Ohje... well, I am happy to report that I survived Spain with all limbs and my sanity intact.
When I last left you, dear reader, our conference was going to hell in a handbasket, at least as far as I could tell. As far as the office was concerned, nothing worked, no one wanted to fix it, and we were all hanging on by the skin of our teeth and trying not to get into the weeds. The registration team had no materials left to give out and were fending off angry participants deprived of their bags and complementary 50mL of olive oil. Apparently the first lunch was a disaster, with long queues and no vegetarian food, and things were just not working out.
There was a meeting. The kind of meeting that involves all the highups of both parties, and their respective translators, and it is a meeting-to-the-death, the mother of all meetings, where decisions are made that affect the lives of us minions in a very tangible way.
It resolved to be a bit of a clash of cultures--aside from the obvious differences between Germany and Spain, there are the linguistical problems: not only can the heads of the organisations not speak untranslated with one another (though the need for translation provides the opportunity for possible faux pas to be moderated through the mediator/interpreter), it is not possible for those of us working in the office to talk to the other parties for materials, problems, issues, or vice versa. There were also different understandings of 'on time' and vegetarian (in Spain, fish is vegetarian. I had to eat fish or starve. I was so happy to find something neither fish nor fried that I was eating salad for breakfast.)
There are some people who worked until 2 AM compiling the exact lists required by our partners before any material was reordered, but in the end we managed to get more bags, more programs, more badges, more everything. There wasn't enough, but it worked out.
After that it got better. Aside from perpetual uncertainty as to whether or not lunch required a ticket, and because of the negotiation, the conception of vegetarian was narrowed somewhat to better reflect the expectation of us northern Europeans.
The sessions ran well. Aside from minor difficulties, everyone's presentations more or less ended up where they were supposed to be and we were able to actually work and not constantly have to solve everyone's small problems (print new badges, fix mistakes in the participant's list, etc).
We didn't sleep much, though for Thursday and Friday that was because we went into town for Tapas, an adventure that managed to have three taxis deposit their respective cargo at two different restaurants of the same name on the same street, and only after excessive calling did we manage to meet up.
Tapas.... man, I love the culture and I love the lifestyle, but southern Spain is the definite birthplace of fried fish. Small fried fish, large fried fish, tater tots of fish, croquettes, fried calamaris, fried shrimp, and for variety gazpacho, tortilla with potatos and usually fish, and spinach or mushrooms, usually swimming in oil. If I get offered a fish in the next two weeks I will beat the person with it.
And it is impossible to hail a cab in Sevilla. After tapas one night, the group split up. One group left at about midnight, but couldn't find a cab and ended up hanging out in a bar waiting for the proprieter to close because he offered to personally drive them. The rest went for a slightly inebriated walking tour of Sevilla at night, passing a procession practicing for Easter. Ariving at some dodgy looking disko-like bar, some people decided to stay and others, myself included, wanted to go back. We were five people, though the one guy split off to go have a pizza, and we stood on the street corner like executive prostitutes without a trick. Trying to try our luck at another spot we recollected our fifth companion whom we left after finally landing our elusive green-lighted prey. The first group got home at 2 AM, we got home at 2 AM, and the third group at 3.
Saturday morning we collected those of us were conscious and clean at 10 AM and headed by bus into town. We wandered the streets, bought ceramics and stamps, and generally just soaked in the atmosphere and the sun, me with my idiotic backpack, erasing whatever doubt may have yet existed that I was a stranger to this land. And upon driving off in my taxi for the airport, I realized I had left a bag behind, and had to spend 20 minutes driving through one-way streets to retrieve it. Enter airport, check bag, wander, eat an apple, wander, drink my water before security, go through security, get felt up by first guard, get questioned in Spanish, get felt up by second guard, wander, board, fly, sleep, disembark, wander, retireve bag, eat, check bag, wander, go through security, sleep, drink coffee, wander, shop, drink more caffe con leche, sleep, board, fly disembark, retrieve bag, fend off the advances of the handsome french taxi driver, and....find my mother.
It had been eight months since we'd seen each other, a wonderful meeting. The friends with whom we would be staying were picking me off, and on the way home we did a nighttime tour of L'arc du Triomphe and le tour d'Eiffel.
Et j'ai parlé français.... je comprends beaucoup, j'éxplique de ma vie, je peux répondre aux questions qu'on m'a posé. Demain, je vais écrire plus longue....
Monday, March 26, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
...to drop.
Everything that could go wrong, did. Registration took forever. The plenary was delayed, and then overfull. We ran out of nametags, bags, programs, lanyards, materials, lunch tickets, paper, and pens. The copier and the printer both broke multiple times, and a bloody operation restored the copier to its previous dubious health. There was no vegetarian food at lunch, the lines were so long we had to push the program back, too few of the helpers showed and did not do their job, and instead of taking the respective presentations to their respective sessions, they…didn’t. And because the one individual who ended up trying to do all the sessions couldn´t ask for help—the walkie talkies didn’t work—somehow the message ended up being transferred through two other people that I was supposed to explain to the facilitators why they couldn’t start,, for reasons I myself didn’t know. Shoot. Me. Now.
Waiting for the other shoe....
You know it's going to happen, something will go wrong. We don´t have enough nametags; the plastic part is missing, which, after having spent much of the previous day correcting incorrectly cut nametags, is rather disheartening. Next the copier jams. Again. And again, and again and again and... we are experts at fishing some forlornely crumpled paper from the depths of the machine. Then the toner runs out on the copier. We find another copier. Somewhere in there the database is no longer connected to the network, and five or eight people have to use the one remaining database computer. A mass of Spanish people didn´t receive nametags like they were supposed to, so we had to jury-rig a mock-up version just in time. We order more another toner cartridge, and they say itll be there in an hour—which in Spain could be tomorrow, or next week. The other copier doesnt want to work, or is blocked, or for whatever reason refuses to cooperate. We run out of paper, both of cardstock for nametags (we have since run out of the second set of nametags). One of the laptops dies for good, and someone has completely rearranged my carefully alphetized set of folders. We receive more paper, but the copier still doesn´t work, then it does, then it doesen´t.
