I was at the World Cup Final

When I was young, I remember that I had my eye set on a particular toy for my birthday. It was James Bond's Aston Martin DB5 as made by Corgi, 1:35 scale model, complete with working rear shield deflector, pop-out machine guns and ejector seat. It was a whopping RM20, and the only way I could really get it was to wait for my birthday. And when my birthday came? Yup, you guessed it. No Aston Martin. Instead, I got a Batmobile with grappling hook and funny siren noisemaker (I think). Nice, but not the same. Sometimes you build up your expectations so much that when you get to the event, it's a bit of a let down.

Going to the World Cup Final was not like that. At all. In case anyone misunderstands me, have no doubt that I thought it was great.

Really great.

Okay, it wasn't perfect. Zidane shouldn't have been so stupid. The Italians should have remembered to keep passing to those guys in blue (BLUE DAMNIT, BLUE!!!). Penalties are no way to settle a World Cup. (My suggestion? Let the managers go head-to-head in an extreme-style deathmatch in the centre circle. It would raise the ratings.)

But otherwise, it was great. I got the ticket through an extremely fortunate set of circumstances, because a friend of my father's was in Germany, and one of the people in the group had to go back early. Actually, there's a little more than that, but I'll leave the whole story to another day.

So (where was I?), a free ticket to watch the World Cup Final. The bus and train trip to the stadium was largely uneventful, but the heart began to beat faster when I saw the Olympic rings at the front entrance.

True, I had been outside the stadium before, but I had never actually stepped into it. Security laughed at Ed (as they always do), and a few moments later, we were in the land of overpriced drinks and walking flag-people.

It's hard to explain what it's like. It feels great, yes. But you must understand that this is something I've wanted to do since I was so young.

In 1982, when Dino Zoff lifted the World Cup, I never imagined that I would even be in the same country as one where it was being held. In 1994, I was in the USA, but harsh distances and a student's budget made it difficult to be part of the game. In 2006, I fulfilled my dream to actually tour a country during the World Cup fever.

To say that watching the final live was like icing on the cake would be like saying that a footballer winning the World Cup is a nice addition to the mantelpiece. It's an understatement of the nth degree. Watching the World Cup Final is something I wasn't even sure I would ever do in my lifetime. And I was here.

If I thought they would let me in with my Alphawriter, I would have been typing this right there, right then. It was amazing.

If I was disappointed with anything, it was the atmosphere. I've been in Bukit Jalil stadium during the Commonwealth games, and that feeling still hasn't been beaten. Yes, there was fervour, but it wasn't as overwhelming as I think it could have been. Perhaps if Germany was in the final, it would have been a different matter.

There has been some talk about World Cup tickets not going to the right people, and I can kind of understand that, but a quick look around in our area (labelled as Category 1, no less), and I maybe saw three who weren't really fans.

Well, the ticket did say Category 1. But I went to another game in Leipzig, and I can swear that in that game, we had very similar seats to the ones we got in the final, and those were Category 2. Perhaps the virtue of it being a final pushed up the value.

They did try to split the crowd into the Italian and French sections, with a large crowd of neutrals in between. I estimate maybe 10% were occupied by uniform swathes, but there was no denying that there were Italian fans peppered in our otherwise Bleu area.

Incidentally, you aren't allowed to brings of any sort into the stadium. It's not just the containers they're worried about, but also what you bring in it. However, this also just happens to be extremely fortunate for all those drink sellers (EUR3.50 plus EUR1 deposit) working within the stadium.

(to be continued...)

Labels: germany, world cup

I'm (probably) going to the World Cup Final

As of this moment, it looks like I will be going to the World Cup Final tonight.

WooHoo!
Yahey!!!

Darn. Now I've probably jinxed it.

Labels: germany, world cup

The Eagle's Nest

The guide books call it the Eagle's nest, and the local name is Kehlsteinhaus but I call it abso-blooming-lutly beautiful. I am typing this while sitting on a bench perched precariously at the edge of a one thousand plus meter drop, overlooking the Konigsee and I have just rediscovered my innate sense of vertigo.

Actually, I lie slightly, because that feeling had already revealed itself on the bus journey up the mountain. Imagine, a bus chugging up a single lane road with only a foot of grass separating the tyres and a sheer drop. Keep focussing on the distant view, ignore what you see directly below you- ohmyfrickingodthatdoesn'tlooksafe.

But is it worth the view from the top? Absobloominlutely yes.

Getting there, though, is another matter. The closest town to the Eagle's nest is Brechtesgaden.

If you come by train from Munich, you'll have to change once. Before you change, just want to say, the scenery on the right-hand side is better. I had to scramble across and curse silently when beautiful alpine ranges were replaced by blurry trees.

From the train station, go out, and turn right to the main bus stop. You can drop by the office before hand and chat about what options there are to get to the Eagle's Nest, but they all boil down to the same thing: Take the 838 or the 849 to a place called Dokumentation (ours was labelled 838/849 - two in one if you like).

The bus will climb up a steep hill (nice views on the left hand side). If you get giddy easily, close your eyes and miss the scenery.

You will eventually reach Dokumentation. It's called that because there is a Nazi Documentation Centre there (which is also a museum), which is pretty good, by the way. If you're interested in that, EUR3 to enter, and if you sprechen kein Deutsch, get the audioguide because everything is in German.

But we're not here for that! We're here for the views. If the bus driver was kind (like ours), you are pointed towards the ticket office.

Now, you don't have to take the bus if you don't want to. It's a two-hour hike to the top (it seems). And lots of people do that. They're the ones with the climbing sticks and the red faces.

If you take the bus (wimp!), it's another fifteen minutes or so up some of the steepest, winding, narrow but ohmybloominggod beautiful roads. Don't be put off by the fact that it starts off with a lot of pine trees and not much else. Trust me, it gets better.

There is a helpful commentary on the bus on the way up. In four languages. I think. I lost count after German, English and French. It explains that it was a fiftieth birthday present from the Nazi party to Adolph Hitler (What _do_ you get a militirastic dictator who already has his eyes set on Europe?).

