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."

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.

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!