Eurovision Song Contest!

Hey all!

I was initially going to put my Eurovision and Berlin blog posts together, but there was so much Eurovision amazingness, it just didn't happen.  Today, Eurovision, tomorrow, Berlin!

And now...

EUROVISION EUROVISION EUROVISION!!

Having never been in Europe before for the musical train wreck that is the Eurovision Song Contest, the Kiwi and I were flipping shit with excitement.  After a hard day of baking and running errands, the two of us went to the supermarket to hook ourselves up and show our support for Germany, by buying Germany leis, flags, and a blow-up chair for Al.  Which we blew up really awkwardly in the lobby of his building, while wearing the leis.  Then we started screaming as soon as he opened the door and forced him to sit in the chair for the duration of the TV program.

Then it was Eurovision time!  For starters, each year the contest is hosted in the country of the previous year's winner, which, this year, meant Azerbaijan.

Hold up.  Is Azerbaijan in Europe?

First problem of the day.  Azerbaijan, Georgia, and Israel are all participants in the Eurovision Song Contest.  I realize that this is a contested point, but to my mind, countries that don't exist on a map of Europe do not count as Europe.  Take, for example, this map:

However, in all fairness, this is a pretty shitty map.  Let's look at a better one.

Even when you zoom the map out, Azerbaijan, Georgia, and Israel are SO FAR from Europe, they're not in Europe.  The reason for this is because two of them are in Asia, one of them is in the Middle East.  When we keep in mind that the laws of physics only allow you to be on one continent at a time (unless you're standing on the border with a foot on either side, taking Facebook pictures), this means that Azerbaijan, Georgia, and Israel are not actually in Europe.  

In my brain, I imagine that Israel is allowed to participate out of pity.  They're probably not often asked to send representatives to the Pan-Arabvision Song Contest (which may or may not exist), so Europe was just kind of like "Hey no worries, screw the Middle East, come hang with us because we support you politically and we're cool."  But Azerbaijan and Georgia? Yeah, no.  Please consult map.

Anyway.  Suffice to say, the Eurovision Song Contest was so bad it was amazing and we had a brilliant time making fun of it.  Which brings us to the second problem of the day:  very few of the participants could sing, dance, or do both.  The clothes were weird, the songs were weird crapstorms over an over-mixed dance-beat, and the lyrics didn't make any sense.  For example, Greece sang "you make me want your aphrodisiac."  Let's break it down:

aphrodisiac--n--something which sexually arouses

"You make me want your aphrodisiac" then becomes "You make me want your unnamed something that sexually arouses, or at least, would sexually arouse if this sentence made sense, but considering I'm currently singing with all the sexiness of a de-feathered chicken, I imagine this conversation is over.  Call me sometime."

Here are some of our favorites from the suckfest:

England.  Represented by some guy who shamelessly stole the name of a nineteeth century German composer who wrote operas.  Not so much "singing" as it is "talking out of rhythm."  He reminds me a little bit of Johnny Cash, if Johnny Cash had zero musical talent but tried really, really hard.

Russia.  Dancing old ladies.  In case you were wondering, this was the act the Kiwi and I actually picked up our phones and voted for, mostly because we couldn't close our jaws.

Sweden.  Totally an undeserved win, in my opinion.  Definitely did not deserve to come ahead of second-place Russia.  And I wanted to cut her bangs off so she could at least see.

Turkey.  Even though the fact that a Muslim country was being represented by a Jewish singer interested me, I was prepared to write Turkey off as being horrible.  That is, until the Turks turned their awkward capes into an awkward pirate ship, which happens around the 2.20 mark.

Let me give you a hint, Norway.  You can only be gangsta if you're black or American.  

Germany.  Sadly, was probably one of the best of the night in the singing department, which says something.  To his credit, the dude has GIANT eyes and a beanie.

Ireland, apparently, has threatened to continue to send Jedward to Eurovision until they win.  Which means Jedward will assault our ears until the end of time, because they blow dick for skittles.  And they jump around like scarecrows hooked up to an electric fence.

