Honeymoon Heaven

Got hitched... so why not?!

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Photos taken in Maldives and Dubai

Durchfalls Abend bei Omi und Opi’s

Of all the great songs on my album of survival at those innumerable (soon-to-be in-law) family sleepovers, there’s that especially creative yet shameful one that shall forever be stuck in my head. It’s true. There are times when I still have difficulty with the guilt from that evening. And even the slightest gesture, like the mailing of a greeting card and a chocolate bar, from the lady’s grandparents makes it all too real again. Because one thing’s for certain, and I don’t care who you are: it’s never easy when you’re faced with having to cover up an evening-long affliction of diarrhea at Grammy and Grampy’s house.

It was Easter 2009. We thought we’d get cute and spend the weekend at Omi and Opi’s. Pack some clothes. Rent a car. Do the whole hey-I’m-the-grandkid thing. Just the two of us, a young couple on a sole mission of getting spoiled with hearty German food, holiday chocolates, and sightseeing accompanied by stories of a simpler time. And besides that, Heinrich and Inga needed the company. They live far away from it all in the historic town of Bautzen, where Easter egg making and horseback processions are just another day at the office. There would be no better time for a visit than on this jubilant occasion.

Even from the moment we put the rental car in park, Omi and Opi were all smiles. They were happy to have us and enjoyed our company, and we enjoyed theirs. Things were swell; life was good in Bautzen. But wait just a second. Let me fast-forward to the part where I’m sitting at the dinner table after having just engulfed a large portion of Omi’s husky casserole that presumably had twice the fat content of four Big Macs and four Value Meals combined. My stomach’s reaction to this violation was certainly not what I was expecting. It was as if I had been downing baked bean shakes (if there is such an atrocity) three times a day for the past week. Not good. And, Opi soon learned of my misfortune when I casually mentioned to the lady that I was having stomach issues, which he attributed to the kid having a nervous stomach. But what he didn't know was that I was on the verge of soiling my pants—right at the dinner table, on Easter weekend—regardless of whatever well-meaning diagnosis I was given.

Just as virtual paranoia was about to set in, we were anyhow kindly excused from the dinner table since we were finished "slugging back" Omi's home cookin'. "I'm gonna go upstairs," I whispered softly. I squeezed my butt cheeks together and tried to exit the kitchen as indiscreetly as I could. It worked. But I had to make it to the stairs so I could go to the upstairs bathroom (I feared the downstairs bathroom wouldn't be private enough should things get out of control). I made it but don't recall ever quietly running up a flight of stairs so quickly to meet a space that would be my hangout for most of the evening. Of course, any private thoughts I had regarding the full nature of my condition remained private. I really didn't feel like grossing out everybody else because of some sudden case of the poops.

Round one was fine. I felt relieved. Time for the cover-up, though. I scoured the bathroom for some type of refreshing scent spray, but to no avail. So I grabbed a nearby bottle of aerosol deodorant and unleashed it's wrath. "Ah, great. Phew. No evidence of anything," I though to myself. I then exited the bathroom acting like I'd been sitting on a porch deck drinking iced tea and enjoying a warm summer breeze. "Hey babe," I said as I walked toward the spare bedroom where we were staying. "Hey, my grandparents want to have some wine with us downstairs and show us some photos from their vacation," she said. "Okay," I replied. Then I gave a little more detail on my condition. "Just have a little bit of wine, okay?" "Alright," I said. We had an agreement.

About an hour into the photo-viewing chat session with the grandparents, I began feeling really uneasy again. I only had but a sip of wine and was under the impression that I was managing my stomach noises and silent farts as best I could. But I was wrong. So I feigned like I was tired and wished everyone a good night, telling them I was gonna go upstairs to bed. What came after that was nothing I want to relive again—ever. My memory is a little bit cloudy from the horror of that night but I believe I spent nearly the rest of the evening alone on the toilet—trying to remain cognizant of the frequency of my flushes and the use of toilet paper despite having little control over what was happening—with torturous breaks from pooping that were spent in the bedroom doing nothing but hydrating, slow breathing exercises, and desperate self talk. At one point, I let out what I believed to be a far too loud "Oh man, please make this stop" appeal to the bathroom wall that I'd been staring at as I sat on the commode literally shitting my life away.