Oy vey.
But it´s work, and the list of tasks keeps you going. Much of it is repetitive, some of it is interesting, and all of it is necessary. And tomorrow, we have to be ready for the 1,400 people who will descend in full force on the venue....
Oy vey.
But it´s work, and the list of tasks keeps you going. Much of it is repetitive, some of it is interesting, and all of it is necessary. And tomorrow, we have to be ready for the 1,400 people who will descend in full force on the venue....
Monday, March 19, 2007
Espana
If you're superstitious, you believe in omens, in signs that portent if the future will be good or bad.
It was on the plane that I had first realized I had lost my scarf, my favorite one, the green and orage one. I checked my bag and under my seat, in the sleeve of my coat, everywhere, and nowhere was it to be found. I had lost it somewhere after the Swiss border control, between the coffee machine and making fun of the rediculous male models in GQ that I left it behind.
And a tall handsome knight in shining armor (in the form of some kind stranger) rode to my rescue and returned my scarf. No idea how he knew it was mine or where to find me, but there you go.
Landing in Spain I had no idea what to expect or what awaited me. We taxied to Madrid central station, to await the train to Seville, the very same station where the bombings occured. In memorium thereof there is now a large, shining column and x-ray scanner security.
The landscape in Spain reminds me of southern Colorado, rolling hills of low grass and shrubby trees whose regularity betrayed the fact that they were indeed some form of cultivation. Huge expanses of fields are interspersed with farms and towns, the former of which would have been just as much at home in Alamosa as here; the towns, though, betrayed their Moorish architechture in arches and filegree.
Our evening consisted of a tapas tour, a strolling culinary taste of Southern Spain. We ordered Gazpacho and cheeses, fried fish and calamari, eggplant with honey and olives and potatos al-aioli, tortillas (potato fritatas) and summer wine. Life in Spain is different than up North--people dance to street musicians; restaurants do not open until 9 PM and service is "relaxed". The cathedral, an unbelievably huge structure, has separate entraces for different religions, and is the compilation of several hundred years of additions and modifications--and is simply immense. Orange trees line the streets; tiled courtyards of palm trees can be found among old casas, each floor with balconies; narrow streets wind among the ceramic shops, the tapas bars, the small shops and locals. The smell of blooming flowers--mainly the orange trees, which smell like lavendar--gives the air a pleasant perfume, only disturbed by the exhaust of the mopeds and scooters ricocheting through the city.
La vida espaöola...
Life is different in Spain. The day starts late and slowly, with enjoyment and a cup of coffee. No hurry, no rush. Midday comes and goes, creeping on to a Spanish lunch at three, which, combined with a Siesta, takes up much of the afternoon, and work doesnt resume until five or so. Lunch is leisurely, of several courses, not to be hurried. Evenings---these are occasions to be savoured; many dress up, going for some tapas and perhaps a drink before going home to dinner. Spaniards do not eat before 8 or 9 PM; stores are open late, the city is open late, and nothing is to be hurried. People talk loudly, laugh loudly, and visibly enjoy themselves. Like France, two kisses on the cheek for a greeting.
This was my first--and may be my last for the week--opportunity to see Sevilla. If only the rest of the week would be as pleasant as the first evening....
It was on the plane that I had first realized I had lost my scarf, my favorite one, the green and orage one. I checked my bag and under my seat, in the sleeve of my coat, everywhere, and nowhere was it to be found. I had lost it somewhere after the Swiss border control, between the coffee machine and making fun of the rediculous male models in GQ that I left it behind.
And a tall handsome knight in shining armor (in the form of some kind stranger) rode to my rescue and returned my scarf. No idea how he knew it was mine or where to find me, but there you go.
Landing in Spain I had no idea what to expect or what awaited me. We taxied to Madrid central station, to await the train to Seville, the very same station where the bombings occured. In memorium thereof there is now a large, shining column and x-ray scanner security.
The landscape in Spain reminds me of southern Colorado, rolling hills of low grass and shrubby trees whose regularity betrayed the fact that they were indeed some form of cultivation. Huge expanses of fields are interspersed with farms and towns, the former of which would have been just as much at home in Alamosa as here; the towns, though, betrayed their Moorish architechture in arches and filegree.
Our evening consisted of a tapas tour, a strolling culinary taste of Southern Spain. We ordered Gazpacho and cheeses, fried fish and calamari, eggplant with honey and olives and potatos al-aioli, tortillas (potato fritatas) and summer wine. Life in Spain is different than up North--people dance to street musicians; restaurants do not open until 9 PM and service is "relaxed". The cathedral, an unbelievably huge structure, has separate entraces for different religions, and is the compilation of several hundred years of additions and modifications--and is simply immense. Orange trees line the streets; tiled courtyards of palm trees can be found among old casas, each floor with balconies; narrow streets wind among the ceramic shops, the tapas bars, the small shops and locals. The smell of blooming flowers--mainly the orange trees, which smell like lavendar--gives the air a pleasant perfume, only disturbed by the exhaust of the mopeds and scooters ricocheting through the city.
La vida espaöola...
Life is different in Spain. The day starts late and slowly, with enjoyment and a cup of coffee. No hurry, no rush. Midday comes and goes, creeping on to a Spanish lunch at three, which, combined with a Siesta, takes up much of the afternoon, and work doesnt resume until five or so. Lunch is leisurely, of several courses, not to be hurried. Evenings---these are occasions to be savoured; many dress up, going for some tapas and perhaps a drink before going home to dinner. Spaniards do not eat before 8 or 9 PM; stores are open late, the city is open late, and nothing is to be hurried. People talk loudly, laugh loudly, and visibly enjoy themselves. Like France, two kisses on the cheek for a greeting.
This was my first--and may be my last for the week--opportunity to see Sevilla. If only the rest of the week would be as pleasant as the first evening....
Friday, March 16, 2007
Apathy...opiate of the masses....
The ability to evaluate and the capacity to consciously change themselves and their surroundings set humans apart from their animal cousins; opposable thumbs, use of tools, and forms of speech are not unique to this species of 6 billion and cannot explain humankind’s drastically different development. We see our environment and we alter it; we may make rational decisions, choose among several choices, consider abstract concepts such as good and bad, moral and immoral, right and wrong, and distinguish between them. We judge a situation, and we act on this judgement—or not.
