Mama Antonia

     Luis and I work together at our restaurant - he's a line cook and I bake bread.  He arrives about an hour after I start work and passes through the pasty department on his way to the line. Usually he's upbeat, generously sharing wise-cracks in English and Spanish as he passes by - one of his favorites is to excuse himself in badly-accented Gringo English as he squeezes by with a grin on his face, because he knows that the bakers prefer that he go around the other way.
    "Atras, atras. Con permisso. Graasias." Do I sound that bad when I try to speak Spanish?, I wonder.
    One day he arrived at work looking a little more pensive than usual - sleepy, with a serious expression.  "I had a strange dream last night," he said.
    It isn't unusual for Luis to share dreams with us, but this time it felt a little different, he seemed troubled.
     "I dreamed about my Mama Antonia - my grandmother - in Mexico.  She's 96 years old and not in good health.  In my dream, she was talking to me.  She was kind of angry and was scolding me. In the dream, she found out that I was visiting her small town but hadn't come to see her. 'You've been here for three days already, but you haven't come to visit me! Why not?'"
     A few weeks went by and Luis watched a video that his family had recorded while visiting with Mama Antonia.  Luis is the oldest of 12 children and one of three who have moved to the US.  He has been here since he was nineteen and has since learned English, married an American woman, started a family, and earned his American citizenship.  Luis was amused by the video because his grandmother asked about him but couldn't remember "What's his name" - his brother Memo who also lives in the US. He was saddened, though, to see how much she had aged - how small and wrinkled she looked.  He wondered if he would ever see her again.
     Luis hadn't been to Mexico for four years. Taking his whole family would be too expensive.  His wife, Lisa, had heard about the dream and seen his reaction to the video.  "You've got to go," she said.
     Luis knew about my love of traveling, my curiosity about his family, my efforts to learn Spanish.  He asked me if I wanted to go with him.
    I thought he was joking at first - then I wondered if it would be okay with his wife and children if I went and they didn't or if his grandmother was seriously ill and it would be awkward for me to be there. He assured me that he wasn't joking, his grandmother's health was relatively good, and then Lisa said that she was happy for Luis to have company.  So I jumped at the chance to see "the real Mexico" and spend time with his family.
    It turned out to be a trip to remember.
    On our third day in Mexico, we made the three-hour drive to Santa Maria to visit Mama Antonia (her husband had been called Papa Antonio). She was thrilled to see Luis and didn't scold him for being away for so long, although she did comment that he was larger - "healthier" - than he was the last time she saw him. Luis and his brother spent a long time patiently talking with her, sitting with her, trimming the lemon tree whose branches made a huge racket on the tin roof when the wind blew, and fetched medicine from the local pharmacy for her sore stomach. Late in the day, when it was time to leave, they said their farewells. She asked us all to return - even me - and when Luis asked about her stomach, she said that she had forgotten all about the stomach ache.
     When Luis had first told me about the dream, I laughed, thinking it was a funny story. Then, sometime during the trip, a thought came to me.  "Luis, did you take that dream seriously?  Do you think that Mama Antonia was asking you to come visit her?"
     "What do you think?" he asked.  "We're here, aren't we?"

Making a Living

     We were driving across Jalisco and I asked my friend Luis, who had grown up in nearby Guadalajara, a question.
     "This may be a stupid question, but I'm wondering - are there still people in Mexico who dress in the traditional white clothing, with a serape and a sombrero?"
     "Yes," he answered, "But not like they always show, with a lazy guy sleeping under a cactus."
     There was an edge, a defensiveness to his usually easygoing manner.  "You see how hard these people work - look at them here, trying to sell things on the street."
      And that's what we saw.  All along the road you would pass little stands where tacos were being made or fruit sold.  At a railroad crossing, a woman with a baby bundled to her chest would offer to sell you flowers as you stopped.  At one stop light in the city, a full array of products and services were offered, from window washing to bottled water and cell phone plans.
     Nowhere was this drive to eek out a living in whatever way available more evident, though, than when we were back at the home of Luis's parents in Guadalajara.
    All day and into the night you would hear a distinctive horn, a recorded jingle, or a tune from a passing car, truck, or bicycle. The residents had them memorized and knew without looking outside if it was the propane delivery truck, the ice cream man, taco vendors, or the guy who collects empty bottles. Some of the purveyors looked like organized, official businesses - the propane people would stop their truck, remove a ladder and scamper to the roof to change a tank, or wheel it through the front door and exchange the new one for the old one. Others were much more informal - the recycling man had three homemade metal cylindrical holders on the back of his motorcycle, each designed to hold one five-gallon plastic bucket, containing exactly 20 beer bottles. Once, there was a knock on the door and two young men asked if they could trim the tree in front of the house. They had just completed work on a tree next door, neatly shaping the branches into a cube and then loading the trimmings into the front basket of a three-wheeled cargo bicycle. Luis's sisters politely declined, saying that their dad would be disappointed if he couldn't do the work himself. The tree trimmers laughed and agreed that it would be best to let dad handle the job.
    That was typical of the interactions that I observed time and time again between those offering unofficial services and their potential customers. Never was there a sense of overbearing high-pressure salesmanship nor a rude rebuke from the customer. Even the persistent squeegie men at red lights could usually be dissuaded with a shaking of the head and a waggling of the fingers.
     What was unsaid, but obvious, was that these people were hustling, in the best sense of the word, were working hard to make a living in whatever way they could.
     No one sleeping under a cactus here.

