Pool Time, Part II

As I bobbed around in the pool with my grinning, water wing wearing bundle of energy, I resolved to see what could be done about a cold adult beverage at dinnertime and continued to listen with great delight to the peals of genuine laughter that Short Stack was making as we frolicked in the water. We kept this up for quite some time until finally, pruny, happy but exhausted, I had to call it quits on our time in the water. Naturally, it took some time and convincing to get my son on the same page as well. He’s a master of the delay tactic and being in the pool and slippery just made him that much harder to corral. We needed food and a rest now. We’d both sleep well tonight.

Padding back to the room, I let Short Stack run ahead and just enjoyed watching his little bouncy form as he trotted down the long, straight hall toward the elevators. He was still going strong and could have gone on playing for an hour more, easily, but time was starting to run short now. The realization that it was important not to squander the few hours that we had set aside for sleeping kept me focused. The simple act of moving with purpose again, waking up my sluggish brain and getting me back in mission mode. At the room we quickly showered up, dried off and dug through the suitcase to see what we could wear. I had packed for myself and knew what I wanted. My wife had packed for our son though, so it was a little work to see what I had available for my resident bed bouncer.

He hurtled over the two foot gap from one bed to another and then back again, enjoying the freedom of movement while I used the time to find what I needed in our luggage.

Bounce, bounce, bounce! “I’m hungry!”

“I’m working on it, Buddy.” I rooted around in an effort to find pants.

“The pool was great! Can we go again after dinner?” Bounce, bounce, bounce. We already had covered this ground before and to his slight dismay, the answer was still ‘no.’ He must have figured that it was worth a try.

After what seemed far too long, I found what I needed in the neat piles of clothing. Cramming the extras back into the approximate locations I had found them in, I motioned my son over. When that failed to get his attention over the bouncing, I called to him nicely. When that failed, I decided to tackle him to the bed and with much hooting and giggling, I started buttoning him into this evening’s attire.

“Perfect!” I said through my own grinning smile. ”Nothing says, ‘I’m on vacation’ quite like Hawaiian shirts and camo shorts! Now hold still you little jumping bean!!”

Wrestling him as he squealed with glee, I managed to stuff the wriggling, laughing mass of four year old into his clothes and eventually got him ready. The hotel was supposed to have a restaurant downstairs and I intended to stay on premises if at all possible. With my energies starting to run low and Short Stack’s due to ebb any moment now, I wanted to make this as simple and painless as possible. The two of us wandered around the ground floor for a bit, looking for our goal and listening for the clink of plates and silverware. After a few minutes, I gave up and asked the front desk about dinner. It was the same nice lady who had checked us in an hour and a half ago.

“Oh, well we don’t have a dining room per se, but we do have the bar. It’s right here!” With a sweep of her hand, she motioned around the corner of the check-in desk where, indeed, it had been fitted out with bar stools. Talk about your all in one service! “Here are some menus” And with that, she handed them to me and then left us to look them over while she checked in another couple just a few feet away.

For the set up, the menu was surprisingly complete and held exactly what you’d expect for bar fare. Though I was at first a tad taken aback at this setup, I quickly realized that this would be just fine for our needs. I helped Short Stack up to his very own stool and once he discovered that it spun, immediately put it through its paces. We looked perfect for the part we were playing, loud shirts draped over our pale frames and we both were happy with the way things were turning out. Short Stack was mostly happy with spinning his stool as he revolved around and around, slowed only by my hand in the concern that he might get dizzy and fall off. Glancing through the menu, I decided on two personal sized pepperoni pizzas to go, figuring that though they were probably of the microwaved variety, it gave me the best shot of getting some sort of dinner into my spectacularly hard to feed son. That decided, I then looked intently at the beer list. It had been a long day and a hard push and it was almost over.

Pretty much every evening when I’m home, I celebrate the close the day with a good, cool beer and it’s become almost a ritual for me. I don’t drink much, and having been cursed with the most amazing ability to extract the most fierce hangovers from the smallest quantities of alcohol, I rarely have more than just the one, but I’d be lying if I said that the notion of continuing my tradition this evening hadn’t been in the forefront of my mind for quite some time now.

I looked at the beer list and scanned the names.

Hmmmm.

Then I started thinking about later tonight.

