Tag Archives: gas

housekeeping tips

You’d think after all these years in Germany…

I’d know the drill when it comes to getting our heating oil. But, sure enough, this morning, the heating oil guy came. And, sure enough, I was totally unprepared.

For those of you who have never lived in Germany, or elsewhere in Europe, most houses here are heated by either heating oil or gas. Some newer homes now have heat pumps, and, in fact, our landlord has told us he intends to install a heat pump system in his home and ours. That’s why we got new windows last summer. But doing that is a major undertaking, and I’m not sure when the work will be done. So, for now, we have to order heating oil every year.

When we lived in our first German house, we had to buy gas. I don’t think gas heating is as popular here as oil is, probably because the gas historically comes from Russia. Although Avia, the company that brings us oil, is Swiss, I’m not actually sure where the oil comes from. I would assume it comes from Russia, as well.  Our former landlord told us that he prefers oil heating over gas because of the Russians. So I’ll go with that… (My German friend says the oil is also from Russia, but now it gets routed through India, thanks to sanctions against Putin. I don’t know why former landlord didn’t realize that. Maybe he just didn’t want to buy gas from Gazprom, which is a Russian company.)

Bill ordered oil on Saturday, and I think he was expecting it to take more time than it did to get to us. Usually, he’s here to deal with the oil guy, because they let us know when they’re coming. In the past, I have dealt with them, but it was no big deal. In our old house, it was obvious where the oil tanks were. They were in our basement, plain as day. In this house, they’re in a separate room, where I never venture. In prior years in this house, the same guy brought the oil and knew where everything is. 

Bright and early at 7:30 AM, the doorbell rang. I was not (and still am not) dressed. I answered the door to a pleasant looking man who spoke excellent English (not always a given). He told me he’d come with our heating oil. I then had to spend time scrambling to find where the tanks were. This was the guy’s first visit to our house, and this neighborhood, so he asked me to tell Bill that next time he orders oil to warn them about how narrow our street is, so they can bring a smaller truck. 

I also had to be reminded how to turn off the heating. In our old house, there was a big button no one could miss. In this house, there’s a button on the wall that is easy to ignore, as well as a small one among several on the heating machinery itself. So I asked the guy how to turn off the heating. He showed me the switch, then told me to wait a couple of hours before I turn it on again. That way, the dirt doesn’t get mixed in with the oil and mess up the system.

Again, as I mentioned earlier, our landlord has been vowing to put in a heat pump system since we moved into this house in late November 2018. Will we have it by next year? I don’t know. Putting in the heat pump will require a lot of drilling and other intensive, expensive, and unpleasant work. I know the landlord would like to schedule it when we’re on vacation, so we’re not in the way.  

But at least this year, we have our oil. It’s not good when the tanks go dry. In our first German house, we had the unpleasant experience of running out of gas. I had to take bucket baths for a couple of days until the gas guy could fill up the tank. That was an experience from my Peace Corps days that I didn’t have any desire to repeat. 

I do feel fortunate to live in such a nice home… with a landlord who upgrades things without trying to make his tenants pay for it. I think he gets an incentive for making the switch, though. The German government wants to stop relying on Russia for energy. I can’t blame them for that. But as nice as this house is, some things about it are pretty old school. 

Anyway… at least that chore is done… until next time (if there is one). Next time, I’ll have to remind Bill to give them my cell phone number, so I can have warning and be dressed when they arrive. 

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Beer and Fucking Tour… getting off to a gassy start!

Apologies in advance to those who find crude stories and scatological humor disgusting.  On the other hand, those of you who know me will not be surprised by this story… or the others that will follow in this series.

Bill and I have just returned from our long weekend in Austria.  I dubbed this trip the Beer and Fucking Tour, not just because I want to be profane, but because we had plans to visit a couple of places in Austria with the word “fuck” in their names.  Of course, in German, “fuck” is not a bad word, but juvenile English speakers like Bill and me get a kick out of being harmlessly naughty, especially when it comes to using foul language.

