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.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Cheese heals, for reals
Bonjour my friends!
I wish I was involved with someone who loved France. Someone who would make me live in France, who would "drag" me abroad every 2 or 3 years for "research" in France. Why? because we traveled there this past weekend (I needed to be in a real Catholic country for Holy Week) and France healed my stomach problems with her bountiful and stinky wine and cheeses. And her artfully subtitled movies. And her morning crepes. And people who might actually smile at you.
There was no work on Friday or Monday so for Erik's birthday, we boarded the train on Saturday headed towards the cultural capital of Alsace-Lorraine and the political capital of Europe, Strasbourg. This was Erik's first time, but a return trip for me. I was in Strasbourg 13 (!!!) years ago to visit my brother who was, at the time, doing a semester there. It was actually the first place I ever went to in Europe, and all I remember was going to Lafayette with my mom. Strasbourg is thus a very important city for Soucherays as it is where Andy met his wife Janell, and without her we wouldn't really be complete or have Mr. and Mrs., the two most beautiful children in the world (with Alice and Monster, of course).
Anyway, Strasbourg has it all: Dramatic history*, important waterways, cafes where C.B.S.** has sipped wine and a pretty impressive cathedral. We walked the cobblestones and went to church and ate about 5 crepes a piece. We also did a rockin' boat tour.
There are two words that epitomize urban vacation for me: BOAT TOUR. Nothing is better than being guided on a river or lake while someone describes architectural feats to you. Besides that, the only other thing I require when traveling is good food and wine. No beaches for me, no organized activities (besides the boat tour) just lots and lots of pre-travel reading of restaurant reviews and many, many glasses of Riesling.
Through my research, I decided we had to eat at Chez Yvonne for our splurge meal. It is a small cafe north of the cathedral which Jacques Chirac used to frequent. It was good, but the atmosphere was stuffy. I had coq a vin cooked in Riesling with special French sauerkraut. Erik had a smoked cheese and tomato pie with spring herbs. Our other must was a late-night visit to La Cloche a Fromage, or the cheese bell. This place might me worth a plane ticket to France alone. Cheese masters work with over 100 types of cheeses housed in a huge glass bell (the size of a VW big) and prepare cheese plates for the customers' palates. Bread and wine are the only other things on the menu. Some of the 15 cheese I sampled were awesome, heavenly creamy specimens. There were a few that actually died in my mouth, and a few that inspired Erik to start stage whispering "Cheddar is Better!"
I enjoyed the trip, and the cheese, a little more than Erik, who was a bit preoccupied with choosing our hometown for the next 5-7 years. After some aggressive hounding (did you know they offer grad students "signing bonuses"? Like baseball players?) we decided on North Carolina. So maybe this blog will become When Midwest meets Southeast. Or When Midwest Starts Going to Dangerous Lacrosse Parties. Or if I have my way and spend my last months in Europe correctly, When Midwest Meets a Guy from Eastern France and they Run Away Together to Eat Cheese.
*This part of France was once independent, then swallowed by France in 1681, then annexed by Germany in 1871, then back to France in 1918, then back to Germany in 1940, then back to France in 1945. Another way to look at it; that's the Franco-Prussian War, WWI and WWII.
** C.B.S. CARLA BRUNI-SARKOZY. I love her.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
72 and sunny
Every single day this week! I left Frankfurt last week and it was 50, gray and rainy and the trees were naked and damp and now -- poof! -- spring is here. Everything is in bloom, pink and yellow buds line the river and the Germans have once again resumed their seasonal lunchtime ice cream habit with a vengeance. This is our first spring in Sachsenhausen and all the street life, cafes, apple wine taverns and gelato stores are taking over the sidewalks. Suddenly the city seems more populated even with the Holy Week holidays that have given us a half week of work.
Unfortunately I have only just begun to enjoy the weather because I returned to the 'Furt on Sunday and on Monday morning got a nasty stomach illness, one worthy of a trip to the hospital and then a very trustworthy German-Jewish doctor (an anomaly!).* As I laid on his table I looked up and saw a large wooden Star of David on his wall, next to his degrees. I said, "Happy Passover!" (we were speaking English, I don't do German if I'm sick) and he glared at me and said, "How do you know I'm Jewish?" I just pointed to the wall and he laughed and then said, "Oh you are American, you must know many Jews!" I just smiled, he was pressing on my spleen and I didn't really have the chance to enjoy the weirdness of the exchange.
I'm on the mend, enough so that I took a walk outside to get a vanilla shake at McDonald's. I saw three fashion forward European men in skinny colored capris. Spring has sprung.
* It's a bit more normal here to go the hospital and then get referred to a specialist if you're sick. This is mostly because doctors here are often alone in practice and keep very old fashioned hours, say 9:30 a.m.- 1 p.m., then 3 p.m.- 5 p.m.
