Things to look forward to

Yes, that pathetic scrap of handkerchif fluttering there, that resolutely dingy rag trying to hide itself behind the barricade of my resolution to be unhappy, that is my flag of surrender. Yes, I give in, no, the world isn't ending, and yes, I do have something to go back to. In fact, in complete capitulation of my selfish little pity party (don't worry, it will come back), I bring you:

Things To Look Forward To.

1. My family
2. Colorado
3. My kid
4. Such friends as I have left
5. Horses
6. Hiking
7. Landscape
8. Clear blue skies (most of Europe is with me on that one. Just ask Sheffield)
9. Mountains
10. Microwave popcorn (ok, I still have some left, but it's imported anyways)
11. Bluegrass
12. Boulder
13. My car (I admit it, even I wish for a curvy road and more than two wheels, or less than 30 fellow passangers)
14. Corn on the cob
15. Starry skies
16. Soy milk and tofu
17. Altitude
18. A computer that works, doesn't hum, and has all its keys
19. My ipod. You are small and blue and pretty and waiting for me
20. Chai tea
21. New running shoes. No, I won't pay twice as much here!
22. Not having to pay 19% sales tax
23. Windows with bug screens and non-perscription cortisone cream.
24. Dishwashers: some people have them. I do not.
25. Summer (It should not be 50 degrees any more. Really.)

See the World...

Day to day
Where do you want to be?
'Cause now you're trying to pick a fight
With everyone you meet

You seem like a soldier
Who's lost his composure
You're wounded and playing a waiting game
In no-man's land no-one's to blame

See the world
Find an old fashioned girl
And when all's been said and done
It's the things that are given, not won
Are the things that you want

Empty handed, surrounded by a senseless scene
With nothing of significance
Besides a shadow of a dream
You sound like an old joke
You're worn-out, a bit broke
An' askin me time and time again
When the answer's still the same

See the world
Find an old fashioned girl
And when all's been said and done
It's the things that are given, not won
Are the things that you want

You've got a chance to put things right
So how's it going to be?
Lay down your arms now
And put us beyond doubt
So reach out it's not too far away
Don't mess around now, don't delay

"See the World" - Gomez

When I was in high school, I would have given up an arm, leg, and my firstborn kid to be an exchange student. It wasn't possible; only the divine providence of a scholarship could have even brought the matter into question, and even then I would have had to gird for battle against my mother's irrefutable (at least unproveable) You're Too Young with uncertain chances of success. Needless to say, I didn't go; in hindsight, I can't exactly argue that her argument was invalid or that it had destroyed any chance I had of going to Europe. In fact, it hardened my resolve to go anyways: as soon as my parent's Not In Highschool edict expired I took off (with their full support). Perhaps the additional age and wisdom gained between the time I would have gone (11th grade) and the time I did go (just after graduating) has made all the difference; but that is not my point.

As I was longing for Europe in my little home town, I met several other students whose parents had offered them this opportunity--the opportunity after which I had long been lusting and which excruciatingly remainded elusive--and these students didn't take it. I was completely dumbfounded by the conception that there are people who do not want to go abroad; given that that was my sole and overreaching desire, I found it hard to comprehend with an alternative so contrary to my worldview.

In the intervening years (all three of them) I would claim to have become more tolerant of others' perspectives; I can't expect everyone to prefer to not buy clothes in order to have money to travel. I had a coworker once who preferred to spend his paycheck on nights on the town; others who save up for a stereo or a game console. I ask why these people don't save. "What for?" "to travel," I reply. It seemed so obvious to me, but that what I consider "selbstverständlich" is not a universal given. For an alternative, I spend (or can expect to spend) between 50 and 75% of my time in my house or car; why, then, should these not be improved to the best of my financial ability?

As I am yet again faced with the seemingly monumental and unsurmountable task of packing up my life (again) for the purpose of moving (again) across the atlantic, I am almost unwillingly coerced into a reflection on the value of material things. As anyone who has lived any period of time out of a suitcase (or better yet, out of a backpack) knows well, it doesn't take much to survive. The definition of "need" goes on a diat and regains its true shape, and simple luxuries of (in my case) a couch or (in the case of a trekker) a hot shower inspire a deep and profound appreciation which cannot be felt if you have this experience at your beck and call. It is almost a corollary of "absence makes the heart go fonder"; you only appreciate the beauty of your home by leaving it, you only appreciate your loved ones when they are away, and the little things you took for granted are the things you miss the most. The number of possessions required for basic sustainance is astoundingly small, and the number or quantity of possessions to feel at home somewhere is also remarkably minimal.

A recent study on happiness came to the conclusion that, if you had $5000 to spend, you will be a happier person if you take a vacation than if you buy a car. Logically, it seems counterintuitive, as you will own this car much longer than your vacation experience. However, the car will eventually deteriorate, and you will be left with a shadow of your former happiness, possibly a financial burden, and doors/buttons/air conditioning/engines that don't work. A vacation, on the other hand, provides you with a concrete, definite and finite memory which you will always (providing no early-onset alzheimers) be able to recall and which should provide you with lasting enjoyment.

