Dreams of another place

In Saint Paul we stood in a walled city, admiring an old fortress turned art colny, streets of white stone pristine, restored, and far cleaner than they probably ever were, even when new. The shops of art and jewelry, lavender sachets, herbier de provence and t-shirt à la StPaul au americain reflecting the expected tourists (middle-aged yuppies, contradiction in terms?) rather than the history of the place. You see these touists, a balding man with an expensive smile, a pauch in his waist and a over-browned, over-made-up and under-satisfied (un-self-satified?) companion, perusing the art and jewelry, exclaiming over the quaint handmade whatchamacalit or the rustic somethingorother. Or else, perhaps not in St Paul but certainly elsewhere, flocks of Asian tourists like ducklings following their mother (and conveniently posing for portraits in front of particularly old or impressive buildings), grungy backpackers with bags dangling like an overloaded packhorse, groups of American teenagers, hungover and/or exclaiming loudly (all this stuff is, like, old or something. I totally saw this awesome shop back there, where you can buy like handmade stuff).

I try to pretend that I don't belong to them, or to any other hastily generalized group. I don't like speaking english when around such locals as exist, though it is obvious I am not from here, will never be from here, and in a place like St Paul, or Venice, or Breckenridge, there probably isn't anyone at all who is actually from there. I try to pretend like I belong, but to where, and to whom?

And what, may I so politely ask, is wrong with being a stranger? I know everyone hates tourists--and I incude myself in this--but is it so wrong to visit such places, to be someone on a trip who can still appreciate the small differences and local delights? To disparge the endless stream of tourists touring every church in Europe, those who do a kamikaze tour of fifteen european capitals in three weeks and those who fork over money to take the elevator up the Eiffel tower or visit the Mona Lisa is easy--yet what does one do, when one tours? What does it mean to be a tourist? To sit in taxis and airplains, trophy mugs and t-shirts like war booty piled in overstuffed suitcases, picking destiations based on Michelin ratings, film credits, or 'must sees' seems rediculous to me: the modern crusaders plundering an imagined history, collecting places visited like commemorative plates. Historical sites abound, and we go, and we look, and we don't understand: it is 'just another church' to us, differnt from the last but we don't know how, yet we do not understand all that this building has represented for its community nor the history and the violence it has withstood throughout the century. To us, a fortress on a hilltop surrounded by luxury villas does not represent a contradiction any more.

As we sat on the shore listening to the waves, enjoying the peculiar sound they make when receeding over pebbles, like fingers on a washboard, I realize the reason you go somewhere, anywhere, is to change the default set of activities. People are creature of habit, slaves sometimes to their routine, everything timed and measured and predictable. Hobbies as well are predictable, and there is a finite set of choices of things to do in a given environment. Travelling allows you to experience completely new things, of course, but adds activities like walking on the beach, exploring old buildings, or visiting a museum to the set list of possibilities, and removes the old standby of work *(hopefully). I do not have to visit every church because it is there, but the option exists for me. I do that which pleases me. It helps to be somewhere completely different when trying to find oneself.

Vignettes of my trip....

Learn at least please, thank you, excuse me, help, and I'm lost in whatever languague. After this point, the best you can do is point, nodd, smile, and look desperate.

Never wear white tennis shoes. Those who wish you ill will spot you at a hundred yards, And those, such as myself, who find such tourists amusing, will also spot you, and secretly laugh maliciously. Also advantagous are multiple pairs of (comfortable) shoes, in case of inclement weather, necessity of matching outfits, blisters, dog poo, or any of a number of eventualities. Hate your feet, hate your life.

Being cold = catching cold. Watch out.

The bread in France is good. For a whitebread country, pretty damn fantastic. I didn't try the bread much in Spain but what I did try wasn't good. On the flipside, as a whitebread country, I would ocasionally trade my as of yet unexistant firstborn for some Schwarzbrot or Dinkelvollkorn.

You drink hot drinks from a bowl. Not a cup. I find this strange, somehow cool, and dangerous in that one serving is the size of half a can of coffee.

Meals are eaten in courses. First your vegetables, then your meat and hot foods, next salad, then the cheese, then the fruit, and sometimes even a dessert. Word to the wise, don't fill up on the first course or you won't make it to the cheese course without exploding.

And the cheese is fantastic, which it should be given that there are 375 different kinds and none from the region of Antibes. Too hot for cows, I guess.

Ask and ye shall receive, and try it first in French. Switching into English when at first they don't understand does not make it easier for them, and not even for you.

Beware of people who talk to you for no reason.

"So I speak English too." "So I see." "I learned it, you see, but it was a punishment. You know this one? A man is arrested by the police and they tell him, you have two choices. Either you go to prison for three years or you learn English. Okay, I learn English, he says. So they put the headphones on him and after ten minutes he says, wait, wait, I take it back, send me to prison!"

A toilet may consist of a hole in the ground. Beware while flushing.

French motorway are not for the feint of heart. Navigation may be tricky, and roudabouts are your best friend. Just keep going round and round and round and round until you figure out where the hell you are. Oherwise you end up on a tollway interstate to somewhere, with exits every half hour.

Je ne sais pas, où je vais, ou ça j'avais jamais bien su. Mais si jamais je le savais? je crois bien que je n'irais plus.....

Well then...

To you, my dear reader, I would apologize for my unforseen absence. Perhaps I will write one of these days a more detailed report of my activities, but for now, a summary must suffice.

When last I wrote I had arrived in Paris. Mum and I had a day to ourselves to explore the city, and we cimbed the Eiffel Tower before most of the tourists arrived, and spent most of the rest of the day wandering around, looking at old buildings, enjoying Paris and each other, cruising bookstores and the like. I had an extra day to repeat the experience, as mom went to Belgium to visit a man she had never met and will probably never see again. So I did Paris tout seule, which resulted in various unforseen and entertaining--if odd--conversations, in French, with random people who started talking to me in the street or in the gardens. As I went to collect mom from Gare du Nord I was informed by loudspeaker that the metro was not stopping at that station due to security concerns, so I exited at Gare de l'est and walked, fearing bomb threats or worse. There were no visible problems that we could see, only police cars, and we managed to miss the later--or previous--riots.

