Watch the Women's World Cup

You thought it was all over. You thought that when Spain finally hoisted the men's World Cup trophy last year, that the soccer proselytizers would disappear back into the cornfields and you could move on to something more American, like arguing about whether an entire collegiate sports program should be punished if their star quarterback sells an autographed jersey (if the school in question is your rival school, the answer is "of course, the rules are the rules and we must defend the integrity of college football." If the school in question is your own, the answer is a diatribe about the injustices and hypocrisies of college football and why these athletes should be played, not to mention how your rival school manages to get away with every cheat under the sun).

Nope. I'm back with a vengeance, following up last year's World Cup sermon with an even more demanding admonishment: Watch the Women's World Cup. Yes, it started just last night over here in Germany, where the hosts defeated Canada 2:1 and France eaked out a 1:0 win over Nigeria.

The last time I really sat down to watch women's soccer was an Olympic Gold Medal game between the U.S. and Brazil. The U.S. was full of tactical smarts and the experience of those heroes who won the World Cup on our home soil in 1999. The Brazilians were true up-and-coming talents, playing with the same flair and athleticism for which their male compatriots are known. Eventually experience trumped athleticism and the U.S. pulled it out in a thriller. Every moment was saturated with excitement and passion: sport at its finest.

Soccer is a beautiful game, and these ladies play beautiful soccer. No, it won't match the world-uniting passion of the last year's World Cup, but here in Germany, as in the U.S. in '99, the stadiums are sold out, the fans are ready to cheer, and it looks to be a great tourney. And, from an American perspective, we actually have a shot at winning this one (we've won two, as indicated by the stars on their uniforms). Defending champs and hosts Germany are probably the favorite, with talented Brazil and U.S. teams not far behind. Dark horses include France, Norway and Sweden.

One more reason to watch it: I have a daughter. She's probably too young to pick up on it just yet, but I'll have her in the room with me anyway. I'm teaching her to kick her fluffy little toy ball. She may very well inherit my overall lack of athletic prowess, but I hope she grows up to know that sports, competition, physical training, teamwork, winning and losing are all good things. These are all things worth experiencing and worth celebrating. I hope she won't buy into the notion, still common here, even though Germany is hosting, that soccer is a men only obsession. Mia Hamm, the U.S.'s best all-time player, always said that a primary motivation to play was to inspire little girls, and she seems to me a better inspiration than so many of the women or men who make it on our television screens. My daughter is a little girl with little legs, but underneath her curly hair lie budding dreams waiting to bloom. If those dreams include kicking a black and white ball, then may she be inspired anew every four years.

In the meantime, pop open a bottle of German beer and turn on ESPN. It's about to start.

Learning to Walk

My daughter is a walker. It took her a little while, right up to the year and a half "start-worrying-says-the-doctor" deadline. It's been a fun process, letting her little hands grasp my pointer finger as she, with escalating confidence, moves her chubby little legs across the living room floor. She's naturally cautious, but she's recently realized the utility of staying on two legs, and loves the opportunity to take off down the street or explore the garden with her Oma (credit where credit is due: my father-in-law bought her some shoes that, unlike her other shoes, were clearly made for walkin').

Do you know of anyone who remembers learning to walk in their childhood? I know I don't, and I doubt my daughter will either. But these small steps for baby will grow in to adult steps that will carry her a world over. This is a cause for thankfulness, as Chesterton famously pointed out when he wrote: "As children, we were grateful for those who filled our stockings at Christmastime. Why not be grateful to God for filling our stockings with legs." Worth thinking for any of us who can easily tackle a staircase or hike a trail through the forest. Working limbs for the glory of God.

My daughter won't remember the lesson, yet she'll remember to walk. God designed her legs for this purpose and, Lord willing, these legs will carry her well through the years. This could serve as a bit of encouragement for anyone finding him- or herself in the position of teaching, among them pastors and parents. It's almost a running joke among Christians, where, week after week God's word is preached to us. I often find myself thinking, "wonderful sermon last week! I felt so invigorated as I sat in the pews! Now, what did he talk about again?"

Sometimes, perhaps even often, we remember those moments where a seed, faithfully thrown, hits our hearts and begin to take root, causing positive change and enlightened understanding, even when we're quite young. But as I've been writing (and indeed reading) more, I've become aware of an unaccounted for inventory of knowledge, particularly spiritual knowledge. I'll read about a concept (this week it's been Christ-like service as espoused in Philippians 2-3, which is as beautiful to think about as it is difficult to apply) that will awaken dormant thoughts and teachings, waiting in my mind to be breathed upon. Where did I learn them? A sermon? A conversation with my father? A book? A blog post? A song my mother sang to me as a baby? Some combination of the previously mentioned?

