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Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Heidelberg's Ritter Hotel: Spend a Night with The Knight


The Entrance 
Time to stroll...

A little wine...

some people watching...

Some light lunch at an outdoor cafe...
Please scroll down for pithy descriptions and even more photos...


Ah, Heidelberg, the home of a luscious old town (Alt Stadt) with centuries old buildings, walking and shopping galore and reeking of history.  Everyone knows about The Church of the Holy Spirit, dating to the 12th Century.  Used to be a basilica, and for a time was both protestant and Catholic, but since 1936 has been exclusively protestant.

You might not know that right across from the church is another building of interest, but only if you’re looking for a four star hotel, with a long history, and a a façade and interior right from a movie set.  Talkin’ about The Ritter Hotel, or by it’s full name, Zum Ritter St Georg.  Built by a cloth dealer in 1592, The Ritter (The Knight) was first mentioned as a guesthouse in 1681 and is possibly the only home to have survived the many wars that have swept through this city.  Louis XIV’s French army did a great job of wrecking the Heidelberg Castle that overlooks both the city and the Necker River, but somehow they missed The Ritter.  Probably raided the castle’s wine cellar and decided on ‘just one more’ before they stomped into town for pillaging and wenching.

History, check.  Grand hotel, check.  But aside from the awe, what’s special about The Ritter.  In a word, location.  Located on the main walking street, with its plethora of superb shops (chocolates, perfumes, tobacco, stylish clothes, jewelry, Christmas ornaments), and open-air cafes, The Ritter is a great place to stay and suck in the full experience of Alt Stadt Heidelberg.

The Ritter’s small façade belays the expansive interior, with its winding corridors and good-sized bedrooms.  Small touches of stained glass here and there, bunches of fresh flowers, and solid wooden stairs let you feel the history of the place.

The bottom floor of the hotel is all dark wood, white tablecloths, and suits of armor.  When you look from the street, through leaded, beveled windows, it’s like looking into another world, another era. You'll also be looking at the restaurant. Although by all accounts the food is wonderful, we just couldn’t resist the open air cafes.

When you step out the Ritter’s front door, onto the cobblestones,  you find a wide walking street a couple of miles long, with prime spots for wine guzzling and people watching.  The old city's arms are wide open and The Ritter Hotel is a perfect base of operations.

Never fear.  The Ritter's modern touches, such as elevators, and internet help the weary traveler.  One thing I don’t understand, however, is why a luxury hotel would charge extra for internet, when many cheaper hotels offer it for free!

By the way, should you choose to take the train, there’s a Heidelberg Hauptbahnhof (main station), but also a stop for the Alt Stadt.

Spend a night, stay the weekend, spoil yourself at The Ritter and the wonders of Heidelberg.

huffin' n' puffin' on da River Neckar...

Bicycles are all over this university town 
The river is flows right by the city

View of the tower on the old bridge

Walking streets galore..

You'll find spots of beauty everywhere.



Inside The Ritter's dining room

This and the following shots are all inside the hotel



Monday, July 29, 2013

The Daunting Drama of Japanese Porn, Part II




I’ve had many requests for a follow-up to my original investigation into Japanese porn.  Such disgusting stuff.  Takes an effort to plow through it over and over and over….but, I’m a slave to my readers.  This is Part Deux, or as they say in Japan, dai bu. As anyone can see, the Japanese titles aren’t just a suggestion of what’s to come, they give away the whole first chapter.  By the way, these titles are real (not one word changed), but for the comments, blame me.

Intense Sex With a Lady Who Rocks Her Hips So Hard.  What’d ya expect? She was raised in the school of hard rocks.

Pure and Virtuous Pretty Girl’s Hapless Life Under One Roof With a Dangerous Stepfather.  I know what you’re thinking, but my sons aren’t married and they don’t date virtuous women.

Big-Breasted New Part-Time Worker Who Looks So Plain.  I thought you said ‘plain.’

Big-Breasted Mama Volleyball Team Training Camp.  On my 37th birthday, I begged my mom to send me to one of these.

Setting Up His Wife For Adultery – I’ll Let You Screw My Wife.  Pissed ‘cause she took the house and car in the settlement?