And last but not least, Moldova.  Lampshade dresses and a weird fisting dance-move we spent all Sunday imitating.

And that's it!  That was my very first Eurovision Song Contest!  It was so bad it was awesome, and I'm super pumped for next year.

More little stories.

Hey all!

Sorry for the gap in posting.  Everything's been really busy on this end--on Monday, my Portuguese professor sprung a five minute presentation  on the Azores, due on Wednesday, naturally in Portuguese.  Since we've only had classes for about six weeks, this meant I was heavily dependent on Google translate, and also some Youtube videos, to take my presentation from three minutes in length to the required five.

Then I had to upload a couple formulated theses for one of my classes.  And in between, it's just been a crap ton of reading.  I swear to you though I'm working on a real blog post though.

On Monday I also go the call back from the ticket people--remember how they gave me a week to sell the tickets, or else I had to pay for them?  Well, they sold the tickets.  However, when my bank canceled the payment, they apparently took out fees from the company they canceled it from, and not from me, which would make sense.  So the company called me all furious and insisting I transfer them the fees IMMEDIATELY and how could I allow my bank to do this to them?

The fee?  3 euros.

I have said it before, I'll say it again:  Germany, I love you, but cry me a goddamn river.

On Thursday German Mountain Man gifted us with his extra microwave, and I'm so thrilled to be able to shoot micro-waves through my food again that I'm microwaving unnecessarily frequently.  Afterwards the Kiwi and I ran around the city for a bit, and then decided to go shopping.  However, we both have exceptionally low shopping tolerances, so we spent about fifteen minutes in one store before deciding we were over it.  Then we bought Jelly Belly jellybeans from Karstadt, and took them to the bookstore, where we shook off a really awkward middle-aged pursuer who decided he wanted to give us a tour of the city.  We hid ourselves upstairs, read Game of Thrones and ate jellybeans until I had to go to Swedish class.

Yesterday I went to the cafeteria with Al, the Kiwi, and Al's friend, and we wound up getting into a really heated debate about why you can't say the word "race" in Germany, and how you talk about race if you can't use the vocabulary for it.  It was very interesting and very informative.

Today the Kiwi and I decided to go find the mall that's apparently nearby.  There were only like three clothing stores in it, but it's okay, because we went into two of them, and I got polka-dotted khaki shorts.  Also, frozen yogurt.  And I really offended some random girl in the shoe store, because, upon spotting a certain pair of shoes, I turned to the Kiwi and said "Look!  Fake Christian Louboutins!"  And Random Girl, who wan't even looking at the shoes, turned around on the defensive and yelled, "Yeah?  SO WHAT."  A)  I wan't talking to you, b)  what is your problem exactly, and c) shut your face and go put some shoes on.

Afterwards, we busted out a recipe we found in the Official Game of Thrones Recipe Book, and made honey cakes and burned kickass CDs for our EPIC ROADTRIP TO BERLIN TOMORROW!  One of my friends that I went to Bolivia with is there for a few days, so we're going to go visit her and run around and do fun things!

See you guys soon!

Flunkyball--a How-To in pictures

Hey all!

I know I've summed up the fliunkyball rules here before, but no one ever died from a comprehensive How-To if there were pictures involved.  All of these I have stolen from the Kiwi, because I forgot my camera.

And now...

Tina's Official Flunkyball How-To!

With step-by-step photo instructions

and detailed explanations.

Accompanied by an increasingly smaller typeface

and arbitrary font changes.

For starters, pick a really nice day.  Make sure you also pick a raindate (this is Germany after all), and, if the raindate turns out to be warmer than the original date, make sure you decide to reschedule.  And then STICK TO YOUR GUNS when this results in an intense couchsurf debate.  Because you're the organizer goddamit, you are awesome, and not even Jesus can touch your executive decisions.  Yes, that's right.  Shamelessly wield your power.  And then feel vindicated when Saturday turns out to be drop-dead gorgeous weather.  

Then, make sure you have begged, bribed, and threatened enough people into showing up.  Alternatively, you can also make your grilling/flunkyball event sound so cool, thirty people will show up, and not one of them will require cajoling.  