I'm not sure what would make me happy; actually, most of the time I am certain I am happy without feeling the necessity of defining a cause. Still, trinkets become more a burden than a treasure, and I appreciate them for the thought in their giving often more than for their own properties. On the other hand, I miss having a room decorated to my comfort and not just to my convenience and my means.

Limbo

Today is the 23rd of June, a Saturday. According to my not particularly reliable computer clock, it is 5:33 PM. Pretty soon I will need to be vacuuming, removing extraneous papers from the corners of my room and pretending I was a tidy person all along. Sometime around 7 we'll start setting out stuff, organising glasses and silverware, plates and drinks and all that stuff. I will be interested to see how our party turns out; a combined effort from our flat--though only two of us have really invited guests. I am hesitant to put too much effort into it all, despite the fact that 2/3 of the guests will be friends of mine, because of a few particularly unsuccessful and disappointing attempts at planning something, which involve none of the people invited today but nevertheless dampens my enthusiasm.

I haven't worked in a week and a half, and until I reassume my swivel stool behind the desk at my old job I expect I won't be. I've had a good week: I finished a book; went running; met friends for coffee or drinks or lunch or whatnot; went biking; made tenuous progress on one of the two large projects awaiting me. I fill most of my time well, with reading, or newspapers, or writing, or sports. Still, sometimes I feel like I am filling time.

Half of me wants to live out my remaining very precious few weeks completely full-tilt, in a never-say-die, sleep-when-you're-dead, another-stupid-clichée fashion; another part of me wants to slow down and just take it easy. Mostly I'm subscribing to the latter school, still, I can't help but wonder if I am missing something, and if so, what. Travel has become self-limited, as I am lacking the enthusiasm to go somewhere alone, too lazy to visit the people I know and to whom I actually owe a visit, unwilling in many respects to go and do such interesting things as are available to me.

No one says I have to, either; I have none of this maniacal "typical American" kamikazee need to see every European capitol, none of this "this is my only chance" mentality. I know I'll be back; I think I knew that when I first arrived, at age 17, that Europe would be my home. Still, there is a long list of things I wanted to do, intended to do, planned on, hoped for, or hungered after that I just haven't done. There's a list of cities on my "to see" list that have been sitting there for near three years now, if not longer. For this year, I wanted to travel Switzerland, visit France, go hiking in the Alps, perfect my French.... so many things I just never got to.

Though I love just being in FR--and my days are usually filled, and I consider myself as taking advantage of such natural providence as FR offers--I feel I have spent lots of time in a way that, when I look back on it, I won't precisely be able to remember. Countless dinners stretching into the evening, breakfasts on the balcony, jogs and bike rides, strolls around town, hikes up the hill, movies with friends... Though each of these things is a special, unique memory, I am afraid they will run together into a single conception, or a series of activities otherwise indistinguishable, and that even they will fade. I have no way to keep the moments apart, to remember them as I would a trip to somewhere; those moments are recorded either here or in a notebook somewhere, or both. I want to look back on this and remember.

Of course, it isn't over yet. I've still got a few weeks, far too few but not to be overseen or underestimated. I don't have any last-ditch whirlwind tour of Europe planned. My apathy and I will attempt to fulfill some of the university expectations for this semester but from the perspective of 5:49 on Saturday afternoon, I can with somewhat honesty say that I will try, and with more assurance say that it probably won't happen.

Mostly I am trying to figure out how to use the time I've got. I don't know it's possible to go out with a bang (is there a congenital clichée disease going around?) or if that is even important to me. I've been busy for so long I don't know how to not be busy, and I can imagine the vacation I have taken from life for the past week will eventually bore me and I will get my act together. Who knows, perhaps I can get some of these requirements off my back, or perhaps I will prefer to pepper my calendar with coffee visits and drinks with friends than appoints in the library. The jury is out. In all respects.

River rats?

First off, a shout out to my (unfortunately now former) colleagues--thanks for the book and the pen holder and the tag and the cards! (and and and).

.:.:. .:. .:.:. .:.:. .:. .:.:.

