Münchener Meanderings - Part 3

Friendly Skies and Little Green Men

Time to write, finally, about meanderings in Munich again.

Well, Friday dawned bright (oops, dark) and early; wasn’t quite 3 AM when I arose, and wasn’t much past 4 AM when I checked out. Took the train from Münchener Hauptbanhof and reached the airport at around 5 AM.

Needed to change from Terminal 1, where the S-Bahn comes in (Schnell Bahn or Fast Train, if the Germans are to be believed), to Terminal 2, where Lufthansa flies out from. Had a conncection: Munich-London-San Francisco, and I happily checked in at the automated machine. Oooer! This one doesn’t print luggage tags! Helpful airline personnel said they had a luggage drop-off instead. It turned out to be a glorified check-in counter, except that you already had your boarding pass, and were just trying to get rid of your luggage.

That’s when the trouble started. Woman at counter checked in my luggage. Then she proceeded to ask me if I had a visa for the United Kingdom.

- “Wot visa?”
- “You need one for the UK, Sir!”
- “No, I don’t. I’m only transiting.”
- “Yes, you do. You need a transit visa!”
- “Your machine tell you that?”
- “Yes Sir! Where’s your transit visa?”
- “Don’t have one.”
- “But, you need one!”
- “Ma’am, I hear you that I need one. I ain’t got one. Whatchya gonna do?”
- “You can talk to the police”
- “Where?”
- “Upstairs…Wait, I will get my colleague to help you”

So she picked up the phone and called her ‘colleague’. I understand enough German to know she called the cops and said that she had a traveler without a visa… now that could mean several interesting things, including that I did not have a visa for Germany! I decided to act the dumb tourist who speaks only English, and kept myself to myself.

After about ten minutes I was visited by two little green men (German police wear puke-green uniforms). Polizei decided to speak real slow to dumb tourist, potential terrorist, or - horror of horrors - potential illegal immigrant:

- “Anyone stamp your passport when you entered Germany?”
- “And how! See! One of your [little green] brethren did!”

Polizei appeared slightly nonplussed. Now what in Himmel's name was this? Here was a traveler holding not only a very current business visa, but several expired ones as well, with a Resident Card that said he lives in the US. Plainly, works for an American company and comes and visits the branch in Germany often… Um, business traveler, big employer (amidst soaring umemployment), seems exactly the kind guy you don't want to rub the wrong way… I was wondering whether there was mileage to be had by pointing out that the German media actually reported a press release out of the Electronica tradeshow with my name on it, when one little green man squeaked:

- “Umm, there appears to be no problem, Sir!”
- “Tell Madame Lufthansa that! She thinks there is a problem.”
- “But you have a visa for Germany! There is no probe-lame!” The accent was beginning to become pronunced.
- “You are too kind! I insist there is a problem: Madame Lufthansa there.”

By this time other passengers had begun to snicker at the police. I decided to press home the advantage:

- “Madame Lufthansa’s machine thinks I need a visa for the UK. Do you guy’s care?”
- “Umm… No!”
- “Thought so! Tell her that”

There followed exchanges in German, with Madame Lufthansa reading out chapter and verse from her terminal (Sie brauchen einen Visum, and so on...). The police gave her a patient hearing, turned to me, gave me back my passport, shrugged at Madame Lufthansa, and left. As far as they were concerned, that was that. The German police do not like being made to look like fools, and they couldn’t wait to get away from the chuckles of a hundred plainly amused airline passengers.

I went my way. To the friendly skies. Sans Visum.


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Image ©opyright Niladri Roy

Münchener Meanderings - Part 2

This trip turned out to be one with unexpected bonuses. Was driven through Austria over the Austrian and Italian Alps to Trento, Italy. Sadly, the day was very cloudy, and whatever pictures one could get were pretty subdued as well.

Uneventful drive, except for a pit stop to eat. One just takes an exit off the Autobahn. The German word for exit is Ausfahrt, and, believe me, does not involve wind.

