Klinsmann and Bradley

The U.S Men's National Team got their (Ger)man. Juergen Klinsmann, Germany's successful player who led Germany to the 1990 World Cup and 1996 European title, and who, as a coach, led an un-fancied German side to a 3rd-place finish in 2006. The Summer of 2006 is fondly remembered here as a "summer fairy tale," and Klinsmann quit while he was ahead. Given he lives in California and understands American soccer, the U.S. has had him in his sites ever since.

The value of Klinsmann is obvious. He already has one successful World Cup run with much higher stakes (his own soccer-mad country on his home soil), and his prefers fun, attacking-style soccer. Success + Fun, throw in a little celebrity, and you get a great hire!

However, living in Germany, the land of skepticism, has taught me to view every situation with a critical eye (even if it is undeserving). Is Klinsmann the best man for the job? He's an exciting personality and was an excellent player. But many here think the brain behind the 2006 run was current German national coach Jogi Loew, who was Klinsmann's assistant before his promotion and has kept Germany's run of (alas, title-less) success going ever since. Meanwhile, Klinsmann's last coaching gig at Bayern Munich lasted just over half of the 2008-09 season. During his tenure, he brought in Buddha statues and wellness activities into the Munich training facilities without rallying Bayern's superstars to their expected success. After taking a drubbing from Barcelona to crash out of the Champions League competition, Bayern sent Klinsmann his marching orders and hired a replacement to pick up the pieces.

So, can Klinsmann coach the U.S. to success (at least a World Cup quarterfinal) without Loew? Also, it seems like the U.S. has a similar personnel to what Bayern had in the Klinsmann era. They just don't have the defensive horses to play attacking style soccer. Hey could be the spark we need for to go to the next level (World Cup semi-finals), but for these reasons, my enthusiasm is tempered.

I'm now going to do something that will probably expose me as "not a real fan" or a soccer doofus. I'm going to offer a defense of Bob Bradley. Sam's Army and the most rabid of U.S. soccer fans are howling with glee after Bob Bradley's sacking. They've wanted his hairless head ever since he had the temerity to start his son (never mind that Michael Bradley has been one of the consistent and reliable players over the last few years) or that, though he coached the team to an iconic win over Spain in the confederations cup, they blew a 2:0 lead to Brazil in the final (just the five-time World Champion/definition of a soccer country Brazil). Or maybe it was, after dramatically winning their group, the U.S. lost to Ghana in the round of 16 (never mind that Ghana was an excellent team playing a home game who literally got robbed of a spot in the semifinal). Or maybe it was that the U.S. got plastered by Mexico in the Gold Cup a few weeks ago (never mind that, after blowing it against Panama in the opening round, Bradley made all the right moves to get to the final, and that Mexico could be called the most-improved national team of the year).

Bradley's time may have been up, but I've always liked him, and I'm sad to see him go. He worked hard and held his head up, always knowing he was never the U.S. soccer federation's first choice. No, he did not reach the quarterfinal, and yes, Mexico is now #1 in North America (though I suspect this has more to do with the rise of some Manchester United quality strikers at El Tri and America's defensive deterioration than coaching competency on either side), and under his leadership, the U.S. boxed above his weight so much that I wonder if he buckled under the expectation he helped create. Maybe it didn't help him that, as ESPN Leandar Schaerlackens points out, he never went out of his way to charm the media or the public, but that's one of the reasons I liked him. I find it refreshing when someone, especially a public someone, doesn't feel the need to be a salesman.

But, whatever your opinion of the Bob Bradley, Klinsmann is the now the man, and I hope my skepticism is wrong, unfounded and just a result of living just East of the Rhine. I can only wish Coach Klinsmann well, and that he brings our boys to the next level of the beautiful game.

Theology, Sensibility and Meeting John Stott

My one visit to London (so far) was to tag along with my father on a conference for the evangelistic organization now known as Cru (though it was and still is called Agape in the UK). Dad worked for Agape/Cru, but he was also studying for the pastorate at Reformed Theological Seminary in Orlando, Florida. Thus, he was excited to take his oily 16-year-old son and his cute 12-year-old daughter to a church called All Souls, where their pastor emeritus, John Stott, was scheduled to preach.

