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.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Saturday, October 21, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
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...
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, October 09, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
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
'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
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, October 02, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Oh ye last days of summer..
They've been threatening us with autumn for awhile now, holding poor weather and rain over our heads like a meterological sword of Damoclese. We, of course, have been desperately clinging to summer, avoided provoking the weather gods with open-toed shoes and lack of a jacket, and we have been well rewarded.
Needless to say, leaving the house at the crack of dawn for a jump on this Saturday's Great Adventure, unfurling our umbrellas and raincoats on our way to the train station, we considered giving in and staying home rather than spending the day in the rain. But a dose of optimism combined with an utter lack of stuff to do in Mainz spurred us on, and we went.
That's basically how we choose where we go. Linda wanted to give Luxembourg another shot, but it's four hours to the border, another hour from Trier to Luxembourg, and the whole trip would have amounted to a total of 10 hours in a train and €22 apiece. And Linda had to be back in Frankfurt by 9:00 PM, leaving us with approximately four hours there.
So: Köln (Cologne) or Heidelberg. We picked Heidelberg, as it would save us an hour each way. In the rain.
There's not many people out and about at 8 AM on a Saturday. We were therefore surprised to find the entire teenage population of Mainz, dressed in red sweaters and scarves, drinking beer at 8 AM on a Saturday. And of course, they all got on the same train as we did. We fought our way to a seat and became immediate and unintentional friends with our seatmates. Most everyone was on their second beer; many were smoking (in a non-smokign compartment--using the floor as an ashtray, I might add) but were otherwise quite nice people. They were off on a 4-hour Odyssey to Nürnberg to watch their football (read: soccer) team get creamed by Nürnberg's. I'm glad I'm not sharing the train with them on the way back.
Train change (finally!) in Darmstadt, south to Heidelberg. Arriving, we set off on foot for the Altstadt (being a tourist in Germany is easy: just head for the old city or anything marked Cathedral, Palace, Cloister, Castle, or otherwise marked ont he large helpful map out front. If you get lost, head for the tallest spire you can see, and you'll hit either the cathedral or the marketplace). The more we walked, the better the weather got, until it was brilliantly sunny with blue skies in all directions.
,,Heidelberger Herbst'', it was called (Heidelberg Autumn); a street fair complete with artisans, food stalls, ten to fifteen live music stages, and everyone within a 200-km radius, it seemed. We wandered, strolled, and schlenderten through the town, working our way to the base of the Castle Napoleon destroyed. The castle itself charges admission but the gardens are free, so we sat up on the wall and listened to ''Heart of Gold'' drifting up from somewhere below.
Linda's ex boyfriend was also in H. for the day with his ping pong team, and we met him for a few hours. It's obvious he still has feelings for L., it's obvious she doesn't, and it's obvious she's pretty uncomfortable around him. And then there I was, trying to keep the conversation going, not exclude anyone, watching Linda subtly assert her personal space, watching the Ex subtly find reasons to come nearer to her.
We went on the Philosopher's walk, where Goethe and his pals apparently went to drink absinthe. The town itself is built up two sides of the Necktar river valley, with the castle on one hill overlooking the old town, an old bridge connecting the two sides, and a smaller, hilly subdivision on the opposite side under the old cathedral ruins. Apparently has the oldest university in Germany. Or so they claim.
We were sad to leave, but had to rush back to Mainz so Linda could finish packing and head off to Frankfurt, where she would catch her return bus to Prague. I had intended to go to Frankfurt with her, but that would have required buying extra bus and train tickets for me, so I said my goodbyes at the bus stop. I sent her with a decent bottle of wine from the area, in memory of our time at the Weinfest and sitting on the banks of the river in the evenings. I plan to visit her, she hopes to come visit me.
Autumn has finally arrived; as I said my goodbyes and headed back inside the first drops began to fall, and I stood awhile at the window and watched the lightning.
Needless to say, leaving the house at the crack of dawn for a jump on this Saturday's Great Adventure, unfurling our umbrellas and raincoats on our way to the train station, we considered giving in and staying home rather than spending the day in the rain. But a dose of optimism combined with an utter lack of stuff to do in Mainz spurred us on, and we went.
''Get out the map, get out the map and lay your finger anywhere down. We'll leave the figuring to those we pass on our way out of town...''
That's basically how we choose where we go. Linda wanted to give Luxembourg another shot, but it's four hours to the border, another hour from Trier to Luxembourg, and the whole trip would have amounted to a total of 10 hours in a train and €22 apiece. And Linda had to be back in Frankfurt by 9:00 PM, leaving us with approximately four hours there.
So: Köln (Cologne) or Heidelberg. We picked Heidelberg, as it would save us an hour each way. In the rain.
There's not many people out and about at 8 AM on a Saturday. We were therefore surprised to find the entire teenage population of Mainz, dressed in red sweaters and scarves, drinking beer at 8 AM on a Saturday. And of course, they all got on the same train as we did. We fought our way to a seat and became immediate and unintentional friends with our seatmates. Most everyone was on their second beer; many were smoking (in a non-smokign compartment--using the floor as an ashtray, I might add) but were otherwise quite nice people. They were off on a 4-hour Odyssey to Nürnberg to watch their football (read: soccer) team get creamed by Nürnberg's. I'm glad I'm not sharing the train with them on the way back.
Train change (finally!) in Darmstadt, south to Heidelberg. Arriving, we set off on foot for the Altstadt (being a tourist in Germany is easy: just head for the old city or anything marked Cathedral, Palace, Cloister, Castle, or otherwise marked ont he large helpful map out front. If you get lost, head for the tallest spire you can see, and you'll hit either the cathedral or the marketplace). The more we walked, the better the weather got, until it was brilliantly sunny with blue skies in all directions.
,,Heidelberger Herbst'', it was called (Heidelberg Autumn); a street fair complete with artisans, food stalls, ten to fifteen live music stages, and everyone within a 200-km radius, it seemed. We wandered, strolled, and schlenderten through the town, working our way to the base of the Castle Napoleon destroyed. The castle itself charges admission but the gardens are free, so we sat up on the wall and listened to ''Heart of Gold'' drifting up from somewhere below.
View from the castle
Linda's ex boyfriend was also in H. for the day with his ping pong team, and we met him for a few hours. It's obvious he still has feelings for L., it's obvious she doesn't, and it's obvious she's pretty uncomfortable around him. And then there I was, trying to keep the conversation going, not exclude anyone, watching Linda subtly assert her personal space, watching the Ex subtly find reasons to come nearer to her.
We went on the Philosopher's walk, where Goethe and his pals apparently went to drink absinthe. The town itself is built up two sides of the Necktar river valley, with the castle on one hill overlooking the old town, an old bridge connecting the two sides, and a smaller, hilly subdivision on the opposite side under the old cathedral ruins. Apparently has the oldest university in Germany. Or so they claim.
We were sad to leave, but had to rush back to Mainz so Linda could finish packing and head off to Frankfurt, where she would catch her return bus to Prague. I had intended to go to Frankfurt with her, but that would have required buying extra bus and train tickets for me, so I said my goodbyes at the bus stop. I sent her with a decent bottle of wine from the area, in memory of our time at the Weinfest and sitting on the banks of the river in the evenings. I plan to visit her, she hopes to come visit me.
Autumn has finally arrived; as I said my goodbyes and headed back inside the first drops began to fall, and I stood awhile at the window and watched the lightning.
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