9 September

I got sick of using those "stupid bags" so I upgraded.

You can see how much debris the Maggia river dumps into Lago Maggiore after 4 days of rain.


OK, this is now getting weird. I got my voicemail working today and found a message from one Ines Zimmermann from Saturday. You remember Kai, the helpful guy from Ikea? Well he’s her brother in law. She’s a realtor with RE/MAX in Contone and wanted to know if there was anything she could do to help. I wasn’t sure what to tell her, there was a ton of stuff – where to start? I told her my situation and she said she could probably help out. Since I’m leaving on Thursday, we decided that she should come over tonight. She definitely seemed “highly assertive” shall we say. I didn’t get a bad feeling from her at all, just that she’s a go-getter – and that stands out here in Ticino. In any event, I figured I’m buying stuff, let’s see what she’s selling.

So tonight she comes over and is giving me feedback on the house and what’s being done and what needs to be done. I’m glad to get her perspective. She says to emphasize the kitchens and get rid of the dark colors – which I am working on. It turns out (here’s the rub) that her other brother in law (her husband has 7 siblings, a point we’ll return to shortly) is a contractor. But he’s more a general contractor in the American sense. If you’ve been following my story, you’ll notice that I have been playing general contractor to a bunch of Italian-speaking subs. This guy could do that for me – he lives across the lake in Cannobio, in Italia.

But she’s not really pushing anything, just talking a mile a minute. If the energizer bunny were 50 years old and a type A German women, Ines is it. But it’s fun to kind of complain about the hard parts of the process and get opinions since somehow blogging hasn’t really afforded me that opportunity. We decide that she’ll bring her brother in law by tomorrow morning. As she’s leaving, I ask her where she’s from. She says she was born near München and I look at her skeptically and she quickly adds that when she was 2 they moved to near Düsseldorf. I say, “That’s funny, my family is from Dortmund.”

She’s shocked, “Get out!” (or the German equivalent) That’s what she meant by near Düsseldorf. I say my uncle lives and I used to live in Aplerbeck. She practically faints, she grew up in Höckenheim and her husband is from Aplerbeck! It’s quite likely our families know each other.

Wow, things like this happen for a reason. We’ll see what it is.

8 September

Just so you know that I’m not just wasting time buying furniture and dealing with contractors, today I did my best for cultural understanding as well. I overhead Marco, the painter, singing along with the radio downstairs as I was on my way to the garden. He was struggling a bit with the sheer poetry of the English language. I gave him a little lesson I’m sure he’ll carry forth and teach to his loved ones: it goes “Oh Mandy you came and you gave without taking, but I sent you away oh Mandy.” I think Ticino is a more beautiful place now due to my efforts.

7 September

The universe laughed at me today. After all the tension and mishaps we had with the key: not being able to see La Perla in the first place to not being able to take ownership, I found one under the mat. It was probably there the whole time – at least long enough that Sylvia didn’t have it on her inventory!

Marianne and Wälle came over today and really helped me out. I had attached the shower curtain to the rod Berri had installed and it had come down. It also seemed mounted too low. Wälle also pointed out it was mounted in the wrong place. He went home to get his drill and mounted it for me properly. Meanwhile Marianne and I cleaned out the studio. We ripped out the carpet, peeled off the glue, cleaned the floor, and vacuumed the cobwebs and spiders off everything. It looks pretty slick now, especially with the freshly painted walls.

Europe is over 500 million people committed to the career of Belinda Carlisle. This is a woman who has stood atop the charts here for some 22 years now. But Europeans are as interested in breadth as well as depth. Not only is it critical to play “Heaven Is A Place on Earth” at least once a day per radio station, but one must essay the lesser known gems such as “Circle In the Sand,” about which I had completely forgotten. And if you can remember a Top 20 hit from the 80s (from one of my biggest crushes no less), that I, the Master Recorder, had forgotten, that is a feat worth celebrating! And we’re not even talking about “Summer Rain” or “La Luna” which I have also heard repeatedly. By the way, no one has ever heard of the Go-Go’s so don’t ask – despite their appearance in the international mega-smash film Hillcrest.

