As I grow older and more reliant on cigarettes to govern my ventilation , I ’ve accept that the dry , recycled air of plane rides to intend insistent febrility , as the discharge organism from a thousand passenger take root in my feeble lung . So when I stumble off my three - leg flying into Hannover , I was walking more in haze than in realism . Could it be that this generic brown wonderland was really Germany ? Could it be that my luggage really was stuck in London ?
At the hotel , a 30 Euro taxi drive later ( who do we have to bomb to fix the exchange rate , huh ? ) I had a virgule of luck : I was able to grease one’s palms the desk clerk into switching me into one of the only free rooms with internet , which meant I could spend a few hour working before I went to get dinner .
Did you know that the famed German sausages are really just gargantuan hot dogs continue in a curry ? This is one of the many things I see in the hotel ginmill , as I sip awful pilsener and listened to a pensionary warble behind a Casioesque keyboard . I was alone , no one to with make Colonel Klink jokes , in 48 hr clothes , with no hygiene supplies , bad beer , and eternal covers of American pop music standards by a adult male who sounded like he was blow a leaky accordian . Welcome to Hannover .
I took a video of Herr Sing . Someday I ’ll share it with you .
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