I found the music a bit stodgy and the building beautiful, but it was the white-haired pastor-theologian successfully captured the attention of my teenage self. I confess, I am fuzzy on the details, points and applications, but his sermon showed me something: the possibility of confronting a miraculous, challenging and all around chewy corner of scripture and remaining human, sensible and pastoral, intelligently and graciously leading the listeners back to God. This was the point all along. He preached on the mysterious prophecies in the book of Daniel, a book that I had rarely heard covered, save the felt sunday school story boards about the Lion's Den. I had also been to excitable conferences on biblical prophecy that seemed to lead more to culture war than to knowing and loving God (my youth pastor at the time offered some helpful correctives). He had the gift to combine wit and grace, and in that he parsed other interpretations, offered his own and pointed to the hope of the Gospel.

I now own a couple of John Stott's commentaries and have used others to for personal and communal Bible study. He is, in many respects, a reliable theologian of first resort whenever I need a better understanding of any part of scripture. But his gracious and reasonable presence that Sunday in London impacted me more. This attitude has been particularly helpful when faced with difficult questions from non-Christians; when I'm at my best, I imitate it (not always the case, sadly).

John Stott died today. His hope his seen, his faith is realized and, with Christ Jesus in paradise, his love is complete. His impact on the church can't be understated, nor his impact on the clergy who follow in his footsteps (see this moving post from one of the pastors at my old church in Washington), my father included. That day, he rallied us to have a picture taken with wise pastor, who graciously conceded. The picture is one of Dad's treasures. He often reminds me that there's a picture of me with John Stott. I consider it an act of God's grace that I met him and heard him that day.

Philippians in the Alps

A comfortable vacation in the Alps feels like the wrong setting to think about the Paul’s letter to the Philippians. I’ve heard it said that the Philippians were among the poorest churches, and Paul himself wrote to the Philippians from his final imprisonment. Suffering is a primary theme. And yet, you’d be forgiven if you didn’t notice this at first glance. This is because the other theme, running side by side throughout the whole letter, is joy.

Paul is in prison, and he is very aware that he faces the death penalty. Yet over and over again, Paul commands the Philippians to rejoice. He can’t help himself but to repeat it again throughout the letter, between other instruction, admonition and explanation. It's as if he's a little girl who just learned the word.

It’s a beautiful letter. Even the instruction, usually the part of Paul's letters where I'm tempting to stop paying attention and fantasize about the Cubs winning the World Series, blooms into song. Consider this passage, which starts with admonishment. “Do nothing out of rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus [at this word, Paul forgets himself; you can almost hear the John Williams-led orchestra start to play music here], who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore, God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.”

Why be humble? Why serve? Why should I forget my natural inclination to look only for my interests, to consider my desires, my interests, myself more significant that others? Because of Jesus, about whom Paul doesn’t just preach, he sings. He continues the theme later on when preaching against any sort of religious superiority (in this case, those who claim following Christ requires circumcision), by saying Paul considers his own religious superiority rubbish compared to “knowing Jesus Christ my Lord,” and, knowingly tying it back to the are of suffering, that in deed, he was sharing in Christ’s suffering.

In spite of what I said earlier, there is a sense that it is appropriate to read Philippians on vacation. My family is here seeking peace. We’re here to settle our souls after what felt like an unending season of transition. It’s marvelous, and as I’ve mention before, the surrounding mountains remind me of my Creator. They help me to do what I should do in all circumstances, to do what Paul famously instructs the Philippians to do, if they truly want peace. “Rejoice in the Lord always: again I will say, rejoice! Let your reasonableness be known to everyone. The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me-practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you.”

Amen.

A Summer Fashion Proposal

I just visited weather.com, and it looks like some afternoon storms are cooling off the DC area. That being said, I felt nothing but sympathy for the residents of my former hometown, who have spent the last couple of weeks sweltering in the hundreds. Here in Germany, it's been in the 70s, 60s when cloudy (Sunday felt like winter in Florida).

The summer months are particularly tough on the men of Washington DC. Women business attire allows moderately short skirts and short-sleeve blouses. This attire can handle the mid-Atlantic heat. But the conservative business dress of the District mean that men, from Capitol Hill to K Street to Think Tanks, must enclose their sweaty necks in a tie wear a suit jacket Amazon-like conditions. Moreover, male business attire ensures that the energy-guzzling air conditioning units of every office, restaurant and government building will be running until every room could house a flock of penguins (with Morgan Freeman's soothing voice narrating their activities. Hey, I'd watch it).

So, with debt payment and spending buts pending in Washington, perhaps they should consider their AC bill, not to mention the sanity of any man who has to walk from his taxi to the Longworth House Office Building as if going through a sauna.

