Wednesday, December 02, 2009

Winter

******************

The dark came down on All Hallows' Eve. We went to sleep to the sound of howling wind and pelting rain, and woke on the Feast of All Saints to whiteness and large soft flakes falling down and down in absolute silence. There is no more perfect stillness than the solitude in the heart of a snowstorm.

This is the thin time, when the beloved dead draw near. The world turns inward, and the chilling air grows thick with dreams and mystery. The sky goes from a sharp clear cold, where a million stars burn bright and close, to the grey-pink cloud that enfolds the earth with the promise of snow.

I took one of Bree's matches from its box and lit it, thrilling to the tiny leap of instant flame, and bent to put it to the kindling. Snow was falling, and winter had come; the season of fire. Candles and hearth fire, that lovely, leaping paradox, that destruction contained but never tamed, held at a safe distance to warm and enchant, but always, still, with that small sense of danger.

The smell of roasting pumpkins was thick and sweet in the air. Having ruled the night with fire, the jack-o'-lanterns went now to a more peaceful fate as pies and compost, to join the gentle rest of the earth before renewal. I had turned the earth in my garden the day before, planting the winter seeds to sleep and swell, to dream their buried birth.

Now is the time when we reenter the womb of the world, dreaming the dreams of snow and silence. Waking to the shock of frozen lakes under waning moonlight and the cold sun burning low and blue in the branches of the ice-cased trees, returning from our brief and necessary labors to food and story, to the warmth of firelight in the dark.

Around a fire, in the dark, all truths can be told, and heard, in safety.

I pulled on my woolen stockings, thick petticoats, my warmest shawl, and went down to poke up the kitchen fire. I stood watching wisps of steam rise from the fragrant cauldron, and felt myself turn inward. The world could go away, and we would heal.

******************

From: A Breath of Snow and Ashes, Diana Gabaldon

Thursday, November 19, 2009

HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHLOE!

It's a year of great birthdays. Today, Chloe turns 10!!!

Alles alles Gute zum Geburtstag. Love you! And miss you all!!

(Here is another celebratory dance...)

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MICHAEL!


My brother turned 30 yesterday!!!


Now he can drink and vote and rent a car.

Congratulations, Bro, and I hope you had a fantastic day. Love you!

(Here is a little celebratory dance...)

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Speaking of blogs...

I think I'm going to clean up the link list on the right, and remove the links to blogs that haven't been updated in a year or more. It's just too sad to keep clicking and hoping -- in vain, in vain!

Home cookin'

Check out our new family recipe blog, Scrambled Eggers! Thanks to Shauna for the lovely surprise (and the cute name, haha!). It's like hanging out with everyone in the kitchen.

Miss you guys!

Monday, November 09, 2009

Happy Wall Fall Day, everyone!

Twenty years ago today, determined masses of citizens took to the streets to declare that they'd had enough of the Berlin Wall.

Aside from the fact that the thing desperately needed tearing down and the GDR badly needed to let its people go -- without this day, I wouldn't have found a Berti. (Or his lovely family. Or many of my lovely friends.)

My heartfelt thanks to all you brave folks!

Monday, November 02, 2009

Nicht in Ordnung

So I bought some flowers today, and waited in line while the folks ahead of me had their plants elaborately wrapped in cellophane, tied closed with floofy bunches of ribbon, and held together with various stickers.

When it was my turn, I gave the lady exact change for the bouquet and tried to leave. "Wait," she said, reaching for my flowers. Thinking there must have been a bar code on the sleeve or something, I handed them over. But she didn't scan them; she started to roll them up in paper. "Oh, it's okay," I said quickly, trying to take the flowers back. "I don't need them all wrapped up."

She stopped dead and stared at me as if I had just addressed her in Spanish. After a moment's perplexed, slightly miffed staring, she demanded, "Why not?"

Huh? What did she mean, why not? "Because I'm just going to take them home and put them in a vase," I replied, attempting to sound reasonable, rather than surprised and annoyed. "I don't need it gift-wrapped, it'd be a waste of paper."

Her firm, brilliantly-reasoned explanation (as she continued to roll and wrap): "But you must."

Me: "I must? The thing is already in a plastic sleeve, does everything have to be double- and triple-wrapped in this world? We're creating garbage by the ton every day, why must we make even more?"

She didn't respond, she simply added tape to close the top of the huge paper cone that had now enveloped my "fair-trade" flowers (irony, anyone?) and shoved it unceremoniously back at me. I shoved my Euros unceremoniously back at her and left the shop, tearing off the paper as I went.

Okay, so to be fair, she probably wasn't prepared for the question and didn't have the presence of mind to explain to me whatever Official Flower Shop Code dictates that all flowers be smothered in a non-permeable wrapping before leaving the premises. Maybe it's to avoid aggravating other people's allergies or something. But if that's the case, then how come the bouquet I bought was selected from a huge display of plants erupting several square meters over the street in front of the shop? I just can't think why I "must" accept my flowers rolled up in paper and taped closed -- over both sides, mind you, including the top -- before I can leave with them. They already had a plastic sleeve and rubber bands to keep them together and from any potential shedding.

All I can think is that this is one of those employees who is obsessed with "the way things are done" for the sheer sake of "the way things are done." I can understand Ordnung and all that, but when people become automatons instead of thinking, rational creatures, it frustrates me a little.

When I told all this to Bert after he got home, he sighed, exasperated. "You mean like the lady at our post office?"

Haha! Yeah, I guess we know a few of these. :)

Sunday, November 01, 2009

Happy Halloween!

Hope everyone had a great time. (We did!)

Graaaaah!


The best part of any Halloween gathering. Doesn't Andreas' pirate ship look cool?? The bat was Na; the aquarium, Katrin; the tree, me; the "boo" face, Anja; the spider, Bert; the classic jack, me


Check out Nadja's pumpkin cake!



My nose had sort of rubbed off by this point... I was supposed to be "Bert's Kater"!

Friday, October 23, 2009

Jobbin in Jermany

Okay, so there are times when my work certainly has its disadvantages. "Selbstständig" is the word for "freelance," which literally means "self-standing." However, "ständig" can also mean "constant(ly)" -- so if you are selbstständig, then you work both selbst and ständig! Ho ho! And true!

But what other job can leave you so completely jazzed? I just had one of those classes today: the kind that turn out constructive, fun, and textbook-perfect. Not only were the material and lesson plan all logically organized and relevant -- wrapping up into a neat conclusion at the end of the hour -- but it was also just the right balance of structure vs. organic flow. Even more importantly, all the students were engaged and learning and enjoying themselves; they practically interrupted each other to be able to apply the vocabulary and express themselves in English, making jokes and really getting into the topic. Afterward, everyone expressed how much they enjoy their English group and how empowering it feels to be able to communicate in a foreign language.

Other times, when I have asked students (during a discussion of workplace culture or something) what they like most about their jobs, they've beamed at me and answered: "English class!"

Add to that the fact that it's not only gratifying for me, it's healthy, too: professionally (boy, have I learned a lot!) but also personally, in that I get to know and like and care about all these lovely people. So many different kinds of people -- everyone from a completely different background, different ages, stages in life, different education, gender, personality, even different countries, and yet all of them equally valuable. It's just a priceless lesson to be able to internalize. Of course we all are told in school, "everyone is special," but reconciling that with our innate, animal-survival tendency to view groups of "others" as "others" unless they belong to our clan is not so easily reprogrammed. To therefore be granted the opportunity to reinforce the truth, every day I work with these unique and utterly special individuals, is a blessing.

And I get paid for this? Jeez, I'd do it for free!

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Let's see, where was I?

Right, wine and language and all that!

I think I pretty much covered the wine part, at least up through the fest on Saturday night in Bernkastel-Kues. (They even set off eye-boggling fireworks, from both the riverside and the castle above. Fireworks! Did I mention the coolness of this festival?)

It was the next day that I also got to experience the Best Parade Ever, which earns that title because it's entirely made up of free wine. That is, each of the different wine villages along the Mosel sends their own delegation, in which "wine princesses" wave from grape-covered floats while their minions run around distributing free wine. Everyone goes, "Oh look, here comes Piesport!" and some Dionysius-clad gentleman -- or maybe he's one of the folks in tricorne hat and breeches, or dressed as a Roman centurion, I never did figure out what the various costumes are meant to represent -- pours golden Piesporter Riesling into our outstretched glasses. Then he gets impatient filling all the proffered cups and just leaves us with the bottle, while we call, "Hail, Caesar!" or however you thank a centurion who just granted you your third free bottle of Goldtröpfchen
.

