Bill Murray likes our dog

My two-week stint in an intensive German language class in Dresden has come to end. In celebration, Jeremy and Sky came to rescue me and we took a family trip to the outskirts of town for a snowy hike in the Sächsische Schweiz National Park. 

In the middle of the park, high above the Elbe River, we noticed a film crew near the Bastei Bridge and wandered over to check out the scene. A sharp dressed mustachioed man walked by us and said, “You have a beautiful dog.”

It was Bill Murray. Bill. Fucking. Murray.

Jeremy and I excitedly jumped up and down screeching, “Bill Murray likes our dog! Bill Murray likes our dog!”

We noticed Bill Murray walking off by himself to take photos of the scenery, so we did what any non-creepy fans would do – we followed him. Oddly we were the only ones who recognized him, or seemed to care. We could stalk him all by ourselves!

We were a bit shy about approaching him until we noticed a stray dollar bill on the ground– the perfect conversation starter. Jeremy scooped it up and said “Excuse me, Mr. Murray, did you drop a dollar?”

“I think I did, thank you,” replied Bill Murray stuffing the dollar into his pocket.

“Where are from?” he asked.

(Bill Murray wants to know where we’re from! Bill Murray wants to know where we’re from!)

We told him we were Americans living here in Germany and he commented again on how much he liked our dog.

(Bill Murray likes our dog! Bill Murray likes our dog!)

We proceeded to have a conversation with Bill Murray. He told us he was in Görlitz a few days ago and had just finished up his work in Dresden. He was on his way to Berlin for another job.

“Would you mind if we took a photo with you?” Jeremy asked, his voice cracking like a prepubescent teenager.

“I wouldn’t mind at all,” said Bill Murray, with his characteristic melancholy demeanor.

While I’ve already forgotten most of the German I learned during the course, I won’t soon forget the star-struck finale of the trip to Dresden.   

(And Bill Murray likes our dog).

Singing in the new year

Harmonizing with John Denver on New Year's Eve in St. Viet.

(Ok, so it's almost February and we're just putting pen to paper for the first blog of the new year ... so much for those resolutions.)

2012 came and went with a bang. We spent the last few weeks of the old, and first week of the new, in St. Viet, Austria, with about a dozen of our best Bavarian Ski Club buds.

After five straight days of skiing (plus lessons), we knew all the secret powder spots on the mountain and where to go for the best lunchtime grub (the bacon, fried egg and potatoes on top of a huge donut was such a hit that we made a special trip across the mountain on New Year's Day to start the year out right).

Hallstatt, Austria

On the way home, we spent a few days in Hallstatt, Austria, which though absolutely picturesque and idyllic, left a little to be desired (the salt mine, which is what the town is most famous for, was closed, and impressive ice caves? closed in the winter, too; I guess even icicles  need a vacation.)

Apparently, the town was so popular with some tourists that a company in China built an exact replica in Huizhou -- it was big news on the BBC.

We finished the last weekend of vacation with a soothing trip to a beer spa in the Czech Republic -- more on that in a separate report.

Looking back on 2012, we found that we covered a lot of ground. And although it was tough to pick a favorite experience or trip, a few definitely stood out. Below are the top five buddymollys moments from 2012:

1. Family reunion in Gatlinburg, Tenn.
2. Skifahren Xtravaganza II in St. Anton, Austria
3. Scotland / Dublin
4. Greek Stimulus Trip
5. Funf Fluss Radweg - a 50-mile bike ride along five rivers in Bavaria.

Others major outings included: Malta; Sella Rhonda, Italy; London; Venice, Italy; Istanbul; Berlin; Dresden; Croatia & Slovenia along with Bosnia and Herzegovina; and Hochgurlg-Obergurgl, Austria.

So far, 2013 is shaping up to be just as busy as last year. We're looking forward to heading back to Hawaii, hosting family and friends, and continuing to explore our backyard here in Bavaria. And if the first few weeks of 2013 are any indication, we'll be spending a lot of this year in ski gear.

Happy New Year!

Ain't nothin' but an après ski party

Eric Davis Photo stolen from Facebook. Thanks!

Last weekend Jeremy and I hit the slopes at Obergurgl-Hochgurgl, Austria, with the Bavarian Ski Club to kick off the ski season. As I began my third official year as a bona fide skier, I’m happy to report only one major fall and a few hidden bruises – although they didn’t come from the slopes exactly.

See – this particular ski range is home to the best après ski known to man. Perched on the mountain above the town of Obergurgl is the Nederhütte. After a hard day of punching through blizzard-like conditions, moguls and thrashing down runs, everyone gathers at the hut for a few celebratory drinks and a massive dance party. Glühwein warms the frostbitten toes of snowboarders, skiers and instructors as they pack in shoulder-to-shoulder around the bar.