Because you have to have the return time printed on your bus ticket, the announcement will also suggest that you spend two hours at the Eagle's Nest. Now, all there is up there is a beautiful view, a restaurant and souvenir shops, so this to me is a rather crude attempt to make sure that a captive audience has time to get hungry and bored. Cynical me.

Anyway, I think an hour should be enough. The braver of you can spend the time teetering on rock edges, taking in the view, or just sitting on benches, a little bit off the edge, which is the way some of us like living our life.

Labels: germany, world cup

I have a theory why some people find other people immediately attractive. It's because these people remind them of somebody else in their life that made them feel good. Chemistry between two people is when this reminder is mutual. You see something that you recognise and feel comfortable about, so you find it attractive. It could be anything that triggers this subcooncious memory. The shape of their nose, the way they laugh, the tone of their voice.

And sometimes, it's the football jersey they wear.

I've seen this happen so many times in this World Cup. Two groups of people who in every other way are complete strangers with one another, will immmediately greet each other like long lost friends and hug and laugh and party, simply due to the fact that they're wearing the same football jersey.

Organised sports is possibly the last bastion of tribalism in the connected world today. Most explainations of it involve some sense of shared cultures and habits, or because of a need of belonging. I want to propose that it's because we are most comfortable with what we are familiar with.

By slipping on a Brazillian shirt, I can immediately be invited to be one of the mass, samba-partying crowd. Of course, I can't speak portugese or sing along with their songs, but that is beside the point.

This also explains why I like to follow England. I recognise the players, I know what they are like, and I know how they play.

But the sense familiarity can also have negative connatations. In Germany, because of the recent past, Nationalism is a dirty word. You cannot escape the fact that Germany tries is best to distance itself from their Nazi history. And the Nazis were fairly heavy into their Nationalist agenda.

Germany isn't so much embarrassed about their past, as they are resolute in saying who they are now is not the same as who they once were.

So, it is unsurprising when a news bulletin questions whether the nationalistic fervour that has enveloped Germany during the World Cup is a bad thing. Some still remember what it was like to be so excited at a nation's achievements, and how badly that turned out.

Nevertheless, it looks like the man on the street is winning out, as the passion for the national German team (after only two World Cup games, mind you) is rapidly outstripping their caution. Not an hour passes without there being some sort of report on the national team. No subject is trivial enough - even Klinnsman's brother who runs a bakery is given the full treatment.

Labels: germany, world cup

Nuremburg

Synonymous with the Nazi political rallies of the 1930's, Nuremburg is a pretty Bavarian town saddled with the recent history. Of course, tourists now flock here because of its disreputable past, but even if you just spend all your time in the old town, it's time well spent indeed.

Shoot me now, I'm beginning to sound like a tourist brochure.

One thing you shouldn't do when you reach the main railway station is to walk out the wrong exit. One exit leads to the beautiful old town and all the charm that Nuremburg has to offer. The other leads to it's shopping district, great for supermarkets and groceries, not so hot on the charm.

However, to get to the Nazi sites, you have to jump on another train or a tram. The signs there are not particularly good, but the locals are friendly.

The particular local who helped us happened to have ponytails, makeup and a beard, but his advice was good, even if his application of rouge wasn't.

The best place to start your tour of Nuremburg Nazi sights is the documentation center. It gives a good overview of how the Nazis used Nuremburg to rally and consolidate support. Basically, they started by using Nuremburg as a meeting point, and then decided to build large, grandiose structures to impress and project their influence. All the sights left in Nuremburg are relics of that effort.

Of all the structures, only the Congress Hall and the Zeppelin Field clearly remain. The Congress Hall is now the Nazi Documentation Centre, a museum about the Nazis, with special attention to their activities in Nuremburg. Entrance comes with an audioguide, and is very well presented. The content itself is skewed unsurprisingly to the "We're ashamed of our past, he was a bad man" tune that the rest of Germany currently displays. It would have been interesting to know more of why hundreds of thousands were willing to be led by this man and his policies. The explaination given at the Documentation Centre was that he cultivated a cult around himself, who worshipped him as more than just a leader, and more as a superhuman.

But then, that's not so surprising in itself. Many world leaders take effort to project an image of themselves removed from reality. It's not unusual to reach a point where criticism of them becomes unthinkable, or is rebuked in the strongest terms.

I guess we should remember that even Prime Ministers are human and are prone to mistakes occasionally. The unfortunate thing is that their miistakes usually drag the whole country down with them.

Anyway... where was I? Yes, Hitler, very persuasive fellow he was. Managed to get hundreds of thousands of fellow Nazi party members to come to Nuremburg (then population 400,000), overrun the city, and then gather together in mass religious-like ceremonies.

Much like the World Cup, really.

After spending time at the Documentation Centre, you can now walk around the lake and see the old sites.

One of the things that really stand out are the GrossStrasse, a 2km 100m wide stretch of road, especially designed for parades. I can't think of any other type of road, just designed to accommodate such a thing, can you...?

The other sight is the Zeppelin Field, which is the site most associated with the Nazi Rallies. It's now slightly overgrown, but the size is still impressive, more than the World Cup stadium next to it.

After all that, that's all there is about Nuremburg. Nice town, shame about the Nazis.

Labels: germany, world cup

Billy Joel Rocks in Frankfurt, and I Roll With Him

Billy Joel was born in 1949 and has been making hit records since the 70's. I first heard Uptown Girl (Note: NOT the Weststlife version, okay?), and then the album, An Innocent Man, and then Piano Man, The Nylon Curtain and etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. In 1992 (or thereabouts) he dropped by my University to give a question, answer and song session. I was there, and I thought he rocked. Fourteen years later, twenty years after I heard him sing about Christine Brinkley, I finally catch him live, in concert.

And he still rocks.

Indeed, Billy Joel is in Germany, performing in Hamburg and Frankfurt (I don't know why not Berlin), and if the response in the other concerts are like what I saw tonight, there aren't enough dates to cover demand.

