What the Heck?

Yo, April!  What's the deal?

You having an identity crisis?

April showers are supposed to bring May flowers.

Not snow berms!

The Germany Journals, Part 4, Piber

Some friends of mine in Moose Pass are looking for someone to share a horse.  By "share,” they mean assist with the expense and work of maintaining a horse in Alaska, as well as sharing the pleasure of riding the animal (and working two jobs to pay the feed bill).

I responded to their e-mail, writing that if they could find a horse like the ones in the  photos I attached, I might be interested.   I also mentioned that I knew where there might be one available for 12,000 Euros, which translates to something like $18,000 plus freight from Europe to Alaska. 

 Fat chance, huh?

Of course, this wouldn’t be just any old nag; this would be a royal horse, one of the famous white Lipizzans of the Spanish Riding School in Vienna.

***

"Hello, hello?  Come visit with me."

The stout man with close cropped hair was barking orders at us in German, which none of us understood, but there was no doubting the meaning of his gestures.  Obviously we weren’t supposed to be where we were, when we were, but a white mare ran up to the half-open stable door and craned her neck out to see us.

It was also obvious that SHE wanted us to visit.  She watched as we walked (slowly) away.

She was still watching as we rounded the corner of her stable and disappeared from sight.  That’s when I realized we were in the presence of something special at this place that breeds Lipizzan horses for the famous Spanish Riding School in Vienna.

 

We were early, to be sure.  Like, three hours before the stud farm at Piber opened for visitors, but when you stay immediately next door at a quaint pension, it’s difficult not to be early.  Besides, these white horses were the whole reason we had driven for hours and hours to this southeastern area of Austria.

Our gasthof at Piber.

I don’t know whether or not the man in the gray apron who was shooing us away from the mares’ stable (and the stallions’ paddock and the mares with foals paddock) was one of the Piber stable hands who had been whooping it up in the pension the previous night, but he could have been. 

Gasthof Gunter Bardel

 

I don’t know because as soon as we opened the door to the downstairs restaurant, I was enveloped in noxious cigarette smoke, and retreated to cleaner ( a relative term) air as quickly as I could.

My delightful, charming room.

Even on the third floor the smell in the hallway was strong and I doubted my ability to stay in this establishment.  My room, however, was spared the stink.  While my friends went downstairs to eat dinner, I stayed in my room.  After a while, Betsey brought me a plate of Wienerschnitzel and French fries—mit  ketchup—so I didn’t go to bed hungry.  

Our breakfast table at Gasthof Gunter Bardel.

As if that was possible.  We’d already established a pattern of three hearty meals a day supplemented with almost continuous browsing and grazing.

My short exposure to the smoke had already resulted in a scratchy throat and I could feel a headache starting, so I stayed in my room and escaped further symptoms.  By morning the smoke had dissipated.  My stay at Gasthof Gunter Bardel was otherwise fine.  The room was charming, the breakfast good and plentiful, and the ambiance unbeatable.

This was the view out my window the next morning.  During summer months, the Lipizzans are exercised in the arena on the left.

For these reasons, I have no trouble recommending it to anyone, but I'd certainly warn them that it is a smoking establishment.  That's something we in the US usually don't remember to ask about anymore.
 

But back to the horses.

(to be continued)

En Route III

Friday afternoon, which might be April 1, I’m waiting in the Seattle airport for my flight to Anchorage.

Eventually, a boarding announcement is made, with early boarding for people with small children.  .  A couple comes through the crowd pushing two double strollers.  In each is a cute blonde girl, and there might have been one walking.  That makes four or five, all appearing to be preschool or younger, and Mom looks pregnant.  Dad pulls out a handful of boarding passes.

When I board, the family is seated two rows in front of me.  Behind me is a couple with a toddler daughter.  I soon learn that Toddler Daughter has the lungs of an opera singer.  For no apparent reason she lets out frequent screams and cries.

Two rows ahead, the blonde girls are squealing also, but not so loud, and certainly less frequently.  Their squeals are those of excitement.  This is going to be a long three hour and fifteen minute flight.

As soon as the flight attendants come by with beverages, I ask for ear plugs and the rest of the trip slips by peacefully.  And quietly.

