Pützdorferstraße Panzers

Guten tag.
Having just returned from the back porch, where it is cold, but not as cold as I had expected it to be at this latitude so late in the Eleventh Month of the year, and the grass on the little lawn, though green, no longer growing, but for a single dandelion, and the sky overcast, gray, flowing en masse from the southeast-- gray, but on closer inspection all shades of gray, and not only gray, also the translucent cream from a hidden autumnal sun, and directly above, evidence of a clear blue sky beyond the clouds, but smudged, smeared with a pale gray, and if I were to spend enough time gazing at the gray, flowing mass I would find that it is not a gray mass at all, any more than a green or tan or camouflaged mass of soldiers is the singular mass it appears to be, or the singular mass its commanders would like it to be...
And having also just returned from the back porch where I quaffed down my second coffee and smoked my first cigarette, which I rolled from a pouch of Maya tobacco, which I want to believe that I chose from the tobacco shop at the end of Pützdorferstraße because it is cheaper tobacco than the others, but which I may have chosen subconsciously because the pouch is colorful, like a rainbow, or a pack of Lifesavers candy...

When I bought my first pouch of Maya tobacco, the shopkeeper told me it was a good choice, because Maya tobacco has no additives. Later, as I smoked, on closer inspection of the pouch I discovered that it was printed with climate neutral printing, and I felt good that I was helping to preserve the environment, as I exhaled additive-free, second-hand smoke into the somewhat climatically altered air, and I imagined that the Mayans had also smoked this brand of tobacco back when they were devising their calendar, which did not predict the end of the world, though New Age Europeans imagined that it had, and when the New Aged Mayan end of the world came about, last December, I had sung the 'End of the World Blues' at an end-of-the-world party in Asenovgrad, Bulgaria, where it was frozen and felt like the end of the world, and I had sung without inhibition as why be inhibited when it is the end of the world? And also because there was beer and wine and a good blues guitarist to cover my mistakes.

And what else can I say about Asenovgrad? We'd had a kind host there, Petar, and there had been an end-of-the-world party, and it had been frozen, covered in ice and snow, and the sky as white as the off-white snow, and though I could continue on about the people I knew and met there, and though I could describe the city as I saw it, I can say nothing about the history of the place, as I was passing through yet another city in a long list of cities.
But now here in Aldenhoven, and not just passing through, I can look beyond what I see in front of me, and get to know the place by digging into its past, in the very same way that one gets to know a person, though most importantly through the present, but also by the past life that shaped the present.

So, Siersdorf and Pützdorf already having been mentioned, I will now mention Niedermerz, and leave it at that-- Siersdorf, 3 or 4 kilometers from Aldenhoven, because US Army soldiers, after fighting house to house to capture that village, had set out from there to capture Aldenhoven, and because it is where I swim once or twice a week to train for the children's version of the triathlon; and Niedermerz, now connected to Aldenhoven, but back then a kilometer or two away, because it is where the fight for Aldenhoven took place in its greatest intensity, the US Army having captured it relatively easily, but then facing an unexpected German counter-attack from Panzers in the fields where I walk and converse with Bella der hund; and Pützdorf, back then half a kilometer away from Aldenhoven, but now this hamlet making up the south side of same, because I live on the road leading to it, now a 'suburban' neighborhood, but then farmer's fields, and because panzers trying to take Aldenhoven back clashed with bazooka-toting infantrymen on this road, perhaps in front of the driveway where I live, or perhaps where I am sitting now-- I will leave it at these three insignificant hamlets and villages because I could name every little village on this Rur River plain as having been center stage at one time or another in November and December of 1944 when armies clashed; when the Allies fought so hard to cover some 25 kilometers of ground to get to the Rur River, and then afterwards the Rhine, and when the German army fought so hard to stop them.
But breakfast is coming up, and I have Bella to walk in the fields where panzers once counter-attacked, and you haven't got time to hear about every village's battle either, as you also have to tend your garden, so I will leave it at those few hamlets and villages, this very brief but wordy history of the area.

But wait! Photos! And though you've already risen to go, you sit again with an almost imperceptible sigh.

The battleground today:

 Downtown Niedermerz, the village next to Aldenhoven where soldiers fought house to house.

