Since then

I know, I know, I haven’t written in forever. I’ve been busy. I’ve got my traveling boots on and I am rolling.

But I will try and recap.

Bonn

I’ve always liked class trips; not the wimpy day-at-the-art-museum field trip sort of thing, but the kind where you all travel somewhere together. Living with someone, ipso facto means you get to know them, really know them, for better or for worse.

But this time it was for better. We took a 1 PM train from Freiburg to Bonn, no connections, filling almost half a wagon with our assorted baggage and ourselves. Most of us would be traveling on to our Christmas destination instead of going back south, and were thus equipped for visits with grandparents, gifts for smaller siblings and relatives, and large quantities of alcohol for consumption during the week as we had been told the bar in the hotel was not priced “student friendly”. We spent the train ride reading horoscopes out of a trashy Swiss magazine we had found, pretending to read our assigned material and getting to know one another.

After a minor disagreement with the ticket machine we managed to find the correct S-Bahn to the hotel, following our professor like a row of ducklings with backpacks. The room assignments followed with little ado, and I ended up sharing a room with Sandra, a girl I had gotten to know from class who grew up in Indonesia and studies in Germany.

Our contact at the hotel, a Frau L_ffe, managed to spend about an hour telling us what we already knew or weren’t interested in and eventually turned us loose for the night.

The schedule for the rest of the week was invariable; breakfast until 9 AM, at which time we would hear a presentation for an hour, followed by two hours of Q&A. The subsequent hour was reserved for our working groups, then came our two hour lunch break, then working groups for an hour, another presentation, another two hours Q & A, somewhere in there a coffee break, and dinner. Evening program consisted of working groups, either planning or presenting.

Planning or presenting what, you may ask. Well, our themes, I would reply.

We had been split into groups based on different themes, which we were to condense and present. We had about three hours total to plan a half hour presentation, with substance, but mostly something that was supposed to be funny. The groups were: Good Governance; Fair trade vs. free trade; Women and Development; Financing Development; Theories of Development; and Climate Change. I was in the Trade group, as the only female with eight guys.

I should mention that our group was not the only one attending the seminar. A group from Freiburg (us; bottom left corner of Germany) plus a group from Rostock (upper right corner of Germany) were meeting in Bonn (center left). Our class was an upper division class; in order to take part you have to be in at least your 5th semester. I am between 3 and 5 years younger than most people in my class. The class from Rostock, however, was a lower division class, with some ,,Ersti”s, some first semester kids. Which means, they are lacking some of the base knowledge.

The group on Free Trade vs. Fair Trade consisted of nine people, myself, four from Rostock and four others from Freiburg. Our group consisted almost exclusively of economists and one individual with a desperate need to control everything, whose deepest desire was to give a factual presentation on Ricardian Trade Theory. This theory is the theory explaining comparative advantage, and how a land with a comparative advantage in a specific good can gain from trade even if other nations have an absolute advantage in that same good. It’s been referred to as the most basic economic principle that is completely counter-intuitive. We wasted an hour of our lives trying to explain this to some of the Rostockers. For those of us who understood it, the explanation was superfluous, and for those of them who didn’t, they still didn’t completely understand. And in the end, this trade theory is the basis of many free trade arguments but has nothing to do with fair trade. In the end, amid protests from our self-proclaimed ‘leader’ we decided to do a mock WTO round to air some of the free trade/fair trade arguments, and ended up hammering out what was to be said only a half hour before our presentation. I was the moderator, so I had to get someone to help me with parliamentary procedure in Germany. (‘enthalten’ means ‘abstain’, by the way). It went well. A bit long, but whatever.

Other presentations included several skits, one for Good Governance with a dictator who had to decide whether to trade with the EU, with China, or follow WTO guidelines, one for Women and Development with a poor starving mother with a million kids who manages to get a micro credit loan at 20% interest, one on climate change (a theater piece in three acts—the best presentation of the conference), one talk show presentation, and one CNN news report.

Everyone brought drinks to the presentations and had a good time; they were an opportunity for us to take things less seriously. Afterwards we adjourned to the cellar, where there was a pingpong/foosball room and a bowling alley. Except it wasn’t bowling, it was Kegeln, and the ball has no holes. Some kindhearted individuals took it upon themselves to supply the group with alcohol and managed to smuggle in several cases. We sat around and talked and bowled, sometimes until 3 or 4 AM. And our professor, a gentleman in his late 50s, I’d guess, sat right there with us, beer in hand, till 3 AM. He was looking decidedly more chipper at breakfast the next morning than most of his drinking partners.

The presentations that we had every day consisted of various people out of the Development Politics world. In Germany there is such a thing as a Ministry for Overseas Development, with main offices in Bonn, and the head of the Asia department gave us a presentation during our visit there. The head of the HR department also came and gave a presentation on careers with the ministry. Other presenters included a representative from Miseror, which coordinates religious and missionary development aid, from Global Policy Forum, an NGO, and related. All fascinating subjects, mostly decent presenters and occasionally fantastic presentations.

That was Bonn. I was sad to leave, sad that it would be over. We spent a week together, three meals a day and everything in between. I got along smashing well with almost everyone I talked to, and I made an effort—which, every time I do something like this, gets easier—to get to know as many people as possible. I made some good friends. Our seminar has one session remaining and then it is finished for the semester, so if we want to see one another it will only be by private initiative. But I think we will, I hope we will.

So, sad to be leaving, not excited about the coming 7-hr, 5-connection train ride before me, I left Bonn for the Baltic.

I arrived at 10:30 at night, and A. picked me up. She filled me in on the latest family drama, which that day had consisted of a dog that didn’t want to be washed and some problem or another with the new practice. We didn’t chat too long as I was pretty tired.

The rest of the week seemed to go by in a blur. I went running every day. The house was full of people, the five family members, the current aupair, the grandmother, myself, and eventually also the aunt and uncle. Before Christmas was a flurry of packing and shopping, organizing, cooking, cleaning, more packing, more shopping. We went to Luebeck for a day, saw the Christmas markets, and I found my favorite candy, which apparently does not exist in Freiburg, enjoyed the city and had a lovely day.

Christmas in Germany takes place Christmas eve. We spent the morning preparing the ‘dinner’ (mid-day meal) of cold potato- and chicken salads, shrimps, fish, vegetable salads, rolls, antipasti, and all sorts of crazy other stuff. After dinner we got dressed, the girls wearing their ball gowns and I a borrowed skirt, and opened presents.

Christmas and Thanksgiving are the dangerous times for homesickness for me, and of course I cried when I read the note my mother had sent me. But I was thankful to be with a family, with my other adopted family, not to be celebrating Christmas alone somewhere. It was nice to see the happy faces and squeals of delight as everyone opened their packages, candles burning on the tree (yes, real candles). A happy Christmas.

Some of them went to Church in the evening, to 11 PM service, but I of course did not go and turned in early. The entire time I was there I slept poorly, either because someone would come in the room at some point or because the stupid aquarium was glowing like an atomic reactor in the corner. I usually went downstairs and slept for the last few hours on the couch.

The rest of the week sort of slipped through my fingers. I spent a lot of time and effort writing a term paper, which A. corrected for me, finishing up some assignments from other classes. The eldest daughter went to Austria with her new boyfriend to go snowboarding, the middle daughter, her boyfriend and the littlest spent hours competing in the Baltic All-Age Foosball Championships with Ch.’s Christmas gift. I was sort of turned loose. It was nice to be back; it felt like home it was for the year I lived there. I had to resist the temptation to go up the stairs and straight into the room on the left, which was then my room and now belongs to An. (At least she took the posters down—the last Aupair left my posters up and my books in the shelves, and it was just creepy to be in there). On one hand, I didn’t expect everyone to drop what they were doing and figuratively glue themselves to me—it honestly probably would have annoyed me if they had—but on the other hand most of the time people went on living their lives and I was left to live mine, which I am quite capable of doing, but defeated the purpose of my being there.

But somewhere in there I received an email from K., who had spent the last 6 months bouncing around Australia. She had traveled back from Sydney, flew into Frankfurt, took a train to Berlin and rang the doorbell at midnight with $7 in her pocket as a surprised. She was back! We arranged that I would come for New Years, as the family on the Baltic had no specific plans and I was already in Northern Germany. So I snuck down to Berlin to see my little sister, who has grown up.

The London Post

Friday: 5 AM

I fall out of bed. I do breakfast kamikazee style, with much enthusiasm, too much speed, not enough coffee and no regard for my health and well-being. I take the tram with my roommate who has also willingly volunteered to be out at this godforsaken hour. I find my coach at the train station; I ask if I can board, but since the thing doesn't leave till 6:15 he's got a half an hour break. But I may put my bag in the bus, if I like. Jolly good. I go get coffee. I wonder why I was positive it had been a 6:05 bus. I came back, and discovered it was indeed a 6:05 bus, and I had just helpfully stowed my baggage in a bus that leaves 10 minutes later bound for Switzerland.

Curses.

But I got my bag back and eventually my bus, having picked up a somwhat lost American grad student doing the same thing as I. We rode the bus together to the airport, took the same flight, and took the coach to Victoria station where C. met me.

It took a bit of effort for us to connect; we headed off, happily munching krispy kremes, for the tube and spent much of the afternoon trolling Oxford street and looking at all the shiny pretty things. I bought a purse. Which is good, as I had otherwise been carrying my stuff around in a fanny pack, and people made fun of me.