Wow, I just took a shower and I’m so excited I think I could join the Pointer Sisters! It may not sound like much to you heathens, but I was able to enjoy the shower on my floor for the first time. I didn’t have to go downstairs for the adventure. Wälle did a masterful job setting up the curtain. I didn’t realize, until it was done incorrectly, and then redone, how brilliant his work is. He made a curtain that is too small, fit perfectly nevertheless. He covered all the leakpoints without me telling him where they are. He adjusted the height perfectly. And I was able to step out and shave right there without having to do the nude sprint upstairs past the baffled painters! La vita e bella!

3 September

Today has been the first fully bad weather day. A sun ray or two may have hit my head, but it was just coincidence. It’s been dark, cloudy, and rainy all day. It seemed a good day to go furniture shopping. I’ve been thinking about La Perla like this: I have taken steps to get the big jobs done, but these big jobs are improvements only. There are still things needed to make La Perla – the middle unit especially – livable: a bed for example. So that’s where I went. I collated all my furniture notes, compared prices and quality of the four places I’ve visited, and decided Ikea had most of the best stuff.

I’ll skip the details of what I got where, but, suffice it to say that I spent 4 hours at Ikea. I closed the place down. Seriously. An employee had to unlock the door to let me out! I may be Swedish, but I don’t love Ikea that much! It just takes that long. Ironically, I knew what I wanted more or less when I walked in and expected it would take about an hour – silly me! For each department I had to locate a free salesperson (and it was almost as crowded as last Sunday) Then I had to show them what I wanted and to make choices about the size, color, etc. Obviously this was slower in Italian. Then they had to enter it all in the computer (and their software made my 1990 Mac Classic SE 30 look fast). Then there was some issue about some items being in the central store (probably hidden in a hollow mountain near Bern) or at the local store. That required about an hour of finagling – which, I believe, is an international word.

My fifth department salesperson was Christel. It was like getting out of the shower and opening the window on a winter’s day or pulling out of a traffic jam onto an open freeway: she spoke German!!! And I don’t mean Schwitzerdeooutch, I mean real hard-core Queen’s German. I was so excited! We made decisions about 3 beds in about 1/4 the time it took for one 90 franc desk. It felt so good I threw in a couple guardaroba/armadio thingees too! They don’t have closets here so you have to get a big piece of furniture instead. I’m not sure exactly what the English word is. I think it may be wardrobes, but other that entrances to Narnia, I’m not really sure what they are – just like hedgerows, pheasants or copses. Some British thing. And we all know how I feel about British things.

Due to the hang up with the different sources for some items, Christel took me to see Kai. I knew something was weird straightaway but I wasn’t sure what. When people speak Italian to me, I understand maybe 75% but when they speak with each other, I understand about 10%. But here I was following them effortlessly. Then I realized it: they were speaking perfect high German with each other and I could understand everything! Christel left and as Kai was settling my accounts we got to talking. He told me how he had moved from Germany to southern Spain and then Mallorca and now here with his Argentinian wife and kids. I started looking around for the camera because it seemed like senseless and unmotivated exposition and I was wondering when the plot payoff would come. Germans aren’t this forthcoming, but he clearly was German. He asked me why I was buying up half of Ikea and I told him about La Perla. We agreed that Ticino was the perfect blending of Northern and Southern Europe and that we enjoyed it’s diversity and how people really do come together. It’s easier when the common culture is Italian – which is, of course, empirically better than most cultures and easier to sell than mainstream Americana. Kai was quite friendly and helpful.

Then once I had all 38 items entered (keep in mind that an Ikea desk is comprised of a plank and two bases, etc.), I took my list to the kasse. I figured she would freak out but she kept her composure. In a fit of efficiency, the folks at Ikea had put a barcode at the bottom of my printed out list. She scanned that like I was actually buying real stuff. She said a bunch of stuff in Italian and I smiled and said “si, grazie.” Then I stuck my little card in the little slot and presto! Rifuta??? What? OK, this was bad. The kassedonna told me to go to customer service or back upstairs. I glanced at the long line and howling kids swinging off strollers at customer service and tried to find my way through the Ikea maze back to Kai. But he was gone. I eventually found Christel and she said they could charge me 30% down and bill me the rest. She redid the list and I went back downstairs.