Fields of highly efficient industrial swords a lifetime ago; fields of highly efficient industrial plowshares today.
Panzers counter-attacked through these fields to retake the tiny village of Niedermerz.

A church cemetery near Niedermerz where some of the war dead are buried, both soldiers and civilians. 

Pützdorf, a tiny hamlet now a part of Aldenhoven, where a few panzers rolled up our street in an attempt to retake the town. One one side, the fields remain. On the other, the fields and the country lane that connected the hamlet with Aldenhoven are now a park and Aldenhoven's 'suburbs'.

 A memorial for those who were taken away to their deaths before the homes they lost became battlegrounds, located in the park separating the center of Aldenhoven from Pützdorf.

And Aldenhoven.








Okay, you can go now.

In Training

Ach so, one of the lads has mown the lawn, and with the lawn, the four little shaggy ink caps.
That will be the last word on mushrooms then.

Except to say that thinking of mushrooms has suddenly reminded me that I once served mushrooms as a condiment at my little 'Ken's Hot Dogs' stand when I lived in Portugal.
Which, in turn, makes me think of the hot dogs that I served the other day at the big family get-together here in Aldenhoven, where armies once clashed. Though I did not serve mushrooms as a condiment, I did whip up some hot dog chili, and I fried some onions, and sliced some cherry tomatoes and pickles, and served a choice of Bratwurst or snappy-skinned wiener, and of course there was the usual array of ketchup and mustard, and mayo, which is a European hot dog thing. And the family seemed just as content to wolf down the dogs as my customers had been back in Portalegre, Portugal, where a medieval prince had once laid siege to his brother's castle; then, when the brothers became bored of the whole siege thing, they traded castles.

Shonga yonga yonga.

Speaking of armies clashing in Aldenhoven...

From Genealogy.com, December 22, 2006:

A few days before Christmas, and on the 7th day of Chanukka, a Memorial Wall for a US soldier was inaugurated in the town of Aldenhoven, Germany (near Jülich). Michel D Ernst (a Jewish refugee from Poland, who found his way to the US and enlisted in the US Army) was, as interpreter, instrumentive in an American/German attempt to rescue 30 civilians from a caved in shelter near Aldenhoven. He died a month later, December 17, 1944. To honor him the people from the town of Aldenhoven recently have adopted his grave at the US Margraten Cemetery in the Netherlands.

I imagine that caved in shelter was the result of the aforementioned saturation bombing of Aldenhoven by the RAF on the morning of 16 November, 1944.

Or it could have been the result of the bombing that came a few days later, on the 20th, to support the American infantry approaching the town. It would be the US Army Air Force bombing the town on that day, as a 12-plane squadron of P-47's attacked with high explosives and napalm, then gave it a good strafing.

Here are some photos of Aldenhoven after being bombed:

And here are the same exact locations today:

So let us move on into the happy Aldenhoven present.

And future.

Aldenhoven, which is listed on the Arc de Triomphe, is also the site of a triathlon in the summertime, and now that I have included cycling to my list of athletic feats, I thought I might participate.  But having perused the events that will take place at that time, I see that doing the real triathlon might be a bit too ambitious at this stage, so I will probably join the youth and community version, which consists of a 500 meter swim, a 20 kilometer cycle, and a 5 kilometer run. I say again, this is the youth and community version, and not the Ironman version I had supposed it to be when I spied the distances involved. No, this is a mere mini-triathlon; a kiddie triathlon that I will be participating in. This is the fun, amateur triathlon, these 25.5 kilometers, with children, moms and dads, granmas and granpas, and the likes of me.
My goal will be quite simply to finish, and to finish in such a manner-- that is, in a manner with some semblance of dignity; upright, with an appearance of having some poise, rather than stumbling, with wide eyes and flailing arms and gaping mouth and a raucous gasping for breath-- my goal, I say, will be to finish in such a manner that the children I am competing against will not taunt me or throw pebbles at me or prod me with sticks.
I have already begun training with an occasional swim in the pool in Siersdorf, and by walking the dog, and cycling occasionally to the kiosk at the end of the street where I buy my tobacco.
I will be ready.

Here is a photo of me at the pool in Siersdorf:

Ha! Utterly ridiculous! A moustache? Also, the pool in Siersdorf does not allow such large swimming suits, as upon exiting the pool, the swimmer will bring most of the water that is in the pool with him. No, let me try again:

Yes, that is me on the left, having the mandatory shower before getting into the pool.