After dropping my stuff at C.'s flat we headed off to a pub for dinner, where I had a very sad and lonely looking sandwich with some excellent chips--with vinegar, of course. And of course we lost track of time and almost missed.....

....our Jack the Ripper tour! That was so much fun! OF course it is cheesy and touristy but that is the best part! The conclusions we came to by the end of the evening were: a) London in 1888 was a hellhole for anyone not rich, and slightly less of one for those who were; and b) it's a Freemason conspiracy involving prince Edward (?). The tour guide was hilarious and managed to surprise us a couple of times while revealing to us the sordid past of the city as if unwrapping a christmas present. After the tour we ended up wandering down to SoHo, eventually ending up at a pub called Shakespeare's Head, whose ceiling beams were painted in too-oft quoted quips, "to thine own self be true" and such like. It'd been interesting if they'd have put shakespearean insults up there: "’Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, you bull’s pizzle, you stock-fish! O! for breath to utter what is like thee; you tailor’s yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing-tuck! (1 Henry IV) or " Thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows." (Troilus and Cressida). But no, twas not to be.

Saturday I slept in, surprisingly, to 9 AM London time, 10 AM German time. C. lives in a flat with 8 other people, guys and girls, Brits and Americans. Freshmen, who don't do the dishes. The flat is accessed by climbing in through the front window, as that is easier than unlocking the door. Egress, however, takes place by means of the pedantic portal. We wandered on down to the Tate after breakfast, appreciated the Warhols, Klimt, Duchamp, Kadinskys, and other famous and trippy pieces of art. Apparently the thing to do now a days is to go sliding at the Tate at the huge slides they have there. Go figure. The afternoon we spent at the Portabello Markets in Notting Hill, where the posh people live and the tourists shop. But if you go far enough you stumble on a food market with excellent prices and equal quality. Everything we bought was perfectly ripe.

Dinner consisted of guacamole, eggplant and noodles, fresh market bread, and pineapple for dessert. It was fantastic, if I do say so myself. I've never made Guacamole with Marmite before, but trust me, it works.

After dinner we went for a night walk along the Thames, starting down at Westminster bridge and Big Ben, heading up towards Strand and on to Leicester (pronounced Lester) square, Coven Gardens--where we found mulled wine and a very drunk and scruffy American being scared of fake snow blown from a life-sized gingerbread house--until we found a cozy pub of our liking, and settled into the upholstered leather corner seat (much better than the crowded Shakespeare pub from the night before, which insisted on playing irritating music with an insistant drum beat).

Sunday we tried to go to the Tower of London, but as it's not a museum it is free to charge what it wants, and what it wanted was 12 pounds so we didn't do it. We tried in vain to find a show or a play with a sunday matinee, also with no luck, so we walked from the West End up to Buckingham Palace, where hordes of tourists were watching dudes in furry hats march around. Deciding to spend the afternoon in a worthwhile manner we dinked around at the British Museum, saw the Rosetta Stone and a whole bunch of really cool other medieval, egyptian, greek, roman, and etruscan stuff before heading back for dinner. I must say, an electric grill makes fabulous sandwiches.

After pretending to be C.'s roomie so I could use the university library we went to trya nd find a theatre playing "stranger than fiction," but alas--poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio!--we ended up seeing Children of Men. That movie is i.n.t.e.n.s.e. It's about the world in 2027 will be like if everyone is infirtile, and somehow a miracle woman pops up, pregnant, and Clive Owen's character has to escort her to safety, of course plagued by both the rebels and the police. Besides the sheer graphicness of the violence, I was particularly disturbed by the thought of England as a war zone, and that what was so horrifying me on the screen is what is currently happening in parts of the world as I type this.

Instead of going back to crash at C's for the night I instead take the tube to Victoria station and take a bus to the airport. My flight doesn't leave until 7 AM, but 7 AM - 1 hour (check-in and security time) = 6 AM - 1.5 hour (coach ride from Victoria to stansted) = 4:30 AM - 45 minutes (travel from C's to Victoria) = 3:45 = night bus, as the tube doesn't run. So I slept at the airport. And by slept, I mean I lay on the marble floor for two hours until I got cold and stiff. And I wasn't the only one: When I arrived, the place was full, and there were no places to sleep either remotely comfortable or even private. But I suffered through it, soldiered on into the morning, checked in reeeeely early and got my Marmite confiscated at security because it's apparently a li quid, though I could debate that.

My bus ride to Freiburg wasn't bad, except for the fact that I was trapped in a bus for two hours with a really loopy english lady, who has never voted in her life yet complains voiceriferously and copiously about politics, who believes war could be ended if all mothers threatened to disown any kid who joins the army, who believes that the only thing man has ever accomplished is war, and who has a compellingly (compelling, like the sore in your mouth you can't stop tonguing or the scab you insist on picking at, furtively, because you know you shouldn't) paradoxical combination of pessimism and running-naked-through-the-woods-hippyism. I was happy to get off.

Note to self

Note to self:

Self, show up early.

I didn't, today. I wasn't exactly late; in fact, I was two minutes on the other side of on time. It's just that all the seats at the tables were taken, so I was left balancing my notebook on my knees, tucking myself under the eaves and trying to find a delicate balance between being able to see and not being in everyone's way.

The gallery seats, as it were, aren't usually completely full until after the course has begun, and today was no exception. To my left and right sat two latecomers, two friends. Their biggest concern was about making sure they signed the attendance list, which the guy to my right, who had it first, took about forever and a half to read (there's nothing to read! It's just a list of names and people's initials!) which for some reason irritated the bloody bijeezus out of me.

Just because you get older doesn't mean you still don't need medication. Yes, I know meds are underperscribed, but these two could've used some. They would not sit still! The remaining 45 minutes or so they were there (typical--didn't stay till the end) they twitched, shifted around, got stuff out of their backpacks, put it back again, got something else, found their water bottle, chatted, drank, ate food, begged food off of other people to eat, read newspapers, talked some more, and basically distracted the hell out of me. And the dude on my left has the audacity to ask me if this stuff is even interesting to me (even though I spent a huge amount of effort just trying to ignore them and follow the discussion I still found it interesting) and the guy on the right kept grinning at me like a maniac.

So, self, learn your lesson and get a spot at the table. Preferably away from the back.

How to take the tram: A beginner's guide

A thoughtful and useful guide to those unused to German trams.

Step 1: Find your nearest tram station. Helpfully located at frequent intervals, it's a snap to find the tram that's right for you. Check the direction and make sure it stops at the station you want. There is often a handy electronic display telling you when to expect the next tram which, unlike similar displays in Boulder, for instance, actually display to the minute the next arrival, compared to the "+/- 45 minutes" offered by RTD.

Step 2: Wait for the tram. It won't take long, and because it's Germany, the trams are frequent and punctual. At this point all passangers are relatively evenly spaced along the platform.



Step 3: Work your way with determination towards the doors, and try and guess their exact location as the tram is pulling in so as to be closest. Queuing does not exist. Waiting paitiently will get you a perpetual standing-room-only tram experience. Press button to open doors. Forgetting this step leaves one standing, frustrated, as the tram leaves again, without having been able to board.



Step 4: Stand aside as the flood of passangers disembarks. This may be a lengthy process if an elderly person is involved, as they tend to take up the entire door area and move exceptionally slowly.

Step 5: Try and get a seat. It is customary to give up your seat to elderly people, mothers with children, or anyone looking unsteady or who smells funny. In the last case, both seats are usually vacated. If you don't get a seat you will have to stand, and will have to do your best not to fall on people if your driver is particularly energetic. If you have suitcases, large bags, a pram/stroller, or any other large object you will have to stand.

Step 6: At your stop, try to get off. This may be complicated both by mobility-impaired elderly people and non-mobility-impaired elderly people--in the latter case, these individuals will practically run you over, shove you out of the way, and usually hurl a few dirty looks--or in worst case scenario, words--as they depart.

I had the experience of boarding a relatively full tram with a suitcase (35 kg, 70 lbs) and a violin. As it was full and I had lots of stuff I stood next to the door. At the next big station everyone wanted off--I was practically squashed into the wall by the flood of humanity disembarking, and because everyoone had to go around me to get out I had several old people intentionally jostle me on their way out as emphasis to their "you're certainly standing in a stupid place" comment. My options were few--before anyone got off, there was nowhere else to go, and as they were getting off I couldn't well remove myself and my suitcase to allow people to get off, which would be equivalent to the old-lady-with-walker-who-blocks-everything-for-ten-minutes-getting-out. I usually just ignore comments like that but I felt a need to shoot back a cynical "as if I had a choice."


It is a well-known fact that elderly Germans love to be opinionated, and love to share that opinion with you. If you are carrying large objects, anything bulky, and/or anything that would better be transported by car, you may expect sharp observations on how there are "better ways to do things." Note the lack of help offered. Elderly people find it their duty to instruct other people's children in public places, giving them a hard time for laughing too loud or whatnot.

And woe unto ye who adress elderly people with "Hi!" instead of "Good Day."

Pädigogik

Our word for the day today is Pädigogik, which I believe translates to pedagogy, a word which actually exists but I'd never come across until I looked up the translation.

Main Entry: ped·a·go·gy
Pronunciation: 'pe-d&-"gO-jE also -"gä-, especially British -"gä-gE
Function: noun
: the art, science, or profession of teaching; especially : EDUCATION 2

I find the variation in teaching styles to be quite astounding.