The venue for tonight's gig was the Festhalle. Frankfurt is renowned for being the trade fair capital of Germany, and the Festhalle is one of the locations used for them. I estimate that it might be able to seat a few thousand, and with the standing area iin front of the stage packed forty rows deep, there must have more than five or six thousand people attending. True, nothing compared to the fifty thousand that go to a World Cup game, and yet still quite impressive for a singer who doesn't have a new album to promote.

Anyway, it was Billy all the way, punctuated by one song by a roadie (Highway to Hell with Billy Joel on guitars, if you're interested). The energy the man has at 57 is phenomenal.

He started off with Angry Young Man, which has a rocking intro. It was then that I noticed that because I had arrived a little late (only half an hour before the concert began), there were a lot of people between me and the stage. All I could see was Billy's balding head. I definitely couldn't see his hands playing the piano.

I've got to explain something here. I'm a big fan of singer/songwriters who play the piano. Not sure why. Billy Joel. Ben Folds Five. Diana Krall. Jamie Cullum. Jerry Lee Lewis. Bill Withers. (Strangely enough, not so much Elton John. And definitely not Richard Clayderman.)

And every time I go watch a piano concert, I like to sit where I can see the pianist's hands playing. Just to watch, you understand. Those who can't really play, watch and admire.

The added bonus with Billy Joel is that I started to really play the piano because of him. I mean, I'd been playing organ for several years (you know, those Technics number-your-fingers courses), but I started experimenting, and trying different styles, trying variations of melodies. Not that it did me that much good, but I love playing because of him.

So, to finally see him live, and then just see his bobbing head is, frankly, a little galling.

But the music rocks.

I can't keep track of the full song list, but highlights included: An Innocent Man, with finger clicking, a segue from Stand By Me, and Billy hitting all the high notes; It's Still Rock and Roll to Me done Elvis-style; Big Shot, replete with mike stand twirling; an excellent rendition of Keeping the Faith; Pressure, complete with strobe lights and intensity; and, of course, Piano Man, where he let the audience sing the chorus.

And he rocked.

For a guy who's fifty seven, he's still pumping strong. Very impressive. His face was getting more red as the concert went on, but everyone's was - the hall was hot as heck, even I was wilting a little.

In the end, it was about two and a bit hours of music, and of course I felt cheated. There were so many he didn't get to cover: Just the Way You Are, The Stranger, Baby Grand, The Longest Time, Vienna...

But it's okay. He still rocked.

Other songs he performed: The Entertainer, Zanzibar, Don't Ask Me Why, Billy The Kid, Matter of Trust, Only the Good Die Young, Movin' Out, Leningrad, Allentown, My Life, Scenes From An Italian Restaurant, She's Always a Woman, Honesty, New York State of Mind.

Labels: germany, world cup

What do you do on a day with no football?

As the World Cup progresses, teams get eliminated and the number of games played get spaced out. As intriguing as it would be to see Brazil play every day for a week, players have to rest in between and, unfortunately, so do we.

It's a little unfair to say that our lives revolve around football. Even though there might be six hours of football in a day, we wake up early enough to do other things than watch games. We need to scout for locations to view games, stock up on groceries or find time to travel from host city to host city. Of course, all of this is to increase the pleasure of eventually watching the game, but that is merely a coincidence.

So, finally, on Wednesday, we were at a bit of a loss. The second round games were over, there were not one, but two rest days before the quarter-finals began. So, what do we do?

In short, walk. Previously, we had to rush around the city to get all our errands done before game time. Now, we could be more leisurely about taking new sights in.

I am a great believer that the best way to get to know a city is to walk around it until you get a little lost. Then, you're forced to understand the city and might see things that you would otherwise never catch if you just followed the prescribed tourist route.

How do you get about? You need a map, a comfortable pair of shoes and a sense of direction. I don't think mine are too bad, but when my cousin asked me whether I knew I was going in the right direction, I said, "You know where the sun is, you know what the time is". Surprisingly, this works much better than you might expect, although not as well as stopping and asking someone for directions.

Of course, it's time-consuming to walk around the city, getting lost down the sidestreets, but it's fun. The discovery of some quiet cul-de-sac. The intrigue at some hidden, charming (I will not use 'quaint') local restaurant. The joy of turning the corner and finally finding what you were looking for.

Of course, the feet are a little sore at the end of it all, but there is plenty of time to rest them once the football starts off again.

Labels: germany, world cup

Why I shouldn't bet on football matches

Ghana-Brazil. Second round of the World Cup. Odds for Brazil to win? 1.27. Odds for Ghana? 10.00.

"Ten?!! If we bet one Euro, when win ten?!!"

My cousin, who shall remain nameless (the one with the letters V, N, A, G and I in his name), was there with me. I turned to him.

"Aren't those good odds?"
"They're great odds."
"Should put some money on it."
"You should."
"Odds are too good. Something's weird."
"Be a man."
"I mean, nine to one are great odds."
"Wanna put the money where your mouth is?"

I hesitated on this one. I've never actually placed a professional bet in my life before. Sure, there's the odd if-Villa-lose-this-I'll-buy-you-a-teh-tarik bet (a lot of teh tariks in that one). But never one at a betting shop.

The next day, Gav- I mean, my cousin - prodded me again at the Internet Cafe.

"I wonder if they have a Michael Essien shirt here," he asked aloud. Essien has been a revelation in this World Cup, a hard-nosed hard-tackler who holds the Ghanian midfield together, and we both admire him.

In the end, I was persuaded. I'd put five Euros on Ghana, and cuz would match me.

"Make sure it's over 90 minutes," he said. We weren't going to get caught out on this one.

The nice lady behind the counter smiled when I went up to place the bet. Odds of 10.00 were good, I was happy.

We got to the bar where were going to have lunch and watch the game. A waitress came up to us and we started talking. She asked who I thought would win the Brazil-Ghana game, and I proudly held up the betting ticket.

"Ghana?!" she said incredulously. "You are very brave."

I pointed to my cousin. "He was going to buy an Essien shirt," I said.

"Who's Essien?"

We educated her. Essien is a god. We worship him on the altar that is World Cup football. Him and Pele, of course.