Sometimes, I'll remember; sometimes I won't. I like to remember. I like to remember who to thank, who was important to my journey. But the point is that I remember, and that I put it into practice, that I don't forget my face the moment I walk away from the mirror. That's why I think that, even when we can't immediately regurgitate the relevant facts like Will Hunting, even when we've forgotten last week's sermon or a proverb from our granddad, there's still hope. We're laying down the bricks in a house we can't understand. We're adding seasoning to the mix of every soul. We're teaching each other to walk, tentative step by tentative step until we learn to walk to new heights. Something worth remembering, even if you never remember having read it here.

Oma Lore's Lute

We found a treasure upstairs.

You see, my family will move into the upstairs part of my wife's Grandma (or Oma, around here) Lore's (pronounced LOR-eh, but close enough to "Laura" for English ears) house. Between my wife and I, Lore is the last remaining grandparent, and my daughter's only surviving great grandparent (duh). She's seen a lot in her 90 plus years, from war to Wirtschaftswunder to Wiedervereingung. She was a nurse who helped World War II veterans after the war when the fighting was over and Europe split. This included a young soldier who was blinded on the Eastern front just as the Russians were closing in. The young soldier would eventually fall in love with her, marry her and bring her back to the house where we will live - the house where my father-in-law was born. (Home births were a necessity before they were a trend)

This means, of course, we keep finding treasures as we clean out the cupboards and closets. Upstairs, there are enough built in wardrobes to occupy the Pevensie children for weeks. So, I was happy, but not particularly surprised when, while struggling to put together a chest of drawers from IKEA (carpenter I am not), my mother-in-law graciously interrupted my work to show the ancient instrument she had found.

It was a beautiful old lute, not quote broken, but decayed with age and non-use. It was wrapped in a wonderful cloth case that tied up in strings at the top, like a bag of coins. The instrument is about two and a half feet long. It has a skinny, chestnut-brown neck with enough room for eight metal strings (at the moment there are only four). The bottom is shaped like a fat teardrop and is more of a birch color, while the rounded back extends a good six inches with its brown and birch stripes. There's a pleasantly shaped oval hole under the bridge, and beneath that is what I would call a pick guard on my guitar, but perhaps it's a finger guard for the Lute, with a painting of some spiky flowers crossed behind a mini-Lute. I see it and I imagine Bards of the Middle Ages, traveling from town to town to tell of wondrous stories while playfully plucking those twangy strings.

It's unplayable right now, and nicked up for good measure. It belonged to Oma Lore, who used to play guitar and piano, but had not played on her Lute since World War II. I asked my father-in-law why this was, and he was of the opinion that in spite of her better efforts, musical talent didn't run through the family's genes. By way of an example, he told me that he's much happier with heavy machinery, and a chainsaw ringing through the forest is a song in his book.

In the meantime, I intend to take the Lute to a music shop to see if anyone there can revive it. If it's beyond repair, then it'll make a hip deco piece for my office. If not, does anyone out there want to teach me to play the lute? I can pay you in song.

Closed for Corpus Christi, or The Farming Practices of Protestants

Anywhere you live, you can see how the customs, culture and holidays of any land is bathed in their history. This is, of course, true in Germany, and one of the interesting things about being here is observing the remaining residue of the Reformation and the ensuing conflicts in produced. Many towns, including my own, have a large Protestant and a larger Catholic church, for example. Some areas still find a strong religious identity that defines their area, such as the proudly Catholic Bavaria. And of course, the States with enough Catholic citizens and influence have Catholic Holiday off.

So, my new home state of Baden-Wuerttemberg is closed for business today for the feast of Fronleichnam, or Corpus Christi. B-W is traditionally Catholic and Protestant and was historically divided by not just religion, but by tribe, fiefdom, economics and much else until Napoleon conquered the whole area and put it under one administrative unit (which no one bothered to change after Napoleon's defeat). We didn't growing up staying home for such religious holidays in the States, so not being Catholic (or high-church Anglican, for that matter), I couldn't tell you when the feast was or how it came about (but for the full story, you can read all about it on Wikipedia or talk to your Catholic friends).

