The Way the Sun Hits off the Runway
Lately there's been a lot of illness going around the English department at my school, while this is bad news for them, it's good news for me, because I've been getting a lot of half days, where I'm done with my obligations well before noon. On Tuesday, I would be done by 10:30, and I said to myself, "Self, today is a day, I think, for indulging secret and/or guilty pleasures." I was struck by the conviction and force of my words, and could do naught but agree. Thus resolved, I set about filing through my guilty pleasures. Now, my go-to guilty pleasure is fast food. If I'm feeling particularly saucy, I'll waltz into McDonald's and tuck into a Big Mac and some McNuggets or (in countries where the option exists) knock down a Wendy's triple cheeseburger. It is my soul vice, and definitely one of the things I don't like to tell people about (but it's ok now, cause this is a blog, not real life or anything). I ruled that out though, mostly because I wasn't sure how I was gonna make that last all day. Digging a little deeper I hit upon a pleasure so guilty and secret that I hadn't indulged it in nearly 10 years. Yes, friends, it shames your 'umble narrator to admit that he has a passion for military aviation. In fact, there was a time when the US Air Force Museum just up the Interstate in Dayton was something of a Mecca for me.
----------Public Service Announcement-------------
Before you make any road trip plans, I have it on good authority, that, being as there are no other sights in Dayton, people who are actually from Dayton grow up to hate the Air Force Museum since every time anyone comes in from out of town, the only way to entertain them is to take them to the museum. Kids these days have it so easy though, because now, if you're bored with the Air Force Museum, you can drive a few miles South down I-75 to beautiful, sunny Monroe, Ohio and show all your friends and relatives (and really anyone you can lure into your car) Attack of the 62 Foot Jesus!!! "But wait!" you exclaim! What if I need a six-foot metal spring or a refrigerator motor or some irregular clothing?" Well, then, you get your ass over to Mendelson's Liquidation Outlet, you do! Good authority also tells me, though, that attempting to bounce the metal spring will result in a cacophonous, metallic clang and stares from other shoppers. Just a word to the wise.
----------End Public Service Announcement---------
There is just something ineffably... cool about the whole affair. The problem with it all is, of course, that there's not really anything cool about killing people. I rationalize my admiration to myself, though, primarily by re-contextualizing these aircraft. When I think about, say, a MiG-29, I'm not really impressed by the fact that it could drop nearly 8,000 pounds of ordinance on my head (though I am decidedly terrified by it). Rather, I am awed by the ability of 37,000 pounds of metal to travel at 2.5 times the speed of sound and climb 65,000 feet in the course of a minute. Any way you slice it, that's flat impressive. It is still a readily admitted shame that the only reason mankind can justify this kind of envelope-pushing is for the sake of exploding each other better and faster. But trying to focus on aesthetics, I set off for the Germany's own little slice of Dayton — the Luftwaffenmuseum — as soon as my class let out.
Now getting to the museum was an adventure in itself. According to Berlin's mass-transit travel planner, the trip involved three buses. The first leg was fairly standard: take my ol' friend the 643 up to Potsdam — easy enough. The next bus would take me half an hour away, where, according to the trip planner, I was to wait 20 minutes for another bus that would take me all of three minutes to the museum stop. I assumed I could skip this last bit, and just walk in the time it would take me to wait for this silly, little three minute bus. Imagine my surprise, friends and neighbors, when this second bus dropped me off right smack-dab in the middle of nowhere. I am talkin' it was me and a highway and some trees. So what to do for 20 minutes? Sit there and twiddle my thumbs, natch, and figure out where the heck this friggin' airport is (seriously, if it's only three minutes away, shouldn't I be able to see at least a control tower?). I soon found out, when the fabled, third bus dropped me off at the prescribed stop. So where was this museum? Well according to the ubiquitous blue landmark signs that dot Berlin, it's 1,150 meters that-a-way. Down that quiet looking suburban street you mean? Yes, indeed I do. ::Sigh:: off I trudged, none too happy at the prospect of a three-quarter mile walk after that hour and a quarter commute. The walk turned out to be pretty interesting though. Like I said, it took me through a quaint little subdivision where, it turned out, all the streets had an aviation theme. They started out normal enough as I passed Gebrüder-Wright-Straße, Charles-Lindbergh-Straße and Amelia-Earheart-Straße with a few German pilots mixed in for good measure, but as I neared the museum, I couldn't help feel they were reaching a little bit with names like DaVinci-Straße and Jules-Verne Straße, and even Ikarus-Pfad. When I finally actually made it to the entrance of the museum, I was greeted by... a fence. I tried the handle, but no dice. I was standing there considering which German swear words to shout should the place, for some reason, be closed, when a door on the other side of the fence swung open to reveal a short, bald fellow, of whom I inquired with my eyes, just what the hell the deal was. He pointed to his right, and I followed the fence to the side of the building where, expecting to see a sign about the very obvious reason the museum was closed for the day, it took me several seconds to realize I was staring at the entrance. A revelatory "ach so!" cleared things up for both of us, and, once I was inside, he gave me the rundown in the sort of German you use with the severely mentally challenged (can't say I blame him). Once inside, I whipped out the camera, and, as usual, I'll let pictures do the talking from here on, so just surf on over here, and I'll pick back up when you're finished.......