Once again, Japan is showing the way - not just in reliable automobiles and penalty kicks, but in hot weather business fashion. Facing a summer energy crisis after the Fukushima disaster, the Japanese government is encouraging their suit-wearing class get rid of the jacket and tie for a look that conservative-dress purists would deride as business casual. And, really, why not? What's so important about the convention of a long-armed suit and a piece of silk hanging in front of your shirt that you couldn't withdraw them for a season for the expressed purpose of everyone's felicity, not to mention comfort and less energy spending. It may even help politics. Perhaps the current fiscal debates would be more effective, not to mention more courteous, if President Obama and Speaker Boehner were wearing short-sleeve cotton button downs with a throat capable of breath.

Plus, everyone can put their suit and ties back on in October. And in January, to save energy, not to mention the heating bill, everyone can wear fashionable, colorful sweater vests.

The Goody Bag Strategy

A surprising thing for a parent, at least for this one, is all the little plans and contingencies you have to make and consider when going about normal human life. Even more surprising, particularly as one who takes little joy in having things planned out, is that I often make these plans instinctively.

A few weeks before going on vacation, my daughter started to walk. Immediately, her world expanded. She was a late bloomer, as I’ve said before, and I think what really got her going is that she finally realized crawling would only get her so far. On feet, she could explore the world, or at least her grandparents’ backyard. And their house. And our apartment. And try to sneak off and run down the street like a freed hamster when we’re not looking. Whenever she gets bored, she comes to me, grabs at my hand, and, in a voice so precious that you don’t quite realize it’s a command, says, “walk.” It’s what I get for repeating the word over and over again when actually teaching her the deed. We walk, hand in hand, down the street or to the raspberry bushes (she’s going to be disappointed when we get back to see how they’re out of season) or to visit the goats that live behind the retirement home. It happens often, which means my daughter gets bored often. She gets bored, now that she knows there is a vast world to explore on two legs.

So, when packing, the thought struck my wife and I that we need to ease boredom in our Ferienwohnung, which, with one bedroom, is smaller than our apartment and much smaller than Oma and Opa’s house. That’s where I came up with the goody bag strategy.

The goody bag strategy is to fill up a small duffle bag with (based on my observation) her favorite toys and books. I won’t allow her to know that the bag contains all of the treasures. Rather, on each day throughout our vacation, I reintroduce her to one of her prized possessions. It’s worked fairly well. She squeals with recognition when it’s a toy she particularly likes. For example, she has a teddy bear with a tag that says “Charly” but whom she simply refers to as “Bear” (note to toymaker: please don’t name your toys. It’s more satisfying when children come up with their own names, even at 18 months). Showing her Bear, after a few days’ absence, was a delight for both of us. “Bear!” she cried and embraced her old friend. Now, my wife and I can steal a few moments of vacation reading (or writing) while she puts Bear “night night” (by stuffing him through the bars of the crib) or has Bear eat “nyum nyums” (by seating him in her high chair).

Books are effective too, though not always for buying us a break. I’m trying to raise my daughter to love books, and I’ve made a point to read to her well before comprehension (which is what all the parenting books say to do, anyway). It worked, but now she’s old enough to try to dictate when she gets read to, which cuts into those wonderful moments I refer to as "me time." I will be there, sitting on the sofa, in view of the Alps out my window, newspaper or one of my three vacation books before me. My daughter will pick one of her own books and, with an expression of sweet expectation, look at me and say, “book.” Once again, it’s a command, not a request. To break it would risk tears, tantrums and a pitiful look of unadulterated heartbreak that could melt granite. Hey, what are vacations for, other than catching up on my Dr. Seuss or Richard Scarry?

Curiosity, Exploration and the End of the Shuttle

Two of the past few weeks' biggest news stories are, at one level at least, more related than they appear. The first is NASA's final Space Shuttle mission, a story that captures the sentimental attention of this quasi-Floridian. Throughout my years in Orlando, we would be awakened by sonic booms, or join the entire neighborhood outside and look East for the shuttle launch. My father described it as a camera flash followed by a tail of smoke. Even before we moved to the Sunshine State, I would excitedly watch the countdowns with my parents to see those wonderful machines suddenly create tidal waves of smoke to propel itself into orbit. The idea that America's astronauts are suddenly international hitchhikers saddens me, not because there's any shame in in foreign air travel (indeed, I wish China, Russia and co. all the best), but because human space travel was an exhilarating American venture.

