From Africa To Russia

Day two of sitting around, the room is hot, I am sweating and bored. I am feeling a little better, but perhaps simply because I am not moving. Tomorrow I will venture out into Munich to test my stamina. If all is well I will continue, but if I collapse again I may have to throw in the towel. There are a series of bells that ring from towers right outside my window, they have been ringing nonstop for two days now. They chime the hour, the half-hour, every fifteen minutes. Every hour or so, one bell will ring continuously for about twenty minutes, ‘gong gong gong gong’, with no interruptions. Then when this stops, about three minutes later three bells will start ringing together, staggered and rapid fire ‘gong-g-gong gong-g-gong gong-g-gong…’ for another half hour or so. Just when you think they have stopped, they always have to throw one more good one in at the end. This has been going on continuously all day long, and is maddening. I am going to go up there and throw the fucking bell guy out of his tower. Go out to get some food around noon, find out the supermarkets in Europe are all closed on Sundays. So I do a bit of exploring locally, find the Marienplatz and the hordes of Brazil-shirt-wearing tourists, and find a little place with outdoor tables in a courtyard to sit under the trees and have some sausages and beer. It is true, German beer is damn good. A guy and a kid ask if they can sit at the table with me, since all the other tables are taken, then a couple comes up and does the same thing. It turns out the two guys are brothers, and they are all part of the same group. They are from Switzerland and are there for the World Cup, they have tickets for the Brazil match at six (Ronaldinho is the big Brazilian football star by the way; he has large teeth). The one fellow’s wife is Chinese, but now lives with her husband in Switzerland, and plays for the national women’s soccer team. Her legs look quite strong. The kid is a family friend, born in India, and he is very grown up and well-spoken. After a while, he puts a hand on my shoulder, “So what do you think of Bush?” I give him the same neutral, non-informative spiel I have been using all throughout Europe, not wanting to upset anyone one way or the other. The first guy is a big, jovial fellow who has wild hair and earrings and a big waist and a wife and a house in Columbia and who is great fun, he guzzles beers and we chat and laugh. We do a drinking cheer together multiple times. I have another beer. I am no longer feeling faint like the other night – I must be getting better. They tell me that life in Switzerland is very comfortable and safe and relaxed, that people don’t lock their doors. Sounds nice. Then, ironically, the kid asks me what Detroit is like, out of nowhere. I tell him it isn’t exactly like Switzerland. (I am from New Jersey, but have been to Detroit.) Thomas the big Swiss has a good repartee with fraulein waitress. “The Germans love the Swiss,” he tells me. “They think we are all stupid.” He gives me his card and tells me to give him a call when I get to Zurich.

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