Holiday Escape

UPDATE: Since the first publishing of this post, a photo of a Volkswagen has been added.

As 2007 drew to a close I looked back on the year and realized that, as far as I was concerned, it SUCKED!

My intent for this post is not to make it a retrospective of the past year. But just as a refresher…

--In March it was determined that my father had a series of mini strokes in the prior months, and it was just such a mini stroke that my sister was finally able to witness that motivated her to take him to the Emergency Room where, after he was admitted to the hospital, it was later discovered that he has lung cancer.

--In April I finally made the decision to have my precious, old, decrepit Angel euthanized. A week later my father's peke-a-poo, Rosie, who had survived since my mother passed away in 1993, became ill and had to be euthanized.

--In September Mrs. Farrago and I decided to separate.

--And in October I moved out of the home I’ve known for the past 9 years and into a two-bedroom apartment.

So, as the holiday break loomed on the horizon I felt the need to escape the boundaries of my life for a while. I had considered the “Big Island” of Hawaii, as I really like that place, but then I figured that Hawaii is where a lot of people escape to during the cold weather of the holidays, so it was likely to be a zoo.

Then I thought to seek isolation, someplace where I could be totally alone. But since I had no interest in being dropped in the middle of the Sierra Nevada, I considered isolation in the figurative sense. To me that meant a foreign country where I would be culturally and linguistically isolated. I really enjoyed Paris, but going there at this point in my life would bring back too many memories of my times there with Mrs. Farrago. England, though I love that place, was out of the question because I couldn’t isolate myself from the language…and because remaining isolated meant choosing not to visit my good friend in Birmingham, which would have only brought me guilt.

So I thought of a place that I had been to that I really wished to revisit, and that place is Germany. I lived there for two years when I was stationed at a base there in 1986 and ’87, and I’ve hoped my frequent work travels would send me there. I came close in 2006 when I spent three days in Berlin, but there was no free time to explore, so it was a mere tease.

So, Germany it was! In the weeks prior I booked my flight, booked a rental car and booked hotel rooms across the country. I left Chicago on December 25th, hoping that travelers would be at an all-time low on THE holiday, but the opposite was the case!

I paid my airfare with my frequent flyer miles, and my frequent flyer status earned me a seat in what United Airlines calls “Economy Plus,” which means I got to sit in the section that gives an extra five inches or so of legroom to everyone. I did ask about the possibility of upgrading to Business Class, but I was told that it wasn’t allowed on fares purchased with frequent flyer miles. Oh, well. No biggie.

When I booked the ticket online I was allowed to choose my own seat, and the one I chose happened – without my knowledge – to be directly behind the “Crew Rest” seats, where some of the flight attendants are allowed to sleep during the middle of the flight when passenger needs are at their lowest. Instead of an extra five inches of legroom, I had about an extra three feet of legroom, which is about two feet more than I would have had in Business Class!

I was seated next to a German man who now lives in Chicago. As I told him of my itinerary, and of my plans to drive everywhere, he asked me what kind of car I had booked. I repeated to him what I had read on the economycarrentals-dot-com website: “Volkswagen Lupo or similar.” The friendly smile on his face morphed into a polite grimace, and the color in his face paled slightly. Then he said, “You might want to ask for an upgrade.”


The besmirched Volkswagen Lupo.

Upon arrival in Frankfurt and the subsequent shuttle ride to the Thrifty/Dollar car rental office, I was asked by the rental agent if I wanted winter tires. Germans are a little different from us when it comes to equipping their cars with tires. Where we generally choose all-weather tires for our cars and forget about them until they’re bald, Germans generally purchase two sets of tires. The expensive set is for the warm months and the higher demand for performance the Germans exact from their cars. The other set is designed to have a little bit more contact with the road and better handling on snow and ice. And in a rental situation, the choice for winter tires means an extra charge. I was going to forego the winter tires and take my chances until I saw the little notice, printed in English, that basically read, “Though it is not required by law to have winter tires on the car, should you have an accident without winter tires, your insurance will be null and void.” With my luck, I’d kiss the gate with the car as I left the rental lot, so I chickened out and said, “Yes” when the rental dude told me that the winter tires would cost me an extra 100 Euros for the duration of the rental.

When he heard my answer, he said, “Good. That will get you a nice upgrade.”

I was relieved to hear this because my flight seatmate’s warning had caused me a good deal of stress, as I had no clue what a Volkswagen Lupo was, or why it should cause such concern. With the rental dude’s words I was encouraged and hopeful that maybe I would step up to a VW Golf or something similar. Then the dude asked me if I was traveling alone, which I was, and then if I had a lot of luggage, which I did not. Satisfied with my answers, he stepped out to get my car. When I saw it, my jaw dropped, and I gasped, “No fucking way!”