The second story is the News of the World scandal in Great Britain. I dislike both tabloid journalism (except for the opportunity to smirk at a clever headline) and schadenfreude, so I honestly haven't been following all of the lurid details. What got me thinking about the two stories in connection was both the Economist's decidedly unsentimental take on the space program and Die Zeit's smart reflection about the scandal and tabloid press in general.

The Economist seems more than happy to bury the risky ambition of human space travel, and their Eeyore-like response has been rightly chastised by its readers. It would be a pity if their prophecy, with a view of the world about as exciting as an accounting spreadsheet, proves correct. Yes, space flight is risky and costly, but those involved know the risks and know the cost. That is why they are called heroes. Space exploration, including human space exploration, is worthy of both public and private investment; It's worth the investment of intelligent minds, careful hands and courageous souls.

This leads me to the Zeit article. Die Zeit reminds us why tabloid journalism is so profitable, and why those who run and work for these newspapers have an enormous incentive to break convention, morality and law to sell us the profitable details. We want them, and we're willing to pay. Why? Because we are curious creatures. We're curious enough to slow down and look at the traffic accident on the other side of the highway. We're curious enough to look through the open windows of private residents. Curious enough to buy the newspaper that can feed us all the gossip as quickly as possible. Whatever else Murdoch did, he knew human nature well enough to spot a lucrative business opportunity. As politicians, pundits and public wax on about these crimes, we would do well to remember, as the Zeit does, that they would never have been committed had there been no market for it.

But inasmuch as curiosity is a vice, it is also a virtue. One of the most intelligent men I've ever met was a maintenance inspector for Walgreen's in Orlando. I got to know him, because his second job was my summer job when I was in college, and we would carpool to work together. Whatever he lacked in university knowledge, he made up for in his ability to ask the right questions on any given subject. These were the kind of questions, spurred by an uninhibited but non-morbid curiosity, that aimed like a sniper's laser at the heart of any issue, from theology to aerodynamics, to deliver the maximum amount of useful information. It was an impressive gift, and (I have to admit) I still envy it. On the same note, die Zeit has an interesting quote from Albert Einstein (my rough translation): "I'm not especially talented, but rather passionately curious."

Curiosity ranks high among the virtues that propelled us into space. And in the midst of budget battles, war, economics and everything else bringing fatigue to our nation, I worry that this curiosity is being squelched. Yes, as the Economist points out, much of that curiosity is still being worked by today's Einsteins, the scientists who launch satellites, look through telescopes and collect data to help us understand the universe in all its dimensions. This is wonderful and commendable work. But there is a courageous sort of curiosity that calls the bravest of us to actually go there ourselves. To break orbit. To land on the moon. To go beyond. Sure, we can lampoon this with Star Trek quotes or smilingly mourn them with these quotes (h/t Adam), but our society is no better without this spirit.

We are curious creatures. Curiosity is a gift from God, and like all gifts, we can use it for good or ill. The courageous curiosity of the explorer, out of fashion today perhaps, is a nobler investment than tabloid journalism. We're willing to invest a lot of money so that the Rupert Murdochs of the world can feed our curiosity about stars, celebrities and suffering souls. I'll admit that the gratification is not nearly as immediate, but perhaps our curiosity is better focused upwards.

The Mountains Declare

If you ever hike the Alps, don’t be surprised if you see, perched between hay fields and pine forests, small alters to the Crucified Savior. There seems to be one for every grassy field that creeps around the feet of these mountains. They’re like large bird houses, except the front is open and has a small painted statue of Jesus on the cross. Sometimes he is alone; sometimes he’s flanked by Mary and John. At his feet are pieces of grain, flowers or candles, small offerings and prayers.

It’s as kitschy as a Hallmark Card and probably stained by superstition, but in some ways, you can’t blame them. In central Europe, religion is for two people, children and country folk. Children, to get a little culture and values training before they have to take on the real world, and country folk, because, bless them, what do they know about reality?

But, really, you can’t blame them. I know I can’t, because today I hiked the Alps. I hiked, with my wife beside me and my daughter strapped to my back, little creatures on a country path surrounded by a congregation of mountains. The Alps are a congregation, that’s the best way to describe them. These ancient giants stand in a position of wizened and lively worship, and they beckon all who crawl on them, however lost and diminished, to join in.