Forbidden Nursing.  His wife thought he was bed-ridden, until she saw the smile on his face and the sheets start to wiggle.

Defiled Big Tits.  Stripus Humungous.  It’s what happens when your bra is too small.  Leaves those disgusting red marks.  Here, let me help…

Amateur With a Smooth Pussy I Got to Know By Way of An Online Dating Site.  Don’t keep me hangin’, bro, gimmie the name of the site!

Ladies With Hot Asses Who Shake Their Hips While Getting Tapped From Behind.  The inoculation mambo.  Often seen during flu shot season.

AV Actress Just Arrived At a Photo Society Session and Then Out of the Blue Came Sex, Immediate Insertion and A Raw Cream Pie.  The proctologist swears this was just a case of miscommunication...and so were the photos.

I Screwed a Sexually Frustrated Busty MILF.  Otherwise known as a SFBMILF.  Sure you did … and unicorns run wild on the prairie.

Big-Breasted Housewives Mahjong Club.  Enough with the big breasts! Mosquito bites are Japanese C cups. Mammograms require patience and suction. I’m guessing their Mahjong ain’t up to par either.

Entire Documentation of What a Private Teacher Did to a Big-Breasted Student Who Was Prepping For Her Exams – Hidden Camera Footage File.  This was an oral exam.  He gave her a retake.  Said she blew it.

Lady Who Wants to Be Violated.  Sorry, Admiral, but that excuse won’t float anymore.

I Came Without a Condom! We Were Covered With Oil and She Rubbed My Dick Between Her Thighs So That I Could Feel Her Pussy, And Because It Felt So Good, In It Went!  She’d had too much to drink, went home with the basketball team.  Whoops!  Roe versus Wade all over again, otherwise known as the ‘whoops’ solution.

Married Woman Who Entices Men From Her Veranda.  See, there ought to be a law.   Nobody ever addresses this problem.  Just the other day…

Big Tits Diagnosis.  “I’m sorry,” said the doctor, “What was the problem again?”

Perverted Defense Lawyer.  You’re puttin’ me on, right?

Community Life of A Small Girl and a Large Man.  Ok, help me out.  I’m guessing here. 

Cream Pie Sex With Big-Breasted Friends Who Came to Check Up On Me.  Ok, buddy, I want names and phone numbers and I want ‘em now.

Wives Who Devotedly Attend a Tennis School Receive Hands-On Man-to-Man Lessons By Well-Known Coaches Who Harass Them Sexually and Become Turned On As Their Big Tits Are Shaken Up.  Where to begin?  Well, first off, let’s talk ball control, and focusing on your grip…

Incest Between a Japanese Son and His Busty American Stepmother.  Helps to know the stepson is 35 and the stepmother is 18.

She Hadn’t Seen Her Uncle in Many Years and Asked Him to Bathe With Her Just Like Long Ago, The Niece With Big Beautiful Breasts Had No Concerns About Revealing Her Body Which Was Now Fully-Grown.  This family did not pray together.

Big-Breasted Lady Sneaking In While You Sleep to Have Sex.  Who hasn’t had this happen???

Blooming Life Erotic Drama – Won’t You Do It With the Older Sister? You’ve been harping on this since your 85th birthday, Martha, and I’m telling you we ain’t diggin’ her up again!

My Wife Become A Deepthroat Dog.  If you want us to help you find her, you’re going to have to give us a better description.

All Wet- Big-Breasted Lady Whose Bra is Soaked Through.  This requires closer examination and a possible breast extraction.

Grandmother and Grandchild – Forbidden Carnal Relations Between a Lovely Young Big-Breasted Grandmother and a Grandchild Who’s Come of Age.  See, now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!  Who doesn’t enjoy a good love story?  Hollywood, drop those clichés and go for it!

Beautiful Young Manager of a Baseball Team – 9 Guys Disobey Her During Training Camp and Then Force Her to Satisfy Their Sexual Needs.  Foul balls?  Got to third base?  Infield open-fly rule? Strike three and you’re in?  The question before the jury is:  were they old enough or was this the minor leagues?