Der Vheels! (Click on any photo for a full-size view!)

It also had GPS, which the rental dude “threw in for free,” despite the fact that it’s built in!

From this point I will spare my reader the typical travelogue I have crafted(?) in the past. This trip was for relaxation and decompressing. I didn’t plan out my days with things to see or do, and the ensuing avalanche of photos such an itinerary causes. I slept in most days, allowing just enough time to catch breakfast before it was collected, and, since I started each day fairly late, and daylight disappeared by 4:30 each day, I took relatively few photos.

I stayed fairly centered in the country, driving first from Frankfurt to Berlin, then from Berlin to Düsseldorf, each leg thereof about a five-hour drive. From Düsseldorf I was able to take in Köln (Cologne). From Köln I drove to the state of Rheinland-Pfalz, and the region called Hunsrück, or “Hound’s Back,” where the base was when I was stationed there. And from the Hunsrück I returned to Frankfurt.


In case you ever wondered what the autobahn looks like...


Berlin


The pension-hotel Berolina, which
was more like a flop-house than a hotel.
My room reeked so badly of cigarette smoke
that... yup... all my stuff still smells
like smoke!



Your typical city scene: The Kurfürstendamm, Berlin's
Magnificent Mile, so to speak.



House of 100 Beers! I had a mind to try every last one,
but I had the rest of the country to see before I went home....



Germans go a little crazy with holiday lights, too, just
in case you were feeling a little self-conscious over your
decorative holiday excess.


Köln



The Kölner Dom (Cologne Cathedral) is the city's main attraction. I figured that, it being the Sunday before the New Year holiday (or Silvester in Germany), no one would be out in the city, and I would have the place to myself. Of course, that Sunday happened to be the day Turkish citizens from all over Germany chose to protest some television show they found offensive. So I found myself in a swarm of Turks! They called it quits by dark, so I was able to get a few neat shots.






Hunsrück



Many towns that crop up near each other have adopted a hyphenated double name. Such is the case with towns that face each other across a river. The town(s) of Traben-Trarbach, on the Mosel river is a place I visited many times while I was stationed in the area. Above is a view of Traben, across the river from Trarbach. Any lover of white wine, especially German Rieslings, will be delighted to know that Traben-Trarbach sits right in the middle of Moselle wine country.


The restaurant Brücken-Schenke, which, loosely trans-
lated, means "bridge access," sits on the Trarbach side of
the Mosel and "guards" the bridge that crosses it.


A view from the vineyards above the town of Dhron
(Neumagen-Dhron). The entire Mosel valley
-- on both sides of the river -- is covered from
top to bottom in grape vines like these.



"Church For One?" I just can't figure this one out. On the
road between the Mosel river town of Treis-Karden
and Kastellaun.


Nine days after I left Chicago I returned to the airport in Frankfurt. Though I had flown non-stop from Chicago, I had booked myself back to Chicago with a layover in Washington, D.C. so that I could spend much of that last day in Germany. When I checked in I was of a mind to ask to be moved into the same seat I had when I flew from Chicago so I could have all that legroom again, but then I thought that was just selfish of me, so I didn’t. I received boarding passes for both legs of the trip home, but I never even looked at them.

At the boarding gate, as I waited with the rest of the USA-bound throng, a gate agent called my name out over the PA system. There is a desk outside the waiting area, and since I had my boarding passes I figured I had no need to stop there. A gate agent at the door had let me pass without question, so I thought nothing of it. Now, as I walked up to the counter to respond to being called out, I wondered if I had missed an important step.

The agent who had called my name saw me approaching, and said, “Mr. [Farrago]?”

“That’s me.”

She held up what looked like a boarding pass. “We have an upgrade for you.”

WOW! I had been upgraded to Business Class unsolicited! For a Trans-Atlantic flight! WOO HOO! It pays to accrue all your travel miles on one airline! I enjoyed the extra legroom, the slightly wider seat, the nicer meal and the free alcohol (one glass of wine with dinner) and finished Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Supremacy on the way to D.C.

After landing at Dulles International Airport I went through Customs and Immigration, collected my luggage, returned it to the airline to go back on the plane, and I headed to my gate. On the way there I purchased The Bourne Ultimatum, almost as much to see how far off the movies carried themselves from the actual stories as to follow the character to the end of his arc.