Wednesday we went to Honfleur, first meeting our hostess in Beauvais, all of which required navigating our rented car on the French motorway. Honfleur is an absolutergeous city on the Norman coast, and we spent our time there taking walks, more walks, walks on the beach and through the town, getting rained on, eating bread, and taking it easy. Our host, a loquatious and friendly tiny frenchwoman, lent us her vacation appartment in Honfleur for the week, and we took a day to drive along the coast to see the tapestry in Bayeux.

Yesterday we flew from Paris Orly to Antibes, on the Med, which we just toured this morning. Southern flair and palm trees, turquoise waters, luxury yachts and warm weather have greeted us, and I am eagerly anticipating the rest of the week. Our hosts are a lovely couple who raise roses for a living, live in a huge house with their daughter and her companion, and have a separate house where interns live which is, for our stay, entirely at our disposal. The young couple speaks excellent English, the woman speaks better or similar English to my French, and her husband speaks only French and is just an absolutly lovly person with a smile to light up a room.

So there you have it, that's what we did.

Paris, je t'aime...

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....

...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....

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....

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.

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.

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.

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 )

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

Um.... Veil of Ignorance, anyone? Or veil of verbal incontinance?

I won't take much of your time, ye honored reader, mostly because I haven't got much of it myself, or better said, such time as I have is better spent waging war with my computer and my paper (not the same thing--the first is inhibited by the pile of keys sitting on the table next to the keyboard, and the second is inhibited by the fact that I have been sitting in this chair about 80% of the last twelve hours).

This may come out as a bit of typographical expressionism, a linguistical Wassily Kadinsky, with much enthusiasm, little forethought, and a deep and profound happiness not to be writing about Justice With A Capital J. It's harder to do Eddie Izzard-style tranitions in writing, but I suppose I can non-sequit with the best of them, so I will try.

So, Language. Learning language is fun. I do it every day. If I had been smart I would've written down all the funny and stupid and hilarious and inappropriate things I've inadvertently said in the course of learning German, but because I wasn't, I'll have to suffice with some of the more recent examples.

"Bubble Orchester?" (b.l.a.s.e.n.o.r.c.h.e.s.t.e.r: he looks confused. bemused. more bemused than confused. I'm explaining with enthusiasm why I couldn't pay attention in class because a marching band was wandering around under the window--true story) "You mean a wind ensemble?" (b.l.a.s.o.r.c.h.e.s.t.e.r is what I wanted to say. certain friends pointed out the other possible mis-interpretations of the first spelling; I will leave that one up to the German speakers.)

My bike has no light on it, speaking of changing lanes without signaling. Every week something else is wrong with it, and I have jiggled all wires, turned all the screws and bent and pulled and tried and still no luck. So I am now practicing the quick-jump-off-and-pretend-I-was-pushing-all-along manoeuvre, in case the police come.
Running a red light at 3 AM at an empty intersection? 90€
Taking the tram without a pass? €40
Riding without a light? €10
...
Knowing you're rebelling in a country where that Just Isn't Done? Priceless. There are some things money can't by, and for everything else there's an Überweisung.

You know what I dislike? Potatoes. I don't hate them, I just have a certain lack of respect for them--potatoes are not elegant or glamorous, they are knobby and brown and not even a proper sphere and you have to scrub them or peel them or somehow turn them into something edible, which is anyways a lot of work and boring and gives you blisters in strange places or verschrümpfelt your hands. Pommes de terre, c'est tout. Yet in comparison to their shiny red and green friends, to those spherical objects of biblical and mythological reference, they are lowly, and not just geographic. And they taste, more or less, like the seasonings in which they were cooked, kind of like Tofu except without the health benefits. I wonder what the total historical death toll of the potato is? The potatoes of mass destruction (vgl. 1849 Ireland).... I like the sound of that...send in the troops...

Monthly Report from the "working world"

Monthly report

I've been here for over a month now. I've had a living-in period and now feel I know my job and my coworkers.

My job: about 95% of my time is spent on the Sevilla conference, and the other 5% goes to the odd jobs I receive in my inbox or tasks for an upcoming Local Renewables Conference in Freiburg in June, for which I will probably become quite active. My main responsibility has been to support the program officers, who are collectively responsible for designing and organising forty sessions, each requiring speakers to be considered, selected, and invited; rejected speakers are often invited to present posters, and speakers who decline must be replaced. My job is to draft the invitation letters and registration forms, combining database information, a form letter, and a lot of CTRL-C and CTRL-V. The drafts are then looked over by the responsible officer, combined with other documents to create the invitation package, and are sent off. It's a bit tedious for everyone involved. Once the sessions have more than half of their speakers confirmed, they may be released on the website, which involves a final English and general check (also my responsibility), creation and upload of a PDF. My fellow interns, for their part, process the participants' applications, the completed
registration forms from speakers, update the website, the program information, track down people who have or have not paid, etc. The program officers maintain contacts with speakers, decide who receives fee waivers, fix problems, coordinate with partners, and try and get all of their sessions as final as possible, as soon as possible.

It's a lot of work. Much of it is repetitive. I am constantly astounded by how much work there is to do; I often leave my desk with a stack of tasks still lingering in my inbox, glaring reproachfully at me as I refuse to spend a tenth hour in a row working on them.

But it's coming together. The registration of participants, at first a trickle, is now a steady stream and threatens to become a deluge as speakers register and as people make final decisions on attendance. We have borrowed one person from another team to keep up and may acquire another intern.