Anyway, so all this was fabulous, until a lady standing next to me at the parade heard my non-Mosellaner-accented speech and discovered I was not only a foreigner, but -- gasp! -- an American! Thus, in accordance with proper Miss Manners etiquette to finding out that your conversational partner is from another country, she proceeded to ask me, point-blank, why Americans "all talk so f***ing ugly." That's exactly how she said it: one moment, she was asking me in calm German where I was from and I was answering in German, and the next, she was suddenly shrieking in grotesquely-caricatured English that "Americans talk so f***ing ugly!"

Wha---

How do you respond to such improbable behavior?

In fact, I didn't. I stared at her for a moment, then demonstrably turned on my heel and pushed away through the crowd.

First, a note about the f-word. It wasn't (only) the fact that this lady was cussing at a perfect stranger that appalled me, since I'm aware of how many Germans seem to misunderstand the intensity of the f-word: they see it in movies all the time and think, huh, it must be like Scheisse, which literally means "shit" but is really about as strong as "damn." So if a German ever drops the f-bomb on you, be aware that he possibly doesn't mean it quite as invectively as it sounds. (Although it's still pretty shocking to hear your local morning show hosts use it in clueless imitation of English-speaking political figures -- I just about dropped my toothbrush!)

That said, it still startled me, more so because of this woman's apparent eagerness to demonstrate the intensity of her dislike than because of the word itself. The whole exchange was a bit like being slapped. I know she was probably drunk or crazy or both; but at that moment, I was already a bit sensitive about my outsidership, anyway, what with having met a whole bunch of new people in a new place with a new dialect. Plus, I had just been watching the colorful parade roll by through a golden, sunshiney wine haze, thinking how much I like it here in Germany and how lucky I am to get to be included in all these wonderful traditions. It was like a little demon had suddenly leapt up in the middle of my contented musings to shriek at me: "That's what you think! Intruder! False! She doesn't actually belong here!" And he was right -- these weren't my people, my traditions; it was especially not my language. The woman had been crass and unjustified, but it still hit a nerve. I went and leaned on the bridge, staring gloomily into the water. I felt suddenly disoriented. Was I just kidding myself, really? Is this whole "oh-I-finally-feel-at-home-in-a-foreign-country" game just wishful thinking because I'm growing sick of being rootless?

Which is a ridiculous reaction, because of course the other 99% of the population is so accepting and kind, and would be shocked themselves by this woman's behavior. But sometimes all it takes is just that one jerk, because I am occasionally insecure about being an immigrant. It frustrates me when I can't find the right word, and people stand there looking at me expectantly and I am sure they're exasperated that I've been living in Germany for three years now, and how long do I expect them to keep patiently smiling and going along with my "I'm just the clueless foreigner" schtick? Which of course is not what they're thinking (I hope) but it certainly is what I'm thinking. So it particularly hurts when someone seems to expose me for the fraud I sometimes feel like. Yet I chose this life -- how am I entitled to pity when I chose to come here?

Or maybe all this angsty overreaction is just me being melodramatic, and everyone feels unanchored at some point in their lives. Or it's just the obvious starting point for when you feel like questioning every choice you've ever made. In any case, I felt better as soon as Martin came looking for me and responded to my complaint with a "Pfft! We'll just have to teach you some more dialect."

I'm not quite kidding about the language part, though. I feel more and more like I'm just floating sometimes, suspended between two languages. The fault lies entirely with my job (or so I like to think) in that I teach English: in other words, I spend my whole workday not really immersed in German, but not speaking natural, nuanced English, either. This means that my German has sort of plateaued out at a perfectly competent but certainly not native-speaker-like proficiency, while my English is going stale with the same International Fundamental Vocabulary for Dry Technology and Boring Business. "Context" is a word I get to use a lot. "Vile" or "ignominious" or "titillating," not so much.

So there you have it. I suppose the elusive Home and the impossible Language parts will just have to settle themselves into a sort of limbo-truce someday. In the meantime, thank heavens there are good friends and tasty Wine to help lubricate the process.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Oh, the Onion...

Cat Congress Mired in Sunbeam

Sorry that last post hasn't been finished yet, September's been rather eventful (and by that read: splendid). Stay tuned!

Wednesday, September 09, 2009

Wine, Language, Home

Or alternately: the Tasty, the Impossible, and the Elusive: Thoughts Invoked by The Best Parade Ever.

It started when I spent last weekend drinking wine with my friend Martin, who comes from Lösnich on the Mosel.

Funny how I wasn't a wine-drinker at all in the States. But maybe that's just it: everyone knows that wine culture in Europe is "different" from wine culture in the States; however, that difference is not simply a matter of quantity. Leaving aside all discussion of American attitudes toward alcohol, buying wine in Arizona was not only expensive, but impenetrable -- bottles crowding each other on the shelf, competing for attention with their cutesy names and dizzying array of various origins. Australia? California? South America? Europe? Africa? Where do you even begin? There seemed to be something more than slightly elitist about all the prerequisite foreknowledge I imagined you had to have to identify whatever was supposed to be "good" (I personally couldn't even taste the difference) and so I just stuck with beer.

I knew lots of Americans liked wine. But suffice to say that, at least in non-wine-growing Arizona, there seemed to be such thick barriers of entry for the newcomer that I just never got into it.

Here, however, wine isn't nearly so inapproachable. It's life. It's a culture, an economy, a heritage, and a series of festivals that crown the "Wine Queen" every year. And yet it's also, paradoxically, not that big a deal. It's loved, but knowable. In the Pfalz, in fact, wine is almost preferred over beer, because wine is local and much beer is not (although living with someone who grew up within walking distance of the Czech border means our household still maintains a goodly supply of beer). Plus it's very unusual to find the giant wine producers here the way you might in California or Australia, because vintners aren't interested in bottling enormous quantities to mass-market abroad.
Not to say there isn't competition, of course there is -- with each other, with France. So it is nevertheless some damn fine stuff, and I've had the inestimable luck to find myself standing in a river of it.

Now, I learned to love it in the Pfalz, where they drink it dry, dark, powerful, and by the 1/4-liter glass. (You ever want to stain your teeth blue, sip on a Dornfelder.)

But I knew nothing about the Mosel. I'd driven by the valley a time or two, and been intrigued by that glassy river, winding sleepily like a jigsaw puzzle through the glowing, vineyard-covered hills. It's also the wine-growing area of Germany that happens to be slightly known outside of Germany; so when your Mosellaner friend extends an invitation to show it to you, you take it.

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my excellent host for an marvelous and enlightening time, and all his excellent friends for their warm welcome. It was beautiful. And different. The vineyards are different -- so... steep! -- the dialect is different, the wine is different, even the way of drinking it is different. Instead of buying a half-liter Schoppen and passing it around the group, the way they do in the Pfalz, on the Mosel, you buy a whole bottle and then distribute it into everyone's individual, tiny (0.1-liter, or 3.4-ounce) glass. The bottle is finished, the next person buys the new one. In this way, you can annihilate quite a few bottles and still be standing when the last bus goes at 4:00am.

I also made the barbaric mistake of allowing my fingers to touch the bowl of my glass, and was immediately corrected: "Hier," I was assured, with a demonstration, "trinken wir mit Stiel." (A nice little pun on Stiel, the glass-stem, and Stil: class, style.)

In addition, the wine is very sweet. Not syrupy and cloying -- in fact it was delicious -- but certainly not the dry reds that I'm used to at home.

Not to mention that it seems like all of Martin's friends are vintners. Or at least in a family of vintners. One moment, we'd be standing around sharing a bottle, and another, one of our group would appear behind the counter of the stand we'd been patronizing, wrapping an apron around his waist and opening another bottle for other customers.

All of this culminated in the completely normal sight of a bunch of young men standing around, being manly and talking man-things, while holding their tiny glasses of sweet white wine carefully by the stem and interrupting each other once in a while to swirl it, sniff, and ask, "Say, do you think this one's too acidic?"

It was awesome.

But this brings me to another, somewhat less awesome (I'll explain in a minute) feature of the wine festival, which was the quantity of American soldiers who suddenly appeared: quickly recognizable by their military haircuts, baggy American clothes, and loud honking voices.

