Throwing Out People's Stuff

Packing light is easy for a weekender trip; it's difficult when you're settling for a year or two or less.

Take my old shared flat. 

A few guys took out the original lease, then transferred the lease – and furniture – to others when they moved on. Then those guys passed on their lease, and on it went until I came along.

At least eleven tenants – including, who I know of, a Canadian (me), a Brit, a Portuguese, an Argentinian, a Venezuelan, a Brazilian, a couple of French – have lived in my old shared apartment. 

When it was time for me to move on, the landlord company decided they had enough of changing people's name on the lease – and keeping the rent at the same price. It was time to move out, not just move on.

I spent the better part of August clearing it out those tenants' accumulated possessions they left behind. There was a kitchen full of stuff, a bedroom that served as a storage room, and actual storage room in the basement. All filled with stuff from people who came to the Dorf and then moved on elsewhere. 

There were beds, tables, and wardrobes to be sold or given away. Deep in the basement storage room, I discovered another desk, a bed, and two coffee tables among boxes and bags of odds and ends that belonged to tenants long moved out. It was like roommate archeology. 

The furniture could have been sold, but I figured it was was better to give it away to the million refugees in Germany. It seemed like the proper, and admittedly easier, thing to do. 

No charity would pick up furniture, despite being on the ground floor. One simply told its facebook friends about it. Another told me I must bring my furniture to them. All that was picked up was some kitchen stuff, a table, and some wardrobes.

I had helped a few refugees, but as many as I had hoped, and I faced the prospect of putting perfectly fine furniture to the curb. 

You cannot just put your stuff out on garbage day. There are specific days and, if you can't wait for those specific days, you have to fill out a form (because it's Germany) for Sperrmüll, or the bulk garbage pick-up.

It's still not that easy. You can only put out maximum five items, otherwise you must pay. I had a flat of items, well over the five limit.

I booked the free pick-up anyway and I put out over a dozen items a few days before. I hoped thrifty Germans would whittle the pile down before the garbage guys would come.

As I painted – remember, it's a ground floor apartment – I could see passers-by poking through the boxes, flipping through the romance novels, eyeing the kitchen bric-a-brac, appraising the coffee tables. The thrifty Germans came through, and stuff disappeared.

Our very own spring cleaning...
in the late summer. 

Purging Stuff in Budapest

On the right day, take a walk in a Budapest district and witness a sight: Furniture, old newspapers, books, lamps, electronics, punching bags, knick knacks and schnick schnack all piled on the sidewalks and curbs. 

You will see people hovering over their prizes, claiming them before their ride comes to pick it up, glaring at passers-by who linger to long over their claimed pile.

This is Lomtalanítás, Budapest's bulk garbage day that makes it rounds district by district through Budapest.

Kata and I had only a few days while we were visiting a few weeks ago to clear out her apartment for a renovation, so there would be no Lomtalanítás for us. There was also no time to put things on the internet and wait for someone to come along and buy them. Kata's stuff had to go fast.

Once again it was archeology. Everything was dug out, sorted, and its fate was decided as quickly as possible. There were eight years of habitation to go through. The stuff that was to be kept – books, art, mementos – went into boxes and was set aside. The stuff that was nice – more clothes, some books, kitchen stuff – but for keeping were bagged or boxed and walked down the street around the corner to a second-hand store, where these items were happily received by the proprietor.

The rest was bagged or boxed or simply set just outside the apartment and was picked up by a junk man, who undoubtedly sold the stuff worth selling later. It was like our own little Lomtalanítás for this one guy.

Me and My Stuff

You might have noticed all this stuff belonged to others. I am also guilty of some mild hoarding.

I came over to Europe four years ago with a backpack, a rolly-wheely duffle, and a hockey bag. I have added another bag, but got rid of the hockey bag due to airline size restrictions, while still trying to limit my possessions to what I can fit into my bags. I failed.

Over time, despite my minimalist tendencies, I have still managed to accumulate stuff over the years, clothes, mementos, books, have all been picked up and kept. And that's just here in Europe. I have furniture and kitchen stuff spread across a couple of basements in London, Ontario that await a verdict on their fate.

Despite the urge to limit my possession, there seems to still be a tendency to put down roots, spread out my stuff, and get comfortable. 

Dorfy Day Trips: The Kaiser of Koblenz

The Kaiser Wilhelm I statue in Koblenz,
and some dude in white pants. 