And here I am cycling down Pützdorferstraße to the tobacco shop:

Yes, that is the correct photo.


And this is me whilst cycling back in August, with some other cyclists I had met:

As you can see, I had grown quite thin after nearly two years on the road. I later lost the top hat whilst cycling down a mountain in Switzerland.

But where were we? I think I had mentioned children throwing pebbles. This is not an unjustified concern, this concern of mine, that children will pelt me with pebbles if I am lacking in the appearance of dignity-- for a child did, in fact, throw pebbles at me, on Easter Sunday of 2012, as I sat on the pavement beside a church in a village north of Valencia, Spain.
Then in Bulgaria, some nine months later, a gang of children hurled snowballs at me as I passed through a village there.
Neither the pebbles nor the snowballs hit their mark, however, so nyaa nyaa nyaa to you, children. 

Meanwhile, the reader may have noticed that I have put both Siersdorf and Pützdorf in bold print. Why? I'm glad you asked.

But we will save this for tomorrow to keep you in suspense.

Aldenhoven and the Arc de Triomphe

In le Grande city of Paris, on le Arc de Triomphe, at the end of Champs-Elysees,  there is the name of a German town listed among others as having been taken by the French in more glorious days.
The name of that town is Aldenhoven, where I humbly abide.

Here is Aldenhoven, that's right, Aldenhoven, inscribed on the Arc de Triomphe, at the end of Champs-Elysees:

What th' heck? Sorry, them's the Golden Arches on Bee Cave Road in Paris, Texas. Let me try again:

Nein! Those are the the Golden Arches in Aldenhoven. Though they could also be considered Arches of Triumph to some folks. One more time:

Oui, that is it; that is Aldenhoven, on the left, inscribed on the Arc de Triomphe, which is gray, and not golden-- for in October of 1794, the French and Austrian armies clashed around Aldenhoven, and the French emerged victorious.
Yet, if there were also an Arc des Debacles-- and there could be a very large one of those-- Aldenhoven would also be inscribed there, as the year before the victory, the French had been ignominiously defeated in the very same place.

The reader may have noticed that I am putting Aldenhoven in bold print. That is because I have never lived in a town that is on the Arc de Triomphe, and I am very proud to live in a town that is listed on the Arc de Triomphe. Once again, the name of that town is Aldenhoven, where I live.
The reader may also have noticed the French words in italics, and that is because I think French words look good in italics.

For example, here is a conversation that might occur in Paris, near the Arc de Triomphe-- note the effect of the French words in italics, and see if you don't agree with me:

Tourist from Paris, Texas: Well, hey there, you think you could tell me where there's a MacDonalds around?

Parisian: Qu'est-ce que vous essayez de dire?

Texan: A MacDonalds... Mac...Donalds? You know where?

Parisian: Je n'ai vraiment aucune idée de ce que vous essayez de dire.

Texan: Well ain't that just rude? I don't know what the hell yor sayin, but I know you know what I'm sayin. Mac...Donalds. Where?

Parisian: S'il vous plaît se faire foutre et laissez-moi tranquille.

Texan: Speak English you French foreigner! We saved y'alls asses a couple of times and this is how you thank us? You just come on over to Paris Texas and see if I help you out when yor lost and lookin for a MacDonalds!

Parisian: Je préfère vivre à Londres qu'à visiter l'endroit que tu sois conçu dans. Et je vais manger de la merde avant d'aller au McDonalds. 'av ze nice day!

Texan: Commie French foreigner!


You see? Doesn't French look good in italics?

So, Aldenhoven, that's right, Aldenhoven, on the world famous Arc de Triomphe.

More recently, of course, about a lifetime ago, Aldenhoven was captured by the US Army. It was bombed first, though, by the Royal Air Force, on the morning of November 16th, 1944. According to "29 Let's Go!", a small booklet covering the history of the 29th Infantry Division:

"This was the big push through the Siegfried Line aimed at the Roer River and Julich, last barriers before the Cologne Plain. Ninth Army had waited days for the attack. Dark, rainy skies had grounded air support. Now, the sky was clear and Aldenhoven and Julich were being saturated with bombs."
(lonesentry.com, History of the 29th Infantry Division)

Hmmm... Saturated with bombs...