Hours had gone by and the grandparents and the lady were (allegedly) still downstairs enjoying their time together. And I was still upstairs, my ass making noises one only hears at the zoo, and embarrassed by the fact that the loud sounds could potentially be heard by anyone with halfway decent hearing. I felt naked, because there's nothing worse than being in a situation like that and not being in the comfort of your own home, with nobody to call on for help. What was I supposed to do? Run downstairs and tell everyone I was about to evaporate due to the most severe case of diarrhea I'd ever know. Crying like a broken man and yelling, "fire in the hole" was not an option for me. I had to pull myself together, tell myself that I had resolve, and that I would not falter. So I did.

I ended up pushing forward that night, with as much courage as a man could have under those set of circumstances. And even as my partner lay asleep beside me as I got up in the middle of the night to retreat to the downstairs bathroom for my call of duty, I remained vigilant. I minimized my flushes, creatively muffled the horrific sounds as best I could, kept an open ear for the footsteps of any light sleepers, and essentially covered up my business, as only I knew how. It all stopped, eventually; and I finally got the peace I so truly deserved. Going forward though, I can only hope for one thing: that when I look Omi and Opi in the eye the next time I see them, I'm able to forget the shame I felt on that dreadful evening.

Bavarian Delight

Nestled amidst the Bavarian mountains
Exists the
Ultimate
Storybook
Castle,
High up in the
Woods of Hohenschwangau, and
As far as the eye can see, with
Noble rooms and
Spectacular surroundings, and the presence of
Tourists reveling in its magnificent
Exterior, bold
Imagination and
Never-ending charm

Cape Germany – Two Birds at the Baltic

“I grew up there; I would go there with my family every summer. I wanna take you there next summer, so you can see what it’s like!” she said. That was eight months ago… Now we’d find ourselves scrambling—frantically dragging and pushing our suitcases—from one train station to the next in the hopes of filling our souls with the breath of the Baltic Sea. And from what I understood, there’s no other place in Germany where two birds can sing more gaily and peacefully with zero in the way of interruption.

“It’s gone!” Her shoulders dropped and her face saddened, like a kid who had gone and broken his most precious toy. And I, well, I had that shit happens expression wiped all over my face. We both indistinctly said our peace and waved goodbye to that one-day-special train fare. Beat by only two minutes—no more, no less. It was an inauspicious start that required a trip back to the main train station to mull our options. As I desperately hung on to the idea that we’d be able to get our money back, or that we could simply just board another train without any hassle (whining and complaining, quite frankly, will get you nowhere in Germany), she raced to the ticket machine to find our answer. Our alternative—we were willing to settle for almost anything—would have only one stipulation: it had to be kind on the pocketbook. “How about this one (a thirty nine euro fare that included eight and half hours of travel, from Frankfurt to Berlin, more than double the time it would have taken us in the first place)?” she asked. “Let’s do it,” I said. And with the press of a button on the machine, we did just that.

“Viel Spass und bis spater!” said her parents. The morning’s breakfast and enthusiastic chatter preceded this heartfelt send-off that emulated that of a child’s first day of school. My secret longing for the day when I’d get to see first-hand how the Germans relax by the sea in their practical but obnoxious, oversized, wooden beach chair-houses would finally come to a head. The proverbial lunch box was packed. It was time to throw it in drive and let the weather gods take over. “Wait, babe, stop the car for a second,” I said. “I forgot something in the trunk.” I opened the door and then went around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. I fished through my backpack for a few seconds. “Here they are,” I mumbled. I got back in the car, unfolded my black Ray-Ban sunglasses, and then pushed them square on my face. “Okay, I’m ready,” I said.

We were headed to Binz (Ruegen, Germany). The car ride there was like everlasting eternity; and the impending sea couldn’t have come soon enough, as it was a promising sign that we were almost at our destination. Up until that point we remained dormant as a result of a steady dose of stale scenery, namely, the cluster of windmills on the many vast, empty fields and the uniform line of speedsters fighting for their chance to be the lead car on the Autobahn. I was hypersensitive because Mama’s tiny Peugoet had minimal leg space. But within minutes of hearing an irksome “Oooh, fish sandwiches!” in my left ear, I knew I’d need a change in attitude. Clearly we had entered Cape Germany, and the mere sight of a red, barn-like fish market was evidence that the Baltic Sea has a come-hither, nostalgic effect on even its most seasoned visitor. “Sure, babe, I’m getting hungry myself,” I said. It would be our first real (non bathroom) stop. We found the nearest parking space, put in our order with the fish lady, and then sat down at an outside picnic table to eat Fisch Brotchen among a small crowd of German holiday-goers.

