The Munich Eye's intrepid reporter Robert Johnson is in Edinburgh to attend and cover the biggest English Language Theater Festival in the world. Follow him here and on his facebook page: An American Muenchener in Edinburgh.
Gentle reader, thank you very much for tuning in to the dispatch of what will hopefully be a successful run of columns, interviews and on the spot the updates from the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. We are going to track down the Munich influence at this Festival, and explore one of Munich's most appealing sister cities. I hope you enjoy reading about it, as much as I am enjoying doing it.
August 2, 2012 06:30 to 11:00
The Superiority of Man
Ah, Journalism! The smell of the Press, the clack and ringing of the typewriter, the editors screaming for content...Ok, things have changed. The printers are digital and outsourced, the typewriter has gone the way of the Dodo, and editors email their threats in all capitals. Nevertheless, there are a few things that have not changed. Namely, the need to do things the hard way.
Our first goal is to travel from Munich to Edinburgh, Scotland by train. The flight was cheaper, skipped the chaos of the Olympics, and took approximately 31 hours less, minus layover in London, and everyone already thinks this is insane. Obviously, we are doing something right. At the Munich Eye, we are boldly going across the continent and under the channel by train, and by choice, in search of the best Arts & Culture content for you, our beloved readership. That might be a bit different in this shallow age of digital only reporting, but we are still print, and isn't that refreshing?
For a month in Scotland you need provisions and sundries a plenty. And frankly, modern luggage leaves a lot to be desired in terms of space. On a plane, this is to be expected, but this expedition is traveling overland and carrying enough supplies for a small brigade, storing it in a bulky piece of luggage that dates back to the Adenauer years, and pulling it all on a collapsible dolly cart. The cart has been named Mario.
Last night while the preparations were underway, a certain 4 year old of long acquaintance noticed the packing and after a stern interrogation decided to let fly with a fit that Ol' Rudy Mosshammer couldn't achieve on his best day. Once the water works started, presumably because this reporter would be "gone away for too long" delays were made, plans shifted, tears dried and bedtime indefinitely delayed. Additionally, the cart that would become Mario, had neither materialized nor been tested for suitability.
Why a Cart cousin? One could ask, why not just larger modern wheeled luggage? Leverage my friends. In anticipation of this trip, a certain vertebra decided to resume a long forgotten habit of slipping out of place, and it has been a very painful 2 weeks. With the help of St. Diclofenac of the Apotheke and some very hard work by an osteopathic therapist who good journalistic practices will not let me mention, The leader of this intrepid band is walking upright, albeit painfully. Even the best of the modern bags still has one tipped over just a bit too awkwardly when the spirit is willing but the spine absent.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, after much ado, the point. Men! There are women out there. You might be together with them, they might allow you to live with them if you aren't too messy. Listen to them! All last night the refrain was repeated "Have you checked the cart? Do you even have the cart? Are you sure this will work?" In the tradition of years of Men before, there was shrugging, growling and the implicit "This is men's work, it will be fine." Further to the tradition, it wasn't fine. Upon waking at 5am and acquiring a cart in a method that could only be described as synchronicitously miraculous, the suggestion from the Frau was this. "You can't wear the backpack. It will hurt. Plus the guitar won't stack with that huge green luggage. You'll need to hand carry the guitar. "
"Woman! Leave me be. I know my business!" sayeth he.
Heh. What fools men sometimes be.
"Ha!" said she, "Ok, We'll see..."
Once in the Hof, the guitar stacked precariously on top of the luggage, and the backpack on the recalcitrant spine. We set off at a good pace to make the train, and without having taken two steps, the vertebrae and the sciatic nerve had already started a fight to see who could pinch first and hardest and guitar promptly fell off the dolly dragging the greenest of luggage with it causing it to pop open and sprawl across the Hof like a great vinyl Crocodile that had swallowed a dry cleaners and then burst.
One must commend the grace of the Frau, who had come downstairs for the send off in the tradition of the most Spartan women "Come home with your story, or come home on it!" because she didn't lay in, but rather in the tradition of the war of the sexes, she fixed everything. Helping to collect everything, fastening the luggage, removing the guitar, placing the backpack on the luggage and saying hypnotically, as she placed the guitar case in the hand that had rejected it, "Just try it this way. " Of course it worked.
So gentle reader, if you are of the male persuasion, don't be smug. Behind every good story from a man, there lurks a woman's touch. And if these columns and dispatched please you, don't forget to thank the ladies.