Unfortunately I have only just begun to enjoy the weather because I returned to the 'Furt on Sunday and on Monday morning got a nasty stomach illness, one worthy of a trip to the hospital and then a very trustworthy German-Jewish doctor (an anomaly!).* As I laid on his table I looked up and saw a large wooden Star of David on his wall, next to his degrees. I said, "Happy Passover!" (we were speaking English, I don't do German if I'm sick) and he glared at me and said, "How do you know I'm Jewish?" I just pointed to the wall and he laughed and then said, "Oh you are American, you must know many Jews!" I just smiled, he was pressing on my spleen and I didn't really have the chance to enjoy the weirdness of the exchange.
I'm on the mend, enough so that I took a walk outside to get a vanilla shake at McDonald's. I saw three fashion forward European men in skinny colored capris. Spring has sprung.
* It's a bit more normal here to go the hospital and then get referred to a specialist if you're sick. This is mostly because doctors here are often alone in practice and keep very old fashioned hours, say 9:30 a.m.- 1 p.m., then 3 p.m.- 5 p.m.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Ciao for now, Fatherland
If you thought I was abducted, sorry, I'm here and ok. But tomorrow I am flying back for a quick visit home and the last week I have been working overtime so I can take this impromptu break. And I also got a crazy fever/cold- thing which required many trips to the pharmacy, or Apotheke.
Germans are notorious for being health freaks and are adamantly against using non-natural medication unless someone is on a deathbed. So far, I've been "prescribed" eucalyptus oil, thyme tea and some gel capsules of anis oil. As you probably guessed, these measures haven't really done much. I think I smell good, but it still feels like there is a hammer pounding my cheek if I bend my head to read a book.
This is a lame update, so I'll just sign off with a quick piece of advice I learned last night. When cooking your own pizza crust, don't place the dough on foil to bake. The dough and the foil bake together and you have to peel the foil off in little strips that burn you like a mother.
Germans are notorious for being health freaks and are adamantly against using non-natural medication unless someone is on a deathbed. So far, I've been "prescribed" eucalyptus oil, thyme tea and some gel capsules of anis oil. As you probably guessed, these measures haven't really done much. I think I smell good, but it still feels like there is a hammer pounding my cheek if I bend my head to read a book.
This is a lame update, so I'll just sign off with a quick piece of advice I learned last night. When cooking your own pizza crust, don't place the dough on foil to bake. The dough and the foil bake together and you have to peel the foil off in little strips that burn you like a mother.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Paranoid android
Either I'm being administered drugs in my sleep or strange things have been happening to me this week in the 'Furt. Now, I'll admit that as a romantic given to hyperbole, I have a tendency to get swept into conspiracy theory. But even with that recognized tendency, I've been observing some very interesting movements and frequencies around me. I feel a little bit like Liz Lemon in the episode from season 1 of "30 Rock" when she thinks her Middle Eastern neighbors are terrorists and calls them in to homeland security. Turns out, the neighbors were making an audition tape for "The Amazing Race." Ha ha ha... but wait: There IS no "Amazing Race" in Germany. Hmmm.
1. Last Monday I was waiting for the subway at Hauptwache, a busy station in the center of the 'Furt. It was about 9 a.m. I see two men in suits snapping digital pictures of the empty train tracks. Now they were either curious engineers marveling at some German ingenuity and efficiency, or they were plotting...something big. The train came. Surprise, they didn't get on, choosing instead to exit the station. Suspicious?
2. On Wednesdays I have a break from 1 p.m. to 3 p.m. and I usually come home to check my email and make myself some eggs for lunch. For the past two weeks, my doorbell rings at 2 p.m. I don't answer it because I'm afraid it's the German officials who make you pay taxes if you have a TV. But there's a catch here: The doorbell rings once, and I swear to God I hear no footsteps (and remember are apartment is a creaky wooden pre-war thing).
3. This one is the worst. On Friday I was going to work at about 7:45 a.m. and as I was getting on the down escalator, two policemen get on with me and ask if I saw anything strange that morning. I asked them to repeat it again, just to make sure I was getting my German right, and they asked again. I said no, and then asked why. They just shrugged me off and walked quickly away from me on the platform.
If I don't post again, you can all assume it's because I'm otherwise disposed...
1. Last Monday I was waiting for the subway at Hauptwache, a busy station in the center of the 'Furt. It was about 9 a.m. I see two men in suits snapping digital pictures of the empty train tracks. Now they were either curious engineers marveling at some German ingenuity and efficiency, or they were plotting...something big. The train came. Surprise, they didn't get on, choosing instead to exit the station. Suspicious?