I'd found the perfect bench, on the corner of the Dreisam behind a dam, away from the unceasing traffic of kamikazee rollerbladers, hobby joggers, hell-bent-for-leather bike riders, and the apparently suicidal woman and baby stroller dodging traffic like a duckling on the Autobahn. The sound of water rushing over the dam cut the happy but noisy sounds of the vollyball pits and the sport arena, leaving me in a peaceful utopia, like sitting in a watery bubble amid all the rushing, vivid action. I'd taken a book on research methods along in the desperate attempt to make progress on my as-yet-unstarted project and was peacefully reading.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice something red and black hurtling by. The squeal of breaks and the clatter of a bicycle disturbs my calm as a Holland bike crashes to the ground behind me. In mere seconds a small band of what my grandmother's generation would probably call hooligans has conquered my oasis, spreading a blanket, distributing bottles of alcohol, and breaking out the cigarettes, completely disregarding my presence. The two girls and a boy, perhaps in their mid- to late teens, hair dyed black and artistically striped with red, conduct their business in a perpetual, almost hectic flurry. These youngsters (as I in my infinate age and wisdom thus term them) are the smaller and more harmless version of the punkers with the dogs whose demonstrations occasionally stop the tram lines; their dissent and disrespect of "normality" (normalcy?) is, in my opinion, more artistic than ideological.

In a demonstration of affection making me heartily wish for a bucket of cold water or, better yet, a firehose, the scrawny young lad climbs atop the black-haired girl with the lip ring in what I would term a PDA on methamphetamine--while the remaining girl begins to draw figures on all available body parts of the involved couple with a marker, poke and prod them, and implement all manner of ingenious and irritating means of distracting and disturbing; all the while ignoring my existence.

As I sat reading, fending off the flies and studiously ignoring the co-inhabiters of my space (I was assuming they were attempting to drive me off; or else completely indifferent to my presence), I can't help but wonder: who *are* these people? How far do they go to be "different"? And aren't they, in some respects, all the same? You can label them at 100 yards, you can guess the contents of the bottles they carry and the cigarettes they smoke.

Deciding I'd had enough of the flies I gathered my things. "Bye!" the girl calls to me as I wheel my bike away. "Bye!" I reply. "Have fun!"

Meet the parents/Murphy

(one of the small castles)

Despite signs of fatigue, a lack of sleep and coffee, and an hour and a half of French I made it to the appointed place at the appointed time, locked my bike, stowed my baggage, and wedged myself into the sardine-can that would be my home for the next six hours. The car was a Renault convertable, new, shiny, and small, with all the modern comforts available in a 3 x 6 space. I sat in the back with another friend, preparing myself to have a deep and very personal relationship with my knees. We passed the time reading newspapers and books, talkig, listening to the radio, and eating cookies. Except for the declining usefulness of my legs the drive was quite enjoyable, and as my fellow backseat companion departed in Siegen (one of the ugliest cities I have had the misfortune to visit), even this became much more pleasant.

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Destination: Mümster, a city in Northern Rhine-Westfalia, known as the site of the Anabaptist rebellion (the cages are still hanging on the church!) and of the signing of the Treaty of Westphalia in 1648 (Kegley and Raymond, do your best!). There is a beautiful cathedral, but because the citizens didn't like the bishop they built their shops (now the Prinzipialmarkt) facing away from the cathedral. Münster is also the site of one of Germany's largest universities, and is renowned for its bicycle-usage.

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We picked Saturday as our bike trip day, having taken the bus on friday but trusting the predictions and the sunshine. We toured two of the hundreds of small castles and forts in the region, each built with moats as defense in this hill-less landscape. Saturday was the opening of the exhitibion Skulptur projekte Münster 2007, happening every ten years, featuring large installations throughout the city. We were inteding to tour them by bike, but just as we arrived at the first one it began to rain and then to pour. We huddled in a parking garage, wet in our rain capes, and waited for it to abate before going on our way. Except it started again, and harder, and this time we were caught huddled under the trees where our rain capes promptly capitulated under the unrelenting torrential rainfall. Rivers washed around our ankles as we stood, helpless and miserable, waiting for it to let up enough for us to make it to the library, where we hung up our things, huddled barefoot in the garderobe with our cappuccinos and hot chocolates, as we decide whether or not to call in a rescue team. We eventually decide for the latter option (for reasons of comfort and convenience, and due to the uncertainty of the weather and the fact that we were scheduled to make dinner). And of course, it doesn't rain for the rest of the day.


(the first installation in the rain. I am the yellow-clad midget.)


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"He who can hear butterflies laugh knows the taste of clouds," boyfriend whispers in my ear, leaning over and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. I give him a look, the thought crossing my mind that someone could have spiked his spaghetti with capers. "I always wanted to say something like that," he continues, pointing to the sign on the wall from which he had read the phrase. I raise my camera to take a picture; the guys at the table between us and said sign think I am taking a picture of them. I don't disabuse them of the notion. We had discovered the nifty restaurant, an Italian place, after a walking tour of town, or of parts of it. The place had an interesting business model, somewhat like Noodles & Co or Tokyo Joe's (for my American audience!). You receive a card upon entry, which you present at the counter where you order, depending on if you want appetizers, pizza, pasta, or dessert. As for the pasta, it is then cooked right in front of you, with ingredients you choose, and the price is charged on your card. Pizza lovers are given a buzzer to alert them when their pizza is finished. You find your own table to sit at, collect your drinks at the bar, and bus service keeps the place looking spiffy. Complemented by modern architechture, large picture windows and contemporary furnishings, the place was quite good and not particularly expensive.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

My friend H. who had moved to Cologne some monts previously was able to come down to the track meet on Sunday, where Boyfriend was running (he came in 8th in the Collegiate Championships) and I was accompanying. I wish she hadn't moved away.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Münster has really cool botanical gardens. They are part of the university, free, open to the public, and have all sorts of different rain forest, desert, and other exhibits as well as a large english-style garden with paths, a small lake, and interesting plants to accompany the small palace now being used for University administration.