Again, let me explain. I grew up a military brat in Germany, to parents who loved the country in which they found themselves and took every opportunity to explore and learn and discover. So when Martin told me to expect to see a lot of people from the bases, I rather looked forward to meeting and talking to some countrymen and expected
I'd be able to relate. Besides, I've been here long enough to discover that plenty of American servicemen are not like my parents were, and so am proud of anyone who decides to brave what could be a scarily foreign country to get out to mingle with the folks and experience some local culture.

But once I saw -- or rather, first heard -- them, I was startled to discover I didn't want to approach them at all. Why not? There they were, being American and talking American; and instead of walking up to them, I wanted to run and hide. What was wrong with me??

Well, one factor was probably just shock, in that we'd been floating in a sea of soft, rolling German, and suddenly these noisy haircuts come swaggering in, projecting their nasal vowels across the crowd as if they were on a college campus, and it was...
okay, it was embarrassing.

Another factor was probably just age: their average couldn't have topped 20 or 21, and they were simply acting like it. Poor guys, they were just being the kids that they were. But they were still a far cry from the Air Force officers I'd been picturing. They were... well, have soldiers always looked so sketchy? And the girlfriends so, well, trashy? What was with the g-strings sticking out the backs of their jeans?

Although I'm always very slightly aware of my outsidership here, most of the time, it's easy to ignore as I get settled into my adopted home. After all, it's the one I've got, now (I hardly even know anyone in Arizona anymore!), and it's been a constant process of effort and development to get used to the Immigrant Experience.

And yet now it was like, Martin had shown me where he was from, his culture and people and place; and then supposedly representing my side, a group of MTV caricatures bursts in to demonstrate where I'm supposed to be from.

Maybe that's why I relate so much to my friend Linda. She's Canadian, and has lived in Neustadt since 2005. For a long time, she was ambivalent about staying; but now she's marrying Clemens, her adorable Pfälzer, and has really landed firmly on the side of remaining an immigrant. Even Chrissie from Chicago, who knows she'll be leaving at the end of her third year (next summer, boo hoo!) tries as much as she can to engage with the culture and learn the language. So maybe the reason I can't make friends with the Americans I occasionally run into from the military bases are that they aren't of this little dual-natured world. While many (my parents included) seized the opportunity to live abroad and wore it out, for far too many others, there is this very clear separation of Us and Them that I don't -- can't -- identify with.

Wow, I didn't realize how long this post was going to get! It's time to go to bed, I'll try to get to the rest of it tomorrow... nighty night!

Happy Birthday Stiiiiiiiiiiv!

One of my favorite people, my gorgeous motivated adventurous hilarious girlfriend's-honor-defending brother-in-law, turns 30 today! A great date to do so, too, 09/09/09.

Berti is there to celebrate with him in Seattle. I wish I were, too!

Love you, Stevie!


Prost!

Friday, September 04, 2009

Three years in Germany

Wow, can it really have been a year since this post??

Time is spinning away faster and faster, it seems, like a penny in one of those donation-funnels at the store.

To those of you who have watched more years spin around than I have: does it keep doing this?

Do the summers keep stepping on each other's heels?

I can think of a few possible explanations as to why this third year in Germany has sped by so quickly. For one thing, I've been even happier than in the previous two, and you know the relativity formula for happiness. One reason is that I have so enjoyed our large, airy apartment with its inviting balcony, and realized what a profound influence living quarters have on your quality of life. Every time I sit down in my comfy office to work, I am accompanied by the lively activity right outside these glass doors: kids playing, visitors going to see their friends, folks leaving for work and coming home from work, neighbors cooking or watering their plants... I've especially loved watching said plants go through their pageant of seasons, like the trees and parks in the old version of "SimCity."

For another thing, my Mom spent over ten months here in Germany, and having her so close by really helped to soothe that raw spot of being so far away from all you guys. Thanks for this last year, Mom!!!

And maybe for another, I've really found my groove with work. I've been doing this just long enough to not only get really good at it -- so it's much more effortless than ever before -- but I've also been able to pick and choose the jobs that I really want to do, and to carve myself a comfy niche to occupy in each one. I feel useful, skilled, and appreciated -- something not everyone gets to enjoy about their work.

It's still just a point along the whole career path, though. It's slowly becoming time for me to really get cracking on that PhD: not only because I would indeed like to make a contribution to the field of teaching English as a Lingua Franca, but also because it's simply the next logical career move. Language jobs around here are almost exclusively on an independent-contracting basis unless you've got that Dr. title, and I don't want to be a freelancer forever.

Fortunately, I already have a pretty good idea of what I would like to study and who I plan to approach for potential advisors. I'm aiming for next spring to begin harassing professors into taking me on. Stay tuned...

So maybe all this satisfaction is simply a natural consequence of really getting settled in. I'm all set to pay my first German income taxes this year (last year, I didn't make enough to pay anything at all!) and thank goodness, it looks like I saved enough to cover the amount due. (Another hazard of freelancing!) I'll renew my visa this month, and get my German driver's license as soon as I get back from the States in a couple weeks. In October, Bert and I will go on a bike trip for his birthday; we'll buy a couple things for the place; we'll have a bachelorette party for one of my best friends; we'll consider celebrating Thanksgiving; we'll make Christmas plans.

I guess, in short, you could say the last three years have forged me a life: a career, goals, friends, and a wonderful partner. It hasn't happened quickly, or smoothly, or predictably; really getting settled in somewhere takes an awful lot of time.

But I think I can add to this post something that I couldn't quite say last year. And that is: Germany really has become my home.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

And HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!

Hey, in case you haven't looked at her blog recently, my Mom just celebrated her first Highland birthday yesterday! And it sounds like it was a total blast.

Congratulations on achieving your dream, Mom! (Insert wild pipe skirling)

Musing again

It's night, which means I should be in bed, but I'm too busy up musing. Things like:

- The power went out twice today. It was nice to sit around on the balcony, surrounded by candles, unable to use the computer.

- It was also neat to watch the neighbors doing the same things on their balconies.

- Barbecue sauce is delicious, but it seriously does not belong on non-barbecue things (like pizza). Freaks me out a little.

- But chicken mole is awesome.

- It's so much more fun being a grown-up than a kid. For one thing, even if I don't enjoy it, I can theoretically apply barbecue sauce to whatever I want. For another, the world makes increasingly more sense with every passing year.


- Teaching English at BASF just gets more and more enjoyable. So much so that I feel a little guilty being paid for it. There's nothing like spending your day hopping from group to group of completely unique, motivated individuals to convince you that the world is absolutely stuffed with wonderful people. Of course, I get to see their best sides: the sides that are learning, having fun, teasing each other and being creative and sharing what they did on the weekend and sticking out their tongues adorably as they concentrate on an exercise. After two years of meeting every week, you really get to know these people. And they're all just so... dear! It both fills you with love for humans and, at the same time, makes the evils of the universe almost too much to bear, to imagine that every bad thing that happens certainly involves one-of-a-kind folks like these. Everyone please be nice to each other out there.

- Speaking of lovable humans, I so totally still have a crush on Josh Groban. He's done some cheesy stuff of late, but then he could sing "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep" and make it sound like an audible 2003 Bordeaux barrique. The man is Orpheus.

- Plus he looks aych-oh-tee in glasses.

- Lots of men look hot in glasses. Men! Go buy yourselves some glasses!

- In fact, Bert actually looks a little like Josh Groban. Check out this picture.
The eyes, the eyebrows, the mouth, even his hairline. Hmmm....

- Shauna got sick in Jaipur. I guess that's obligatory -- every non-Indian is supposed to spend at least a little time being sick, adapting to the different sorts of microorganisms -- but I hope this doesn't mean she missed seeing the Palace of Winds or riding a camel. Hope they're having good travels back to Bangalore now.

- I got to talk to Sarah on the phone yesterday, which was awesome. She's so funny and easy to talk to, I really should call more often.

- Berti is flying to North America in a couple weeks! Vancouver, then Seattle, then Green Bay.

- And I'll be in Green Bay, too, visiting my fambleeeee!

