Here we are, our first day waking up in Bonn. The agenda is as simple as can be. We slept in, now we hop over to my brother's house and play with the kids.
My brother wanted me to see 5 year old Charlie's throwing and catching. Time to walk to the park. Barbie and the girls were chilling at the house. (Girls includes my mother, two nieces, and sister-in-law.) I turned around on this walk to see Barbie and the eldest Amanda a few blocks behind us. Those pics did not come out so well.
Action shot!!! Yes, the picture would have been better had Charlie been in the sun. Waste readers aside, I would never ask a kid to move from the shade to the sun just for a picture. I kept looking for when Amanda and Barbie would pass by us, and they never did. The young ladies are off on their own walk. I found out later they went around town and even had some nutella crepes. I was a little jealous of the crepes, but delighted that they got in some woman-time.
After baseball, Charlie insisted on showing me how fast he is on his bike. Matt let him win this one. I raced him, too.
Right after I shot this video, Charlie stated the clip title that you see above.
Back to the house...
I was a bit surprised. These tech-savvy kids were well aware of the iPhone 4 and its capabilities. They all ask, "Is that the 4?" I had to show them all the tricks that I have.
Any iPhone can do this, but Polarize is always fun. Odd that the kids appreciate it even if Polaroid cameras never existed in their lifetimes. The names come from this; Amanda said that of her one-hundred-forty-eight nick-names, one is Shman, which derives from truncating Amanda to Manda to Man, then adding the comforting Sh in front. So, when it came time to type a title on Polarize, I converted "Amanda & Gillian" to "Shman & Shmil.
Games were played and fun was had... then it was time for dinner. We are excited, because for sister-in-law Lisa's recent Birthday my parents are taking her to the Italian joint that they loved last year.
I insisted on playing with the forward-facing camera. That is what the "city center" of a small town/suburb in Germany looks like. It serves the role of a mall, while still feeling like a town. I believe this is the sort of area some Americans bemoaned that we lost when our country became Wal-Mart-ized. It is a shame. Of course, in Los Angeles we only have streets and malls, no public squares and no Wal-Marts. Santa Monica has the only pedestrian street that I know of, which is probably why all Europeans adore Santa Monica.
The restaurant is directly to the right, but Barbie and I looked up to the castle we have never visited and decided that we would burn off dinner with a walk up there after dessert.
If you are wrapping your head around the Italian-food-in-Germany concept, check a map. Not far.
Barbie's starter... the last prosciutto and melon of the trip.
My starter... a bizarre soup with egg and parmesan.
Barbie's dinner... veal I think?
My dinner... nothing simpler or better than spaghetti bolognese. (Anachronous comment. I am home now, finishing the Waste on my real computer. This entire trip, I have looked at every picture on a 9-inch netbook. Now I am looking at them on two 19-inche monitors. That spaghetti, simple as it is, is an amazing picture when it fills the screen. For upload I shrink every picture to 1/3 its original size. My apologies. I had no idea how cruel this was. You should SEE the originals. You can, on a 52-inch TV, if you schedule a visit to Casa Howard Brentwood.)
Two of my favorite women in the world.
Yes, the words, "You can live with us if you go to UCLA," are always halfway out of my mouth.
My father's Tiramisu, with the loveliest lighting from the sun one could request.
What's so funny about peace, love and understanding? (If you knew how I felt about Elvis Costello, you would shun me for hypocritically quoting him.) Amanda wants peace for all, yo.
My chocolate mousse. I swear to you, the lighting and the detail of this sucker full-screen is food-art.
After dinner, Barbie and I shared our plan to walk up the hill to the castle. We almsot got both Amanda and Gillian to come, but by the time we were walking out of the restaurant we just had Gillian.
I should have pointed with a finger. Instead, you must settle for arrows. No capitalized, "Here." That is for fingers only. Check the rule book.
Not too hard to find your way around a small town. Technically a "municipal district of Bonn," Bad Godesberg strikes me as a town. Maybe even a village. By the way, though the village was founded in 722, the fortress was not built until 1210. This being Europe, it was destroyed by Bavarian troops in the Köln War, which happened because the local Archbishop converted to Protestantism.
Before we get all "religion is bad" up in here, allow me to share a thought. Before you hear it, know that I am not a believer in anything, really, except that all the world's religions were created by men for various reasons and more often than not these religions are meant for good. However, on the whole religious war front, I will stand up for the faithful and state that Ten times out of Ten religious wars are political wars, over power and resources, with religion used as a justification. Just my opinion.
In 1792 Godesberg became a spa resort, but it was until 1925 that Godesberg became Bad Godesberg, identifying itself as a spa. We learned at the spa town on the Baltic that the Molli train took us to how strict the Germans are about the Bad moniker.
At the top of the hill, a tad sweaty, I got this shot of Godesberg Castle's remaining tower. Happy accident that the iPhone made this upside down. The Hackintoshed netbook knew to fix it on import, and I had to flip it back. Happy accidents do not need correction.
Barbie, Jeff, and Gillian, at Godesberg Castle.
A view of the town from above.
The ladies posing by the ruins.
The owner, who I hear inherited this place, has built a high-end restaurant up here.
The stroll back down the hill could not have been lovelier.
Back at the house came Wii playing and general fun. Enough fun that my phone stayed in my pocket.
Until tomorrow.
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