Before the game starts, take stock of the amount of meat and beer you have (respectively, the kebabed equivalent of an Indian elephant, and the amount of liquid required to drown said elephant).  Then start grilling, preferably on two grills, because it's going to take a long time to roast that entire elephant.  And get to work on all that alcohol.

Watch, highly amused, as your boyfriend and your Kiwi friend declare themselves arch-enemies at war, because one can't speak German, and the other can't understand the Kiwi accent to save his life.  And since New Zealand actually fought in WWII, make WWII jokes.

Then, start making teams!  Since this is a proper tournament, organize volunteers into four teams of four.  And commence with the first round!

The first two teams line up across from each other.  

Sometimes it helps the general mood of the game if they make angry faces at each other and shout profanities.  Since no one has a beer can, put a little soda in the bottom of an empty orange juice carton, and use that as a target.  Then, each team sends a representative out to the middle to fiercely rock-paper-scissors for going-first privileges.  Laugh your head off when the first German, instead of shaking their fist, swings their arm.  Store that piece of knowledge away for the next time you have to play rock-paper-scissors with a German.

Judge calls game start!  Throw your flunkyball whisk, as you do.  

Explain to a baffled audience why you play flunkyball with a whisk.  

Then keep playing.

When you have good aim and knock the orange juice container down, everybody DRINK FAST.

Keep playing until one team has successfully drunken all their beers.  Winning team high fives!

Continue playing, until one team has won the tournament.  Then realize you're running low on beer.  Enlist two volunteers to make a beer run.

In the meantime, convince the Irishman to play the saxophone.

Then remember you're parked next to a pirate ship playground, and all the children have gone home for the evening.  Commandeer said pirate ship.

Attempt to reenact Titanic.  Fail terribly.

Continue with flunkyball.  Be a solid judge and stick to your guns, even though it means making Al drink four extra beers because the Kiwi keeps knocking over his with the whisk.  You can even attempt to play yourself, even though you make your team lose because you can only finish half your beer, mostly because it's so disgusting. Attempt to play again using a Fanta/beer mix.  Almost win, until you accidentally knock your own drink over.  Since there's no more Fanta, convince the French girl to stand in as your substitute, since she drinks beer.

Towards the end there will be a dramatic boys vs. girls showdown, with six members on each team.  The girls will win the first round, the boys the second, and since they'll refuse to play the tiebreaker, the girls will make them all mad by yelling "Who gave up?  THE BOYS GAVE UP," and calling themselves the champions by default, WHICH THEY WERE, boys.

Eventually, there will be no more beer left.

Realize this pile is only a quarter of the amount of alcohol that was consumed.  Be really, really impressed by everyone at the party who drinks beer.

Since you're out of alcohol, carry your enthusiasm over to the fake-Mexican bar, where you'll lose half your group to the sports bar around the corner for the FC Bayern/Chelsea soccer game.  Join them for the penalty kicks.  Cover your ears to keep your brain from exploding every time the Germans score, and the bar freaks out. Root for Chelsea just so it won't be so noisy, and be happy when they win.

To conclude your wonderful day, go home and fall asleep.  Wake up the next morning to weird poundings coming from the house on your right, and horrendously loud Elvis from the house on your left.  Get screamed at by the lady who lives under you because she's insisting you were moving furniture around last night, even though you didn't get home until an hour after you were supposedly moving furniture around. Decide your furniture has come to life.  Go through the rest of your day trying to catch it moving when you're not looking.

And that, my friends, is how you do things German-student-style.

Tickets, Holidays, and the Whisk Story Concludes

Hey all!

Life is wonderful, as usual.  Here are all the fun things that have happened in the last few days.

Wednesday I decided to be a good person and call the place I had bought my Ed Sheeran tickets from.  The bank came through and refunded my money, but I figured I'd call the vendor and let them know to sell my tickets and not send them to me.  I just wound up getting into a phone fight with the lady who insisted that I pay for the tickets anyway because they had already been printed out.  I said, "I'm not paying for tickets I can't use, with money the bank has already refunded.  Do not send them to me.  Sell them to someone else."  She just keep repeating "But we've already printed them," in the same horrified tone of voice one would also use to say "But the pill is so reliable," while waving around a home pregnancy test.  And I kept saying, "Excellent.  Now sell them."  "What if we can't!  Then we'll have printed two tickets for nothing!"  "...Congratulations, you've finally worked out what recycling is for."