The organisation still runs smoothly, as far as I can tell, with training for new staff, team meetings, secretariat meetings, extracurricular activities in the form of going-away parties, frequent communication and people who are willing to answer a question. I would be interested in learning a bit of what the other teams do, but that would first happen after the conference if at all.

Some of the skills I have learned and the tools I have worked with:
- website content management systems: I am now a familiar user with typo3 content management system. It allows mere mortals to create and edit webpages without knowing one iota of HTML and with a very small chance of screwing everything up. It’s actually ingenious how the whole thing works, and I am constantly learning new tips and interesting tools. I hope to one day be able to set up my own typo3 system but that is currently considerably beyond my skillset.
- Database: how to manage, in the case of our maindaba, some 30,000 and in the case of our conference daba, some 700 contacts in minutely complicated fashion, interlinked in ways I can’t even begin to comprehend. One (sometimes three or four, but still) press of the button and you may have one of fifteen different outputs, forms, letters, whatnot, all customized to the desired record. Mostly what I learn is how to get around the program quirks, for example that one particular form may only be used by one individual at a time so we have to coordinate among six individuals who gets to use the—Murphy, ye be praised for your wisdom—registration form at a time.
- Multitasking: on my desk is a list of things I have to do, specific tasks for ongoing projects (‘fix formatting on session XX’ or ‘update pages XX, YY, and ZZ on website A’). My inbox is full of little tasks from random people (ranging from ‘please proofread this grant proposal’ or ‘please prepare 20 invitations’ or ‘please pick something up from the printer and bring it to me’ to ‘do you have any ideas about XX?’). Some are creative, some are tedious, and trying to figure out others’ and set my priorities—and combine these priorities with my estimate of how long each task will take—keeps me on my toes. Multitasker that I am, I tend to keep several long-term projects going (update a session description or fix formatting on 30 webpages) which I intersperse with anything urgent, anything that doesn’t take long or, if I’ve just been fixing formatting for an hour, anything else. But my computer isn’t the fastest and doesn’t always keep up with my six applications.
- Good and not-so-good ways to run a meeting or training session: the fact that there are meetings and trainings speaks well for the organisation and its communication, and in general, they are run well—such that, in the case where they aren’t run well, I get annoyed. A well-run meeting has an agenda, it is moderated by someone in a useful manner, it addresses the points that need to be addressed in the manner in which they need to be addressed, it keeps some people from talking to long and, hopefully, leaves you in a better place in regards to your tasks or the projects than you were in before.
- Balancing communication and initiative: taking initiative hasn’t really been a problem, it’s just sometimes my good idea conflicts with the needs of the project—throwing things away too soon, or making a decision regarding formatting or procedure. However, asking if it’s ’ok’ to do everything only hinders the project and irritates the coworkers, so I have to decide in the best interests of the project or task, try and make sure the involved people are aware, take criticism where it is due and be willing to fix mistakes—and there haven’t been many.

And among all the hectic and frenzy of planning colleagues are coming and going; many are on six-month or year-long contracts and move on at the end of their allotted time, receive jobs in other countries or are looking for them. The aspect which impresses me the most is the internationalism of the office: most people are not Germans, and their next job may be in a completely different country. The telephone rings
and is answered in either English or German, but the conversation may take place in any one of five or six languages, and the ICLEI staff person speaking may switch among them. If someone calls and does not speak a particular language, there is about a 90% chance that someone else in the room speaks it, English, Spanish, German, French, Dutch, Russian, Swedish… And I ask how they learned these languages: living
and working in different countries. They have studied things like international relations, diplomacy, development management, environmental sciences, ecology, biology, international business management, politics, economics. It inspires me, both regarding courses of study and choice of location. After I have finished my bachelor I need to learn French, and probably Spanish as well, if I want to be competitive in this field. So I hope to do a several-month internship somewhere where they speak French, preferably Paris or Brussels, though if I got a chance to go to Kigali or somewhere I would take it even if that means learning funny French, and then I will probably need to go for a Masters' somewhere. And after that? The
world is my playground.

The Midterm Report

I'm 20 and a half today. No, there won't be a party, no cake, none of that. Keine halben Sachen, no points for halfway.

What has this half year looked like?

I celebrated my birthday in Hhfn, for the second time in three years. As I recall, we spent the morning of my birthday in Kiel, because R. was taking part in a triathalon. It rained, and they had to keep postponing the swimming. In the evening we went to see Das Leben der Anderen, which was a great film. It was nice to be there, nice to celebrate with them. I have pictures.

I went to Braunschweig after that, visited my sister, met a girl who would become one of my best friends in Freiburg. I spent a week without coffee and with withdrawal headaches. I ran. Every day.

I went to Freiburg. I spent a rainy week with wet shoes and decreasing spirits, trying to find somewhere to live that was a) more or less central, b) not filled with strange people, c) furnished, d) not horribly expensive, e) some place I would want to live. I found everything but (c), signed my lease, left the Jugendherberge that had become my home and, with the trepidation of a new location, moved to Mainz.

There I spent almost two months working in the Parliament, living in the House of Representatives with a wonderful Czech girl who was my constant companion. We spent our evenings watching TV, hanging out, wandering around, walking along the Rhine, swimming, what have you; we spent our weekends on trips to the Rhine valley, to Heidelberg, to Trier, with friends of hers or alone. I learned a lot, grew up some, met some lovely people and was sad to leave.

The stuff I had brought and bought barely fit in my backpack and three plastic bags, and I barely made it in to Freiburg where A. picked me up at the train station. I was promptly interrogated by the ticket guy on the tram in my first and only such experience. I moved in, I registered, I tried the hard way to learn the German system. I transported bookshelves in the bus. I bought things. I ran. Every day. I went to classes. I sat in the back, was very confused, and spent all day reading, grocery shopping, and running in the time I wasn't in class. I spent my weekends with long walks, with friends, in town, going out, staying in, watching movies, going to concets, going to the movies, talking. I built a circle of friends, slowly but surely. I gave presentations; each one became easier and less stressful. I tried hard. Mostly, I succeeded, if sometimes imperfectly.