Humankind suffers from the disease of apathy: for all our philosophy and altruism, so little of the potential of these combined qualities translates into actual action. So many eyes are blind, not only to the greater sorrows of our world but also to the smaller—and the greatest moral dilemma faced by your average Westerner is whether or not to give spare change to the man with the sad eyes and the scruffy beard. It takes greater tragedy to motivate the masses, and even then tragedy pales in comparison to personal interest where actual action is required and simple moral outrage no longer suffices. Even among the all-to-long list of global sorrows, Free Tibet and Save Darfur do not evoke the riots of labor contracts in France; stories of mayhem in the Middle East score well below the latest celebrity scandal on CNN or BBC.
It’s all a matter of perspective. We take for granted so many things, small as well as large, and the sum of these assumptions compose our worldview. My worldview is limited to the United States and Germany, and though by and large the way of life is similar in these two “western” countries, even the little differences make me realize how much I assumed to be true because I have always known it to be so: how to open doors or windows; how to flush toilets, make tea, or greet strangers; where to place your hands when eating and which way to look while crossing the street. I’ve met people of all walks of life, strangers as well as natives; I have met people faced with decisions I will never have to face by benefit of my blue passport and my “middle class” upbringing, and I have options and choices they will never have. Realizing how much I had taken for granted makes me realize how little I have actually seen, how sheltered I have been—I have seen so little of the world. So many places I know only from stories and pictures. Some of these stories and pictures have been enough to change my life, to make me an activist or even to encourage me to pass them on, to open the eyes of someone else in the hope that they, too, will try even a little to change their world and that of their fellow humans.
To truly see a situation as it, to realize that the starving child in the picture is not a documentary but a life in danger, is the basis for change. And this change will not be easy—if I have learned one thing from studying political science and development, it is how unbelievably complex and interconnected the many issues of development are. Sending 25 cents a day to an adopt-a-child program may make some difference, but this will not be enough to tackle all of the health, sanitation, education, and other problems of a village, much less a country or a continent. Adding up the quarters-a-day, combining all of the “little things” can make a difference, and if through my pictures and stories I can change someone’s worldview even a little it has been worthwhile. I don’t pretend to be able to change the world, but I intend to use my optimism and the ‘options’ and ‘choices’ I have to do the best I can—if I can’t cure cancer or win the fight against poverty, the least I can do is combat apathy.
Humankind suffers from the disease of apathy: for all our philosophy and altruism, so little of the potential of these combined qualities translates into actual action. So many eyes are blind, not only to the greater sorrows of our world but also to the smaller—and the greatest moral dilemma faced by your average Westerner is whether or not to give spare change to the man with the sad eyes and the scruffy beard. It takes greater tragedy to motivate the masses, and even then tragedy pales in comparison to personal interest where actual action is required and simple moral outrage no longer suffices. Even among the all-to-long list of global sorrows, Free Tibet and Save Darfur do not evoke the riots of labor contracts in France; stories of mayhem in the Middle East score well below the latest celebrity scandal on CNN or BBC.
It’s all a matter of perspective. We take for granted so many things, small as well as large, and the sum of these assumptions compose our worldview. My worldview is limited to the United States and Germany, and though by and large the way of life is similar in these two “western” countries, even the little differences make me realize how much I assumed to be true because I have always known it to be so: how to open doors or windows; how to flush toilets, make tea, or greet strangers; where to place your hands when eating and which way to look while crossing the street. I’ve met people of all walks of life, strangers as well as natives; I have met people faced with decisions I will never have to face by benefit of my blue passport and my “middle class” upbringing, and I have options and choices they will never have. Realizing how much I had taken for granted makes me realize how little I have actually seen, how sheltered I have been—I have seen so little of the world. So many places I know only from stories and pictures. Some of these stories and pictures have been enough to change my life, to make me an activist or even to encourage me to pass them on, to open the eyes of someone else in the hope that they, too, will try even a little to change their world and that of their fellow humans.
To truly see a situation as it, to realize that the starving child in the picture is not a documentary but a life in danger, is the basis for change. And this change will not be easy—if I have learned one thing from studying political science and development, it is how unbelievably complex and interconnected the many issues of development are. Sending 25 cents a day to an adopt-a-child program may make some difference, but this will not be enough to tackle all of the health, sanitation, education, and other problems of a village, much less a country or a continent. Adding up the quarters-a-day, combining all of the “little things” can make a difference, and if through my pictures and stories I can change someone’s worldview even a little it has been worthwhile. I don’t pretend to be able to change the world, but I intend to use my optimism and the ‘options’ and ‘choices’ I have to do the best I can—if I can’t cure cancer or win the fight against poverty, the least I can do is combat apathy.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
It's 10 PM...
...and I just finished what passed for dinner (Spinach, which I oversalted in my haste). And for whatever reason, here I sit in front of my slowly dying laptop, trying to mentally unwind abit before I take care of the list of about eighteen things that need to happen between now and Sunday.
I have a love-hate relationship with my computer. I won't pretend I don't know how to waste an evening surfing youtube or blogs or whatnot, or that all my time on the computer is productive. I'm not much good without the damn thing, though; it keeps me connected to the world and, well, to my life.
But I am on it way too much. I'll go blind one of these days. I'm hoping writing a bit will settle my mind, and ranting is just about as good as anything else, and I don't even have other people to villanize my rants (oh ye winds of change!).
I'm a bit stressed out at the moment. My 40-hour-a-week 9-to-5 job has turned into 9-till-you're-finished, which today was 8:30. Today was print deadline; all of the 40 fabulous sessions you find on our website had to be sent, in two languages, to the printer's in Spain. We're busy calling our list of unconfirmed speakers, trying to find out who's coming and who's not. We have half an hour to do all the reports from the database, and of course there are glitches. I do my 40 sessions and find out I have to redo about half of them because the "rules" have changed, and meanwhile people are confirming or declining or changing their presentations, and meanwhile I keep getting phone calls from someone in England who wants to discuss his presentation with me (the presentaiton he will not be giving, because he can't come, a fact I discovered only after four conversaitons with his secreatary and two days of call-backs) and from my boss, who wants to email these documents--that I haven't finished--to spain. Ai yi yi.
