Well...

I had to run for the bus this morning. Twice. I made it almost to the bus stop before I realized my phone was still sitting on top of the coffee table, so I bolted back, managing to fill both my shoes with snow. I made it inside and back outside in time to see the bus rounding the far corner. Normally, if I've cleared the fence I can make it if I run, but today was a toss up, and the last thing I needed was to eat shit on the ice and f*ck up my knee like I did a year or so ago. It's incredibly hard not to be awkward while running and carrying baggage, but I was more concerned with being late than with being awkward. First day of work this year.



The new year started without a huge bang, but was fun nontheless. The previous year I celebrated in Berlin, which is probably one of the more insane experiences of my life. So. Many. People. And firecrackersanddrunksandlightsandnoiseandandand... My resolution last year was to be on time, to be seriously, really on time--and I pretty much made it, at least through the time I was in Germany. In the US you can be five or perhaps ten minutes late and still qualify as on time. It'd probably be a good idea to work on that again this year, though that will only really be important in May.



Much of last winter and spring were a blur. It seemed to be a delicate mix of workaholism, sleep deprivation, and a crazy social schedule. Most people described me as the crazy american, and wondered as to the secret of my success (in case you're wondering, it's called "not sleeping"). It helps that I was out jogging at 8 AM. Even my valiant (then) boyfriend, runner as he is, gave up on that one.



I met some really fantastic people. I didn't hang out with Americans, only meeting one about a month before I peaced out of there. My roommates, my friends, everyone was German...or so I thought. Everyone spoke flawless German, but one was born in Macedonia, one in Indonesia, one was half Iranian, or from Luxembourg, or Indian, or or or. Dinner conversations were always interesting, and if I brought a work colleague home it would be in English and Spanish or French as well as German. I miss that and them more than I can adequately express.



I had to leave all of that behind and return to the country of my birth. Despite my fears, I actually had friends and have made several more. Between work (15 - 20 hrs a week) and school (20 hrs a week) and activities (5 hrs a week), I was a) never home and b) didn't sleep much (see above). As far as a) is concerned, for those of you who have followed my roommate woes, this was perhaps not unintentional.
I've had a lot of fun this semester, and did well at school, so I suppose it works out well. Then again, I did end up with a stress-induced skin disorder after finals, so perhaps this wasn't the best strategy ever.

Enter 2008. I thought about resolutions, and I came up with a couple, rather pathetic ones:
(1) be on time. This was my resolution last year, but it bears repeating, as my punctuality has been slipping. Me being punctual is about equivalent to a souffle: difficult to arrange and contingent on many factors.
(2) learn to tango. Classes on Fridays, hell yeah. Bonus points for attractive argentinians.
(3) learn a new language. Looks like it's going to be spanish, though I would jump at the chance to learn russian or arabic.



I'm not bothering with any of the typical ones like going to the gym every day or stopping smoking, as neither of them are particularly relevant for me. Perhaps I should take up smoking so I will have something to quit.

I wonder where I'll be next year. After May I am done with CO and the US for awhile, and depending on my school and work situation for the coming months, will probably be getting the hell out of dodge faster than you can say "nonstopflightfromdenvertofrankfurt" while hopping on one leg. If I am lucky, someone will pay me to go to school. If I am not lucky.... well, I have no plan B, just three versions of plan A. I always have friends whose couches I can crash on should worse come to worse. And I can always get a job, though that may be easier said than done, particularly with restrictions for foreigners...

So best of luck for you all in 2008, in life, in love, in whatever else you do. Make some resolutions, try something crazy (skydiving, anyone?), expand your horizons. It'll be worthwhile, I assure you...

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.

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.