to the side of 2 seconds overdrawn. And things didn't get much better after that. The worst would prove to be a disastrous 4:50 on kilometer 19, and we ended up with an average pace of 4:41 for a total time of 1h33m45s, a full 3 minutes, 45 seconds above our "safe" goal time. So what happened? Well, we've already discussed the excuses above, and they are each probably somewhat involved, especially the one about not being in as good shape.

In any case, it was tough, but Sandi did get on the podium as she tends to do these days. She even won a 30 euro gift card at a running store, more than paying for our entry fees. So I guess it wasn't all bad!

About to take down our next victims

Me thinking "we have to do another lap???"

"Ouch"

Even more "ouch"

Yay but it's all worth it when you get a medal, a certificate, and a gift card

The Civil Code

Pemulis was angry. Fuming mad, even. Many have sworn that they saw cartoon-like steam exhausting from his ears as if they were the dual-chimneys of a proud, classic locomotive barrelling down a twisting metal track. This wasn't the first time that he had been a victim of the civil law's extra-contractual obligation recognized as appropriation of personality, and sadly, it most probably wouldn't be the last. But it hit a nerve let me tell you, and dammit if we wasn't going to do something about it this time.

Since his fame had grown following the publication of his first short-story collection, "Rotel Doesn't Rhyme with Hotel", a handful of semi-autobiographical sketches detailing his time as a part-time student, part-time barley malter, full-time partier at the University of Edinburgh, he had all but forgotten what it was like to experience the beautiful semblance of privacy in his life. It had begun more or less during the course of the book's South American promotional tour where he would perform nightly readings in small cafés and bars over the course of about an hour while simultaneously drowning the better part of a bottle of single-malt Scotch (at this point any one of the Glens would do), a taste that he'd apparently acquired during his time as the fun-loving principal personage of the very collection of stories from which he would read during said sessions. The readings started innocuously enough, drawing a dearth of fans -- perhaps 10 or 20 on the best of nights -- all emerging from those strange corners of the seedy underbelly of the Internet where 512-bit encryption keys reign and fan faction based on the GrenobleWMD stories passes as currency. But one night a not-unknown Swedish photographer whose name happens to escape the author at the present moment stumbled into the right bar on the right night. It just so happened that coincidentally these two characters somehow knew each other from a long-forgotten Parisian past and photographer proceeded to snap some B&W's of Pemulis the author in action. These photos, for one reason or another, seized the imagination of the youth worldwide, and quickly, as they said back then, went viral, the photos that is. Every pretender, English major, screen writer, and angst-ridden artsy teenager from Buenos Aires to Constantinople to Saigon easily and firmly identified with Pemulis's Rotel stories and his whiskey bottle, and sales of the book exploded like a rear-ended Ford Pinto. It came as a bang; the publishing industry went nuts for a kid who looked, to them, like he may be their heavenly salvation in the face of video games, cell phones, and those drab filth-filled Internet blogs written by talentless hacks with too much time on their hands and too many stars in their eyes. Fame arrived over night with not so much as a duffle bag to support itself with and it wasn't going to settle for a place on the fold-out couch. It kicked Pemulis out of his bed, it trashed his kitchen, it ate his food, used his shampoo, got toothpaste all over the sink, and it didn't once even consider to take no for an answer. It arrived without warning and it laid its claim into his life, just like that.

Fame arriving fast, loose, and on fire was exhilarating though. Booze, women, drugs, nights flying by like swirling vivid colours. No responsibilities and being taken care of by hangers-on and handlers. Fast cars, expensive watches, glistening boats, private jets, private rooms, private clubs, but, alas, no private life. No way. With the Patek Philippe 1518 Perpetual Calendar pieces also came photographers, reporters, interview schedules, and worst of all, the fans. Deranged lunatics mobbing you in the street, women and young girls alike grabbing at you, every god damned kid with an iPhone taking videos, Instagrams, and whatever the hell else they did with those things. But Pemulis could handle the fans. He could handle the photographers, the reporters, and the promotional appearances. They were taxing. They were painful. But he could handle it. What shook him to his very core, though, was when one day, this day to be exact, somebody, somewhere, crossed the line. What he fully could not take or accept was the use of his personhood in the course of advertising to sell a product when he had not agreed to said appropriation of his personality, and worst of all, when he vehemently despised, in all ways, shapes, forms, and configurations, the product and/or service in question.