- Speaking of travel, we spent last weekend lurking around near Bremen and got nice and sun-toasted on the North Sea (wrinkles be damned, gimme that Vitamin D!). It was very cool: the tide came in, we swam, the tide went out, we collected seashells. I've never been so far north on the Continent before, and it rocked! I stood on the shore and tried to imagine dragon-shaped longships appearing over the horizon. Bremen was also a fun city, with a gorgeous Innenstadt and lots to see. We hung out with Bert's friends and their two so-charming-it-hurts little boys, explored the idyllic countryside, had breakfast at the new Hofbräuhaus Bremen (gawd, we're such alkies) and just generally had a smashing time in the Stadt of the Musikanten. Plus we're nice 'n' tan! I haven't worn makeup for a week.

- I'm worried about my friend Sara, who just got a visit from some army messenger yesterday trying to call her back into active duty. She has two small children and a husband who's likely deploying before the year is out. Huh?? She has until September 4th to appeal; everyone please send good vibes.

- Well, I'm tired, maybe that means I should go to bed.

- Not before writing one more line.

- One more.

- Blog out.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Fahrvergnügen

So hey, maybe I should actually begin thinking about what it takes to be allowed to drive here.

Up to this point, the issue seemed a bit unimportant, even irrelevant, considering:

a) I don't have a car registered in my name
b) the first year I was here, I wasn't sure how long I would stay, and
c) by the time I knew I would stay -- i.e. the second year -- Bert's car was living in the Erzgebirge.

But now that the Opel is once again a resident of Ludwigshafen, and my third year in Germany is heading to its close, it's slowly becoming ridiculous that I don't have a German license. Bert and I have become like those couples in the 1950s, where the husband always drives while the wife sits wifily in the passenger seat.

So I finally sat down just now to peruse the web and see what it would take to get a Führerschein. And would you look at that! Arizona has an agreement with the German government that allows its citizens to simply come in and exchange their AZ driver's license for a German one. Let's see, how much time do I have to do that? About... it says here... oh... "up to 3 years."

ACK!!!!!!!

My three-year mark is next Wednesday!

If I miss it, I have to leap through something like 6 months of brutal bureaucratic landmines and examinations and document-issuing before I get to then sweat out around 2,000 Euros worth of behind-the-wheel hours and processing fees.

I gotta get on the ball! Or the wheel, as it were! I'll let you know how it goes...

(Besides, if they make me take a test, they'll realize I still don't know how to drive stick. Yipe!)

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Sommerliche Tage

What a wonderful summer so far! If a bit busy -- also expensive (!) -- it's been worth it.

Since June should really be its own entry, I'll start in the middle of July, when Mom & I headed out toward Regensburg to visit my friend Sara. She just moved to that area in July with her husband, Jared, a hippie-turned-soldier who's had some pretty unbelievable adventures in the Army before they finally got stationed in cool, green, relatively non-bomb-throwing Europe. It was so great to catch up with Sara again. We hadn't seen each other since she -- herself a hippie-turned-soldier -- left Tucson for said Army in 2003, and yet it was like almost no time had passed. Except for her having a husband and two adorable children! We had a lovely time: explored the town, ate famously delicious Bratwurst, drank beer, chased kiddies, escaped from the Gasthaus.

Oh yeah, the Gasthaus. For the most part, she seems to be settling into Germany pretty well; except for the first couple of weeks, when the whole family was stuck in two rooms in this bizarrely large, yet otherwise weirdly empty, Gasthaus on the lonely end of a sparse collection of houses that somehow, somewhen was generously granted its own name and "village" status. There wasn't even a bus going out there from the equally spooky train station twelve kilometers away... although after half an hour of trying, we did finally get a hold of the only taxi cab within a 30-kilometer radius. I mean it, the only one! Be sure to make your booking in advance! Might be charming, if it weren't completely maddening. Sara and Jared were ready to start throwing themselves against the walls by the end of Week Two, and I considered buying them a large mirror to make them think they had more space -- and maybe even roommates who looked just like themselves -- until they were finally able to buy a car and move into a real house in a real town nearby. I'm really looking forward to visiting again at the end of August.

But first, it was off to Scotland for Mom's momentous move! Check out her blog for details on our fabulous weekend hanging out in pubs and stomping our feet to live Celtic folk music -- IIIII mean, of course, registering her for classes and looking for apartments. (Come on, we did a little of that, too!)

Inverness is seriously great. Not only is everyone friendly and the town cute, but for such a middle-sized community (70,000, I think?), it's also hopping! There's always some event going on. And in the pubs, people actually dance: that kicking, jumping, Scottish-looking dancing that everyone must learn in school or something because they all look really good doing it. And of course you, as a Not Scot, don't even contemplate getting up and joining them because they're all so, you know, authentic, and you're, like, this dorky tourist and stuff. So you just sit at your table bouncing in your seat and having some more whisky. Until the Scots catch you at this -- then you are pulled quite bodily into the ruckus and your whisky-lubricated feet miraculously find their own rhythm. We had way too much fun, and Mom made way too many new friends!, for us to dwell too much on the sadness of Monday's inevitable parting.

But even the journey back to Edinburgh, while a bit melancholy, was very beautiful. The Highlands really look just like they do in the films. The train pulled out of Inverness into a low-hanging dawn, and I spent three hours watching the mist swirl between mountains and over rocky brooks that wound their way through dark purple heather. Kind of matched my mood. Add some atmospheric music to the mp3 player (in fact the "Gladiator" soundtrack is superb for watching landscapes) and you have yourself one transcendental train ride.

I didn't have too much time to brood, however, because the following weekend ging es gleich wieder los. Bert and I drove down to his mom's place on the Bodensee and, along with his dad and uncle, celebrated Gert's birthday. And I discovered where the sun goes to when it's on vacation from Scotland! On Friday night, we set up a tent under the apple trees in a garden overlooking the water, roasted potatoes in a campfire, and drank beer under the Milky Way until we simply couldn't stay awake any later.

By eight-thirty the next morning, we were waking up to the smell of fallen apples; taking a dip in the Bodensee; drying off on the grass in the sunshine; then having lunch in a Biergarten before driving out to yet another lake for frisbee and more basking in the sun. I tell you, it was vacation. Even the climate reminded me a bit of California: that golden light and soft air... riding along the coast with the windows down, summer-clad, cool wind on your sunwarmed skin, watching the light flash off the water and glow through ranks of graceful white sails.

On Sunday it was pretty hot, so on the drive home, we made a stop to walk through a lovely Altstadt and have ice cream coffee.

Just like Baden-Württemberg has a prettier "Ludwigshafen" -- on the Bodensee -- it also has its own Haßloch, this one friendlier and spelled "Haslach"

We stopped again near sunset because we spotted another lake from the road and simply had to get out of the car and jump in it.

Swim in meeeeee!


View from the lake. Isses net schee?

Monday, I actually -- gasp! -- got some work done. And then on Tuesday, Steve came!! He stopped through Frankfurt on his way to visit Shauna in India, so we got a whole day and night to play together. Which he and Bert took full advantage of, too -- I had no idea how late they were up hanging out until I tried to wake them up to trundle them off to their respective airports and jobs. Last word was that Steve made his flight on time... it makes me happy to think of him and Shauna reunited now!

So here it's Wednesday night, and Bert and I are already checking the weather to see how it will be in Bremen this weekend. He's got friends up there who've been bugging him to come up and visit for years, so it looks like we're escaping this wine country heat to check out some more ships, this time zurück in the cool north.

Anybody been to Bremen before, or Bremerhaven? Anything we should be sure to see? :)

Wednesday, August 05, 2009

Perhaps this will please the gentleman...

Ah ha ha! This clip always makes me laugh.


Sunday, August 02, 2009

Horrors and Delights

Mom and I were looking at some gowns on display in the window of a formalwear shop the other day. For each one, I heard myself loudly issuing some supercilious evaluation: a dress was "hideous" or "gorgeous," "appalling" or "breathtaking," or "would be nice if there were fewer sequins and more of that turquoise color." Everything was either horrible or delightful.

So in that vein, I give you: This Past Weekend, as Judged by the Opinionated Nikki!

- Horrible: Bert left for Munich last Thursday evening. A weekend without him, aiee! Speaking of Bavaria, I've been meaning to gripe: what's all the fuss about, anyway? That area is so
overexposed. How come it gets all the recognition when the Pfalz is just as pretty but less self-aggrandizing?

- Delightful: His trip was just in time to give Mom & me a little catch-up playtime before we fly to Inverness next weekend. Hooray! Hanging out together in Germany, then in Scotland!