I have one Dozent (instructor) who routinely comes in late for an early morning class, to which everyone else was early. If he wants to start 15 minutes late, he can, it's his class. He then proceeds to spend the next fifteen minutes summarizing the previous lecture (these are lectures, not discussions), including walking us through whatever theoretical steps we convered the last time, making the previous session completely superfluous. If only he published the cliff notes. The bell rings. He keeps going. Five minutes past. Someone from the next class opens the door, realizes we're not finished, closes it. Ten minutes past. If I had a class after this I'd never make it. By now several people have opened and closed the door, eventually sent on their way with an impatient "we're not finished!". Quarter past............. time stretches out........... I try not to check the time every five seconds because it won't help, he'll let us go when he's good and ready....... I'm sure I'm visibly aging by this point......... and then he summarizes his points, carefully, calmly, as if he had all the time in the world.....

The German collegiate system generally works in a way that all upper division classes are seminars, so you get readings, you read them, you come to class, you discuss them, and for one class period per semester, it's your turn to run the session. And you write a research paper, to be handed in sometimes several months after the semester has ended. These presentations, Referate, they're called, sometimes are about summarizing the assigned texts, intrepreting a piece of literature, or sometimes the students plan the entire session and assign the texts as well. And when it's not your turn, you can more or less check out. Till it comes time for the paper.

Literature: you'd expect the presenters to have intrepeted the piece, have questions for the other students, and would attempt to evoke a discussion. Of course, this is university, where most of the kids just read it right before class, and don't even mention having prepared responses. I admit, I'm one of them. I read the story before class started, and came to the conclusion that the story was about mortality of man (when in doubt, guess one of the following: love, death, or if Kafka, failure). Anyways, instead of following the published set of intrepetation questions prepared by the students, the Dozent just jumps in and redirects the conversation.....then goes off on a tangent.....then insists on arguing whether 'communication' or 'interaction' is a more fitting descriptor. Some people have a deepset need to be right. I admit I can be one of them, but I generally know when to let go. Some people have such a death grip on their opinion that the poor thing will be bruised for weeks. We had a story about a guy who found a spool of thread with legs that could talk, with a lurid visual description (no, hallucinogenics are not issued for this class. They must be obtained independently). Someone tried to draw it. It didn't work out. Several more people, eventually including the Dozent, tried as well. The poor kid trying to run the discussion was looking increasingly disgruntled, eventually just letting the Dozent have his tangent. After 1:15 of tangents and rather useless discussion, we came to the conclusion that the story is about the mortality of man. I could have spared myself the hour and a quarter. I was expecting deep and penetrating discussion, a fierce debate about this or the other thing, and instead we went through it paragraph for paragraph and asked, "what happens here? and here? and here?". And in the last 15 minutes, which turned out to be 25 minutes, we tried to cram in an entire other story....hahaha. hehe. he. no.

Another Dozent sits at the head of the classroom, a long, thin, room, and explains theory. Excellently articulate, this particular Dozent has a penchant for the passive past perfect tense (ex. it had been made), a particuarly complicated form involving three verb particles. This Dozent also talks in such..........a way as to leave long breaks towards the end of.........a sentence, which I believe is just an excuse to try and remember which foms of which verbs are necessary (German has a lot of separable verbs with bits that go at the end, and every time you have a subordinate clause, the verbs all go at the end, in varying order depending on if there are two or three of them. Ex. the dog 'that I saw yesterday' would, in directly translated German in past perfect tense, be: the dog, that yesterday been seen had)

The Dozents do participate in the discussions as well. Some of them stimulate thought and comment, and others kill it like an impaired armadillo on the interstate.

Some Dozents are informal. We're all buds, we address one another by first name, and everything is relaxed and laid back. Others are exquisitely formal, even to the point of rediculousness, and I live in permanent fear of addressing them improperly or forgetting a title. And at the end of every seminar session, you knock on the desk in lieu of clapping.

And I got hit on the head by a frisbee. But that's another story. Want to hear it? You just did.

Quatre murs..... Une Chanson de Bénabar

Quatre murs et un toit

Paroles: Bénabar. Musique: Bénabar 2005 "Reprise des Négociations"
© Universal Music Publishing / Ma Boutique

Un terrain vague, de vagues clôtures, un couple divague sur la maison future. On s'endette pour trente ans, ce pavillon sera le nôtre, et celui de nos enfants corrige la femme enceinte. Les travaux sont finis, du moins le gros oeuvre, ça sent le plâtre et l'enduit et la poussière toute neuve.

Le plâtre et l'enduit et la poussière toute neuve.

Des ampoules à nu pendent des murs, du plafond, le bébé est né, il joue dans le salon. On ajoute à l'étage une chambre de plus, un petit frère est prévu pour l'automne. Dans le jardin les arbres aussi grandissent, on pourra y faire un jour une cabane.

On pourra y faire un jour une cabane.

Les enfants ont poussé, ils sont trois maintenant, on remplit sans se douter le grenier doucement. Le grand habite le garage pour être indépendant, la cabane, c'est dommage, est à l'abandon. Monsieur rêverait de creuser une cave à vins, Madame préfèrerait une deuxième salle de bain.

Ça sera une deuxième salle de bain.

Les enfants vont et viennent chargés de linge sale, ça devient un hôtel la maison familiale. On a fait un bureau dans la p'tite pièce d'en haut, et des chambres d'amis, les enfants sont partis. Ils ont quitté le nid sans le savoir vraiment, petit à petit, vêtement par vêtement.

Petit à petit, vêtement par vêtement.

Ils habitent à Paris des apparts sans espace, alors qu'ici il y'a trop de place. On va poser tu sais des stores électriques, c'est un peu laid c'est vrai, mais c'est plus pratique. La maison somnole comme un chat fatigué, dans son ventre ronronne la machine à laver.

Dans son ventre ronronne la machine à laver.

Les petits enfants espérés apparaissent, dans le frigo, on remet des glaces. La cabane du jardin trouve une deuxième jeunesse, c'est le consulat que rouvrent les gosses. Le grenier sans bataille livre ses trésors, ses panoplies de cow-boys aux petits ambassadeurs, qui colonisent pour la dernière fois la modeste terre promise, quatre murs et un toit. Cette maison est en vente comme vous le savez, je suis, je me présente, agent immobilier. Je dois vous prévenir si vous voulez l'acheter, je préfère vous le dire cette maison est hantée. Ne souriez pas Monsieur, n'ayez crainte Madame, c'est hanté c'est vrai mais de gentils fantômes. De monstres et de dragons que les gamins savent voir, de pleurs et de bagarres, et de copieux quatre-heures, "finis tes devoirs", "il est trop lourd mon cartable", "laisse tranquille ton frère", "les enfants : à table !".

Écoutez la musique, est-ce que vous l'entendez ?

Jawohl! / AAAAHHHH

1. Jawohl: Three cheers for what passes for democracy in the States! Finally a democratic house and hopefully senate, as well as good ol CO--I no longer "live" in a republican state!

2. AAAAHHHH: Scandanavian Fairytales

An 8:30 AM class. The professor shows up 15 minutes late. He then spends the next 15 minutes repeating what he said the class before (rather thoroughly, and quite sufficiently, making the previous class completely superfluous). The text we were supposed to have read? He didn't get around to copying it to leave it in a particular office until 15 minutes before that office closed *yesterday*, meaning there was no possible way anyone could have read it. But no worries, it wouldn't have made a difference, because the @#$#%ing text is in DANISH. Written in Gothic script. So even if I spoke Danish I probably couldn't have read it, and I'd have a @#$# of a hard time even if it was in German. Or English, even.

So.....I'm sitting there, feeling like this is a complete waste of my time. He's reading passages in Danish, translating them into German, and trying to put it together into a coherant whole, which is hard because it's an 1819 theoretical justification of fairytales based on the philosophies of Kant and Lessing. But I more or less understood what he was trying to say, not having ever actually read Kant or Lessing though familiar with Critique of Pure Reason and such--and the whole point was that it was a sort of Nietzschean geneological declination from one concept to the next relative concept to the next, eventually arriving where you wanted to go. So the bell rings. I've been counting the minutes, not even bothering to try and follow along in the text whatever he's citing. He keeps talking. Someone opens the door (there *is* another class after ours in this room) and he sends them off. 5 past. 10 past. If I had another class after his I'd be aufgeschmissen (remember your German lesson??). *Finally* he lets us go. I meekly gather my papers and approach his desk.

"Erm...I don't speak Danish. At all. Is there any way to get this stuff in German or am I completely in the wrong place?"
"What languages *do* you speak?" he asks, addressing me informally. I ashamedly mutter something about only speaking English and German. I doubt he would have bothered to find me a French translation if I had mentioned French, so I thought I'd let it lie. Apparently the actual fairytales will mostly be available in translation, so I guess I should keep showing up. Which is good, because otherwise I'd be a course short and it's too late to jump into anything else....

Scheisse (part II)

This week was better. I understood more of the discussion and more of the questions--I am learning much of the basic and backgrond theories upon which much of my course is based. So I don't feel quite so left behind: however, I will have to present on John Rawls and John Locke, so I better know what I am doing. But theory--reiterating and defending--is not my strong point, even in English, and I sometimes have problems with more abstract and philosophical arguments. If I read carefully, I understand.