In less than an hour, I was going to lie down next to my young son who may or may not actually close his eyes and nod off. In reality, even if we both did manage to, it would be more nap than real sleep. I’d be getting us up an hour before midnight, repacking the car, then driving for an hour or better on unfamiliar roads and THEN would have to get us in through the gate and set up at the Kennedy Space Center. I’d need to be on my game and what I needed, regardless of what I WANTED, was something that was non-alcoholic and non-caffeinated. I needed to be good.

Booooo!

I looked away from the tempting list of frosty delight and back up at the concierge/front desk manager/waitress/bar tender whom had returned, smiling, to take our order.

“Two, small pepperoni pizzas and… how about two orange juices. Large please.”

With an inaudible sigh that rattled around in my head for a second or two, lamenting the lack of my evening drink, I placed the menu down as my son decided to abandon his stool for the comfort of my lap. Like every establishment in Florida I’ve ever been in, the air conditioning had been cranked to polar temperatures and our jaunty shirts and tropical shorts didn’t offer us much protection from the incongruous chill. I’ve always found this remarkable when I encounter it, but it always seems to be the case. One doesn’t really think of needing to pack a sweater when traveling to the tropics but I often feel like I need one when I venture inside. I never remember this until it’s too late and I’m covered in goose bumps. Now Short Stack was discovering this too. I hugged his warm body to mine and we chatted quietly as we waited for the food to appear.

In the end, getting our dinner took way longer than anticipated, especially for two microwaved dinners and as my little traveling companion started to fall asleep in my lap, I was getting more and more ticked off at the wait. We should be sleeping by now! With the food’s arrival, I quickly paid for it, scooped up both dinner and my son and headed for the elevators. When, sitting on our miniature couch back in the room I opened the takeout style boxes, I was surprised to discover the reason. The pizzas had been hand made and baked in a pizza oven. They were delicious!

Concierge/Front Desk Manager/Waitress/Bar Tender/Pizza Chef!

That girl was good!

By the time we were fed and ready for bed, it was later than I’d hoped, but still, not too bad. We’d get a good, solid three and a half to four hours before we needed to be on the road. I pulled out traveling clothes for later, laid them out so that I could jump into them with a minimum of consciousness needed, repacked the rest and got things set so we could zip out the door as fast as possible. Short Stack was moving much slower now, the efforts of the day finally showing on him. As I tucked him into one of the massive queen sized beds, I looked down with a smile as he instinctively curled up into a tiny ball. He looked like such a peanut, dwarfed by a mountain of pillows and lost under unfamiliar sheets and blankets. He was yawning continuously but the questions never stopped.

“What will we see there?”

“When will we get there?”

“They won’t launch the Shuttle without us, will they?”

“Are the astronauts going to sleep now too?”

It was time for me to go to sleep as well and I glanced at the second, still made bed just a couple of feet away where I had expected to catch what rest I could. Then I looked back at my little boy. His voice came small and groggily from beneath the sea of bedding.

“Daddy, I’m cold”

With a glance and a last thought about having my own space tonight, I turned my back on it, gently pulled back the covers of his bed, crawled in and joined him. Still in a ball, he scrunched himself into my chest and rested his head on my arm.

“G’nite, Daddy.”

“Good night, buddy. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

In seconds, he was out cold. As I drifted off myself, I thought of the astronauts who were getting ready at that very moment. The thrill that they must be living and the excitement of knowing that soon, they would be in space. The ride of a lifetime! But as I listened to my son’s quiet breathing and my nose was tickled by his mop of hair, I realized that right then, I wouldn’t trade places with any of them. This was heaven and into it, I gently slipped away as well.

Time to sleep.

Pool Time

Airport hotel pools are the best pools ever, in my opinion. The guests at such an establishment rarely make use of the facilities since they are normally transitioning from one plane to another and spending only the one night. Consequently, the pools are almost always empty and clean and today was no exception. As we sat on one of the sea of empty sun chairs, I puffed away in my attempt to inflate the little yellow water wings that Short Stack was going to use while he amused danced around in wild expectation of splashing everything in sight. A rare treat.