I went to Bonn, got to know some great people and one person in particular. I had a blast, heard some interesting and some boring presentations, fought off a cold and had a time of it. I went to HHfn for Christmas, celebrating in a house full of people, of laughter, of music and baked goods, chocolate and champagne. I ran. Every day. I enjoyed the sea and the sand, the bit of freedom you get from looking out over the water.

The very first minute of 2007 found me somewhere between Potsdamer Platz and the Brandenburg Gate, celebrating amid the madness and mayhem that is Berlin at New Year’s. Once again, nice to be with my adopted family; I always look forward to seeing them and being there, and they are part of the reason that my experiences in Germany have been so good, as well as the reason I love Berlin. It was wonderful to see my other sister, whom I had not seen for a year and a half, whose adventures and wanderlust had taken her to far off places, left her with many memories and hundreds of pictures.

I took their guitar back with me, back to my little corner of Germany and my high-ceilinged room. Several of my friends and relatives noticed the frequency with which I was either dinner guest or host to a tall (light and) handsome stranger who, over the course of our evenings became less and less strange; perhaps I was slowly realizing how familiar we were. The end of January marked the turning point.

Such of February that has already passed has been completely new territory to me, wonderful and disorienting. I think I’ve sort of got my balance back now. I don’t know what the future holds for us and I don’t want to think about it; in the meantime I am enjoying every minute I can get out if it, I am enjoying that my toothbrush isn’t alone, that there is someone to whom I am not a blood relative who is there for me and for whom I can be there, that I would have a shoulder to cry on (if I had a reason to cry, which I don’t, and if I could reach it), that someone makes me laugh and keeps me from taking things too seriously, that I don’t have to pretend to be dumb, or smart, or older, or anything but who and what I am.

Happy February to you all, whoever you are. Hope yours is as good as mine, if you pardon my immodesty.

Ist der Krieg vorbei???

"Excuse me," the voice stops me. "EXCUSE ME!!" I'm a step and a half past her, two heads taller. People don't do that here, don't stop you on the street unless you've done something wrong.

I stop, turn, smile. I'd seen her on the corner as I approached, mumbling to herself; I had passed her, passed over her, passed by her, not a thought to spare. She's tiny, not even five foot, wizened, shriveled, white hair covered by a cloth tied under chin. Her companion, a cane, accompanies her wobbling steps as I am about to sweep on past her.

"Excuse me," she repeats. I smile expectantly. "Is the war over?"

The little hamster wheel of my brain comes screeching to a halt, my feeble version of reality wheeling around me like a two-year-old on a two-wheeled tricycle.

"Yes, definately," I reply, too astounded to think first. She hasn't got all her teacups in the cupboard, as they say here; a few fries short of a happy meal, as they say there.

"That's good," she mumbles, her eyes somewhat unfocused. "That's good. Maybe my husband will come back. He said something about..." I can't discern much of what follws, mumbles of promises and hope thinly connected to coherence, even more thinly to even her version of reality. "Thank you," she finishes, looking at me, seeming to see me for the first time, a faint smile on her face. I nod, depart.

Wow.

What do I do with that?

Here I am, standing on a corner of a street in Germany amid new houses, my astonishment and the vantage point of my twenty years--years spent without words like war, need, or ration, not even to the extent of my classmates here, second-generation war kids, kids who lived with walls. Maybe she's a few bricks short of a full load, maybe she'll ask the next person she sees the same question--to be constantly unsure, unaware, afraid?

Yes, the war is over. I hope she's happier for the length of time she remembers...

The Circle Game

Yesterday a child came out to wonder
Caught a dragonfly inside a jar
Fearful when the sky was full of thunder
And tearful at the falling of a star
Then the child moved ten times round the seasons
Skated over ten clear frozen streams
Words like “when you're older” must appease him
And promises of someday make his dreams

Time is elastic. When you are young it is very slow; ‘just a minute’ is intolerably long, ‘soon’ takes forever and ‘tomorrow’ may as well be an eternity away. Nothing can go fast enough. You wish you were older; with age comes privilege but also responsibility—and through a child’s eyes responsibility is a word which means doing what you’re told even when no one tells you to do it, restricted to discreet instances, bound to potential consequences and largely irrelevant. Few people can, at the age of six, recognize that growing up means shouldering more of the world; for you, growing up means a bigger piece of pie and a half hour more television.

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

The older you get, the more time stretches. Sometimes time passes quickly in leaps and bounds—all of the sudden months or years have passed—or excruciatingly slowly still. Normal speed is tolerable—you still wish you were older, you still want to be allowed to have sleepovers, stay out late, go out with friends, whatever—but you can tolerate normal time. The week stretches endlessly, the length proportional to the amount of homework required or the size of the Friday exam, and the weekend passes on winged feet. Summer can’t come soon enough and May drags on as if it were chained down and had to first fight itself free, and as soon as you know it is August again. Each coming year increases your allowance and decreases your bedtime. Your grades matter, your hairstyle and your clothes matter, and your young shoulders strain under the weight of other people’s expectations.

Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now
Cartwheels turn to car wheels through the town
And they tell him,
Take your time, it won't be long now
Till you drag your feet to slow the circles down

You learn to drive. You get a job. Some of you start to drink and smoke and do other things you’d rather not tell your parents about. You learn to juggle all of these things, with more or less success. Other people’s opinions of you become important, sometimes more important than your opinions of yourself, which only very few people have anyways. A pimple is a tragedy and you arrange your entire morning to have a ‘chance’ encounter with that one person whose flaws you have smoothed with your imagination and your conviction that this person is your special someone, regardless of the fact that you don’t know them, they don’t know you and you don’t ‘have a chance’. Your dreams far outstrip reality; you no longer want to be an astronaut or a fireman or a ballerina and the loss of these ideals is not always replaced by “better” ones. You’ll go to college, and to do this you take the right classes and make friends with the right teachers, you study for exams and standardized tests, you sign up for the right clubs, you increase your extracurricular activities and you consider whether debate or DECA looks better on your resume. Time accelerates.