- Horror: We watched the movie "Troy" last night, which is fun, but just as often ridiculous. I mean, how does Briseis suddenly allow herself to be seduced by Achilles just when she was in the middle of despising him? Silly girl!

- But Delight: Thumbs up to her spirited verbal volleying!

- Horror: And how many times does the movie need to keep hammering the "I will be immortal through my memorable deeds" theme? Answer: at least eight. (Several of which are accompanied by Achilles' squinting thoughtfully off into the distance, just in case we missed the point.)

- Delight: Eric Bana is a babe. More scenes with Hector!

- Horror: By the way, I discovered that Hefeweizen aggravates my fructose malabsorption issues. Nooooooooooooooooooo......

- Delight: At least Weißburgunder turns out to be an acceptable alternative to fructose-fraught Rieslings, the main ingredient in a Weinschorle! Ahh, the Schorle: refreshing summer beverage, I salute you.

- Horror: Planning lessons on a Sunday sucks.

- Delight: Mom and I went for a long walk in Luisenpark on Saturday.

- Horror: The Strassenbahn tracks are being worked on, and there was no tram to take us home from the park.

- Delight: So we went for a beautiful 3-mile walk back to Berliner Platz on our own two (four) feet.

- Horror: The Frogurt is also cursed.

- Delight: But you get your choice of topping!

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Dave Barry gets a colonoscopy (you should, too)

He makes a good point: you either have colon cancer, or you don't. Either way, don't you want to know? Stop putting it off, get a colonoscopy!

Dave Barry: A journey into my colon - and yours

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Cycletaurs

I remember writing last year (no, wait, it was the one before that! How long have I been here now??) that Bert & I were on our bikes so much we were slowly finding mystical union with them.

Well! That ain't nothing compared to this summer. Because this summer I have a new bike!

Check it oooooouuuutt!

Isn't it gorgeous? It's got 27 gears, hydraulic brakes, unkaputtbare Reifen ("indestructible tires" -- we don't say that, do we? "Flat-resistant tires"? Help me out, here), a top shifting system, adjustable everything, and suspension under the seat and handlebars. The powerful headlight and taillights come on automatically when it gets dark enough. Even the bell is the perfect silvery sound to announce the approach of this noblest of Zweirädern. Ding, ding! Magnificent bike coming, hark! And admire ye!

My last bikes (yes, plural) were all more or less experiments, hand-me-downs from friends which fit me just enough to keep my knees from making contact with my jaw as I pedaled. Which was good, because any tiny unevenness in the pavement would already make my teeth chatter together as I fumbled with the temperamental gears in an attempt to keep up with Bert's cruiseworthy Diamant. Don't get me wrong, I was grateful to have them; but we were definitely Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang -- without the wings and sentience -- following an Audi Roadster.

When the chain finally leapt in desperation from the last such contraption, Bert took my hand and marched me into a huge cycling shop in Oggersheim. Light glinted off row upon row of sleek thoroughbreds, turning their wheels seductively toward me and purring their tinkling bells, beckoning me to sit on the bouncy new seats. "But I can't afford any of these jewels!" I protested, already clambering onto one to see what I'd be missing. Bounce, bounce. I squeezed the ergonomic handles. Ooo. "And I can't afford to allow you any more excuses not to take longer excursions with me," said Bert. He waved over a salesperson.

Well! After much experimentation, we are now two Audis cruising down the road. The right equipment just makes all the difference. What before had been rattling and laborious is now smooth and effortless, like flying; and I can focus so much more on the scenery and the wind than on keeping my chain in place. Even pedaling over very rough, tree-rooty forest paths is like something out of a 4x4 commercial.

So far, we average about 40-60 kilometers per ride in anticipation of taking a biking vacation for Bert's birthday in October. Bike paths in Germany are just the best. It's a very outdoorsy country, and the specially-designated, traffic-free bike paths that ribbon all throughout the countryside are well mapped and maintained, with cute little green signs indicating direction and distance at every intersection. We've already got our journey entered into the GPS -- 300 kilometers along rivers between Bavaria and Baden Württemberg, with many a camping spot and brewery along the way, finally ending four or five days later at a vineyard where Bert's family will come join us for the birthday weekend itself.

Doesn't that just sound awesome??

Time to start molding butts onto bike seats!

Friday, July 10, 2009

Dragging...

So... tired... today!

I've been weirdly sleepy all week. Have so much to do, and a long list of planning and translating and proofreading and email-answering and general Work Admin to get through today... but I can't seem to focus. What is up? I haven't been sleeping any less (or more!) than usual this week, but when I do, it's been very deep and then difficult to get up afterwards. Bert even took one look at my puffy peepers and asked, alarmed, if I'd been crying!

Can a body suddenly start demanding all the lost sleep it's accumulated over the years?

Must finish lessons... must write colleagues back... want to go... lie... down... zzzzzz!

Wednesday, July 08, 2009

Bare addendum

Poor Berti! He read that last post and was a little shocked. He said I make it sound as if "er glotzt anderen Frauen hinterher und findet seine eigene total langweilig."

So allow me to emphasize that Bert is not glotzing other women hinterher. And he doesn't find me total langweilig. I just noticed that he picks up on the cute little touches -- little touches that I have no plans to add to my already chore-filled morning routine, not even if it's something small for my boyfriend's sake.

Which is kind of a pity, considering how many women complain that their guys don't notice or appreciate when they go out of their way to look nice. It seems with us, Bert is such a rare man, who got stuck with a girlfriend who's too lazy to make the effort!

Monday, July 06, 2009

And India, ho!

Shauna's all checked into her hotel and ready to start work tomorrow. Just fyi! :)

India bound

We just sent Shauna off to Bangalore to meet her new Google playmates today. She had her little sack lunch and backpack and typhoid tablets. Everybody please wish her a safe and happy adventure.

Friday, July 03, 2009

The bare minimum

Yesterday, I saw a girl wearing bright yellow ballet flats.

It looked really cute, especially because the rest of her outfit, being rather unremarkable, was made completely eye-catching and expressive by these two cheerful feet. My first thought was how cool that was. My second thought was that I would never think to do that.

Thing is, I kind of like fashion. Not in the magazine-runway-designer way; I mean the oh-look-what-she-has-on kind of way. Although maybe like isn't so much the word as admire: I enjoy observing how people decorate themselves, and am kind of envious that I don't have the same effortless ability. I only just recently bowed to the skinny-jean trend, probably on the same vague impulse that propelled me to stop wearing them somewhere around 1994: the small part of my brain devoted to not looking ten years out of date was finally visually prodded enough to passively follow along with my age group.

Tempted as I am to claim that this is due to occupying some lofty plane above such petty considerations (you know, contemplating the cosmos with Carl and all that), the fact is, I'm just lazy and broke. And unadventurous, too, as a result.

See, it's hard enough work finding just one piece of clothing or shoes that do the job and look halfway decent. Maybe if I had the time -- or, well, okay, if I chose to spend the time -- to shop endlessly, I'm sure I'd find more stuff. Which would promptly be out of style again 18 months later, and I'd be back to shopping for more stuff. (This is where the money part comes in.) It just seems like the constant effort involved outweighs any impulse I have to decorate myself beyond the bare minimum.
I have a belt, I have a pair of pumps. Why do I need a bunch of different kinds?

Of course this means I'm also not terribly experimental -- if I do find something, and spend my limited cash on it, it's got to be useful with more than one outfit (sorry, bright yellow flats).

All of which leaves me with a closet full of relatively neutral colors in what I think are nice cuts and fabrics. And I feel comfortable and put-together, until I go out with my friend Nadja, who has cleverly matched her lipstick to her pearl-pink jacket and looks like a million bucks. Or I have a date with my boyfriend, and go to find something pretty and eye-catching to wear and the best I can do is Librarian In Heels.

I guess this all pretty trivial, not to mention exactly like complaining
you don't have awesome triceps when you're not willing to put in the time and effort to attain them. I just wish it was equally as unimportant to my boyfriend. Of course he's subtle about it; but I can't help cringing just a little when he comments, with a halfway-pleading look at me, how cute and feminine that girl's painted toenails look peeking out of her summery sandals, and I realize I don't even own any nail polish. (Because then I'd have to, you know, paint my nails! And it would chip off, and I'd have to paint them again. You see??)

Sigh. Bert would have noticed the yellow flats, too.