When the two of us stepped out of our Binz hotel and on to the boardwalk of this pleasant resort town with the calming and sometimes soporific Baltic Sea as its backdrop, a unanimous feeling of peace ensued. It was what she momentarily forgot and I would quickly learn. The glorious weather, the friendly sea, the clean, orderly scene that spoke summer, and the simple acts of Germans being Germans—couples young and old walking hand in hand, children playing on the beach, some folks taking pictures, other folks lounging at the outdoor cafes drinking coffee and beer, and yet others eating snacks from the outdoor vendors—all in benevolent accord. We felt like two harmonious birds with resting pulse rates of a well-trained Olympic athlete. And, as we took pictures, walked by the sea, made a brief stop at an outdoor jazz performance (with a crazy, old, American brother leading the band and encouraging the crowd), sipped on cappuccinos, and snacked on fish sandwiches, I began to understand it all (albeit feeling a bit misplaced).

“I think I’m the only American here, besides that insane jazz dude,” I said piteously. There wasn’t much of a response from my (German) lady. She was too busy being German, soaking up all that is German at a Baltic Sea getaway. And like it or not, that’s the way I’d have to do it, too. So I did… just like this: we hiked through the Granitz woods; toured a charming hunting castle with one of the most magnificent panoramic rooftop views I've ever seen; attended a spectacular “Story Festival” outdoor air show—with amazing theatrics and visual displays (but a super lame fireworks finale); visited the historic Prora (Nazi-planned tourist structures); gawked at the breathtaking Chalk Cliffs, where cameras don’t get much rest; explored the Jasmund National Park museum; and perhaps most important of all, chowed down on good food.
…All well worth it.

Ah yes, the Germans, indeed they flock to the Baltic Sea for a reason.

Foot Lost

Sounds of a galloping horse? Nope. It’s a woman in heels, on a cobblestone street. That’s when the pressure builds—when paranoia sets in because you don’t know where you are, and you’re being followed by the over-calfed German lady wearing her Deichmann best (a situation that’s really no consolation for the birds, either).

I find myself being foot lost when embarking on new territory. It’s irrelevant that I’ve printed out directions from rmv.de, or that I’m in somewhat navigational friendly territory and armed with a sturdy map and a confident demeanor. It simply does not matter. I’m overmatched by my inferior function, my inability to put one foot in front of the other and walk in the right direction, an affliction that has seemingly only surfaced since I moved to Europe. Nevertheless, the end result is always the same: lost, confused, frustrated, and ultimately late to wherever it is I’m going.

If memory serves me correctly, my most colorful moment of being adrift befell on a cool, windy day here in Frankfurt. It was a much dreaded, guilt-laden commitment, but because I took the pledge, I was ready to roll with the punches. The appointment time, location and details were all in order. I would just need to show up and let the onslaught of awkwardness begin. It all sounded pretty straightforward.
“I can pick you up in my car. You call me when you arrive,” she said.
“Alright, I’ll do that.” I replied.
I started out the door and within minutes began cursing the wind as it whipped off my face. The directions were in my right pocket as my left pocket housed my clenched fist. Why don’t I just call her back and cancel, I thought to myself. But despite any and all reservations I had, I continued on.

The commute on the U5 was a slam-dunk (the train stop is only a stone’s throw away, so to fumble this bit of daily routine would mean that I have a serious cognitive deficiency). But everything after that was, well—sloppy footwork. I exited at the wrong S Bahn stop and walked about four multiples of three rather than just the three-minute duration as explained in the directions. I did some mini sightseeing and apparently convinced myself I was headed the right way. Alas, the nauseating smell of a nearby doner kebab joint, not my keen awareness, ended up being the catalyst for directional change; it was the slap in the face I needed to wake me up from my walking daydream. So, back to the train station I went, and then on board the S Bahn in the direction that I hoped would be the right one. I’d just need to pay enough attention to actually hear (and see) the name of the stop.

Indeed, the right stop would be located with ease (it was the one after my premature stop), but that was the only easy part. I walked for a solid ten minutes in a direction that my senses told me couldn’t possibly be wrong. But as time passed, I somehow felt like I’d be walking to Poland if I continued on my chosen route. It was time for an about-face; I retreated back towards the direction of the train station. The wind was now fierce and defiant and only seemed to perpetuate my increased frustration and question the very nature of my foot speed. I decided to picked it up a bit and ultimately made the transition to the half-run walk, which, in my opinion, always makes one look like a total loser.