When Patti the Parrot Sitter picks me up in the airport, she is full of tidbits about her time spent with Pablo.  Pablo, on the other hand, lets out a screech and a bellow when I walk into Patti’s condo.  I’d planned to stay overnight, but just before leaving Germany, I learned I had to work Monday.  The idea of two full days at home to recover from jet lag is too much, and I opt to drive home, arriving at 9:30 p.m., just as the last of the daylight disappears  Pablo forgives me on the way home.

I am in bed and asleep by 10:30.  I would have been there earlier, but I had to wait for Pablo to have his bedtime snack and drink of water.   I think he does this on purpose.

Nap time arrives at 4 p.m. Saturday.  Except for an hour about 9 p.m. when I stagger around looking for something to eat, I sleep through until 7 Sunday morning. 

Since arriving back in the USA, I have slept 36 and a half hours in less than three days and I’m feeling pretty good.

Now I have to read through all the informative books and pamphlets I brought home with me so I can tell about my journeys.  This is the perfect day for it, too—snowy.  And we had a minor earthquake a while ago. 

Welcome home, Gullible.  Two p.m.  Must be nap time....

En Route, Part II

Friday morning, April 1, San Francisco

I had several friends and relatives I wanted to call when I reached my motel room in San Francisco, but thought I’d wait until evening when they were most likely to be home. 

I had slept some on the eleven hour Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt, Germany, on a route that took us over the British Isles, Iceland, Greenland, Canada’s Hudson Bay, Ontario, and across the US from Minnesota to California, but I was still tired.   I’d already gone through the Daylight Saving Time nonsense a week before I left on this trip, and then had to go through it again when Europe switched also.  Factor that into the half-day I lost going over and regained coming back, and you arrive at discombobulation.   

I needed a nap. 

So, I decided to take that nap at 2 p.m.  I woke up at midnight.  No calling friends and relatives at this hour or I would no longer have friends and the relatives would disown me.  I went back to sleep for a couple hours.

At 7:33 a.m., I decided to wait in the lobby for the 8:03 airport shuttle.  I could call them from there.  I wheeled my bags up the walk.  

The shuttle was parked in front already.  A few minutes later, I was dropped off at the airport.  I strolled right up to the counter and checked the suitcase with all the heavy stuff.  The baggage fee has gone up five dollars to $20, but it’s worth it to not have to lift that book-laden bag into the overhead storage bin.

Only five people were ahead of me in security and I zipped right through.  I’ve learned to wear slip on shoes.  I mention that because a number of people still haven’t figured this out.

Along the concourse where Alaska Air and Southwest cuddle up to their respective cattle chutes, there’s a bistro called Max’s “Eatz and Fresh Bakery.”  I love it!  Best airport food ever.  It serves various made to order sandwiches that are enormous, much more than I could eat.

When I first discovered this gem—I think it was last fall on my way home from China—my pastrami sandwich was huge and juicy and aromatic enough to make everybody on the plane hate me with envy had I chosen to eat it there.  The wrapped remains in my purple shoulder bag wafted tantalizing scents in my vicinity for hours.

Twelve bucks for a pastrami sandwich sounds like airport robbery, but at least it's good, unlike much of the airport fare I've tried.  Anything you buy in the high rent districts behind the security gates is over-priced, like $3 bottles of water and soda.

At this hour, Max’s was serving breakfast, so I don’t have any pictures of the hams, and corned beefs and so on.  There was the usual long line.  I paused at Max’s long enough to take photos.  My tummy was still full of waffle and orange juice.

A teen-aged girl sitting next to me is eating an omelet, luscious home-fried potatoes, and toast.  An elderly woman just asked her if that was a McDonald’s breakfast.  As if!

Mighty good thing there was a long line at Max's or....   Well, you know.

 

The lady who asked about McDonald’s has returned with a cup of something hot and the immediately identifiable black and white checked bag from Max’s.  I see scrambled eggs in Styrofoam.

If you’re thinking I’m turning this blog into a food critique, it’s probably because my culinary waddle through Germany and Austria is much on my mind…. as well as on my tummy and hips.  

I am in dire need of Nutrisystem, Weight Watchers, and Jenny what’s her name all together.  Along with a Boeing 747 load of self-control.

Breakfast by the Bay

(This is an addendum to the previous post "En Route.")

Just look at what I would have missed had it not been for a passel of noisy kids wanting waffles and no empty seats in the tiny breakfast nook at this Vagabond Inn Executive motel in San Francisco.