Maybe I should become a software engineer like my sister, where you're looked at fish-eyed if you do more than make sure your company logo tee is clean and free of noticeable holes.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Reading on the Weinstraße

Non-fiction has really started to allure me of late. Two recent discoveries have been "The Omnivore's Dilemma" by Michael Pollan and "Cosmos" by Carl Sagan.

The Omnivore's Dilemma is an engrossing, thoughtful, and even suspenseful account of one journalist's adventures exploring the modern food chain. Pollan's intriguing premise is that our ancestors, as omnivores, were faced with special challenges not experienced by animals with a more self-evident dinner menu. Unlike, say, koala bears, an animal that can eat almost anything must constantly make decisions: Are those red berries nutritious or dangerous? Are these mushrooms tasty or toxic? Should this be combined with that?

How we resolved this dilemma in the past was through culture. Instead of new experimentation every generation, accumulated wisdom was passed down through the community via an established local cuisine. If grandmother made it, then that's what I'll make, too.

This approach to nourishing ourselves worked pretty well for a good many thousand years. But in the last couple of generations, our guide for navigating the bulging supermarket shelves has become everyone but grandma: nutritionists, journalists, scientists, politicians, and advertisers have all elbowed her out, each with a different motive and none with a clue. Eat less fat! Wait, eat more fat! But only these kinds! Eggs are good. Eggs are bad! Eggs are okay, but this omega-3-added variety is even better. Try this milk with "new! active cultures" and this one with "now more calcium". In attempting to industrialize our food production, we've gone from eating the stuff to analyzing, manipulating, and processing (to say nothing of marketing) it. The result is that
we've re-introduced the omnivore's dilemma, and sentenced an entire population to bewilderment and malnutrition.

A fascinating read. Here are a couple excerpts:

On the modern omnivore's dilemma: "This situation suits the food industry just fine, of course. The more anxious we are about eating, the more vulnerable we are to the seductions of the marketer and the expert's advice."

On industrial agriculture: "When we mistake what we can know for all there is to know, a healthy appreciation of one's ignorance in the face of a mystery like soil fertility gives way to the hubris that we can treat nature as a machine... when the synthetic nitrogen fed to plants makes them more attractive to insects and vulnerable to disease, as we have discovered, the farmer turns to chemical pesticides to fix his broken machine."


On a sustainable-agriculture movement in Italy called Slow Food: "It's all very Italian (and decidedly un-American): to insist that doing the right thing is the most pleasurable thing, and that the act of consumption might be an act of addition rather than subtraction."

On a meal with friends: "In his chapter Brillat-Savarin draws a sharp distinction between the pleasures of eating -- 'the actual and direct sensation of a need being satisfied,' a sensation we share with the animals -- and the uniquely human 'pleasures of the table.' These consist of 'considered sensations born of the various circumstances of fact, things, and persons accompanying the meal' and comprise for him one of the brightest fruits of civilization. Every meal we share at a table recapitulates this evolution from nature to culture, as we pass from satisfying our animal appetites in semisilence to the lofting of conversational balloons. The pleasures of the table begin with eating (and specifically with eating meat, in Brillat-Savarin's view, since it was the need to cook and apportion meat that first brought us together to eat), but they can end up anywhere human talk cares to go. In the same way that the raw becomes cooked, eating becomes dining."

Cosmos has been another delightful discovery (thanks, Shauna, for leaving your copy at our place!). Carl Sagan was one of the greatest astronomers of the twentieth century, even more so because of his belief that the miracles of science should be made available to the general public. An avowed atheist, he is nonetheless surprisingly spiritual. I can't think of a better word to describe his book than "wonder" -- wonder at the universe, at creation, at humans and our minds, at mathematics, at chemistry, at existence. Here was a guy whose boylike enthusiasm for the cosmos only grew the more he found out. He made it his life's work to shake people and point at the sky and go, "wake up! Look around you! Isn't it incredible?"

I think a review on the back of the book says it all: "Cosmos is like the college course in science you always wanted to take but never knew a professor could teach. It's magnificent. Sagan writes beautifully... With a lyrical literary style, and a range that touches almost all aspects of human knowledge, Cosmos often seems too good to be true."

Well, I'm sure enjoying it. The book is not just about the universe itself -- what it's made of, what we know about how it works, theories as to what it looks like and where it came from -- it also documents how these discoveries themselves were made. Which is funny, how we sort of take that part for granted. Sure, everyone has to read in school about Galileo and his telescope and Isaac Newton watching an apple fall to the ground. Yawn.

But take those stories out of school for a minute. These were real guys. Everything we know about anything had to be stumbled upon and observed and proven by humans like us -- often despite intimidating obstacles, like the scowling Inquisition or the Thirty Years War. As a kid, it's kind of natural to think of science as magic; even though you're intellectually aware that there are rational, often astonishingly clever, inventions behind the things you take for granted, you're so busy learning everything -- from how to walk to how to find your way to the bus stop to how your parents knew it was you who hid your unfinished lunch in the kitchen drawer -- that everything is new, and you're less occupied with how they came about than how to simply navigate their use. Being told that Pythagorus came up with this or that theorum is just another thing to have to learn.

I guess I never noticed that where some things are concerned, like science, this tendency has remained with me into adulthood (at least to some extent). What Carl Sagan does is show you behind the curtain -- make you realize that taking pictures of the surface of Mars is the incredible culmination of thousands of years of struggle and drama and discovery. I found myself reading passages on equations -- equations, for God's sake! -- and nodding in page-turning captivation. Wow. There's a writer.

The book begins with a chapter called The Shores of the Cosmic Ocean:

"The Cosmos is all that is or ever was or ever will be. Our feeblest contemplations of the Cosmos stir us -- there is a tingling in the spine, a catch in the voice, a faint sensation, as if a distant memory, of falling from a height. We know we are approaching the greatest of mysteries.

"The size and age of the Cosmos are beyond ordinary human understanding. Lost somewhere between immensity and eternity is our tiny planetary home. In a cosmic perspective, most human concerns seem insignificant, even petty. And yet our species is young and curious and brave and shows much promise. In the last few millennia, we have made the most astonishing and unexpected discoveries about the Cosmos and our place within it, explorations that are exhilarating to consider. They remind us that humans have evolved to wonder, that understanding is a joy, that knowledge is prerequisite to survival. I believe our future depends on how well we know this Cosmos in which we float like a mote of dust in the morning sky."

Thursday, May 07, 2009

Speaking Churman

People often tell me that I don't have an accent when I speak German. Which I guess I don't, but honestly, this is simply the result of early exposure rather than of some incredible mastery of the language. Don't get me wrong, my German's pretty good; but I ain't a native speaker, and sometimes it would actually do a lot more good if people could hear this!

Because like any non-native speaker, I say things differently. I make grammatical mistakes and use the wrong verb prefix, all the little slips that one expects and forgives, or possibly doesn't even notice, when the speaker has an accent. But without an accent, there's a bizarre discord: the person sounds German, so there's no reason to expect any errors at all -- which means the smallest misstep comes streaking out like the wrong key played on a piano.

So it turns out, all not-having-an-accent really does is trade the vague indignity of sounding foreign for the much greater indignity of sounding, well, stupid! Or just appallingly weird, as when I use the wrong word for something and tell my hairdresser that my "roots" are growing out. (The word, in case you care to know, is
Ansatz.)

I often feel compelled, therefore, to explicitly tell people that German is not my first language, especially in situations involving a barrage of technical jargon, i.e. from the insurance guy. But since this often doesn't help, it leaves me wondering just how much our perception is apparently fooled by what we hear. If she sounds like a German, she must be a German. For goodness' sake, my French teacher speaks flawlessly fabulous, colloquial, fluent, richly-vocabularied German; but because she also has a slight French accent, the other people in my class tell me that my German is better. Which it most certainly is not, if they stopped to listen to the words and not just the sound.

But I can no more seriously affect an American accent when speaking German than I can take on a German one in English. It's just how I talk!

Weird, what you can still discover after over 2.5 years abroad.

A lesson from the pro

I love watching Bert handle conflict!

How is he so good at it?? I wish I were that brave and relaxed. I've watched him again and again, and still can't identify exactly how he manages to so seamlessly blend strong language with courtesy. He always listens to and acknowledges the other, yet he also always has the final say. What's especially marvelous is how artlessly this is achieved, too. He doesn't try to awe, or bully, or ingratiate, or use empty but impressive-sounding words. He's simply himself.