At home, we don’t have a pool to play in and if we did, it certainly wouldn’t be this warm. Normally, I’m not a swimming kind of guy and to be honest, I think a good part of that is due to the chilly factor. The pools in New England, unless connected to a heating system that would coast you a mortgage payment to run each month, just don’t get that nice to be in. The very best you can hope for is about a one week window that will appear some time in late August where the water goes from “breathtakingly cold” to “pretty damn brisk.” It’s gotta be a scorcher to convince me that diving in will be fun. Then, there’s the fact that our island is surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean and there is no reason good enough for me to climb into that ice bound embrace. Pretty much, if you find me floating around in the ocean in Maine, please help fish me out because I obviously fell in. Short Stack however, like any other kid his age, seems to be impervious to these mind numbingly cold water temperatures. Here, in Florida, this was going to be like bath water for him. With tiny black spots dancing before by eyes, the last air bladder on his water wings was inflated and we hopped in.

I was exhausted.

He was wired.

This was really my first clue about how this trip was going to go.

For the first time since falling asleep in my own bed the night before, I was finally relaxing and that moment of calm reflection brought the scope of this trip into sharp focus and it rolled over me like a wave. Then again… it might have been the waves my son was making just a few feet away as he reveled in creating splashes that would have gotten him in serious trouble in the bath tub. I was on duty and there was no one coming to relieve me for almost a week. My body wanted to do nothing more than go limp in the water and close my eyes and I had to consciously fight the impulse. I had to watch my son… and with a memory that chose that moment to float through my head, I had good reason to snap back to that very sobering realization.

When I was young, almost as young as Short Stack is right now, I was on vacation with my family. We too were in a tropical setting and the hotel pool called to me like the sirens to Ulysses, as it does to all children. Back then, you never saw kids with floatation devices like water wings or swim suits sporting integral air bladders. Unless you were in the ocean, you swam without and if you did have one, for whatever reason, then it was a bulky orange life vest. I guess the thinking was that if you needed something to keep you afloat, then you had no business being in the water. That might come across as sound thinking but there is one major flaw in the plan.

Me.

For what ever reason, muscle to fat ratios, high bone density, possibly unknowingly desecrating a shrine to some ancient sea god… whatever…. The fact of the matter is that I can’t float. I’m a sinker.

My wife, who would love nothing more than to live each day playing in the water, thought for years that I was simply being a frump when it came to going swimming. It’s something that she enjoys more than most do and she could never quite understand my reluctance to join her in the fun. The whole sinking thing sounded preposterous and more than a little like an invented excuse.

“Everyone can float!”

“Nope. Not me.”

“You just need a big breath in your lungs.”

“Filling up my lungs just doesn’t cut it. I sink.”

“Oh, Come on. Let’s just swim! It’ll be fun!”

“You hop in. I’ll sit here and watch.”

This conversation, in various versions, happened many times over many years as we dated and it wasn’t until some time later that she finally got to see my amazing anti-superpower it in action. One day after being once again implored to simply join her in the water and have fun, I decided that it was time for a demonstration. Kicking off my flip flops, I walked up to her in the shallows of the soft, sandy beach.

“Watch this.”

And taking a full, healthy lung full of air, I walked out to sea and disappeared under the waves. Under water, I strolled in a slow motion pantomime across the sandy bottom, each footstep taking me deeper. I kept this up until my one, big breath of air supply began to give out. I crouched down on the seabed and sprang to the surface, sucked in another breath, flipped onto my back… and slowly settled to the bottom once again.

I can swim, mind you. It’s just all work. The whole “effortless” part of the equation is missing for me.

This brings me back to my childhood in the pool. It was an important moment for me and one I can remember perfectly, though it was almost a lifetime ago. It was the day I discovered that I sink and that you can’t call for help under water.

Early that tropical morning, I had successfully convinced my Father to take me down to the deserted swimming pool and let me play before the other hotel guests roused them selves and filled it up with their own games and antics. We had wandered down past the palm trees, placed our stuff on one of the empty deck chairs and I was now happily playing in the shallow end and loving every minute of it. My Dad was close by and watching me and other then the one other kid who was apparently old enough to go swimming on his own, we were the only two there. I come by my chatty nature honestly and as I paddled around, Dad was striking up a conversation with the only other poolside visitor by asking the kid where he and his family were from and what they had seen there already. I was lost in my own little world of splashing and play and paid little attention to the two of them as they sat on the edge, legs dangling in the water. I was never more than one good lunge away from Dad and he was doing his job keeping me safe. Things seemed fine. The problem is, no matter how hard any one tries, no matter how vigilant you are, no matter what you do to stay focused on the task at hand, no one can sustain that level of diligence indefinitely. And it only takes one second.