I Love Panty Stockings, I Am a Slave to the Indecent Contrast of Nylon Against Bare Skin and the Sensation It Produces.  Oh, tell me about it!  I’ve completely given up wool socks

These Married Women Frequently Take Lessons From a Driving Range Coach Well-Known For Sexual Harassment and Get So Turned On When Their Big Boobies Get Shaken.  First it’s the tennis lesson and the baseball team, now golf.  I tell you, these coaches have a rough time figuring out whose balls are whose.  I’m sure you know what it does to your back-swing when some big boobie shaking woman starts talking real loud.





Sunday, July 21, 2013

Tallinn, Estonia - Cutest Place You've Never Been

Where the heck is Estonia?  Ok, kids, see the tiny green spot?
View Across the Old City Walls
St Alexander Nevsky Cathedral - Russian Orthodox



















Just took a Baltic cruise on the Emerald Princess, a small boat holding about half the population of Estonia.  Matter of fact, our first port was Tallinn, Estonia.  So, let’s get the jokes out of the way.

What is the Capital of Estonia?  No Tallinn.

Where is it?  At the ‘Tal-linn’ of Europe.

Once you stop rolling around and brush the dust off, here’s another thing you should know.  Although we pushed through St Petersburg, Russia, Helsinki, Finland, Stockholm, Sweden, Oslo, Norway, and Copenhagen, Denmark, Tallinn was the crown jewel of the trip.
Beauty is everywhere, including this outdoor cafe
14th Century St Olav's Church in the background

Not saying any of those were bad places to visit, and especially St Petersburg is a fabulous blend of history and art.  Nevertheless, Tallinn’s old, walled-city charm, friendly people, and hometown atmosphere captured my heart.

Anybody know that Estonia is a part of the European Union and uses Euros as their currency?  I didn’t.  Unlike previous jokes to the contrary, this is not the tail-end of Europe, but a surprisingly robust and sophisticated city.

You might want to know where the odd sounding name came from.  Sorry, f-f-f-folks, I don’t know.  Hard to say with certainly and any translation is rough, at best.  Could have come from old Danish, meaning Stable Town, or Castle Town, or the name may come from any number of old Finnish words.  But, officially, Tallinn hasn’t been Tallinn for long.  Up until independence (1918-20), the place was called Reval (Ray-vaal).

Not to put too fine a point on it, Tallinn’s creaky and blood spattered past creeps back some 5000 years.  Since then, it’s been a vicious political playground, cross-stitched with conquerors from all across Scandinavia, as well as Germany, and the Soviet Union.  In recent history, Estonia’s 20th Century independence only lasted twenty-two years before Hitler’s and Stalin’s so-called Non-aggression Pact allowed the Soviets to march in.  Between then and the fall of the Soviet Union, Estonia was definitely a land of tears and regret.  Huge portions of the population were ‘resettled,’ over and over.  When Germans and Russians were not slaughtering people, thousands of others were being moved east to populate Siberian Gulags.  The last Russian troops left in 1994.  Since 1991, Estonia has once again been free.  They’re proud of their freedom and know first hand what the alternative is.

Talk about a bounce back!  Today, the Estonians are hailed as one of the freest people in the world.  Their economy is booming and Estonia is listed as one of the most ‘wired’ countries in the world.  In Tallinn, free internet is available everywhere.  The government functions as an e-government, or electronic government.  Yes, the representatives and prime minister meet in person, but they also vote through the internet, as does the general population.  Want to know what a citizen friendly place this is?  Balanced budget.  Nil public debt.  Flat rate tax.  Free trade.  Think this might lead to an economic boom?  Here’s the kicker:  Estonia is practically energy independent, producing 90% of their electricity from locally mined shale oil.

Tallinn is also a beautiful city.  I snapped photos ‘til my fingers went numb.  As with most small countries that rely on commerce, Estonians have their own language, but also speak a variety of second, third, fourth and fifth languages.  When I say ‘speak,’ I mean they can joke with you using American slang, then turn and babble on in Russian, or Finnish.