Worship. Worship beckoned me, hiking the Alps. The Alps are glorious, jagged in a way that comes across as both random and purposeful. They stand as proud equals to the clouds, some bald, some defying July to wear patches of glistening snow. Unending pine trees grow bravely upwards until the point that the mountains are too high and they can no longer grow. They form an evergreen skirt around each mighty hill, a quilt of needle and bark to measure the years. The congregation sings, joys and sorrow, celebrating the summer sun until evening winds cool the daylight passions into meditations of wisdom.

Worship beckoned me. “Heaven is a place that everybody here believes in. Why we have every reason,” wrote American folk singer Pierce Pettis about a town of country folk in Alabama. Hiking the Alps, I could relate to the country folks. I wanted to build an alter or at least find two decent sticks to make a pine cross. I wanted to lift my hands and sing the words of an anointed shepherd. I recognized the handiwork of a Creator, and I knew enough about myself that I knew I needed the Creator to be a Redeemer. I knew that the woman walking next to me, the girl strapped to my back and the passing strangers in hiking boots were his handiwork too, and in the presence of the mountains, my loves for them deepened in their various paths, like the streams of melting snow that carves the wrinkly face of an ancient hill.

Has busyness, disenchantment, noise, pollution or just plain pride left you disconnected from God? Are you hurting from hope, weary of faith and unable to love? Are you doing just fine, convinced that you’ve mastered your life with no pressing need to look up. Hike the Alps. Or the Appalachians. Or the Rockies. Catch a ride to the closest mountain range. Find a path that graciously allows you to climb something much larger than you, something that has been around much longer than you or your family or your city. Hike with your eyes open. How, then, could you not join the congregation? How could you ignore beckoning worship? How could you not relate to the country folk? How could you not become a psalmist, singing, “The heavens declare the glory of the Lord,” “What is man, that you are mindful of him” and “O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name above the Earth!”

A Few Words About Our Ferienwohnung

1. Ferienwohnung literally means holiday apartment, but the German word sounds so much better, I will continue to use it.
2. Ferienwohnung is pronounced “FAIR-ee-in-VOH-nung.”
3. The Ferienwohnung belongs to an elderly couple, whose pleasantness and helpfulness are so genuine that I never had the feeling it was a professional customer service. There are several Ferienwohnungen in their house, here in Serfaus, Austria – a resort town in the Alps. Every day, our hosts work to keep the back yard pristine.
4. The back yard includes a well-behaved lawn, a vegetable garden, a flower garden and a small goldfish pond.
5. My daughter loves the little goldfish pond, and we visit it every morning. There’s also a statue of a little boy holding his hands out. My daughter feeds the little boy by putting clovers in his hands and refers to him as “Boob.” Please be advised that “Boob” is southern German slang for “little boy.” If you are the parent of a little boy, I apologize in advance if my daughter calls him Boob.
6. Our Ferienwohnung house is one of many, all over town and up and down our particular street. Each of them are in good condition and, presumably, making money, and there are cranes here building more. I detect no sense of bitterness or competition between the house-owners. Indeed, while visiting Boob, my daughter and I got to know the man who owns the house next door. He invited us to use there swing, and we took him up on it. Every morning, after we visit Boob, my daughter and I hop the wooden fence to use the neighbor’s swing.
7. Our Ferienwohung itself is on the bottom floor of the house, but that doesn’t matter, because it’s easy for us to get to the garden (to visit Boob), and all of our windows face the valley to give us a majestic view of the Alps.
8. Speaking of windows, the one downside to our Ferienwohnung is that this is the first German house I’ve been to without Rolladen (or roller blinds, but the German word is better), or at least very dark curtains. Our curtains are sufficient for modesty but useless against the summer sun, and useless for a napping 1 and a half year old. The solution? We put her pack’n’play inside the bathroom and hung our picnic blanket over the window, the only window small enough for our picnic blanket. She’s sleeping peacefully as I write this. Thankfully, the toilet is in a different room.
9. The Ferienwohnung has a dishwasher. Hallelujah.
10. The Ferienwohnung has a flat screen TV with digital cable, so we are not missing the Women’s World Cup.
11. The digital cable package includes two embarrassing Evangelical channels, a German one and an American one. The American one showed a prosperity gospel preacher in the morning, and in the evening showed a concert featuring Michael Tait, formerly of DC Talk (where’s he been?). I did not watch much of either. The German evangelical channel is much more subdued and features elderly people talking about spiritual matters, as well as nature scenes and piano muzak in the background.
12. There are also several channels that primarily feature German folk music. Think lederhosen, oompa bands and liter biers. I think elderly people in Germany watch these channels the same way my grandmother would always watch Lawrence Welk reruns.
13. Other channels produce "Schlager" Music. Schlager music is the music of choice for German beer halls since the 70s. Schlager combines German folk music, disco and Tom Jones for a sound that makes you want to drink more. I saw a schlager singer with the combined powers of Luke Skywalker's hair Clark Gable's mustache.
    