Finally we settled down to watch the game with our Caipirinhas. The team list scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Midfield: Appiah, Muntari, ...

"Where's Essien?", my cousin asked. "He's not suspended is he?"

I sank lower into my seat.

We watched the TV. Essien was being interviewed. And then they cut to the stunning two-footed-studs-up-tackle-from-behind he made on some poor American player (probably deserved it, by the way).

"He's suspended isn't he?"

My cousin looked at me.

"Just tear up the bloody ticket."

Labels: germany, world cup

England-Ecuador: Storm in a Fan Fest

You can tell when England's playing a game. You can hear when England's playing a game. It's that tune: En-GER-Land, En-GER-Land, En-GER-Land, the triple-syllabic repetition that after a while, frankly, becomes monotonous.

Even the way they look is pretty standard. Stripped to the waist, with an England team strip tied around his swelling reddened midriff, a beer in one hand, head cropped to reveal slightly paler skin underneath.

But one thing you can say about them: they're loyal. They're England through and through. Prick 'em and they bleed roses.

England are through to the second round, against what is perceived to be lightweight opposition. This is naturally where teams fail. The underdog usually plays a tight defensive game and all the pressure is on the bigger team to attack. It's not easy playing the minnows.

Gavin and I were in Koln (or Cologne, if you want) and we decided to go to the Fan Fest. Unlike the impressive festivals in Berlin (size) and Hamburg (interest), Cologne's fan fest is pretty much a letdown. To be fair, they do have pre-match concerts, but I kind of missed them on the days I was there.

The game began under sweltering heat. It's not really that much fun being stuck in a crowd of sweating tattooed Englishmen who are hurling abuse at anything that catches their fancy at the time.

England's game wasn't much better. Playing 4-5-1 (why?) with long balls punted to that well-known heading machine, Wayne Rooney, England had some chances, but were not convincing enough. Worse, the man I've tipped to win the game for England, Joe Cole, is not delivering. All he needs to do is to either beat a man and then pass to a free teammate, or hold the ball and pass to an overlapping Ashley Cole. A guy like Joe should be able to do that in his sleep, but the way he's playing, he looks more in comatose.

As the game progressed, the weather began to take a turn for the worse. It began slowly, with clouds gathering overhead. Although it gave respite from the sun, I noticed that the winds were picking up as well - normally a sure sign that rain is coming.

I put on my rainjacket. Gavin scoffed at me, but I could see how dark some of the clouds were. You could even see it moving towards us.

On the pitch, England were still not that convincing. Gerrard was trying his best to make things happen, but it wasn't really coming off. Lampard took shots, but still no goals.

Half time came, and I suggested getting out before it started raining. Just next to the Fan Fest, my eye was caught by an ice cream menu. Banana splits. Yum. Even at EUR4 for one.

We sat just inside the open shop. If we peeked into the back of the shop, we could see a TV. I got my banana split, and the second half began.

Now, I can't really say that I saw much of that, because it started to rain, you see. And I mean, really rain.

Well, first there was the wind. The umbrellas outside all flapped uncontrollably. Waiters ran out to try and bring them under control.

The announcer at the Fan Fest said, "You can feel the winds, it is very strong. And if you look behind you, you can see the dark clouds. It might be a good idea to look for cover."

The crowd roared and let him know exactly what they thought of fans that abandoned their team at the threat of mere rain.

The storm began. And I mean 'storm', not rain. Plastic chairs toppled over and scurried along the ground. The Fan Fest TV kept flickering on and off, and the TV in the shop too had difficulty keeping a signal. Outside, it began to pour, with some hard-but-not-so-hard core fans running for cover.

The ice cream shop started closing its sliding doors, insulating us from the chaos outside. English fans pressed up against the glass, not so much to get in, but so they could peer at the TV inside.

I talked to the lady next to me. "Does it rain like this often?" She shook her head. Never.

Suddenly, there was a roar. Beckham had scored, a meticulously curled free kick into the side.

Suddenly, with that, it all began to become clear. Both the game and the weather turned for the better. I finished off my ice cream, and celebrated an England win, if not thoroughly convincing, then at least workable.

Labels: germany, world cup

How I Lost and Found My Adaptor

Let me tell you a story. Okay, it isn't much of a story, in the sense that there aren't many obstacles, but it is about the choices I make when I'm travelling, and there is this sense of three acts, so... well, okay, it is a story.

First class seats in German trains have an electrical outlet, so you can plug your notebook in, or your hair dryer, or, like I did, perhaps even your handphone charger.

The plug is between the seats, way below everything else, so it's hidden away. And then I got into conversation with some Americans about Newcastle and Owen's injury. That's my explaination anyway about why I left it on the train.

Yup, left my phone charger on the train. And I don't think they make the model any more, so you could say it's practically one of a kind. As happy as I was that I would be saving money on phone calls, I really should get it back.

But what could I do? I decided to just poke my head around the office door in the Railway Travel Information Centre.

I'm not confident in my German. I know this because if I have to ask anything complicated, I first check if they can speak English or not. Most of the time, the response is "Not very well, explain it to me in German". Once, it was "Your German is good, what, say it in German lah!" (translated to Malaysian English, of course).

The other problem is that they tend to answer in rapid-fire German. The trick I have (which works most of the time) is to identify the two or three words I understand and then work out what is being said from there. The problem with that is that one word can sometimes make all the difference.

By the time I had finally worked out where the lost and found department was (incidentally, in DB railway stations, they're always also the left luggage office), I had asked three people and walked the length of the station twice. When I got to the last person ("My English not so good, say in German please"), I had more or less got the words down pat, based on which phrases left people puzzled and which they nodded and smiled at.

They told me because the train went on ahead to Munich, they didn't clean up the train in Leipzig, and that the only way I could get it is if I went to the Munich train station. They were kind enough to write my name and seat number down to pass it along, though, and they were sympathetic of my plight (being crap at German).

The problem is, I wasn't due in Munich until the week after, so I would be without a telephone until then. Not a disaster, but still a pain.