As I walked about in the shallow end, I neared the edge of my approved domain and my foot accidentally stepped over the submerged edge. The pool’s bottom fell away beneath my foot and the surface of the water sucked away any call for help. I can remember graphically the sensation of sliding down the steep incline, unable to arrest my descent and trying to stay on my feet as I slid along until I had reached the bottom where I stood as rooted as I would have been standing on the grass above. At this point in my life, I did not know well enough how to swim back out.

What I remember most keenly from this terrifying moment of my life was how un-terrifying it was. I knew I was in trouble and I knew that the situation was pretty dire, but the overwhelming thought that went though my head was, “Really? Like this? I’m going to drown?” Looking up through the deep, impassible water, I could still see the legs and feet of my Dad and the other boy as they sat on the pool edge, still chatting and I was struck with the notion that though I could easily see my Dad, I couldn’t call to him. I was stuck only a few feet away from my savior and I could do nothing but wave frantically and hope to be seen. It was a very humbling experience.

I don’t actually remember Dad pulling me out of the water, though only a second or two later, that’s just what he did. I had been noticed looking back up through ten feet of water and he had dove and pulled me out. After expelling what water had collected in my respiratory system, I was fine, though I think Dad was more heavily shaken the I was. I remember him holding me tight as we dripped on the ground and apologizing over and over. As a child, I found this to be completely strange and backwards. It was I who had stepped into the deep end. It had been my fault getting in that terrible situation in the first place, hadn’t it? I didn’t exactly understand.

Now, I’m the Dad.

Now, I understand.

Since the experience frightened my father far more than it did me, I spent a lot of time over the rest of the vacation getting swimming lessons from Dad in that very pool. When we got home, I was enrolled in swim classes at the local YMCA. I can swim well now, but I never forget that I sink.

Short Stack wasn’t about to sink at all. Though he has a good understanding of the exercise, he has no interest of finding out if he can do it on his own. The water wings clung to his upper arms, each a mini life jacket working to keep his head up and out of the water and his toes never leaving the safety the reachable bottom. If he wanted to venture out farther, it was with the demanded assistance of being able to cling, lemur like, to my side, my arm wrapped tightly around his waist, and that was fine with me.

Casting aside any more thoughts of relaxation for much later, I joined in with gusto as we splashed, hooted, laughed and played in our private little oasis. The sun loungers were empty but for our own towels and clothes and other than our own voices and the occasional jet overhead, the prevailing sound was of the palm fronds overhead as they clacked to each other in the late afternoon breeze. I glanced at a sign posted at eye level for pool goers. “No Glass Cups or Bottles Near Pool”

Glass Bottles…

Beer.

OhBeer! A beer sounds good!

Maybe later.

How Much to Get Drown and Shot? Part V

I’ve always been happily surprised about rocks encountered under the surface of fast moving, fresh water. That might sound odd until you understand that most of the submerged rocks that I’ve encountered in my life were in the ocean. These tend to be sharp, covered in disgusting, entangling seaweed and for a bonus, sprinkled with razor sharp barnacles or little living pincushions called sea urchins. The exposed bit of flesh that gets dragged across or smashed into it by the assassin like wave you never saw coming, tends to fair pretty badly. Then, there’s the fun of having salt water rushing into the new wound. SUCH FUN!

As my head scraped along the bottom, I looked out through what appeared to be the inside view of a snow globe. The water was crystal clear and what made for spray and foam on the surface, were zillions of dancing bubbles that tickled your skin, here in the belly of the river. The rocks were smooth and slime free here and it looked more like a meticulously carved waterslide than the maw full of pointed teeth that I had imagined. I began to realize that there was likely no way a person could actually injure themselves on the rocks, even if they tried. The water just swirled them safely away. There was still the drowning aspect to consider though and with that in mind, I pushed off the smooth granite with my feet. After a brief moment of “What-the-hell?” when I bonked my head on the upturned raft, I managed one again to suck some air into my lungs and was released from the watery silence and into the roar of the river and catcalls from others who were there to witness this scheduled car crash. We were helped out of the water, found our towels and headed for lunch.

Much of the rest of the day was consumed with…. Well… consuming. I did mention the bar, correct? Sandwiches were eaten, beers were had and as more and more waterlogged campers showed up, the four of us made room. In the evening, we chatted with others, compared rafting experiences and when those ran out, dragged out the war stories that every young man seems to have. More beer, more stories, bigger logs on the campfire. It was a great way to round out the day.

