We leave Germany tomorrow. After 18 months and two apartments and one collapsed roof and countless jugs of Applewein, we're leaving the 'Furt. Our apartment floor is covered in suitcases and with clothes and books and boxes of chocolate. I feel sad, of course, and already nostalgic, but two circumstances have abated any true breakdowns.
The first was that I spent the last 11 days not in the 'Furt but in Papenburg, a small northern city near the border to the Netherlands. When I was at Uni last fall I was asked to be an instructor at a summer "Schueler Akadamie" for exceptionally gifted German high schooler entering their last year of Gymnasim (like High School). The Akadamie is supposed to expose them to the rigors of Uni learning. I taught a cultural studies class on post-war America 1946-1959. The Akadamie was a lot of work, breakfast at 7 and then two three-hour sessions (morning and afternoon) interspersed with activities (I organized a ping pong tourney, and I made some Oragami cranes). This being Germany, in the evening we had hours of "quality control" meetings with other teachers and I usually threw myself into bed no earlier than 12:30. It was rough. But it was also fun. I made the students read "Catcher in the Rye" and "On the Road," and topics discussed included Truman, Elvis, McCarthyism, the Interstate, Chase records and I even managed to squeeze in an excerpt from one of my favorite school-days books "The Right Stuff," when talking about the space race.
Although the Akadamie was fun it left me drained. I don't know how high school teachers can interact with teenagers all day. This is not because I find teens difficult, quite the opposite: I was touched by how vulnerable and awkward and sad most of them are . The in-groups and out-groups were so clear, and I especially couldn't handle certain sensitive boys who have neither an aptitude for sports nor a way to understand deal with their sexual attraction to girls. And of course there were the handful of foreign students who everyone avoided like the plague. These became my people, as I was one of them too.
The other reason I haven't been too broken up is because I'm only home in MN for one week before we move to North Carolina, which may be a bigger shock than moving to Germany. Yes, I speak the language but I have to look for work, find out where I got to the grocery store, acknowledge the hurricane season, etc. Also, our lives will still certainly be linked to Germany, and I doubt there will be more than a year or two that goes by without us visiting or working here for extended periods of time.
But all that being said I'm getting sadder as I write this. I used this blog to complain and BS about all the cultural differences an American experiences while living in Germany, but I haven't really done the country justice. Yes, the people can be narrow-minded and unfriendly. But there is a common trust Germans, and people living in Germany share, a very basic understanding that if you follow the rules and don't hurt anyone you will be protected and respected. They are a very careful people, with myriad reasons to be, and this quality extends to all aspects of life. They are orderly and punctual, clean and precise. These are easy things to pick on, because they signify maturity, and at the end of the day a mature nation is a fundamentally boring nation. But that's ok. What seems boring on the outside reads closer to contentment on the inside. So, goodbye Deutschland, I will see you again soon.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
PTSD?
I think Erik suffers from PTSD ever since the ceiling debacle. It's like I live with a veteran.
We've been back in our place for four nights and Erik listens to the walls to see if he can hear anything There are some weird tiny pebble noises, and we did spend our first night back on an air mattress on the kitchen floor, but I see no cracks above my head. Oh wait. I didn't see any cracks last time either.
Our landlord paid illegal Romanian workers under the table to work on our place. They speak no German, or English and I kept finding them smoking in our bathroom which really took away the fresh paint smell of the apartment. But they were very friendly and had interesting box lunches which they ate by me.
For our temporary housing we were put up in the Hotel Maingau, a block away from us. Of course our landlord paid for the cheapest option and so we had a room with two twin beds nailed to opposite sides of the wall. We did however have CNN and SKY and BBC, which is just gluttonous. I could flip channels during the MJ funeral and I got to watch Richard Quest the horrible/awesome British business news reporter on CNN International. Youtube him, he's always yelling.
At least the sky falling helped us preempt any sadness we could have for leaving this place.
We've been back in our place for four nights and Erik listens to the walls to see if he can hear anything There are some weird tiny pebble noises, and we did spend our first night back on an air mattress on the kitchen floor, but I see no cracks above my head. Oh wait. I didn't see any cracks last time either.