Of course I didn't say that.  We came to the compromise that if she couldn't sell my tickets in a week, I would pay for them and then sell them here.  I love this country, but sometimes, its inability to deal with...anything...is actually impressive.

Oh, wait, I already wrote that blog post.  Never mind.  Moving on.

Yesterday was a national holiday!  Yes, another one.  How Germany gets anything done with this many days off, I don't know, but the fact that never-ending parade of national holidays hasn't bankrupted anyone yet is admirable.  Anyway, the weather was unexpectedly nice, so I met up with the Kiwi and German Mountain Man in the city for lunch.  After wandering around to nine different cafes on nine different sides of town, we decided we all really wanted burgers.  So we found a cheap burger place, sat ourselves down, and promptly made friends with the ballsiest sparrow I've ever met in my life.  The little bastard ate french fry pieces out of my hand.  I wanted to take him home and love him forever, but that plan got vetoed.  However, I also made friends with an old married couple because the woman had a Vera Bradley purse and wanted to know where I'd gotten mine.  Turns out, she bought hers while vacationing in Lancaster.  Yay, Amish people!

After burgers, we went and got ice cream at a place the Kiwi and I had never been to. There, we discovered After Eight ice creams they put in giant cups so you could take them with you.  After Eight is colloquially known as The Greatest Ice Cream Invention Ever, and it looks like so:

Mint chocolate chip ice cream, chocolate ice cream, ten gallons of whipped cream, chocolate syrup, Hulk-green mint syrup.  Topped off with After Eight mints, chocolate pieces, and a waffle cracker.  In case you didn't have a reason to move to Germany before, now you do.  I ate ice cream until I was sick, and then passed the rest off to German Mountain Man before I died.  

Then we briefly parted ways while I went back to my apartment, grabbed every towel I own, and then claimed prime real estate by the river.  Shortly thereafter I was joined by Roommate, then the Kiwi and German Mountain Man, and we all sat down in the sun and did uni work (read: made bad jokes and shooed away the beetles).  Around 7, Al showed up, and we all waited around until it was time to go see the fireworks.  Once we realized the fireworks were on Saturday, we watched an episode of Smash, and the Kiwi and German Mountain Man headed out.  

Roommate then had lots of fun friend over for a Game Night, which I unexpectedly won because I may or may not have a tendency to bend the rules in my favor.  

This morning I had class with a British guest lecturer, and it was lovely to not lose track of the discussion when I momentarily zoned out.  Afterwards I met up with Al, Roommate, and a Japanese friend for lunch, but then had to come straight home because I had baking to do.

Our epic flunkyball/grill party is going down tomorrow, and I, because I was feeling ambitious, decided to make Portuguese pigs in a blanket.  These differ from normal pigs in a blanket (or "Sleepy Pig Blankets," as Galway started calling them) because the crust (blanket?) is made out of potatoes, not bread, which makes for little wiener delicious-ness that even Sam will put her vegetarianism on hold for long enough to eat.  

The main problem was that we don't own a potato-masher, and I forgot to buy one.  So I mashed two pounds of potatoes with a garlic crusher, which, although functional, took forever.  And then the entire rolling-out process took another eternity, so by the time all was said and baked, I'd been at it for nearly six and a half hours--plus, I had a crap ton of extra dough, which I would up cutting into strips and turning into weird potato-dough-fry-things.  But I think everything came out okay, we shall see!

Today at the couchsurfer meet-up, two highly entertaining things happened:

1) one of my Gypsy friends who lives across from me walked into the bar selling roses. I call him "friend" even though I've never seen him up close, we just sort of yell at each other out our windows.  But we instantly recognized each other, waved and said hi, and then he disappeared only to come back five minutes later and give me a rose. Yay flowers!