We were careful not to over do it too much though. Tomorrow we needed to be on our game. We needed to stay sharp. After all, the guy you sitting next to, laughing and offering you the next round, was going to be chasing us through the woods, trying like hell to shoot us. To be fair, we’d be trying to do the exact same thing. It was going to be fun!

(insert gross generalization here:)

We all choose to do stupid things. If you’re a girl, the stupidity tends to fall into the category of dating the guy with the huge motorcycle and the neck tattoos, spending a month’s wages on a pair of shoes or asking your flellah If he likes the green scarf or the blue one better. All in all, it’s mostly emotional pain they inflict on themselves. Guys, on the other hand, tend to make their stupid decisions with physical pain as part of the deal. Blood is a common sight among young (and old for that matter) boys. Both sexes will insist that it was all worth it. We humans are kind of predictably thick that way.

I don’t know for sure, but I’m willing to bet that if you could build a time machine and go back to an age before the invention of gunpowder, somewhere you could witness the moment where two little boys would be running around, playing and one boy would cock his finger, point it at the other, and as he brought his thumb down, yell, “BANG!”

“What was that?” the other would say.
“I don’t know. I just felt like I had to do it.”
Shall I try it?
“No, you can’t! I already shot you!”
Looking confused. “…With what?”
“I have no idea. But you’re dead and I win!”

The satisfaction felt by the first boy would be immeasurable. It’s in our DNA. What can I say?

Shooting stuff is a pleasure that seems to be innate in boys. Now, I’m not saying that there aren’t avid female shooters out there. I know they’re are (and I’m not just saying that because I live with a woman who owns her own high powered rifle). It’s just that, like it or not, boys want to shoot things. Most of us make do with fingers, sticks or toys. A few of us get to actually do it for fun!

Technically, what we had were NOT called guns. Actually, if you called them a “gun” you’d usually wind up with some stern looking individual in body armor and protective mask wagging his finger at you and telling you to cut it out and use the correct term. They were markers. Paintball markers. And don’t you forget it.

paintball gun

I’m here to tell you something.

That’s bull.

They are guns.

Wonderful, WONDERFUL guns… that shoot paintballs!

The idea behind them was one of the best B.S. cover stories that I’ve ever heard. It goes something like, “The Forest Service guys needed a way to quickly mark trees for cutting. After years of first, tying on little bits of cloth to use as markers and then later turning to spray paint, some enterprising forester came up with the idea of using paint, held inside a gelatin ball. The ball could then be flung from an air hose… thing… that he cleverly decided to call a “marker” rather than, “An awesome paint shooting gun that you could ‘accidentally’ pop the other ranger in the back of the head with when he wasn’t looking.” You can guess which project pitch would more successfully receive funding. The final product was a gizmo that looked like a gun, made a sound like a gun and worked like a gun, but was called a “marker” so that it might slip below the radar of helicopter parents and anti-gun wonks.

Marker.
Gun.
Whatever.
Lets just call in what it is… A BLAST!!!.. I mean… paintballing.

Paintballing is perhaps the pinnacle of every little boy’s dream about shooting. No more, “I got you! – No you didn’ts.” No more, “You’re out of ammo – No, I’m not’s.” No more, “You missed – Nuh –Uh’s.” Here you got to actually shoot your friends and there was no begging off. It is awesome.

Oh… And it hurts. That somehow makes it all the better. To most boys, this is an important component. Don’t believe me? Ask any little boy if he wants to play touch football or tackle. Parents want to see “touch.” Kids want to pummel each other, and right now, we were getting ready to pummel everyone we could… using marble sized blobs of paint fired from high pressure air guns as many times as we possibly could. Tomorrow was going to be fun!

-Ok. Maybe the next post will be the last one in the story…. No promises though.

How Much to Get Drown and Shot?

As I walked up to the out door tiki bar, the unmistakable shape of my friend, Ioseph’s back greeted me. I had been looking for him specifically and, lucky me, he was not easy to miss. Flaming red hair, big in every direction and as per usual, decked out in a Hawaiian shirt. I quietly strode up, reached out both hands and wrung his neck.

“Why…” I started to enquire through clenched teeth. “did I have to drive seven hours to have a beer and play in the water?!?”

Ioseph, having quickly recovered from his momentary strangulation, simply stood up and turned around, me still dangling from him like a peeved remora.