The prices in Tallinn are comfortable.  Unlike most of Scandinavia, you can sip a beer without taking out a loan.  Hand knitted wool sweaters are about half the price they are in Norway.

Ok, men, let’s cut to the chase….literally….Estonian women are gorgeous and unlike most Scandinavians, even vertically challenged men who have no hope of making the basketball traveling squad, still have a significant chance of finding that Cupid’s arrow did not overshoot by six inches.






Our Guide on the right.  By the way, SPB Tours is excellent


Yes, on all counts, Tallinn is a lovely piece of the globe and the only city on our trip where I would joyfully spend a summer, sipping morning coffees in the cafes, having fabulous open-air lunches, and snapping photos until my forefinger had calluses, while sloshing down an afternoon beer, and sucking in great gulps of the fresh sea air. If under threat of bodily harm, I might even take my wife.








The 7th Century Market Square.  Nearby is Europe's oldest Pharmacy and the birth place of Marzipan.

The woman is stylish and has that ...Je ne sais quoi...and with all my heart and soul I want to know  quoi!

Back to the ship!  Emerald Princess on the right.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

The Russian Guide




After six years as a tour guide, Martina noticed a creeping sameness in showing strangers her beautiful, historic, and artistic city.  The job paid well.  Hard to put her finger on it.  Perhaps there was not enough suffering, the Russian national pastime.  Happiness always held the promise of pain, like the momentary freedom of leaping off a tall building.   Today, a black and gray sky held promise.

Not counting the long days, long lines and schedule eruptions, Martina found strands of pleasure. Very unusual in her life and when they appeared, she held her breath.

At first the tourists' redundant questions were her security blanket. But these days she wished customers could be more inventive and insightful.  Her wishes blossomed and died in infancy.

It wasn’t personal.  People automatically warmed to her easy manner.  Came from being married for long years to Bruno, a hairy longshoreman who liked his beer and hot suppers.  Bruno also liked sex and Martina obliged him a time or two a month. It was that kind of marriage.  In other words, typically boring, with lightening bolts of despair.  Perhaps tonight he would be more inventive and make her do some really disgusting things.  Then she could cry.  The disgusting things she could count on, but inventiveness?  Dream on.

Besides being a tour guide, Martina wrote pathetically mundane articles for a monthly travel magazine.  The magazine was free, handed out on street corners, and paid Martina nearly nothing, but it dovetailed with her guide job and brought a sense of sad association with the Romanovs. When she chatted over a microphone in a cramped mini-bus, she relished describing Nicholas II and his family as being ‘brutally murdered,’ as though ‘thoughtfully and humanely  murdered’ would be something entirely different. 

Sometimes, to break the monotony, she fudged in bits that scraped the edges of accuracy both in her delivery and her writing.  Who cared?  Not the hopelessly ignorant tourists.  Not her magazine editor.   His expertise began with a capital and ended with a period.  Paragraphs and lucidity only slowed him as he raced to coffee with his mistreated girlfriend, or out for a bout of the vodka flu with his so-called friends.

In a piece about the famous Albert Hotel, Martina added some spice about a bellhop who consorted with animals.  All balderdash, of course.  His ghost, she wrote, could be seen grinning, barking, and humping the legs of guests.

The editor never changed a word and the hotel never complained.  In fact, reservations for people with female dogs increased 25%.  A keen sense of the perverse lives in all of us, she thought sadly.

Toward the end of each tour, Martina took her charges on a barge ride through the canals, pointing out palaces and cathedrals, intertwined with tales of saints and royalty, heaven and earth, as it were.

Martina also had a secret yearning to leap out from historical non-fiction and write short stories.  Most dreams are like that, thin and shadowy.  Shifting sand would be Gibraltar by comparison.

Today, a late afternoon in mid-summer, she toiled in the midst of a barge ride.  Halfway through, to the gentle lapping of the water against the hull, and with the sun burned to a deep gold.  Her customers basked in the afterglow of a hefty meat and potato lunch, washed down with icy glasses of complimentary vodka.  Martina noticed her changes slouching, then doubled over, their heads nodding like round boats on an invisible sea.

