j'aime le weekend

Friday evening Justin busts in and says, "Let's go." We arrive at the car rental business down the road, where our friend Christina works. She scores a few cheap Americans a deal on Mercedes pEace-class.

The environmentalist in the car, who should be championing mass-transit, isn't screaming. Train tickets cost quadruple the amount of a fast ride down the AUTOBAHN, where a foot on the pedal makes the black rocket reach 240 kilometers per hour on its horizontal path to Dusseldorf to see Martina and her Icelandic horse.

Saturday comes, and halfway across the world, students cross a stage and are given fake diplomas that admit may or may not admit them into the "real world" of which people keep speaking. My name is on a real one that is being sent through the mail. Meanwhile, I'm running up history in Heidelberg with Mr. Sparkles.

Martina takes us to the city, where we say we will play cupid. She wants love, and Cologne--not Dusseldorf--is where she is more likely to find a pretty girl who has real feelings for her. Justin and I end up shooting our arrows into two others in the rowdy streets of "the longest bar on earth." We notice them move closer to each other before we return to Martina's flat.

Noon on Sunday comes quickly after deep sleep. We visit the Cologne Cathedral, where humanists stand before the doors handing out brochures about a Chinese cult following of Falun Dafa.

An activist, who is also an international man of business, tells us that over 40,000 members have been killed for their organs. The Chinese government controls communication to the extent that the tragedies are largely swept under the rug. Justin records his voice while I am a tiny speck on the planet with a tear in my eye.

We enter the church and I light a candle for my sister.




The afternoon brings indulgences of a pride festival and a visit to a CHOCOLATE Museum. The building isn't made of fudge, but our mouths water at the sight of factory parts drizzling with smooth brown streams of goodness. Industry isn't always fair, but the taste of the "food of the gods" is good.

Knowing what I have been taught, I admire the packaging and chuckle over the fact that three out of ten children in Bolvaria color cows purple because they are more familiar with the brand Milka than they are with actual cattle. I still like Nutella the most.