From what I can gather, much of the civilian population had been evacuated from places like Jülich and Aldenhoven, for while the Allies were unaware of the difficulties they would face in reaching the Rur River, the Germans knew very well that there was going to be a tough battle.  The German army had been instructed to hold the line, to coordinate with the upcoming counter-offensive which later became known as the Battle of the Bulge.
However, for those civilians who remained in Aldenhoven, they were soon to be saturated with bombs. 

I can't help but think that, despite the ubiquitous news these days of single explosions rocking this embassy or that sporting event-- or towers being toppled-- I can't help but think that perhaps the world is becoming a wee bit more civilized, as there is generally shock-- paralysis even-- at the news of such single explosions. Or, at least, there is shock if Westerners are the victims. But in 1944, a day's saturation bombing was a routine affair-- all in a day's work.

But now to the porch for the first cigarette of the day.

Ten minutes later... A sign! A sign! As I smoked, two doves, not pigeons, but white, cooing doves, flying eastbound! In the direction of the Middle East! There will be peace in the Middle East!
Or perhaps it simply means peace in Jülich, 7 kilometers to the east from here. 

This is still very good news though, considering the autumn of 1944.

But now I must prepare to prepare French toast, or pain perdu as it would be called if you were eating it in the vicinity of the Arc de Triomphe at the end of Champs-Elysees, which has the town Aldenhoven listed on it as being one of many French victories-- as if the record had been 1-0, regarding Aldenhoven, when in fact, because of the defeat there the previous year, the record is 1-1. Nevertheless, the toast is referred to as 'French' and not 'Austrian', and it will be saturated with butter and maple syrup.
Right here in Aldenhoven.

WTF?

Yesterday--mid-morning--on the back porch, wet from rain-- skies a patchwork of every shade of gray, changing into another quilt every moment-- chilly, but not cold-- second cigarette of the day--
the little lawn littered
with Bella's forlorn toys, and Bella inside the house, not even interested in coming out-- and there in the corner of the little yard there are three little shaggy ink caps sprouting up, and the hunter narrows his eyes, and says, "I will let you go today, little mushrooms, but tomorrow? I will decide tomorrow."
And I still haven't decided, little mushrooms. Little mushrooms, trembling with fear.

I feel a little evil in me, having just written that.

Today it is foggy, but I am feeling only partly cloudy, Thomas.
Thomas, whom I walked with for a bit in Turkey, is now in Israel, walking for peace, and I am with him. Yet, I am not, as I am a bit jealous.

I was not allowed into Israel, you see, where I also hoped to walk for peace, but perhaps the security lads caught a look of something other than peace in my eyes? Perhaps they saw that little bit of evil in me, that would cause me to make little mushrooms tremble with fear? Or could they see the chimp on the bike, cycling around in my head, holding the handlebars with one hand and a 'Palestinian Rights' sign in the other hand? And a black and white checked keffiyeh on his chimp cranium, folded stylishly, like Arafat's, it's tail fluttering in his wake?

As for their eyes-- the eyes of the Israeli security team that boarded the ship in Haifa-- all I could see in them was fear. 
I understand why the little shaggy ink caps growing in the lawn tremble with fear, but I couldn't understand why grown men with weapons feared the mushroom hunting peace vagabond. But in retrospect, it is because they have been trained to fear anyone who isn't a mere tourist.

I was not a tourist, though I would have done some sightseeing. Tourists fly in from New York, while I had walked most of the way from Portugal. And tourists carry a lot of luggage for their one week of sightseeing. I carried 20 kilos, mostly on my back, my worldly possessions, the weight of which included two petitions; one for Israeli settlers, and one for Hamas-- the two biggest obstacles to peace in the region.
Many peace activists thought my petitions were one-sided, favoring Israel, because I asked Hamas to resist non-violently, and to recognize the state of Israel. I wasn't allowed into Israel though, as I apparently favored Palestine, having declared that I was walking for peace, and having also declared that I believed in the rights of Palestinians.

Shongajongajonga, as they say in the Netherlands.