But we got it done. I think the Spanish sessions aren't 100% identical to the English ones, but we identified the discrepancies and the translator there will fix them. The website (my normal domain) has been updated (after I discovered about fifteen broken links), everything printed, filed, and organised.
Otherwise, I am trying to keep what passes for my life together. I'm trying to turn in three huge papers this week, except I am in the unfortunate position of depending on other people to correct them-- and "a lack of prior planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part" really does mean I have to sit down, shut up, and wait. And these kindhearted people are doing their best and I already have one and ahalf papers back to me.
The nice man at the international office signed and stamped a form I needed, so one more thing off of my list. Now, in my spare time (hah!) I have to find out how to get home from the airport at 11 PM on a friday night, how to get to France without spending 200€ apiece and where to stay when I get there. And I have people coming for dinner friday night, assuming I don't have to stay all night at work (grrrr). It's still relatively inconvenient but I have rainchecked twice and don't want to again--I ahven't seen these people in weeks. Somewhere in there I have to pack for a 3-week trip covering half of central and southern Europe, get things sorted out for my registration for the next two (!) semesters, prepare for the subsequent semester, somehow meet my new language exchange partner, clean my appartment, and not go crazy in between. If I've forgotten anything, please let me know...
So, back to work. I can sleep when I'm dead. Or on the bus/plane/train/bus from FR to Sevilla.
I have a love-hate relationship with my computer. I won't pretend I don't know how to waste an evening surfing youtube or blogs or whatnot, or that all my time on the computer is productive. I'm not much good without the damn thing, though; it keeps me connected to the world and, well, to my life.
But I am on it way too much. I'll go blind one of these days. I'm hoping writing a bit will settle my mind, and ranting is just about as good as anything else, and I don't even have other people to villanize my rants (oh ye winds of change!).
I'm a bit stressed out at the moment. My 40-hour-a-week 9-to-5 job has turned into 9-till-you're-finished, which today was 8:30. Today was print deadline; all of the 40 fabulous sessions you find on our website had to be sent, in two languages, to the printer's in Spain. We're busy calling our list of unconfirmed speakers, trying to find out who's coming and who's not. We have half an hour to do all the reports from the database, and of course there are glitches. I do my 40 sessions and find out I have to redo about half of them because the "rules" have changed, and meanwhile people are confirming or declining or changing their presentations, and meanwhile I keep getting phone calls from someone in England who wants to discuss his presentation with me (the presentaiton he will not be giving, because he can't come, a fact I discovered only after four conversaitons with his secreatary and two days of call-backs) and from my boss, who wants to email these documents--that I haven't finished--to spain. Ai yi yi.
But we got it done. I think the Spanish sessions aren't 100% identical to the English ones, but we identified the discrepancies and the translator there will fix them. The website (my normal domain) has been updated (after I discovered about fifteen broken links), everything printed, filed, and organised.
Otherwise, I am trying to keep what passes for my life together. I'm trying to turn in three huge papers this week, except I am in the unfortunate position of depending on other people to correct them-- and "a lack of prior planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part" really does mean I have to sit down, shut up, and wait. And these kindhearted people are doing their best and I already have one and ahalf papers back to me.
The nice man at the international office signed and stamped a form I needed, so one more thing off of my list. Now, in my spare time (hah!) I have to find out how to get home from the airport at 11 PM on a friday night, how to get to France without spending 200€ apiece and where to stay when I get there. And I have people coming for dinner friday night, assuming I don't have to stay all night at work (grrrr). It's still relatively inconvenient but I have rainchecked twice and don't want to again--I ahven't seen these people in weeks. Somewhere in there I have to pack for a 3-week trip covering half of central and southern Europe, get things sorted out for my registration for the next two (!) semesters, prepare for the subsequent semester, somehow meet my new language exchange partner, clean my appartment, and not go crazy in between. If I've forgotten anything, please let me know...
So, back to work. I can sleep when I'm dead. Or on the bus/plane/train/bus from FR to Sevilla.
Monday, March 12, 2007
The sandwich band
The patch of sunlight is barely big enough for the two of us as we sit, enjoying the strikingly blue sky, deceiving us into believing the weather is warm, and our ice cream. Someone taps me on the shoulder; I turn around and look up into....a man dressed as a sandwich. What the...? The monstrosity, like the evil progeny of SpongeBob and a hamburger, is handing me an advertisement from our local sub shop. I raise my eyebrows, take the sheet with a slow „thanks...“ and an unspoken ,,...I think“.
„Call me...“ says the sandwich. I’m not sure if sandwiches can leer, but I imagine this one tries.
Er..... ok-ay....
And inside of less than ten minutes, as we still sit on the same bench (the sandwich having moved on to greener pastures—perhaps in search of a she-sandwich, who knows), our conversaiton is increasingly drowned out by....the approaching marching band. The bandmaster is wearing a sombrero; the rest, blue hats; curious passerby trailing in their wake like slightly lost children--the pied piper has come?
Umm..... I wasn’t aware today was a holiday. And yesterday, by the look of the „demonstration“ at the fountain, must have been Free Tibet day. I think last week was Free Hugs. I am continuously confounded.
Apparently Fr. is now home to scientolists, who have bought a building and want to start...something. No one quite knows; it made all the local papers (between the article on local dairy farmers leaving the trade union and advertisements for kitchen appliances).
This place is getting weirder all the time.
„Call me...“ says the sandwich. I’m not sure if sandwiches can leer, but I imagine this one tries.
Er..... ok-ay....
And inside of less than ten minutes, as we still sit on the same bench (the sandwich having moved on to greener pastures—perhaps in search of a she-sandwich, who knows), our conversaiton is increasingly drowned out by....the approaching marching band. The bandmaster is wearing a sombrero; the rest, blue hats; curious passerby trailing in their wake like slightly lost children--the pied piper has come?