I obediently cut back in line and again rifuta!! The kassadonna wasn’t pleased. Nor was I. Nor were those in the growing line who eventually started taking items off the conveyor belt as kassadonna started calling everyone over on the PA. I felt like a superstar. Or maybe more like one of those hated ones like Paris Hilton. Yeah, for the first time in my life, I felt just like Paris Hilton. I think. Who is Paris Hilton exactly? Did I feel like OJ Simpson? Anyway, I finally just gave up and used my American visa card. See, when push comes to shove, it still comes down to the almighty dollar. Even eight years of tyranny and imperialism can’t change that. God Bless #1.

Half an hour later the customer service guy had worked his magic and assured me all my stuff would come on the same day from the same truck – whenever that might be! During the course of the afternoon it became clear to me that only I can supervise and ensure the delivery, moving, and building of the 38 subparts of the furniture I ordered. Guess who’s coming back to Ticino?

As I left, I couldn’t tell who wanted to leave more, the woman ending her shift or me. I had my shrink-wrapped pillow I picked up somewhere on the way still stuck under my arm and I told her I was ready to use it after a day at Ikea.

Luckily Marianne was about an hour late with dinner so I made it early and got in a bocalino of fritz and a crash course in competing satellite dish offerings from Wälle before another amazing meal of some sort of Peruvian cornbread casserole. Then we played the dice game with no name. Mauro calls it gioco de dadi (game of dice) and Marianne calls it 10,000. I think its kind of like Mormor’s (my mothers mother) card game she called Casin – even though no one in the world has ever heard of it. Even though I had watched tons of people play it over the years, this was my virgin tour. I had some 8000 points when Wälle won. I still had a turn and asked Wälle if he was scared and he laughed at me. Somehow, with extensive coaching, I managed to roll some 2500 points on my last turn and come from behind to win. Unfortunately, I only got a bronze medal on my sophomore attempt and that’s not impressive when there are only four players.

1 September - Monday

My return trip was almost as long as my trip north three days previous. It was intermittently rainy and generally unpleasant aside from this charming German farmhouse. As I rounded the bend in Magadino where you can first see the lake, the sun greeted me.


For some reason, I think we both slept even worse Sunday night than before. I had those dreams about bugs biting me and making me itch. But then when I woke up, they weren’t dreams.

Jaimey packed up his life of the last couple months and I helped clean up the bachelor residue. We toured around a bit looking for a post office for some last minute mailing, but failed to coordinate our schedules with the BundesBureaucracy. I deposited Jaimey at the airport and the next thing I knew I was crossing the Rhine and heading south again…

When my Oma died in 1983, she left me a small, but not trivial amount of money. Over the years, and particularly during the summer of 2002 when I lived and worked in Frankfurt, it wound up in a Commerzbank account in Frankfurt. Now, my myriad attempts in various countries and employing all sorts of methods over the years, had resulted only in me understanding that only a certain Frau Schmidt could ever help me. No money-machine, no teller, no online banking procedure, could ever grant me access to my money. The trick was, of course, that Frau Müller was never there. She was always on vacation, in kur (German for being lazy and preferring to call it thusly to allow the insurance to pay for it), not in, or only available for in-person consultation. It didn’t help that often Frau Grober was actually Frau Schmidt or Frau Müller.

I can see your outrage dear reader: “but it is your money, how could they not give it to you!” I can only assure you, dear reader, that you are not a German bureaucrat. For, if you were, your outrage would be: “ach, so little you understand you silly little cog on our Byzantine system. It is the system that rules, incomprehensible as may be, and your desires don’t even warrant passing curiousity.”

Thus you can imagine my surprise when I called last Thursday and asked to speak to Frau Grober, and, for the first time in Commerzbank history, the name on my statement corresponded to a human being currently physically present in the bank. Even more surprisingly, she quite reasonably stated that I could fax her a signed request stating my intention to close the account and to transfer the assets to my new account in Switzerland. I still have not recovered from the lucidity of this conversation. Naturally I rushed to the post office to fax said document.