Global Developments, the class that starts at 8 PM on the other side of town, is promising to be the most interesting. We had short presentations on books we had read (that was the 400 pages I spent last weekend reading), and I was able to present my bit with no major problems, and actually participate in the discussion. I feel most comfortable in this class, partly because we all speak informally (we address our teacher informally as well), partly because I know the material better than in the other classes, and partly because it is personally the most interesting to me. We are going to Bonn for a week to take part in a seminar, with large contributions from various government agencies to fund our little excursion. I am really looking forward to it, though the preparation is going to be murder (the two weeks previous I have two presentations due).

My Kafka class is also fun, and I can participate meaningfully in this discussion. Reading Kafka itself is enjoyable to me but requires a certain open-mindedness. The stories always have elements of the absurd, and rarely follow typical conventions in writing in that there is not always a relevance of the beginning and ending events, a climax is often lacking, and sometimes the stories just stop without warn--

A typical Kafka story: (translated and paraphrased). Blumenfeld is an old bachelor, and is lonely. He thinks about getting a dog but doesn't want the dog to dirty his house. He comes home one evening to find two small balls bouncing up and down of their own power. The two balls decide to follow him around and dog his steps whereever he goes, making him very nervous. He manages to go to sleep but doesn't sleep well because the balls keep bouncing up and down under his bed and follow him everywhere if he gets up. In the morning he has breakfast in bed so as to not reveal the presence of the magical bouncing balls to the maid. He manages to lock the balls in a wardrobe and leaves to go to work. On his way he sees the dimwitted kid of the maid and decides to give him the key to the wardrobe and the balls and hope that the balls will follow the kid and not chase Blumenfeld any more. He gives the keys to a pair of girls (the kid doesn't understand, as he's too dimwitted) and goes to work. (comment: at this point, your logical rational reader would expect an account of what happens to the magical bouncing balls, if they suddenly attack the kids or something or go try to find Blumenfeld. They are, of course, the absurd element to the story, which would normally have a central role. But no, alas).

At work, Blumenfeld manages a department at a lingerie factory, where he has two interns who have to stand behind their desks all day because there is no room. Blumenfeld campaigned hard to get an intern to help him with his duties, but since his boss hates him he received two interns, both of whom proved worthless and mostly served to annoy Blumenfeld. They always came in late, didn't do work, except when one of them decides he wants to sweep the floor and sets about trying to wrest the broom from the old janitor, who doesn't want to give it up. They get in a small fight and the boom falls on the floor. Blumenfeld yells at them.

The end.

One would have expected the story to be about Blumenfeld as a bachelor, as that is how it started, but it takes completely new twists and turns, and ends up somewhere completely different.

My class on Scandanavian Fairytales seems quite interesting as well, though I have a sneaking suspicion that some of the texts are in Danish--which I don't speak--though the class is listed as being available to students of all departments. We will see; I have to get ahold of the texts today.

In other news, I dyed all of my laundry a nice marine blue the other day, and I still don't know why. It's a lovely color, though, and marine blue socks are just as good as grey ones. It is interesting to see what items took the color and which didn't--I had a turqouise bra in there which did not take the color, but the straps did. It looks nice, I think.

Let's see.... the main contract on our apartment changed so I had to sign a new subletter contract, which reduced my rent by about 20 euros a month, and I am supposed to recieve the difference in what I had paid before and what I should have paid back again. Yay for money.

Since I have enough money to live on I applied for an internship at the Center for Political Education in Freiburg, as I seriously don't have enough to do with my time and hanging out in town just means that I spend money. At some point I will have a @#%#$ lot of papers to write, but whatever.

We have a new fridge! The Great Neighborhood Adventure involved borrowing a car from one neighbor, driving with that car and other neighbors to the friend of said other neighbors, who had a fridge and a freezer and a stove stored in the basement. We had to clean out the basement to get to the fridge, but it is a) working, b) big, c) free, and d) delivered. The neighbors even carried it upstairs for us (we live on the 4th floor).

I went hiking on Sunday, which was gorgeous, up Ravenna Gorge. Just a train ride away...
Sorry, no rotating on the picture.

KYO - Je cours

Faites-moi de la place
Juste un peu de place
Pour ne pas qu'on m'efface
J'n'ai pas trop d'amis
Regardez en classe
C'est pas l'extase
J'ai beaucoup d'espace
Je suis seul
Et personne à qui le dire
C'est pas l'pire
Quand la pause arrive
Je ne suis pas tranquille
Il faut que je m'éclipse
Ou alors, accuser les coups,
Ou dehors

Faudra que je coure
Tous les jours
Faudra-t-il que je coure
Jusqu'au bout

Je n'ai plus de souffle
Je veux que l'on m'écoute
Plus de doutes
Pour m'en sortir
Je dois tenir
Et construire mon futur
Partir à la conquete
D'une vie moins dure
Sûr que c'est pas gagné
Mais j'assure mes arrières
Pour connaître l'amour et le monde

Faudra que je coure
Tous les jours
Faudra-t-il que je coure
Jusqu'au bout
Pour connaître le monde
Et l'amour
Il faudra que je coure
Tous les jours

J'voudrais m'arreter
J'peux plus respirer
Dans ce monde parmi vous
J'voudrais m'arreter
J'peux plus respirer
Dans ce monde parmi vous
J'voudrais m'arreter
J'peux plus respirer
Dans ce monde parmi vous
J'voudrais m'arreter
J'peux plus respirer
Dans ce monde parmi vous

Faudra que je coure
Tous les jours
Faudra-t-il que je coure
Jusqu'au bout
Pour connaître le monde
Et l'amour
Il faudra que je coure
Tous les jours

Faites-moi de la place
Juste un peu de place
Pour ne pas qu'on m'efface
Faites-moi de la place
Juste un peu de place
Pour ne pas qu'on m'efface

Faites-moi de la place...

Scheisse...

I've determined the French are crazy. Or dyslexic. Our teacher gave us a poem, une 'slam' (as in 'poety slam') about Paris suburbs. And there's at least ten instances of words being reversed: 'zen' means 'nez' (nose), 'ouf' means 'fou' (crazy). How the @#$% am I supposed to know that? Of course, we spend ten minutes furiously searching our respective dictionaries, giving up in despair. Crazy french.

And per the title: For your German lesson today, we will discuss the words 'scheisse', 'aufgeschmissen', and 'abgeliefert.' Scheisse, as any American knows, is what is yelled upon slamming one's fingers in the door, dropping a heavy object on one's foot, or what one would say on a sinkin ship with no lifeboats. 'Aufgeschmissen,' which literally translates to 'thrown up' but has nothing to do with the porcelain throne, instead refers to a state of being one could describe as 'screwed' or 'F'ed'. 'Abgeliefert' translates to 'delivered' and basically means 'sitting duck.'

You, dear reader, have undoubtably by this point realized it is probably no coincidence that these three words are our subject for the day, and are probably guessing that this won't end well.

The Scene: Seminar on Monday, Political-Theoretical Analysis of the Market Economy and Social Justice.
The cast: professor, presenters, other students, me.

Presenters: so, today we're going to explain the themes from the reading. The three main points talk about the market economy: homo econimicus (perfect theory), the failure of the models to account for the current market system and statistical anamolies, and the social order. We'll also discuss the difference between a minimalist and a socialist state system.
Prof: .......................................? (.... stands for a question I don't understand).
Other students: ................................. (.... stands for a response I don't understand).

Long and complicated discussion follows. Someone says something, I understand the words, and, upon recollection, realize that I recognize the theory to which he is referring. Fukuyama, John Rawls, etc. I know that stuff, more or less. Of course, by this point, three other people have commented and, while I understand the words, I am having problems following the discussion. The prof asks questions of the presenters, questions I wouldn't have been able to answer though I (thought I had) understood the texts. I hope it gets better, otherwise I'm going to have a problem.

Scene: Seminar for Politics of Global Development. Takes place at 8 PM on the other side of the city. Was cancelled last week. As I had recieved neither an acceptance nor a declination for attendance, I just showed up--to find that I was welcome to take part of the class, but that I would have a week to read a book and write a report, I would have to finish a 25 page paper, pay 142 euros for a week-long trip to Bonn, complete a 30 minute presentation and find my own lit for the class. But the topics are really interesting, and most of them are things I ran across in the course of my MUN research--I have had the MDGs (milennium development goals) as a topic at least in some form or another every conference. I've written pospapers on good governence, education, clean water, all sorts of stuff.

But otherwise, I have the feeling of being somewhat out of my depth. These are, after all, master's classes in German. I know a lot of the theories and concepts in English, but translating them is not as easy as I thought--if I had to explain Hobsbawn in German I'd have a problem, even though I actually theoretically know what I'm talking about.

To remedy my ignorance I wanted to attend the intro to politics lectures, but they all happen at the same time as each other and at the same time as a market economy and social justice lecture that I think would really help my seminar. Assuming, of course, I would actually find the room.

So, don't know yet if I'm screwed. But my feeling of having nothing to do all morning will disappear as I have to read all this stuff for all of these classes. I'm going to see what I can get done today (national holiday!).

Last weekend I went to Bonn, and it was great, actually. I had the feeling they were presenting the topics to the wrong audience (the 'intro to german higher education system' was definately old hat to the group of 70-odd North Americans in their second or third week of classes. Likewise was the info on health insurance and registration relatively irrelevant). But we got to meet other people, other students, all in the same boat, more or less. DAAD provided a generous buffet dinner on a ship (we did a nice night cruise on the Rhine) and we went to a bar and sat on the terrace afterwards, just talking and getting to know one another.

