the key to my heart

Saturday we bussed three hours to Wolfsburg, home of Volkswagen, to watch Wolfsburg and Bremen in some sort of semi-finals. I was a little behind in the play by play and I'm sorry to report the cultural experience was lost on me as it was on most of the other Canadians sharing Block 50 row 17. It wasn't because we were too far away; the field was amazingly large - so large that the players on the far side of the field were noticeably smaller than those closer to us. And it wasn't because we weren't open to the experience: I had a curry bratwurst in one hand and two beers in the other. I was playing along. Why then did I feel as though I was wedged into someone's living room with 18 year old boys and 50 beers? Why could no one explain this game to me?! By the end I had finally figured out which team was Wolfsburg. Up until then I was more concerned with the timeclock and whether having another beer would be simply too much. When you're sitting in front of two maniacal soccer freaks who look like they enjoy romping in outhouses and winnebagoes, you start to lose respect for what they're cheering for. Andrea and I were enjoying ourselves infinitely more by taking photos with the pretzel vendor who was shimmying down our aisle. It was all quite hysterical, even when the ever-frowning guy behind me would yell SCHEISSE over my right shoulder and the woman dug her sneaker further into my back. It was probably the beer. And therein is the essence of sports stadiums, and the key to my heart when I'm forced to sit in one.

Outside the stadium, men were lined up on a grassy knoll pissing into the creek like a firing squad. I was impressed that there never seemed to be a lull in the golden offering of testosterone.

Each toilet stall had two buttons: one for each excrement. They're leaving it up to me! - five water droplets or eight?