The Stone Age

Picture the Acropolis Museum in Athens. It is a new museum. A beautiful space, big and bright. The floor is glass, not tile, and underneath you see the ongoing excavation of a 2500 year-old part of Athens. Baths and bakeries, wells and houses, just a few meters below where you stand. People lived and worked there once.

The museum itself is a celebration of the ancient world. The exhibits have space to breathe, everything is neatly labeled, big and colourful posters explain ancient Athens to young children in simple English and Greek. The exterior walls are all glass and in the North the Acropolis itself rises, white and timeless.

Now picture a specific exhibit. On the first floor, just to the right of the stairs, is a display on ancient tools and building materials. A free-standing case holds replicas of various tools: chisels, hammers, pliers, drills… at least twenty or thirty different tools. They are all made from smooth, dark metal with an occasional bit of wood here and there. Above them you see about six or seven roughly-hewn lumps of marble. They are the different types of marble that were used in building the Acropolis.

Now, picture a little girl entering the image. She’s about five or six, blonde curly hair, as cute as can be. American. With her is her mom. She’s a woman in her late thirties, her hair is blonde too (although the colour might not be entirely natural), she’s wearing a stylish jeans jacket and high heels. You might know the type.

Have you got all that? The museum with the Acropolis beyond. The bright, huge spaces. The exhibit, the girl and her mother.

Okay. You might want to sit down now. Are you sitting? Good.

“Why,” asks the little girl, “are there rocks above all those tools?”

“Well,” answers her mother, “back then they didn’t have any tools, so these rocks are what they used. And underneath you see what we have nowadays.”

And I stand there, mouth agape, and wonder whether I should say something. In the end I don’t, because I don’t think “I’m sorry little girl, but your mother is a complete moron” would have gone down well with either of them. But the story won’t leave my head. Not only because it is, in its own painful way, fairly hilarious, but also because it makes my heart ache to know that there are people in the world who are incapable of appreciating or even comprehending their own past.


Agios Ioannis 5

If you’re trying to reach me in the next three weeks I’ll be there (see above). The address is: Jonas and Verena Kyratzes, Perfect Beach 2, 308197 In a Sunny Place, Greece. I’m sure the local postal authorities won’t have any problem finding it.

I’ll do my best to keep the blog updated while we’re away (that Two Worlds 2 review is as good as done), but don’t expect too many posts.

We’re tired, we’re broken, but we’re back.

Well… we’re back. What I’m feeling right now is a strange mixture of sadness at leaving our vacation behind and happiness at being back at home with our cat and away from Greek internet connections. I already miss Greece, although we haven’t even entirely unpacked our bags. The sunshine and the good food, the mountains of strawberries that we ate, the landscape and the air. And the sea (which was very nice to look at and very, very cold to swim in)… in a landlocked place like Frankfurt, where all you ever see is the building on the other side of the street, the sea seems like a dream.

I don’t wish to seem ungrateful, Frankfurt has its charms too: we’ve eaten pizza and tried to assimilate all that we’ve missed on the internet during the last two weeks, we’ve cuddled Cat and Cat has given us headbutts. Life could be worse.

Now it’s late and I really should go to bed. So should Jonas. Look at this picture of a car while you wait for the next update.

We parked near this giant wall...

Post Departum Depression Post

We’ve been back in Germany for a little over a week now. A busy week, in which we filmed one short movie and edited two. In which Jonas’s tooth broke and we had to rush to the emergency dental service in the middle of the night. We met friends and went to the cinema. We played games and worked on our various creative projects.

So not a week in which we wasted a whole lot of time (except that one day, the one where we didn’t do anything but play Dragon Age: Origins, but that’s a tale for another blog post). And yet… and yet I feel like we’re trapped in a dream. Everything feels fake, unreal and somehow unpleasant.

The weather doesn’t help, I suppose.

I’m afraid you’ve got squirrels.

Recently in Bernkastel-Kues: (I know, German place names. What else can I say, except: Sorry.)

Verena is walking down the steps of a medieval castle tower. Upstairs she saw the picturesque town of Bernkastel-Kues, the river Mosel and a whole lot of clouds that are going to rain very, very soon. Halfway down the stairs a squirrel comes up her way.

Squirrel: Fuck, what’s a human doing on the stairs? The tourist season hasn’t even half begun.

Verena: Oh, squirrel. Cute.

Squirrel: I’d better go down again. Stupid human, messing with my tower. (Goes down stairs, muttering to self.)

Verena: Mhm… wonder how it is planning to get through that door down there?

Squirrel: Fuck, how was I planning to go through that door down here? I’d better go back up.