The live band plays sing-along songs and encourages party-goes to climb on tables and do the twist. It really revolutionizes dancing in ski boots. Waiters deliver groups of shots carried on 4-foot long wooden ski-shaped slats and (eventually and inevitably) everyone joins in for a screaming-at-the-top-of-your-lungs version of Country Roads. Somewhere John Denver is smiling.

The party starts to die down around 7 p.m. (although it feels like midnight as you walk outside to pitch black skies and a run lit with soft floodlights). It was this time, the time when I attempted to put on my right ski, that I took a tumble and roll. Hence the bruise.

Eric Davis Photo stolen from Facebook. Thanks!

But it was only a momentary setback.

Once my skies were fully in place and strapped on, we began our caravan down the hill for a quick nighttime ski adventure. The expedition continued with the most frightening taxi ride back to our hotel. Austrian cab drivers in this area have no fear racing up the icy mountain roads – speeding into hairpin turns, egged on by the 10 intoxicated passengers in the van.

Every time I go skiing in Europe – from the lack of fences on the mountains to dancing on tables at the après ski to encouraging off-piste runs – I think, no way this would be allowed in the States.

Europe simply has the unwritten “don’t be stupid” rule. They are far from the culture of suing someone because you made the poor decision to put a hot cup of coffee between your thighs. They encourage freedom – and while stupid decisions are sometimes made, there is a certain amount of accountability held to those making the decisions.

I say this as I nurse my bruised outer thigh. Because that was all me.

Acropolis Now

When Thanksgiving rolls around each year, Jeremy and I reflect deeply on what the world has offered us. And while we haven’t had a traditional Thanksgiving dinner since moving to Europe three years ago, turkey, sweet potatoes and green bean casseroles dance in our minds as we explore the continent.

In 2009, we had pasta in Rome on Thanksgiving Day; 2010 was Türkei for Thanksgiving, complete with dürüm döner; and last year, while in Amsterdam for what we coined bikesgiving, we had Thai food. This year, while in Greece, we dined on Greek salad, feta cheese, tzatzki, souvlaki, grilled octopus, moussaka (think Greek lasagna), homemade yogurt and halva (χαλβάς in Greek - the tastiest dessert to have ever touched wandering lips).

After a train, two planes, a long bus ride and an hour and half ferry, Jeremy and I, along with our travel partners Bianca and Eric, landed on Hydra (pronounced EE-drah). The small island is home to a few thousand residents, two dozen hard-working donkeys and numerous stray cats and dogs. The long, narrow streets wind up the hill from the harbor, and cars, which are not welcome on the island, couldn’t fit anyway. One’s own feet, or a donkey taxi, are the main modes of transportation.

The island offers breathtaking views, mom and pop-style restaurants and hotels, and a chance to slow down, breathe some fresh air and soak it all in. The two-day side trip fully prepared us for the hustle and bustle that is Athens.

Greece, particularly Athens, hasn’t been on the right side of the media lately, but, according to one tour guide, a waiter, and the guy who drove us to the airport, Greece isn’t perishing. The protests are peaceful, the riots nonexistent and the economic crisis is slowing moving … what direction is yet to be determined.

Regardless, winter was a great time to visit as the prices were cheap; the locals were willing to chat, the sun was shining and history stared us right in the face without the normal overcrowded background of other tourists.

Everything that we know – the influences of American and European culture - started centuries ago with toga-clad Greeks as they meddled in mathematics, dabbled in democracy and flirted with philosophy, creating an unprecedented civilization. Getting a glimpse of the Athens civilization that is thousands of years old made me realize how slow the transformation into the technological age was.

Probably the most well-known and ancient site in the Western world is the Parthenon on the Acropolis. It was a masterpiece in its day dedicated to the goddess Athena. Construction started in 447 B.C. and took nine years to complete.

The Parthenon was architecturally sound for centuries as the temple traversed into a Catholic church, then a mosque when Greece was occupied by the Romans and the Turks, respectively.

In 1687, the damage was done when a cannonball hit the Parthenon which was being used to house Ottoman ammunition, reducing it into the structure that stands today - largely in ruins, no roof, dilapidated, but still impressive.

With four days in Athens we perused museums, posed as Zeus, trampled through Greek work-a-day life and ate our way from neighborhood to neighborhood. While we didn’t experience the beach life the coastal country has to offer, city life sure was sweet, sun and all, especially as the snow starts to fall here in Germany.

All of which made for a happy Thanksgiving indeed.

The 25,000-visitor pyramid

Recently we reached a milestone that one friend was more than happy to bring to our attention on F-book.

“Hello Molly and Jeremy. I just wanted to point out that I, Todd "Tadliwinx Tivisonno" Trivisonno, was the 25,000th visitor to the buddymollys blog. Thereby entitling me to all the glory and accolades forthcoming.”