Before long, the gate agent there announced that boarding would commence in about five minutes, and I realized I didn’t even know where my seat on the plane was. I pulled out my boarding pass and was surprised as hell to see that I had been seated in First Class! All the way back in Frankfurt! WOW! A double upgrade! What a perfect ending to a wonderful trip!

Now I just want to go back.

A Clock That Goes Back In Time

In 2004, not long before he closed his barbershop, my father gave me this hanging 8-day regulator clock. It must have hung in his shop for thirty years or more while he diligently and dutifully wound it up once every week until the walls of the old building proved too crooked and shaky for the clock to keep proper time. It came into his possession, I’m guessing, after the death of his brother in 1974 or ’75, and who knows how long my uncle had that clock! All I know is that the clock is damn old! When my father gave it to me I took it to a clock repair shop to 1) see how much it would cost to restore and 2) see how much it might be worth as an antique. The clock dude seemed unmoved by my very old clock, so I could only imagine that though, yes, it is old, it must not be very uncommon. He essentially told me that, fully restored, the clock could fetch $650 to $800. The cost to have it fully restored? About $600 to $700. Thanks, but no thanks. I mentioned that to my father at the time, and he said the clock runs just fine – it just needs a good, plumb wall.










In my dad's barbershop, the clock (top, left
of center) hung from the early- to mid-1970s
until he closed his business in 2004.


I did a brief bit of internet research on it today; the only thing I knew about it prior, thanks to a torn label on the back, and small print on the clock face, is that it was made by the New Haven Clock Company. I got all excited when I saw the little star-shaped logo just beneath the center of the face; it reads “1853!” My breathing got a little shallow when I thought this clock could be over 150 years old!




However, it’s just the year that the New Haven Clock Company was founded. The closest I could find to a match was this, a model called “Bank.”


photo © theclockprofes-
sor.com, used without per-
mission

I imagine the guts are all the same, just the wrapper is ever so slightly different; sort of like many American cars today. So it’s likely that my clock was made around 1910. Not 150 years old, but still pretty damn old, just the same.

At any rate, I had decided early last week, after I picked the clock up from the house I lived in with ts2bx Mrs. Farrago, that this weekend I would clean it up the best I could, hang it up, wind it up and watch it go. I bought some Old English lemon oil, some extra microfiber rags, some screws and a stud finder (funny, it kept lighting up when I pointed it at me! Go figure!), and today I set to the task.



The hinges on both the regulator door and the clock face door are wobbly loose, so, more than anything else, I was afraid either or both of them would fall off or fall into such a position that I, in my ineptitude, might cause it to bend or break. Fortunately neither of those things happened.

I didn’t do any serious dismantling – I was merely cleaning it up, not restoring it. And I want it to run. I did take apart the pendulum. At the end of the wooden shaft is a threaded metal shaft that is used to regulate the speed of the pendulum’s swing (hence the term “Regulator”), and this one shows evidence of some abuse, or at least neglectful use.



It’s slightly bent, and one of the two tiny nails fastening it to the wooden shaft is perma-loose, allowing the metal shaft to wiggle. Using a small screwdriver and a hammer, I tried gently tapping the nail back into the wood, but at best, I think the hole has been made too large for the nail to have any kind of a grip, and at worst, I think I may have split the end of the shaft in my effort.

As I wiped away the Old English oil, I noticed a lot of brown tone on the rags, and I feared I was damaging or ruining the finish of the clock. I mean, the damn thing was so dirty, I expected to see black on the rag. So I thought maybe it was just the way the oil was mixing with the dirt, making it brown.

I got a little overzealous with the oil and managed to get some of it on the regulator window, and when I got to the part where I was cleaning the glass with glass cleaner, I couldn’t quite get the window clean of the oil.

It wasn’t until I was cleaning the window of the clock face that I realized I was getting the same brown junk on the paper towel as I wiped away the glass cleaner. Did I get that much oil on the glass? And then it dawned on me. For some thirty years in my father’s barbershop, and an untold number of years in my uncle’s house – or maybe even his auto repair shop – and even more unknown years in whoever’s hands before him, this clock hung on a wall soaking up endless hours’ worth of cigarette smoke. The brown stuff was decades’ worth – hell! Nearly a century’s worth of tobacco residue…TAR! Suddenly I felt like a great benefactor, freeing this poor clock from the clutches of a suffocating cloak of cloying clouds.

Hmmm. Too alliterative, perhaps?

Seriously, I did feel like I was rescuing it rather than just cleaning it up.



Carcinogen, anyone?