“Entschuldigung, wo ist ——?” I asked a passing stranger. After some pointing and hearing words that made sense to me, I felt the information I had just received could help me make it to my destination without any hiccups. Wrong. Perhaps I hit the celebration button too soon, cause about fifteen more minutes passed and I was still walking around like a devoted junkie. I hadn’t hit any of my marks and saw nothing remotely similar (i.e. landmarks, streets) to what my directions indicated. That’s when paranoia pinched me on the ass—hard. I turned into a walking lunatic, increasingly annoyed by pedestrians whose shoes pounded the ground and made too much noise. I looked at my watch nearly every three seconds and began uttering curses that slowly started to outnumber my breathing…

“I’m running a little bit late. To be honest, I’m sort of lost,” I said almost frantically to the woman on the phone. “This is not a problem. Tell me where you are and I can pick you up,” she said. “Okay,” I said. And that’s when the real work began.

Still, what remained was the following thought: Who effin gets lost like this!

Vienna & My Valentine

Yes, it is possible for a man to savor the sappy cheese and dance with the proverbial love swans on Valentine’s Day—without the slightest provocation from his dudes—and wholeheartedly enjoy every minute of it. Actually, it’s superbly simple to do if you’re living in Europe, especially if you do it the way this guy did.

The idea was to devise an over-the-top weekend that had all the fixings of a quixotic adventure. But it had to be where two hearts could waltz within the confines of a splendidly romantic estuary. Where the cold could be ignored by the presence of picturesque scenery and imperial treasures. And where harmony sounds like Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 5. Quite simply, it had to be a Viennese ball and other assorted treats in Vienna, Austria.

The Random 25 List

1. I am the epitome of a clean freak. Or better yet, I’m just a freak who has an uncontrollable urge to be tidy.

2. I used to have to sleep with a fan on at night (regardless of the season), but my other half has since gotten me to abandon this habit. Although I do continue to simply love a fan in every possible way - it’s perhaps one of my favorite appliances.

3. I once simultaneously fought off four very pissed off drunks, thankfully surviving the brawl with only a ripped shirt and a couple of bumps on my head.

4. Good pizza and wine are two of my aphrodisiacs, except when they serve as a gluttonous experience, which is most every time I decide to get them in me.

5. Existentialism, philosophy and psychology books – I’m a less annoying version of Dr. Phil when the situation calls for it, which is both an advantage and a hindrance.

6. At college, I witnessed a horrible accident while walking down a main street half-drunk. I had just come from a friend’s house and there were no other cars on the road at the time. Seemingly out of nowhere came a speeding old, red pickup that collided right into a tree. I froze for a brief moment and then ran over to the scene, where an older man and young boy were slouched over in the car, bleeding and barely conscious. I yelled for a nearby man on his porch to call 911 and then instructed the victims to lie still. Luckily, a man came running out of nowhere claiming he was an EMT. I guarded the scene as he aided the victims, with the police and emergency responders showing up shortly thereafter. I felt good (better than the high I was on) for having done my part.

7. I’m very competitive and hate losing, and I’m also a strict enforcer of the rules. So what if my non-native English speaking fiancée beat me in (English) Scrabble. I’ll get her next time. It’s likely she cheated anyway.

8. I can be a cheeseball when I need to be, much different than my parents and my fiancée being obsessed with eating cheese.

9. I love playing sports much more than watching them. If I knew more talented and willing athletes, I’d be out there playing recreational sports with them, and other people would be watching us.

10. I used to have some serious basketball and baseball games with myself. I was victorious nearly every time.

11. I once was a few feet away from Tiger Woods and wanted to say something to him but didn’t. But then I thought, “why piss him off when he’s on the job?” I still think that when he looked right at me, he was thinking, “that’s right bud, keep it shut.” I gone and did good.

12. Because I tend to be childlike myself at times, I consider myself to be good with children.

13. Blue is my favorite color. But I still have to give the question, what is your favorite color? far too much thought, even though I know blue is my favorite color. Or is it?

14. I fantasized about living in a foreign country when I was a young lad. I now live in a foreign country (as an adult) and sometimes fantasize about living back in my home country.