2. On Wednesdays I have a break from 1 p.m. to 3 p.m. and I usually come home to check my email and make myself some eggs for lunch. For the past two weeks, my doorbell rings at 2 p.m. I don't answer it because I'm afraid it's the German officials who make you pay taxes if you have a TV. But there's a catch here: The doorbell rings once, and I swear to God I hear no footsteps (and remember are apartment is a creaky wooden pre-war thing).
3. This one is the worst. On Friday I was going to work at about 7:45 a.m. and as I was getting on the down escalator, two policemen get on with me and ask if I saw anything strange that morning. I asked them to repeat it again, just to make sure I was getting my German right, and they asked again. I said no, and then asked why. They just shrugged me off and walked quickly away from me on the platform.
If I don't post again, you can all assume it's because I'm otherwise disposed...
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Frankfurt's Little Children
This post will either make my mom happy because it's more salacious or it will worry her. We'll see.
To supplement my income in trying economic times (and because I'm on an almost 3-month long break in between Winter and Summer Semesters at University) I've started babysitting for a family in the 'Furts Westend.
The Westend is by far the toniest neighborhood in the 'Furt. It's bordered by the University to the west and the Palmengarten, a gorgeous botanical park, to the north and the financial district to the south. The streets are wide and tree-lined, 80% residential and 80% Altbau (pre-war construction). It is such a beautiful area, that the American occupation forces chose this neighborhood to set-up shop for the last half of the 20th century. Everyone who lives here now is employed in the banking sector, including the family I work for. The Westend is shockingly white, blissfully unaware of a failing market and one of the only neighborhoods in the city where the strollers are as nice as the cars. These three factors make for one certainty: Amazing playgrounds.
Throughout Westend there are maybe five, six, black-iron gated playgrounds, sandy and full of wooden caterpillar slides and lime-green monkey bars. The playgrounds appear like mirages, nestled in between apartment houses and shaded by trees. Yesterday, it was sunny and 55, I took my charges to the playground nearest to their home and was amazed at the flirtations taking place between moms and dads on the swings. It was just like the movie/book "Little Children," except these Germans were better looking (don't get me started on how good the moms looked, it was 10 am on a Saturday and they were wearing the typical "off-day" uniform of rich German ladies: skinny jeans, riding boots, Burberry trench. I was wearing some New Balances and old Gap jeans with baby puke on the thigh.)* and had way more money than the characters in Tom Perotta's work.
One couple was so into each other, sitting side by side on the swings, babies in lap, that I thought they were the proud parents of fraternal twins. But they were not. They left at different times, with different strollers, but not before planning to meet again after afternoon naps. Emotional affair!
I can't wait to go back.
*One thing about German rich moms, they are OLD. You think they're not, but then you get up close and it is wrinkle city. And they have the old lady skinny thing which makes them all sinewy.
To supplement my income in trying economic times (and because I'm on an almost 3-month long break in between Winter and Summer Semesters at University) I've started babysitting for a family in the 'Furts Westend.
The Westend is by far the toniest neighborhood in the 'Furt. It's bordered by the University to the west and the Palmengarten, a gorgeous botanical park, to the north and the financial district to the south. The streets are wide and tree-lined, 80% residential and 80% Altbau (pre-war construction). It is such a beautiful area, that the American occupation forces chose this neighborhood to set-up shop for the last half of the 20th century. Everyone who lives here now is employed in the banking sector, including the family I work for. The Westend is shockingly white, blissfully unaware of a failing market and one of the only neighborhoods in the city where the strollers are as nice as the cars. These three factors make for one certainty: Amazing playgrounds.
Throughout Westend there are maybe five, six, black-iron gated playgrounds, sandy and full of wooden caterpillar slides and lime-green monkey bars. The playgrounds appear like mirages, nestled in between apartment houses and shaded by trees. Yesterday, it was sunny and 55, I took my charges to the playground nearest to their home and was amazed at the flirtations taking place between moms and dads on the swings. It was just like the movie/book "Little Children," except these Germans were better looking (don't get me started on how good the moms looked, it was 10 am on a Saturday and they were wearing the typical "off-day" uniform of rich German ladies: skinny jeans, riding boots, Burberry trench. I was wearing some New Balances and old Gap jeans with baby puke on the thigh.)* and had way more money than the characters in Tom Perotta's work.
One couple was so into each other, sitting side by side on the swings, babies in lap, that I thought they were the proud parents of fraternal twins. But they were not. They left at different times, with different strollers, but not before planning to meet again after afternoon naps. Emotional affair!
I can't wait to go back.
*One thing about German rich moms, they are OLD. You think they're not, but then you get up close and it is wrinkle city. And they have the old lady skinny thing which makes them all sinewy.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
I am so happy right now...
... because I am watching "Germany's Next Top Model" with Heidi Klum. The girls just landed in L.A., and they are having walking lessons with an ex-Israeli military officer. The man is yelling at them in English (and these are 17 year-old Germans with very imperfect English). He just told Marie, my early favorite, "You are beautiful. But you bore me."