Our landlord paid illegal Romanian workers under the table to work on our place. They speak no German, or English and I kept finding them smoking in our bathroom which really took away the fresh paint smell of the apartment. But they were very friendly and had interesting box lunches which they ate by me.
For our temporary housing we were put up in the Hotel Maingau, a block away from us. Of course our landlord paid for the cheapest option and so we had a room with two twin beds nailed to opposite sides of the wall. We did however have CNN and SKY and BBC, which is just gluttonous. I could flip channels during the MJ funeral and I got to watch Richard Quest the horrible/awesome British business news reporter on CNN International. Youtube him, he's always yelling.
At least the sky falling helped us preempt any sadness we could have for leaving this place.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Can you believe this?
This morning our apartment broke. Seriously, the ceiling fell. The police came, then the firemen.
Here's how it happened. This morning I got up, ate breakfast and then went to make the bed. I noticed a small amount of sand and dirt on the corner an looked up. The ceiling was cracked and dirt was pouring down our wall, sounding suspiciously like a Rainmaker.
I called Erik and he came home, but not before the ceiling exploded and I screamed because it sounded like it was 1945 again in my 'hood. Then Erik came home and as we were trying to contact the landlord, the fix-it man, someone another part of the ceiling fell prompting our neighbors to call the police and volunteer fire brigade.
Here are some pictures. PRAY for us. Just kidding. Just look at your nice American ceilings in your house and smile smugly.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Who's Bad?
I realize I've lost some blogging mojo. What with the impending move back stateside, my departure in two weeks to teach German teenagers American history and general summer malaise, I just haven't found many things blog worthy.
Last weekend I did attend a German high school graduation and I thought that would yield some material -- but no. Turns out high schoolers are the same everywhere. There were hot slutty girls dancing up on each other and sad cheesy couples and weird Swing dance theater kids and the guy who thinks his Aviators and white blazer make him ironic. The only strange thing is that these kids can drink in front of their parents.
Then I thought maybe I'd blog about trying to find people to take over our apartment and how this makes me bake almost daily because what's a better way to make a small space smell good than muffins? But that matter was resolved last week when a guy named Mikko took our place. Mikko wears deep v-neck t-shirts. That's all I got.
And then Michael Jackson died and I was so sad. I'm not an MJ freak, but I own History. I was more sad because I woke up to the news and I think his story is one of the most horrifically American ones (who else has seen Jackson-An American Dream, the VH1 movie? Fantastic. Joe and Katherine = worst parents ever.) I mean, this guy's third child answered to the name the "Blanket." I guess I was just sad that such a story died. But my sadness was minimal compared to the Germans'.
I expected the German news media to cover the story of course, and they have, but what I didn't expect was how sad Germans are. In front of the 'Furts most-traveled U-Bahn stations are red votives with homemade collages of MJ. And last night as I was walking back from Schweizer Platz there was a little vigil and a group of about 10 Germans singing "Wanna Be Startin' Something." Germans singing! In public and with no soccer game on!
Unglaublich.
I don't know why Germans loved MJ so much. Maybe it was because he dangled Blanket out of a window in Berlin? Maybe because MJ played the Munich Olympic Stadium a lot? But the above reasons don't touch on where this public emotion comes from. If I had to guess it has to do with the end of Cold War. The 20th century and my adopted country had a rough go, and maybe when Germans hear the conga line in "Wanna Be Startin Something" or the Gospel choir key change in "Man in the Mirror" they hear the music that was playing when an end was in sight. The MJ Germans love is neither the little boy singing "I Want You Back," nor the Elizabeth Taylor-loving ghost who testified against molestation charges. No, the Germans love Bad-era MJ, a 1987 MJ. As my friend John sad earlier this week, "Germans would only be more sad if the Hoff died."
Last weekend I did attend a German high school graduation and I thought that would yield some material -- but no. Turns out high schoolers are the same everywhere. There were hot slutty girls dancing up on each other and sad cheesy couples and weird Swing dance theater kids and the guy who thinks his Aviators and white blazer make him ironic. The only strange thing is that these kids can drink in front of their parents.