.:.:.:.:.:.:.

There is a bar in Münster, in the Arkaden, which serves tomato juice with tobasco sauce for me and two glasses of fresh whole milk for Boyfriend. Your typical partying college kids we are not.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

I had forgotten how nice it is to have a garden, where things grow and you can pick your breakfast yourself. I appreciated the extra space a house provides; not only the comforts of a large room, a large bed, and properly chosen furniture, but also just the sheer space one is afforded, with more than the default options of (1) bedroom or (2) kitchen.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

They taught me a card game, called Set!. Cards with one to three figures of one of three shapes, colors, and patterns, are laid in a grid on the floor. The point is to find a set of cards with all attributes consistant (same color, shape, pattern, but varying in number of figures) or with all attributes differing (each card a different color, with a different shape, number, and pattern,). It was fun, better than watching TV. And I won.

Confessions of a clumsy child....

Life can go your way
Or it can go to hell
Too soon to say
Can't seem to tell
In a stagnant state
Trouble finds me
I'm making my move
There's no time to lose

You gotta fight
Keep up the pace
Stand tall, even when you trip and fall
Keep up the pace
Stand tall, even when you trip and fall

Stuck in a bind
Principles in question
I stick my neck out
This fight I'll choose
A punch in the side
A blow to my pride
Kicked to the ground
Gotta pick myself up

You gotta fight
Keep up the pace
Stand tall, even when you trip and fall
Keep up the pace
Stand tall, even when you trip and fall

A little roughed up
But back on my feet
A bump in the road
But I'm still running
As Uncle Nemo said
"In life there's certain death"
No time for that
Gotta keep with the pack

Trip and Fall - the Planet Smashers

I was on my way out the door, or was trying hard to be at the point where I was almost out the door. Which really means I was at home, with a half hour to kill and perhaps the prospect of being early. I’d changed my clothes and was searching for an ellusive black top which I remembered to have hung on the balcony, where it was keeping my running clothes company and hopefully benefitting from some fresh air. My plan was to pack my running gear and an eggplant (no relationship) and head off to Boyfriend’s for dinner.

Being the particularly graceful person that I am—a fact supported both by eyewitness reports of spectacularly ungraceful and sadisically hilarious occurences as well as by the scars on my legs—I managed to have a minor disagreement with the stoop, with the metal bottom edge of the door. The stoop and I exchanged blows and heated words, with which I actually would have been satisfied, except for the part where my foot was starting to bleed. Fuck.

I hiked up my skirt and hopped to the bathroom, hoping to douse my damaged dignity as well as my foot. I assessed the situation with some measure of morbid curiosity. After my difference of opinion with the door a patch of skin the size of a dime decided to remain with the door out of solidariy, leaving me somewhat disadvantaged in the walking departmet. As much as I respect anyone’s right to an opinion I did begrudge the decision to a certain extent.

My very kind roommate, trying to enjoy her dinner in peace despite my one-footed antics and bloody kleenexes, helpfully provided me with a litre of ouzo (anise schnapps) and a row of bandaids. After minor surgery with a pair of nail scissors I was mobile again, though the wound itself continued to bleed. Contemplating my shoe collection I settled on a pair of brown skimmers, old and worn, beautifully complementing the yellow sock I was sacrificing to the gods of foot injuries in case of further bleeding.

Which left me at work the next day with a red skirt, one yellow sock, and a limp. Fashion statement of the year, that is. Another day, another scar.

Abschließend

Today is my last day of work. Or better said, today has been my last day of work, since today is almost gone. I’ve been here since January, working anywhere between 25 and 40 hours a week, dodging in and out of work between classes.

The scheduling was at times a bit rough. Though I have been used to simultaneously studying and working since I was 15, I don’t normally work more than 15 or 20 hours a week. Sometimes I wished I didn’t have to go to work at all, and would rather have just had a lazy student’s life. Other times, I wished I didn’t have to disturb my work day with class, wished I had no homework or assignments to do and could just use my weekends as I saw fit. Mostly, though, it worked well, combining a bit of the working world with a bit of university. Studying at the university allows me to learn for the sake of learning, to read and discuss and think critically about (sometimes) abstract concepts. Working, on the other hand, was “useful”, in that the products of my effort were utilised, and my energy was expended to produce, improve, or change something which would take the form of a publication or a presentation. The concept of spending three weeks on a term paper read by an indifferent instructor and receiving a meaningless grade has no place in this latter world. If one is lucky, the work done can incorporate the abstract other concepts learned and considered during the course of studies.