Alright so, what'd you think? There are plenty more pictures hiding on my hard drive, but I decided you probably have better things to do than look at another F-104 from 30 different angles (if you don't, let me know, and I'll be more than happy to share... also can I have your number?). Anyway, I think my favorite thing about the collection was the East German planes. A lot of people complain because of the awful shape the planes displayed outside are in, but to me, the especially dilapidated shape of East German planes (in comparison to the West German ones) lent them a certain authenticity, or immediacy. You could just imagine them mouldering in a forgotten hangar somewhere until the fall of Communism, when the West came in and took stock of everything, like going through a deceased relative's closet (a rather apt simile for the whole re-unification process, come to think of it). Of course, the museum honchos don't actually have such lofty æsthetic concepts in mind — they're just strapped for cash. All the same, I found it poignant in its way.
After making my way across the sprawling base — which is still partially used by the Luftwaffe, as intermittent, scary, fenced-off buildings with signs warning that trespassers will leave with more holes than they came with (in less uncertain terms, of course) reminded me — it was time to head back to my more accustomed Berlin outskirt. Having vowed not to put up with that ridiculous bus parade anymore, I rode the bus in the other direction in order to take the ferry across Havel Lake and catch the train at Wannsee. So that's what I did, and, really, the whole reason I'm telling you this is because when the ferry pulled up and docked, the most grizzled, weather-worn old salt stepped off, with a beard you could nest birds in — in a word: rugged. Then, as I and the dozen or so other passengers assembled on the dock boarded the ferry, the guy in front of me asked ol' Charon a question which I didn't hear, but Old Man River flipped shit. He went off on all kinds of stuff from the buses in Potsdam to contractual obligations. I decided I'd better not stick around to see if he was coming to a point, and prudentially slank aboard. Watching through the window — err, porthole — I saw him eventually subdue and lean on the railing to churlishly smoke his cigarillo for the 15 minutes or so from arrival to departure. The ride itself passed without incident, and I arrived in Wannsee in time to grab a döner before the train, which took me back to Michendorf, where it was snowing flakes the size of quarters (none of which accumulated).
----------Public Service Announcement-------------
Before you make any road trip plans, I have it on good authority, that, being as there are no other sights in Dayton, people who are actually from Dayton grow up to hate the Air Force Museum since every time anyone comes in from out of town, the only way to entertain them is to take them to the museum. Kids these days have it so easy though, because now, if you're bored with the Air Force Museum, you can drive a few miles South down I-75 to beautiful, sunny Monroe, Ohio and show all your friends and relatives (and really anyone you can lure into your car) Attack of the 62 Foot Jesus!!! "But wait!" you exclaim! What if I need a six-foot metal spring or a refrigerator motor or some irregular clothing?" Well, then, you get your ass over to Mendelson's Liquidation Outlet, you do! Good authority also tells me, though, that attempting to bounce the metal spring will result in a cacophonous, metallic clang and stares from other shoppers. Just a word to the wise.
----------End Public Service Announcement---------
There is just something ineffably... cool about the whole affair. The problem with it all is, of course, that there's not really anything cool about killing people. I rationalize my admiration to myself, though, primarily by re-contextualizing these aircraft. When I think about, say, a MiG-29, I'm not really impressed by the fact that it could drop nearly 8,000 pounds of ordinance on my head (though I am decidedly terrified by it). Rather, I am awed by the ability of 37,000 pounds of metal to travel at 2.5 times the speed of sound and climb 65,000 feet in the course of a minute. Any way you slice it, that's flat impressive. It is still a readily admitted shame that the only reason mankind can justify this kind of envelope-pushing is for the sake of exploding each other better and faster. But trying to focus on aesthetics, I set off for the Germany's own little slice of Dayton — the Luftwaffenmuseum — as soon as my class let out.