Heidi told the girls that they have to start speaking English, because the fashion houses in Italy and USA don't speak Germany. THEN, she told them she's having English lessons. There was an uproar.
Heidi told the girls that they have to start speaking English, because the fashion houses in Italy and USA don't speak Germany. THEN, she told them she's having English lessons. There was an uproar.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
A must read
Here is an article you MUST read from the New York Times. It's a mystery, combining my favorite topics: war criminals and gynecological anomalies.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/23/world/americas/23twins.html?_r=2
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/23/world/americas/23twins.html?_r=2
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Worst day to be away from home...
... Oscar Day. Long my favorite day of the year. And now this, my second rainy Sunday in February away from the action. Sure, they play the Oscars here on ProSieben (channel 7, also the home of Germany's Next Top Model) but they start at 1 a.m. with red carpet, 2 a.m. with the awards. And some of us have to work on Mondays.
Thankfully, since "Milk" opened here this weekend, I was able to see all the major nominated films. I hope "Slumdog" wins and Penelope Cruz for "Vicky Christina Barcelona." I do NOT think Heath Ledger should win over Philip Seymour Hoffman and I have very mixed feelings about Kate Winslet winning for "The Reader." That role was such a land mine to talk about if you live in Germany....
Other than those picks, the only movie I can say got the short end of the stick this year was "Frost/Nixon." It should have been a blockbuster (oddly enough, it is here in Germany, playing at all major Kinos). Frank Langella was awesome, and for adding shades of gray to a historical figure and playing against type, he beats Sean Penn.
I wonder sometimes why I like these awards so much. I am an avid movie-goer, but others like me have long claimed the ceremony doesn't hold water. Why too, in such bleak financial times do I feel bad for millionaire actors when they don't win? The obvious answer would have to be escapism or something like that. But I think it has more to do with the fact that the awards remind me of my home, my basement and the one Sunday night in the school year that didn't give me the blues.
Thankfully, since "Milk" opened here this weekend, I was able to see all the major nominated films. I hope "Slumdog" wins and Penelope Cruz for "Vicky Christina Barcelona." I do NOT think Heath Ledger should win over Philip Seymour Hoffman and I have very mixed feelings about Kate Winslet winning for "The Reader." That role was such a land mine to talk about if you live in Germany....
Other than those picks, the only movie I can say got the short end of the stick this year was "Frost/Nixon." It should have been a blockbuster (oddly enough, it is here in Germany, playing at all major Kinos). Frank Langella was awesome, and for adding shades of gray to a historical figure and playing against type, he beats Sean Penn.
I wonder sometimes why I like these awards so much. I am an avid movie-goer, but others like me have long claimed the ceremony doesn't hold water. Why too, in such bleak financial times do I feel bad for millionaire actors when they don't win? The obvious answer would have to be escapism or something like that. But I think it has more to do with the fact that the awards remind me of my home, my basement and the one Sunday night in the school year that didn't give me the blues.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Roses are red
I decided to liven up some classes this week by doing a unit on Valentine's poetry. Valentine's day isn't really celebrated here in Deutschland. This is because Germans are admittedly very unromantic and non-sentimental. It is also because, as wikipedia just told me, the Brits really started this holiday which became greeting card-ified by us Amis in the 1840s. Did you know 1 billion Valentine's Day cards are sent out each year? And that's not including e-cards!
So I made cookies for my students, bought some red paper and glue sticks and wrote the following on the board:
"Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
any words you guys want,
any words you guys want, you."
You would have thought I asked them to write a sonnet or a dactyl or a ballad. They looked at me with a mixture of distrust and defeat. I pleaded, "No, really guys, it's fun and easy, you don't even have to make them sweet or romantic, they can be goofy and funny!" After 10 awkward minutes of scribbling and sighing, this is what I got, verbatim:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
My coffee is hot,
When I think about you.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I hate when Stephanie makes us write or do homework,
don't you?
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Someone killed my dog,
I hope it wasn't you.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
When you say someone is 'blue' in German it means they are drunk.
___________ you.
This type of exercise was clearly rejected by my students. Why? Because it is inefficient and doesn't teach them anything that's immediate. But it teaches me a lot. Like the fact that my students are freaks.
So I made cookies for my students, bought some red paper and glue sticks and wrote the following on the board:
"Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
any words you guys want,
any words you guys want, you."
You would have thought I asked them to write a sonnet or a dactyl or a ballad. They looked at me with a mixture of distrust and defeat. I pleaded, "No, really guys, it's fun and easy, you don't even have to make them sweet or romantic, they can be goofy and funny!" After 10 awkward minutes of scribbling and sighing, this is what I got, verbatim:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
My coffee is hot,
When I think about you.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I hate when Stephanie makes us write or do homework,
don't you?