“You look like you need a drink!” Ioseph thinks everyone needs a drink.

Letting go and wordlessly taking his spot at the bar, I allowed him to order me a large, cold beer on his tab, and sucked down half of it in one lift.

“Better?”

“Grumble mumble rumble…”

Where we were, was the “the middle of no where” Canada and the reason we were here was Mountain Man’s bachelor party. Of the four close high school friends, I was the first to marry and I kept a tight rein on the pre-wedding festivities. I admit, I can be a bit of a wet blanket at times and so thankfully, my friends were decent enough to keep things sane on my bequest. It’s not that I don’t enjoy having fun. It’s more that I know Ioseph.

And knowing is half the battle.

Ioseph, when given tabula rasa is prone to go… nuts. There is no way, NO WAY, that you will be able to predict what he will get in to in the name of a good time. He is in possession of one of the most dangerous mixes of personality traits that I know. He is: self deprecating, funny, highly intelligent, totally uninhibited in any way, can justify just about anything and is instantly forgivable for just about any of these actions. If the year were 1720, I have no doubt in my mind that he would be a pirate, a royal governor of some tropical island, or both. Probably both. Luckily for the world, he’s also a very nice guy. Just bananas.

The reason he had chosen Canada was because we had nixed the idea of Vegas.

Ioseph in Vegas… *shudder*

The drive here had been a long one and I had done it alone. My directions were essentially to go north until I hit Montreal and then hang a left. When I ran out of pavement, I was just about there. I was tired and my butt hurt and I needed another beer. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why we couldn’t go white water rafting in the States. I requested my beer and paid with an American twenty. The bar tender handed me a fresh pint and twenty-two dollars in change. Hmm. This might not be such a bad thing after all.

It was already dark out and I still needed to get my stuff out of the car. I joined my friends, Ioseph, The Doctor and Mountain Man and got the lay of the land. It was time to make camp.

This, to be sure, was my kind of camping. Any campsite that comes with an outdoor bar, indoor bathroom facilities and food made by someone else gets the thumbs up in my book. For people like Mountain Man and The Doctor, I’m sure it was eye rollingly cushy, and it was, but it was also exactly what I was up for after my marathon drive. After flopping out my sleeping bag in the tent, I was unconscious in a matter of moments. Maybe it was the beer, the drive or both, but I did know that I’d better get rested up. Tomorrow was one of Mountain Man’s last days as a bachelor and there were big plans. We were going to see if we could get sucked under a raging river, flung against massive, unseen, underwater rocks and not get killed!

Hey! It’s important to have goals!

Ran out of time today.More later…
-TP

Zwack Attack

Last night, I was the parent on duty. Action Girl mostly works second shift and thus, the evenings are my territory with the Widgets. When it was just the single Widget, Short Stack, it was really not very hard to pull off. Things went pretty smoothly on the whole and hell nights not withstanding, we got along pretty well and he got to sleep at a reasonable hour. Then came Lulu Belle.

Just about the time the evening routine had become highly predictable and easy to execute, we threw in the random variable of a new baby. Things immediately got way more interesting than any sensible person would ever want. With new babies, the real problem is that routines just don’t exist long enough for you to figure them out and exploit them. Just about the time you realize that the baby always likes this or laughs at that, everything changes. Yesterday’s panacea is today’s anathema. It keeps you on your toes. It also makes me relish that evening beer all the more.

After Lulu Belle is tucked in and happily reaming about an edible world and Short Stack is lying in bed pretending to be asleep, but actually whispering stories to him self, I switch off the lights, go to the fridge and grab a beer. The day is over, both kids are fed and I’m pooped. I feel that I’ve earned my cold one.

Last night, disaster struck. As soon as the kids were down and I quietly padded into the kitchen, I had a sinking feeling. I know what I’d find. Opening the door only cemented my horror as an empty beer drawer stared back. This was not what I was hoping for. As the lone adult in the house and with both kiddos asleep (or close enough to asleep), there was no way I could to run down to the store. I was trapped in my beerless home. Just to add insult to injury, my half full bottle of Black Strap rum had been left at another house after an evening of Dark & Stormies, so my other late night favorite was inaccessible as well. I looked around to check out my options.

Scotch? Gone.
Calvados? Finished.
Whiskey? Also empty.

You have GOT to be kidding me!?