So, I was still thinking about that when I boarded the train to go to Cologne, my next stop. I also wanted to drop by Frankfurt to buy tickets for the Billy Joel concert (different story). Frankfurt to Cologne is only an hour, no problem.

However, when we pulled into Frankfurt station, I was still very groggy from the sleep (it was 5.30 am), and I thought about things for awhile.

The ticket office wasn't going to open for another four hours at least, maybe five, so I'd have to hang around in a cold railway station until then.

But, the train I was on was going on to Munich (all trains go to Munich or Berlin, I gather). Sure, it was another four hours, but my German Railpass would mean it would be a free roundtrip, and I might be able to get my adaptor back.

So I settled back to sleep and stayed on the train. Of course, when we got to Munich, it wasn't over yet.

I couldn't find the lost and found office ('Findburo' if you're interested), so I poked my head into the Euraide office. Euraide is an organisation set up to help people with Eurail tickets sort out tickets, reservations, etc. I used them as an interactive map of the station. When I told them I had lost something on the train, the guy basically laughed and wished me good luck. Apparently there's not much found at the Lost and Found.

Nevertheless, I'd gotten this far already, might as well go all the way. The man in charge of the lost and found office was (a) Clearly a life-long employee of the DB railways, with not much left on his tenure; (b) Proud of his job and the responsibilities that came on with it; (c) Not likely to speak the languages of any country that he fought against in the war (The Great War, not the other one).

By this time, I had the words more or less pat, but I still needed to point to the phone ("See? Thingy that plugs into there"), make funny rectangular shapes with my hands ("Like this, not so small, not so big") and a lot of smiling and nodding at what seemed the appropriate times ("What kind of idiot leaves his adaptor behind on a train?" Smile. Nod.).

Finally, with some more pointing and nodding, he finally produced my adaptor. In one piece. I thanked him gratefully and heartily. I think he was so surprised by my reaction, that he himslef broke into a huge smile, grasped my hand with both of his and seemed to thank me in return for making his week.

A time to make friends indeed.

Labels: germany, world cup

Iran vs Angola at Leipzig stadium

The stadium is pretty impressive on the inside as well. The seats are steep and I think there isn't a single place that has an obstructed view. The architecutre is simply overwhelming.

The seats we got were excellent. The only problem was that the setting sun eventually peeked under our roof and gently basted us, but it wasn't anything too serious.

Watching a World Cup game in a stadium is like watching any other football game, except that it's bigger, louder and more expensive.

Well, not technically bigger. Bukit Jalil held 80,000 during the Commonwealth Games opening and closing ceremonies (it can theorethically hit 100,000) and that was an absolutely amazing atmosphere. In the World Cup the crowds are slightly smaller (50,000-70,000) but just as ferocious, and just as loud. You wear your heart, flag and whatever you can get your hands on on your sleeve.

You notice the rabble rousers that inspire a crowd onwards. With the numbers that we are talking about, you need more than just one person leading the chants. Note that in football, there are no official cheerleaders on the field, just who you bring with you in the stands.

The game itself was okay. Things only really perked up when Angola scored. It'ss fairly amazing to me that Angola, who needed a win to even think about getting through to the next round, lined up 4-5-1 from the beginning, and then only gradually changed to a 4-3-3. They were much better going forward, and were pressing for the second goal that would send them through, when Iran scored from a straight-forward header off a corner. After this, the game petered out a little (might have been the heat of the afternoon sun). The strangest thing, though: The Angola keeper looked as if he was playing for a draw near the end, when a win was what they should have been going for. In the end, neither Angola nor Iran came away with much credit. Angola can be excused as it's their first World Cup, but Iran really need to buck up if they're to establish Asia as a footballing region.

After the game, we quietly shuffled out. There wasn't much in the way of celebration since both teams were out, so it was a little anti-climactic.

Labels: germany, world cup

Trying to avoid security at the World Cup

For this World Cup, the orgnisers have promised to be very stringent with identity checks, and that ticket holders will be matched with their passports. I look very little like the Mr. Pueltson whose name is on the ticket, so the ticket might be a problem (my apologies for the crazy spelling, but I'm now used to generating umlauts on a PC yet).

However, despite getting two tickets for the game, my cousin and co-traveller did not want to travel cross-country to Leipzig wiwth me. He didn't relish either Iran or Angola, and he wanted to save his valuable Germany Railpass days for Nuremburg.

Leipzig is a three-hour journey away by train from Hamburg. This makes it a six-hour round-trip journey for a two-hour match. As crazy as this seems, it's not altogether strange as many a dedicated football fan have made round-trips of longer journeys in poorer conditions. I myself remember rugby matches against King's Tauntons which were that long away, and if you don't think that's necessarily so awful, imagine a coach-load of proto-pubescent teenagers after a bone-crunching rugby game in the middle of a sleety British winter.

But I'm travelling first-class on the cream of Deutsch Bahnhof trains, courtesy of my German railpass tickets. For a set fee, you can travel anywhere in Germany for a certain number of days in a month. It's actually a very good deal. It works out to EUR40 a day for a second class ticket. It's a better deal at EUR50 a day for a first class ticket - which is normally a EUR40-50 surcharge. Even with the discounted World Cup fares (only available to those with gameday tickets), second class Hamburg-Leipzig-Hamburg comes out to be EUR90. So, I was very happy with an excuse to use one of my extra RailPass days.

Anyhow, I digress. But this is my story, and I reserve the right to do so. Since I had a spare ticket, I felt that since fortune shone her light on me, I should do the same to the next poor soul who wanted to experience that special atmosphere of the World Cup but did not have a ticket. That person was Billy, who probably couldn't believe his luck that not a few hours after arriving in Germany, with his only intent to enjoy the atmosphere at the fan-fest, a virtual stranger sharing his same dorm would offer him a ticket to watch a World Cup game.

Okay, it's Iran-Angola, but he'd never been to a World Cup game ever in his life, and might possibly never again. So, we bustled awake at six in the morning and hustled our way to Leipzig.