Originally, we were going to visit Switzerland, but I started trying to decide where to stay and noticed how even average hotels cost an arm and a leg.  And I remembered we wanted to go to a couple of beer spa places in Austria.  I determined that we could string those visits into our trip, so that’s where the “beer” part of this tour comes in.

After dropping off our dogs at the kennel on Friday morning, Bill and I loaded up my Mini and headed toward Franking, Austria, a small town not far from Salzburg.  We were going there because I wanted to visit the Landhotel Moorhof, a traditional, Austrian, family run inn that offers beer baths.

I first heard about the Moorhof when we lived in Germany the first time and had hoped to go there then.  Unfortunately, we ran out of time and I was left wondering if we’d ever make it there for a visit.  When you live in Germany, it’s easy to steal away for a quick weekend in a country hotel.  From the United States, it’s a bit harder to plan visits in such out of the way places.  Your time is limited and you tend to want to see the bigger, “bucket list” stuff.  Now that we’re back in Germany for the time being, I decided to make visiting the Moorhof a priority.

To get to Austria from the Stuttgart area, you have to drive on the hellacious A8, a road that utterly defies the stereotypical German autobahn experience because it is perpetually backed up.  We did indeed run into some traffic on A8 as we headed toward our destination.  The heavy traffic made our first kilometers creep by.  As we traveled east, I started feeling like maybe I was about to get a visit from Aunt Flow.  It was also getting close to lunchtime.

Bill tends to stress over lunch because he knows that I get really cranky when my blood sugar drops.   It doesn’t take long before I’m in full on “hangry” mode.  He also has to keep an eye on the time because a lot of places in Germany stop serving lunch at 2:00.  We were not in danger of being too late for lunch as we approached the boundary between Baden-Württemberg and Bavaria, but I was ready for lunch and I needed to use the bathroom.  We stopped at what looked like a nice hotel with a restaurant, hoping to score a decent meal.

As we entered the restaurant, I commented that it reminded me a bit of a Shoney’s.  The lobby had lots of tacky souvenirs, wines, and elderly folks wandering around.  As a matter of fact, the place was teeming with people, many of whom appeared to be at an advanced age.  That didn’t really bother me much, except I couldn’t help but notice that there seemed to be few places to sit.  I told Bill I’d hit the restroom and then we could find a table.

When I got to the ladies room, I found it full of women already waiting to use the facilities.  The bathroom only had three stalls and one was out of order.  I took my place in line and waited.  Suddenly, one of the women using the toilet let out a tremendously loud fart.  My eyes widened and I happened to catch the expression on a German woman’s face.  She looked as surprised and ready to laugh as I did.

As I struggled not to crack up with embarrassing guffaws, I heard several loud plops as the woman proceeded to unabashedly unload what must have been a prodigious dump into the toilet.  Of course, hearing that made me giggle even more.  I noticed a couple of amused and disapproving looks on the faces of the women waiting with me, so I continued to try to maintain a straight face.  I failed miserably.  Suddenly, it occurred to me that if the stall with the farting woman opened up next, I’d soon be sitting in a very polluted place while I tended to my own business.  That realization sobered me somewhat.

Finally, it was my turn.  Thank God the stall that was free was not the one fouled by noxious emissions.  I went in and discovered that yes, indeed, Auntie Flow had decided to come along for the ride.  I tended to myself, washed my hands, and got the hell out of the ladies room so I could bust out laughing properly.

I found Bill and we wandered around the restaurant in vain, looking for a place to sit…  We finally ended up at the Burger King next door, where I had a perfectly terrible fast food burger that tasted like it had been sitting under a heat lamp for a half hour.  It was also the only non breakfast meal I ate during our trip that didn’t include beer.  But hey, at least once lunch was over, the bathroom was totally free.

When Bill and I got back in the car, I noticed a shitload of tour buses.  I didn’t realize that those would be the first of what would be many tour buses full of octogenarians touring the same areas we toured during our trip.

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