I've since learned that Germany's Protestants had their own Corpus Christi tradition. Martin Luther called the day un-biblical and "the most damaging of all feasts," as Corpus Christi celebrates the Catholic view of the Holy Eucharist. As a provocation, Protestant farmers in Germany would always plan to fertilize their fields on Corpus Christi, creating a pungent smell for the Catholic processions. Patriotic Protestant that I am, I have neither fields nor fertilizer, and besides, there's not much of a movement to stick it to the Catholics anymore. Practicing Catholics still march in the Corpus Christi processions, while Protestants, and pretty much everyone else, enjoy the day off.

The German Phenomenon of House Shoes

Walk into the front door of any German house, and you'll be confronted with shoes. Shoes upon shoes upon shoes. In my in-law's house, for example, there is a a shelf full if shoes - dress, crocs, Birkenstocks, hiking boots you name it - that goes all the way to the ceiling. It's on your right side when you walk in the front door, and it contains enough shoes to cover the feet of every football player in the AFC North. They sit in slots upon slots, sort of like the key-holders of an old-fashioned hotel.

You see, there's never a moment, especially for German men, when their feet are exposed to open air. That means wearing socks with sandals, and that means having different shoes for indoors and out.

I am, of course, a product of the great state of Florida. Whatever else that may mean, it also means that I love the flip flops. I love the moment when my feet are freed from the confines of shoes and socks and, naked as the day they were born, exposed to the earth's atmosphere. Need to go outside? Put on your flip flops and embrace the tan lines. Need to come in side? Kick off the flip flops if you want, but it's a pretty laissez faire attitude towards foot ware. Part of the thrill of getting home from work was always to free my feet from their prison of leather and cloth and feel the coolness of our home carpets.

This is also different than the Japanese custom, where any foot gear inside is verboten (to use a German term). In college, I had a Japanese study partner. Whenever she came to my college apartment (which at the time, I shared with two good friends), she would remove her sneakers and place them neatly upon our the illegible brown scratchy thing that passed for our welcome mat. She said she couldn't believe how we Americans would soil our floors by wearing our foot gear inside. I was worried our carpet would soil her otherwise clean feet. Of course, if we studied at her apartment, I would forget the rule and step like a clumsy barbarian, full shoe upon her silky, white, shampooed and conditioned floor. I would then meet an icy stare from my study partner and wondered if I hat kicked over some Japanese holy scripture-book. Then I would see the impeccably straight row of sandals and sneakers by the door and retreat to the front door to remove my foul sandals, sniffing like a punished puppy.

Here in Germany, it's not a matter of taking your shoes off, but it's about constantly changing your shoes. Whenever you come inside, you take off your outdoor shoes and put on your house shoes. Whenever you go out the back door, you take off your house shoes and you put on your garden shoes. A good German has the appropriate shoes at every exit, and appropriate house shoes waiting for them, perhaps more.

There are several varieties of house shoes. There's what we Americans would call bedroom slippers - warm cushy things to make February more liveable. Crocs are very popular here, both the name brand and a variety of imitations. They also double as garden shoes, but you're not supposed to have your indoor crocs be your garden shoes. But the most popular house shoes by far are Birkenstocks. Birkenstocks migrated to the United States on the feet of hippies, and millions of us like them for their comfort. But, weather permitting, we wear them everywhere, and without socks. After a couple of months, an American's Birkenstock sandals each have a foot imprint that perfectly matches the owner's foot for maximum comfort. That footprint is always so black that one wonders if the American's bathroom floor is made of coal.

Most Germans exclusively wear their Birkenstocks inside. Men always wear them with socks, as if their toes would fall off if given too much oxygen. Although I suspect the real reason here is hygiene. Keep in mind, if you wear socks with your sandals, you will be less likely to have feet that smell like a cattle farm at the end of the day - "cheese feet" is what the Germans call them.

And frankly, I'm a bit insecure because I don't know if I have the shoes to keep up. Sure, I have some bedroom slippers for the winter (somewhere), but if I put them on in the summer, my feet sweat like a jungle explorer in a cannibal's stew pot. I went and bought some generic crocs at Lidl (a store that must be the result of breeding Trader Joe's and Wal-Mart), but then I discovered that these shoes were good for painting the house, but I couldn't wear them anywhere else. I would need painting shoes (for good reason), garden shoes, outdoor shoes, and house shoes, not to mention other outdoor and indoor shoes for every entrance of the house. And this does not include your basic running shoes, dress shoes or hiking shoes. I think that, per year, the average German spends as much time changing shoes as Americans spend watching television (ok, maybe not that much).