Leipzig is the only World Cup host city in the former East Germany. You can sort of sense it. There is an undeveloped feel to it, which is to its credit because much of the old architecture is still intact. The word is 'quaint', although I hate to use it because it conjures up the worst in commercially-packaged American-infested tour groups. (I hope you understand that I am referring to those loud-mouthed, perenially-uncouthed, tactfully-challenged Americans, and not those globally-enlightened, cleverly-unassuming travellers whom you occasionally meet and mistake for Canadians.)

But Leipzig is very pretty and nice to stroll through. It's compact, it's got cobbled roads (always a favourite with me) and it's got pleasant architecture.
It's also got a first class football stadium only 20 minutes walk away from the city centre. It's absolutely amazing. Size-wise it's on par with the Shah Alam stadium (which is pretty incredible in it's own right), but it's nestled in a little valley, so the stadium seems to grow out of the countryside.

We had a plan of attack. Apart from the wrong names on the tickets, I also wanted to bring in my video camera. However, some versions of the rules said that it was not possible to bring in any sort of video recording equipment. Others just made it clear that any filming or photography was for personal use only.

The idea was to try and go into the stadium only when there was a crowd. Hopefully, because they would be keen to process the masses as quickly as possible, they might let things slip. Like a camera. And an Asian-looking Poulsen. (You'll notice that the spelling will change as I get along with the story. My prerogative again.)

I sat outside, enjoying the crowd's antics. Fans waving flags. Fans tooting horns. Fans getting their bags turned inside-out by the stadium security.

The longer I sat there watching them go through bag after bag, inside seam after every inside seam, the more resigned I was that I was going to be caught out.

But it was too far for my liking to go back to the main train station and dump my stuff in a left-luggage train locker, so I decided to try my luck.

As usual, I played the I-am-but-a-dumb-tourist act. He asked me to open the bag, I opened the bag. He asked me to empty the bag, I emptied the bag.

"Oh, sorry, you cannot bring that in". But he wasn't pointing to the video camera, but the AlphaSmart. Everyone assumes that darned thing is a fully-fledged PC, when it's just a glorified electric typewriter with solid-state memory. But everyone's worried that I can use it to hack into some WiFi signal or block television signals.

Fortunately, they let me keep the bag in the store room and take my video camera with me. One down, one to go.

But the queue to cheque the tickets was moving smoothly. Nobody had to wait, nobody was being interrogated. Then he got to my ticket, saw the name, saw my face, and did a double take.
"Mr. Puetsen? Can I see your passport please?"

Damn. The game was up. I could play it clever and "C'mon, you know how this thing works, let me in", but yet again I went for innocent tourist.

I told the truth.

"Somebody in the dorm gave it to me, for free."

The guard took me aside and then asked me to join another lady outside. As she took us to the office, I carried on the "Wha-? Me-? Why-?" train of argument.

I stopped outside the office, and she asked me for my passport.

Hell. The thinking before we went in was to say that we didn't bring our passports, but I could see that this line of argument wasn't going to go anywhere fast. So I just took out the passport and gave it to her.

Trying not to look nervous, I smiled at her. "So... problem is it?"

"Ja... a little."

I realised I was smiling a little too much. What was it they said about the guilty trying to hide too much by smililng?

So I shut up and went serious.

"Does this happen a lot?"

She nodded grimly.

I then remembered that being too serious made you look shifty as well.

So I gave a slightly nervous smile. Friendly without being over-enthusiastic.

She turned to me.

"Okay, here is a new ticket, you have the same seat, just a different name."

My name is now 00003652663.

Labels: germany, world cup

How I got free World Cup Tickets

Do you believe it? Some people questioned my decision to go to Germany for the World Cup even though I didn't have tickets. "Have faith," I said. "Have trust".

A pretty odd turn of phrase from somebody who has long questioned the concept of fans celebrating organised sport as an alternative religion (the worship factor is there, the code of ethics less so). Yet, when you journey into the unknown, you must surely always hope for the best. Sure, bad stuff might happen, but the truth is that you can by and large prepare for the worst and greet the good with open arms.

As you may know, World Cup tickets are notoriously difficult to come by. The lottery is, well, a lottery, and direct buying over the Internet from third-party salesmen involve ridiculous sums being paid above the face value.

Nevertheless, there are always games where supply outstrips demand. And Angola versus Iran is one of them.

Iran just managed to qualify and are seen to be weaker than Japan or South Korea. However, they are seen to be potential dark horses who might have provided a shock result or two.

Angola is seen to be the weakest of all African nations and many have written them off to finish bottom in their group. Nobody seems to know much about them and nobody seems to know any of their players.

However, in a turn up for the books (albeit very slim, light-weight tomes), Angola are the ones in with a shout of qualification. If they win and Mexico lose their game with Portugal (which is very possible), then Angola could just pip the finishing post with goal difference.

Nevertheless, despite being a game to determine qualifiers, Angola versus Iran isn't enough of a draw to garner much interest. No star players, and both are seen to play dull, plodding football. (I think the latter is unfair to both - Iran run hard with the ball, and Angola aren't afraid to try the occassional outrageous play.)

Anyway, all that explains why somebody might not mind giving away those tickets for free, but it doesn't explain how I got them.

Well, they were given to me. By people I was sharing a dorm with. They are Australians who had tickets to watch Australia play Japan and really didn't feel motivated to travel to Leipzig to watch Iran-Angola.

Where did they get their tickets from? Well, here's where it gets a little more interesting. They got it (for free) from an Englishman who, it seems, was happy to give it away because he had a stack of tickets two inches thick and he wasn't interested in Iran vs Angola.

Bearing in mind that you are technically not allowed to buy tickets for more than four people for seven games, it's a little unusual that this man would have a stack that would easily come to fifteen and sixteen games. And it seems his pile included all the top games: all the England games, Brazil games, semi finals, finals.

Of course, all of this if based on hearsay from Australians who were drinking on the night they got it, so I have no idea where the truth really lies.

Nevertheless, for me, this is some sort of vindication, some sort of "Nyeh, nyeh" for those naysayers. Okay, so it's Iran-Angola, but the point is that - if I do get into the stadium - my trip to Germany did bear some World Cup fruit.

