Commence the Invasion

After barfing in too many airplane toilets for my liking, I HAVE ARRIVED!

Yeah, it seems that recently I’ve developed an intolerance for flying in airplanes.  The large Indian man behind me won’t let me recline my chair, making sleep almost impossible in a 90-degree body position (despite sleep enhancers and complimentary red wine; thanks, British Airways!).  The boy next to me wants to use the toilet and almost spills my wine everywhere in the process, and I experience a brief feeling of terror as I peer behind the seat, hoping the wine has not stained the Indian man’s khaki pants.  I poke at my dinner and eat some rice, promptly expelling it afterwards via my throat. MEAN NASTY AIRPLANES 

Relief upon relief!  I am fetched by Lothar and Anne (my mentor and his woman).  They live in the St. Pauli district, which is peppered with sex shops (due to its close proximity to the Reeperbahn—more on that later) and tasty döner kebaps (gyro stands).  We wander around a bit and eat and have espresso; my prayers are thus answered.  A street fair boasts many trendy teenagers in skinny jeans and emo scarves, plus an array of people wearing pretty spiffy sneaks and sporting even spiffier haircuts.  Once when I worked in the Writing Center at Dickinson I read a paper in which the author used the word “spiffier” to describe a character’s actions.  I therefore use it now in homage to the poorly written English papers of yore.

In the attempt to feebly hang on to my sparse readership, I will try to document more interesting things than my  puke-tastic plane rides and boring daily activities.  Pictures await you!  Strange German tales will be told!  A fanbase will be created and rendered into minions to do my every bidding! 

That said, I’m beat.  One last thing:  a person from Hamburg is called a Hamburger or Hamburgerin.  It is, much to my disappointment, not a metropolis populated by walking sandwich-like entrees.