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty
Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true
There'll be new dreams, maybe better dreams and plenty
Before the last revolving year is through

All of the sudden there is no more school. Your applications and essays pay off and you receive the thicker packet among the thinner “It’s nothing personal, but…”. You fit everything you own into a car or two and then half of a 12 x 12 room and try not to get swept away. Among four hundred other confused and bleary-eyed students, some hungover, some still drunk, many just confused, harried, scared, excited, you hunch in the back and squint at the powerpoint and the small lone figure pacing the stage with a gravelly wireless for company. You take notes, you sit exams, you join clubs, fraternities, sororities, and it all comes piling in in a frantic rush. Finals week becomes hell on earth, you sit five exams, work 20 hours, sleep five a night, study, stress, eat poorly, drink far too much coffee and in the end are so unbelievably happy to have survived that far that you don’t even care what grade you got. Time accelerates. Soon enough you’ll be finished, words like Senior Thesis, Graduation and Career Fair loom in on your consciousness. Perceived time is now faster than real time; in no time at all a week or two or five or fifty have passed and you fend off tomorrow with such of your youth as remains.

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return, we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

Somewhere amid the stress and the dreams “real life” begins; or rather, at some point you realize that it was there all along. The current carrying you is strong, powerful with the weight of tradition and expectations, yet you may still change it, swim to the other side or even climb out if you choose. You may drift and yet steer. You no longer yearn for the future or gaze longingly at the past, you simply are, you exist, you enjoy the moment you are in. Your perspective changes and you see something of the future though there are bends in the river beyond which you cannot see. If you are lucky you find someone with whom to drift along, or you prefer to be alone and resent when others ask you if you are “getting by” alone. Your expectations for yourself become more important than other people’s expectations for you, and it is shattering for the parents if the pedestal on which they have placed their little darling is more a painting of dreams than a mirror of reality. And this is your life; what will you make of it?

Introspection

Take a good look at yourself in the mirror. You might try washing it once in awhile; I know you’re busy, but it’s hard to get anything useful out of a mirror if you have to spend twenty minutes scrubbing a brown spot off of your face only to ascertain it was dirt on the mirror all along. Go on, stand there properly. And stand up straight, you’re slouching and you know it.

There, that’s better.

And what do you see? What do you notice? Well, if you don’t see it I’m not going to tell you. Look closer. No, don’t fidget, don’t change anything, you’ll spoil it. Closer, closer. There. See it?

That’s you. If you squint you can see past the clothes and the hairstyles, past some of the masques you put on when you go out, past your worries, your stress, your hopes or fears, past the fact that you didn’t sleep much last night, what you had for lunch and what you’ve planned for next week. Sometimes you really have to squint hard. Some people are really tricky. Try for the eyes if you’re having trouble; it may be hard to get a glimpse. Most people don’t often look other people in the eyes, so good luck trying to look yourself in the eyes. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. If we have a soul. Except windows don’t get shifty and blink a lot. Whatever it is that’s in there, you can see it through the eyes. Or so they say.

How much of you is left, when you strip off all the layers of other people you carry around with you? Their expectations, their preferences, their opinions—worst of all—tend to collect in the forgotten corners of you. Can you define what percentage of your behavior is pure you, unconstrained, uninfluenced by other people? Quantitatively or qualitatively?

Does your speech change, depending on with whom you are speaking? Does your manner change, depending on with whom you are? And who are you, when you are alone?

But don’t just stand there looking in the mirror all day. Narcissus died of that, or something similar, and anyways too much introspection is bad for the complexion.

It was a dark and stormy night...

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.
Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803 - 1873), Paul Clifford (1830)

My windows are shaking. If I turn off my music I can hear the wind howling, the pained wailing punctuated by banging doors, the spare trashcan skipping like a tumbleweed in the wind. More worrying is the distant strains of the doppler effect, the sound the sirens here make that are so different from American cop cars. The joy of living in the fourth floor in the corner appartment is that the wind seems to take extra joy in tugging on our house as it passes, the rows of houses funneling and concentrating the air into buffeting gusts. The building doesn’t shake, for which I am grateful, but the dull roar sounds sometimes like a waterfall.



The storm isn’t too bad here, compared with other parts of Germany. The entire long-distance rail network has been shut down, and there are probably plenty of poor souls stuck somewhere they don’t want to be, waiting for trains that won’t come. It’s like Waiting for Godot plus The Tempest, without the silly tights. Nine people have died so far, either from trees or doors, come uprooted or unhinged. It’s strange in such a storm; everyday objects, objects of utility or beauty become dangerous, menacing, posing the greatest risk to us is our very environment. It makes you jumpy, wind saws on the nerves like hyperactive kids when you have a headache. A dull thump echoing from a block away tells me something has broken loose.



I love a good storm. Taking shelter, nothing is more spectacular than a fantastic lightning storm, the kind best watched from the back deck looking out over Green Valley of a summer evening. Exposed, nothing is more dangerous than a bolt of lightning on a tree-lined ridge, nothing more terrifying than being abord a ship buffeted by winds on an open sea. It’s exhilirating and frightening, exposed before raw power and forces I cannot even begin to comprehend.