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Someone killed my dog,
I hope it wasn't you.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
When you say someone is 'blue' in German it means they are drunk.
___________ you.
This type of exercise was clearly rejected by my students. Why? Because it is inefficient and doesn't teach them anything that's immediate. But it teaches me a lot. Like the fact that my students are freaks.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Longest German word ever
Rindfleischetikettierungsüberwachungsaufgabenübertragungsgesetz
I don't know what it means. But it has something to do with beef laws.
I don't know what it means. But it has something to do with beef laws.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Weekend of Presidential impersonators
E and I saw "W." and "Frost/Nixon" this weekend. The later was by far the superior movie. My folks saw it a few days ago and said it was a surprising must see, and the trusty Turm Palast was showing it on the back screen, screen 6, where mice chew on red velvet seat cushions and two large columns obstruct the view of 60% of the audience members. But hey, it's in English.*
Frank Langella (Nixon) and Michael Sheen (Frost, and my new fav. actor, I think. He was a better Tony Blair than Tony Blair in "The Queen") were both so impressive, and the pace of the film clipped along. At under 2 hours, it was a rare feat for modern movie going.
2008 seemed to be the year of the political impersonation. We had the ubiquitous Fey/Palin gag, and now these two movies which, while both entertaining, could not be more different in the way they handle unpopular presidents.
In Oliver Stone's "W." Josh Brolin is all youtubey one-liners and drawled grimaces. He's a cartoon character. We hear the lines that have become so stale in the last 8 years "Fool me once... won't get fooled again," "I'm the Decider," etc. The movie intersperses Bush's biography with scenes of debate and power point maps in his cabinet room in the weeks leading up to the Iraq invasion. It ends right after the "Mission Accomplished" bit. Nothing is nuanced, everything is bold-colored and comic and centered around the simplistic Bush I- Bush II relationship. We're supposed to believe that the last 8 years happened because Bush I loved Jeb more and thought he would be president, and Bush II was merely trying to get his love and attention.
What's interesting is that most of "W."'s content is unseen and imagined by Stone. But it all feels like it has been done before, in fact, I couldn't help but think my students, or anyone who's picked up a newspaper recently, could have plotted this thing. It showed us nothing new.
So it's interesting, and a testament to Ron Howard, that "Frost/Nixon"'s subject matter is actually real and well-documented. You can youtube these interviews and very little of what's on the screen is a "big reveal." But the viewer gets so much more out of the story and sees Nixon not as a caricature but as a deeply flawed man who, fundamentally, believed that "it wasn't illegal if the president did it." Langella doesn't play him as crook or misunderstood victim or even delusional old guy. Instead he plays him as a person, and hearing him speak his words opens up history and allows the viewer to step in.
* In Germany they dub all movies into German. You have to go to an OV "original version" theater to see American films in their intended language.
Frank Langella (Nixon) and Michael Sheen (Frost, and my new fav. actor, I think. He was a better Tony Blair than Tony Blair in "The Queen") were both so impressive, and the pace of the film clipped along. At under 2 hours, it was a rare feat for modern movie going.
2008 seemed to be the year of the political impersonation. We had the ubiquitous Fey/Palin gag, and now these two movies which, while both entertaining, could not be more different in the way they handle unpopular presidents.
In Oliver Stone's "W." Josh Brolin is all youtubey one-liners and drawled grimaces. He's a cartoon character. We hear the lines that have become so stale in the last 8 years "Fool me once... won't get fooled again," "I'm the Decider," etc. The movie intersperses Bush's biography with scenes of debate and power point maps in his cabinet room in the weeks leading up to the Iraq invasion. It ends right after the "Mission Accomplished" bit. Nothing is nuanced, everything is bold-colored and comic and centered around the simplistic Bush I- Bush II relationship. We're supposed to believe that the last 8 years happened because Bush I loved Jeb more and thought he would be president, and Bush II was merely trying to get his love and attention.
What's interesting is that most of "W."'s content is unseen and imagined by Stone. But it all feels like it has been done before, in fact, I couldn't help but think my students, or anyone who's picked up a newspaper recently, could have plotted this thing. It showed us nothing new.
So it's interesting, and a testament to Ron Howard, that "Frost/Nixon"'s subject matter is actually real and well-documented. You can youtube these interviews and very little of what's on the screen is a "big reveal." But the viewer gets so much more out of the story and sees Nixon not as a caricature but as a deeply flawed man who, fundamentally, believed that "it wasn't illegal if the president did it." Langella doesn't play him as crook or misunderstood victim or even delusional old guy. Instead he plays him as a person, and hearing him speak his words opens up history and allows the viewer to step in.
* In Germany they dub all movies into German. You have to go to an OV "original version" theater to see American films in their intended language.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Groundhog Day!
Happy February, and happy Groundhog day yesterday!