Maybe that's the whole secret: the man's natural confidence seems to be the consequence of a complete lack of self-consciousness. Even if he does something that would leave most people feeling sheepish -- say, arguing strongly in favor of a shortcut that proves to be a mistake -- he laughs at himself and apologizes and then just looks for other options. This is confidence. Not that swaggering, I-have-something-to-prove arrogance which insecure young men mistake for the appearance of self-assuredness; his is the sincere, almost innocent kind that
we must have all had before we learned to be embarrassed. He sees and acknowledges his mistakes, but it doesn't occur to him to feel ashamed at being human.

I'm sure this must be where he derives that indefinable leadership quality. He never tries to take control of a group; but because he just always is in control of his surroundings, people -- I've seen this time and again -- inevitably end up rotating around him, looking to him for decisions.

This must be what people mean when they say women like confident men. They don't mean a pretentious asshole. Nor do they mean James Bond, who is a fun cartoon figure, but as a real man, would be a repellingly self-interested playboy who uses women like facial tissues. What is, in fact, hopelessly sexy is a man whose natural self-reliance comes from innate competence and the security to be himself.

Whatever it is -- whenever I get the opportunity to observe that boy thoroughly distributing some justice, it makes me want to drag him into the first secluded corner I can find!

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Spring has sprung!

Wish I had more time to blog, since there's so much I wanna write about right now; but since I'm off to work, just a quick list so as not to forget --

- I planted lotsa flowers and herbs in pots and hanging boxes on the balcony, very exciting. Grow, little seeds, grow!

- The view from said balcony is scrumptious. Seriously, I could just eat all those fluffily blossoming blooming leafing trees. Did you ever notice how fresh spring leaves look? They're so... green, so glossy and flawless. It's like the wet sticks of winter have sprouted glowing jewels. Millions of 'em! It makes me hover maternally over the trembling sprouts in my own flower and herb pots. Sure, I could just as easily have bought ready-grown plants and potted them; but I wanted to see the tiny magic of watering a seed and then watching the life emerge.

- This was before attempting to expunge large quantities of my own brain cells with quarts of beer at Fruehlingsfest last weekend. Nothing says "Welcome, Spring" like getting up on the table in a Bierzelt, linking arms with hundreds of strangers, and swinging your liter-sized mug of beer to the communally arrhythmic swaying of a hoard of Swabians, roaring along with the appalling Festmusik played by a live band in Lederhosen. Teresa called the Stuttgarter Fruehlingsfest "Oktoberfest Part Two," which is rather apt, except that there are 1) fewer tourists, more locals and 2) they played a few Karnival songs -- including "Viva Colonia," which I imagine would be unlikely in Muenchen(!). It was a blast. Young or old, traditional costumes or jeans, guys and gals, Schwaben and visitors -- everyone is buddies in the Bierzelt. It's also something my liver won't need to do again for a loooong time!

- Last Friday, Mom and I spent a wonderful sunny breezy bloomy day in Strasbourg. I slept at her place Thursday night, and we woke up early the next morning (thanks, Lucy!) and decided hey, let's go to France. So we did! We breakfasted luxuriously in the train's restaurant as we zoomed across the border; toured the city, climbed the cathedral, walked down the River Ille, took pictures of the ducks and swans, shopped a bit, and practiced our cafe French. And as usual, we yakked yakked yakked. Go mommy-daughter days in Europe!

Life is good.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

More vigorous agreement

Obama's Gripping Style Overseas



By Dan Balz
Tuesday, April 21, 2009

President Obama's weekend of summitry in Latin America will be remembered most for his cordial encounter with Venezuelan President Hugo Chávez. The images of that handshake between the smiling leaders spoke vividly to the changes Obama is bringing to U.S. relations abroad.

The affable exchange drew criticism from Dick Cheney and other Republicans as irresponsible and an equally stiff defense from the president and his spokesman as appropriate. The underlying question is whether Obama's new style will make the United States stronger or weaker as the administration confronts a series of intractable problems around the world.

Does Obama's desire to deal more respectfully with leaders hostile to the United States make him more or less likely to carry out effective negotiations to achieve his strategic goals? Will Americans conclude over time that his approach to global threats makes the United States safer than under George W. Bush's presidency or less safe?

No one should be surprised that Obama has adopted a different style and tone from his predecessor in his first meetings with world leaders. He signaled early in the presidential campaign that he would not stand on past diplomatic conventions, even if the foreign policy establishment disagreed. The moment of definition came on July 23, 2007, during a Democratic debate in South Carolina.

Obama was asked an explicit question. Would he, in his first year as president, be willing to meet without preconditions with the leaders of Iran, Syria, North Korea, Venezuela and Cuba? "I would," he replied. "And the reason is this, that the notion that somehow not talking to countries is punishment to them -- which has been the guiding diplomatic principle of this administration -- is ridiculous."

Obama was roundly criticized for that answer by his rivals for the Democratic nomination -- most notably by Hillary Rodham Clinton, now his secretary of state. Sounding much like Gingrich did yesterday, she called him naive and irresponsible. Despite the attacks, Obama stood his ground, convinced that his critics were defending an old paradigm.

Having won the presidency, he has begun quickly to act on that conviction. He has signaled new openness toward diplomatic discussions with Iran, but with limits. He said in Europe that the United States had shown "arrogance, and been dismissive, even derisive" toward its allies, while noting that there has sometimes been a casual, insidious anti-Americanism among the Europeans.

Last week, he softened U.S. policy toward Cuba. In return, Cuban President Raúl Castro said last week that everything was now on the table, but Obama still prodded the Cubans to act first. The weekend meetings brought him face to face not only with Venezuela's Chávez but also with Bolivia's Evo Morales and Nicaragua's Daniel Ortega. For that, he drew the wrath of Republicans at home.

"I find it disturbing the extent to which he has gone to Europe, for example, and seemed to apologize profusely in Europe, and then to Mexico, and apologize there and so forth," Cheney told Fox News Channel's Sean Hannity in an interview.

Obama was asked Sunday whether he was worried about being perceived back home as soft. "We had this debate throughout the campaign, and the whole notion was -- is -- that somehow if we showed courtesy or opened up dialogue with governments that had previously been hostile to us, that that somehow would be a sign of weakness," he said. "The American people didn't buy it. And there's a good reason the American people didn't buy it -- because it doesn't make sense." Shaking hands with Chávez does nothing to endanger U.S. strategic interests, he argued. Nor does having a more constructive relationship with Venezuela.

The president was also asked how he would define an Obama doctrine in foreign policy. After his trips to Europe and Latin America and his meetings with many world leaders, how should Americans and the rest of the world interpret what sets his approach apart from those of other presidents?

Obama was understandably reluctant at this early stage in his presidency to offer a lengthy or overly precise answer. But what he said underscored that his early steps are very much in reaction to former president George W. Bush's style of interacting with the world. Obama said he believes that the United States remains the most powerful nation in the world but that it cannot solve problems by itself. That means listening as well as talking when working with other nations. He said the United States should stand for a universal set of values, live those values whenever possible -- and acknowledge mistakes when they occur.

Obama defended his approach as an improvement on the past. He said he is prepared to jettison doctrines and practices that now seem outdated, or that failed to produce real results. But he said there were limits to what he could achieve.

"In Europe, people believe in our plan for Afghanistan, but their politics are still such that it's hard for leaders to want to send more troops into Afghanistan," he told reporters on Sunday. "That's not going to change because I'm popular in Europe or leaders think that I've been respectful towards them. On the other hand, by having established those better relations, it means that among the population there's more confidence that working with the United States is beneficial, and they are going to try to do more than they might otherwise have done."

Obama sees irrefutable logic in all this. "On this one, I think I'm right," he said Sunday -- the same posture he took when he was criticized during the campaign. His popularity at home remains strong, and it is far too early to know what Americans made of his performance over the weekend.

The opening rounds of his diplomatic outreach to the world provide no real answers to the bigger questions. In time, it will be clearer whether Obama's approach produces different results with Iran or North Korea or elsewhere. He benefits now from the backlash against Bush's presidency. In time, his foreign policy will have to stand on its own record.

--------

How unsurprising that Dick Cheney finds Obama's attempt to make amends for the last eight years "disturbing." Heh heh.

And yes, there has absolutely been "a casual, insidious anti-Americanism among Europeans." Those who think such attitudes among our previous allies are unimportant should realize that the U.S. is no longer an island.