I shined up the brass disc – which, it turns out, is an iron disc with a brass face attached – reattached it to the wooden shaft, and closed everything up. I found the nearest stud to the center of the wall, drove a screw into it and hung the clock there. I hung the regulator pendulum to the pendulum hangy thingy inside the clock and, just in case the clock had been wound and never run out, I sent the pendulum swinging, which it did for about 4-1/2 minutes before it stopped. Then I tried to wind it up. Nothing. I couldn’t even turn the key. So much for needing nothing more than a good, plumb wall, Pop!


In this shot the streaks that
I couldn't remove with the
glass cleaner are visible in
the regulator window.

Oh, well, if it doesn't function as a clock, at least I finally have some art on my wall!

I will take it to another clock repair place and see how much it will cost simply to get the movement working. I don’t want a full restoration – that would put the clock into a condition in which I never saw it in my lifetime. The paper adhering to the metal face is yellowed and flaking. Half of the wood carving at the bottom left and right is missing, and what’s there – at the four o’clock position – looks itself like a fairly ham-fisted attempt at restoring missing craftwork. I want those things to remain as they are. I just want to be able to hear that steady “click-clock” of the regulator calmly rocking to and fro that I remember from the slow summer days when I was a kid and I accompanied my father to his barbershop, and business was slow, and he nodded off in his own barber chair, and all I could hear was his slow, deep breathing, and that clock.

Channeling ABBA

This is so weird I just have to post it, specifically since it involves my blog. The following all happened in the span of about ten minutes.

Say what you will, but I was listening to ABBA on iTunes while writing an e-mail. (If you must know, I never had any ABBA until ts2bx Mrs. Farrago got some while we were still together, and before I moved out she graciously put a whole bunch of music on my iTunes for me. So it was a nostalgia moment as well as a listen to some songs I had never heard before. So there.)

While writing the e-mail the song Money, Money, Money was playing. As I was writing, I really wasn’t paying attention to the music, but I suppose it could have been somewhat subliminal; I made a comment in the message I was writing where I stated, “if I could figure out the human psyche, I’d be a rich man.” And as I wrote the words “rich man,” the song reached the line “It’s a rich man’s world.”

Okay, merely coincidence? Sure, and possibly even subliminally contrived.

Then, a few songs down the list, the song Fernando was playing. I had never really listened to this song closely before, and I heard a line something to the effect of “Do you remember the night when we crossed the Rio Grande,” and other references to a fight, which made me realize for the first time that the song has something to do with Mexico or the Mexican Revolution. I had checked other e-mail, and then I went on to the now-ritual perusal of my SiteMeter hit list for my blog yesterday. I had quite a few hits and, while Fernando was still playing I clicked on one of the hits and discovered my first-ever “reader” from Mexico, in the state of Chihuahua!

This second strange occurrence involving me and ABBA caused me to pause and write down the circumstances, because now it was blog fodder! While scribbling these notes the next ABBA song in the list started, a song I had never heard before. I returned to the SiteMeter list and clicked on the next visitor, after the one from Mexico, and was surprised to see that someone had visited me from Paris, France! I was tickled… until I heard the repeated phrase in the song that was still playing: “Voulez-Vous, Voulez-Vous!”

Quickly I switched over to the iTunes list and saw that, indeed, the song playing was titled, Voulez-Vous, listed immediately behind Fernando!

Talk about a string of FREAKY COINCIDENCES! I’m almost ready to get back in bed, that was so strange!

•••---•••---•••---•••---•••---•••

And to drive home the point of my prior post, one of the hits yesterday, from Newton Upper Falls, Massachusetts; and one this morning, from Athens, Greece, were people seeking the instruction manual for the MALM bed from IKEA!

The United Nations of IKEA

Since I moved out of my marital home I’ve been living in a two-bedroom apartment with a few items the-soon-to-be-ex Mrs. Farrago and I agreed I would take with me, a few items I was allowed to take from the office, and a few items I’ve purchased since the move. Among those items was NOT a proper bed.

Until now.

I have the box spring and mattress from the house. There was a spare set – as well as the marital bed’s frame – upon which ts2bx Mrs. Farrago now sleeps. I had the basic steel frame, but the box spring sat perfectly on the floor, so I figured, why bother? (Let’s not mention that I didn’t have bolts to fasten said steel frame together….) But it wasn’t pretty, so I’ve been waiting for the right time to buy a “bed.”

That time was Tuesday.

I went to the retail mecca that is IKEA and picked up the items I had a while back picked out. They are, of course, the MALM bed frame; the matching, attaching MALM side table; and the totally unrelated BENNO CD storage tower.