Internships are a hotly debated topic in Germany these days. Referred to as the “internship generation”, it seems to be a general expectation that most graduates will perform one (or more, or a series of) internship(s), likely unpaid, before having any chance at a career. Journalists point out with increasing glee any smidgen of evidence pointing to an upturn in the jobs market; public opinion, inasmuch as I have deciphered it from my fellow students, still remains decidedly pessimistic as to the chances of finding the coveted unrestricted contract upon graduation.

Whether or not one becomes a serial intern (bouncing from six-month placement to six-month placement, no actual position), the concept of an internship is also controversial. On one hand, an internship where the assignments solely consist of fetching coffee, making copies, setting up meeting rooms, and googling pointless details seems to me to be a waste of everyone’s time, or at least a grevious misuse of the poor intern’s (often expensive and hard-won) education. It doesn’t take a genius to make coffee (though if I could afford it, I'd hire an Italian to make mine, because they can do magic with coffee). On the other hand, an internship with real responsibilities, with projects to manage, reports to write, meetings to go to, things to organise provides excellent experience—and means that the poor intern is essentially at best an unpaid staff member. This allows companies to skimp on personnel, using the enthusiasm, education, and optimism, acquire office support on the cheap, and contribute to the overall lack of jobs, depressing wages, and hurting the business climate as a whole.

The measures suggested to remedy this malaise include requiring internships to be remunerated, at least nominally, and restricting them to three months; hopefully, the constant turnover will restrict the intern’s responsibilities to prevent them from actually replacing a staff member.

I personally am in full support of such measures; I have found my internships to be interesting and engaging opportunities to see how the “real world” works, and I have both learned lots and gained valuable skills. I will hopefully continue to fill my vacation periods with such interesting opportunities—but with the hope of eventually acquiring such a coveted job in my field.

My current—soon to be former—internship has been at an NGO, a network of local administrations worldwide working to implement the Aalborg Charter, Agenda 21, and various other types of sustainable development, procurement, climate, water, air, and urban management. As an intern in the Training Centre, I have been involved in a major conference in Spain, with almost 1,500 participants; I have accompanied delegations from Korea and Northern Ireland on study visits. Most of my duties included: writing, editing, proof- and copy-reading documents; translations; website maintenance; document imaging; conference support in whatever capacity; and support on various projects. I learned to use a new tool, a content-management system for maintaining websites considerably more intuitive (and less prone to casual accidental destruction) than my previous experience.

One of the most positive aspects of my experience has been the work environment. The organisation is young and dynamic, idealistic and dedicated, and its staff tend to be interesting, international people. The working language is English, but my colleagues come from all over the world and each speak several languages; the de facto working language of my office has been Spanish, and my non-ability in that language has more than once been an aggravating inducement to take classes. The staff population consists of many interns, mostly on 6-month rotation, so there is a considerable measure of fluctuation of young people. As is unusual at least for German firms (this is, after all, an international organisation), the form of address for all employees and interns—regardless of rank—is informal and first-name; a distinction not so clear in English but blatantly obvious in German.

My relationship with my superiors has been, at least from my perspective, quite good. There are several project officers whom I assist, and during the course of my internship we have developed an effective working relationship which gives me varying tasks and responsibilities for a variety of people, most of which may be done on a flexible time schedule. This is partially due to my somewhat unconventional schedule, but keeps me from being bored or overworked. I have the feeling that I can come to them with problems or issues that are unclear; that they, in turn, can come to me with suggestions and criticism.

As my departure approaches, my time becomes more precious to me—both in regards to the things I have to take care of as well as my preferences for how to spend such free time as I have. This is the reason for which I am looking forward to being finished here. My other reason, and one that worries me just a bit, is that I am already in the mood for “something different”, some other daily rhythm, other tasks and projects. This worries me in that I get either bored or wanderlust after six months or a year at any given job or in any given town. I haven’t ever really done anything longer than a year; most of my jobs have been 6 to 8 months. Is my attention span really so short? And more importantly, will I find a job that keeps me interested, or will I be able to stay interested in my job for longer periods of time? Perhaps that is a measure of maturity, one I don’t yet have but hope to acquire. In the meantime I am tired of “commuting” across the Atlantic, and I hope to commit to and complete a Master’s program somewhere in Europe; usually a 2-year commitment. Perhaps then my perspective will have changed; the outlook of a job, a dog, and 2.4 kids will be able to hold me down. Then again, packing my bags and setting off isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and in the end, I’ll make the choice that seems best, and take the consequences as they come. For now, I will enjoy my remaining 6 weeks without the constriction of an internship but with the good memories, skills, and experiences I have acquired.