Umm..... I wasn’t aware today was a holiday. And yesterday, by the look of the „demonstration“ at the fountain, must have been Free Tibet day. I think last week was Free Hugs. I am continuously confounded.
Apparently Fr. is now home to scientolists, who have bought a building and want to start...something. No one quite knows; it made all the local papers (between the article on local dairy farmers leaving the trade union and advertisements for kitchen appliances).
This place is getting weirder all the time.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Munich in the meantime
Friday afternoon, amid luggage and threatening storm, we pedalled over to an unknown address to meet the unknown person who would be our driver for the weekend. The individual in question, a Bavarian by birth, father of multiple and driver of a toyota combi, serenaded us for four hours with Bavarian Volksmusik and a book-on-tape in the style and subject of Aldous Huxley—I, curled up in the back against the remaining car seat, suffered only strange dreams borne of strange literature and a cramped position; M., on the other hand, had the pleasure of observing our chauffeur’s penchant for pokeln. In any case, with little ado we arrived in Munich, and after a ten minute bout with the ticket Automat, we received our Streifenkarte, the Müncheners’ complicated system of determining how much to pay.
The friend with whom we were staying lived not far from a town at the end of the Subway line—and on the train line between Munich and Augsburg, between the city and the alps. From his deck on a clear day you can see the Zugspitze, one of the highest and most famous peaks, and the other mountains ranging above the green plain dotted with small hamlets and villages. It was beautiful and peaceful. His parents had built the house themselves, and it was heated by a magnificent tile-covered wood-oven.
Many of the American stereotypes of Germans relate to the Bavarians or possibly even the Austrians—the Oktoberfest, the beer, sausage, Lederhosen, etc. Bavaria, as one of the richest (if not the richest) Länder in Germany, is admired for its school and university system; two of Munich’s universities were recently awarded an elite distinction—where Freiburg ended, much to its dismay, a close fourth behind Karlsruhe; the university now distinguishes itself as the almost-elite ALU. Ethnically—though I use the word liberally—the former Kingdom of Bavaria is divided into the Bavarians, the Franks, and the Schwaben; these are something between cultural groups and former principalities; they have their own flags, dialects, regions, and apparently culture. In any case, for such ‘foreigners’ as my boyfriend (he’s from Münster, in the north-west of Germany) and myself (I took my passport, just in case), understanding the loudspeaker announcements in the train was a bit of a trick, not to mention our friend’s parents, who speak in dialect and wear, upon proper occasion of town celebrations or birthdays, Tracht (traditional costumes). They gave extra effort to speak clearly or in High German as much as possible and all in all it worked out well—but it is like hearing a different language. The words are different but similar—not just differences in rhythm, like Scottish or Kenyan English. In any case, they made us feel quite welcome and were wonderfully friendly.
As a poor student in a university town, I found it a luxury to be somewhere with a living room, somewhere with couches and terraces and seating for fifteen. It was lovely to have a big family breakfast—though I had no chance of doing justice to the spread presented to us, although I did my best to the Stachelbeerentorte (gooseberry torte). As someone who spent the last few weeks either working or writing a paper, it was a wonderful change of pace to just….relax and take it easy.
Saturday we spent in Munich with F. as tour guide, with the aid of a small map, short descriptions, much enthusiasm and the occasional downpour we stumped around the old town, viewing the Residenz, the Frauenkirche (the famous twin towers, seen on every picture), multiple churches and squares, the university, and the market.
The Viktualienmarkt, as it is known, is a gigantic marketplace where all manner of edibles and specialities are sold. There are entire stands just for honies or wines or vegetables, with butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers equally represented. Partly composed of tents, partly of permanent buildings, it is possible to buy all manner of interesting—and disgusting—things to eat. During one hailstorm we took shelter under the awning of a butcher’s shop—particularly fine view, in my opinion—which displayed a range of wares that would do my 10th-grade biology class justice. There you could purchase just about any animal part you wanted, including entire feet, heads, udders, tongues, and more things I won’t name or describe. We stood in front of the window and joked about these delicacies—who would want a head? What do you use it for, decoration?—to which the woman standing next to us replied that heads and feet could be used in many fine dishes, soups, sauces, etc., from the days when nothing was wasted. She explained how one could prepare a sauce using the head, and sent her grandkid into the shop. The child, full of enthusiasm—morbid fascination?—returned with…a severed pig’s head. Vegetarianism was starting to look good to at least one of my companions.
After our extensive tour and lunch at an Italian place we headed off to the English gardens, a huge green area stretching for almost 5 k in the city center. There is even a wave pool where you can try body surfing, separate equestrian and bike paths, formal gardens and “English” gardens, referring to the more natural style of artificial gardens (compared to French formal gardens).
We were treated to a Bavarian dinner of Würstchen (sausages), Sauerkraut (pickled cabbage), and Schupfnudeln (pan-fried potato noodles, sort of like Gnocci). Of the two of us non-Bavarians, M. was the one who had never had Sauerkraut before, and despite his best efforts he didn’t manage to decimate his sausages.
We learned that the town, of which our friend’s father was mayor, had undergone tremendous demographical changes after the 2nd world war. In 500 years the town’s population had only doubled, and by the 1940s was only at about 3,000—and to imagine that this town housed and eventually incorporated about 2,500 refugees is a statement of their friendliness and willingness to incorporate others which is not reflected in, for instance, towns in the Black Forest (stories of not-so-recent newcomers to towns in the Schwarzwald tell of newcomers who aren’t really taken in by the locals even after 10 or 15 years).
Our evening entertainment consisted of going to the movies to watch Schwere Jungs (Heavy Boys), a story of the German 1950-something bobsled team at that year’s Oslo Olympic games. It’s based on a true story about team members from the towns of Garnisch-Paternkirche, which are visible from our friend’s balcony. The Bavarian dialect was spoken in the movie, making comprehension occasionally challenging, but it was a great movie and quite funny.
Sunday morning we went running, in and among the pines, along the creek and through the fields. The landscape is beautiful, rural, and a half hour from Munich. The run was lovely, the weather perfect, and aside from a slight altercation with a dog, everything was wonderful.