I am so glad January is over. I seemed to have had a constant mild head cold and frigid fingers and salt-stained pant cuffs throughout the whole month. Now the balmy magic of my birthday month is here, and I say "amen." Today the high is 45 degrees, and we're supposed to get to 50 by the end of the week!!! Call me a MN rube, but this thrills me after a month of the coldest 'Furt temps in the last 12 years.
I am in my last week and a half of winter semester at Uni (WS: Oct-Feb, SS: March-July) so I have been a little busy giving presentations. But not really. I am shocked, after one semester, at how little work the German university requires from its students. I saw a guy in one of my seminars last week who I hadn't seen since November. Students come and go, and are able to audit as many classes they want per semester. Although I think this is nice as it promotes studying in other fields without the risk of a bad grade, it's also problematic as these auditors (who show up less than 50 % of the time) take up registration places. If you are taking a class to get a schein (grade) for your major, you must write a 25-page paper at the end of the semester and give one report. That's it. And to get a grade, you have to hound your professor to give you a piece of paper which you keep track of. There are no report cards! Needless to say the successful students have a LOT of self-initiative.
In other news we are planning a birthday trip to Ireland, namely Galway to visit some friends of Erik. I have never been to Ireland before, so any tips or recommendations would be greatly appreciated from blog readers. We have one full day in Dublin and two days in Galway. It's short, so perhaps just some "must sees."
I am so glad January is over. I seemed to have had a constant mild head cold and frigid fingers and salt-stained pant cuffs throughout the whole month. Now the balmy magic of my birthday month is here, and I say "amen." Today the high is 45 degrees, and we're supposed to get to 50 by the end of the week!!! Call me a MN rube, but this thrills me after a month of the coldest 'Furt temps in the last 12 years.
I am in my last week and a half of winter semester at Uni (WS: Oct-Feb, SS: March-July) so I have been a little busy giving presentations. But not really. I am shocked, after one semester, at how little work the German university requires from its students. I saw a guy in one of my seminars last week who I hadn't seen since November. Students come and go, and are able to audit as many classes they want per semester. Although I think this is nice as it promotes studying in other fields without the risk of a bad grade, it's also problematic as these auditors (who show up less than 50 % of the time) take up registration places. If you are taking a class to get a schein (grade) for your major, you must write a 25-page paper at the end of the semester and give one report. That's it. And to get a grade, you have to hound your professor to give you a piece of paper which you keep track of. There are no report cards! Needless to say the successful students have a LOT of self-initiative.
In other news we are planning a birthday trip to Ireland, namely Galway to visit some friends of Erik. I have never been to Ireland before, so any tips or recommendations would be greatly appreciated from blog readers. We have one full day in Dublin and two days in Galway. It's short, so perhaps just some "must sees."
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Home-grown terrorism!
I hate not being in America for awards' season. As someone who makes a point to see all nominated films and loves the Golden Globes, SAG and Academy Awards. I feel chagrined to have to go to people.com to see who won what. And though I didn't get to see "The Wrestler" or "The Reader" over Christmas, I plan to obtain them by illegal means before Feb. 22, Oscar night.*
And speaking of illegal means, you should all cheer for Germany to win Best Foreign Film for the Der Baader Meinhof Komplex. I hear France's, The Class is way better, but I highly recommend Germany's entry. BMK tells the story of the Red Army Faktion, or RAF, a group of home-grown terrorists who blew up federal buildings, bombed U.S. army bases and kidnapped government officials in West Germany from about 1968 to 1977. They were a motley crue, made up of radical students and some professionals who seemed to hate all things "Western," "American," "Fascist," "Capitalistic," or "Israeli."
Loosely organized in different cities, the RAF found their voice through writer Ulrike Meinhof (played awesomely by Martina Gedeck. She's also the star of The Lives of Others which won best foreign film in 2006. She can do no wrong.) Meinhof is a mother of two and left-leaning journalist when she joins the group in 1969, writing missives and getting them published in major magazines. She, along with the others, feel they must "go guerrilla" and "go towards guns," if they want to bring change to their country. What follows is not only a great political intrigue story, but also a very well-done action film that follows the RAF to Rome and Lebanon, Amsterdam and Berlin. It's a romp, full of guns, car chases and explosions. And while you never exactly sympathize with the RAF (it's pretty hard to get down with people who vaguely hate "the establishment") you see how the first post-war generation of Germans could have gone a little crazy. One member explains to a new recruit, very coldly, that he joined the RAF because he grew up in a house with a "Nazi for a father." We see that he means his father was both a tyrant and an actual member of the political party. It's a chilling moment, but one that director Uli Edel doesn't sentimentalize.
The movie is long, and can be a little confusing if you're not familiar with the RAF, so a quick google or nytimes.com search could help before viewing. RAF's most famous action is probably the hijacking of a Lufthansa plane in 1977. The plane landed in Mogadishu and produced the famous image of the plane captain's body being tossed out on the tarmac.