However, this insight only brought to the surface more questions about our visitors. In the right-hand column is a “Visitors” widget that logs locations from which people view our blog.

So in the last 24 hours, there are hits from Bradford, Great Britain; Hillsborough, New Jersey; Dresden, Germany; and San Martino Di Lupari, Italy.

Some of them we get. It’s no surprise most of the hits in the U.S. are from California, Illinois and Florida.

Others still have us scratching our heads. Sure, an inadvertent typo could send someone looking for Buddy Holly’s hits here. (There's even a Facebook  account for Buddy and Molly, "two dogs that think they're celebrities.") 

But how do places like The Phillipines, South Africa and Taiwan have so many hits? Who are you Tezontepec De Aldama, Mexico? Or Odessa, Ukraine?

The rise and fall of a used car lot

After sharing a car for the first two years here in Bavaria, Molly and I decided to add another vehicle to the fleet last year: a Citroen Berlingo we called Steffie. (We named her after the previous owner, who cried as she signed over the title like she was giving up her firstborn.)

Alarms should have gone off when we first entertained the idea of buying a French car.

We live in the land that produces BMW, Mercedes and Porsche, is known for precision and efficiency, and created the Autobahn. It’s like moving to Italy and only drinking beer. You could do it, but why would you want to?

Looking back, even saying the words “French” and “engineering” together sounds awkward. Yet we felt like we had the inside track– like we could beat the odds.

So, against our better judgment, we rolled the dice on a French car. And for a while, Steffie delivered.

A perfect commuting and roadtrip car, she got 33-35 miles to the gallon and rocked a 12-CD changer. Tons of space and headroom, we packed in 5 people and drove 1,700 kilometers for the Women’s World Cup last year without incident – sort of.

However, after a year of driving and several costly trips to the repair shop (in one instance, the clutch went out while we were trying get on base and the gate guards had to help us push her in), we decided it was time for something newer.

Buying a car was easy – in fact, we found two cars that fit the bill within a week of each other. Selling the old ones was a different story.

I thought putting them up for a fair price would move them quickly. I grossly misjudged the used car market.

People emailed and texted me with low-ball offers without even having seen the cars in person.

I listed our 1999 Honda for $1500.

"Would you take $1,000?” asked a guy on the phone. One woman even wrote: “I have a baby and can’t afford much, would you take $800?”

I don’t want to sound heartless, but hell no.

One guy told me to take it off the market – he wanted it and that was that. He test-drove it, loved it and we had an agreement that he’d buy it in two weeks. When I called him the next week, he said “Oh yeah, I forgot to call you – I found something else. I’m usually pretty good about calling people back.”

Right.

Three separate people test drove the Honda and loved it. Each tried to cut me down $200 because their budget was magically $1,300.

I was trying to cut to the chase and people still wanted to play the game.

I should have remembered the age-old used-car maxim: Never list your real asking price; regardless of how low or fair it is, people will always want to bring you down to feel like they’re getting a deal.

With Steffie, it was a different game, and the buyer got more than a deal. We had no choice but to put thousands of dollars into her so she could simply drive off the lot. We sold her for that same amount.

Next time though (hopefully it won’t be anytime soon), we’ll be smarter. We gained wisdom that has cost rappers and R&B stars millions of dollars to learn: Mo’ cars, mo’ problems.

And despite all the work and hoops we had to jump through to free ourselves from having 4 cars, every once in a while we’ll see either the Honda or Steffie around town and smile, happy that our old friends are still truckin’.

Now, as we accelerate into the curves with our 2010 mini clubman, we look back and laugh at the days when we couldn't pass a tractor without endangering our lives.

A wee tribute

This year Halloween arrived late and we didn’t get to suit up until a friend hosted a combination Halloween-Day of the Dead party last night.

After tossing around several ideas earlier this month, we decided on something retro but forward leaning: carnival folk. I refashioned a costume I created more than a decade ago (this time it was somewhat more mobile) and Molly added a touch of testosterone to her life. 

I grew up in Gibsonton, Fla., affectionately called Gibtown by locals and whose history is enmeshed with circus lore. 

In the 1940s and '50s, the mayor cast a long shadow, towering over 8-feet, and was married to the Half Woman; the town sheriff was a midget. And although times have changed, the tradition has continued, somewhat. 

I went to high school with the son of Grady Stiles Jr., who was popular in the '50s as the Lobster Boy. Carnivals still spend the off season holed up there, where zoning laws allow for Ferris wheels and exotic animals. 

But tough times have befallen Gibtown in recent years. Old school carnies are fading away and local establishments, like the Giant's Camp, where you could still get a hearty "trucker's special" breakfast at all hours of the night, have gone under. 

Halloween was a celebration and a tribute for us this year -- I hope we made Gibtown proud.