2)  While talking to British friend, the whisk story came up in conversation. Suddenly she turned to me and said, "Oh, remember Ginger American, who was also there that night?  Yeah, he has your whisk."  I said "I though Mya had it?"  "Mya is apparently his housemate.  I found this out two days ago.  He's coming to the grill party tomorrow, maybe he'll bring it."

So, the whisk came full circle.  It didn't go home with the correct American, but if I couldn't have it, at least one of my countrymen could.

My bike is fixed!

I took my bike and sadly detached basket over to German Mountain Man's apartment this weekend, and TA DA!  He fixed it!

The original problem was that the basket was attached to a bar, which was screwed on around the bike underneath the handlebars.  The joint where the bike was welded to the bar rusted through, and the bike basket fell off one tragic morning when I put my purse in it.  German Mountain Man took one look at it, and said he wasn't sure if he could fix it, but he would certainly try.  And I got to help!

First, he unscrewed the plates that attached the basket to the (now broken off) piece of metal.  Then he unscrewed the arm-thingy from the bike, and decided to see if he could bend the part that had rusted through to re-attach it.  When simply hitting it with a hammer didn't do the trick, he brought out the workstation, including a giant fire-maker-thing which softened the metal enough that he could flatten it out, hit it a few times for good measure, and then bend it.  Then, once it cooled, I got to down the giant heavy gloves and brush all the rust off with a rust-offer-brush.  And I also got to pretend I knew was I was doing.

Once all the rust was off, he brought out the epic power drill and epically power-drilled two holes through the newly bent metal and attaching plates, where previously there had only been a weld.  Then I got to take the all-weather anti-rust paint and give the entire contraption a few coats, which was fun.  After that, it was just a simple matter of putting screws through all the holes and reattaching the arm to the bike. Voila!  Bike fixed!  Super super exciting, and in return I gave him banana bread.    

In other news, one of my friends posted on Facebook that Ed Sheeran was coming to Göttingen, and I was all WOAH ED SHEERAN.  I looked up ticket prices, and they were a measly fifteen euros each, so I bought two and figured I'd find someone to go with me.  I was really, really, REALLY excited, for ten minutes--until I realized the concert was in September, when Claire and I will be smack dab in the middle of Ireland.  Of course.  Probably the only artist I like to ever come to my city, and he does it while I'm petting sheep and making friends with leprechauns.  

So, I immediately set about canceling the tickets--until I remember this is Germany, which isn't really as much "customer-service" oriented as it is "fuck-you-and-the-horse-you-rode-in-that's-what-you-get-for-going-to-Ireland" oriented.  Neither the online vendor nor the venue itself allow ticket returns.  Panicked, I called the bank, hoping beyond hope they would be like any American bank worth it's weight in salt and possess Magical Transaction Canceling Powers.  No such luck.  Just as I was resigning myself to being out thirty euros, the lady on the other end threw in a cheery, "Oh, but if you call us on Monday after your transaction goes through, we can cancel everything and return your money to you."  This makes no sense whatsoever, but as they say, if you look a gift horse in the mouth, you will get pregnant and die.

And that's why I've spent most of today calling the bank in intervals.  No, the transaction has not yet gone through, so I'll keep calling tomorrow.

ED SHEERAN, THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT.

Vodka Win!

This is me, just quickly checking into say hello!  Nothing interesting has happened!

Classes are fabulous, life is good, but I don't even have little dumb stories for you.  I was hoping something big and entertaining would happen tonight at the couchsurf meeting, but then I decided not to go.  Meh.  No worries.

Sadly, the most interesting thing that has happened to me in the last three days is that I burnt my hand pretty badly on our oven.  The blisters eventually popped, and I've been bandaging it and trying to keep it clean, but it was swollen and yellow and oozing and really painful when I woke up this morning.  I realized, that in what was probably a critical oversight, I forgot to bring Neosporin with me from America.  I resigned myself to my hand going gangrenous, until I suddenly remembered we have vodka in our living room, and don't they always disinfect wounds with vodka in all the old westerns? Usually somewhere in between shoving a stick in the poor guy's mouth and cutting his arm off with a tomahawk?  If John  Wayne could do it, so could I.  So, I poured my wound a shot of vodka, and soaked it.  And it hurt like a bitch.  But on the plus side, it is no longer yellow and oozing, the swelling has gone down, and it's even more or less stopped hurting.