Instead of rushing off into town, we went for a walk around the Starnbergersee, Lake Starnberg, a beautiful diversion for a sunny day. I can only imagine how it would be to spend a summer afternoon swimming and sunning or just lying on the grass.
We should have spent Saturday’s rainy morning in the museum and enjoyed the Sunday sunshine with a city tour, but as we aren’t psychic and didn’t watch the only-sometimes-accurate weather forecast we had to do it the other way around. So we went to the Pinothek Moderne museum, with a lovely exhibition of modern art, with quite a few from the Blaue Reiter group (Franz Marck, Wassily Kadinsky, etc.) as well as quite a few Max Beckmann paintings. There was also a really interesting exhibition on architecture in literature—with small models and illustrations of literary architectural masterpieces or curiosities, such as Pippi Longstockings’ house or Rapunzel’s tower. There was also a design and a graphic exhibition, though our attendance in the latter cases was somewhat cursory at best.
We didn’t have time for lunch so we bought bread and climbed into the backseat of a VW bus, which would take us back home. As a sort of organised hitchhiking, carpool websites provide contacts for people who are driving somewhere with free places. For a contribution they take on passengers; thus it was that we were riding in this bus with people we didn’t know.
The route from Munich to Freiburg can go one of two ways—once through Switzerland, once along Lake Constance. We took the latter way, and were witness to the most spectacular sunset I have seen in a very long time just as we were driving along the shore. A fantastic end to a wonderful trip.
(picture not from me: http://www.bodanrueckgemeinden.de/Sonnenuntergang1280x1024.JPG )
The friend with whom we were staying lived not far from a town at the end of the Subway line—and on the train line between Munich and Augsburg, between the city and the alps. From his deck on a clear day you can see the Zugspitze, one of the highest and most famous peaks, and the other mountains ranging above the green plain dotted with small hamlets and villages. It was beautiful and peaceful. His parents had built the house themselves, and it was heated by a magnificent tile-covered wood-oven.
Many of the American stereotypes of Germans relate to the Bavarians or possibly even the Austrians—the Oktoberfest, the beer, sausage, Lederhosen, etc. Bavaria, as one of the richest (if not the richest) Länder in Germany, is admired for its school and university system; two of Munich’s universities were recently awarded an elite distinction—where Freiburg ended, much to its dismay, a close fourth behind Karlsruhe; the university now distinguishes itself as the almost-elite ALU. Ethnically—though I use the word liberally—the former Kingdom of Bavaria is divided into the Bavarians, the Franks, and the Schwaben; these are something between cultural groups and former principalities; they have their own flags, dialects, regions, and apparently culture. In any case, for such ‘foreigners’ as my boyfriend (he’s from Münster, in the north-west of Germany) and myself (I took my passport, just in case), understanding the loudspeaker announcements in the train was a bit of a trick, not to mention our friend’s parents, who speak in dialect and wear, upon proper occasion of town celebrations or birthdays, Tracht (traditional costumes). They gave extra effort to speak clearly or in High German as much as possible and all in all it worked out well—but it is like hearing a different language. The words are different but similar—not just differences in rhythm, like Scottish or Kenyan English. In any case, they made us feel quite welcome and were wonderfully friendly.
As a poor student in a university town, I found it a luxury to be somewhere with a living room, somewhere with couches and terraces and seating for fifteen. It was lovely to have a big family breakfast—though I had no chance of doing justice to the spread presented to us, although I did my best to the Stachelbeerentorte (gooseberry torte). As someone who spent the last few weeks either working or writing a paper, it was a wonderful change of pace to just….relax and take it easy.
Saturday we spent in Munich with F. as tour guide, with the aid of a small map, short descriptions, much enthusiasm and the occasional downpour we stumped around the old town, viewing the Residenz, the Frauenkirche (the famous twin towers, seen on every picture), multiple churches and squares, the university, and the market.
The Viktualienmarkt, as it is known, is a gigantic marketplace where all manner of edibles and specialities are sold. There are entire stands just for honies or wines or vegetables, with butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers equally represented. Partly composed of tents, partly of permanent buildings, it is possible to buy all manner of interesting—and disgusting—things to eat. During one hailstorm we took shelter under the awning of a butcher’s shop—particularly fine view, in my opinion—which displayed a range of wares that would do my 10th-grade biology class justice. There you could purchase just about any animal part you wanted, including entire feet, heads, udders, tongues, and more things I won’t name or describe. We stood in front of the window and joked about these delicacies—who would want a head? What do you use it for, decoration?—to which the woman standing next to us replied that heads and feet could be used in many fine dishes, soups, sauces, etc., from the days when nothing was wasted. She explained how one could prepare a sauce using the head, and sent her grandkid into the shop. The child, full of enthusiasm—morbid fascination?—returned with…a severed pig’s head. Vegetarianism was starting to look good to at least one of my companions.
After our extensive tour and lunch at an Italian place we headed off to the English gardens, a huge green area stretching for almost 5 k in the city center. There is even a wave pool where you can try body surfing, separate equestrian and bike paths, formal gardens and “English” gardens, referring to the more natural style of artificial gardens (compared to French formal gardens).
We were treated to a Bavarian dinner of Würstchen (sausages), Sauerkraut (pickled cabbage), and Schupfnudeln (pan-fried potato noodles, sort of like Gnocci). Of the two of us non-Bavarians, M. was the one who had never had Sauerkraut before, and despite his best efforts he didn’t manage to decimate his sausages.
We learned that the town, of which our friend’s father was mayor, had undergone tremendous demographical changes after the 2nd world war. In 500 years the town’s population had only doubled, and by the 1940s was only at about 3,000—and to imagine that this town housed and eventually incorporated about 2,500 refugees is a statement of their friendliness and willingness to incorporate others which is not reflected in, for instance, towns in the Black Forest (stories of not-so-recent newcomers to towns in the Schwarzwald tell of newcomers who aren’t really taken in by the locals even after 10 or 15 years).