Returned from Trento with three additional passengers: a university professor, plus one eclectic daughter, and someone else, I didn’t know who. Professor sat in the front with Giulio, who drove. I sat in the back with said daughter and aforementioned appendage. Not an unfortunate squeeze, made even more delightful when one discovered that said daughter had remarkable brains. Finishing up a PhD in pharma, but could talk about Pablo Neruda as well; and might come over to the US, which was a fleetingly nice thought, till one observed said daughter holding hands with said appendage. So much for possibilities. Ah, well!

Finally, Tuesday happened. The big day of the start of the Electronica trade show. Arrived bright and early at our booth for a staff-briefing at 8:15 AM, and the entire day just flew by. Meetings in the office, which, thankfully is a stone’s throw from the trade fair taking place at the Neue Messe (New Fair(grounds)).

The next couple of days were more of the same, with one interesting photograph on the show floor itself: showing visitors to Electronica, completely out of their depths, and immersed in some very serious technology indeed!

Nightly staff-dinners were doing no good to the waistline. Neither were my blithe requests to the waitresses to bring me Eine großes Helles, bitte (translation: a big bright beer, please) and the further addition of: das heist, ein Mas! (translation: that means, a Mas; - the Mas being colloquial for a mug the size of a large, yeah large, pitcher ;))

Friday will be the day to leave; the fair goes on till that day as well, but I am planning to be back early. Who knew, then, however, that getting back would involve a brush with the German Polizei?

Stay tuned.

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Münchener Meanderings - Part 1

It's a funny thing, I realize have never written about Munich.

I have written about Tokyo Tofu and Dublin Diehards, but never ever about my Münchener Meanderings. Which is strange, because Munich, or München as the Germans call it, is where I go most often.

So, in remorse of having neglected Munich thus far, this, likely, will be an overdone post. I apologize in advance.

Well to start off, I don’t know whether I prefer United or Lufthansa on my way there. I have Premier Executive flight miles on United, so I automatically get an Economy Plus seat with four inches more legroom (oh! aren't I glad! Evil airline first packs the seats in like sardines and then expects you to be grateful for four inches! I mean, who would be? Ask any woman). With Lufthansa, even those four inches are missing, but the drinks are free. The drinks cost $5 on United! Life is so full of hard choices.

However, the flight attendants on Lufthansa are, you know, my type. I am glad for small mercies.

Speaking of flight attendants, let me tell you a funny story about a Lufthansa trip early this year: Had a colleague called Mark with me on that trip; very Caucasian; nice blond-brown beard and blue eyes: pure Bavaria outside, but decidedly America inside. Flight attendant lady comes along, eyes my black hair and brown skin, and goes:

“What would you like to drink?”
“Orangensaft”, go I.
She hands me an orange juice, bemused. Short work.

Then she leans over to Mark and asks:
“Was möchten Sie trinken?”
And Mark goes:
“Uh... oh… er… oranjuice?”

That’ll teach her to profile people next time.

Anyways, I digress. Reached Munich at 8:20AM. Took me another 40 minutes by train from the Flughafen (yeah, airport) to the Münchener Hauptbanhoff (Main station; Readers of WWII novels will doubtless recognize the prefix Haupt to mean head or main). For reasons of Munich being full because of Electronica, Europes’s largest Electronics trade show, one had been banished to the god-forsaken NH Deutscher Kaiser hotel just outside Münchener Hauptbanhoff.

A word about the Kaiser: don’t stay there.

The word for the lobby is depressing. Dark, with 1960’s vintage décor and furniture, and a very unhelpful receptionist who insisted that check-in time was 1500 hours (the Germans don’t like the impreciseness of two 3’o clocks in one day, no matter AM or PM).

Could she hazard a guess when a room might be available?
No.
Bitch!

So I left my luggage in her care, threatened to come back in two hours, and proceeded to roam a cold, drizzly, München. Luckily I had an overcoat, and a cap that kept out the rain, so on the whole, it wasn’t half bad.