Now getting to the museum was an adventure in itself. According to Berlin's mass-transit travel planner, the trip involved three buses. The first leg was fairly standard: take my ol' friend the 643 up to Potsdam — easy enough. The next bus would take me half an hour away, where, according to the trip planner, I was to wait 20 minutes for another bus that would take me all of three minutes to the museum stop. I assumed I could skip this last bit, and just walk in the time it would take me to wait for this silly, little three minute bus. Imagine my surprise, friends and neighbors, when this second bus dropped me off right smack-dab in the middle of nowhere. I am talkin' it was me and a highway and some trees. So what to do for 20 minutes? Sit there and twiddle my thumbs, natch, and figure out where the heck this friggin' airport is (seriously, if it's only three minutes away, shouldn't I be able to see at least a control tower?). I soon found out, when the fabled, third bus dropped me off at the prescribed stop. So where was this museum? Well according to the ubiquitous blue landmark signs that dot Berlin, it's 1,150 meters that-a-way. Down that quiet looking suburban street you mean? Yes, indeed I do. ::Sigh:: off I trudged, none too happy at the prospect of a three-quarter mile walk after that hour and a quarter commute. The walk turned out to be pretty interesting though. Like I said, it took me through a quaint little subdivision where, it turned out, all the streets had an aviation theme. They started out normal enough as I passed Gebrüder-Wright-Straße, Charles-Lindbergh-Straße and Amelia-Earheart-Straße with a few German pilots mixed in for good measure, but as I neared the museum, I couldn't help feel they were reaching a little bit with names like DaVinci-Straße and Jules-Verne Straße, and even Ikarus-Pfad. When I finally actually made it to the entrance of the museum, I was greeted by... a fence. I tried the handle, but no dice. I was standing there considering which German swear words to shout should the place, for some reason, be closed, when a door on the other side of the fence swung open to reveal a short, bald fellow, of whom I inquired with my eyes, just what the hell the deal was. He pointed to his right, and I followed the fence to the side of the building where, expecting to see a sign about the very obvious reason the museum was closed for the day, it took me several seconds to realize I was staring at the entrance. A revelatory "ach so!" cleared things up for both of us, and, once I was inside, he gave me the rundown in the sort of German you use with the severely mentally challenged (can't say I blame him). Once inside, I whipped out the camera, and, as usual, I'll let pictures do the talking from here on, so just surf on over here, and I'll pick back up when you're finished.......
Alright so, what'd you think? There are plenty more pictures hiding on my hard drive, but I decided you probably have better things to do than look at another F-104 from 30 different angles (if you don't, let me know, and I'll be more than happy to share... also can I have your number?). Anyway, I think my favorite thing about the collection was the East German planes. A lot of people complain because of the awful shape the planes displayed outside are in, but to me, the especially dilapidated shape of East German planes (in comparison to the West German ones) lent them a certain authenticity, or immediacy. You could just imagine them mouldering in a forgotten hangar somewhere until the fall of Communism, when the West came in and took stock of everything, like going through a deceased relative's closet (a rather apt simile for the whole re-unification process, come to think of it). Of course, the museum honchos don't actually have such lofty æsthetic concepts in mind — they're just strapped for cash. All the same, I found it poignant in its way.
After making my way across the sprawling base — which is still partially used by the Luftwaffe, as intermittent, scary, fenced-off buildings with signs warning that trespassers will leave with more holes than they came with (in less uncertain terms, of course) reminded me — it was time to head back to my more accustomed Berlin outskirt. Having vowed not to put up with that ridiculous bus parade anymore, I rode the bus in the other direction in order to take the ferry across Havel Lake and catch the train at Wannsee. So that's what I did, and, really, the whole reason I'm telling you this is because when the ferry pulled up and docked, the most grizzled, weather-worn old salt stepped off, with a beard you could nest birds in — in a word: rugged. Then, as I and the dozen or so other passengers assembled on the dock boarded the ferry, the guy in front of me asked ol' Charon a question which I didn't hear, but Old Man River flipped shit. He went off on all kinds of stuff from the buses in Potsdam to contractual obligations. I decided I'd better not stick around to see if he was coming to a point, and prudentially slank aboard. Watching through the window — err, porthole — I saw him eventually subdue and lean on the railing to churlishly smoke his cigarillo for the 15 minutes or so from arrival to departure. The ride itself passed without incident, and I arrived in Wannsee in time to grab a döner before the train, which took me back to Michendorf, where it was snowing flakes the size of quarters (none of which accumulated).
posted by Matt at
12:52 AM
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