It was also nice to see the experiences a lot of the students brought with. OF course, there were some people 'fresh off the boat', as it were, with little to no German and stille xcited about little things. But there were also kids who had been on exchange or lived in DE and spoke excellent German. That is, of course, quite good for me to see, so I don't get such a swelled head about my German. Frankly I'm used to the compliments about my lack of accent--but it's good to see I'm not the only foreigner with good language abilities. I don't need to act so superior about it :). Now that I know people I'm going to have to do a number of weekend trips and visit some of my new friends.

At the conference I made a point of being exta outgoing (yes, me. You sound surprised. I was too). I went up and introduced myself to bascially everyone I could find, and the usual 'whoareyouwhereareyoufromwhereareyou- studyingandwhatanddoyoulikeit andhowlongha- veyoubeeningermanyanddidyougettotravel?' can carry us through the initial awkwardness. I hate meeting people--it's hard to talk to complete strangers--but I hate even more standing there awkwardly and not talking, and once we've been introduced I like talking to people. So I brought out my conference face, and between my determination to get to know people and the six or eight cups of coffee I was slugging it worked out pretty well.

And I absolutely love Freiburg. As a student city it couldn't be better--there is always a ton of stuff to do, tons of offers from the international office, trips, excursions, theater, movies (independant and regular cinema), bars, clubs, parties, people, concerts, art shows, hiking, sports, cafes (!). I, for once in my life, actually has something that passes for a social life. Of course, not going to bed at 1 or later still doesn't mean I sleep longer, but oh well....

Time for Kafka. I wouldn't be surprised if that leaves me 'aufgeschmissen' as well...

Tai Chi Twins

I thought all the hippies lived in Boulder...

A good way to spend a Sunday, particularly by good or manageable weather, is to go for a walk. Could be a walk, could be a hike. I always go up Loretto Hill, past the tower and the mini castle and the cafe. I was hoping to catch the autumn leaves and wasn't disappointed, though the leaves are not yet in full regalia. Coming around the corner I came to a T. At the crossroads stood a couple, late middle-aged (whatever exactly that means), doing tai chi. In unison they slowly turned, extended, retracted, looks of peace and concentration on their respective faces. They picked a point in the trail where you could see out over the valley. I can understand why. I didn't say hi, not wanting to disturb them, and continued on.

After awhile I'd had enough and was beginning to get hungry, so I turned to head for home and took a different path down than I had taken to get up. At some point I came across one of the two tai chiers, the man, ponytail of silver hair contrasting comically with his spandex shorts and running shoes. He was grubbing around in the ditch--searching for mushrooms, I think. Anyways, he passed me again, taking off downhill at a jog. My knees wouldn't have appreciated that, so more power to him if he can do that.

Coming around a bend I found them again, the two of them, standing in the middle of the tail, tai chiing. Again, a beautiful spot. Made me wonder, though, why they kept moving. Is this tai chi on the go? I suppose there are stranger things out there than a mobile tai chi duo.

Update-- Rotating is harder than it should be. So probably not. All pics from August 06


Martin's gate, as seen from Castle Mtn.


Martin's Gate as seen from the old town


My building


My front door


Holben, up above Gunther's Valley. A tram/bus ride away. Somewhere up there is a gondola one can take to the top of the mountain.

Registration

A few comments:

1. It is not possible to look good whilst running to catch the bus/tram/train. It’s downright amusing, the more accompanying bags, the better.
2. It is possible to get lost in a town with four streets.
3. There are people who have made it to age 18 without ever having cooked rice.
4. Scottish, Australian, British, and American accents are quite different upon comparison.
5. German bureaucracy is, well, bureaucracy.

Registering at the university requires a long list of documents, plenty of patience, several hours, and the ability to speak German. I felt like a ping pong ball, swatted here and there as I tried to jump through the required hoops, sign the required forms. First pay money at the bursar’s office. Collect following documents:

1. Visa – this required having previously gone to both the police and the Foreigner’s Office, registering your residence, providing proof of financial support and various other documents.
2. Letter of acceptance
3. Proof of insurance – I had requested mine from my scholarship organization extra.
4. Proof of payment – the little slip from the Bursar’s office.
5. Filled-out enrollment form.
6. Two passport photos.

I headed up to the Senatesaal, where I was supposed to register. Nobody stirred, not even a mouse. Well, then. I managed to figure out which room I was supposed to be in, waited in the (short!) line. Sat down at the desk.

Enrollment form? Check.
Bursar’s slip? Check.
Letter? Check.
Insurance? Well, you have a problem.

Turns out what I had wasn’t what I needed, and I had to go across the street to the state insurance company and get a letter from them saying I was privately insured. I waited in line, went in when it was my turn, handed the gentleman my letter from DAAD.

“You have a problem,” he says. As part of my scholarship I am covered by the organization’s private insurance. This is, I thought, a good thing—everyone has to be insured, and not having to pay 50 euros a month can only be good. Except, if you are ever privately insured in Germany, you waive your right to be insured by a public company for the rest of your life.

So, I am now publicly insured. The main difference is that, instead of being reimbursed later for the full costs (which I pay upfront), I pay my 10 euro co-pay and fertig. Also, if I break stuff in the store, I have to pay for it. Sounds normal? Germans insure everything—even themselves against possible accident. The running joke is that Germans have insurance for everything—Americans just have lawyers.

On the road...

I’ve left Mainz behind, tied up all my loose ends, gave chocolate to my advisors, cookies for the doorman, pralines for the cleaning lady. Despite my best efforts I had a ton of stuff: one fifty or sixty-pound backpack, three smaller bags. And I opted to walk to the train station.

Bought my ticket: two hours to Karlsruhe, change of trains, an hour to Offenburg, change of trains, finally in Freiburg. My friend A. picked me up at the station, which was a godsend—three smaller bags were too much for me. I was traveling with the “happy weekend” ticket, good for local trains across Germany, inclusive S-Bahn. So in Freiburg we get into the S-Bahn; somewhere in the old town the conductor checks our tickets.

And he says mine isn’t valid.

He takes my driver’s license and tells me to get off the train. A. and I get off and follow him. He proceeds to explain to me that my ticket—which explicitly says ‘valid in S-Bahn’—is, in fact, not valid, because this is a private train company. Apparently the S-Bahnen from Berlin and Braunschweig, for instance, are included in the ticket, but others are not. How the @$%# was I supposed to know that my ticket should actually have read ‘valid in S-Bahn, except in some cities, but we won’t tell you which ones.’

The fine for riding without a ticket is 40 euros.

He says he doesn’t care that I didn’t know, he says (as per the placards on the train) that upon boarding the train I was bound by the service policies of the train company. I don’t dispute that. True, it was my fault I didn’t know, ignorance is no excuse—but it’s an honest mistake! I fork over my 50 euro bill. I’m close to tears. There isn’t much I can do. If I’d known, of course I’d have bought a ticket. He puts the bill in his pocket, continues with his lecture. I’m pretty distraught. I have a 50 pound backpack. I’m fresh off of the train from the state to the north.

He gives me the 50 euros back, because, as he said, I admitted I made a mistake and didn’t make a scene. I, of course, am completely grateful—though some part of me really wonders if he was on the level or just looking to give me a hard time. But I’ll never know, and I am now not 40 euros poorer, so I guess it’s all good.

I, of course, am now late for my appointment with my landlady, who is to give me the keys and explain stuff. She gives me the phone numbers of my other roommates and takes off.

My room is in the corner of the apartment, overlooking the street and a café/bar. We have quasi the top floor apartment (all floors have two apartments on each, except for the very top top, which has only one apartment. We live in the last floor to have two full apartments.

It’s a big apartment. Because we live on the top we have huge ceilings, in some places vaulted, and in most places 12 to 14 feet. My room is 18 m2 with partially slanted ceilings. The room next to me is listed, on the floorplan, as a closet and is 9 m2. The woman who lives there is only sometimes in Freiburg. There are then two further bedrooms, 22 m2 each, and an entryway hall bigger than most student bedrooms and a kitchen just as big, with a little balcony out onto the inner courtyard. The bathroom and the toilet are two separate rooms, which actually makes a lot of sense and cuts down on the morning traffic jam considerably, as we all share these two rooms. There is no living room (and isn’t one in most apartments). But it’s big, spacious, and airy. Most rooms have plank wood floors which creak, and it’s on the 4th floor of a restored villa/townhome on a quiet street near the S-Bahn station, five minutes into the city, eight to the University.

My room, however, has only a bed, mattress, and a desk chair in it. Everything else is up to me. But I looked through an IKEA catalogue (for anyone who has seen Fight Club, that is the catalog from which Jack is ordering his drapes or whatever in the very beginning), and found acceptable items for reasonable prices. IKEA is a Swedish company that sells build-it-yourself and out-of-the-box furniture with Scandinavian functionality and style, and a relatively long life considering they are relatively cheap. High quality particleboard, I guess. Most German teenagers have bedrooms from IKEA. Those familiar with the catalogue or products get déjà vu every time they enter your average German house.

