If you, like me, have often contemplated when would be the most appropriate time to invade Germany, I am glad to advise that that time is now. I will qualify this statement by adding that sheer unadulterated boredom is the long suffering companion of the globetrotter who has moved continent too often to form long-term friendships and lives alone. So when not exploring the wonders of smashing bricks on my iPad or cleaning one of the seven flat surfaces to be found in the-worlds-smallest-and-dampest-apartment-but-it-has-location-location-location I naturally turn my mind to the great metaphysical questions of this life and the next and ponder the invasion former dictatorships that became all too cocky for my liking what with their monopoly of the that holy trilogy of the luxury car market, power tools and blonde haired big-boobed supermodels, they kind of deserve it. Basically, if Germany were a man, it would be Tiger Woods in full mid life crisis.
So back to my point, I admit sometimes I get lost as well.
If you wanted to lodge a full-scale invasion on Deutschland, now is the time. You could ask Gaddafi to lend you a couple of bazookas and catch the very efficient hybrid bus from the Hauptbahnhof in Berlin and walk unhindered to the front door of the Reichstag and shoot. You would hit no one and no one would be there to stop you.
It is Easter school holidays and so, every single one of the good citizens of the Bundesrepublik is, as we speak, ordering a kaffee and a kroizzant in a café somewhere in Paris. Perhaps after spending so long cut in half, they have now taken steps to stay close together at all times, holidaying as an entire reunited nation in France in the spring before invading the Iberian peninsula for the summer.
It is so great to see them out and about in Paris. The entire TouristFahrt# busload of middle aged men and women sharing one single hairstyle, a mullet reminiscent of Olivia Newton-John in 1982, walks the streets in two long parallel lines, maintaining a measured pace (a goosestep?) ensuring they never lose sight of their safari-suited tour guide just as I once did …when I was in kindergarten…and I was 4, not 40.
Along with the daylight savings time, warm sun, the Germans and the icy cold pink wine come the strawberries.
The best thing about living in a country that does not lay claim to eight different temperate, tropical and subtropical climates is that you only eat fruit when it is in season and it actually tastes good. In Australia, you eat pineapple, tomatoes and apples all year round. A part from a few exceptions, stone fruit only comes out for the summer and mandarins (not clementines) make seasonal appearances in winter, but on the whole, despite the watery tepid taste that comes from spending as long in a truck as it did on a tree, you get everything pretty much all year round.
In France, where the sun only shines for six months, we spend half of the year eating potatoes, cabbage and mushrooms, various declinations of a khaki coloured sludge, but I don’t complain.
I don’t complain because I know that like the Germans rising from the Pilsner induced winter hibernation, spring will come and everything will turn green and red and pink and yellow just like my new Lego collection…more about that soon.
For the past month I have eaten a punnet* of strawberries everyday and two bunches of asparagus every week. I will let you imagine what effect that has had on my ‘transit’ as they say in French, but you can indeed read a scientific explanation here.
Now back to my metaphysical question pondering (why is Gwyneth Paltrow a singer now, what will Kate wear at the wedding), and if I have time, a spot of light dusting before I open another bottle of pink wine and watch masterchef….
#it always makes me giggle, childish I know
*Spell-check did not like that word so I googled it. Indeed, our American friends and as such this software do not use that word to describe a basket of strawberries.
Comments