In the coming weeks, I have to get to a store and get a couple more pairs of generic crocs and maybe some Birkenstock sandals. In the meantime, I'm still wearing my Gap sandals everywhere. The cheese feet of the loud American.

A Moment

Today, I had a moment. It was one of those unexpected moments that breathes spirit into my nostrils, adding liveliness to existence. I had spent most of the day painting what will be our apartment. I had just finished painting the parts of the upstairs we were going to use - bare essentials for us to unpack and move in. The last paint job, at least in those upper rooms, had been during the Vietnam War, so it was a dirty, paint-for-survival type of work where those brown splotches you thought you painted over would resurrect and beg for more. Nonetheless, I painted the rooms a satisfactory white and declared I was done, just before dinnertime.

The moment occurred when I was washed and sitting in my in-law's kitchen, decompressing from labor by reading interesting things on the Internet. My father-in-law came in and brought my daughter with him. He sat all of her one-and-a-half years in the high chair and left the room, but not before giving her a fat chunk of soft pretzel (in the States, babies eat Cheerios all the time, in Germany, soft pretzels). For the first time that day, father and daughter were alone.

I continued to read, but she wanted me attention. She smiled at me with a playful flicker in her dark eyes. She inherited my brown eyes, which also belong to my mom and two of my sisters. But there's something about those eyes that make them unique, something in the way that there's still so much to learn or to experience that give them a depth my aged eyes lack. Or perhaps its something built in to make a father's heart melt. Either way.

She wanted me to sing, so I sang. "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" is her current favorite, and she can do the hand motions in her own swinging baby way. Her hair used to be so short, but now playful curls spread out from her round head like a bush in the spring time. She wanted more food, so I went and got a Kiwi. "Wee wee!" she squealed when she saw it. I cut it in half and fed her slivers of green fruit with a spoon.

The Kiwi was reduced to two half-shells, and I wanted to empty the dish washer, but I needed a distraction. The solution was "la la." La la is what she calls my in-laws' CD player. I turned it on, wondering which old rock album from my father-in-law's collection was in it. It was an old Rolling Stones record with mostly songs I didn't recognize. No matter. My daughter and I danced to Keith Richards and Mick Jagger while I put the plates and coffee cups away.

During this moment, I savored one of the good parts of life. It's the part that feels as if this little girl is a piece of hope and love dancing in my arms. The part that knows when she looks at me through those deep brown eyes, she sees me as someone important.

The Mystery of Unity

Since my arrival in Germany, I've been experimenting with a Bible-reading method that one of my DC pastors recommended. Growing up in the church, much of my understanding of scripture has been shaped memorizing Bible verses, an activity I found incredibly dull as a child but learned to love and benefit from as a young adult. If you're not familiar with the Bible, one of its pleasures is to find out what a rich text the book is - for anyone, not just grannies and scholars. You can take a single verse and savor it for weeks, dwelling in the depths of the complexity and beauty of our triune God and His Gospel, His good news for all of mankind. Many preachers, such as Charles Spurgeon, could preach wonderful sermons based on a couple lines. My own spiritual life reached new depths and a stronger foundation when one of my youth pastors preached on Zephaniah 3:17's joyous celebration of God's love for his people.

I am grateful for this, of course, but the Bible was not written with chapter and verse in mind. The danger with a verse-focused diet is that the reader sees scripture as a series of disconnected set pieces. Each of these verses are wonderful, but they are only part of the point that, say, Paul in his letter, or a Gospel writer, or a Psalm-writing poet is trying to make. And in the Bible itself, each book, each narrative, each poem, each prophecy are part of a collective whole, the story of creation, fall and redemption.

So it was with this in mind that I followed my pastor's suggestion and, rather than focused on little stories or verses or set pieces, I would read an entire book of the Bible, at a normal reading pace. And re-read it the next day. And re-read it twenty times. (It's not clear to me when we are supposed to re-read it - if it's a once a day pattern or an evening of pure craziness. I bravely chose once a day.)