With the exception of a few liquors that didn’t appeal to me at the moment (Gin, Sake, Tequila) there was nothing in the “booze” range to be had in the house. Even the wine cellar was looking pretty bare. That’s was okay for the moment though. I didn’t want wine. I wanted BEER!

A conversation with my wife later that evening netted me some sympathy but didn’t whet my whistle. I assured her that would somehow cope without my nighttime libation but as I hung up the phone, I started casting about for something to take its place. I settled on my favorite daytime drink as an alternative and poured my self a generous glass of milk. Though cold, smooth and normally enjoyed fully, the milk lacked a certain… everything. The kicker was when Action Girl returned home after her shift was done and guiltily admitted that after the boats were tied up, she had gone out to the near by pub with a coworker to cap off the night. AAAGH!

So, with the break of a new day and a trip to town scheduled, I knew what my first stop would be. Normally, I would have saved the beer run as the last item on the “to do” list before returning to the ferry terminal… but not today. It was snowing like a bugger and knowing I had a ton of shoveling in my future, I wasn’t willing to risk it. I love my local beer and booze shop, and not just because they’ve given me free beer in the past, though to be honest, it doesn’t hurt their standing in my book. I like them because they are friendly, exceedingly well stocked and very, very knowledgeable. These are not your average front counter drones. They all know their stuff and if you ask them for their opinion on… oh, I don’t know, Finnish vodkas or Belgian dopplebocks, they will have one. A very well informed one. They are worth listening to. They are also curious and keep bringing in more and more unusual alcoholic items from obscure corners of the world. You just never know what you’ll find there.

As I walked through the door with a smile and a wave to the guy behind the counter, I got as far as, “Hey, how ya’ do…” before it changed me pointing with an outstretched hand and to a shouting.

“HOLY CRAP! YOU HAVE ZWACK!”

There, sitting on the counter, still next to the box they were being unloaded from, was the familiar green bottle with the warning-like gold Swiss style cross emblazoned on it. It’s a liqueur made in Budapest and the bottle itself is vaguely shaped like an old fashioned bomb such as one you’d fire from a bronze cannon at invading Napoleonic infantry. Perhaps they did.

“Yah, we just got these in. Are you familiar with it?”

zwack

I marveled at the bottle for a moment and thought back. I have only encountered Zwack on two occasions. The first time was at our friends Laura and Harrold’s house in western Germany. He’s a Colonel in the U.S. military and having a variety of men serving under him, he’s received various gifts to stock the bar over the years. While Action Girl and I were visiting them one time, we all decided to get some drinks going. I spotted the bottle of Zwack.

“So… What is it?” I asked.

Harrold looked at it appraisingly. “You know, I have no idea. I’ve had it for years and sort of never dared get into it.”

We got into it. The name begged for us to. I don’t remember the night too well.

The next time I spotted a bottle was years later in, of all places, a friend of a friend’s house outside of Boston. We were there for a surprise party and the bottle sat happily in the liquor cabinet all night and taunted me. We never did get into it and I wasn’t sure who our host was exactly and so, was unable to inquire in the most leading way possible. Oh, the missed Zwack!

So, a few moments after spotting this rare bird on the countertop of the booze store, I happily walked out with my very own bottle. As I sit here now, with the kiddos tucked in bed and ostensively sleeping, I’m just finishing off my first glass of Hungarian booze in many years. The taste? Well… I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that nostalgia has colored my memory of the taste. It’s a liqueur and so it’s rather syrupy and sweet. Not clean and bracing like good whiskey or vodka. Do I regret the purchase? No, not one bit. It’s a good drink after an evening moving snow around the driveway and warms you all the way down as you sip it. All in all, it’s a perfect winter libation.

Also, I’m betting that it will last us longer than a six pack of the local micro-brew’s beer. At least it had better. If we tried to polish it off in a few nights without our friends here to help us, we’d be speaking slurred Hungarian in no time.

Happy Thanksgiving!

A story for you all later. Right now, I’ve got turkey and stuffing to get into and a pumpkin pie lurking in the distance. If I can move after the feast and make it past the relatives, I’ll get something proper put down.

A happy Thanksgiving to you all who celebrate it! To others in far off lands… just know that in my book, today is the perfect day to eat far more home cooked food than is decent and reflect on the good things in life.