Labels: germany, world cup

Got some posts up

Finally, I've managed to get some posts up about my time in Berlin. Of course, I'm now in Hamburg, which is quite some way from Berlin, and about to leave for Cologne, but I will get them up eventually. Given time.

Just scroll down the website, I've inserted the older World Cup entries about me in Germany in between the rest of the stuff. There's more, but I need time to put it up.

Labels: germany, world cup

Czech fans sing. And then they get drunk, and then they sing some more. Only louder.

Czech for "The Glorious Republic of Czechslovakia" is "Cesc", which is pronounced CHESS-SEA. This makes them sound a lot like fans of a Premiership club, but without the Mourinho-like smugness.

I know this because I saw a lot of Czech fans at the Hamburg stadium. I was there to catch the atmosphere and maybe a ticket to the Czech-Italy game. Due to Ghana's superb athletic play, the Czechs find themselves having to win in order to realistic get through to the second round. Italy can't afford lose either, if they are serious about getting their hands on the World Cup for a fourth time. (Did I mention? Last time Italy won, they were captained by a certain Dino Zoff.)

Of the two sides, the Czech supporters were louder and seemed more confident, although the Italians did have the best banner ("The sky is blue and white. God is an Italian. Forza Italia").

Many people who don't have a ticket came to the stadium. I sort of expected that for the Brazil-Croatia game because Ivete Sangalo was performing, and anyway, Brazillians want to go to where all the other Brazillians are. But there must have been a few hundred milling around, some of whom were looking for spare tickets.

The strategy of waiting until the game begins to buy your tickets is slightly flawed, I think. This is because everyone else might feel the same way. I thought I heard tickets being sold fo EUR120 three hours before the game (but I could have been wrong), which is a very good price for a game like this. But, ten minutes to game time, I was told that the price for a ticket was no less than EUR250.

It's a question of supply and demand. If everyone waits till the last minute to buy, there is more supply than demand in the beginning. This then should be the time to buy, because later on, it's very hard to persuade low prices when there are so many people clamouring for tickets around you.

In the end, I opted to watch it on television in a crowded sports bar right next to the stadium. Both Italy and the Czechs had chances, but Italy's defence looked more convincing. I said it before the tournament began, and I'll say it again, Fabio Cannavaro is the best central defender in the world at the moment. Of course, now that I've said this, he'll muck up and put the ball in his own net or something, but it's what I believe.

Italy had a 1-0 lead at half time, and in the other game, Ghana was leading 2-1. Not good for the Czechs. They poured forwards in the second half, and left themselves exposed at the back. True to form, the Italians defended well and counter-attacked with great effect. A superb through ball to the back-in-favour Pippo Inzaghi, a little shimmy past the Czechian keeper, Cech, and it was game over.

Now, the Italian fans broke into song. Now they danced and waved their flags.

When I was back in Hamburg, I saw the Czech fans. Some were slumped in their chairs. Others were staggering drunk, singing to the very end.

Labels: germany, world cup

Perks of supporting a team that's been knocked out

Since there was time to kill before the Iran-Angola game, Billy and I decided to split up and explore Leipzig on our own. It's good that, a World Cup ticket lets you travel on local transport for free (did I mention that I got hold of FREE World Cup tickets?). Anyway, Billy was wondering whether he should get souvenirs.

When I met up with him an hour later, he was all kitted up with an Iran football jersey, Iran scarf, Iranian flag, Iran pin badge and an Iran backpack.

I thought, heck, he was a little bit serious about getting souvenirs, wasn't he? I wondered how much it all set him back.

"Nothing. For free."

What?

"They give me for free."

It seems that the tree that we had agreed to meet under also happened to be the lets-give-Iranian-stuff-away-before-the-police-come-and-break-it-up tree.

I guess that's one of the perks of supporting a team that exits the World Cup early.

Labels: germany, world cup

Mexican, Truly Malaysian

The World Cup is a cauldron of nationalities, mixing up people from all over the world (including one or two from countries that didn't even qualify), that it's sometimes hard to tell who is who.

Of course, if they're wearing a flag, then it's a little easier. However, a lot of people wear Brazil who don't actually come from or live in Brazil.

The other way is to listen to what they speak. I can discern between Mandarin, Korean and Japanese. I'm not so good between Hungarian, Croat and Russian. But I'm relatively quiet when I'm alone, so it's hard to tell that way.

Finally, you can just look at a person. Tall blonde girls are obviously Swedish (obviously). Fresh-eyed perky ones are American. And dark, shortish, scruffy guys like me are going to be Mexican.

I'm beginning to lose count how many times people have called me Mexican, or more generically, spoken Spanish to me.

I do try to correct them, but do they know what Malaysia is? Thanks to our country's efforts at promoting tourism, I had nothing to fear.

At Leipzig, after the Iran-Angola game, a whole group of guys waved at me. "Hola!" they shouted. "Mexico!"

"No!" I shouted back. "Malaysian!"

"Malaysia? They not in World Cup?!!"

Yeah. Thanks for reminding me. Again. I am stressed out enough that our national team is so bad that it struggles to beat Hong Kong and Palestine at the best of times.

"No, they not here for World Cup, but I here for World Cup!"

"Ha ha! MALAYSIAN!" Finally. When you're with somebody who is clearly worse at football than you are, it is easy to be magnanimous. They launched into a chorus, to that famous English tune, "Here We Go".

"MA-LAY-SIA, MA-LAY-SIA, MA-LAY-SIA! MA-LAY-SIA, MA-LAY-SIA, MA-LAY-SIIIAAA"

And then, to cap it all of, "MALAYSIA, Truly Asia!!!"

Thank you very much, Tourist Development Board.

Labels: germany, world cup

How I got my free World Cup tickets

\Do you believe it? Some people questioned my decision to go to Germany for the World Cup even though I didn't have tickets. "Have faith," I said. "Have trust".

A pretty odd turn of phrase from somebody who has long questioned the concept of fans celebrating organised sport as an alternative religion (the worship factor is there, the code of ethics less so). Yet, when you journey into the unknown, you must surely always hope for the best. Sure, bad stuff might happen, but the truth is that you can by and large prepare for the worst and greet the good with open arms.