Vodka for the win!

Storytime

Hey all!

I haven't collected any major stories in the past few days, but I have collected a whole lot of little ones.  Here they are, in no particular order:

--At the couchsurfer meetup on Friday, Tool made an appearance, and I made him pay me back for the whisk.  In addition, the Kiwi gifted me with a 50 cent whisk she found in a secondhand shop, so now we have a whisk for the kitchen, and a whisk for flunkyball.

--Speaking of flunkyball, the Kiwi and I are organizing a giant grill party/flunkyball tournament for next week.  It's bound to be many things, including epic.

--Speaking of the Kiwi, we're going to Berlin next weekend!

--Oh, and she came over and we cooked a roast last night.  I don't think I've eaten that much since I moved to Germany, and my stomach was so happy, and the food was so good, I sang songs about the chicken in between shoving it in my mouth.  And then we watched Game of Thrones, followed by the 12 minute epilogue of Lost.  Which apparently exists, and, in case you were wondering, clears up absolutely nothing.

--I missed my only class on Friday because my bike broke while I was on my way there.  And by "broke" I mean "the chain came off," which I'm usually pretty good at fixing myself, but this time I couldn't do it.  So I had to forego class to take my bike to the repair shop.

--Other bike things that are sad: my front basket fell off the other day.  By all appearances, it seems to have rusted through, but I'm really, really sad.  German Mountain Man is going to see if he can weld it back on on Thursday, and I sure hope he's successful.  I mean, if worst comes to worst, I still have a basket, like ever other bike.  But I miss my super cool double-granny baskets.

--In Portuguese today my professor asked me for an example of a traditional American food, and I, like the graceful swan I am, said, "Uh...hamburgers?"  His response: "Do you know why portuguese food is better than american food?"  "No, why?"  "Because Portugal still has a culture."

Really?  Really?  Do we want to play this game?  By all means, let us talk about that beautiful, strong, glittering culture Portugal has worked so hard to maintain.  Let's talk about how it has ceased to be relevant since approximately 1602.

I sort-of got him back later, when he was asking everyone for acronyms so he could demonstrate how they're translated into the beautiful, strong, glittering language of Portuguese.  When he asked me for an American acronym, I busted out "NAFTA." The Mexican girl laughed, but the professor just stared at me for thirty seconds, and then called on someone else.

--Speaking of language classes, Mondays are pretty much my most difficult day, if only because I have Portuguese and Swedish within a few hours of each other.  My roommate says that your native languages and your foreign languages are located in two different places in your brain, and when, for example, you're working in your foreign language Swedish, the part of your brain that deals with German and Portuguese are also activated.  Which makes sense, because on Mondays, by the time we're an hour or so into Swedish class, my brain starts legitimately short-circuiting.  I'll go to ask Al what this word means, or how you say that, and then it's like the demon hamsters that power my brain go on strike--suddenly, I can't formulate the most basic of sentences in any language, and I stare blankly at my worksheet with my mouth hanging open. Then I usually just start stabbing it with a pencil and making broken noises.

Although I have to wonder where Portuguese is in my brain.  There's a surprising amount of grammar we cover that I know without knowing I knew it.

--I found a singing teacher here in Göttingen, and he's super cool, so that's fun!

--The weather sucks, but I still love every second of my life.  Between friends, the boy, and school, I am fiendishly fiendishly busy, and I haven't even added an income to that situation.  I don't know how I'm going to get through the semester sleeping several hours a night, but I do know it's going to go by fast.  I can't believe it's already the first week of May.

--Oh!  So I was considering being a good student and getting an internship during the month of August, since all my friends will be gone.  And then I reconsidered, and decided I'd much rather go on a two-week tour of Eastern Europe before meeting up with Claire in Ireland for our month of backpacking.  YAY!