Ciao Milano

How many stories start with me being at the train station at 6 AM? For variety's sake, I'll back this one up to the day before, when I decided to go to Italy for a day and take the slot of a friend who couldn't go. Amid a small flurry of text messages my name was added to the list and hers removed; I and our mutual friend A. were to go to Milan for one day.

Fast forward, 5:30 AM: my phone rings. The person calling me must either be from a different time zone or A. (the latter proved to the be the case; her ringing to say she was feeling poorly and couldn't come). This leaves me alone on a trip to which I was looking forward but without vast quantities of enthusiasm. But I am capable of going places by myself, so instead of also jumping ship I went alone.

Now, here we are, 6 AM at the train station. I have a row of seats to myself. My book and I keep each other company through Switzerland. It was nice to see mountains, rising up above the lakes and plains. I furtively took pictures out of the window, hoping the dirt on the windows and my camera's tendancy to take fuzzy pictures would not collude to spoil my shot. My "experience" of Switzerland includes the highway and two truck stops, but the view was great, the seat reasonably comfortable, and the book above averagely interesting.

The scenery changes noticeably on the other side of the Alps. Sitting in the back I didn't necessarily notice when Switzerland became Italy, and as no one checked our passports I have no proof, either :(.

Milan, 12 PM: We get out at the Castello Sforzesco, a large 14th century castle which is now an art gallery including Michelangelo's last sculpture, the Rondanini Pietà, and Leonardo da Vinci's Codex Trivulzianus manuscript. We trailed on over to the Duomo like kindergarten kids on a field trip. The Duomo is either the 2nd or the 4th largest cathedral in the world, depending on your authority. (To blatantly plagerize wikipedia: "Built from the late 14th well into the 19th century (and in a sense, never completed as work continues), the Duomo di Milano is one of the world's largest churches, being second in size within Italy only to Saint Peter's Basilica in Rome, and being the second largest Gothic cathedral in the world, after the Cathedral of Seville in Spain." This makes no logical sense; if Sevilla is a larger Gothic church than Milan, shouldn't Sevilla beat Milan in the overall rankings? Or are we just considering the size of the gothic portion of the cathedral?)

So, Cathedral. We went in, did what you do in every church or cathedral (avoid the beggars and, in this case, have your bag and wardrobe checked by the police, circle once respectively, stare at the ceiling, see if there are interesting graves, leave). Slipping through the world's most expensive shopping mile (so we were told) we made our way to the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, housing one of the most famous paintings of Leonardo da Vinci, The Last Supper, which was neither open nor had tickets for the fresco. Good, okay.

By this point I was tired of following around our group leader, who managed to herd his charges at a snail's pace while remaining 20 yards ahead of us the entire time. I co-opted another group member and we hightailed it for something to eat (it was now 3 PM, and I had had breakfast at 5:30, so I was kinda hungry). Lunch was pizza for her and something else for me, wich turned out to be a mini pie of rucola and zucchini. My companion was an American from D.C. in her second year at FR, taking politics courses and someho still unknown to me.

We spent the remainder of the day cruising through town, slurping our gelatos, babbling in mixed German and English in a café, sipping our cappuccini, searching for some place that sells affordable wine (without avail...all we wanted was a supermarket, none to be found), cannolis (we did succeed here), a sew on patch for her backpack (also successful). We passed several other old churches, a ton of cool stores, cafés très charmés, gaggles of tourists, art dealers, and aggressive men wanting you to feed the pigeons so you can pay them to take your picture.

Footsore and weary we sat awhile in the piazza in front of the Duomo for some of the best people-watching I've had in a long time. Italian people are beautiful, and you can easily sort them out from the tourists. I admired the men, impeccably dressed, with gorgeous shoes and tailored shirts, usually understated, always with the proper sunglasses. The women as well, stylish, in skirts and heels with matching handbags and perfect hair. I envied some of them for their taste and style, and did not envy others for their shoes and fashion sense. Increasingly I saw younger girls, probably around 13 or 14 dressed in a fashion even too daring for me, and already acquiring extra padding around the middle, unfortunately accented by the unhappy combination of tight clothes and an improperly placed belt. Fast food conquers Italy?

Completely beat we made it back to the meeting point about a half hour early, chatting with some fellow group members. I discovered an acquaintence among my fellow travellers and talked a bit with someone I had never met, who proceeded to sit next to me and explain at great length abstract concepts I was too tired to follow until I asked him if I could stretch my legs out. I promptly fell asleep, though I kept waking up with the fear that the bus would crash. Which it didn't.

I dragged my battered feet home, arriving chez moi at quarter past 2 AM, which isn't bad for a return trip to Italy. If only I could have taken a month's supply of gelato with....