As you may know, World Cup tickets are notoriously difficult to come by. The lottery is, well, a lottery, and direct buying over the Internet from third-party salesmen involve ridiculous sums being paid above the face value.

Nevertheless, there are always games where supply outstrips demand. And Angola versus Iran is one of them.

Iran just managed to qualify and are seen to be weaker than Japan or South Korea. However, they are seen to be potential dark horses who might have provided a shock result or two.

Angola is seen to be the weakest of all African nations and many have written them off to finish bottom in their group. Nobody seems to know much about them and nobody seems to know any of their players.

However, in a turn up for the books (albeit very slim, light-weight tomes), Angola are the ones in with a shout of qualification. If they win and Mexico lose their game with Portugal (which is very possible), then Angola could just pip the finishing post with goal difference.

Nevertheless, despite being a game to determine qualifiers, Angola versus Iran isn't enough of a draw to garner much interest. No star players, and both are seen to play dull, plodding football. (I think the latter is unfair to both - Iran run hard with the ball, and Angola aren't afraid to try the occassional outrageous play.)

Anyway, all that explains why somebody might not mind giving away those tickets for free. But how did I get them given to me?

By people I was sharing a dorm with. They are Australians who had tickets to watch Australia play Japan and really didn't feel motivated to travel to Leipzig to watch Iran-Angola.

Where did they get their tickets from? Well, here's where it gets a little more interesting. They got it (for free) from an Englishman who, it seems, was happy to give it away because he had a stack of tickets two inches thick and he wasn't interested in Iran vs Angola.

Bearing in mind that you are technically not allowed to buy tickets for more than four people for seven games, it's a little unusual that this man would have a stack that would easily come to fifteen and sixteen games. And it seems his pile included all the top games: all the England games, Brazil games, semi finals, finals.

Of course, all of this if based on hearsay from Australians who were driniking on the night they got it, so I have no idea where the truth really lies.

Nevertheless, for me, this is some sort of vindication, some sort of "Nyeh, nyeh" for those naysayers. Okay, so it's Iran-Angola, but the point is that - if I do get into the stadium - my trip to Germany did bear some World Cup fruit.

Labels: germany, world cup

Being a supporter means you support

I am a fan of England football team, in the sense that I want to see them do well. Partly it's because I'm familiar with the players. In theory, I support Brazil, Italy and England equally, but I think that if England had to play either of the two countries, I might support the English if only because they would be the underdogs.

Gavin, my cousin, also is an England fan. But the way we both support the team comes from different places.

Although we both want our tems to play well, he actually wants England to lose when they play badly. He thinks that if they don't lose, then they'll keep on playing badly.

I, on the other hand, have enough faith in a coaching team of professionals, that they would see that may have things tactically wrong, even if they happen to win games.

I get peeved by the fact that he says he's an England fan and wants them to lose. Big arguments ensue when I tell to stop claiming being a fan. I have no problems not liking the way a team plays, and even for him to want a team to lose. But don't claim to be a fan of the team.

It's like those Chelsea fans who've suddenly come out of the woodwork. You're free to choose to support any team you want, but if you support them only when they're playing well, then something's wrong.

If that's the case, then you should say that you're supporting good football, whoever plays it.

Labels: germany, world cup

Party Like a Brazillian

One thing the Brazillians know how to do is party. I'm serious, they're like a whole cut above the other fans. It's like football is just an excuse to get togethe and have a good time.

There's like a critical mass. When enough Brazillians and one drum get together in one place, a party spontaneously combusts. It only takes ten or twenty Brazillians to start something rolling into a first class celebration.

It starts long before the actual game begins, when the fans begin swarming to the city. It doesn't have to be the actual city that the game is being held in, but of course, if it is so, you get more fans and bigger parties.

The beat of choice is samba, and two things immediately strike you: That every Brazillian seems to know how the rhythm goes, and every Brazillian knows how to move to that rhythm.

Suffice to say, I don't. But I can bop from foot to foot, mildly recalling the four lessons I had in the samba. Nothing compared to how the actual Brazillian girls move though, you understand.

Even immediately before the game, there's no letup. Everyone jives all the way to the stadium with quick impromptu bursts of rhythm.

And it's all amazingly good natured. There's no hostility involved, which is extremely foreign to somebody who has followed English football. There's no taunting of the opposition, there are no rude songs and - as far as I can make it - no rude language of any sort.

Fun for all the family. The kids are there, dancing away, everyone from babies to grandmothers. Mothers encourage daughters to provacatively jiggle their hips in time with the music. It's the samba, baby.

When the game begins, everyone's focus is on the pitch. Every trick by Ronaldinho is punctuated by drumbeats from the crowd. Every shimmy, every wrong-footed pass is celebrated, even if it doesn't lead to the goal. The result matters, sure, but the living of the game is what they look forward to. The only time they even come close to booing is when the ball is passed back to the goalkeeper. Or when Diego Maradona appears on the screen.

Near misses are rewarded with groans. And everyone does it. It's infectious, focussing on the gamee, and waiting for that glorious moment, when the ball hits the back of the net.

When it finally does, when the goal is scored... my word. Other people just cheer the goal, wave their flags and chant the name of their team. With the Brazillians, it's cheer the goal, jump up and down in the air, and then beat that rhythm on the drums, and dance. And dance. And dance. And dance.

The game has restarted, but still the dancing and singing continues. Bra-zil, Bra-zil. When you're trapped in the crowd, there's nothing you can really do but join in. Bounce up aand down in time to the rhythm and get showered by drinks and ice spilt by the bystanders. Who cares what gets wet, Brazil just scored a goal.

The celebrations only die down when Brazil mount another goal threatening attack, and then all the attention is on the field again.

When the whistle blows, and if Brazil win, it's time to party again. And they're partying for up to an hour after the game ends, singing variations of what sounds like the same song over and over.

Well, I lie. Strictly they party all night long. God, I don't know what to expect if they win the World Cup.

Labels: germany, world cup