Now return with me to my drive south from Düsseldorf. As I am traversing (at occasionally rather high speeds) the 300 or so km to Frankfurt, and I am summarizing what I know, or what I think I know about German bureaucracy in general and Commerzbank Sachenhausen specifically. Interesting to note that the news of the day was that Commerzbank was getting acquired by Dresdenerbank – a landmark I’m sure to all my German banking readers. Ultimately I figured that my chances of ever seeing my money again would be improved by personal contact. I knew no one could resist my charm when standing at the teller’s desk.

Thus I steered Luciano into Frankfurt and through the streets I once knew well to the Sachsenhausen quarter of Frankfurt – just south of the Main. It was an odd trip down memory lane as that was a particularly evocative summer for a variety of reasons both professional and personal. In any event, I reached the bank with nary a hitch and parked Luciano illegally but where I remembered I was unlikely to be controlled, and dashed into Commerzbank Sachsenhausen. The teller received me but told me (naturally) that Frau Grober was out, but that perhaps she could help me. I stifled a laugh and asked her if they had received my fax. She disappeared for a moment and returned to inform me that no fax from me had arrived. Then I proceeded to explain my tragic tale as I have told you, omitting perhaps a few flourishes and embellishments concerning German bureaucracy, as self-reflection is not a hallmark of such people. She informed me that the branch simply couldn’t cash out that much money (and we’re not talking about a lot of money here). I helpfully suggested that maybe I could give her the wiring instructions and resorted to that age-old trick of whipping out my computer. Europeans don’t usually do well with magic or new fangled devices. Technology is like kryptonite to the bureaucrat. Her eyes bugged and then slowly began to glaze over as I pulled up the complicated transfer instructions. As she started copying them down, I explained that maybe I could log into their network to use their printer. That didn’t mean much to her. Then I whipped out my magic wand, er, USB memory stick. It turns out that our wonder teller had the only computer built in the last five years without a USB port. Somewhere around there my plan reached its climax and she sighed and retreated to the back. When she came back, she unlocked her drawer and started pulling out Euro notes. Victory was mine! I was once again reunited with my own money, successfully wrestled away from the evil forces of German bureaucracy.

31 August Sunday III

After walking around the Dom a bit, we went into the train station and made our purchases, had a leisurely lunch in a sunny square, full with tables and people enjoying the weather, and headed over to the movie theater. By August 31, they had not yet dubbed The Dark Knight into German and so we were able to watch the original version in English. Jaimey and I share a deep dislike of dubbing – no matter what languages are involved, it looks stupid.

After the movie, I cajoled Jaimey into having a big German meal with me. Despite being a German professor and his several years of living in Germany, he rarely eats German food. But I think it’s growing on him after my many years of prodding and conniving. After such meals, especially when accompanied by tasty Kölsch beers, it’s easy to agree Germany is simply a better country than the US. Although I think we agree on this point when hungry as well. Of course, since Jaimey likes places called "Crazy Chicken Grill," it's hard to take him too seriously. Vikas, we were wondering why it's called that . . .

Slowly we returned to Luciano as storm clouds began brewing on the horizon. On the autobahn the hail began to fall so hard the traffic completely stopped. Many cars took refuge under trees or bridges. When we got back to Jaimey’s apartment we could barely stay awake to hear more analysis of Palin’s appointment as running mate on Jaimey’s CNN.

31 August Sunday II

We wandered through the squares and cafes to the famous Kölner Dom – which is every bit as impressive as when I was a kid. It really is worth going out of your way to see. They have almost finished cleaning off the soot of the area’s 100 years of coal production. As my dad will tell you, most of those factories have been shipped off brick for brick to China to continue their pollution there.

I suppose 4711 is the most famous fragrance from "Cologne" so i took a picture of the headquarters.

As we walked along, I told Jaimey of my plan to get my dad a vest-jacket as a joke and a test. There must be a law that requires every German male, as soon as he turns 60, to buy a vest-jacket with multiple pockets. Nearly every older man wears one and they look like imbeciles. We were speculating what these guys could be thinking as they bought one of these monstrosities, and we concluded, in union, “aber ja, das ist sehr praktisch!” Practical – the rallying cry for all older Germans – especially when it comes to fashion. Let me reiterate: if you like trains that run on time, hang out in Germany, if you want people who look good, go to Italy!

