As I grow older and more reliant on cigarettes to regulate my breathing, I've accepted that the dry, recycled air of plane rides to mean instant fever, as the expelled organisms from a thousand passengers take root in my feeble lungs. So when I stumbled off my three-leg flight into Hannover, I was walking more in haze than in reality. Could it be that this generic brown wonderland was really Germany? Could it be that my luggage really was stuck in London?
At the hotel, a 30 Euro taxi ride later (who do we have to bomb to fix the exchange rate, huh?) I had a stroke of luck: I was able to bribe the desk clerk into switching me into one of the only free rooms with internet, which meant I could spend a few hours working before I went to get dinner.
Did you know that the famed German sausages are really just giant hot dogs covered in a curry? This is one of the many things I learned in the hotel bar, as I sipped awful pilsener and listened to a pensioner warble behind a Casioesque keyboard. I was alone, no one to with make Colonel Klink jokes, in 48 hour clothes, with no hygiene supplies, bad beer, and endless covers of American pop standards by a man who sounded like he was fellating a leaky accordian. Welcome to Hannover.
I took a video of Herr Sing. Someday I'll share it with you.