DON'T TEST ME

Written from: Heidelberg.

“DON’T TEST ME!!!” I scream-type from my Heidelberg Studentenwohnung (“student house”, but German is hilarious), closing an email entailing the details of a last minute trip to Paris I arranged for less than 30 Euros and ONLY because a friend dared to question my ability to unscrew the unscrewable, fix-last-minute the unfix-last-minuteable, and in sum, meet them for an unplanned weekend of fun in Paris. Sadly, once they received the email in the wee hours of THE NIGHT BEFORE I’D BE LEAVING, they gave me some junk about how they didn’t think I could swing it (obviously they forgot that I swing the unswingable), and that they couldn’t entertain me if I did come. WHAT A CHUMP! But at least I was able to prove my clout as the Instant Traveler with this easily negotiable hurdle in the life of a Modern Nomad.

So what do I do now that my Paris plans are a Parisn’t-going-to-happen? I pull some more strings from who-knows-where, and arrange a trip to Munich for the last weekend of Oktoberfest (incidentally, the end of Oktoberfest is the only part actually in October), which is a sight like I’ve never imagined. A tent full of 5,000 dancing, singing, dunkel/leiderhoustupidpants clad locals and travelers assembled for the celebration of Beer.  Sure there were fights. And sure, there were people tossing cookies all over the street…but wouldn’t Beer be proud of this? I’d like to think Beer would say, “it wouldn’t be a celebration of me, if you didn’t celebrate ALL of me, so please, muster your courage (drink more if you need it), go and talk to that way-out-your-league, blond-haired, blue-eyed, daughter of Bavaria, and right when you think your game is at it’s peak, I will make you throw up on her. Why? Not because I hate you, but because I love you. I am Beer. More than scoring, more than sounding cool, I want to give you a rotten story of rottenness to tell again and again and again, because the lovers of my supple Hopsties will enjoy it, enjoy me, and thus enjoy us.”

Hi.

My name is Mike Ruffino and I said I would never have a blog. However, these are the things you come up with when you’re sitting in a coffee shop at the Munich train station, which you’re planning on playing guitar in until you fall asleep, only to wake up and get a ride with a total stranger to Hanover, where you will work for 3 weeks at a sustainable farm, learning everything about such endeavors, but also how to go from “I’m a mooing cow” to “I’m a delicious steak”…a task who’s blood-riddled steps are sure to haunt my dreams forever.

It is at this point I realize that I have no choice. I will again begin the sticky endeavor of creation, and much like the offspring I one-day hope to have, this too will probably be thought of as a mistake.

Blog #1. 27^th Year, 353^rd Day. Complete.

Restrospection:

Apologies to the friend I called “chump”. The bag of apples you gave me will be my food for the next 2 days.