Channeling Julia Child

Thought: Why does man kill? He kills for food. And not only food: frequently there must be a beverage.
Woody Allen (1935 - )

I have an interesting relationship with food. Even as a kid I never quite ate what normal kids ate. It would not have occurred to me to describe it as ‘unusual’. Like most kids I was a picky eater, with phases where I refused pizza, sausage, hamburger-based dishes, tacos, and grilled chicken, all framed within a constant dislike of spaghetti sauce, frosting on cake, peanut butter, salad of any persuasion, or any dish in which the vegetables were mixed together. I have no memory of particular culinary terrors (lima beans, brussels sprouts, etc) filling me with dread, just a long list of stuff I didn’t like.

Food is the most primitive form of comfort.
Sheila Graham

As we age our tastes change, either as a result of social and emotional development (in the scheme of things, eating vegetables is not as terrible as when younger) or because of biological change. I no longer particularly care for sweet or oily foods; I prefer salty, sour, and bitter. I prefer vinegar to oil, drink unsweetened tea and coffee, and repeatedly bake my cakes with half the required sugar and usually a dose of lemon juice. Hot sauce, mustard, chilis, jalapenos, curries, and other such foods have become favorites of mine, and I often eat them plain.

Most vegetarians look so much like the food they eat that they can be classified as cannibals.
Finley Peter Dunne (1867 - 1936)

Usually I would not associate the term “picky eater” with myself; my single ground rule for what I will and won’t eat excludes anything with eyes and anything that can move of its own volition (a corollary added to exclude slugs and snails, which apparently do not have eyes). Yet in many senses, I am quite choosy about what I eat. I have the delightful reputation of being the only person to pack her own lunch at the university cafeteria, for reasons of economy and taste. I don’t like mass-produced food, sauces or meals from a box or package, and often am convinced I could do better myself—and am usually willing to spend the extra time to try.

The trouble with eating Italian food is that five or six days later you're hungry again.
George Miller

I would also describe myself as a wannabe gourmand. I enjoy good food, and because the Mr. Scrooge part of me refuses to eat out, I am led to put particular effort and time into cooking. When a group of people come to my house to cook it tends to be complicated, and particularly designed such that everyone (or most everyone) has a job to do, allowing us to make and eat things I personally would never have had the energy to make alone. Of course, not everyone necessarily wanted a job to do, but I figure it’s more fun if two people aren’t cooking alone while 8 people sit around.

We are indeed much more than what we eat, but what we eat can nevertheless help us to be much more than what we are.
Adelle Davis

So my consolation, as I sit today in the cafeteria with my broccoli curry, leftover from yesterday and lovingly packed in a tupperware container, enduring the bemused looks of my compatriots, is that at least I don’t have to ponder the deeper meaning behind “parts is parts”, contemplate the gelatinous-looking attempt at a sauce, or slurp down mushy french fries.

Nothing will benefit human health and increase the chances for survival of life on Earth as much as the evolution to a vegetarian diet.
Albert Einstein (1879 - 1955)
(and apparently, becoming vegetarian does more to reduce CO2 output than switching to a hybrid car. End of commercial)

Big Brother

When I have nothing better to do, I sit on the grass or on a bench and watch people. The people by the river tend to be relaxing, walking slowly, savoring each step like Black Forest cake; or else, they are joggers of all persuasions, ages, and speeds: old ones; young ones; couples with and without strollers; some looking as if they are enjoying themselves and others looking a cross between self-pitying and resolute as they absolve their daily training regimine. In town there are shoppers and strollers, many clutching small children and ice cream cones in the summer; elderly push through the crowds followed by bands of pre-teen girls like a gaggle of mini Paris Hiltons.



It is interesting to observe how people treat the beggars and panhandlers. Someone once told me the only moral or ethnical quandry with which a Western individual is really faced is whether or not to give money to beggars; purely economically, giving change to a beggar will probably not break anyone's bank. Yet not everyone gives: some pretend to ignore the panhandler; others flick their eyes over the mendicant and then, squaring their shoulders and lifting their gaze, march on past without taking further notice; still others sort of sheepishly scuttle by, as if guilty in their decision not to give money. (Personally, I don't give money to beggars because, though I can afford the change or the Euro or two, if I gave change to every beggar I saw, every time I saw one, I would be broke pretty quickly; secondly, if I have spare change I would rather give it to the kid with the recorder).

Rituals of acquaintence are also quite amusing. In France and French Switzerland there are bisous, kisses on the cheek, given to anyone with whom you are on any kind of a named basis, two or three depending on whom you are kissing. Some groups of friends do this; in mixed groups, including Spanish, Italian, French, Swiss, or anyone else likely to trade bisous, as soon as one person starts everyone has to do it. In Germany, mostly, it's hand shaking, except for hugs for friends, and usually only for hello and goodbye. You can tell who is befriended with whom by whether they shake hands or hug each other. Sometimes people get confused, intending to kiss someone on the cheek, but that person wasn't prepared and it turned into a mix between bisous, a hug, and a handshake and everyone laughs awkwardly.