Then I thought maybe I'd blog about trying to find people to take over our apartment and how this makes me bake almost daily because what's a better way to make a small space smell good than muffins? But that matter was resolved last week when a guy named Mikko took our place. Mikko wears deep v-neck t-shirts. That's all I got.
And then Michael Jackson died and I was so sad. I'm not an MJ freak, but I own History. I was more sad because I woke up to the news and I think his story is one of the most horrifically American ones (who else has seen Jackson-An American Dream, the VH1 movie? Fantastic. Joe and Katherine = worst parents ever.) I mean, this guy's third child answered to the name the "Blanket." I guess I was just sad that such a story died. But my sadness was minimal compared to the Germans'.
I expected the German news media to cover the story of course, and they have, but what I didn't expect was how sad Germans are. In front of the 'Furts most-traveled U-Bahn stations are red votives with homemade collages of MJ. And last night as I was walking back from Schweizer Platz there was a little vigil and a group of about 10 Germans singing "Wanna Be Startin' Something." Germans singing! In public and with no soccer game on!
Unglaublich.
I don't know why Germans loved MJ so much. Maybe it was because he dangled Blanket out of a window in Berlin? Maybe because MJ played the Munich Olympic Stadium a lot? But the above reasons don't touch on where this public emotion comes from. If I had to guess it has to do with the end of Cold War. The 20th century and my adopted country had a rough go, and maybe when Germans hear the conga line in "Wanna Be Startin Something" or the Gospel choir key change in "Man in the Mirror" they hear the music that was playing when an end was in sight. The MJ Germans love is neither the little boy singing "I Want You Back," nor the Elizabeth Taylor-loving ghost who testified against molestation charges. No, the Germans love Bad-era MJ, a 1987 MJ. As my friend John sad earlier this week, "Germans would only be more sad if the Hoff died."
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Civil servant
Right now I'm sorta half unemployed because a lot of my classes are out for the summer and I'm not getting new courses because I'm done teaching in a month. I have been having a lot of unnecessary "me" time since getting back from Hungary. I clean a lot, and I baked a chocolate molten cake, and I read... but mostly I just sort of walk into the city center and look at clothes and kitchenware I can't afford. You'd think this would be frustrating, but it's not at all.
I was on one such journey downtown (10 minutes by foot, across a very popular bridge) at 3 one afternoon when I saw a group of a dozen loud, suit-clad British men walking towards me. I immediately veered away from them and clutched my purse. I have a fear of British people when they're in packs. A) They are usually belligerent and B) their youths wield knives. Now don't get me wrong, anytime I've encountered Brits in America they're charming and eccentric, polite and refined. But on the Continent they act like movie stars in hotel rooms. They throw up in the street and get into traffic accidents and wobble on slutty platform shoes. Ugh. I don't like.
What really gets under my skin is that the tired complaints that people make of Americans abroad, too loud, don't know foreign languages, drunk, lost, poorly dressed, etc., are much more fitting of Brits. Have they been tarring the English speaking community for centuries?
Perhaps it was my scowl or the way I clutched my purse but these British guys eyed me and started yelling "Miss! Miss! Sprechen Sie Englisch?" My crabby face made them think I was a local. I nodded and sighed, knowing the gig was up the minute I started to speak. "Yep, I'm an American." They started whistling and encircled me, thrusting a sheet of paper in my face. "We're on a business trip scavenger hunt and we haven't a bloody clue as to what the Dom is?" "The German word for cathedral, right behind you," I said, pointing. "And what is a Bembol?" "It's a jug that holds apple wine." "And what exactly is Fressgasse?" "Boys, it means 'chow street,' there's lots of little cafes there." I stopped them before they launched into "She's a Jolly Good Fellow." I started walking into the city as they yelled "Cheers" behind me. And then I heard them say "Pub stop gentlemen! This calls for a pint!" Keep it up Brits.
I was on one such journey downtown (10 minutes by foot, across a very popular bridge) at 3 one afternoon when I saw a group of a dozen loud, suit-clad British men walking towards me. I immediately veered away from them and clutched my purse. I have a fear of British people when they're in packs. A) They are usually belligerent and B) their youths wield knives. Now don't get me wrong, anytime I've encountered Brits in America they're charming and eccentric, polite and refined. But on the Continent they act like movie stars in hotel rooms. They throw up in the street and get into traffic accidents and wobble on slutty platform shoes. Ugh. I don't like.
