skip to main |
skip to sidebar
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."
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.
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!
....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.
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.
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.