* My birthday is on Feb. 25. I have always loved that its around the following significant events: the Oscars, Ash Wednesday and the Winter Olympics.
And speaking of illegal means, you should all cheer for Germany to win Best Foreign Film for the Der Baader Meinhof Komplex. I hear France's, The Class is way better, but I highly recommend Germany's entry. BMK tells the story of the Red Army Faktion, or RAF, a group of home-grown terrorists who blew up federal buildings, bombed U.S. army bases and kidnapped government officials in West Germany from about 1968 to 1977. They were a motley crue, made up of radical students and some professionals who seemed to hate all things "Western," "American," "Fascist," "Capitalistic," or "Israeli."
Loosely organized in different cities, the RAF found their voice through writer Ulrike Meinhof (played awesomely by Martina Gedeck. She's also the star of The Lives of Others which won best foreign film in 2006. She can do no wrong.) Meinhof is a mother of two and left-leaning journalist when she joins the group in 1969, writing missives and getting them published in major magazines. She, along with the others, feel they must "go guerrilla" and "go towards guns," if they want to bring change to their country. What follows is not only a great political intrigue story, but also a very well-done action film that follows the RAF to Rome and Lebanon, Amsterdam and Berlin. It's a romp, full of guns, car chases and explosions. And while you never exactly sympathize with the RAF (it's pretty hard to get down with people who vaguely hate "the establishment") you see how the first post-war generation of Germans could have gone a little crazy. One member explains to a new recruit, very coldly, that he joined the RAF because he grew up in a house with a "Nazi for a father." We see that he means his father was both a tyrant and an actual member of the political party. It's a chilling moment, but one that director Uli Edel doesn't sentimentalize.
The movie is long, and can be a little confusing if you're not familiar with the RAF, so a quick google or nytimes.com search could help before viewing. RAF's most famous action is probably the hijacking of a Lufthansa plane in 1977. The plane landed in Mogadishu and produced the famous image of the plane captain's body being tossed out on the tarmac.
* My birthday is on Feb. 25. I have always loved that its around the following significant events: the Oscars, Ash Wednesday and the Winter Olympics.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Mrs. Cheapie
This week I have been taking note of my sudden frugality. I never before considered myself cheap, or worse, tight-fisted, but as I eyed a package of unopened toilette paper rolls at University on Thursday and actually considered stuffing them in my bag I realized by bargain-hunting just took a sharp turn towards theft.
Perhaps all the talk about the economy entered my psyche by osmosis. I don't have enough money to worry about the stock market, and I (fortunately? unfortunately?) don't have a mortgage or a car payment. I make enough money to live on and save some Euros each month, but since moving to Germany I have found myself saving socks with holes in them, reusing Ziplock bags, avoiding name-brand cereal and (worst of all) going to more matinées.
I hate matinées, the whole magic of the movies has to do with darkness, no daylight, etc. Even more, I hate the people who go to them looking to save a buck.
Yes the cost of living in Europe is much higher than in St. Paul, but personally that fact rings true for me because I can't eat my mom's food, watch my family's cable or trick my father into "checking" my car for gas (works every time). So maybe my life lesson here isn't that I'm cheap; it's that I used to be a major freeloader.
The Germans loved the inauguration. I was surprised it was on all the major networks here! Many students told me they loved the ceremony but were startled by the frequent mentioning of God. Whatever, heathens.
Perhaps all the talk about the economy entered my psyche by osmosis. I don't have enough money to worry about the stock market, and I (fortunately? unfortunately?) don't have a mortgage or a car payment. I make enough money to live on and save some Euros each month, but since moving to Germany I have found myself saving socks with holes in them, reusing Ziplock bags, avoiding name-brand cereal and (worst of all) going to more matinées.
I hate matinées, the whole magic of the movies has to do with darkness, no daylight, etc. Even more, I hate the people who go to them looking to save a buck.
Yes the cost of living in Europe is much higher than in St. Paul, but personally that fact rings true for me because I can't eat my mom's food, watch my family's cable or trick my father into "checking" my car for gas (works every time). So maybe my life lesson here isn't that I'm cheap; it's that I used to be a major freeloader.
The Germans loved the inauguration. I was surprised it was on all the major networks here! Many students told me they loved the ceremony but were startled by the frequent mentioning of God. Whatever, heathens.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Viva Mexico
There are no good Mexican restaurants in Germany.*
Apparently, there's a decent one in Munich that ex-pats mention when they take personal offense to my critique ("And who cares if you can't get Mexican? Look at the health care system!") but I suspect it's an urban legend. And I do care that there's no place where I can consume 1,000 calories via sour cream and cheese in my urban dwelling. That's important to me.