I can probably buy a dresser, carpet, desk, bookshelf, sheets, and wardrobe for about 200 euros new. I think I am going to start by keeping my clothes on a bookshelf (I have almost nothing to hang and extremely few articles of clothing anyways). I’d really like a sofa. A TV will have to be bought used if at all—I’d be fine not having one at all, but since I can’t even watch DVDs on my laptop I have no way to watch anything. No rush. I’d like to get my clothes off the floor, but otherwise I don’t have to buy everything right away, and I need to find someone with a car before I buy a wardrobe.

A. and I just dumped my stuff at home and headed back into town to meet a friend of hers for coffee and cake. The cake slices were the size of pizza slices. I didn’t even order one (stomache upset from pretzels and apples on the train). They served hot chocolate and café au lait in bowls, not cups. We (A., M., and myself) decided to meet at A.’s place later in the week for dinner and to go to a particular bar on Friday.

Instead of going back to my empty room I headed to A.’s, where we cooked and ate dinner, watched a movie, drank some (mediocre) wine, and chatted. She lives in a district that is part of the city but fifteen minutes away by S-Bahm, separated by a greenbelt. Getting out of the S-Bahn we ran into an elderly couple. After initial attempts to communicate we established that they were French. They wanted to go to the bus stop that would take them to the gondola. I forgot the word for ‘straight ahead’ but managed to explain to them in French where they were supposed to go.

A.’s place is on the top of a hill, ten minutes from the S-Bahn station. She’ll keep in shape living up there. She lives in a newly built basement 2-room apartment, 20 m2, pays 2/3 what I do, gets along with her roommate. Just finished buying her bedroom furniture (IKEA) and her DVD player is temperamental. But we found a Luc Besson film to watch and had a great time. As we were at my flat she said she’d happily trade with me—where she lives is absolutely beautiful, in a verdant green valley full of old churches and gingerbread houses, but it’s a bit out of the way, and I’m happy I’m living near the city this time. Otherwise, though, the place is gorgeous, everything is new and pretty and very comfortable, with a garden and a terrace and such.

German introduced us in Braunschweig, as we would both be studying in Freiburg. It turns out we have similar tastes in music and movies, sport, etc. We get along like old friends. She and I are journeying to IKEA on Tuesday to look at stuff for my room, and her roommate might have access to a car at some point.

It was nice to have a slow morning on Sunday—I got home from A’s at 1 AM again, slept till 7 the next morning, and had onion bread for breakfast. After a thorough comb-thru of the IKEA catalog I showered and went into town, but there wasn’t much to see so I spent the rest of the morning reading the FAZ (Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, Germany’s version of Le Monde, only not so socialist), cooking stew, having tea, and not doing much. It was interesting reading the FAZ, perhaps Germany’s most highly regarded newspaper, what the NY times or Wall Street Journal, Financial Times, something like that would be in the US—its use of the German language is of noticeably higher quality than the books and magazines I normally read. I read it practically cover to cover.

But after hours of reading you have to get up and do something, so I headed for a walk. Direction: up. Anywhere that went uphill, in the hope of getting a good view or at least a workout. I got both, and a ruined cloister, a tower, and a tudor-style mini castle to boot. The joy of walking in Germany, much like in England, is that you can pretty much go anywhere not marked ‘private,’ closed off with a gate, or encircled by a fence. As land is so expensive, people don’t own forest—people who own land build stuff on it. The state or the city owns the forests, so anyone is welcome to go there. Ten minutes from my house and I am hiking in the woods, the beginnings of the black forest. The trees are only beginning to turn, though at one point I came across a brilliant yellow tree in the midst of a forest of pines. And to spare myself the S-Bahn ticket I walked into town (20 minutes walk) and back. There wasn’t much to see or do, but more people wandering around and the sun was shining, so it wasn’t quite as cold, and actually quite nice till my legs started to mutiny.

Closing Time

"Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road. Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go: so make the best of the test and don't ask twice--I hope you have the time of your life..." (Green Day)

We're standing in our office, end of the day. My officemate/advisor gathers her things and comes to my desk to say goodbye. We've grown rather close these last six weeks; she can vent her frustrations about some of the particulars of our department, we talk about her wedding and my plans and our lives. We still address each other formally though it actually doesn't feel weird to do so. As she is about to say goodbye she stops for a second, then says, "I actually wanted to say this earlier but couldn't figure out a good way to do so--I wanted to say, if it's okay with you, that we can address one another informally." (It only sounds slightly less awkward in German). She had noticed my other advisor addressing me by first name, and wanted to make sure I didn't think she was completely uptight. I think the whole situation is funny, and I spent the whole time wondering when we would be on a first-name basis, since I already knew way more about her life than your average acquaintence would. Ah, social awkwardness.

Well, that was it for my internship. I didn't actually do anything useful today; I sat and played free cell and tried to find paid internships to Africa (a few possibilities!). One of my advisors, to whose house I was invited to dinner, came and gave me a journal signed by his entire department and a purdy pen. My other advisor, with whom I share an office, gave me an entire bag full of fruit from the market and homemade muffins/cupcakes. I gave them each chocolate and a bag of microwave popcorn (my last one, till I get ahold of my suitcase!). She's half American, so she'll know how to cook it.

The rest of the day was wandering around, turning in my ID, paying my €1.17 phone bill, my €2.20 coffee bill, saying goodbye, cleaning out my desk, and trying to eat my refrigerator empty.

Everyone I know in Mainz sent me a text message and wants to meet up tonight. I'm going to pass on the disco invitation but will meet other people for drinks even though the weather is encouraging me to stay home with the telly. But that's a pathetic existence, so I'm going out.

"He who would travel happily must travel light.
(Antoine de Saint-Exupery, 1900 - 1944)

I have lots of stuff. I complain every time I move. I move far too often. It's a lot of work. I now have a backpack and three small packs full of clothes and stuff. I am taking my beloved pot with, though the plates and stuff will have to stay. I have no idea how to get all of this to the train station tomorrow. And I change trains twice. I hope I don't fall over backwards--I'd be as helpless as a turtle...

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness." (Mark Twain)

I met my friend O., my friend from aupair days with whom I went to Austria last year, for coffee yesterday. If I had been on the ball I'd have contacted her sooner--now that I am not jus around the corner it will be harder to see her. She's going to be studying in Mainz this year, business, I think. She's getting married in March. Her boyfriend is a pretty nice guy--I met him in Berlin a few months ago--though only 22. I want to go to their wedding. Wow...friends of mine getting married. She even joked that it would be cheaper for her to have kids while still a student than after she's done studying. She told me that, for a Russian, she's already considered old, and most girls her age are married with family. She also has to pay tuition in Germany--her diploma from Russia is not recognized by employers, and is considered by German universities to be the equivalent of an Associate's (though it *should* be considered at least a Bachelor's), meaning she has more studying to do if she wants any kind of German degree, but the University is charging her tuition as it is considered a "second" course of study. The lovely catch-22 of a foreigner: her degree only hurts her without helping her, all of the downside and none of the upside of having completed a course of study. This is her seventh consecutive year of study and she is considered 'just beginning'. Once again, the Blue Passport benefits make themselves known…

So, tomorrow I'm off. No idea when I will see internet again...

Running away...

I like running. I used to hate it; back when I first started, it was the closest thing to torture I had ever experienced, because I just couldn't do it. I was happy if I could make it 10 minutes at a time without having to walk in between. I'm astounded I managed the discipline to do it regularly. Sometimes, when I thought I couldn't go any farther, I'd start counting steps. One...two...three...four... up to thirty. Then I'd start over. Again. And again, to keep the one Forbidden Thought from remaining stuck in my mind like a mouse in a bucket: "I can't do this anymore." Until I was home, I would count to thirty.

Anyways, I got better. After a year of running regularly I could make it about fifteen or twenty minutes out, short breather, and the same distance back. I was a cheapskate, bought crappy shoes, and gave myself leg cramps, inch-long blisters, and wierd foot disorders that only made the whole thing more complicated. But I stuck it through. I bought good shoes. I trained. And I trained. And I trained. Each time I got faster. I stuffed a 3-mile run and cool-down into a one-hour break (including changing and getting to class). I ran every morning before school. I still run just about every day, though no longer in the mornings, 'cause it's bloody dark.

So, there I am, running. Sneakers: check. MP3 player: check. Shades: check. I'm good to go. I dodge traffic, ducking between cars and busses at an immensely complicated light which wasn't functioning. Left down to the tower, turn around, past the bridge, up past the cathedral, almost to the other bridge, along the Rhine all the way.



Everyone and their goldfish and their goldfish's second cousin is out for a walk on nice days. Packs of mommies and babies, punk kids off to the skater park or to tempt fate on the bank, young couples not noticing that their public display of affection is both very public and very affectionate, elderly ladies, herds of Japanese tourists, covies of Nordic walkers looking like a tracksuited centipede (a hundred arms, legs and poles moving rhythmically), the homeless, the unwanted, musicians with guitars, kids with bottles of beer. You name it, it's there.

Where was I? Oh, yes, running. So, there I am, running. I'm pounding pavement, dodging retirees, headphones pounding mediocre texts to a mildly aggressive beat into my skull, inspiring me to run faster (if only to get away-- but from the boyband tunes the thing occasionally, randomly, throws out, it's not possible to run fast enough to escape).

Then I see him.

He's about as tall as my kneecap, curly brown hair, big brown eyes. The most adorable kid I have ever seen. Patiently, and with utmost concentration, closing in on a pigeon with a stick. As I zoom towards him I am fascinated. One step, the pigeon moves away. Another. He decides to charge and toddles off after the bird like an animated garden gnome who's been hitting the apple wine a bit too hard. The lazy bird doesn't take off, just skitters off towards another invisible bit of muck to pick at.



