Notes from the Commute

Good morning, fellow commuters.

Every morning I wake up to two alarms. One to get me out of bed and another to remind to stumble out the door and go to the train station, where I will await the train to Aachen.

And so the hurrying up and waiting begins. Sprint out of bed, linger over the breakfast, rush to the platform, wait for the train. Then the trip, which is actually a long wait for the train's arrival to Aachen.

In the afternoon, or Feierabend, as they call them here, I leave the office for the train station,  sometimes sprinting to a bus stop, to wait, then sprinting into the train station, to wait for a train, any train that will take me back to the Dorf. Once at home in the Dorf there is leisure time before the nightly routine of packing my bag and laying out my clothes to ease the limited decision-making-power of groggy-6am-straggery-sleepy Marshall.

Hurry up and wait. And wait. Those activities eat up a lot of time, which has become a precious commodity.

This blog has always been a passion project living in the margins of my day. Its posts begin as snippets scribbled into notebooks on a lunchtime Discovery Walk, then typed during the work day's final minutes before I leave the office.

But in the flurry of daily sprinting and waiting – with the pressure to catch the bus that will take me to the place where I will catch the train, with my time structured around arrivals, departures, and delays – those margins of my day are pushed back.

I'm not whining. I have a good, challenging job. I work with thoughtful, competent  people in a niche, but interesting corner of the tech industry. I even get to work from home, since my new employer treats its employees like responsible adults who can get work done without supervision.

This commuting lifestyle has only taught me the value of time. Sure, I have time to doodle in my notebook or read a book or look out the window and ponder things… like this blog post…

But when you have structure enforced on you it's difficult to find time to waste, like 45 minutes to write a blog post that's not working and then throw it out. (That might be a subtle mea culpa if you don't like this post.)

There's little time for Discovery Walks or quick drinks at the bar with colleagues, because there's a schedule to keep and a train board and things to do before I go to bed, like pack a lunch and search for clean clothes for the next day.

And yet, when I get those moments, to ride a bike during a lunch break on a home office day or just sit on the balcony, I appreciate those moments more because of their rarity.

I'm not complaining, seriously, because there's a lot to be happy with. Let us end it on a brighter note, with a promise to you, dear blog reader, that I will try to keep up with the blog. The daily slog is long, but it isn't so dreary. There's plenty to write about and plenty to show. I just have to stop taking pictures out of train windows and get on with telling you about it all.

A Hangover-Free Trip to Paris

Paris from the Tour Montparnesse - A city that's always holding something back.

We went to Paris last year for a friend's wedding. We spent the afternoon before the wedding walking along the Seine and wandering around Montmartre. For the morning after the wedding, we had big plans: the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triumph, Notre Dame, and on and on the list went.

Then we stayed late at the party, drinking and dancing until they closed the place for the night. We didn't stop there, but stood outside double-fisting our roadie drinks with the bride, groom, and a few party-hard guests until enough was enough and we all went to bed.

We were too hungover to do anything other than call the lobby for a late checkout. It was a classic, brutal reminder that one of the things you lose in your 30s is the ability to metabolize enough alcohol to able to function the next day. We were functioning just enough to catch our flight that evening and not get kicked off.

Last weekend, we returned to Paris with a chip on our shoulder and a powerful determination to do the things we were too stupidly hungover to do. We might have overcompensated – Kata's pedometer phone app said we walked 22km on the first day.

We walked around Park La Villette, along a canal to the Battle of Stalingrad Square and witnessed a 11am trance dance party We continued down to Notre Dame – avoiding the line-ups and walking around it, then walking around the island itself. Then we just kept walking. Over Pont Neuf, through the Louvre's courtyards, into the sun-scorched Tullieres, all the way to the Obelisk in Place do la Concorde. We had crepes and cold drinks at a square with a Gothic church, then went scarf shopping for Kata, then dinner at a Brassiere in quiet neighbourhood.

The weather was sunny and warm, so we opted to stay outside instead of going into dark, air-conditioned museums, and marched and marched and marched through Paris. 