I believe Thomas was allowed into Israel, while I was not, because he hugs trees, and almost anything else that is vertical. I will pat a tree, and scratch it behind the twigs, but I do not hug trees, and this inability to unabashedly demonstrate a love all of creation was what kept me out of Israel. Thomas was not perceived to be a threat,  because he will hug TAR-21-toting Israeli soldiers and Neolithic-minded Israeli settlers and rock-throwing Palestinian teenagers and AK 47-toting Al-Qassam Brigade members. He may have hugged those who interrogated him when he came into Israel. I will not hug any of these guys, though I would have sat at a table with them to have a smoke and a vigorous chat.

I might have stood between the IDF's  bulldozers and a Palestinian home though. I did not say this to the Israeli security team, but perhaps they saw it in my eyes.

But now, it is past 9 o'clock in the morning, and I shall venture out for the first cigarette of the day.

And now back, a mere instant for the reader, and much less than an instant for the Universe's perception of time, but a thousand laps for the chimp in my head as I smoked on the back porch, as I pondered the ice in my water-filled ashtray, and thought, 'it is a bit chilly, standing here in my t-shirt', my perception of cold having changed since the Balkans last autumn and winter, when it was truly cold, yet, even then, nowhere near Absolute Zero, which is the Universe's average temperature.

And the fog that enveloped me as I pondered the ice in the ashtray, and I, exhaling smoke back into the fog; it was also foggy much of the time in frozen Bulgaria,
the ice and snow and fog
blending,
bleak,
unending.

And there, in the corner of the little lawn, three, nay, there is a fourth-- four tiny edible mushrooms trembling, quaking with fear at my hungry gaze.

Though the Israeli security team did not quake or tremble, they were afraid, and though I did tremble and quake, I was not afraid, or at least, not in the way they were.

But my trembling and quaking were the outward manifestation of the possibility of my standing in front of the IDF to prevent them from destroying a Palestinian's home to make way for a new Israeli settlement-- the possibility, I say, as it was not in my plans. But the possibility was there and they saw it, and I did not say it except through my own trembling, and that was enough for them to deny me entry into their country, though it is not only their country to deny anyone entry.

And then, the mushrooms, and I am filled with a love for all sentient beings, and for beings not sentient, but what beings are not sentient? And I love the mushrooms, and I tell them telepathically, 'I love you little mushrooms, I will not eat you,' but they are wise, these prehistoric beings, though they are little, and they know I am simply being maudlin, and a time will come when I feel no empathy for them, and I will pluck them and devour them, so they tremble, not for themselves, but for me.
Can one hug a mushroom without destroying it?
Or perhaps they are like the enlightened one in the story, who threw himself to the starving tigress that she may live and feed her starving cubs?
Are mushrooms Buddhists? Or Buddhists mushrooms?
And what makes mushrooms edible or poisonous, anyway? Only that we eat them.

And then I think about the fog, and the brutal devastation that happened here a lifetime ago as armies clashed, and I wonder how they went about the business of destruction when it was as foggy as it is now?

'Shongajongajonga', as they say in the Netherlands. Or, 'WTF?'  as they say on Facebook.

And the mushrooms, really though, they are only fungi, only mushrooms.They are not emotional creatures. They do not quake, for instance.
Quaking, trembling mushrooms.
'What the fuck?', as we used to say in the navy, without abbreviation.

And I sigh.

A pause.

Did I mention quaking?
As in Quakers?
Well it just so happens that I call myself a Quaker. 

Yes, I, Schroeder,  am a Quaker, though , perhaps, not a model of Quakerism.

I smoke.
I drink on occasion.
I play poker, though not for money, and I teach others how to play it, yea, even children do I teach this game based on deceit.
If someone suddenly attacked me or someone I was with, I might whack them, and with vigor.
Sometimes I use foul language.
I sometimes speak with a hint of wrath in my voice.
I appreciate irony.
I ramble on and on.
I use psychological torture on tiny mushrooms.
I walk past trees without hugging them.
And some un-Quakerly things that I do,
I simply will not say,
though I may seem to be one
who says all.

Does thee raise an eyebrow, Quaker, at what this Quaker has said?
Perhaps I raise an eyebrow at all that thee has not said.

Does thee raise an eyebrow, Quaker, at this Quaker's doings?
Perhaps I raise an eyebrow, Quaker, at thy lack of doings.