Global warming has gone from far left field to mainstream, to mix metaphors; it is a phenomenon either created or abetted by human folly and greed, making these storms, ice storms, snow storms, droughts, hurricanes, floods, and any other natural disasters you can dream of even more a part of our daily life and, hopefully, our consciousness and conscience. I don’t know if there is anything to be done to prevent the increasingly inevitable; undoing the mistakes of the past—particularly in light of the sheer magnitude of human presence, in numbers and in effect—may well be beyond our control, and avoiding the mistakes of the present and future—as elusive as even this prospect may be—may well not be enough. As a friend of mine once wrote in a song, as we sat on his couch listening to the wind howling: "You can't fight the weather, 'cause you will always lose..."

Socialism failed because it couldn't tell the economic truth; capitalism may fail because it couldn't tell the ecological truth.
Lester Brown, Fortune Brainstorm Conference, 2006

That is what scares me—as I sit and listen to the wind, enjoying the tingle down my spine—that my seldom glimpse of natural violence may well become my daily fare. Who needs terrorism when an unsecured door can kill you, when everything burns, when the wind and weather tear your house to pieces?

Are you sure you don't want to quit?

Anybody who accepts mediocrity - in school, on the job, in life - is a person who compromises, and when the leader compromises, the whole organization compromises.
Charles Knight

"Are you sure you don't want to quit school and come work for us?" one of my bosses asked. I was in the middle of donning my coat, gathering my stuff and getting the hell out of dodge. As much fun as that would be, I don't think I'd get too far without an education of the signed-stamped-and-sealed kind, so, no.

Monday saw me sitting in my corner, reading texts for class, doodling around on the internet and not doing much that was productive. I corrected the occasional text sent my way, perused the filing system and wished I had brought more stuff to read while repeatedly and unsuccessfully seeking my boss for an undetermined assignment. "This is only temporary," someone told me. Yeah, okay.

It is impossible to enjoy idling thoroughly unless one has plenty of work to do.
Jerome K. Jerome (1859 - 1927)

And it was temporary.

The conference has forty sessions, each with between three and five presenters. Each presenter has an abstract which, in addition to the session description, needs
to be proofread by me, and then an invitation letter and a registration form for each presenter needs to be drafted via a template. I am responsible for all of the steps for only some of the sessions, but I am responsible for all of the proofreading as well as correcting random texts from other people, anything from resumes to
business letters to funding proposals. It's lots of fun, plenty to do and the time just flies by.

I am also increasingly impressed with the organisation itself. Today was Team Meeting, which involved representatives of all departments and most of the 30-odd staff of the European Secretariat. The meeting was relatively short--one hour--has rotating chairmanship, and allows for the director and each of the team leaders to update the others on current projects. Many of the reports focused on which team leaders were attending which conferencs in which far-off and lovely-sounding cities, in Italy, in Spain, the Canaries, Nairobi, what have you. Sign me up, please.

Meetings are an addictive, highly self-indulgent activity that corporations and other organizations habitually engage in only because they cannot actually masturbate.
Alain van der Heide

Our team meets weekly on Mondays; the meeting is conducted while standing to keep it from getting long and is run from an agenda to which each team member is encouraged to add. Each person has initials, and the person in question is listed under the respective agenda item for which they have responsibility, and the entirety is formatted in terms of specific tasks relating to a certain item. So, speaker invitations--our project this week--has a list of what things need to be done and by whom. What seems to be crucially important--and what continues to impress me--is the development of process. Things aren't done haphazardly; they are considered and a process is developed before anything gets done, sort of a checklist. The filing system is immense and the entire project works off of several enormous databases with more functions than I could possibly dream of, so it is important to keep things straight and not muck it up. The creation of theses processes, however, has been whittled down to a science such that it is not complicated to draft an instruction sheet for creating invitations or updating this or doing that; instructions are often written out; paper drafts are kept and organized and filed. It's efficient, transparent, and simple. Everyone knows what they have to do, how to do it, whom to talk to when something goes wrong or is unclear.





In high school I always loved correcting texts; my friends called me the "editor from hell" because of my love of the red pen. Now I have a red pen and a green pen and couldn't be happier--subtle symbols of my power. I love languages, I love how they work and how they sound and how they flow. Of course, making sure items in a list end with semicolons instead of commas is not necessarily my idea of a rowdy good time, but I generally enjoy it. Many of the texts--almost all, excluding some session abstracts--were written by non native speakers of english. This means anything from overenthusiastic use of commas to having to find a Spanish or Italian colleague to translate the original document because I can't make sense of the English. One of the worst texts I corrected, however, came from Scotland (no cultural inference here, just an observation). Correcting these texts also differs from correcting someone's creative or academic prose--in this example, it is not about keeping someone's "voice," helping them learn from mistakes or merely pointing out poor style, but rather that myself or someone else will enter my changes in exactly as I have written them, and this document will be sent to quite a few people so it had better be correct.

The quality of an organization can never exceed the quality of the minds that make it up.
Harold R. McAlindon

The informal environment also makes it particularly enjoyable. The staff are young and international, but we are all on a "first name basis", with all of the German cultural connotations that implies; the policy is "open door". Everyone has gone out of their way to get to know me, who I am, where I come from and what I am doing there. With my inability to remember names I am having a bit of a trick keeping it all straight, but as soon as I can connect a story to a face I am in the clear. In mixed company the language is English but often devolves into other languages according to those present. And besides, they offer me all the Fair Trade tea and coffee I can drink and have an international book exchange (source of the Isabel Allende novel I picked up and have not read).



They asked me if I could come in on Friday for some meetings and training, but I would have to miss a seminar and I need to be clear that this is not going to take over my life just because there is lots of work to do. With that in mind I have been resolutely pursuing the rest of my life, so except for an occasional sleep defecit it couldn't be better.