31 August Sunday

Since Saturday had been at least six hours of driving on top of the nine from Friday, sleeping in seemed advisable. However, the cushions I borrowed from Marianne did little to mitigate the concrete floor of Jaimey’s apartment. Unfortunately, Jaimey’s bed being little better, he got up early to type up a short novel. Good sleep was clearly not going to be the cornerstone of my stay in Düsseldorf.

Jaimey had made some tentative plans to go to Amsterdam with a colleague of a friend or a friend of a colleague or somebody named Mahmoud anyway. A long drive seemed a bad idea and suddenly two small children were now part of the program, which would, of course, limit our activities in Amsterdam (because kids have shorter tolerance for museums and such). Thus the first order of the day was to disentangle ourselves from that plan.

Jaiey’s brilliant alternative was to head to the train station in Köln (Cologne). Although I confess it was a harebrained scheme, I do maintain Jaimey is smarter than he looks. His rationale was that he had still failed to get anything for Jacqueline and Germany, being terribly German, was closed on Sundays. However, through some odd transportation subclause loophole, train station stores were still open. As sweetener, Jaimey threw in the idea of seeing The Dark Knight – which I had seen before in the US but I was happy to see again. Honestly, I mainly went along because I had not been to Köln for maybe about 8 years when I had been there before with, you guessed it, Jaimey and his girlfriend at the time. I had also a special fondness for the city, having visited several times as a kid – maybe to see the cathedral.

Köln, as you can see from my dramatic pictures, is a pretty city. Of course, any large German city is significantly nicer than any large American city save perhaps San Francisco and New York. Maybe it has something to do with use of public space, pedestrian and preserved old downtowns, and urban planning to minimize sprawl and strip malls?

30 August Saturday - entertainment options

Do you trust a place called Kinky Star? Or perhaps you prefer to hang out with the other charlatans? I'll be at the Bar des Amis thank you very much . . .

30 August Saturday

Jaimey was looking a bit uitgezonderd - even if it was his birthday!

Another example of how Dutch/Flemish, although a separate language, seems more similar to Hochdeutsch than schwitzerdootch, which is supposed to be a dialect. I hope someone can explain the difference between a language and a dialect to me before I go mad.

30 August Saturday - more pictures

30 August Saturday

I can't believe how many pictures I took. Luckily they're all brilliant and you want to see them all!

The shot with the flags is, of course, deeply symbolic of my mixed heritage. Any disparagement of Ireland is strictly coincidental.

30 August Saturday - Altstadt pictures

Any scantily-clad women or pontificating professors appearing in the photograph are merely coincidental.

30 August Saturday

30 August Saturday

An example of four different styles of architecture - too bad I don't remember what four. As we walked towards the center of town, Steven neglected to tell me much better sights lay ahead, so I was clicking away at everything wantonly.

30 August Saturday

Doing what professors do best. No, not walking! - professing. Taken on Steven's street/canal, right outside of his spacious, yet book-cramped apartment. No, it's Gent, not Amsterdam.

30 August Saturday

This is how Jaimey and I start every day while in Germany. Dr. Oetker's Knusper Müsli is fruit of the Gods - the best cereal on the face of the Earth - by far! And, if you know me, you know I know cereal like I know 80's music.

30 August, Jaimey's birthday

It's good to be a cheesy European tourist - prost!!