What really gets under my skin is that the tired complaints that people make of Americans abroad, too loud, don't know foreign languages, drunk, lost, poorly dressed, etc., are much more fitting of Brits. Have they been tarring the English speaking community for centuries?
Perhaps it was my scowl or the way I clutched my purse but these British guys eyed me and started yelling "Miss! Miss! Sprechen Sie Englisch?" My crabby face made them think I was a local. I nodded and sighed, knowing the gig was up the minute I started to speak. "Yep, I'm an American." They started whistling and encircled me, thrusting a sheet of paper in my face. "We're on a business trip scavenger hunt and we haven't a bloody clue as to what the Dom is?" "The German word for cathedral, right behind you," I said, pointing. "And what is a Bembol?" "It's a jug that holds apple wine." "And what exactly is Fressgasse?" "Boys, it means 'chow street,' there's lots of little cafes there." I stopped them before they launched into "She's a Jolly Good Fellow." I started walking into the city as they yelled "Cheers" behind me. And then I heard them say "Pub stop gentlemen! This calls for a pint!" Keep it up Brits.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Body image problem... go to a Hungarian bath
Hi all!
What an exciting 6 weeks... I took a leave of absence, a sabbatical if you will, from Deutschland to go to Minnesota, North Carolina and then back to Minnesota. I was made in honest women in a 39 minute (no Lit of the Euch, baby!) ceremony and then jetted off to Hungary leaving my gleaming Le Creusets behind.
Since this blog is supposed to be about Europe I will focus on the aforementioned trip down the Danube, which brought E and I to Budapest. Buda, the hilly part of the city is said to be on the last ripples of the Alps. Then comes the blue Danube leading to the shores of the flat Pest the first ironed portion of land that acts as an entry to the central Asian steppes. It's a city where locals believe in their own mythology of East meets West: Crossing the Danube is considered medicinal, its waters healing. Gold birds top bridges to protect from invading Turks or Germans or Soviets and everywhere there are people hawking "Hungarica" (like our, "Americana") kitschy jars of paprika and peasant dresses and bottles and bottles of Tojkai wine.
The city is as architectually stunning as its empire counterparts, Prague and Vienna, but it has more of a boomtown circa 1898 feel instead of a stateliness. It's also pretty shabby; lots of cats peeing on old Trabants and road construction that looks like it was started in 1997. But overall the city gives an impression of grandness, size.
There's also a bit of hedonism. In Soviet times Budapest was a little like Las Vegas and there are still casinos and strip clubs on the banks of the river. Topping that vibe is the inflation, 200 Hungarian ft = $0.99
We did all the things you can do in Budapest: river cruises, goulash slurping, wine tasting, castle touring. It was all great but the best experience by far was going to the Hungarian baths. There are over 15 state-run public baths in Budapest, all touting thermal hot springs and medicinal massage. Erik and I chose to go to Gellert, the most well-known to Westerners, which is housed in the back of a gorgeous Art Nouveau hotel of the same name. We were dorkily dressed in board shorts and a black one-piece respectively, and we knew that swimsuits were optional, but I don't think either of us expected to see so many pension-aged Hungarians in the buff. You name it, we saw it. Full frontal, all angles. As you progress in a Hungarian bath from one whirlpool to the next (they increase in temperature by about 5 degrees, topping out at about 102 F) you see more and more flesh. I have had some experience with aging Eastern Europeans penchant for nudity as I was a former member of the JCC of St. Paul but nothing compared to this. Seeing grandmas hit with tree branches and putting on weighted life jackets fro "submersion" therapies is graphic in every sense of the word.
That's a pretty good experience for a honeymoon, right? Looking at all those arthritic bodies is sort of a preview... of eternity.
The best is yet to come!
What an exciting 6 weeks... I took a leave of absence, a sabbatical if you will, from Deutschland to go to Minnesota, North Carolina and then back to Minnesota. I was made in honest women in a 39 minute (no Lit of the Euch, baby!) ceremony and then jetted off to Hungary leaving my gleaming Le Creusets behind.