Our evening entertainment consisted of going to the movies to watch Schwere Jungs (Heavy Boys), a story of the German 1950-something bobsled team at that year’s Oslo Olympic games. It’s based on a true story about team members from the towns of Garnisch-Paternkirche, which are visible from our friend’s balcony. The Bavarian dialect was spoken in the movie, making comprehension occasionally challenging, but it was a great movie and quite funny.
Sunday morning we went running, in and among the pines, along the creek and through the fields. The landscape is beautiful, rural, and a half hour from Munich. The run was lovely, the weather perfect, and aside from a slight altercation with a dog, everything was wonderful.
Instead of rushing off into town, we went for a walk around the Starnbergersee, Lake Starnberg, a beautiful diversion for a sunny day. I can only imagine how it would be to spend a summer afternoon swimming and sunning or just lying on the grass.
We should have spent Saturday’s rainy morning in the museum and enjoyed the Sunday sunshine with a city tour, but as we aren’t psychic and didn’t watch the only-sometimes-accurate weather forecast we had to do it the other way around. So we went to the Pinothek Moderne museum, with a lovely exhibition of modern art, with quite a few from the Blaue Reiter group (Franz Marck, Wassily Kadinsky, etc.) as well as quite a few Max Beckmann paintings. There was also a really interesting exhibition on architecture in literature—with small models and illustrations of literary architectural masterpieces or curiosities, such as Pippi Longstockings’ house or Rapunzel’s tower. There was also a design and a graphic exhibition, though our attendance in the latter cases was somewhat cursory at best.
We didn’t have time for lunch so we bought bread and climbed into the backseat of a VW bus, which would take us back home. As a sort of organised hitchhiking, carpool websites provide contacts for people who are driving somewhere with free places. For a contribution they take on passengers; thus it was that we were riding in this bus with people we didn’t know.
The route from Munich to Freiburg can go one of two ways—once through Switzerland, once along Lake Constance. We took the latter way, and were witness to the most spectacular sunset I have seen in a very long time just as we were driving along the shore. A fantastic end to a wonderful trip.
(picture not from me: http://www.bodanrueckgemeinden.de/Sonnenuntergang1280x1024.JPG )
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Why I love my brother... for nerds
(Note: this is an IM conversation between me and my brother. If you know nothing about, or care nothing about, social justice theory you may consider wandering off, making yourself a cup of fair trade coffee, and spending twenty minutes helping poor people in Guatemala than reading the following post.)
[19:58] memyselfandI: I'm writing a paper on environment and justice, and I need another theme... I already have sustainable development and global commons, and I need one or two more issues
[19:59] memyselfandI: what do you think, right to development, carbon trading schemes or...?
[19:59] Brother: carbon trading for a justice paper?
[20:00] memyselfandI: jes
[20:00] memyselfandI: yes
[20:00] Brother: and I'm still not sure I buy right to development, but I come from a fairly privledged position so...
[20:00] memyselfandI: theoretical basis is social justice theories, primarily from rawls and nozick, with hints of locke thrown in for good measure
[20:00] memyselfandI: so carbon trading is an example of trying to design a 'just' system of pollution
[20:01] memyselfandI: based on egalitarian principles, with a dash of market mechanism to make the whole thing work...
[20:02] Brother: viel of ignorance is great... but it misses the huge step of how to get from where we are to where we ought to be
[20:03] memyselfandI: well, who defines where we ought to be?
[20:03] memyselfandI: I'd guess about 2/3 of all justice theorists have some kind of ur-starting point, rawls' veil, nozick's island, dworkin's auction
[20:05] Brother: basically
[20:05] Brother: its the same approach of state of nature
[20:05] memyselfandI: yeah, I know
[20:05] memyselfandI: theories and more theories
[20:05] memyselfandI: some of which are descriptive, some normative, and some simply idealistic
[20:06] Brother: basically
[20:06] memyselfandI: anyways, I have used rawls and nozick as my basis on which to evaluate various concepts
[20:06] memyselfandI: I can't cover the entire field of social justice theory so I picked two
[20:07] Brother: heh
[20:07] Brother: fair enough
[20:07] memyselfandI: and I need another 8-10 pages, though I haven't yet written intro or conclusion
[20:07] Brother: right to development would give some ample room for discussion
[20:08] memyselfandI: yeah
[20:08] memyselfandI: I mentioned it briefly already
[20:10] Brother: what is your general thesis?
[20:12] memyselfandI: that discussion of the environment in terms of justice is often done without considering the meaning of the word 'justice', often resulting in confusing or contradictary conceptions and actions
[20:13] memyselfandI: 'an evaluation of environmental justice'
[20:13] Brother: so if these discussions occur without considering the meaning of justice, how is it used?
[20:14] memyselfandI: as a generally fuzzy catch-all
[20:15] memyselfandI: are we talking justice in terms of distribution, in terms of exchange, in terms of procedure--is it 'just' if the procedures are just but the results not, is 'just' the same as equal, if justice is determined by distribution, is this distribution based on need, equality, or performance?
[20:15] memyselfandI: that was basically the class
[20:16] Brother: heh, welcome to phil 2001
[20:16] memyselfandI: with a whole other seciton on market economy, what that is, what it means, and if and how it could be combined with a concept of social justice
[20:16] memyselfandI: yeah, pretty much
[20:17] memyselfandI: so, if we are talking ecological justice in terms of access to resources, should this be equal access? Even if a person in Africa, for his standard of living or even for twice his standard of living only half the resources 'needs' than your average American
[20:18] memyselfandI: and if we are determining who has access to resources, who decides? who owns them anyways, and why? why is a common good such as the atmosphere even a common good?
[20:18] memyselfandI: and why should we care about future generations at all, except out of guilty conscience?
[20:18] memyselfandI: that is basically my paper
[20:18] memyselfandI: lots of questions, fewer answers but much discussion
[20:20] Brother: not a fan of saving the planet for your children?
[20:21] memyselfandI: theoretically, I would need to justify why, and not just because I like them
[20:24] Brother: what better reason could there be? you want to ensure a better word for your progengy... you live in an interconnected world where the issues of one are fast becoming the issues of all...
[20:25] memyselfandI: true, but what responsibllity do I have to the future? Is there a categorical imperitive to improve the lot of future generations?