15. I came as close as I’d ever come to a head on collision with another car while driving at a very high rate of speed during a (discreet) car chase. It was during the course of my job as a private investigator, and a relatively unimportant case. Too many Lethal Weapon and Beverly Hills Cop movies for this kid. Thankfully the po-po weren’t on the scene to throw me in the clinker for my thickheaded tactics.

16. I have little tolerance for ignorance and hatred. But, I’m also the first one to not like someone because of what I find annoying in them. Family and loved ones excluded of course.

17. I’m that guy that says what’s on his mind, only to regret it moments later when the people around me are thinking, “I can’t believe he just said that.”

18. I’ve tried to discover the meaning of life, but then realized there really isn’t a cookie cutter answer. Nevertheless, I'll offer one: Just try to be good and do the best you can for what it is you want, and hopefully everything will fall into place. If it doesn’t, get a really good lawyer or a sympathetic friend or family member to bail your ass out.

19. I love to research, plan, and organize, as well as to be in control of everyone and everything. I’m not a very fun guy.

20. Some of the best moments with my father have been on the golf course. It was these times that I truly saw him as the really good man he is.

21. I can be a difficult, argumentative prick or an easy-going pacifist. I normally flip a coin in the morning to decide which I’ll be for the day.

22. My favorite books as a child were Just So Stories and Where the Sidewalk Ends.

23. I think Texas Holdem is one hell of a good time, especially when playing with close friends.

24. One of my happiest materialistic moments was when my brother won a McDonald’s sweepstakes contest about twenty years ago (with my mother claiming the prizes because he did not meet the contest age requirement), which landed us with an enormous projection-sized television, a high-tech video game, an authentic Centipede arcade game, and some other useless crap.

25. One of my saddest materialistic moments was when my parents had to give the all of the McDonald’s sweepstakes prizes back to the Ronald McDonald Foundation because they couldn’t afford to pay the taxes.

Bookstore Gas

What’s one of the quickest ways to develop hatred for a complete stranger? Unwittingly inhale one of their farts. It’s a surefire recipe for the abhorrence of your fellow man. But take that poop out of the equation. What do you have? Hopefully an unbiased opinion of that person regardless of his or her race, religion, creed, or color (of course, unless you’re some sort of racist or bigot). So, you’d consider a bookstore to be a seemingly friendly atmosphere or a place of peace and solitude. Right? Still, many of us don’t consciously expect to be the victim of a rancid toot while browsing through a bookstore, but it nevertheless happens time and time again—and we sometimes deal with it in a negative fashion.

Bookstores really are a breeding ground for flatulence. And foreign bookstores are no exception either. Why is it that people have a tendency to let one go in a bookstore?

I think I have a plausible explanation. It comes down to two things: time spent and a person’s mood. Now, I certainly don’t know the average time a person spends in a bookstore, nor can I attest to the respective mood of each individual in a bookstore at a given time. But what I can do is generalize. In my estimation people tend to spend more than a few minutes in a bookstore, and for the most part, are in a pleasant mood the longer they stay. After all, it’s a darn bookstore. Many sit down (or remain standing) to relax and take a gander at a book, which is generally a relaxing task by nature. And what’s something that’s not entirely uncommon for a relaxed person to do? You guessed it. Fart.

“That guy just farted,” she said to me while giving him the fisheye. “Damn right he did. And it’s disgusting,” I said. It happened at the local bookstore here in Frankfurt - we were going about our business, making our way toward the travel book section. The culprit—beige pants, average height, reading glasses—well, he looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. But make no mistake, we both heard it—and smelled it. Within an instant after the explosion our half-smiles turned to frowns. I carried on about the “nerve of that guy” as she just listened, with a nauseating look on her face. The air was polluted, our moods ruined. I can honestly say that we were both confounded and angry. But should we've been?

It’s not so much of it being a necessary urge as it is the natural embrace of that relaxed bookstore setting which can almost certainly trigger an indecent fart. Sounds like a relatively bold declaration, right? But it’s important to understand the underlying reason that a person is inclined to toot in a bookstore. It’s because most bookstores today create that living room feel with their cozy couches and warm atmosphere. So we really can’t be upset with the man or woman who let’s one fly. We can only fault our neighborhood bookstore for cultivating an environment that’s conducive to passing gas (which doesn’t meant that everybody’s going to do it—some will hold it in or use a bathroom—it just means that you’ll have your fair share of ones that will).