Gosh, imagine -- a world leader who wants to act like one!

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Gobama!

And trains!

Obama: Better trains foster energy independence

WASHINGTON (AP) — President Barack Obama called Thursday for the country to move swiftly to a system of high-speed rail travel, saying it will relieve congestion, help clean the air and save on energy.

Appearing with Vice President Joe Biden and Transportation Secretary Ray LaHood, Obama said the country cannot afford not to invest in a major upgrade to rail travel. He said he understands it necessarily will be "a long-term project" but said the time to start is now.

The president allocated $8 billion in the enormous $787 billion economic stimulus spending package for a start on establishing high-speed rail corridors nationwide.

Obama said, "This is not some fanciful, pie-in-the-sky vision of the future. It's happening now. The problem is, it's happening elsewhere." He cited superior high-speed rail travel in countries like China, Japan, France and Spain.

The rail upgrades are critically needed, Obama said, because the nation's highways and airways "are clogged with traffic."

The money will go not only to high-speed rail development but also to a parallel effort to improve rail service along existing lines — upgrades that would allow faster train travel.

The White House said funding will move into the rail system through three channels, first to upgrade projects already approved and only in need of funding, thus providing jobs in the short term. The second and third would focus on high-speed rail planning and then a commitment to help in the execution of those plans far into the future when the stimulus funds are no longer available.

Transportation Department officials say about six proposed routes with federal approval for high-speed rail stand a good chance of getting some of the $8 billion award. The spurs include parts of Texas, Florida, the Chicago region, and southeast routes through North Carolina and Louisiana.

The U.S. Federal Railroad Administration says the term high-speed rail applies to trains traveling more than 90 mph. The European Union standard is above 125 mph.

Many overseas bullet trains — most powered by overhead electricity lines — run faster than that. In France, for example, the TGV ("Train a Grande Vitesse") covers the 250 miles between Paris and Lyon in one hour, 55 minutes at an average speed of about 133 mph.

In Japan, which opened the first high-speed rail in the 1960s and carries more passengers than any other country, the Japanese Shinkansen trains hurtle through the countryside at an average of about 180 mph.

Super-fast trains also run in Germany, Spain and China, at speeds up to 140 mph, according to a 2007 survey in the trade publication Railway Gazette.

The only rail service that qualifies under America's lower high-speed standard is Amtrak's 9-year-old Acela Express route connecting Boston to Washington, D.C.

The trains are built to reach speeds up to 150 mph, but only average about 80 mph because of curving tracks and slower-moving freight and passenger trains that share the route. On the densely traveled line from New York City to the nation's capital, the Acela arrives just about 20 minutes earlier than standard service, at more than twice the cost during peak travel times.

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

What a mighty fine German

So for some mysterious reason I appear to go through a bout of irritability every few weeks.

It only took roughly fifteen years to catch on. Could this be, like, cyclical or something? I would think my body had suddenly freaked out on me -- "Huh, these clothes feel unusually tight today. If only I weren't so sleepy. You know what would be a good idea? Eating everything I see. But first I think I'll act sullen and moody." And then the dawning, crumb-spewing realization: "Oh yeah...!"

Fortunately, there are some life-mates who have read the Awesome Boyfriend Handbook. Instead of getting defensive -- or worse, dismissive! -- Bert simply laughs sympathetically and squeezes me. "Meh! Meh! Meh!" I gripe. "Armes kleines Weibchen!" he says.

Then he disappears in order to draw me a bath. Places me in it; leaves me sculpting the bubbles in mindless absorption until he returns bearing several flickering tea lights and a snifter of brandy.
Kneels down to hand me the glowing amber elixir and chat about the latest details of Barack Obama's visit to Baden-Baden. (The man knows me: "Quick, bring up her hero!") So I babble happily about my marvelous omnipotent handsome president; he nods and issues the right noises and hangs out just long enough to give me the attention I was probably seeking; then leaves me alone to wiggle my toes in warm water and sip Asbach and hide from the world.

Damn. I mean, damn. On second thought, I'd better not publish this post. I'd better keep this man a secret from the rest of the PMS-afflicted world!

Sunday, April 05, 2009

How I'll always think of him

Hat and all:

Thanks for the pic, Gramma Lois.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009

Guess he'd rather ride the range

My Grandpa Dale was a cowboy.

He was also a man's man in the most classic sense: strong, adventurous, kind, clever, always sticking up for the little guy. Even at 80 years old, he carried himself with that familiar straight-backed saunter and spoke in that booming drawl that took me right back to the days of riding horses with him through Bryce Canyon or playing cards by the glow of a gas lamp.

I last saw him when Bert and I drove through northern Arizona last Christmas. When he came out of the house to greet our jeep, the first thing I glimpsed was that familiar white cowboy hat over the top of the hedge, and I was a kid again.

I didn't know it'd be the last time I'd ever see him.

Losing both grandfathers in the space of three months is not exactly how I pictured the start of a new year. I only wish I could be with my Dad right now. I lost my Grampa; he lost his hero.

Hang in there, Dad.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

French an der Weinstrasse

Lots of fun stuff has been afoot of late.

To start with, the first weekend after the vernal equinox is the cue for Hansel Fingerhut to emerge. Remember the tar-faced rogue from Forst who plants smudgy black kisses on all the women in town, before everyone gathers around to torch a stack of straw, representing the ceremonial burning down of winter? It's a very cool spring festival that certainly would never fly in the States. People stand around an inferno of hay, hooting as flaming pieces detach themselves and blow off unpredictably toward their heads, while nearby stands sell copious amounts of wine. Ahhh, Europe!

Then this weekend, I hope the neighbors got their fill of watching us through binoculars, 'cause Bert and I finally hung up vertical blinds. (They look great! We're such grownups!)

And last week, we started a French class! I'm so stoked to learn some French. Not only did my maternal grandfather speak it as his first language -- so it's kind of in the blood, you could say! -- I just love learning new languages. And it doesn't look so hard, either: when Mom and I were in Paris,
I could understand a whole bunch of written words, but probably would have been publicly stoned had I attempted to pronounce them. This was supremely frustrating, as if it were barely out of reach -- like smelling a banquet but not being able to see it. The language of Jules Verne and Victor Hugo was suddenly so alive, and I decided I wanted to be able to clear away the cobwebs and make it mine. Plus, hey, we live so close to the border -- I'm determined to go explore that country a few miles west without being intimidated by the notorious language barrier.

So I was practically quivering with glee as Bert and I sat down for our first lesson and were taken through all the nasal exercises. Exciting!!!

Speaking of nasals... now is when I feel compelled to admit something that will certainly get me stoned, after all. Let me first reiterate what a cool sound the language has. And it certainly summons images of delicious cooking, fashionable women, illustrious history, classic literature, and gorgeous countryside. Neat, neat, neat. But is it, you know... pretty? I mean, does it really sound melodious? I know everyone says so. Hey, it's certainly sexy. And for hundreds of years, it was the European lingua franca (ha! get it?), therefore closely associated with nobility and education. So French is inarguably connected to sex, rank, and prestige -- all quite enough to recommend it. But does this also automatically make it aesthetic?

Frankly (and here come the missiles!), I don't think so. I hear a monotone cadence of gargled r's and honking nasals, punctuated by the expectoration of gutteral vowels at the end of the sentence. I mean, this is cool! Of course it is! But come on, it's not pretty. Pretty is Italian: l'italiano e la lingua piu bella nel mondo. (Melt.)

On the few occasions, however, when I've timidly put forth this suggestion, I have met with nothing short of anger. Anger! People -- especially those with a working knowledge of French and apparently quite proud of this ability -- take it personally. Which confirms my suspicion that the appeal of French has more to do with association and social status, because why else should they be so offended? As if a language's entire merit is based on its perceived prettiness. I mean, I love German. German is warm, familiar, earthy, friendly. It can also be intriguingly logical and agglutinating in a way that I don't see in other languages. Yet few people would argue that it's beautiful. And why should it be? Yet unfailingly, if I dare to suggest that French is comparable, I'm met with the same hissed retort: "Well, English is not a pretty language!" Wow. I didn't say anything about English. But it's like people need to lash out at my blasphemy by commenting on my language. Whew, I've learned to simply not express this viewpoint!

Well, it's Sunday evening and I'm abandoning my lovely-voiced German to write in the blog. Better get going! Besides, we have some vocabulary to practice! Bon soir!