--I was to a house party Friday night, and I ran into the girl who teaches my rolled-r class.  She was drunk and hooking up with some dude.  Tomorrow's class is totally not going to be awkward or anything.

--Al and I went to a castle last weekend--which turned out to be closed, because you can close castle ruins.  So then we went to another castle.  Partial life win.

--New song of the day?  Sorry it's in German, but it's still nice:

Hope you all had fabulous weekends!

The Very Long, Very Complicated, but Very True Story About the Whisk

The following is a very long, very complicated, but very true story, about the fate that befell my roommate's whisk.

As you may recall from my last post, the Kiwi and I had the bright idea to bake a Pavlova on Saturday, and failed at it miserably.  I think I also mentioned how she had to carry around my frying pan and whisk in her bookbag for the rest of the evening. Once we left the theater, we both went to my house so she could pick up some of her things, and leave the cooking utensils.  She gave me back the pan, but we both completely forgot about the whisk.

On Sunday, Roommate wanted to make pudding, but first she had to go through the entire kitchen looking for the whisk.  "Ah, shit," said I, "I know where it is."  So I instantly texted the Kiwi, and, sure enough, she still had the whisk.  No worries, we were seeing each other the next day anyway, so I apologized to Roommate, and promised to bring the whisk home safe and sound.  Not in time to help her with her pudding, but you can't have everything.

Monday rolled around, and the Kiwi and I were minus a ride to go see the witches dancing in the woods.  German Couchsurfer Friend, however, was moving to Frankfurt the next day, and invited us to have a going-away party with him.  We showed up at his house, ate some salad with him and the British girl, flushed nothing down the toilet, and the Kiwi gave me the whisk back.  The novelty of having a whisk in my purse was almost too much for me to handle, so I made a point of getting vehement/indignant/excited, just so I'd have an excuse to whip out a whisk and point it at people.  Which I did, more frequently than was necessary.

After dinner, we found out there was a free concert going on in the center of town to celebrate May Day.  Which is apparently a big thing in Germany, and when you can't go see witches, you at least go see German reggae.  While there, our little group ran into another little group of people we knew, and we all got to talking.  This other little group consisted of Tall Guy, whom we already knew, Tall Guy's Roommate, and some of their friends.

When the concert was over, our big group (formerly two little groups) decided it wanted to play a German drinking game.  And that German drinking game was "Flunkyball," also known as the most entertaining drinking game ever, and it needs to be imported to America like, yesterday.  Here's how it works:  two teams line up facing each other, about thirty feet apart, with a beer can positioned between.  Each team member has a full, open beer bottle sitting on the group in front of them.  Team A throws a ball, and tries to knock down the beer can.  If they're successful, members from Team B have to run into the center as quickly as possible, reset the beer can, and pick up the ball. While they're doing this, the members of Team A are chugging their beer as quickly as possible.  Then it's Team B's turn to throw the ball.  The game goes back and forth, back and forth, until finally, one team has drunk all of their beers, and that team is crowned the winner.

Once to rules were explained to the foreigners, everyone was pretty keen to have a go, until someone pointed out that while we weren't lacking in alcohol, we were missing a ball.  This silenced everyone for ten seconds--until I remember what I had in my purse, and triumphantly screamed "We may not have a ball...BUT I HAVE A WHISK."  You would have thought I was Jesus with a machine gun, so intense was the cheering.

As the official Holder Of Whisk (and seeing as how I don't drink beer), I was appointed judge.  We got ourselves set up, and the game began.  And it was drop-dead hilarious, and my stomach hurt from laughing so hard.  Even more amazing was the fact that every round of Flunkyball attracts a crowd, especially after German reggae, especially when half the crowd is also intoxicated.  Our crowd kept pointing and yelling, "ARE YOU PLAYING WITH A WHISK?"  Why yes.  Yes we are.

After a really long and intense battle (partly the fault of a thoroughly non-aerodynamic whisk), the Kiwi's team emerged victorious, and we carried over our whisk-throwing enthusiasm into the line to get into the club.  While we were standing around and being morons, someone appeared with a 24 pack, and suffice to say, everyone but me was really drunk, really quickly.