The Herd Runs Wild

     "Da-le, da-le, da-le rebaño!" Jesús taught me this Chivas cheer before the game between the Chivas Goats and the visitors from Leon. "Go, go, go herd!"

      As we approached the stadium dressed in our striped Chivas jerseys we saw riot police organized at the entrance dressed with helmets, batons, bullet-proof vests and shields. There were even a few mounted policemen - it seemed like overkill, considering the  good-natured, well-behaved crowd. 

     We were frisked as we entered the stadium and then made our way to the seats in the top deck. The stadium was modern, comfortable and spotless - the owners were so health-conscious that everyone who sold food wore masks. Beer was sold right up to our exit after the game, but no one appeared to be under the influence. 

      Things might have been different on the lower deck, though, where the Chivas "barra" or fan group was singing, chanting, waving flags and pounding drums non-stop. They must have been pleased, though, that their team upset Leon, although the 1-0 match was a bit uneventful. 

      At the end of the match we were routed to the far end of the stadium in an effort to keep the Chivas fans separated from the rival fans - there had been problems in the past. 

     When we reached the end of the stadium, we found out why the police were there - this is where the rowdy Chivas barra exited the stadium. Everything was peaceful until a young couple wearing Leon jerseys wandered near the Chivas supporters. Taunts were hurled at them and someone tried to snatch a baseball cap. The police sprang into action and the peaceful crowd suddenly felt a little menacing. As I looked around, trying to see what was going on, my friends guided me away from the action, remembering the time that they had taken off their own Chivas jerseys so the women who were with them could put them on to cover up their visiting jerseys when the crowd had become belligerent. 

      Today seemed relatively tame, though, and I didn't leave Mexico feeling that attending a soccer game was risky. 

     At least that was true until I returned home and heard about the game the following week. 

     Chivas played their cross-town rival in the Tapatio classic at aging Jalisco stadium. Perhaps the security screening wasn't as thorough there and members of the Chivas barra were able to bring forbidden flares into the stadium. When dozens of them were set off, the security police intervened. The crowd of supporters attacked the outnumbered police, knocking them to the floor between rows of bleachers. Video shows young men dressed in striped Chivas jerseys repeatedly kicking and stomping on the defenseless police. Eight policemen were injured - two of them seriously - along with dozens of fans. 

     Since that game, 17 people have been arrested, Jalisco stadium has been closed indefinitely, and the Chivas barras has been banned from attending any further games. 

     Looking back on it, the game I attended was probably the last of it's kind - when fans could listen to chants and songs without imagining how a cheerful crowd could suddenly turn into an angry herd. 

Street Concert in Munich

The last weekend of Oktoberfest is crazy and a steady stream of beer-fueled attendees makes its way downtown to the pedestrian Marienplatz area afterwards. There was a classical quintet set up in front of a department store and after listening to them for several songs I made my way down the street to where this group was playing.
The local trio, called White, consisted of a guitar-player/singer, a stand-up base player and a drummer playing one of those wooden boxes that you sit on, called a cajon.
They were absolutely incredible, and had a crowd of about 75 dancing, clapping and singing along for an hour. Even though they were German, all of the announcing and singing was done in English and the - even though they were young and mostly German, seemed to know all of the words, even to the older tunes. The lead singer referred to us as "Publico" and often insisted that we join in. At one point the drummer passed out sparklers for us to light for the playing of
"Here Comes the Sun".
Behind them, inside the department store, the cleaning crew was enjoying the music as well. One guy kept driving in circles with a floor-cleaning vehicle and waving his arms over his head. A man and a woman appeared with mops, dancing as they buffed the floor. At the end if the song, we - Publico, that is - and they band advanced to the window and everyone applauded each other.
Someone in the crowd gathered everyone's spent sparklers and lay them neatly on the sidewalk. A group of police advanced during a final song, seeming to enjoy it as much as the rest of us. The front man acknowledged their presence, understanding that it was time to end the concert. Coins were dropped in the open guitar case, a few CD's were sold and everyone left with a smile.