We did venture into one museum the next day. Kata insisted we see the inside of the Grand Palais, so we saw Artists & Robots, which wasn't on our list of things to see but turned out to be an interesting wide-ranging modern art exhibition of sculpture, paintings, and installations that combined people artists with robots, technology, algorithms, and artificial intelligence. As we watched robot arms drawing still life sketches and hexagonal floating things, I leaned over to Kata and mentioned this was an amazingly thought-out exhibition. She, who lived in Paris on a university exchange, smiled knowingly, patted me on the cheek, and said, "They're good at that here."

And on we walked that day, though we took it easier – my phone said we only clocked in 12km. We walked to the Arc de Triumph, then onward to the Eiffel Tower where, because we were seriously sore-footed, we found a shady spot to rest in the shade and look at the tower and watch the drink sellers ply their trade. But once rested, we continued our march through Paris, to some cafe and then to take in the view of the city from Tour Montparnesse, then a hearty brasserie repast.

Despite all the sights, we didn't get to do everything that Kata wished for us to see. Had the weather been less favourable, we would have gone to a few art galleries – Louvre, Palais de Tokyo, Musee d'Orsay – on our mental checklists. Had we gone to the galleries, we would have lingered and savoured it all and not have pounded as much Paris pavement as we did.  

But as with so many things in life, you can't do everything, though between restful moments of bliss over cold drinks or fine food, we certainly tried. There always seems to be something to see in Paris, but I also got the sense that it's a city that holds things back, so you're left with wanting to see a little more. I'm okay with that.

SUPER INTENSE TRANCE PARTY AT 11AM
AT BATTLE OF STALINGRAD SQUARE!!!!

Some church.

Photographing the mind of an artist that is a computer.

The Arc within the Arc de Triumph

Tourists in Budapest

Taking in the Danube from atop Gellert.

We had less than a day in Budapest, so we left our hotel and went for a walk, heading south towards Gellert Hill.

We went along the Danube on the Buda side, strolling beside the river, avoiding bicyclists, dodging rollerbladers, weaving past tourists stopping to snap photos of the Hungarian Parliament Building across the river – and pausing to snap our own. Then under the Chain Bridge, through a side street, browsing in a small design shop, until finally reaching the foot of Gellert Hill.

We climbed the switch-backing paths, catching glimpses of the city below, and savouring the spring flowers. We were hungry when we reached the top, but we still lingered to appreciate the view.

Then we walked down the hill, through the park on the backside of Gellert and, without really meaning to, we went to a touristic, Hungarian restaurant.

The restaurant looked traditional. There was a big, old ceramic furnace in the corner and red,table clothes with traditional Great Plains-ish patterns draped atop the tables. Even the waiters seemed authentic –  grumpy, old men in white shirts idly walking around and waiting on the three occupied tables, but mostly trying unsuccessfully to look as busy as they could in a not so busy restaurant.

We sat down, ordered our food. My novice food-ordering Hungarian language skills seemed to brighten the grumpy waiter's mood. We even earned a further nod of approval when we ordered a bottle of Kadarka.

When our food arrived – which was delicious, by the way – a traditional Hungarian band was tuning up. Why would a band get ready to play so early? we wondered.

At 6:03pm, they started playing a Hungarian folk tune that sounded familiar from my years spent living above touristy Hungarian restaurants with outdoor bands on Vaci utca. At 6:04pm, a table beside the band abruptly stood up and left while the band played, eliciting an angry, hurt, surprised reaction from the first violinist.

At 6:05pm, a busload of Chinese tourists filed into the restaurant, occupying every spare table. The grumpy old waiters lept into action, taking orders and bringing drinks. As the band played, most of the tourists stared longingly into their phones. Some did talked among themselves. One old lady put her head in their hands and dozed off.

The band started playing the Blue Danube – the 2001 song... the spaceship one, not the bone smashing song, which is not a dinner-eating tune –  as the grumpy old waiters hustled from table to table, bringing food to tables filled with filled to delighted tourists. Even the dozing old lady took her head out of her hands.

The familiar tune was treated with indifference. The tourists remained glued to their phones  as they ate or poked suspiciously at their nokedli, while the violinist strolled up and down the aisles, playing his violin solo.

The dessert was served and the the band took a break. They smoked outside and sipped water at the bar. While the grumpy old waiters to carried away the plates, we drained our wine, settled our bill – which brightened our grumpy waiter's mood – and walked into Budapest's gathering dusk.

One of the prettiest parts of BP is the other side of Gellert Hill.