14. We’re saving money by not using the Internet. This is a forced fast, and not only do I feel very uninformed, but my hands are beginning to shake.
15. The furniture, from bed to wardrobe, is firm, comfortable and of excellent quality.
16. All in all, this is a comfortable place to return and reflect. Beauty and nature mean processing. I do this better when I turn off the television and sit where I can look one direction to see my wife and another direction to look out the window for an awe-inspiring view of the Alps. Why look elsewhere?
    

Packing - It Helps You Enjoy Your Vacation Without Guilt

There’s something about America’s puritan work ethic that makes me feel guilty about vacation. Be it beach, mountains, Disney, Vegas, whatever, there's a little devil that sits on our shoulders telling us that we don’t deserve to relax, that the only people who deserve to relax are the handsome old people in the investment bank commercials who have clearly earned their lavish retirement on a Yacht in the Caribbean.

Fortunately, for those of us currently on vacation Austria, there’s an exercise that relieves the guilt. It’s called packing. Packing for a family makes daggum sure you earned your stay in the mountains. This is especially true if it's your first time taking baby on a vacation, and you’re aren’t exactly sure what you need. For example, we had to ask ourselves, “Will their crib be sufficient or should we bring the pack’n’play?” We brought the Pack’n’Play, happily, which we can shove in the darkest room in our holiday apartment.

When it comes to packing, my wife is management and I am labor. She thinks of every possible contingency and packs accordingly (which helps avoid my usual contingency: "How late is Target open? Is there a Target in Tirol?"), and I carry everything to the car like Atlas, except that I wear clothes, I don't have that much beard and none of our luggage is spherical, though that would be cool. Wisely, we have clothes and shoes for all sorts of weather, plenty of food, and lots of books (we’re both bookworms, and I’m a moody reader who needs options). Basically, we had just enough room in our Ford Focus for our necessities (yes, I said necessities) plus a family of three, squeezing our persons between briefcases, books and bananas (our daughter loves bananas).

Of course, it was the Ford that worked hardest out of all of us. Our car braved the twisty roads through the Alps weighed down like a Camel on which you shouldn’t throw a piece of straw. It handled like we had a full grown African rhinoceros seated next to our daughter. But the Focus truly was the little car that could, bless her, and she handled her duty with distinction.

But when we got their and unloaded, we, family and automobile, could rest in the mountains, as deserving as the retirees in the investment banking commercials.

Back from Austria

The first thing we noticed is that the hills surrounding Plochingen were smaller. They looked more like bumps, actually (though, I have to admit, they felt like mountains again when I tried to run up one during my jog this morning). That's what they looked like yesterday, when we arrived back from our two-week vacation in Serfaus, Austria, a resort town located in the mighty Alps. For any Americans reading this, the Alps are the mountains in The Sound of Music, and yes, the hills were alive. For any Austrians reading this, I'm sorry. I know that movie is a stench to your nostrils, and I won't mention it again.

Of course, mountainous is relative. My home town of Orlando is so flat that you can climb a palm tree and see Cocoa Beach on a clear day. When I went to college, Tallahassee's modest hills seemed mountainous by comparison. Plochingen's small green mountains, not unlike the Appalachians, are another beauty all together, but it was a wonderful thing to hike the Alps (more on that later).

Our holiday apartment did not have internet access, save an inconsistent shared computer in the hallway, which was good only for short emails, light Facebook stalking and reading post-match Women's World Cup reports. Nonetheless, I made it my habit to write as often as I could (all most every day! *patting myself on the back*) about what I saw, felt and experienced in Austria. In the next couple of weeks, I will edit and post my better musings on this blog with the label "Austrian Correspondence" (though I don't rule out that I'll post other things as well). I will also comment on some of the Alps' delectable dairy products on Justin's food blog.

I'll start tomorrow, but in the meantime, let me say adieu to you and you and you. (sorry)