Denglisch

Denglisch

The Academie Francaise exists to protect and preserve the French language. Americans find the institution peculiar, and describe it with the typical and unconscious slight derision arising from the mutual loving animosity which has marked historical Amero-French relations: “That’s a French thing,” or “well, the French do that sort of thing”. English now has “to google” as a verb, has adopted and bastardized most other languages in adaptation of words like ‘savoir faire’, ‘hinterland’, ‘doppelgänger’, ‘hors d’œuvre’ and others whose original context or usage has been lost or forgotten. And we’re happy about it. We like our mutt-language, just as we like our mutt-culture, just as long as it doesn’t become too inconvenient or too specific.

As I was learning German, I resolutely determined to speak no English, to learn the German expressions and use them. The more I learned, the more I realized that if I wanted to sound like a German, I would have to incorporate English expressions. ‘Feiern’ means to party, but many say ‘Party machen’. ‘Coffee to go’ may be found everywhere, even though ‘Kaffee zum Mitnehmen’ is a perfectly good expression. If I’ve noticed something, it is something I have ‘gecheckt’.

The field of politics, particularly of development, is particularly full of these Denglisch words; in some cases because no German expression exists, in others because the English is more fitting, more widely used or shorter. Consider the following example, from an article on Yemen’s educational policy from InWent, a government-affiliated organisation: (Denglisch in bold)

Top-down-Bildungspolitik gescheitert

Diese Einsicht war auch Ausgangspunkt eines Prozesses in der Republik Jemen, der in die Entwicklung einer Grundbildungsstrategie durch die jemenitischen Stakeholders im Erziehungswesen mündete. Angestoßen wurde der Prozess durch die Erkenntnis der „Modernisierungsfraktion“ im Erziehungsministerium, dass die überkommene top-down-Bildungspolitik im Jemen trotz erkennbaren Engagements der Bildungsplaner nichts mehr war als ein fallweises und kurzatmiges Krisenmanagement. Weit entfernt von der Lebenswelt der Schüler, Lehrer und Eltern, schien das ministerielle muddling-through unbeabsichtigt mehr Probleme zu schaffen als zu lösen

Source: http://www.inwent.org/E+Z/content/archiv-ger/05-2003/schwer_art1.html

Seriously, what is this?

January thoughts

Today's webcam bild. Am Schwabentor.

It's an odd thing, sitting here in January, listening to the birds chirping and discovering the tiny little flowers blooming guiltily amongst stems of grass. The sun is shining and the world seems brighter, more vibrant somehow. Goes to show I'm solar powered. Or perhaps it's just a lack of sleep.

I haven't decided if I like the weather. The part of me that needs to be outside all the time, the part of me that likes running and hiking, the part of me that is solar dependant, loves the 50-degree weather, the sunshine, and the budding trees. The part of me that is somewhat attuned to natural rhythms, for example, thinks this is just pretty damn weird. Or is it wierd? (I never know). Some small part of me hopes for snow, (yes, me...snow...and no, I haven't suffered a recent head injury) at least to try out cross country skiing, which is apparently quite fun. I'd just be happy with more daylight; I don't like the fact that the 'day' doesn't start till about 8 AM.

A conversation with a friend recently gave me the solution to my time-wasting problem. I tend to spend far too much free time screwing around, surfing the 'net, not researching, not writing, not doing much of anything productive. So I unplugged my internet, told myself I could have it back in an hour, which turned into an hour and a half, and got more done in that time than I had completed in five hours the day before. Amazing. But now that my time is somewhat constrained by my internship I actually have to plan ahead again and actually get to work during the time allotted.

But enough about me. Let's talk about you. What do you think of me?

No, seriously, subject change. Forgive me if I become somewhat philosophical, or at least reflective. My aspirations tend more towards the latter; even your grandma knows I'm no philosopher.

Why are we here?

No, too philosophical.

The pressing question (here I imagine the question as a giant airbag, laden with implications, seeking to physically push me into the ground. Perhaps other people have hard questions, but I like mine squishy) is, what makes people the way they are? It is my favorite question to ask people, ask them where they came from, how they came to be doing what they are doing, why they picked this or that subject to study or none at all, how they came to be florists, dentists, why they dreamed of being an electrician and why they now design paperweights, how they met their significant other. I try to imagine what the perspective would have looked like--how much of the decision was intentional, how much accidental? Some people, I am pretty sure--after being unable to discern any intention or direction whatsoever--just "end up" somewhere, doing something. Sometimes they are happy, sometimes they are not happy.

Stories. Personal histories. Choices. Lack of choices (the worst curse). Alternatives. Hope and enthusiasm. What happens when you have a dream? How does that change you? Are you afraid?

Let's change the subject. Hypothetically, if you were sitting on a public bus, if you were the only passanger seated next to the window, and someone got on.... and instead of sitting in one of the myriad odd free seats--using the normal calculation: distance from person seated to door, divide by half if you don't want to sit in the front; or, more simply, seating yourself at approximately one-half-bus-length from said person, wherever that puts you--instead of doing that, this person sits down *right next to you*.

What would you do? What do you think about that? Would it bother you?

Tell me. I want to know.

Where do you see yourself...

1. in ten minutes?
In front of my desk, writing a paper on Kafka and wishing I were hiking or playing guitar or something.

2. in ten hours?
Eating dinner? Jamming with friends, perhaps.

3. in ten days?
at my internship, trying to explain the difference between federation and confederation (if you want to know, confederation is a looser bond than federation among independant actors).

4. in ten weeks?
In France? Hopefully. Yay.

5. in ten years?
Driving a desk. Sunbathing on a beach. Running an orphanage in mongolia. Trying to teach my kid not to throw food. I have no idea.