The Quaker testimonies of Simplicity, Peace, Integrity, Community and Equality speak to my condition, just as they speak to thy condition, Quaker.
But has thee tested thyself and thy beliefs beyond the comfort of thy home? Beyond the comfort even, of having a distant home?
Even I can be a model Quaker when overly comfortable. 

And the Divine Inner Light that we must all pay heed to,
this I also heed, Quaker.
But perhaps too many of us look at this Light from a comfortable, condescending distance,
rather than plunging into its core, where everything is consumed by fire.

Is thee willing to strip thyself naked, Quaker?

But perhaps I ramble heavily. Let me take the weight off of my shoulders,
and off of thy shoulders,
and we will ramble with more levity.

Another time. 

Mushrooms II, the Sequel

And now, here is a picture story about eating mushrooms that grow in the back yard.

Shaggy, inky mushrooms

Shaggy, inky mushrooms mit shaggy, inky hund (Bella der Hund)

shaggy, inky mushrooms mit shaggy, inky mann

Der mann hackt die mushrooms...

...und adds olivenöl

und braten die mushrooms mit die olivenöl.

"Zehr gut!" says der mann. "Who wants to essen first?"

"Hier Max, essen diese mushrooms from the back yard!"
"Nein, danke!"

"Hallo, Philip! Dann you essen diese mushrooms from the back yard!"
"Nein, danke!"

"Dann... ach so, komme hier Bella, essen diese mu... Bella! Komme hier! Bella!"

"Okay, dann ich will essen diese mushrooms from the back yard, jaaa!"


Later in the evening, I thought I may have been having a vision induced by the mushrooms when a brass band came down our street, in the dark, in a light rain, followed by what must have been all of Aldenhoven, or seemed to be so, shuffling along, and everyone carrying homemade paper lanterns, which bobbed in die dunkleheit . Then when the parade was followed by a car with 'Antalya Kebabs' in big letters on its side, and I waved and said, 'Merhaba!' to the lads in the car, and they shouted, 'Merhaba!' back, I was sure it was a vision. But then I said to Elke, 'Pinch me, you may be but a mushroom induced hallucination,' and she punched me in the arm instead, and I knew it was all real.
Elke also explained that it was Saint Martin's feast day, and this parade in the night was tradition, and the people would all gather at a bonfire where 'St. Martin' would arrive on a white horse, which, had I been there, would have convinced me my mushroom had been a psychoactive one.
Later, some children came with their parents to the door, singing, and Max and Philip gave then candy. It was a pleasant cross between Christmas caroling and Halloween.

So in the end it was not a bad mushroom. It was a tasty one, fried in olive oil, and I shall devour more of the morsels. The lads, Max and Philip, have said that if I survive for a whole week, they might try one. Maybe.

Which reminds me of the time I spent living on a mountain in Portugal with a mad Dutchman named Siegfried-- not a common name in Holland, but he was born during the War-- and mad Siegfried had given me a half ruin to live in, down the hill a bit from his house, and free of charge, where I spent much time that winter sitting in an enormous fireplace meant for smoking a whole hog, but I sat smoking hand-rolled cigarettes instead of hogs, and sipping wine, and watching the steam coming off my boots, as they were almost in the fire. Siegfried would usually invite me to his spooky house at the top of the mountain for dinner, and he would occasionally serve up a dish with hand picked mushrooms in it, but I wouldn't know until after I'd eaten most of the meal, and asked what was in it, then he'd tell, and his girlfriend, Maria, would always say something like, "Ja, we know in a few hours if we live until tomorrow," and I would lose my appetite, and Siegfried would say that if our energy was good, we would survive even if he had made a mistake.
I was fortunate to miss that one dinner when he had indeed made a mistake, and picked the wrong copper-colored mushroom, and made a meal of it, and despite their good energy, he and Maria had wretched and moaned for a whole day afterwards.

But I am very careful with my mushrooms, let the reader be aware.
No Russian mushroom roulette for me.

Which inspires me to write this little poem:

Mad Siegfried was rushin' to play 
Russian mushroom roulette

Thought he found a chanterelle
but was a jack o lantern that he et

Good vibes didn't help him 
and he broke into a sweat

Wouldn't have a doctor 
so I took him to the vet


I'm just joking about the last part of the poem.

He didn't really break into a sweat.