Hop, hop, hop.

S. looks at V. with a very accusing stare.

Squirrel: What are you still doing here?

Verena: Sorry.

Squirrel: You better be. (Hops past and vanishes in the dark of the staircase.)

Shortly after, in the tap-room of the restaurant that you need to pass through to get to the stairs.

Buxom Waitress: So, how did you like our tower?

Verena: It was very nice. It’s just… I’m afraid you’ve got squirrels.

Velociraptors, Bunk Beds, Godzilla and Cats

How long could you survive chained to a bunk bed with a velociraptor?

A question worth knowing the answer to, I think. The Oatmeal also has a collection of other delightful quizzes and comics (which I like totally found by accident this very morning when I noticed that the old link to the velociraptor quiz had turned into a retail store for bunk beds overnight… go figure).


And while we’re putting stuff up on the net:

Meet Mr. Crabby


(This post, like a few others, was written in the Dominican Republic and not posted because Jonas drowned the USB stick.)

Yesterday we met this charming young fellow at the beach. His name is Mr. Crabby. Mr. Crabby lives in a narrow, deep tunnel on the beach, just under the tideline. His tunnel has a charming sea view and runnning warm saltwater twice a day. He spends his time sitting just outside his hole and occasionally darting down the beach to nibble at an interesting piece of driftwood. When questioned he refused to state what he was doing during the night. I wonder what Mrs. Crabby would have to say to that.

In the beginning I was afraid that these rather frequent holes would be snake dwellings which would mean that our hotel has been built in a rather shabby neighborhood, but Mr. Crabby has put my mind to rest on that count. Charming young man, really.

Rain in the Wardrobe

Kaputt, is okay.

That’s what the man said.

Erm… Who is  the man and why did he say that?

Well… You see, we were on this thing, what-do-you-call-it?

The Dominican Republic?

Yes! I mean no. Yes, we were there too. No, not what I meant.

An island?

No. I mean yes. Argh.


Yes, that’s it. And we were in this nice hotel. Food not too bad. Gorgeous beach. Lizards all around. Glorious sunsets. Dripping bathroom ceilings. Happy…

Wait. Surely one of these doesn’t belong in that list.

Drippy bathroom ceiling?

Yep, that’s the one. So, what’s up with that?

Well. The hotel was nice, as I said. Only the bathroom had one tiny little problem. The ceiling was dripping. At first only a little, and then it got worse with each passing minute. Only it’s kinda above the shower, so that wasn’t a problem really, after all the idea is that water is coming down from above in a shower.

Dude, that’s gross. You don’t know where that water’s been.

Good point.


So we complained. And they fixed it. Pretty promptly. Although the repair man didn’t take off his shoes and we had muddy footprints all over the bathroom ceiling after that.

Don’t you mean floor?


Well, I don’t think the ceiling repair man walked on the ceiling. Wouldn’t that be counter-productive, like?

Oh, yes. Muddy footprints all over the floor then.

And he said that thing about kaputt and okay? Right?

No, no he didn’t. That came much later.

Go on.

Okay. Honeymoon continues. Breakfast. Beach. Humidity. Lunch. Feeding turtles. More beach. Dinner. Evening walk. Sunset. Breakfast. Beach. Humidity… I’ll just fast forward a bit here…  Beach. Humidity. Lunch. Feeding Turtles. Rainstorm of Biblical proportions.


Well, they get them there around that time of the year. That’s why they call it the rainy season.


Anyway. After the storm the ceiling is dripping again. Only worse. And we got a daytrip on the next day. Oversleep, barely make the trip and forget to tell anyone about the ceiling. After we get back from the trip the ceiling is stil dripping and we almost have to wade through the bathroom.


Oh, yes, ouch indeed. And as a bonus the drippiness has extended to the hallway and the wardrobe. So we kind of go to the lobby first thing next morning and complain. Politely.

Good for you!

Yes. No need to be a jerk, I guess. And after a few hours, we’re sitting in our room and enjoying the comforts of air conditioning at this point, a guy comes by to look at the ceiling. Jonas opens the door.  Says hola. Points at ceiling. That’s all our Spanish is good for. Guy looks up. Smiles like a loon.

“Is kaputt,” he says.

“Yeah, funny, but we kind of figured that one out ourselves,” we think.

“Is okay,” he says. Smiles some more and goes away.

We are left staring at the empty hallway.

So, what happened then?

Well. The ceiling did stop dripping after that. And the hotel staff took to checking if our fridge and/or TV-set was still okay every single day from then on. Just to be safe, I guess. Can’t be too careful with people who keep complaining about kaputt ceilings.