With no place to sit and slather butter on my own waffle, I decided to go back to my room and watch more inane TV morning shows.  Instead,  a splash of color through the trees lured me to the sea wall that runs along the back of this motel.

I balanced my Styrofoam plate atop the concrete wall and watched jumbo jets embarking and returning at the airport across the water as birds chirped in the trees behind me and the sea ducks searched for their own breakfast al fresco.

The temperature was perfect (for an Alaskan).

\

The ambiance unbeatable.

And the action....

,,a lot more interesting than morning TV shows!

Okay, time to turn off the netbook, gather ALL my belongings, and head for the airport.  On the free shuttle.

(This post appears twice for some reason, but if I delete one of them Blogspot will delete the photos in the second one also, and I don't time to upload them again because I must gather ALL my belongings.  Anyway, you now have twice tghe fun.)

Breakfast by the Bay

(This is an addendum to the previous post "En Route.")

Just look at what I would have missed had it not been for a passel of noisy kids wanting waffles and no empty seats in the tiny breakfast nook at this Vagabond Inn Executive motel in San Francisco.

With no place to sit and slather butter on my own waffle, I decided to go back to my room and watch more inane TV morning shows.  Instead,  a splash of color through the trees me lured to the sea wall that runs along the back of this motel.

I balanced my Styrofoam plate atop the concrete wall and watched jumbo jets embarking and returning from the airport across the water as birds chirped in the trees behind me and the sea ducks searched for their own breakfast al fresco.

The temperature was perfect (for an Alaskan).

\

The ambiance unbeatable.

And the action....

,,a lot more interesting than morning TV shows!

Okay, time to turn off the netbook, gather ALL my belongings, and head for the airport.  On the free shuttle.

En Route

It's sometime-o'clock in the morning in San Francisco.  I've been awake since 3 a.m. after going to bed yesterday afternoon at 2.

 I have regained the half day I lost traveling overseas and I took advantage of it to try to return to a normal West Coast time zone, but 3 a.m. does not bode well for that as I'm flying to Alaska today where 3 is actually 2.  I think.

Anyway, I'm in San Fran where the season is summer.  The locals might think of it as spring because some of the trees and shrubs aren't leafed out, but to me it's definitely summer.  Warm + blooming flowers = summer.

My layover motel is just across the water from the SF airport.  I notice I am choosing motels by whether or not they have free WiFi in the rooms.  The criterion used to be free airport shuttle.  At the Holiday Inn Express in Frankfurt, it cost five Euros for the shuttle.  It also cost six Euros to use the broadband internet connection in the rooms, 3.5 Euros to have something printed in the lobby.  (A Euro is worth about $1.45, thus five Euros is roughly $7.50.  Easier to figure if you round it all off).

These charges irked me for a while until I realized that they are charging the equivalent of user fees and thereby keeping their room rates more than reasonable.

One thing I've discovered by being up so early is how inane the morning shows on CNN and FNC are.  I never have the TV on this early at home.  Never.  I never watch any morning shows.

We had access to very little US news while in Europe, so I have a lot of catching up to do.  Or not.  From what I've heard so far, nothing much has happened..during my absence, except Ohio is now embroiled in the same union fight as Wisconsin.

And GE didn't pay any taxes on--what was it?--$58 billion in profits or something?  I was a bit rummy yesterday afternoon after ten or eleven hours of flight.

And The Rock says he'd like to live in England because Prince William has decided not to wear a wedding ring, and The Rock says, "My man."  He'll be sleeping on the couch for a while.

Patti the Parrot Sitter says she and Pablo have had some interesting conversations.  That should be fun to hear about.  And yes, I realize I'm replacing periods with prepositions, but you must understand I haven't a clue what day it is or what time it is relative to me and my world in Moose Pass.

All I know is that it's summer in San Francisco and I have an Alaska Airlines flight to Alaska later this morning where it probably will still be winter, or maybe early spring, which definitely means there's snow on the ground.  We actually call spring "break-up" because the roads start coming apart with the thawing and driveways get muddy.  That actually sounds rather nice right now.

By the way, remember the jacket I left on my Alaska Air flight at the beginning of this trip?  Well, I got it back yesterday.  Ak Air had folded and saved it along with the note I slipped under the door a couple weeks ago.  Now, I have back my favorite jacket as well as the beautiful Jack Wolfskin teal jacket I bought in Rothenberg.

Oh, and the food on Lufthansa is much better than the food on United.  Much.