I went to Marienplatz, which is the center of town, the oldest part of Munich, probably, and the most touristy place. But on a Sunday? Deserted. Europe has these laws that keep shops and establishments from being open Sunday, which makes for a very depressing latter half of the weekend in most European countries. Give me the convenience of the good old US of A anytime. However, long story short, roamed the train system some more, took a couple of pictures of the central station, ate a chicken sandwich on the Gleis (platform), and returned to the Kaiser to find that, wonder of wonders, I had a room!

I was tired. I slept.

So, the rest will have to wait for another post, when I awaken.

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Dublin Phase II

Well I did threaten that there would be a second episode of Dooblin coming, so here be it:

Won't bore you with details of Marketing Alignment Meetings; suffice is to say that I realize that America and Europe are totally aligned on paper... oops!... on PowerPoint. Being aligned in spirit is a different matter altogether...

The good part of Ireland, of course, is Guiness. And, if one tires of the dark beverage and is hankering for "Bood Leight", then Smythwicks is just "aboot" the ticket. Having imbibed weeknights, one set out on the weekend to explore the city.

Damn! Fookin' 30 Euro in cab fare! I swear I'm finding a cheap way to come back.. but that's a problem for a later time. Right now: Dublin, here I come!

Well, there's this tour bus that for more Euro will let you ride unlimited times in an endless loop, and that seemed like the best idea. It starts from O'Connel St. and takes you on a circuitous ride through Dublin town, visiting such places of pilgrimage as the hallowed halls of Trinity College (complete with Oliver Goldsmith looking permanently bemused in stone, just outside).

I couldn't really have done all the stops, so I decided to do Trinity College anyway, and then ended up taking pictures of St. Patrick's Cathedral, followed by a tour on foot of Dublin Castle. Took a break to do a Chinese lunch special, and then moved on to Killmainam Gaol. Killmainam Gaol reminds one of the infamous "Cellular Jail" of the Andaman islands (if you were an Indian kid growing up in post independance India, the historians made sure you knew about it).

What doesn't often make top-of-mind, is that this little city is home to so many Nobel Laureates for Literature: William Butler Yeats, George Bernard Shaw, Samuel Beckett, Seamus Heany (not sure that last one was a Dubliner... though, even if he was Irish). Throw in Oliver Goldsmith, Joanathan Swift, James Joyce... pretty prolific, if you consider that the Irish really have their own language and did not start out by speaking English in the first place. Lisa, staunch Irishwoman that she is, told me of the English: "You guy's (read: Indians) did a good job kicking them out in two hunderd years; it took us eight hunderd!" So, I guess the English influence is understandable.

Long story short, thoroughly enjoyed Dublin. Even managed to find a Brooks leather saddle for my bicycle at Cyclelogical. Cost 64 Euro!!!

No wonder I took the bus back from Ashton Quay. For the princely sum of 1 Euro and 80 cents.

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Dublin - James Joyce & Guiness Country

It finally happened.

I went to fookin' Dooblin!!! No, not the village in northern California, the real deal: Dublin, Irelend

It was a hair-raising experience getting a visa. The website says minimum two weeks; my boss gave me barely 10 day's notice. Long and short of it: Sylvia McLauglin from the Irish consulate in San Francisco called me to say that they always try to accommodate business travellers, and that a visa had been isssued, and next time would I give them four weeks' notice, please!!!

However, I did make it from San Francisco to London Heathrow, and was waiting there (yeah, I had go through a change of terminals, and a security check line longer than the one at the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, and a transit visa in the process) when Dreidre called from Dublin to say that they were having a taxi strike and that she had, bless her heart, arranged for a private taxi operator named Jim to pick me up at the airport. I was to share the cab with another gentleman, though, which, of course, was fine by me!