Take two: As I am more or less level with him, the kid tries again. I follow him with my eyes, waiting to see how it will all turn out. And just as he is about to finally poke the evasive avian with his chosen implement (what is the point of poking a pigeon with a stick anyways?), narrowly missing a very surprised dog and his rather bemused owner, I trip over my feet and fall flat on my face.

Auf Wiedersehen

I've started my mourning for Mainz, where I finally realize I will have to leave, where I go about and each place, each experience is accompanied by the thought that it may be some time before I am there again. So it is at the market, in the shops, my favorite corners, the best bookstore, the best cafe.

I've decided my mood depends on the weather, and several days of rain gave me a somewhat black disposition. I slept poorly, I woke late or early but always tired. The black rings under my eyes were an adequate reflection of my general disposition. I recognize I'm in a bad mood when I don't want to do anything. I don't want to go out, can't stand staying in, can't focus on a book, don't want to watch TV, can't be bothered with solitaire and no number of cups of coffee bring me out of it.

These are the times I usually call my parents, and it usually makes me feel better. As I stood outside my friend's seemingly empty apartment, after waiting for twenty minutes, my laundry at my feet, I was about to do just that when the window opened and she motioned for me to come up, still chatting on the phone in italian.

Laundry took three hours, and that was not involving a dryer. But, between her phone calls we sat and chatted, and talking made me feel better, so my mood wasn't too terrible on Saturday.

Probably because Saturday was bright and sunny. I tried to avoid trampling elderly ladies at the flea market that had sprouted over my normal running path, on the river promenade, which had an astounding number of people for a Saturday morning. I spent the rest of the morning at the market, reading, browsing through stores for stuff I didn't need and wasn't going to buy, dodging the heavy and unexpected downpours that trapped me in a (usually boring) store for fifteen minutes at a time.

I eventually got dressed to go to dinner; I was invited to my advisor's house for a self-cooked dinner among friends and relatives. We cooked in a wok on the table, taking turns, and I was able to throw in a couple of vegetarian rounds amid the carniverous frenzy, accompanied by excellent wines and good conversation.

Aside:

I've lived in Germany a long time, for my perspective, and long enough to learn the language to the extent that I almost always recieve positive comments. I know how to conjugate the three forms of 'you.' Although I know the rules for their application, although they have been explained to me many times (start out addressing one another formally, as Herr or Frau whatever, and if the elder/higher ranked person offers the informal address, then you may be on informal terms) I *still don't get it*. Or rather, I get it, but it's not always clear.

Yes, I address my work colleagues formally, and it generally doesn't seem strange. Except on the company field trip I sat with a group of women, mid 20s to mid 30s, who immediately said, ''we address one another informally, among the not-so-old-people.'' Yet my advisor, a woman in her early 30s, still continues to address me as Frau B--and this doesn't seem strange to me, though our relationship is more personal than my relationship with most of my other colleagues (I know where she was born, grew up, about her family, her husband, her wedding, etc.). With other colleagues, though, it feels like it should still be an informal relationship yet we address one another formally.

So dinner parties are always an interesting situation for me: how do I address these people whom I have just met? I was in the position of addressing my other advisor (a gentleman in his 50s) formally, his wife (whom I had met minutes before) informally, same for the other guests. My advisor then suggested we address one another by first names but still formally. And as the evening wore on he slipped and addressed me informally, and we decided we would just leave it that way. At least I wasn't the one who screwed up, and he, as the elder, gets to make that decision. As an American, it's all the same to me, and I often feel the added distance of a formal address unnecessary among people who have been introduced--but also don't appreciate strangers talking to me as if they know me.

That sounds all long and complicated and boring, perhaps superfluous, but it's important to Germans and anyone who wants to be considered 'well brought up'. It causes me problems when I am unclear as to the situation--I have gone so far as to grammatically reconstructure all of my sentences to avoid the second person pronoun alltogether--no small feat. Try it sometime, I dare you (read: it should be tried, I challenge someone to do it).

I had a wonderful evening--that is an activity I immensely enjoy and a form of socializing with which I am comfortable. Biergärten, big parties, etc., really aren't my thing. I don't drink beer, don't like being drunk, and am usually the first one tired. I often check my watch waiting for it to be late enough that I can go home/to bed. Not that it's not fun, but it's not usually so wonderful that I don't notice it's 2 AM. This time, though, I didn't hardly notice that it was 11:30 until I looked at the clock in his car getting out. I'm eagerly anticipating whether or not we will be on formal or informal terms on monday.

So, that was Saturday. Sunday I fell out of bed, popped an aspirin for my light hangover (the wine was good but I had relatively little, and still got to feel it the next morning). Managed to eat my breakfast and forgot to brush my teeth as I headed for my train to Frankfurt. I'd been given a free ticket to the Frankfurter Buchmesse, the book convention. A million publishers in a huge gargantuan convention center, floors upon floors upon floors, organized by type, country, publisher, subject, you name it. The comics section was filled with mobs of not so youngsters dressed as anime characters. The film and TV section had costumes from some recent films and a screening room. If I had been there on Wednesday I could have watched 'The devil wears Prada' and 'Das Parfum,' a new movie by a well-known German director (Run Lola Run, among others). As it was I watched an excellent Indian movie, quite sad but also wonderfully funny, and was driven out into the city by the lack of affordable edible food at the convention center.

Turns out there is an 'Oldtimer' show goign on, with over two hundred vintage cars of various persuasions. Dad, I photographed all the Jaguars, just for you. An XK 120, a 150, a couple E-types, a Mark II, and various others. And I found the one and only Mustang, marine blue, for the steal price of 29,000€. Spare change, that.


1936 Jaguar SS100

Strangely enough for a Sunday, most shops were open, the streets were full, the bratwurst sellers were in full swing, and you could buy apple wine or beer on every corner, with a live band to boot. I was supposed to meet a friend at an Oktoberfest in Mainz in the evening, but between staying late in Frankfurt, issues with the S-Bahn coming home (why am I ALWAYS going the wrong direction?), and the whole bridge-jumping thing, I rain checked for later in the week.


Frankfurt

The weather has been pretty cooperative--brilliant blue skies Saturday and Sunday mornings, fantastic sunsets both nights, and a full, orange moon hanging like a pumpkin over the horizon to boot. Ah, c'est la vie. C'est l'automme...



UPDATE--turns out we're on informal terms, after an initial bout of habitual formality.

Unexpected

It's a bad way to go.

Trooping home after a very long day, contemplating my upcoming dinner and the growing cramp in my leg, stopping to capture the last fleeting breath of daylight on what may likely be my last clear evening in Mainz. I stopped often on the bridge, marvelling at the clear air, the flocks of birds collecting on the lampposts above me, the magnificant sunset behind the pariament buildings, the palace, and the Kaiser's Church. I photographed. I lingered.

Two minutes is a long time.

As I was passing the halfway point I heard someone yelling, and looked to see someone in the water. In the river, swimming, yelling something incoherent. I asked a young bicyclist:

'What's with him?' I ask.
'He jumped off the bridge,' the guy replies calmly.
'He did what?!' I'm not getting it.
'He jumped off the brige. He wanted to commit suicide and asked me to push him in. I refused. He jumped on his own.' Still calm. I'm standing there, watching this man swimming. The goosebumps crawling slowly up my legs and arms like an ant colony do not make me realize the swimmer's danger, at dusk of a not so warm day. My companion on the bridge comes to the eventual conclusion that the guy deserves whatever he gets. I'm speechless. I continue walking. I still don't really get it.

911 is not 911 everywhere else. Honestly, I don't know the number here--I think it's 101, or 112. I should learn. I don't know the answer when another passerby, a girl, asks me. She goes on to ask others. She must have found the right number.

I stand on the bridge and watch. He's swimming, midstream, in a river several hundred yards wide. Out of the corner of my eye, out of the growing dusk, I see the blue lights slowly converging on the bridge, first the left bank, then the right bank, police and firemen lining up behind me like a string of glittering pearls. First the scene is the coast guard boat, closely followed by a helicopter. We wave frantically at the boat, trying to direct him to where we last saw the swimmer.

I don't see him anymore. Two minutes is a long time.

No, I don't remember what he was wearing. No, I only saw him swimming, and I didn't understand him. I'm not a particularly useful eyewitness.

He doesn't surface.

Into the growing dusk the boats patrol the river; meanwhile, the cavalry has arrived, and basically join me at the railing. Our collective eyes scan the surface, but neither our combined wishes nor our powers of observation yield results.

The bicyclist said he told the jumper it wasn't going to work, he wouldn't be able to commit suicide that way. And he survived the fall...only to succumb to cold and water. If he reconsidered, if he had second thoughts, he had awhile look inevitability in the face. If he changed his mind, well--some times, there's no going back. I hope he still wanted an end to it all as badly in the water as he did in the moment of his brief and tragic flight. What a helluva way to go.

Thank you for smoking...

I don't want to be one of those people who always insist that it's ''better in America.'' I like cultural differences. If I wanted everything to be the same, I'd have stayed home, saved myself $1200 in airfare and wouldn't have gotten rained on quite as much. But there is one thing that is, in my humble opinio, better in the United States and I wish fervently that Europe would copy it.