Mushrooms 1

Yesterday as I cycled around a bit, some 30 kilometers despite a smattering of rain-- I was suffering from Post-Pilgrim syndrome, you see, the symptoms of which include: a general feeling of restlessness, an urge to scan the horizon, a preference to pee outside (I may have already mentioned this several times), a desire to hang out in kebab places and think one is in Turkey, an urge to look at maps and plan a route, flashbacks of the road life, an urge to check every tree and bush for berries or fruit, a continual searching for a good campsite, or for a good place to sit down for a break, or for a place to fill a water bottle...-- so as I was cycling around a bit to relieve a few of these urges, in a big circle around the lignite quarry, from which is drawn the brown coal to fuel the nearby power plant, and into which a few villages have disappeared forever, having survived the war-- and as I cycled through villages like Kirchberg, Schophoven, Merken, and Lucherberg, where armies clashed a lifetime ago-- as I was cycling I espied a mushroom or two growing in the grass by the road, and I knew this mushroom to be the very same mushroom that grows in the backyard-- the very same mushroom I have been picking and tossing into the organic rubbish bin so that Bella die Schwarz Hund does not eat it and perish.

I then decided, once I had returned from my brief but satisfying bicycle excursion, to positively identify this mushroom, as I am a mushroom hunter, you see, and have been ever since living in Portugal, where I ruthlessly hunted down many a mushroom to fry or mix in with various savory dishes in order to satisfy my rapacious appetite. 

The mushrooms that I ruthlessly hunted every autumn in Portugal were:  the very popular Parasol Mushroom-- Macrolepiota Procera, or, the Tortulho, as they call it in Portugal-- a large and delicious mushroom in great demand-- so much so that people will never divulge where they have found theirs, and whilst hunting them in the woods, one may come upon another Tortulho hunter, holding a sack, skulking around, and glaring at you when they spy you with your own sack, skulking about and glaring at them-- the skulking and glaring the result of greediness for this mushroom...

Here is a photo of the Parasol mushroom :

And here is a photo of me with the very same fungi, taken whilst walking through Slovenia:

And here is a photo of a chap we met in the woods whilst walking in Slovenia:

And here is a Slovenian farmer that we passed:

And an interesting Slovenian barn we walked by:

And Tijuana jail, where I once spent an interesting night:

But I digress...

Just quickly then, the other mushrooms I once hunted down whilst living in Portugal:

Caesar's Mushroom, aka Amanita Caesarea, which was the preferred treat of one of the Roman emperors, who was subsequently poisoned with this delicious mushroom's brother, the Death Cap, aka Amanita Phalloides, pictured below:

I was able to pick all the Caesar's Mushrooms I wanted, as no one else picked them, thinking them deadly, and thinking me insane, which they were not, and I am probably not.
Once, whilst searching for this mushroom on a mountain in Portugal-- that is, the Caesar's Mushroom-- I had a religious experience. I can assure the reader I hadn't confused the Caesar's Mushroom with the Fly Agaric, aka Amanita Muscaria, which is the well known psychoactive mushroom that certain Shaman chaps used to consume for their own religious experiences, as pictured below:

In fact, I had eaten no mushrooms at all when I had my mystical experience. You see, I was sitting on a large rock with a view of the valley below... ah, perhaps we'll save that one for another time.

I believe we were discussing edible mushrooms I'd hunted in Portugal. Yes, that's right. And the last one that I had a keen appetite for was the Penny Bun, aka the Boletus Edulis, or the 'Porcini', as pictured below:

So, back to the identification of this mushroom that is growing everywhere in North Rhine-Westphalia; growing even as we speak:

Having returned, then,  from my cycling excursion, I sped to the backyard--which the English would refer to as the 'garden'-- and I had a good look at the shaggy, inky, English lawyer's wig-like mushrooms growing there, and I went to the computer and made a positive identification; they are the Shaggy Ink Cap, aka, Lawyer's Wig, aka Coprinopsis Comatus, which Latin word does not mean 'comatose', I assume, as it is supposed to be edible.

Here is a photo of same from Google Images, in various stages of development:

Only the very young mushroom, pictured on the left, is edible, as the inky versions become an inky, mushy mess.

Hmmmm, edible, eh?

Stay tuned for 'Mushrooms Two', if I am still around to write it.