"You Boys from New Zealand??" - Munich, Germany

“You boys from New Zealand??”

The man who addressed us this question can only be described as hardy. Say the word “hardy” out loud, and picture the first human being that comes to mind. You’ll probably have a pretty accurate representation.

We tell him no, we’re from Kansas. I have no idea why he thought we were from New Zealand.

“Kansas??!! I love Kansas! I own 8,000 acres of oil land down by Parsons. You know Parsons?”

We nod.

“Yeah, I got about 8,000 acres around Parsons. I’ve also got a bunch of land in Oklahoma and Texas. You know Bartlesville?

We nod again.

“Yeah, there’s this old guy I’m trying to buy some land off of. He’s in my lawyer’s office right now taking up too much time.”

He tosses his Blackberry onto the table and takes a massive swig of the beer in his hand.

“Cheers to Kansas, guys. Prost! You know prost? That’s how they say cheers here in Germany. But you gotta look the other guy in the eye or else you get 7 years of bad luck.”

I feel the glass mug tremble in my hand as we clink glasses. Our companion downs the last quarter of his beer and slams it on the table.

This is how we met Doug DeFoe, Midwestern Oil Magnate and world traveler.

“You boys want another round?”

Each of the beers costs about €7.50, and we tell him that our wallets won’t really let us buy another.

“Buy another??! I’ll buy a round. You bet I’ll buy a round!”

He takes a €50 note out of his wallet, slams it on the table, and bellows to the waitress across the room.

The Hofbrauhaus in Munich, Germany likes to replay the excitement of Oktoberfest every night. A brass band wanders around the hall, playing traditional Bavarian songs. Some of the German people sing along, and the drunken foreigners bellow nonsense words with equal gusto. The waitresses are dressed in old-fashioned lederhosen, and they dart between long wooden tables where strangers from all over the world gather to enjoy a mug of beer.

“I’m from Canada.”

Doug the Midwestern Oil Magnate says this with a fair degree of pride. His chest doesn’t quite puff out, but if he had feathers they’d be all extended and such.

“Canada’s a great place, boys. We got Niagara falls. We got Vancouver. We got hockey. We even invented basketball.”

Umbrage: Offense or annoyance. a vague feeling of suspicion or hostility.

Basketball history. The man clearly had no idea who he was talking to. As proud Jayhawks, Jesse and I considered it our sacred duty to set the man straight. I wondered who could actually believe that a game like basketball could be invented in Canada. Surely the net would freeze and then shatter upon the first made basket.

Doug Defoe, Midwestern Oil Magnate, must have sensed a change in the air, a slight stiffening of the breeze that passed among us, an increased hum in the ether carrying the still but potent vibration of unspoken words.

Basketball, we inform Doug Defoe, Midwestern Oil Magnate, was given birth by the good man himself, Dr. James Naismith, in Springfield, Massachusetts, and nurtured from pup-hood to shining pureblood glory on Mount Oread, Lawrence, Kansas, United States of Merica.

The man had no response. His flustered nature steamed out all around him like an aromatherapy machine gone awry, and it was only when we conceded that Dr. James Naismith, god rest his soul, must have gained some inspiration from the Great North, spending a significant part of his early life carving igloos and hunting moose outside of Montreal, did the owner of a good fraction of Midwest America regain his boisterous nature.

“You boys ever been to Canada?...”

….

One round turned into two. And when the beers are a liter each, that transition is no slowly rolling snowball, it’s an avalanche that hits you in the mouth with beer-colored ice.

At this point, Doug Defoe was busy monologueing to his companion, a thin blonde woman who looked as though she’d spent a few too many years in a tanning salon. It was unclear what their relationship was.

…

Just before we arrived at Hofbrauhaus, my friend Steffen had taken Jesse and I to the English Gardens, a large green space at the northeast edge of the Munich city center. It reminded me of the parks in Denver, Colorado, where makeshift volleyball nets appear and retreat over the course of a lazy Saturday afternoon.

It was early evening as we walked through the English Gardens. Remnant storm clouds from the afternoon pondered their return. Trees made a sound that can only be described as “brustling”, as they carried their newfound moisture through xylem veins to growing roots and sprouting shoots.

The river Isar runs through the English Gardens, and at one part of the river, a rock formation on the riverbed makes the water into a constant wave. All throughout the year, warm or cold, rain or snow, people wearing wetsuits stand alongside the bank, and one by one they take turns surfing the constant wave. Some take a running start from the bank, others lower themselves into the water and push off the river’s edge. All of them try to stay afloat, balancing on a fiberglass board, buffeted by the constantly changing fluid of a wave that has been the same for countless thousands of years.

….

Running through the streets of Munich, I try to balance on the crest of my surging stomach.

With our train leaving at 11:40 PM, 11:30 had come and gone at the Hofbrauhaus, and we were almost a mile away from the train station with 8 minutes to get there.

and my insides were not happy with me.

The rain from earlier that evening had stopped, but streams still poured from the gutters overhanging the sidewalks. Droplets from trees fall into puddles and then fly skyward again as my shoes interrupt that scene’s placidity.

I usually quite enjoy running, but that night my body decided to teach me a lesson.

About 2 minutes into the run, I turn to Jesse and say “hang on, I think I’m gonna….”

Puking my guts out by the side of the road, I’m still very much aware that we have about 5 minutes to get on a train or be stuck in Munich’s central station for a cozy ten hours.

So I start running again. Thirty seconds later, my stomach decides I need more punishment.

This scene repeats itself two more times on the way to the station, sometimes with me maintaining a brisk walk while my guts do their own thing. I remember that over the last half quarter-kilometer, a tailwind seemed to spring up and push us along, as if the city itself was anxious for us to leave.

The conductor may or may not have been blowing the final whistle as we turned the corner onto our platform. I do know we made it with less than a minute to spare.

All we wanted was sleep. All the compartments in the first several cars were packed. We stumbled down the train’s corridors, looking through darkened glass for any open seats, knocking on doors and pulling back curtains.

We found one car that was miraculously almost completely empty, with a compartment that was entirely free. Unhooking the packs never had never been more of a relief. The seats felt luxurious; my jacket was a warm silk sheet. We pass out almost immediately.

…

Two hours later and it’s about 2 AM. We are abruptly awakened by the conductor checking tickets. After he ponders our reservation for a minute, he looks up and asks,

“Where are you going?”

“Vienna,” we murmur, rubbing sleep from our eyes.

“No, this is the wrong train. This train goes to Slovenia.”

Crap.