She breezed through the Romanovs by name, number, and nefarious deeds, then branched out and re-dug the shallow earth of history to sprout a new family tree.

Martina spoke excellent English, but with an accent that lent authenticity.

“On the left bank of the reever is the Palace of Ill Repute.  Many emperors sucked their last, piti-ful breaths there.  The entertainment of dancing chickens and a dance with meat cleavers also sucked, especially when changing partners. The chickens especially hated it. One Empress took to hay-vee drink and mopped the floor with her longhaired dugs.  She later become very devout and spent great sums to have the dogs bapi-tized.  The choorch adored her.”

Nobody budged.  Martina continued.  “Next comes the home of Peter-Peter-Pumpkin-Eater, named because his wife, Olga-the-Generous, had enormous breasts.”

No reaction.

“Then, there was Alexander-the-Bold, and his little known son, Boris-the-Lunaticski.  History has little to say about Boris except that he kept an array of birds.  His very Orthodox wife, Alexis-the-Kneeler, insisted the birds wear condoms.  Several died from latex thrombosis and allergic reactions to celibacy.  Things came to a head when a great bustard’s eyes popped, due to testicular pressure, wounding two bystanders.  The mighty bird crashed into a small boat, with the loss of all hands, as well as arms and legs.  It is what we Russians call a happy ending.”

Gregor, who also spoke English, had settled himself among the tourists, behind a mountainous English woman, wearing a red rain-slicker, whose deep snoring resembled a Gregorian chant.

Gregor had seen Martina several times and although he would never admit it, seeing her again was the sole purpose of this trip.  It had cost him money he could not really afford, but such is love, which in Greg’s case resembled stalking.  In his thirty-five years he’d experienced love many times, lasting only as long as puffs from a cannabis pipe.  As he had with his other romantic car wrecks, he was certain this time would be different.

Once he had spoken with Martina hurriedly, from boat to dock, which he managed without loss of balance.  She’d smiled a courageous smile that firmed his interest in the sadness in her eyes.  Now he was back for another dose of cupid’s tonic.

When the boat docked, Gregor lingered, allowing the tourists to disembark before he wandered to the creaking gangplank.  His joyous heart was light, but he still dragged a long cloak of despair, left over from previous romantic struggles.

Martina appeared to be taken by surprise.  But, still she smiled.  Gregor smiled back, trying his best to round the corner of the conversation and get to the part where he asked her to dinner. 

The clouds gave him the help he needed and although it was only four o’clock, a light drizzle allowed him to cut through the preliminaries and ask, “Coffee?”  He said it without whining.

Martina hesitated.  Who was this man?  His face looked familiar.  Still, the drizzle was beginning to show its muscle and one of her favorite coffee shops was across the street.  The street was in a good section and the coffee shop looked crowded, so, she nodded yes.  Coffee and harmless conversation might be just what she needed to unwind before she drove over an hour to reach her house, prepared dinner for her thankless husband and attended to household drudgery.  Traffic in this city was beastly.  Maybe it would take her two hours.

Gregor was in luck.  As they walked in, the couple at the table by the window got up.  Gregor and Martina sat down while the waitress cleared dishes and swiped a wet dishcloth across the scarred wooden tabletop.

“Two coffees,” Gregor said before the waitress could get away.  Hurriedly, he looked at Martina.  “Unless you want something else.”  If he expected disappointment, he didn’t get it.

“No, coffee is just right on a damp day.”

“I enjoyed your lecture,” he said and laughed, sounding almost as if he really had enjoyed it.

“It was the updated rendition of very worn stories.”

“I noticed.  But, you left out a lot.”

“Such as…”

“Gomez-the-Drinker, the first Emperor to distill vodka instead of waiting for sheep’s milk to ferment.”

“Forgot about him.  If I recall, he was later called Gomez-the-Kind.  He cycled vodka through his kidneys and donated it to the peasants.”

Conversation continued over yet more coffee, drunk from chipped china cups.  Gregor loved looking into her somewhat sunken eyes and didn’t want the tête-à-tête to come crashing down.  As any man knows, he saw what he wanted to see.  He’d waited so long for this moment.  Her eyes sparkled.  She was perfect in every way.  It was time to cut to the chase, stir the stew, fish or cut bait, ferment the potatoes.   Still, he hesitated.

