I had planned to attend A’s church on Sunday, but in the end, sleep took priority, and I instead rose in a more leisurely fashion to begin contemplating packing and what I might need to post home, before meeting A for lunch along with her friend I, last seen in costume at Barockfest two years ago. It was really great to catch up with her again, though as she is still working with scientists, lunch quickly degenerated into scientist and grant stories.
With my flight home only two days away, we had earmarked Sunday well in advance for a very important cultural experience. I refer, of course, to the football again. Not the France versus Ireland game, which we watched on A’s computer while I weighed my luggage and wondered just when I had acquired so many toys for my niece (answer: constantly and at every town I stopped in across three countries), but the far more exciting German game against… (oh that’s nice. I didn’t bother to write who their opponents were in my diary. Clearly, the cultural immersion. Sorry, whichever team you were.)
Anyway, watching football at home while saying ‘Oh la la, c’est pas possible’ a lot and commenting on the attractiveness of the respective goalies (we both tend to barrack for the goalies) (this might be why we watch so many nil-all draws?) is all very fine, but this is clearly not the proper way to do things. No, to watch football properly, one must go to a beer garden, ideally in the grounds of an old castle.