Forget that retaliatory mean look and the bottled up angry emotions when you hear or smell an unpleasantry from some stranger in a bookstore. It’s not worth the stress. Someone (if not yourself) is always going to pass gas there, and you’ll likely want to react negatively (like we did). But maybe it’s time for us to think differently and change the way we deal with this kind of stuff? Because more than likely, bookstore gas is here to stay, so we might all be better off getting used to it.

Foreign Turkey

Who said it can’t be done? Even in sauerkraut nation—-sans Mama’s home-cooked stuffing and your fellow turkey lovers (Americans) sharing in the holiday celebration—-a glorious Thanksgiving is not a far-fetched ideal, it’s an expatriate’s moral obligation that—if crafted the right way—could potentially blow your socks off.

Ingredients:

The first thing you’ll need in order to embark on an overseas Thanksgiving undertaking is a fearless, determined attitude. Without it, you’ll likely fall face first into a pumpkin pie of pity. And that’s not something you’d want.

1 can of courage
2 cups of turkey fanaticism
3 teaspoons of sassiness
¾ tablespoon of egotism
1 frozen foreign bird (to be cooked in, i.e. a German oven)
4 pounds of potatoes
3 pounds of baby carrots
2 packages of frozen green beans
3 cans of corn
cranberry sauce substitute – i.e. 1 glass of Preiselbeersauce
1 jar of applesauce
2 pounds of large mushrooms
1 package of spinach
1 stick of pepperoni
½ cup of sharp cheddar cheese
1-2 packages of brown gravy mix
stuffing from scratch recipes (online)
2 bottles of red wine
1 bottle of white wine
an unidentifiable dessert or two—or three—from one of your guests or your other half
dinner guests
a stress test administered by a mental health professional

Directions:

After you’ve scoured the Internet for any restaurants offering a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, and called to verify the legitimacy of their claim and inquire about their prices, you can surely rest on your laurels, as you’ve likely exhausted every possible option for dining out; for the prices are off the charts at the only two participating joints and you’re scared to death of those European portion sizes that could potentially negate the whole concept of a Turkey Day dinner. The inevitable home cooking endeavor for that Thanksgiving Day in Deutschland (or any other foreign land) has arrived.

Preheat your mind to frustration mode for at least twenty-four hours.

Put on a pair of comfortable sneakers and then go to at least three different supermarkets to search for the perfect foreign turkey. While walking around muddleheaded and exhausted due to too much time spent in the frozen meat section trying to identify a reasonably priced, normal-looking turkey, take the opportunity to start shopping for all of the other items on your list. Refrain from engaging in angry, negative thinking because you secretly hoped you’d stumble upon a mysterious food section consisting of pre-made stuffing and jellied cranberry sauce, with a sign above saying fifty percent off. Note: Take out any frustrations on your other half, who should only be a phone call away, and then resume any positive thinking on top of your “I know I can do this because I’m an American” mantra. If you’ve gotten most of your items but still find yourself lacking the all-important frozen bird after two hours, call it a day. If you’ve planned properly, you should still have one more day to purchase a turkey. Piss and moan for a few minutes that evening so your other half will feel bad for you and likely want to come along and help you score a respectable Thanksgiving bird the next night.

The next evening: Go to the mini-supermarket right down the street and feel like a total buffoon after your other half locates two freezers full of turkeys. Pick out your prize and call it a night. And don’t forget to put your new turkey in the refrigerator for thawing.

Thanksgiving Day:

Place your thinking cap firmly on your head in preparation for a unique transformation into a superbly clever and resourceful chef. Note: Strangely enough, this metamorphosis will come naturally. Organize all of your online recipe printouts for plain viewing. Time to get started.

Take the turkey out of the refrigerator. At this point the plastic wrapping should already be removed. Put on a pair of rubber gloves and start wincing at the sight of the slimly looking bird. Now it’s time to start ripping out its guts. Note: Realize there’s a bit of a learning curve, so it’s best not to give up. Swear loudly in the beginning stages and come within seconds of throwing in the gloves. After determining that the turkey is still frozen on the inside, resist the urge to place blame on the other person you live with. Blame only yourself and then move forward by swearing some more and pulling on the neck and giblets as hard as you possibly can. Try to hold in your cries, throw out your fourth pair of disposable gloves, and then rest for five minutes. Resume your process and eventually become victorious, but not before spilling some turkey blood and guts on the floor.