Miscommunication

My main resolution for the coming year--my only one, actually--is to be punctual. Germans love their Pünktlichkeit, and though there seems to be two categories of Germans, those who are exquisitely on time every time and those who are not, it is in quite poor taste to show up anywhere anything but precisely on time. Appointments are to be kept. In some Latin American countries--this rumor is from a Peruvian friend--if the invitation for a wedding says 10.30 guests won't start showing up until 11, and the wedding itself won't start until 11.30. My incapability to be punctual, or more accurately expressed, my laziness towards punctuality where meetings with friends are involved, has strained my relationship with some people unnecessarily. My one and only fight with a good friend was actually a miscommunication that became 'fatal' when it was attributed as a further example of my habitual temporal imprecision. I don't want to repeat that. If I can dress like a German, talk like a German, and forget basic English grammar like everyone else who lives here for a long time, the least I can do is acquire the German punctuality. Thus: resolution.

On another note, you should go see Babel. It's fantastic. I would subtitle the film 'miscommunication' because it is basically a series of linked stories whose entire plot depends on crossed signals, translation problems, inability to express oneself and chance. Fantastically well-made and enthralling.

Ohje...

I've had, at the maximum, about an hour a day this week to sit, drink my coffee, answer emails, etc. Otherwise, I've been on the go; I leave my house at 9 AM and come back at 1 AM the next morning. And I love it. Except I've got no food and don't know when I'm going to be able to go shopping.

I started my internship on Monday. The organisation is an NGO working on climate protection and sustainable development. They work on various projects supporting green procurement and the implementation of the Local Agenda 21 and Aalborg commitments. They also have a department which plans conferences, including one in Spain in March, www.sevilla2007.org . This is my new department. I am the new go-to person for anything involving English, the working language, and will probably receive other tasks as time goes on.

Of course, right off the bat I was introduced to the thirty-odd people who work there, and I am trying my hardest to remember who each of them is and what he or she does. It's not easy. As a whole, the group may be summarized and generalized by saying that they are exceedingly international and on average quite young. I would judge most of them to be around 30, with the few slightly elder balanced out by the multple mid-20s-employees and interns. My new office is shared with two italians, a german, a german/spainiard, and me. There are canadians, mexicans, dutch, belgians, people from all over Europe, one british guy, and me. Everyone seems to speak four or five languaes. I wish I could.

I've been sitting in on meetings, trying to follow what is going on and how it all works. It's quite a dynamic group, and my impression is that they help one another out. Communication is clear and frequent; goup tasks and projects are openly discussed and shared. I proofread the website and learned how to work their web editor, so I can apply my changes.

Mainly I am fascinated by what it takes to put such a conference together. It's the same sort of thing we did back at CU for our Darfur events, except on a much larger scale. 1,000 expected attendees, 40 panels, roundtables, four plenaries, four days, six or eight partner organisations and the whole thing takes place in Spain. I can learn a lot.

And after 'work' each day I go to class, which is the same as it has always been, except my evening class has finished. We ended with a four hour session followed by a small party. I'll be sad to see it go. I hope we can keep some portion of the group together, but you never know.

In the meantime I will be eating canned peas and dumplings until I can go shopping again, and save my sleeping for the weekend... :)

Turn the corner

Breeching from the U-Bahn, escaping the underworld with its damp and consistent odor, seeking fresh air and instead finding war. Smoke filled the air and drifted in rivulets across the barricaded streets, swirling around us, turning the unknown into the unforeseen. Remnants of the wall, spray-painted memories of a terrible time, huddle among the glass facades of Potsdamer Platz, looking out over the Holocaust memorial. The sound of shattering glass, the crack of firecrackers like gunshots, vaguely visible figures dodging in out of the mist, the smell of alcohol almost tangible in some corners, the street littered with remnants and rubbish, all ghosts of a past not long ago and not forgotten.

The crowd--the living, breathing, drinking, pushing mass--sweeps the streets. Any and all in its way are swept up in the current until a police barricade halts the flow. Firecrackers ricochet from the buildings and smolder sullenly in the gutters along the road. Unofficial launch pads dot the streets and the crowd keeps a respectful distance. The country mouse startles at large cracks, clutching purse and sister, towed along until there is nowhere else to go. The anticipation is almost tangible, though almost overwhelming.

No one is exactly sure of the time, until about the last twenty seconds and someone begins counting. Across the street and above the trees explode the first of the official fireworks. Cameras and cell phones are held above the masses, seeking to document, swaying like peculiar antennas, feeding the new YouTube. Lovers kiss, friends hug and wish one another a happy new year, the couple behind us bickers about his cell phone, some kids behind us begin to sing, swaying arm in arm, and someone sprays champagne through the crowd. Fireworks rocket around us like good wishes and we stand arm in arm, bouts of fire reflected in our shining eyes.

The crowd dissolves into chaos, singing, dancing, spraying champagne and tossing crackers into the cleared streets or air. Slowly; walking normally is possible if hindered by the bottles littering the street but we make it more or less back to the station and buy some glasses of champagne and some roasted almonds, watching the tourists stagger and take pictures with sparklers. The street acts as an acoustic chamber, amplifying the cracks and bangs of the rockets shooting out of the crowd. Debris rains down; a gap in the crowd is an invitation for black cats or other small diversions and we jump aside to avoid a small lump of red paper, which suddenly springs to life and began to spin and glow with green fire. The first of the sirens wail in the distance, trying to force their way through the crowds towards the first of the unlucky or careless.

Near a million people were expected, with a two kilometer party mile between the Gate and the Victory Column, though all intermediate streets were equally full. We’d gotten in just under the wire, having spent the evening with K.’s school friends and family, and had no chance of getting to the gate itself but it didn’t matter. The party mile, for those who wanted to come earlier, was the site of several stages and performances, and turned into an open-end disco in the New Year. Over 500 people injure themselves every year and the ambulances frequently shove their way through, but the atmosphere is always positive. Strangers wish one another well, children are towed along by their parents, the crowd itself a celebratory beast, enjoying living, enjoying being where they are.

The New Year has come, for better or for worse. But somehow, standing arm in arm, watching the fireworks bloom above us, it’s hard to believe the next year will be anything but good.