[20:25] memyselfandI: Höffe, for example, handles that by saying it's all an exchange, you care for your kids when they are helpless so they care for you when you are helpless
[20:25] Brother: you have an obligation to your children
[20:26] memyselfandI: says who?
[20:26] memyselfandI: (I am playing devil's advocate, so you know)
[20:26] Brother: (I figured)
[20:26] memyselfandI: what is my obligation?
[20:26] Brother: your genes, your personal happiness, ground it however you like
[20:27] memyselfandI: what kind of philosopher are you?
[20:27] Brother: haha!
[20:28] memyselfandI: Rawls' argument, that decisions on social order are done behind the veil of ignorance, such that you don't know what society you will belong to or your place in it, can also be applied to generational justice--you pick the best conditions for possible future generations because you might end up there
[20:28] Brother: it could
(the punchline, and the reason I posted this)
[20:28] Brother: I'm just having visions of invisible hands fighting viels of ignorance
[20:29] memyselfandI: hahaha
[20:29] memyselfandI: hayek would be proud
[20:29] memyselfandI: like a philosophical fencing match
[20:30] memyselfandI: touché
[19:58] memyselfandI: I'm writing a paper on environment and justice, and I need another theme... I already have sustainable development and global commons, and I need one or two more issues
[19:59] memyselfandI: what do you think, right to development, carbon trading schemes or...?
[19:59] Brother: carbon trading for a justice paper?
[20:00] memyselfandI: jes
[20:00] memyselfandI: yes
[20:00] Brother: and I'm still not sure I buy right to development, but I come from a fairly privledged position so...
[20:00] memyselfandI: theoretical basis is social justice theories, primarily from rawls and nozick, with hints of locke thrown in for good measure
[20:00] memyselfandI: so carbon trading is an example of trying to design a 'just' system of pollution
[20:01] memyselfandI: based on egalitarian principles, with a dash of market mechanism to make the whole thing work...
[20:02] Brother: viel of ignorance is great... but it misses the huge step of how to get from where we are to where we ought to be
[20:03] memyselfandI: well, who defines where we ought to be?
[20:03] memyselfandI: I'd guess about 2/3 of all justice theorists have some kind of ur-starting point, rawls' veil, nozick's island, dworkin's auction
[20:05] Brother: basically
[20:05] Brother: its the same approach of state of nature
[20:05] memyselfandI: yeah, I know
[20:05] memyselfandI: theories and more theories
[20:05] memyselfandI: some of which are descriptive, some normative, and some simply idealistic
[20:06] Brother: basically
[20:06] memyselfandI: anyways, I have used rawls and nozick as my basis on which to evaluate various concepts
[20:06] memyselfandI: I can't cover the entire field of social justice theory so I picked two
[20:07] Brother: heh
[20:07] Brother: fair enough
[20:07] memyselfandI: and I need another 8-10 pages, though I haven't yet written intro or conclusion
[20:07] Brother: right to development would give some ample room for discussion
[20:08] memyselfandI: yeah
[20:08] memyselfandI: I mentioned it briefly already
[20:10] Brother: what is your general thesis?
[20:12] memyselfandI: that discussion of the environment in terms of justice is often done without considering the meaning of the word 'justice', often resulting in confusing or contradictary conceptions and actions
[20:13] memyselfandI: 'an evaluation of environmental justice'
[20:13] Brother: so if these discussions occur without considering the meaning of justice, how is it used?
[20:14] memyselfandI: as a generally fuzzy catch-all
[20:15] memyselfandI: are we talking justice in terms of distribution, in terms of exchange, in terms of procedure--is it 'just' if the procedures are just but the results not, is 'just' the same as equal, if justice is determined by distribution, is this distribution based on need, equality, or performance?
[20:15] memyselfandI: that was basically the class
[20:16] Brother: heh, welcome to phil 2001
[20:16] memyselfandI: with a whole other seciton on market economy, what that is, what it means, and if and how it could be combined with a concept of social justice
[20:16] memyselfandI: yeah, pretty much
[20:17] memyselfandI: so, if we are talking ecological justice in terms of access to resources, should this be equal access? Even if a person in Africa, for his standard of living or even for twice his standard of living only half the resources 'needs' than your average American
[20:18] memyselfandI: and if we are determining who has access to resources, who decides? who owns them anyways, and why? why is a common good such as the atmosphere even a common good?
[20:18] memyselfandI: and why should we care about future generations at all, except out of guilty conscience?
[20:18] memyselfandI: that is basically my paper
[20:18] memyselfandI: lots of questions, fewer answers but much discussion
[20:20] Brother: not a fan of saving the planet for your children?
[20:21] memyselfandI: theoretically, I would need to justify why, and not just because I like them
[20:24] Brother: what better reason could there be? you want to ensure a better word for your progengy... you live in an interconnected world where the issues of one are fast becoming the issues of all...
[20:25] memyselfandI: true, but what responsibllity do I have to the future? Is there a categorical imperitive to improve the lot of future generations?
[20:25] memyselfandI: Höffe, for example, handles that by saying it's all an exchange, you care for your kids when they are helpless so they care for you when you are helpless
[20:25] Brother: you have an obligation to your children
[20:26] memyselfandI: says who?
[20:26] memyselfandI: (I am playing devil's advocate, so you know)
[20:26] Brother: (I figured)
[20:26] memyselfandI: what is my obligation?
[20:26] Brother: your genes, your personal happiness, ground it however you like
[20:27] memyselfandI: what kind of philosopher are you?
[20:27] Brother: haha!
[20:28] memyselfandI: Rawls' argument, that decisions on social order are done behind the veil of ignorance, such that you don't know what society you will belong to or your place in it, can also be applied to generational justice--you pick the best conditions for possible future generations because you might end up there
[20:28] Brother: it could
(the punchline, and the reason I posted this)
[20:28] Brother: I'm just having visions of invisible hands fighting viels of ignorance
[20:29] memyselfandI: hahaha
[20:29] memyselfandI: hayek would be proud
[20:29] memyselfandI: like a philosophical fencing match
[20:30] memyselfandI: touché
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