Add any salt, pepper, or spices to the turkey.

Now follow the pre-planned cooking instructions. (Ours was done in a roasting pan with a glass cover.) Note: Try not to get late information (25 minutes into cooking) over the phone from your father regarding how to remove the bag of crap located under the ass flap of the turkey. It’s typically 20 minutes of cooking time per pound, so about every half hour you should peek into the oven and marvel at the progress being made.

After all the potatoes and carrots are peeled, the spices are organized and ready to tango, the stuffed mushrooms are perfectly prepared, the dessert is cocked and loaded, the wine is chilling, and all the other pieces to your Thanksgiving puzzle are aligned, it’s time to hand the torch over to a woman (or in my case, women) so the head cooking duties can be assumed, while you allow yourself to sit back as the supervising chef—reveling in a job well done.

If you’ve followed these instructions carefully, you and your guests will be delighted at the sight, smell, and taste of your (overseas) Thanksgiving dinner.

The Cream Cheese Epidemic

Flagrant misuse of cream cheese is common practice in Germany. It’s also what I’ve come to identify as a public health problem for American expatriates living in the country. Unfortunately many of them may not even realize the seriousness of this epidemic.

Let me provide an ordinary example of this real expat’s experience of being manipulated (unsuccessfully) when confronting the issue of cream cheese exploitation. Take your seemingly unassuming tuna salad sandwich at an unnamed local sandwich restaurant here in Frankfurt. You’d expect the basics, right: lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers or onions (pickles do not have a prominent seat in most sandwiches). But hold on. That’s only if you weren’t paying attention to how most sandwiches are built here in Germany. Right before that minuscule mound of tuna and “the basics” come together to form a sandwich the haughty sandwich artist will menacingly sneak a large scoop of cream cheese on to the piece of bread. Just like that. Wham! You’ve gotten duped by the German cream cheese man (or woman, in this case)— the culprits behind every one of your food orders that is swimming in cream cheese.

Lethargy had taken me off my game on the Friday I ordered a tuna salad sandwich that came with an obscene amount of cream cheese. I must have looked too quickly at the menu - probably overlooking what was even in the sandwich - and had strangely forgotten that cream cheese is too often exploited here. (By the way, I’m not a huge fan of mayonnaise - but tuna called my name that day, so I had to answer; I just wasn’t prepared for mayo and cream cheese in the same sitting.) I chalked the order up as a loss but still had high hopes for my second request: a multi-grain bagel with cream cheese on the side. And I could only move forward as a confident customer, since it would be far too late to retract my entire order.

“Okay, so you want the cream cheese where?” she said. “I’d like it on the side, not on the bagel.” I said. “So you don’t want me to put the cream cheese on the bagel?” she said in disbelief. “That’s right. Is there something you can put it in—so I can have it on the side?” I asked. And that’s when I got the funny look, like I had just asked that she give me her shirt so I can try it on. “You can pay over there,” she said with a snicker. I slow-shuffled to my left while keeping a close eye on her and the bagel. Fortunate enough to make a cream cheese on the side request at the start, I wasn’t going to be bullied by this cream cheese nincompoop.

My order would soon pass and I would walk away with half my pride. Sitting there in a most unattractive state was a glob of cream cheese on my plate. On the side. Hallelujah. It should have been a moment for the history books, as I very well could've been the first man to have broken the mold and reached a new kind of expat life: one in which I would not be dictated by cream cheese but would be the dictator of how I want cream cheese to show up in my order. Here’s further proof of my plight, too - just yesterday my significant other suggested a cream cheese filling for the stuffed mushrooms we were planning to make. (There's no such thing as stuffing in this country.) I’d eventually succumb to her demands, but only on one condition. I needed to be the cream cheese stuffer. Total control.

It’s been a long and arduous struggle as an expatriate who’s been exposed to the inner workings of cream cheese corruption in this country. My fear is that there will come a day when Germans can be seen wearing cream cheese on their faces. Sound strange? Yes. But I’m afraid there are no limits—no boundaries—to the Germans’ abuse and misuse of cream cheese. It's an epidemic of epic proportions, with American expats being the real victims.

I have hope, because I know there’s at least something I can do to help the cause. And here it is — a promise of something from this moment on:

The Germans will no longer be able to fool this American with their cream cheese shenanigans.