“How is your day going?” she asked, looking down, taking another sip.  Such a cute little mole on her chin, he decided, and the deep circles only made her more attractive, in a perverse Soviet sort of way.

“So far, so good.  My therapist says I’ll be better soon.”

She laughed.  “You’re married, too?”

It was a bolt of lightening, but he dodged.  “The first time wasn’t too bad.”

“What happened?”

“She didn’t like the way I spoke to her.”

“For example…”

“Started with good morning and went down-hill like a bull with mad-for-cows disease.”

“That bad?”

Worse.  Then came wife deux.”

“More bad luck?”

“She liked the heavy beatings at first, but soon tired of the salt baths.”

“Silly woman.”

“Yes.  She had it made.  Ice in her cup of thin tea, a stale crust of bread.”

He shifted gears.  “So, tell me what your husband is like.”

“He’s a brute.  I cheat on him often.”

“Really.”  He said it in passing, not wanting to interrupt the story.

“Yes.  I gave him a fabulous STD for his birthday.”

The sagging pathos was beginning to stir Gregor’s inherent Russian need for suffering.   While not actually lifting the table, he was at least wiggling the edge of the tablecloth.  He gripped his napkin tighter in his lap to avoid popping the zipper and unleashing the dragon, or in Gregor’s case, the gecko.

This infinitely sexy woman knew exactly what she was doing, he decided.  The more she spoke of sadness and pain, the greater his passion.  He suspected she wanted him just as much, always a man’s foolish miscalculation.

“Sometimes he deprives me of coffee and we have a wonderful shouting match.  The neighbors sell tickets and enjoy a jolly time.”

Gregor could barely contain himself, in the literal sense.

She reached under the table.  It was only to put a hand in her own lap, but still.

“Dear god!” he thought.

“It appears you’re furious with me, too.”  She smiled.

“Raging,” he said.

“Perhaps we should work off that rage.  Share a few precious moments of utter despair.”

“Yes, and perhaps the sun should rise and set.”  Was there sweat on his brow?  Felt like it.  His mouth tasted salty.

A man leaned across the table and asked him a question.  The language was Spanish or Italian, Gregor couldn’t decide.  He barely listened.

A moment later, when he started to settle the bill, he found his wallet was missing.  The man who’d asked the question.  Of course!  Gregor forgot his passion for a moment and raced to the door of the coffee shop, stumbled onto the street and looked both ways.  No one.

“They never run outside,” Martina told him when he got back to the table.  “Check the men’s room.”

The door was locked.  Gregor could hear someone inside.  He rattled the door handle.  It was loose.  He pulled, pushed and the door came free.  The guy inside was the same guy who’d asked a question.  He was shuffling through something and tried to hide it.  Gregor wasn’t big, but he was big enough.  He shoved the guy against the wall.  Money and papers fell to the floor.  The wallet fell in the urinal.  The guy brushed past him.

Gregor didn’t care.  He didn’t even care about the money.  The wallet was the important thing.  His license, his identification.  His condom. All there. Even the money.

When he came back, Martina was still at the table.  She eyed him, as if it were no big deal.  City girl.  Used to it.

“Where were we?” she asked as he slid into his chair.

“I was being robbed.”

“That’s Pietor.  He’s not a very good thief.”

“You know him?  Why in hell didn’t you say anything?”  He was rapidly losing the focus of this conversation.  Confusion was making steady progress toward disgust.

She shrugged. 

He got up to leave.  Martina clutched his sleeve.  “Don’t go.”  An obscure scene from Doctor Zhivago.

He looked down at her as if she had lost her mind.  In fact, he had lost his, but now he had it back and he wasn’t going to give it up again.  For the first time he noticed how ugly the mole on her chin really was, and the way one eye drooped a little, the thinness of her hair.

When he left, Martina sighed. She sighed again.  For anyone else it would have been sadness, but for her it was contentment. The perfect romantic suffering at the end of a dark and drizzling Russian day.