Jaimey and I drove to Ghent to meet Steven, a colleague of Jaimey’s and some sort of art historian/film critic. I never get all the credentials on these intellectuals, but I couldn’t imagine a better guide to Ghent. Or perhaps I should call it Gent since we learned it is more of a Flemish than French city. Steven has the uncanny ability of inserting docent-like information into casual conversation. I felt like I was living in the WG Sebald book I’ve been slogging through all summer, replete with dependent clauses, sometimes, Austerlitz said, lasting pages upon end as the thoughts, jamming together like gears of a turn of the century Flemish millhouse, such as the one he visited when last wandering the solitary marshes just south of where he would occasionally summer when the Picardian geese would migrate to the lush forests in southern climes where one could languish long in the fading rays of a Mediterreanean sun. Such like that he spoke, Sebald I mean, not Steven. Steven would interrupt his musings upon Hitchcock, having recently completed a book concerning the directors’ single-set films (which struck me as an arbitrary distinction but this is perhaps why I am not a film critic), with historical insights. For example, “especially in Rear Window as the façade was made in three months by 50 workers, not unlike the former distillery on our left, finished in 1887 in the baroque-gothic post-renaissance, pre-Victorian, pseudo-Eduardian, rococo, pre-Modernist style with flaunted buttresses and enervated gaulicées. OK, so maybe that was some Sebald seeping in. But people talk like that I tell you!

In any event, Steven took us around town. It was quant, lovely, charming, and packed. It was a beautiful Saturday and everyone was out on the main streets and canals. Having not eaten since our Knusper fix that morning, I began to characteristically bitch and moan in a loud whining, nasal voice, not unlike the braying of a donkey, long tethered to a yoke he neither understands nor supports in any spiritual (although in every physical) sense. Well, I mentioned I was hungry anyway. Secretly I was just angling for some beer. My tactics paid off and we were all the better off. We sat in one of those it-would-be-cheesy-if-it-wasn’t-an-incredibly-quaint-medieval-European-town-square restaurants and ordered Croque Monsieurs. Well, that’s what I had anyway. If you want to know what they had, you have to read their damn blogs because I don’t remember. But Steven recommended us some kick ass beers. I think it’s easy to be a Belgian tour guide and to recommend beers. It’s like telling tourists in San Francisco to dress in layers – you’ll always look like a genius! Jaimey sat back after a particularly long sip and said, “See Mark, Paul only takes your to Belgian cafés, with me, you actually go to Belgium.” Paul, I think the gauntlet has been thrown down. Let this also serve notice to other readers with unusual travel plans: you might be able to convince me to accompany you. And, if it’s in Europe you might even get me to drive – a skill Jaimey has honed for nearly two decades.

As the afternoon wore on, and I’m sure we began wearing on Steven’s patience, and the pleasure of his girlfriend’s company awaited him, he wisely and politely bid us adieu, leaving us to wander the streets by ourselves, searching for some item for Jacqueline (that would require more taste than Jaimey and I had) and some amazing beer. Eventually we settled on a place where I had my traditional northern European favorite, steak tartare (the sushi of the Atlantic), and Jaimey had a salad with some incredible cheese wrapped in speck that we both salivated after for the next two days. Naturally, we had some obnoxiously great beer. I took a picture with my cellphone and sent it to a few people who either didn’t receive it or could find no suitably brilliant reply. This happens to me a lot.

Steven recommended that we should return through Brussels as it was shorter. Unfortunately, we later discovered, it’s only shorter if you’re headed to Köln, but not so useful if you’re headed to Düsseldorf. As we were getting gas and deciding to head back to Antwerp, a strange song came on the gas station radio. It started like Werewolf In London – Warren Zevon, but the chorus had Sweet Home Alabama – Lynyrd Skynyrd sampled. Jaimey and I laughed about it as we got back in the car. I have since heard it many many times on the radio. I had only not heard it before because Friday was Michael Jackson’s 50th birthday and everyone was playing the extended 12 minute dance version of Wanna Be Startin’ Something as a tribute. Anyway it turns out this rehashed 70s classic rock scramble is actually All Summer Long – Kid Rock. It figures I’d have to go to Europe to acquaint myself with the latest American popshit. Has anyone in the US heard this song? Why are Europeans so obsessed with sampled old American hits? Heed me now, future rock stars: if you want to make a ton of money get the rights to a slightly off the beaten track 80s hit like say In a Big Country – Big Country or something by Bronski Beat, sample it, and add some mediocre rapper who doesn’t sound angry, and you will have a Number 1 hit all across Europe. You mock or ignore my words at your peril. If you don’t have as much money or fame as you want, you only have yourself to blame – I can only lay out the recipe.

Friday 29 August

This is the Gotthard Pass. Luciano is such ham, he insisted I take a picture of him for his personal ad. That car has an ego!