Visiting the Ancestral Home in Germany

Yesterday, I visited the home and inn in Allendorf bei Frankenau Germany that was once owned by my great great grandfather Johann Daniel Krähling. His son, my great grandfather Conrad Krähling, emigrated to the United States in 1865, at the age of 19.
The timing of his emigration was fortunate as the American Civil War had just ended, and Germany was about to go to war with France. Luckily Conrad did not have to be involved in either of these conflicts.
Conrad arrived in Baltimore in September of 1865 and then worked for two years at a bakery in Washington DC in order to repay his uncle for his travel expenses. This must have been a tumultuous time in Washington, as it was only five months after the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Amazingly, my father - who is still living, spent time with Conrad (his grandfather) who was a contemporary of both the brothers Grimm (who lived in the same part of Germany) and Lincoln.
In the family photo, you can see Conrad Krahling surrounded by his family at their home in Iowa. In the front row on the right (with the stylish striped knickers) is my grandfather, William August Krahling.

Creative Parking

Here's my rental car in the tight parking place at my hotel in Germany. It was my first day in years driving a car with a stick so putting in that spot was a bit of a challenge. It's actually sort of an elevator setup and when I got there, there were no spaces. A German guy driving a Smart Car arrived just after me and started fiddling with the hydraulic controls, trying to raise one if the cars, so he could park his on the platform below. I had visions of crushing someone's $80 K BMW and was all-to-eager to let him be the one to figure it out.
Fortunately for the BMW owners he couldn't get the controls to work and went upstairs to ask for help. He came back, saying that he had to exit the garage, which he accomplished with the kind of speedy U-turn that could only be managed in that space by a Smart Car and go to a different entrance where an even more bewildering car elevator could be used.
I began struggling to make a U-turn with my larger vehicle - usually remembering that I wasn't driving an automatic, when - much to my relief - someone vacated a parking space!
Twenty minutes later, with two or three exits from the car to check my clearance and extricate my suitcase from the trunk, thanking myself for having purchased the comprehensive insurance package, my car was safely and snugly parked.

The Astronomical Clock

A crowd began to gather in front of the Astronomical Clock in Prague's Old Town Square. I positioned myself in the back, just in front of a restaurant, where I would have an unobstructed view when the clock began to chime at 7:00. It turned out to be a prime eavesdropping spot as well.
A tall slim man with greying hair arrived with his blond son, about six years old, and found a spot next to me. We all stared at the clock face in anticipation, although it was very difficult to tell the time from the astronomical clock face with it's bewildering assortment of hands, numbers and symbols for the signs of the zodiac.
The small boy seemed more interested in the restaurant behind us. "Why don't we just eat at that restaurant, Dad?" he asked in American-accented English. The dad didn't reply, so every few minutes, the son would repeat the question, emphasizing the word "that" a little more each time.
The dad would only respond with a dismissive grunt.
Then the son began to ask, every minute or two, how long it would be until the clock chimed. "Five more minutes," the dad would respond in slightly British-accented English. "Four minutes." Each time his answer was a bit more curt.
"How much more time now, Dad?"
"You need only look at the clock on top!" the dad snapped, pointing to a traditional clock high above the astronomical clock which I had not noticed before. It wasn't clear whether the son could read this sort of clock any better than he could the bewildering astronomical one.
"What's it like, Dad?"
"Some figures come out and rotate," the Dad explained in a tired-sounding voice and then switched to what sounded like a Scandanavian language and delivered a livelier explanation.
"No!" the boy responded. Is that true?"
"To tell you the truth it's been so long that I can't remember very well. I just remember that it was a bit of a letdown. My advice is to expect very little so you won't be disappointed."
After hearing this enthusiastic buildup, the son returned his attention to lobbying for dining at the nearby restaurant. The clock explanation seemed to have brought on a didactic chattiness in the father, who perhaps sensed the possibility of delivering a life lesson.
"That's a nice location for a restaurant, don't you think?" They probably have a steady stream of customers, don't you think?" The son responded non-comittally.
"You see," the dad continued. "Every hour of the day, all day, all night, for the entire year, a crowd gathers just like this one. They don't really have to search for their customers, they automatically line up here at their door."
The son was silent, so the dad continued. "Do you think they would serve good food in such a restaurant?"
"Yes?" the son answered tentatively.
"Imagine two restaurants. This one, where the customers line up at the door and another one where the owners have to work very hard to entice customers to come to their restaurant. Which do you think would be more likely to have delicious food with a staff that is always trying very hard to please their customers?"
The son was saved from having to commit to one restaurant philosophy over the other by the sound of a small bell ringing repeatedly, which signaled that the clock was starting it's display.
"Look, the skeleton is pulling the rope!" the father called out in a voice a pitch higher than the voice he had been using pre-skeleton. "I forgot about that!"
The crowd oohed as they watched and filmed. The skeleton, representing death, I suppose, caused a parade of twelve apostles to appear, rotating in two different viewing spots a bit above the skeleton. Their facial expressions were only slightly more life-affirming than that of the skeleton. There were other figures whose heads swiveled in a way that seemed to be saying what we were all thinking - "What just happened here?"
Meanwhile the son beside me was largely silent. The characters stopped their movements and a grander sounding, churchbell-like bell began to chime. The crowd quieted down and began to disburse.
I heard the dad's voice one more time next to me.
"That was better than I remembered!"