Ok, I realize that this may sound about as fun as a road trip across Kansas, but hear me out. Like nearly all things that turn out to be worthwhile, it requires some slogging. Around the fifth or sixth time I've read the text (if even that), the words got blurry. I found myself skimming like a lazy farmer, and the reading voice in my head turned impatient and sarcastic. A couple of days later, I would think of things more important than reading it again, like surfing the internet for updates about Brazilian soccer teams.

But hold on. Sometimes, resilience really is worth it. This wasn't some sort of Sisyphean effort of spirituality, but an attempt to know God and his ways from someone who was drinking from the source, in my case, Paul. The book I've been reading is Ephesians, and reading and re-reading the whole thing helped me see the book and the message in a new way.

If you want to delve into a verse or two, Ephesians has some excellent set pieces. One of the first verses I memorized, without really even trying, was 4:32: "Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ, God forgave you." I knew this because when I was five, my mom knew a catchy jingle to which the verse was sung (understandably, she was also keen that I knew Ephesians 6:1). Growing up in a Reformed church, I could not avoid learning 2:8-10 - "For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith - and this is not of yourselves, it is the gift of God - not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do." And during college, I spent what must have been a semester meditating on what the NIV calls "A Prayer for the Ephesians," Ephesians 3:14-20, where Paul's prose seems to turn into poetry and he asks us to do the impossible - "to grasp how wide and how long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses all knowledge that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God."

These verses remain in important part of my spiritual journey and a continual source of comfort, strength and love. But without reading the whole thing, there remains much undiscovered. For example, what I learned reading and re-reading all of Ephesians is that the book is focused on a mystery that Paul seems really excited about. God's unmeasurable love is certainly mysterious and exciting, but that's not it, at least directly. God's providence and that hot spiritual topic of predestination are mysterious, though that's not it either, even if that's the first thing Paul talks about in the letter. Let's quote the man himself: "This mystery is that through the gospel the Gentiles are heirs together with Israel, members together of one body, and sharers together in the promises in Christ Jesus."

In other words, the mystery is unity under the head of Christ. Read through Ephesians, and it's clear how excited Paul is about this point. The theology and poetic assurances and prayers of the first three chapters seem to underscore that we are united with Christ, and the practical instructions of the last three chapters are all about promoting and maintaining this unity. And in a way, it's hard to understand Paul's excitement. I think if I'm honest, sometimes the the things that get my blood flowing, the things I really spend my time thinking about are defending and promoting my gifts, my values, my ways, and the things that separate me or differ me from others. Paul acknowledges differences, but he tells us to bring them together in one house, in one body, in trusting submission to Jesus Christ, whose love is without border.

And maybe that's why unity is such mystery. Whatever our platitudes, unity is difficult. Tribalism is part of our fallen humanity, to treat the different with suspicion, ridicule or hate. To unite with others involves an amount of self-sacrifice that I find unnatural. Paul himself can hardly believe it happens - these walls of hostility being torn down in Christ. The church universal is so often a sad story of division upon division. But, when unity happens, when mystery is acted out, it is beyond beautiful, a heavenly symphony of different instruments, different parts, one leader, one song.

That's a beautiful thought, isn't it? It's a point worth getting excited about. It's a point worth acting upon. And how easily I miss it, in practice and in scripture reading.

Small Mercies

Germany is almost finished with what is set to be the driest spring in over a century. The news has described the whole season as summery. If so, then it's been the summer of love for the trees and grass on these hills. The plants have been spewing pollen like their Eyjafjallajökull (yes, I copied and pasted that), with few showers to wash the earth (and the cars, and the deck chairs, and anything else I left outside) clean. And for our household allergy sufferers (my wife and myself - my daughter, not yet, but genetically, she's doomed) it's been pretty nasty. During the afternoons, I feel like Godzilla emerged from the river to make my nose itch.

But this morning, rejoice, there was a rainstorm. It was a Godsend, and I mean that. It was as if the earth was given a million little baptisms, wiping away the pollen - not to mention my itchy, goopy tears. Afterwards, the air was so clear and fresh and revitalizing - it's like the feeling the commercials tell you you'll get from deodorant soap. It was a gift, and I needed it today. I needed the energy, the clean oxygen, the clear head and the ability to keep my nerve (I love it when I have that!). I needed it because we visited a place that must be in violation of the Geneva convention.