Conversation styles differ greatly. I've noticed, when I am speaking with someone, I tend to watch their mouth. Sometimes I watch their eyes, but extended eye contact tends to freak people out so I quit doing that so much. And when a person talks to me, he or she probably spends 75% of the time looking at the wall behind me or above me, his or her eyes roaming while thinking. Sitting across from someone and carrying on a meaningful conversation is difficult; I would imagine a first date would be much more comfortable walking side-by-side and talking rather than sitting across from one another at dinner, for instance. The individuals who are amusing dinner guests (or good public speakers) not only tell funny stories, they make eye contact or at least sweep their eyes over their audience, visually including and drawing in the listeners.

I often wonder what the stories are behind these lives that I see in town, among friends, or at the river. I am always interested--and grill my coworkers and fellow students--as to what they study/have studied, what they have or have had as a job, where they have been, where they come from and where they are going. I want to know why they moved someone, how they met their significant other, how their parents met, everything. Perhaps my directness is offputting, but I have the sense of learning a little bit of how life works from the reflections of other peoples' lives. Many people have told me I'm not normal--and it's been a long time since someone accused me of being 'Typically American'--and I have no conception of what normal is, except for occasional glimpses into the lives of others or a brush with pop culture. I can't define it, and I can't say I want to be "normal"--aa good friend told me long ago that "being normal is highly overrated". The axiom is true, I think, particularly if normality is defined as conformity. Still, I am interested in what has made people who they are--insofar as the past has predicated the future, if the relationship is causal as well as temporal--in the dubious hope of perhaps discoveing my future in my own past.

I'll let you know in 10 years how it turned out. And maybe I will even look you in the eye.

I am an old woman
Named after my mother
An old man is another
Child whos grown old

If dreams were thunder
Lightning was desire
This old house it wouldve burned down
A long time ago

Make me an angel
That flies from montgomery
Make me a poster
Of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing
That I can hold on to
To believe in this livin
Is just a hard way to go
--Angel from Montgomery (John Prine)

The battle of sushi fields

I had a small altercation with a piece of sushi yesterday. Middle of nowhere on a bike, somewhere between the Rhine and home, I get a call from A., who is back from a fabulous concert in Zürich and up for dinner. With a bit of effort I tracked down another friend who, plus her boyfriend, mine, his brother, my roommate, A., and the two friends she ended up bringing with, resulted in quite a crowd.

For a shared flat I have a big kitchen, enough for six to comfortably cook and eat. The nine of us had a bit of problem fitting everyone in, but sushi is work-intensive, and our particular economy had a comparative advantage in labor. So, knives flashing my faithful fellow cooks evicerated the vegetables, reduced the rice to a defenseless mass, and turned a tower of lettuce into a mustardly masterpiece. I myself went to battle against three bricks of spinach and a can of tomatoes, which, pitted against the pitiful three layers of lasagne noodles on hand resulted in something resembling a casserole but without aspirations of ever becoming a lasagne.

So, sushi. Cook rice, cool down rice, mince vegetables (carrots, radishes, cucumber, bamboo sprouts, baby corns, avacado), spread rice on nori (yes, it is seaweed), line up the vegetables neatly and carefully (the heretics added fish), and...roll. Someone pointed out the apparent affinity of my menues to tend towards "rolling". Freud would probably have something to say to that but I'd rather not speculate; suffice to say the evidence is against me (sushi, spring rolls, an attempt at soft tacos).

But I digress. We roll and we slice, we lift, we dip, we eat. For those brave of heart and tongue or devoid of taste buds, there is the evil green drug known as wasabi, cunningly addictive, leaving us red in the face, noses burning, coming back again and again for our next fix.


The opposing army...

Sometime later in the evening, after I had already eaten two or three hundred pieces of sushi and my ration of casserole and salad I went for another sushi piece, dunked it liberally in wasabi (I, ever the modest one, brag of my ability to eat it plain, with a spoon--not just idle chatter). And the bloody piece of sushi attacked me, getting stuck somewhere between chewing and swallowing; the wasabi, sensing weakness, moved in for the kill and in a brilliant flanking manoeuvre, managed to incapacitate me completely. I sat rigid in my chair, slowly turning red, gasping like a lifetime pack-a-day smoker mountain climbing, trying to swallow, or spit out, or do something, anything, but the persistant piece will not release its hold, going for the jugular like a bulldog. As my distress becomes obvious I am surrounded by a ring of horrified-looking dinner guests, probably looking like the unholy cross between a tomato and a fish out of water.

But I rallied the troops and counterattacked, managing to force the sushi into retreat and eventually into my stomach. The wasabi relinquished extremely unwillingly, and I was left with the last vestiges of the rearguard in my nose, giving me the appearance and the stuffy nose of a serious allergy sufferer with a headcol; these battle wounds would remain with me throughout the remainder of the evening.

My victory meal of apple sauce and crêpes was not the least diminished by my uncooperative olfactory organ, though I imagine I could have appreciated the taste as well as the consistancy had I been more astute or graceful in my initial sushi sortie.