So there's been a lot going on since I last made the effort to sit down and actually write something. Usually, this would mean that I'd string together a massive post with the readability of a James Joyce novel read backwards through a grimy bar room mirror, but I promise this time that I'll be concise. OK, so I just said that because I could. It feels nice every now and then. Most likely this will be long. Very long. With multiple topics without visible threads or transitions. You have been warned, and I have be absolved of responsibility. See, we do have a good relationship. Either that, or we're both in politics.

Alright. I'll start big and see how far we get:

I went to Weimar last weekend, what will most likely be my last trip out of Schleswig-Holstein before my grant ends, and it was beautiful. Yeah, I know I say that all the time, but I mean it, have meant it, every time I say it. I don't know what it is exactly, whether there really are that many great cities lying around like the crumbs under my very crooked mattress, or if I've just gotten lucky and chosen wisely. The first option seems more likely, but since I like to think of myself doing anything wisely, I'll keep the second half of that sentence for myself. But it was wise. I'm just saying. It was.

It's not a very big town, but Martin Luther, Goethe, Nietzche, Schiller, and Bach all lived there, so what it lacks in quanity it more than makes up for in quality. Just so everyone knows, that last sentence was mostly shameless name dropping, since I have never read any Goethe, Schiller, or Nietzche, and don't really like Bach all that much, but if college taught me one thing, it's to fake knowledge of canonical figures with little remorse to avoid pretentious eye-rolling. Apart from that, at least four of the five changed the world in their respective fields, which entitles them to at least one honorable mention, I think. They can rest easy now: I have mentioned them in this blog. Way to go, guys.

The city itself was very pretty and seems to benefit from its not being destroyed in the war. If you want to know what it looks like, just rip a medieval village out of a childrens' pop up book and place it on the face of the earth, and you'd get a pretty good idea. Go there if you get the chance. It's nice. It reeks of age in a comfortable way. It's very secure with it. It's like the guy who doesn't have to quote Velvet Underground lyrics or wear dirty clothes to prove how cool his is: he just stands there, and you know, deep down within yourself, that he's cooler than you. Plus, the City Park is fantastic! It runs along the Ilm River, and the meadows that stretch out from its banks run for miles. I didn't know that places like that actually existed; I just thought they were in English country stories or Romantic poems. Come to think of it, they are: Goethe had a little garden house there where he did some writing. We went in because it was there, but it was kind of underwhelming, really, just a little two floor 18th century country bungelow. It was pretty, but it didn't knock my socks off or anything. I could live there, though, maybe sleep behind the admissions desk.

We arrived in Weimar on Friday, the first day of the World Cup. Now, I'm not really the sporty kind of guy: years of ducking soccer balls or cutting out of line during kick ball didn't come, as many PE teachers seemed to think, from an unwillingness to "hustle, hustle," but rather a mix of not wanted to humiliate myself by blocking an incoming Frisby with my face, or dragging down the team unlucky enough to have me on their roster. I just suck. A lot. I'm OK with it, and sports and I have generally led seperate lives since High School. But I'm willing to make an exception for the World Cup. It's just plain nuts. The whole country seems to have lost a bit of its mind, and it's downright infectious. Growing up in the United States, soccer was never a part of the national sports consciousness, but I honestly have to say that people are kind of missing out. It's very different than football or basketball, where teams can win or lose by huge margins, and shares a lot in common with baseball: the scores are routinely low, the pace of the game is irregular, and a lot of it seems to be built on complex rituals driven by fans and actually being there, as opposed to a TV sport, which kind of makes me wonder why it's not very big at home. In any case, it almost seems like celebrating the World Cup as an event is just as important as watching the games, which gives unathletic people like me a nice alternative to actually knowing what's going on: breathing the air is enough to feel like part of a massive inside joke that the world north of the Rio Grande just doesn't get.

I spent the first day after Weimar walking around Lübeck on a blistering summer day that soared to 85 degrees, which I'm not used to anymore. I wilt like new spinach when it gets over 75 without a stiff breeze, so I did my share of what I've been told is called "sweating." Apparently, when the weather gets warm enough, your body produces salty water and releases it through your skin to cool you off. It's very uncomfortable, and suggest doing what I can to avoid it. Fortunately, ice cream is a good cure. And no, this isn't Baskin Robbins. German ice cream wouldn't be caught dead hanging out with our thirty-two "flavors" in a mall. It you want to get it, you have to go to an "Eis Cafe," where you can buy everything from the standard scoops to a "Becher" with fruits and all kinds of other things that are bad for you at a comfortable table. I have turned away from my Oreo Cookie Ice Cream Ways, and have been redeemed. It's not too late. It's never too late.

The end of the day saw Stacy and I drinking a bottle of wine at the Lübeck Wine Festival to lounged-up cover versions of Willy Nelson's "On the Road," Elvis Presley's "That's Alright Mama," and some other abomination I've managed to block out of my mind. There wasn't a sausage or glass of beer in the entire place, but they apparently had no problem bringing out the cheese. We were the youngest people there by a good quarter century, and I'm pretty sure they thought we were on a date, but I'm happy to report to the breathless hordes of women camped out on my yard that I am still single. But one at a time, please. Take a number. I've still got number "one," by the way, if anyone's interested.

And you thought it was too late for self deprecation. Honestly.

I got back to Fehmarn Monday evening to find that someone had replaced my upstairs room with a green house, complete with foggy glasses. I slept without sheets with my windows open, and I still managed to sweat. Tuesday was even more impressive. It was so hot, a balmy 90 degrees, that it drove me to the hated activity of buying clothes, shorts in this case. In case you don't know, finding clothes to fit me is as about as fun as untangling balls of Christmas lights, because I am what you would call a "little guy." Apart from towering over a level plain with five feet and six inches, I am also the walking antithesis of a football player's body. I'm personally OK with it, but the clothing industry at home seems to have forgotten that people like me exist outside of "Survial Of The Fittest" dioramas, and Germany doesn't seem to be much better. It took me three hours to find a pair that could fit with my belt on, and I wouldn't have bought those if they hadn't been reduced to € 15,00.

Well, it turns out there was a good reason they were so cheap, because two buttons had managed to wedge themselves shut and tear out of the pants within five minutes of me putting them on, and if that wasn't enough, the button on the fly popped off the next day. By this point, wearing these pieces of crap had become a matter of honor, so I shuffled across the hall into my bedroom holding the waist under my elbows and dug out my little sowing kit. I hadn't seen it since mom gave me a running demo on the train in August, but I am proud to report that the operation was a success. I am wearing them now. I'm ridiculously proud of myself, and take regular breaks to inspect my handywork. That sucker's never coming off again.