So I was thrilled on Wednesday when E snuck us in to a press-only PR cooking party sponsored by the Mexican tourism offices in greater Germany. The premise: 15 journalists were invited to a test kitchen where we formed teams and then had a Mexican chef (who married a German man) lead us through the cooking and consuming of 9 dishes. We made tortillas from scratch, guacamole, mole, Cebiche, galletas, tequila spiked mangoes, and a bunch of other dishes I can't remember. I can't remember because the kind people of Mexico greeted us at the door with aprons and a glass of Winter punch, a rum concoction, followed by bottles and bottles of red wine. We arrived at 6:30 and crawled out of the facilities at midnight, fully stuffed and warmed by real Chipotle chilies. It was the best Mexican food I've ever had, but what was more fun was the fellowship experienced between E and I and the Mexicans. They immediately sniffed us out as Americans and then proclaimed, "We are the same!" and gave us hugs. They totally helped us cook more than the other teams and gave me a thumbs up when I, in typical American fashion, loudly ripped open a bag of chips at the start of my cooking (I was hungry, I saw something that looked like Tostitos). They also told me I needed a cast-iron tortilla maker. I made a note of it, because I take my Mexican food consumption, and my fellow Americans, very seriously.
*Germany has the following: Good Turkish food, good German food, good French food, good Italian food, good Japanese food. That's it.
Apparently, there's a decent one in Munich that ex-pats mention when they take personal offense to my critique ("And who cares if you can't get Mexican? Look at the health care system!") but I suspect it's an urban legend. And I do care that there's no place where I can consume 1,000 calories via sour cream and cheese in my urban dwelling. That's important to me.
So I was thrilled on Wednesday when E snuck us in to a press-only PR cooking party sponsored by the Mexican tourism offices in greater Germany. The premise: 15 journalists were invited to a test kitchen where we formed teams and then had a Mexican chef (who married a German man) lead us through the cooking and consuming of 9 dishes. We made tortillas from scratch, guacamole, mole, Cebiche, galletas, tequila spiked mangoes, and a bunch of other dishes I can't remember. I can't remember because the kind people of Mexico greeted us at the door with aprons and a glass of Winter punch, a rum concoction, followed by bottles and bottles of red wine. We arrived at 6:30 and crawled out of the facilities at midnight, fully stuffed and warmed by real Chipotle chilies. It was the best Mexican food I've ever had, but what was more fun was the fellowship experienced between E and I and the Mexicans. They immediately sniffed us out as Americans and then proclaimed, "We are the same!" and gave us hugs. They totally helped us cook more than the other teams and gave me a thumbs up when I, in typical American fashion, loudly ripped open a bag of chips at the start of my cooking (I was hungry, I saw something that looked like Tostitos). They also told me I needed a cast-iron tortilla maker. I made a note of it, because I take my Mexican food consumption, and my fellow Americans, very seriously.
*Germany has the following: Good Turkish food, good German food, good French food, good Italian food, good Japanese food. That's it.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
I'm baaack in the 'Furt
I know you're all wondering...where is number 1? We're almost two weeks into the new year and I've already disappointed you. But fear not. I did not forget, I purposefully did not make a number one, because I have at least another 8-10 months in this country and surely the Germans will surprise me. I'm leaving room, exercising blog management if you will.
So maybe it will be Germans orderliness, punctuality or ways with cabbage... but I hope that it's something bold I haven't discovered yet.
I arrived back in the 'Furt yesterday after a hellish Delta experience. No personal TVs, no in-flight snacks and uncertain pilots ("Not sure if this brake light is serious but we're going to have to circle back to the gate" Um, thanks?) I was seated next to a man with very long hair en route to Sweden and Finland for a death metal tour. His band's name?: Hate Eternal. I just googled them and they are real and apparently quite popular in northern Europe. This guy was full of surprises. No. 1: He is a vegan. No. 2: His favorite TV shows is "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives."
I was expecting our apartment to be cold since Russia cut off our gas supply. But it's not. Apparently we have reserves from the Netherlands. Thank God for Dutch!
So maybe it will be Germans orderliness, punctuality or ways with cabbage... but I hope that it's something bold I haven't discovered yet.
I arrived back in the 'Furt yesterday after a hellish Delta experience. No personal TVs, no in-flight snacks and uncertain pilots ("Not sure if this brake light is serious but we're going to have to circle back to the gate" Um, thanks?) I was seated next to a man with very long hair en route to Sweden and Finland for a death metal tour. His band's name?: Hate Eternal. I just googled them and they are real and apparently quite popular in northern Europe. This guy was full of surprises. No. 1: He is a vegan. No. 2: His favorite TV shows is "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives."
I was expecting our apartment to be cold since Russia cut off our gas supply. But it's not. Apparently we have reserves from the Netherlands. Thank God for Dutch!
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