Autobahn

If you are a male, as I am, and you grew up in America, as I did, and you went to public school, camp or church youth group (I did all three), then you've probably had a conversation like this:

Boy 1: "Dude, did you know that there's a road in Germany with no speed limits? It's called the Autobahn! "
Boy 2: "Really? That's awesome!" (Note: The word awesome may be substituted for other slang words indicated the intrinsic goodness of no speed limits, depending on region or generation)
Boy 1: "Yeah, some day I'm gonna drive on it!"
Boy 2: "Me too!"

I've never really been a car guy. I didn't have posters of sports cars growing up, and I always drove clunkers until I could finally afford our Toyota Camry, a responsible automobile which we sold before moving to Plochingen. I don't really know my way around an engine, and I don't have a need to soup up a perfectly functional car to go faster. But, even with all this, I can't escape the romanticism that comes with the word Autobahn. No speed limits. None of those bossy little square signs that shout numbers and guidelines in the combined voice of your father and your kindergarten teacher. None of those small-town cops ensuring revenue to their precinct by crouching behind trees and billboards like hungry pumas, ready to devour those whose only sin was haste. I'm not a car guy, but I've known something that all boys know: speed is fun. The schoolyard equation went something like this: Faster = Funner. More Faster = More Funner. The evidence? Slides. Roller Coasters. Not to mention those car commercials where the wealthy, well-polished man finds achievement, enlightenment and true human potential while driving a German sports car faster than Superman can fly. As a great American thespian once said, "I have a need... for speed."

So yesterday, I dawned my sunglasses, kissed my daughter goodbye, and drove on the Autobahn from Stuttgart to Munich. Strictly speaking, the Autobahn is Germany's interstate system. They have a simple number systems, just as we do. We drove on the A-8, which is like driving on I-8 in the U.S. In fact, we got our idea for the Interstate highway system from Germany. Throughout WWII, the length of time to get war supplies from one end of the U.S. to another was a constant frustration for General Dwight D. Eisenhower. We had no Interstate system at the time, and State roads are slow, windy and aren't always suitable for army caravans. After conquering Germany, he was so impressed with the Autobahn system that he imposed one on us when he became president a decade later. Except ours had speed limits.

What was my stallion? A Mercedes? A BMW? A Porsche? Nope. My car was a Ford Focus, baby. Ok, but this is par to course. In Germany, Ford actually does good business selling things that are practical - and I happily turned on the radio as I drove a vehicle with decent trunk space (a luxury over here) and good gas mileage (a necessity).

To my disappointment, one of the first things that I saw on the hallowed highway was a speed limit sign. Yes, there are speed limits on parts of the Autobahn. Usually for construction, proximity of a busy city area or just a hazardous mountain road. The restrictions usually fall around 100 kilometers/hr. (60 MPH), 120 KPH (75M MPH) or 130 KPH (80 MPH). But those don't last forever, and eventually, I came to a place where I saw those accusing numbers crossed out. Restriction erased. It was there that I stomped the pedal like a Sumo Wrestler and let out my barbaric yalp, which caused a confused stare from my wife over in the passenger's seat.

Yes, I hauled. I hauled as fast as that little Ford motor could safely carry us in those condition, which was about 140-150 KPH (86-93MPH). Ok, so I didn't do anything manly or death defying. But at least it was nice not to be concerned about the speed limit. Here's the other thing: the driving was relatively safe, in spite of the lack of speed controls. That's because in Germany, there are additional traffic rules, and, here is the key, people actually follow them. The Germans don't have the liberal interpretation of traffic statues that most Americans have. During the entire trip (about two hours), no one, and I mean no one, attempted to pass me on the right. Turn singles blinked, people slowed down if needed to. That's not to say there weren't impatient jerks on the road - that's a cultural universal. But these were rule-abiding jerks - insufferable but not dangerous. The slow cars and trucks (tractor-trailer trucks have speed limits and additional rules imposed, no matter where we are) compliantly stayed in the right lane. I was a middle lane kind of guy, traveling at middle lane speed. The left lane - you should've seen the rubber burn there.

Every once in awhile, I would look in the mirror and see one of those beautiful German cars in my rear-view mirror. Mercedes, Porsche, BMW, Audi. Sometimes it was hard to to tell. Behind me, they would just be specs on the horizon. They would pass me in a flash of black (it was almost always black). Then, they would be a spec somewhere forward, in the future. That is the majesty of a German sports car, using the Autobahn for its created purpose. I'm sure their drivers achieved enlightenment and true human potential while in their vortex. Or in any case, whatever they experienced could be described in two words: More funner.