Every nation wants you to visit their national monuments. Pay admission and walk to the top of some tower, the tour guide states. Marvel at a gigantic statue of some dear leader, says the travel book. Gape in awe at some building erected in the honour of the fatherland, motherland, the workers, the people, the nation, whoever, whatever, declares the poster.

Germany is one modern exception to this rule. It's a country with very few monuments celebrating itself. The Brandenburg Gate? That was built in the name of peace in the 1770s. The Berlin Victory Column? That was erected by the Prussians, not the glorious German Empire, Reich, or Republic. 

There seems to be few monuments to Germany.

Then there's Koblenz, with its Deutsches Eck (literally meaning German Corner) that sits at the confluence of the Rhine and Moselle Rivers, where a gigantic statue of a long dead German kaiser stands. 

This type of German monumentality is a rare thing, largely because most of this stuff was knocked down during the war – including this statue – and never rebuilt. After the statue in Koblenz was levelled, its stone stump was left to represent a desire to reunite East and West Germany. When they reunited in 1991, the statue was rebuilt.

And yet, for all is big, kingly brashness, the statue is not only off the tourist radar, but isn't the sole "must-see" in Koblenz. The Eck itself has a beautiful view of the meeting rivers and the high hills on the other bank, which are topped with a fortress.

Koblenz's real prize is its pedestrian-only promenade along the Rhine. It's one of the prettiest I have seen along this river. It runs south, with the river on one side and historic buildings (or rebuilt historic buildings) on the other. There is no car traffic, yet plenty of trees and benches and chirping birds and greenery. The restaurants are set far enough back that they don't intrude on the riverside strolling, but still close enough that you can gaze at the river over a cold drink.

All of this shows that maybe it's the little things that make a city worth visiting, and not the monumental things.

The stone relief of the statue's stump.

An Aside about the Hills:

Hungarians love the hills. Travel enough with a Hungarian who lives in the flatlands of the Rhineland, and you will regular hear exclamations whenever hills come into view. This is what happened as we took the train into the hilly terrain around Koblenz.

The city is considered the gateway into the Romantic Rhine, a hilly, windy stretch of the river dotted with vineyards and castles. This has always been on our list for a visit, but we haven't quite gotten around to it yet. The Koblenz day trip has reawakened that desire. 

August: Europe's Quiet Month

It's August and northern Europe has essentially shut down for the month.

Every July, there's a rush to finish work before the client goes on holidays or before an ad agency boss goes on vacation or to lessen the mountain of work that await upon return from your August adventures.

Then July ends and there are fewer emails with the urgent exclamation point icon. There are fewer rushed meetings with end-of-day deadlines and fewer meltdowns. There are still emails and meetings and stress, but it all takes on a less frantic, less urgent tone.

Getting into August, it's worth mentioning that workers in Germany and Hungary get a set amount of paid holidays by law that increases based on their age. For someone my age, it works out to about four weeks.

This is a far cry from Canada, where the amount is set at two weeks and any increases are the result of individual contract negotiations, seniority at a company (if the company does that), or a collective bargaining agreement (which is becoming rarer since Canadian workers are sadly becoming adept at dismantling their labour unions).

I'm not mentioning this to make my North American friends envious (unless you're unionized, then you're fine), but to point out that more of holidays make it easy to take off chunks of August to visit tropical destinations or lounge on a Greek island or, if you're German, takeover a finca on a Balaeric Island.

This August, we're not doing any of that. Paying rent on the current flat and the old one, along with the previous Lisbon trip and an upcoming Budapest visit, has meant things are a bit tighter this August. It's been a month of weekend day trips, of beers on blankets in the park, and lazy, rainy afternoons on the couch – of which there are many in northern Germany.

There are advantages to sticking around when everyone else has ditched the Dorf for sunnier places. For starters, the city itself feels a little less crowded – save for the bachelor parties that stagger through the Altstadt's breweries. 

The pace of the city itself slows – maybe an affect of the warmer weather on the thick-blooded Germans. Going a bit slower, you're able to notice the sunnier side of the German summer, like the 10pm sunsets or temperatures that drift towards 25 degrees – when it isn't raining, of course.

And so you linger on the side-street patios over one more drink, you bike a bit further along the Rhine bike paths, you embrace the sweatshirt-shorts combo to endure the chilly mornings but prepare for a possibly warmer afternoon and evening.

Yes, swimming in the Adriatic might be great in August, but despite the high possibility of cold, rain, and clouds, I can live with the German summer too.

Deeps thoughts on the Rhine Promenade.