Since this blog is supposed to be about Europe I will focus on the aforementioned trip down the Danube, which brought E and I to Budapest. Buda, the hilly part of the city is said to be on the last ripples of the Alps. Then comes the blue Danube leading to the shores of the flat Pest the first ironed portion of land that acts as an entry to the central Asian steppes. It's a city where locals believe in their own mythology of East meets West: Crossing the Danube is considered medicinal, its waters healing. Gold birds top bridges to protect from invading Turks or Germans or Soviets and everywhere there are people hawking "Hungarica" (like our, "Americana") kitschy jars of paprika and peasant dresses and bottles and bottles of Tojkai wine.
The city is as architectually stunning as its empire counterparts, Prague and Vienna, but it has more of a boomtown circa 1898 feel instead of a stateliness. It's also pretty shabby; lots of cats peeing on old Trabants and road construction that looks like it was started in 1997. But overall the city gives an impression of grandness, size.
There's also a bit of hedonism. In Soviet times Budapest was a little like Las Vegas and there are still casinos and strip clubs on the banks of the river. Topping that vibe is the inflation, 200 Hungarian ft = $0.99
We did all the things you can do in Budapest: river cruises, goulash slurping, wine tasting, castle touring. It was all great but the best experience by far was going to the Hungarian baths. There are over 15 state-run public baths in Budapest, all touting thermal hot springs and medicinal massage. Erik and I chose to go to Gellert, the most well-known to Westerners, which is housed in the back of a gorgeous Art Nouveau hotel of the same name. We were dorkily dressed in board shorts and a black one-piece respectively, and we knew that swimsuits were optional, but I don't think either of us expected to see so many pension-aged Hungarians in the buff. You name it, we saw it. Full frontal, all angles. As you progress in a Hungarian bath from one whirlpool to the next (they increase in temperature by about 5 degrees, topping out at about 102 F) you see more and more flesh. I have had some experience with aging Eastern Europeans penchant for nudity as I was a former member of the JCC of St. Paul but nothing compared to this. Seeing grandmas hit with tree branches and putting on weighted life jackets fro "submersion" therapies is graphic in every sense of the word.
That's a pretty good experience for a honeymoon, right? Looking at all those arthritic bodies is sort of a preview... of eternity.
The best is yet to come!
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
The time of the year...
....when I realize homeless people in the 'Furt have more active social lives than I do. It's a sad day when the sun is shining, the birds are chirping and you see that the homeless of Frankfurt greet each other anew in the streets, no longer cold or threatened by snow. It's like a party, and not just anyone is invited.
I'm not being insensitive. Just factual. I first noticed that the homeless in my adopted city seemed to be sort of clique-ish last summer. I was running into the English book section at Hugenduble, and about six men who were taking their time waking up that Tuesday morning admonished me for stepping on one of the corners of their sleeping bag. The guys were having a sleepover, and I, eager customer who saw the promise of a two-week old Vanity Fair behind the shop glass, was clearly cramping their style.
Since that day I've noticed them throughout the city. Groups no larger than 6, no smaller than 3, of multi-layered and urine-stained men who get all territorial in the warm months. It's like a high school cafeteria, and I oddly feel a little left out and jealous of their camaraderie. I only have 3 friends here, and we never travel in a pack. Nor do we travel with glass votives or makeshift vigils to the Blessed Virgin.
I'm not being insensitive. Just factual. I first noticed that the homeless in my adopted city seemed to be sort of clique-ish last summer. I was running into the English book section at Hugenduble, and about six men who were taking their time waking up that Tuesday morning admonished me for stepping on one of the corners of their sleeping bag. The guys were having a sleepover, and I, eager customer who saw the promise of a two-week old Vanity Fair behind the shop glass, was clearly cramping their style.
Since that day I've noticed them throughout the city. Groups no larger than 6, no smaller than 3, of multi-layered and urine-stained men who get all territorial in the warm months. It's like a high school cafeteria, and I oddly feel a little left out and jealous of their camaraderie. I only have 3 friends here, and we never travel in a pack. Nor do we travel with glass votives or makeshift vigils to the Blessed Virgin.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)