'Do you mind if I smoke?' (at least they ask)
(What I think:) Yes, of course I mind. It gives me a headache, makes my clothes reek, and gives me cancer.
'No, of course not.' (It is, after all, *their* office)

What can I say? It's not my office, and I hopefully won't have to stay long. There is often a window, and it ends up being more or less tolerable. But it really bothers me when the individual with the cigar--even worse--wanders throughout the building with his lovely little air-befouler, contaminating everything. It's immediately apparent where this individual has been, in the elevators, in my office, in the hallway. It stinks. Everywhere.

Perhaps this is the highnosed American perspective, that Smoking Is Bad And Should Not Be Done, the I-don't-smoke-so-noone-else-should-either. Normally I'm a live-and-let-live type. Where religion, politics, personal beliefs and habits are concerned, I'm pretty much fine with whatever it is you do as long as I don't have to do it too. In English it's called secondhand smoke. In German it's called Mitrauchen, it's a verb, and it translates to 'smoking with'. You smoke, I smoke with you, whether I want to or not.

Many European countries have banned smoking in pubs, restaurants, public places, sometimes public buildings, occasional train stations, large portions of airports, and a varying combination of other places. I think this is good. Some firms in Germany have forbade smoking in the office. Complaint: smokers are discriminated against because they have to go to the basement or outside to smoke. They should have a right to tar up their lungs if they want to. Go right ahead, I say, but not where I'm forced to endure it.

This is perhaps a rant: enjoy it while you have the chance (I try to behave myself the rest of the time). If you want to smoke, be my guest. Do dope: whatever. Drink yourself senseless? Hey, it's your liver, your paycheck, and your hangover. Polite people ask first if they can smoke--and polite non-smokers don't refuse them. They offer me one too, they don't take it poorly when I decline. Many, particularly people my age, like it, and don't want to quit. If I had my way, no one would smoke. Since I can't have my way, and since those people who want to should be allowed to give themselves cancer if they so desire, forbidding it altogether would please me and not them and is probably not a viable solution, as much as I may wish it. But there should not be smoking in places where non-smokers are forced to 'smoke with', and definately not in offices and restaurants.

**UPDATE: I feel vindicated... http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/6032125.stm

Heidelberg pictures

From *my* camera this time...

October thoughts

It’s October. I am now beginning my second consecutive and sixteenth total month in Germany. In my combined time I have had the opportunity to visit much of Germany and Europe as well. I love Germany and am glad I am here, and will definitely enjoy my remaining 10 months. I have learned the customs, I know how to read timetables, greet strangers, travel in strange towns, what to do at a dinner party, how to buy food at the market, how to tip at a café, how to behave in a formal situation. My German isn’t perfect; I still make mistakes, I probably always will, and though it is not obvious where I come from, it is noticeable that I come from somewhere else.

Looking back at my pictures from my first few months in Germany, two years ago: I photographed everything. I found the deciduous trees fascinating, I was astounded by Smart cars, impressed by cobblestone streets and red roofs, completely excited by street cafes and pedestrian zones, confused by windows and door locks, and completely flabbergasted by the plethora of ancient churches, castles, buildings, etc.

It’s all become so normal. These things no longer surprise, astound, or confuse me. I am no longer so excited when it rains, particularly in the summer. I no longer have the need to tour every church in town or visit every museum. I no longer stand on the porch with the key, unable to get in because I can’t figure out the lock.

But I miss being astounded by my surroundings. I miss struggling with the language (it’s been a very long time since I used a dictionary for anything other than translating formal documents), new experiences, different architecture, and other lifestyles: I need a challenge. I miss the new and different. I enjoy fiddle playing the most when the tempo is so fast I can barely hang on by the skin of my teeth, when I have to give my all to keep up. I enjoy riding the most when I have a squirrelly horse requiring my constant and undivided attention. I enjoy cities the most when they are new, where each street is a discovery and uncountable treasures await around every new corner.

It’s not that I don’t like routine. I like my days to go a certain way; I eat the same thing for breakfast every day, go running as often as the weather and my somewhat temperamental legs allow, show up for work/class at roughly the same time. I spend my free time in a limited number of ways. I love trying new things but I have a few favorite foods/restaurants/cafes/gelato flavors and also enjoy familiarity, knowing the outcome beforehand.

I like slowly getting to know a new place. First acquaintance is always new and full of mystery. Gradually exploring the streets and surroundings, meeting new people. Finding the right cafes and stores, learning the best baker, the best stand at the market for apples. Learning the language is like slowly cleaning a clouded window—the more you work, the clearer things get, until you are looking through the window. Some spots are still hard to see through, some things still remain hidden, but you can generally see through, and it begins to feel like home, and the language is no longer the shiny new pair of shoes (beautiful, exotic, not always comfortable) but rather the well-loved sweatshirt (warm, comfy, familiar).

I’m not one of Those Americans who travel abroad, who greet every new experience with, “but we do it This way,” or “everything is [insert superlative here: bigger, cheaper, faster, newer, shinier, easier] where I come from.” I don’t tend to evaluate cultural differences, I don’t get upset about things that are different and I don’t make a point of comparing. Lack of window screens here is not better or worse, it just is. I prefer some things in Germany to the United States, and vice versa. I like mineral water more than tap water but I also like free refills. I like having included tax and service at restaurants but appreciate also the more attention one becomes in the US. I like friendly strangers greeting me on the street but I like the fact that Germans don’t ask how you’re doing unless they really care, instead of ‘hihowsitgoin’. I don’t eat American bread on general principle and I don’t buy peanut butter in Germany. I appreciate the things I particularly enjoy about Germany when I am here, I don’t get upset about the things “lacking” or “different,” and I appreciate the American peculiarities when I am there.

I enjoy being the ‘foreigner,’ with its accompanying interest, and enjoy the praise for my hard-won language abilities (of course, I meet a ton of people who speak three or four languages as well as I speak my two, so my head doesn’t stay inflated for long). I don’t tell Europe stories too much in the US—it’s outside many people’s frame of reference, and they get more hung up on the place than the story—and I don’t get to speak German there, but the place really is a part of me and has determined many of my worldviews, so it’s not as if I want to leave the US and never come back.

All in all, Germany and America are my two homes: in both places I have friends and “family,” and I enjoy and look forward to it every time I go from one to another. But I want to live somewhere where I have to learn the language, and I want to experience what it’s like to be a member of a minority, to be visibly different from everyone else, an experience I don’t have in either Germany or the US. One day.

Why me?

I’m standing in a suit in the foyer, a folder clutched in my hands. I shift from foot to foot, checking the clock every minute or two. The Vice President comes. I’d met her at a few events previously; she is a popular keynote speaker at events sponsored by the Landtag. I follow her around, make a bit of small talk, check the clock, check the doors. The first few trickle in: two gentlemen of middle age, conversing in Hebrew. A few more arrive: some women, a couple, another two gentlemen. They introduce themselves, I bid them welcome. Some of them reply to my ‘’Wilkommen im Landtag’’ with an apologetic ‘’I’m sorry, I don’t speak German,’’ whereby I switch to English. It’s confusing; more people are arriving. Some speak German, some English, and among themselves they speak either Arabic or Hebrew. There are two translators present but it takes me a bit to figure out who they are.

The Vice President, Mrs. Klamm, begins her speech. She reads from the page; instead of the usual polite boredom masked with faux attention usually granted such a speach the foyer is filled with murmuring, the simultaneous translation into Hebrew and Arabic for those who do not understand German. Mrs. Klamm doesn’t pause for translation.

We adjourn to the club room for lunch. I count the guests, twice, three times. I don’t want to screw up. I tell the waitress how many we are and that I don’t eat meat, and we begin with rolls and salad. I am sitting next to the program organizer, across from one of the translators and two of the guests.

This event takes place every two years. A small group of Israeli and Palistinian authors come to Germany, discuss, have presentations, visit schools, visit the Landtag. And because of an odd twist of fate I am the only department member available to supervise—my advisor is at her wedding, her superior is on vacation in Florida, our department head has an appointment in Essen, and everyone else is either sick or doesn’t work Fridays.

Thus, I was left with this group of authors and the VP. They had a pre-ordered 3-course menu organized by my advisor (what do you feed these people without insulting any traditions?). The two authors across from me wave away their plates of chicken breast; the one says she didn’t like chicken, the other doesn’t say anything. We order a vegetarian plate for the woman, the man orders Fish, and then the woman wants fish as well and I run back to the kitchen.

The two with the fish take a long time to eat. Plates are cleared, dessert is served, and afterwards espresso, those two always half a course behind. The two with the fish are debating something, something about Jerusalem. The woman (Palistine) says Jerusalem is a part of her, and that she isn’t happy living in Ramallah. The translator throws out a cynical ‘’too religious for me,’’ before turning to me and saying, ‘’it’s all the same thing—who did what to whom. Endless counting, keeping score. It’s true, it’s a harsh past, but what they talk about is not the future.’’ What should I say? Better not to say anything.

We rush through our espresso and head for the plenary room, where Mrs. Klamm gives a short presentation. [The flag on the wall is from 1930. The crest from Rheinland Pfalz represents Pfalz, Trier, and Mainz. RLP is the first state to institute a round-robin style plenary chamber. Etc.] And of course, during our final round of picture taking from the terrace overlooking the river we lock ourselves out and have to call security to come let us in again.

In the end, I don't screw up and everything more or less goes as planned. I can't, however, say it is relaxing.