It was a calm Spring morning, and Pemulis was relaxingly sipping his morning whiskey-coffee in a chair by his window. While perusing his very favourite website, a blog devoted to the quintessentially Swiss industry of haute horology, he thought at first that, though it happened rarely, he may have indulged in one too many scotches during his weekly after-breakfast Thai massage. He gave his head a shake, rubbed his eyes, threw another gulp of extra-old, extra-rare down the hatch for good measure, and looked again, closely. Sure enough, however, there he was. He stared at himself staring back at himself, only in the picture on-screen he was not wearing one of his many Patek super-complications, a Rolex GMT Master II with classic Pepsi fluted bezel, or even his A. Lange and Söhne 1815 Rattrapante Perpetual Calendar (see below).

No, it was not the thing of beauty that you see floating in the space above these words. It was something that can only be described in the English language by a word like the following: hideous. Or how about this one: nightmarish. What appeared on the screen on that fateful morning was a photograph of Pemulis performing a reading from Rotel in a bar in São Paulo, a bottle of Glenfidich 18 immediately to his right, and, astonishingly, in the foreground, a floating Rolex Vintage Rainbow Daytona. Ahh!!! The agony! He flung his computer aside in a knee-jerk reaction so swift and powerful that the machine flew off his lap and crashed in two as it forcefully struck the ground in a magnificent impact. The screen lay in the middle of the room, disconnected, slowly fading to black with a ghosting image of the evil rainbow jewels gently pulsating, and Pemulis's vacant stare becoming nothing but an outline and then, before his eyes, nothing.

Living in Montreal at the time, Pemulis turned to his trusted avocat, Maitre Solange Sorel, and gave her an earful. She, in turn, quoted to him Articles 3 and 36 of the Civil Code of Quebec:

3. Every person is the holder of personality rights, such as the right to life, the right to the inviolability and integrity of his person, and the right to the respect of his name, reputation and privacy. These rights are inalienable.

[...]

36. The following acts, in particular, may be considered as invasions of the privacy of a person:

(1) entering or taking anything in his dwelling;

(2) intentionally intercepting or using his private communications;

(3) appropriating or using his image or voice while he is in private premises;

(4) keeping his private life under observation by any means;

(5) using his name, image, likeness or voice for a purpose other than the legitimate information of the public;

(6) using his correspondence, manuscripts or other personal documents.

Bam! Articles 3, 36(3) and 36(5), thank you so very kindly. And a special thank you to you, M. Bonaparte, for creating such a beautiful, ordered set of logical codes that we can run a functioning legal society on top of. Sorel just as soon had one of her articling student underlings fire off a terse infringement notice addressed to one Rolex SA of Geneva, Legal Department, and they were then swiftly off to the Plateau to celebrate their hasty action with a case of Glenlaurel and a box of Montecristos. Later that night, in a haze of Cuban cigar smoke and notes of pungent peaty moss with hints of vanilla, Pemulis swore that he would never be the victim of such a heinous civil crime again.

Justice came quickly. As he emerged from his stupor on the floor of a warehouse apartment not far from the South shore the following morning, Pemulis's phone was buzzing with a call from none other than Mr. Gian Riccardo Marini himself, the recently newly appointed CEO of the famed Rolex watch company.

"Good morning George, how are things in Montreal?"

"You tell me", Pemulis said dryly.

"The sun is shining here in Geneva and I just came out of an interesting discussion with both our legal department and the boys down in advertising."

"Interesting, you say?"

"Well," Marini began as he smiled, pushed his chair back from his desk, and gazed out the window at Mont Blanc which could be seen in the distance, "I'm going to be completely honest with you, George."

"I hope so Gian."

