Germans would see a concert in a church

Last night I went to see Iron and Wine at Frankfurt's Dreikönigskirche. Over 500 people packed the venue, impressive for a dreary Monday night. I get anxious by social events held on school nights. I find myself jealous of the carefree people who seem to be enjoying themselves and are not, like me, silently saying to themselves, "I have 10 hours until I have to wake up tomorrow, I have 9 and a half hours until I have to wake up tomorrow, if I don't sleep my immune system will weaken, I'll probably get a cold..."

The Dreikönigskirche, be the way, is a huge old church, and the 500 or so concert goers I mentioned were sitting quietly in the pews, nodding their head to the music, and only standing if they had to go to the bathroom. This is so German. Most of these young people probably never went to church for, well, church, and so the idea of seeing a rock concert, albeit a folk-art rock concert, in a worship space didn't inspire an ironic or even mischievous mood.

The concert was good, as the church did have wonderful acoustics and Iron and Wine performed with a full band, something I require when seeing a show. But after two hours of very mellow, very heavy ("...we always lean on the broken hand," wow. deep.) songs I was tired and thankful for the one song encore.

After the show, another Minnesotan gal and I had a great discussion lamenting the on stage antics of "rock stars" in our time. We both agreed that concerts would be better if someone passed out on stage from a slight OD, or if the bassist could smoke three cigarettes at once or something. This, "oh-gee, are you guys looking at me, I have dumpy clothes on" indie ethos jut doesn't do it for me. Give me some sex on stage, a little Prince or something.

Anyway, I am off to Rimbach tonight for dinner. Rimbach is an hour south of the 'Furt in the Odenwald, or as I call it, fairy-tale land... it should be fun.

Here are some picks of some food I've made recently. These are mostly for my sister's benefit. But I just want to say that Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything Vegetarian has really changed my life.

Heidelberg und Oles

On Saturday night, I headed down to Heidelberg to visit with a group of Oles on their J-term in Germany. St. Olaf professor Herr Fink treated alumni living in central Germany to join his trip for a fantastic Italian dinner (I was confused by the choice too). There were 6 Ole alums there, and about 20 students. As the only person at the gathering with minimal German skills, I was so impressed by the dedication Herr Fink’s German students displayed. I mean, there’s no real reason to love this language, with it’s fussy grammar, guttural Krieg-sounds, and impossibly long spellings, but sure enough, these 19 year olds tough it out for one month in the Fatherland while their classmates practice their French in Martinique and their Spanish in Ecuador. It doesn’t seem fair. And unlike Spanish, French, or Chinese, German is becoming, if not dead, then antiquated. Herr Fink summed it up perfectly to Erik and I; “Why learn German when so many new professors are willing to teach language as culture, and instead of German you get classes like ‘German Cinema, in English’?”

Even with the pedagogical shop talk we had a great night. I had been to Heidelberg once before and always loved its almost kitschy German-ess. Heidelberg boasts a large Medieval Castle, a former Nazi amphitheater and one of Germany’s most prestigious universities. There is also a huge American military presence in Heidelberg as it was Allied force headquarters after the war, and later American headquarters for European operations. There is a great shopping district and plenty of beer stubs lining the cobblestone streets, and our group of alums managed to stumble into a few of these. Here’s a picture courtesy of Kathryn S., Konigin of German studies (pictured far right).

Cliff wouldn't like this...

In Germany there are three places to get groceries: Supermarkets, outdoor stands, or lebensmittels, which are small convenient-type stores (literally translated "life shops") that sell selected food stuffs. The best produce is at the outdoor markets, but it can be pricey and you have to really rely on your language skills. The grocery stores are very limited here, and although you have time to stand in the aisle and slowly read the box, something about misused exclamation points and wasted enthusiasm makes me distrust the German big brand "Ja!" a Johnson and Johnson like company from the East/West days that makes everything from toilet paper to yogurt. So when funds are low and energies lower, Erik and I walk downstairs to the Pol-Kost, our neighborhoodd lebensmittle featuring food from, you guessed it, Poland. We like the idea of stopping in most days to buy milk or beer, and saying "hi" to the mother and daughter who run the place. Every item sold is Polish, and thus all the canisters and boxes have odd letters on them and we must rely on a dancing bear eating what looks to be Frosted Flakes to tell us what the contents are. Usually, this method works for us, but yesterday it didn't. I went out in the afternoon to get some apple juice, because I was thinking of how much I loved "The Cosby Show," and then I thought of how Cliff Huxtable always drank apple juice. So, I marched down to the Pol and looked at the rows of juice boxes. I found the one that advertised apples on the cover design, said my niceties to Nadja, and went home. I opened the box, poured a glass, took a sip, and spewed the contents allover the kitchen like a cartoon character. Something was terrible wrong: Either the juice was bad or I purchased some sort of fermented moonshine. I ran to the computer and found a Polish dictionary online to type in the words featured on the juice box. As the web page loaded I had visions of the words "Donkey urine" or "Prussian sweat," but instead the translation popped up as: "Mint and Apple cider." Trust me, you never want to experience this horror.

Guten Tag!

I decided to start a blog documenting my move to Europe. I'm afraid this phrasing, "blog... documenting.. move to Europe," has already become a trite fixture of the 21st century, but I still want to give it a go.

I moved to Frankfurt, Germany exactly two weeks ago. I speak minimal German, have no job prospects, and had previously never ventured more than 35 miles away from my parent's house. Why, then, did I pack my life in two suitcases and ditch my beloved America (in an election year no less) to live in Frankfurt?! Frankfurt?! A city that has been bombed, rebuilt, bombed, rebuilt, and is now not the fashion, or culinary, or arts capital of Germany, but the... drumroll...financial capital! That's right: My new home hosts the Euro bank, and I can't even do long subtraction if the top number is a zero.... My new city is also the namesake to the most phallic looking meat creation ever invented. What possessed me?

Well, put simply, I moved because I had to. There was this guy, blah, blah, blah, and when it became apparent that having "phone dates" no longer thrilled us, I moved.

Surely the web doesn't need another travelogue, or the smug apologies of an ex-pat who suddenly despises how loud and large Americans actually are. Instead I want to share photos and stories of the oddities and idiosyncrasies that come when living as an Auslanderin in a country, let's be frank, that's never been kind to outsiders.