I arrived in Dublin via British Midlands (they stiff you 5 Euro for a sandwich) and deplaned to voice-mail from the 'other gentleman' who turned out to be none other than Paul, the trusty (as far as the English can be trusted) Outbound Marketing contact for EMEA (Europe Middle East and Africa), based out of Weybridge, England. Jim, of course, was very much in attendance, and, since I had no checked baggage, we debouched towards Dublin town with remarkable alacrity.

EMEA Marketing had laid out dinner and entertainment downtown, which I was planning to miss as I had work to do and sleep to catch up with. Paul, however wanted to parttake of the festivities, and I ended up droppping him at a restaurant by Mansion House (which, by the way, is currently the mayor's residence) before continuing on to the village of Saggart, where we had been accommodated in princely style at the Citywest Hotel and Golf Resort.

But more about that in a later post...

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Sand and Sand Again

“Sand, sand, sand, still sand, only sand, and sand and sand again…” – from Crossing the Desert, by a British author, whose name completely escapes me now.

The man, obviously, was fed up to the back teeth with sand.

So was I. With Tofu.

The difference, simply, was that while the author in question was infinitely fortunate to be fed up only in the figurative sense, this blogger was not quite so fortunate.

Yeah, to resume where I had last left off, I was checking into this hotel in the middle of nowhere (translation: at the Disneyland Resort, which, by the way, is pretty much in the middle of nowhere) in Tokyo at 2:00 AM California time, when the much-bowing reception-clerk told me that a note had been left that we were all to convene at the lobby, to go to dinner at 7:00 PM Tokyo time, which was to be in an hour.

Now this, after twelve hours and two servings of airline food, seemed like exactly the thing I needed, and with much rejoicing I boarded the Mickey Mouse bus (yeah, even the rear lights and exhaust look like Mickey’s ears and head), which, with the rest of our team, took me to the Ikspiari Mall, where Kenji Nishimura proceeded to guide us to what was promised to be the dinner of a lifetime.

It was.

A seven-course dinner.

A seven-course dinner, where each course, from soup to ice-cream, was made out of tofu.

“Tofu, tofu, tofu, still tofu, only tofu, and tofu and tofu again…”

If you are feeling suicidal, and would like to die slowly, remember to mention tofu in my presence. Guaranteed to work.

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Welcome to Tokyo

Been away in Tokyo and Hong Kong last week for a Sales Training Program. Marketing trains, Sales gets trained. Sales, as a result, are supposedly better prepared in their specialized markets; Marketing gets to travel; everybody is happy.

At least, that is how it’s supposed to work… in theory. In practice, everything has its kinks.

Well, for one thing, I wish airport -shuttle companies would ask me if I was traveling international, and schedule their pickup times accordingly. Some stupid dispatcher put me down for domestic, which made for a fairly hair-raising experience in making the flight out of San Francisco to Tokyo. Just made the boarding gate by the skin of my teeth (which, last time I checked, was non-existent anyway… the skin, the skin, not the teeth, stoopid).

Two movies in the flight; high point: Cameron Diaz making out in a bathtub… um, yeah, I did say bathtub. Thank god for small mercies.

Japan requires all visitors to fill in a disembarkation card, and hand it over to Immigration & Customs upon arrival. I dutifully handed my card over to a Japanese immigration official who looked at it, looked heavenward and said something in Japanese that seemed disturbingly like: “God, give me strength. Why do I always end up with these guys!” Then he turned to me and said in English, “PRease do nor fiRR in penciR, pRease fiRR onRy in ink”, and sent me back to redo the form over.

Anyways, it is like a twelve-plus hour flight to Tokyo, and, add to it the seventeen-hour time difference, one ends up losing an entire day traveling in that direction, and also ends up in one’s hotel at some unearthly United States hour like 2:00AM. I have nothing against Japanese customs, but I could do with a little less bowing when I’m trying to check-in at a hotel dog-tired at 2 in the morning… and I don’t care if it’s daylight.

WeRcome to Tokyu!

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