Cheers!
thanksgiving

-Turkish Prawn

The Tone in Dresden. Part V

The stairs went down at a very un-OSHA friendly incline and the treads, though made of stone, were well worn. They also looked vigorously unforgiving if you happened to loose your footing and got to the bottom the fast way. We made sure to use the handrail. At the bottom an open doorway to the left opened into a wide and low room capped by a repetition of double barrel-vaulted arches. To our left was the bar, made of dark wood and traditional in every aspect. Scattered throughout the room were tables with booths hugging the walls, all crowded with patrons. The music was jazz and it was evident that jazz was the reason 99% of the people here, had come. A second doorway was just visible along the wall opposite the bar. We couldn’t see what was going on in there. The way in was blocked with the backsides of other jazz lovers who stoppered up the portal. It was standing room only, who ever was playing.

We quickly grabbed a booth that was vacated and took in our surroundings. One thing was for sure. One of us needed to go for beer. Mountain Man went up and picked up the first round. Fine black beer from the south. We happily drank and listened to the old style jazz that was being performed in the next chamber. It was a fantastic way to spend an evening, we both agreed. After a little while, the beers were drained and it was time for another round or to head out. We had time. Another round, it was.

I had been having a great time traveling with my friends but my lack of knowledge in the German language was driving me crazy. Everywhere we went, I was dependent on one of my fellow travelers decoding everything for me. I felt like the old, deaf aunt that had been dragged along on vacation and needed humoring and constant help ordering the chicken broth soup. I made up my mind. I would get the beer. That, I could manage.

“You sure?” Mountain Man looked at me with an arched eyebrow.
“Yah, how hard can it be? So what do you want?” I tried to look confident.
“Umm. Just another Schwarz Bier. You sure?”

With a dismissive wave of my hand, I got up and walked toward the bar.

When I was a little kid, I discovered my Father’s “German One” book from his college days. I thought it was fascinating and he happily showed me some of the vocabulary from the early chapters. Though he only took it for one semester and had forgotten most of what was covered, he did manage to teach me how to count to ten.

Eins, Zwei, Drei, Vier, Fünf, Sechs, Sieben, Acht, Neun, Zehn.

I had all the components to make my order.

The number: Zwei (two)
The item: Bier (beer)
The type: Schwarz (stout)
And, a “please”: Bitte

I repeated it to my self under my breath as I approached the bar.

“Zwei schwarz Bier, bitte… Zwei schartz Bier, bitte… Zwei schartz Bier, bitte.”

I returned to our booth clutching three large beers.
“Uhh, what’s with the third…” Mountain Man looked confused.
“Shut up and drink. I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t you dare laugh”.

He didn’t need to. I could see his eyes twinkling at me with mirth over his foamy glass.

Dammit!

I had somehow, at the last second, blurted out “Drei schwarz Bier, bitte” With out hesitation, the barman had filled up three large glasses from the tap. I had no way to explain my error. Making him stop mid pour would have only made for a confusing moment for both of us. I got what I ordered and headed back to my table. Ugh.

The last problem encountered was that Mountain Man and I had already eaten a large dinner and then poured two giant glasses of heavy stout on top of it. We were stuffed and the third beer loomed at us like an unwanted friend. It was time to complete my humiliation. Next to us sat a nice looking, middle-aged couple, quietly enjoying the music and scene. Mountain Man offered the beer to them. Understandably, they were more than a little reserved at first. Then the situation was explained in his aggravatingly perfect German and you could see the two of them starting to get the joke. They smiled. She chuckled. I turned interesting shades of red and inspected the ceiling for… stuff.

As it turned out, the man spoke some English and we had a brief yet enjoyable conversation with them. We learned that the Tone was actually part of the old palace wine cellars and that it was THE place to come to for live music in this part of Dresden. They were also rather shocked that we found it at all since it was mostly locals who came here. Not tourists. He took the beer with thanks and we eventually found our way out of the bar, back up the stairs and into the cold night air.

The walk to the train station wasn’t far and we were eager to find our seats. We were tired and a bit tipsy and adventures a-plenty lay ahead. That night, the train pulled out into the dark with two happy tourists asleep and hogging the compartment all to them selves. It was a long trip, but that was fine. Tomorrow, we’d be in Friedrichshafen on lake Bodensee and then to Salzburg. I couldn’t wait.


Photo from here

I hope I can get back to the Tonne some day. For starters, I can hold my own now with the locals when it comes to chit chat and ordering. Also, there’s a guy there who owes me a beer.

End.

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