Right before we went inside, Tall Guy's Roommate tapped me on the shoulder.  "Yo, can I borrow your whisk?  My friends and I want to play another round of Flunkyball."  "Sure," I said, "but I need this back tonight, I have to return it to my roommate."  "Yeah sure, no problem," he said, and disappeared.

We waited and waited and waited, but Tall Guy's Roommate never showed back up, and we were half a second from going in the door.  "Has that dude brought your whisk back?" asked the Kiwi.  Negative.  "WHAT!  You need that back.  WE ARE GOING TO FIND TALL GUY RIGHT NOW AND GET YOUR WHISK BACK."  So we found Tall Guy, and the Kiwi and German Couchsurfer Friend, both of whom were fairly drunk, ripped him a new one, all in an effort to bring the whisk back.  They were screaming, Tall Guy was desperately trying to call his friend, and I was laughing because, even though I really did need the whisk back, the entire thing was too funny not to laugh at it.  Eventually we let Tall Guy go after he swore up and down that the whisk would be back in my possession by the end of the night. 

Fast forward to the club.  We were all dancing and having a good time, when out of nowhere, Tall Guy showed up next to me.  "Come with me!" he said.  "Is my whisk back?"  "Yes, yes, the whisk is back."  He dragged me onto the dance floor, but I didn't see his roommate.  "Where's the whisk?" I asked.  "I don't know," he said, "let's just dance."  "Fuck no, I'll dance with you when I get my whisk back."  And then I jetted.

Safe with my friends, I danced (read: bounced up and down) for a good while, and then the Kiwi got mad at a German guy because he was wearing an All Blacks rugby uniform, which you're not allowed to do unless you've ever shaved a sheep.  So she decided to head out, and I went with her, because I hate dancing and it was late.  But first, I got Tall Guy's phone number.

The next morning, I texted Tall Guy and was like, "Hey man, really, really need my whisk back."  No answer.  Slightly annoyed, I went into town to meet up with a new tandem partner.  We got ice cream and were walking around town, when I heard my name.  I turned around to see the British girl, who had been there the night before for the entire spectacle.  And the conversation went like so:

Me:  Hey!  Have you spoken to Tall Guy?  I need to give my roommate back her whisk.
Her:  Yeah...about that.  Apparently his roommate gave it to Mya.
Me:  Who the hell is Mya?
Her:  That's what I said.
Me:  The whisk is gone?
Her:  Yes.
Me:  I'm not getting it back?
Her:  Probably not.
Me:  ...Can you tell him I need five euros for a new whisk? 
Her:  Not a problem.  Oh, why was everyone mad at him again?
Me:  I'm not sure, but I think it had something to do with the whisk.
Her:  Got it.  Another question...do you remember where I parked my bike last night?  I think I lost it.
Me:  Yeah, you left it by the supermarket.
Her:  Great, thanks!

We parted ways, and I explained the entire episode to my new tandem partner, who probably expected a lot of things from his conversation with me, whisk drama not being one of them.  In the course of our wanderings through town, we wound up right near the supermarket, so I suggested we check the bikes and see if we couldn't find the British girl's.  Sure enough, there it stood, in all it's bicycle glory.  "Hooray!  We found her bike!" said I.  "That's her bike!?" said Tandem Partner, horrified.  "Yis. What's wrong with it?"  He pointed to a giant black, red, and gold sticker that was flashing merrily in the sunlight.  "Why does she have an NSU sticker on her bike?"  "I dunno," I said, "it's just a sticker.  Why?"  "Does she know who the NSU are?"  "Probably not.  I've lived in Germany way longer, and I don't know, so I doubt she does."

Long pause.

"In case you were wondering, her bike is currently a supporter of the Neo-Nazis."

And that is how I got a whisk, lost a whisk, and discovered my friend's bike had slightly terrible political affiliations, all in the space of 24 hours.  I bought Roommate a new whisk, so that issue is taken care of, but I can't say the same for the Nazi bike.

Happy May, all!