"Well the truth is that we screwed up. Everyone knows you like our watches and the boys just got a little carried away with things. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but when I take a step back, well... So, what I'm trying to say is, we made a mistake and we'd like to make it up to you."

"How so?" Pemulis asked.

"First things first: I've talked to Solange and we want to offer you three things. Number one, we've already pulled the ad. Number two, we'll be running print and online retraction notices for the following three weeks confirming that you never allowed your image to be used in the course of our advertising and that you never endorsed the Rainbow Daytona, and most importantly I think, number three, we would like to offer you an original 4113 Split-Seconds Chronograph straight from our vault here in Geneva."

"Sounds generous", Pemulis was able to offer while suppressing his excitement.

"Well what do you say, George? I personally believe that it's more than fair."

"You've got yourself a deal."

Pemulis hung up the phone (so to speak) and called a taxi to bring him home. He stepped inside and walked straight to his fine oak bar. He poured himself at least five fingers of one of his favourite Scotches, a rare 1967 Glenlivet Cellar Collection. He sat down in a chair by the window of his Mile End apartment, and took a long deep drink. The sun was shining, lighting up the trees on the mountain, and making the streets sparkle from last night's rain. He grabbed a notebook from his side table and a Mont Blanc pen, and he began to write.

München im Herbst

The US National Weather Service calls an Indian Summer "weather conditions that are sunny and clear with above normal temperatures, occurring late-September to mid-November". In Germany, apparently, the equivalent warm Fall days are called "womens' summer"; who knew?

Golden colours

Blue skies and beer gardens

The Isar and the Alpines Museum

Franziskaner Weißbier

Red leaves and Sandi in the Wiener Platz

Munich parliament buildings

Sandi/Joelle with the Mighty Isar

Lehel / Isar

An Isar Brücke

Sandi / Isar

The river and my swimming pool (Müller'sches Volksbad)

Selfie

Sandi

Fall trees and buildings

Fall

And though it was a few weeks ago that we did the race, here we are with our winning medals / cookies for the Oktoberfestlauf 2014

Grenoble; it is the name of the blog after all

Grenoble is a small city of approximately 150,000 in the south-east of France nestled among the Alps. It is surrounded by three mountain ranges: the Vercors, the Chartreuse, and the Belledonne, the tallest. It is therefore both a skiing and cycling paradise. Every time of year has its own special feeling. Spring's arrival is perhaps the most alluring; it is easily tracked visually as the mountains slowly turn from a wintry grey-brown to a lush full green. The river Isère speeds up and changes colour as it carries the melting snow down from the mountains and south towards the sea. The right bank's pizzerias begin to set the tables outside and the Sunday markets pop up along the Quai Perrière bringing crowds of old and young people. The cafés around les Halles Sainte-Claire fill with shoppers and coffee and wine drinkers, leisurely reading the newspaper -- the Dauphiné Libre or Le Figaro or Le Monde -- while eating croissants and pains au chocolat and discussing life. Cycling up the mountain towards Lans-en-Vercors along the Route de Grenoble, passing first through Sassenage as the climb begins, you meet amateur and professional cyclists, all marvelling at the views of the city and the Rhône valley just beyond the edge. Past Lans-en-Vercors one passes gorges, waterfalls, majestic mountain valleys, meadows of cows, sheep, and goats, and old French towns with names like Saint-Martin-en-Vercors and La-Chapelle-en-Vercors. Back in town, you can relax after your ride in the Place Victor Hugo sipping an apéritif or reading a book by the fountain as you gaze up towards La Bastille that keeps watch over the town.

Grenoble -- and all of France for the most part -- is more than what you can do and see. It is a feeling. You can be sitting in bed reading a magazine with the walls around you looking the exact same as in any other place, but knowing that you're in Grenoble gives you a feeling that you're somewhere special. I think that partly it's the mountains. They protect you in a way from everything that is outside of them. Naturally it's true: there's no wind in Grenoble because the mountains protect the city from it. But even more than that, they provide a feeling that you're in a place, and that it does not stretch off forever and ever.