I assembled the bed and the side table Wednesday evening, inevitably rearranging the room so I could walk around in it. The birch veneer smartly complements the natural pine HOL storage chest and the chest of drawers, the funky Swedish name of which I do not recall, both purchased at IKEA several years back, when ts2bx Mrs. Farrago and I were a couple.



The MALM bed and accompanying side table, sold separately.


The HOL storage bin purchased several years ago.



The chest of drawers purchased years ago.
I don't know its IKEA name.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Every time I go into IKEA, I am overwhelmed. Nearly every item I see is cool beyond words. Innovative yet simple design, clever convenience, smart storage – everything in the store seems to fall under one or more of these adjective praises. I’ve always wondered what it would look like to start with a bare dwelling and furnish it entirely with IKEA products. Well, I guess it would look much like an IKEA store. But I mean, what would a home look like? How would it feel to live in it? Would I feel transported to Sweden once I stepped inside the front door? Or, again, just to an IKEA store?

Maybe I’ll make that a goal – IKEA-ize my apartment!

It truly is an international retail company. Some may say – often with a look of disgust on their puss – that Target is an international retailer, a French-owned company. “Tarzhay,” if you will. But I’ve been to France a few times and I never saw a “Tarzhay” there, but I did see an IKEA store. And I saw one very recently in Germany.

IKEA. The name is an acronym representing the name of the company’s founder – Ingvar Kamprad – the farm where he grew up – Elmtaryd – and his home village in Sweden – Agunnaryd. But the name might as well be Swedish for “international glue.”

Consider this: IKEA largely sells the exact same products in each of its 273 stores in 36 countries (wikipedia), and, with rare exception, by the same product names. No matter which store you visit worldwide, once you’re in the door, it’s much the same experience as another. Each product requiring assembly is accompanied by a graphic instruction manual – there are no words other than the name of the product, no languages to master and subsequently mangle, only images showing how to assemble the item.


"Easy to assemble! Literacy not required!"


It turns out that the MALM bed is one of their most popular. So Wednesday evening, while I was crawling around on my bedroom floor, poring over randomly dispersed planks of fiberboard and dedicated hardware, it is very likely that in each of 35 other countries around the planet there was at least one person also rolling around on the floor, following the same wordless instruction guide, attempting to bring a bit of Scandinavian design into his or her home! We’re kin! We share the bond of MALM! We have IKEA in our blood!

And I’ll bet, even if it’s just one little item, that some of you readers are my IKEA brethren… and sistren, too.

Gimme a HUG!

A Blog About Stuff I Should Blog About

I went to Germany alone for nine days over the holidays. I rented a car and drove from Frankfurt to Berlin and points around and in between and back. I should blog about that.

I finally bought a real computer speaker system, for cheap. It sounds pretty damn good! I should blog about that.

I went to IKEA and bought a MALM queensize bedframe and side table, both in the birch veneer. I should blog about that.

I finally ordered and received a Home Styles® Nantucket™ Buffet & Hutch and put it in my kitchen, increasing my counter space and drawer space. I should blog about that.

Since early (mid?) December I’ve read Robert Ludlum’s three Bourne novels. I should blog about that.

Lately I’m taking this I’m-getting-a-divorce thing not so well. Nothing has changed in that arena, so I don’t know why I’ve been so down. I should blog about that. But I won’t.

Now you know what you’ve been missing.

Sometimes I'd Rather Not Know

As you may have noticed, I recently switched over to SiteMeter to satisfy my curiosity over who the heck reads this thing. I had learned from reading at wordnerd that, with SiteMeter, I could track the location of readers, which pages they read, how long they visited, and where on the web they came from, even including the search term they entered in their search engine that landed them in my pages. What I didn’t realize was that I can also learn what kind of computer they’re on, what version of which operating system they’re using, and their screen resolution! WTF!

Most who have visited my blog are a close corps of “regulars” who, despite my long gaps of nothing new, keep checking back once or twice a day. Thanks, you guys!

But, as far as strangers go, there is an odd pattern emerging, something I find a little disturbing about my fellow humans, for these searchers hail not only from the United States, but from points across Europe, as well. The search term which has most often resulted in someone opening a post at FARRAGO is “farting keyboard.” I’m certain that they’ve been sorely disappointed, for while they were searching for this, what they found was this post here.

Some may say SiteMeter is a great tool for learning about who you’re reaching, who’s finding you. But I find myself saying, “Be careful what you wish for!”

My fellow bloggers are discovered, and are bestowed with prestigious blogger awards by their vast readerships; I'm discovered by people searching the world over ... for fart sounds.