Musical musings

I am always hard pressed to pick a favorite song, or even a favorite genre of music. I love music, and depending on my mood, will derive thorough enjoyment from anything from Cat Stevens to Chamillionaire, from Mozart to Metallica.

Why do we as humans do this? Create and enjoy music, I mean? We seem practically compelled. Every culture, every community makes music; even children constantly hum tunes to themselves while on the swings or in the sandbox. For as long as people have been talking to each other, they have been singing to each other. Why are we so weird?

Perhaps our basic attraction to rhythmic sounds alone isn't too surprising; after all, we spend the first nine months of existence listening to our mothers' heartbeat in the womb. In fact, most everything in nature has a beat: the pounding of feet during walking or running, the rhythm of chewing or breathing; and more abstractly, the cycles of life and the seasons themselves. It would only seem natural that some deep part of us responds to a good rhythm with a resounding "YEAH!" As for melody, perhaps some of the connection between sound and emotion is obvious: loud sounds may indicate danger, while soft sounds are soothing to both animals as well as people.

But think of Beethoven's 9th. This is clearly more than the mere collection of primitive noises that the above explanations alone would suggest. Why does it make me, I dunno, swell up somehow -- cry, laugh, want to gesticulate wildly in "conducting" my own orchestra, and afterward run out to hug my fellow speciesmates? There's a mathematical and emotional formula to music that seems to have nothing to do with evolutionary survival; and yet music can evoke such a visceral reaction. What else explains the almost universal nature of the major musical scales? Take Schoenberg, for example: around the turn of the 20th century, this well-meaning composer made a wholehearted attempt to "free" the musical world of the supposed creative shackles of the known scale, assuming that our adherence to it was out of mere convention rather than any kind of basis in natural truth. But as anyone who has listened to Schoenberg's "compositions" has noticed, one needs absolutely no formal musical education in order to distinguish between what we perceive as harmonious and what is just... cacophony.

And why sound? Why isn't it, say, smell that is so closely bound with emotion? True, smell evokes a whole range of memories, reactions, and associations. But why don't we create symphonies of smell that can guide an audience through a range of complex and universal emotions, regardless of language or background? Because outside of the simple identification of something as "smelling good" and "smelling bad", the associations evoked by a certain smell are learned. That is, only those with the same experiences will react to the same smell in the same way -- there's not much universal about specific scents themselves. Think of the inside of a pumpkin: most Americans will stick their noses into this orange gourd and immediately recall childhood; magic, mystery and costumes; impending treats and spooky stories. Most Europeans would probably think of making soup.

However, music is not just about learned associations. Music is the actual abstraction of certain sound wavelengths to stand for ideas, concepts, and emotions. You'd really have to exert yourself to find a "sad" smell; and yet everyone who hears "The Flight of the Bumblebee" hears nervousness. Things played in a minor key automatically sound creepy; but no one would identify "Primavera" in Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" as being anything but joyful. Why??? There's nothing inherent to the feeling of joy that automatically corresponds to high notes. In fact, people can also emit some pretty high frequencies when placing their hand on a hot tea kettle. And yet music is so universal -- an audience full of people with completely different temperaments, experiences, ages, even languages and cultures can derive a similar emotional experience from the same concert. What is it that's so satisfying about hearing that woody vibration from a cello?

Music appears to have nothing to do with survival or reproduction. We as a species already have language, not to mention countless other ways of expressing love, affection, and emotion. And yet we need music.

Animals don't. They might conceivably be affected by it; I think I recall reading about a study somewhere, where cows produced better milk when exposed to some relaxing muzak. But they certainly don't produce it, or pay any particular attention to ours. Sure, you could argue that birds and whales "sing", but this would be like saying bees "dance" -- we just anthropomorphize animal behavior because it looks on the outside like ours. Bees are not bopping to a beat any more than waltzing couples are showing each other where to find pollen. In the same way, birds and whales are communicating with each other, not arranging musical scores in order to sing praises to the heavens.

So again, music would appear to be evolutionarily extraneous. Perhaps, then, it speaks to our existence as spiritual as well as physical beings that we seem to have been endowed with an extra sense solely designed to experience transcendence. All evidence seems to point to it.

Whatever it is, please excuse me while I crank this song up, close my eyes, and remove myself from the world for a while.

Lustig ist das Zigeuner Leben

Gosh, I just realized I am way behind in my duties of keeping everyone in dismayingly thorough apprisal of every excruciating bit of minutia that occurs in my daily routine. Internet stalkers and unsolicited blog marketers, apologies. As for those who might have been breathing a sigh of relief, think again! The break is over!

To start with, I've actually had a bit of trouble these last couple weeks finding two hours next to each other in which to sit down and put any thoughts together. They've been pleasant distractions, though. :) Nigel spent the time, money, and energy a couple weeks ago to hop an ICE up from Switzerland and once again come laze around on the Weinstrasse with Anna and me. It was a nice visit: he came up Thursday, and we bar-hopped in Ludwigshafen until somehow stumbling home just in time to fall asleep in our clothes, including belt and hoop earrings. (Okay, one of us barely managed to remove her shoes before passing out in her belt and earrings...) The next day, we hauled ourselves to Heidelberg, and had a relaxed day strolling around the lovely Hauptstrasse, munching on hot, thick, perfectly spiced German french fries -- mm, not even the French fry their fries as perfectly as these here Germans! -- and touring the castle. Anna met up with us back in Neustadt that evening to visit our favorite pizza place (which brags over 300 different combinations, including shrimp and cocktail sauce or sliced eggs and artichoke hearts!), and then the three of us practically had a little slumber party at my place, making popcorn, watching cartoons, laughing and just generally enjoying some much needed catch-up.

Saturday, we had had plans to go for a hike, but the weather had other ideas. So instead, Nigel and I wandered around the farmer's market and then popped by a couple other grocery stores to find the ingredients for the next day's experiment: fajitas with homemade pico de gallo, homemade guacamole -- and even homemade tortillas! It is possible to find tortillas here, but you have to go to a large superstore with an "ethnic foods" section, since, for some reason, tortillas aren't as ubiquitous in Neustadt an der Weinstrasse as they are in Tucson, AZ... ;) We spent a cozy rainy afternoon making batch after batch of experimental flatbreads before finally hitting on a workable combination. Then we put all the prepared materials in the fridge and hopped a train to Landau to visit Anna and see what the town's three Irish pubs have to offer. (Answer: lots of Guinness, but few available tables, apparently!)

We wrapped up the weekend with the crowning glory of fresh homemade fajitas, the likes of which that Hemingway's restaurant has never seen! We must have dirtied every pan and bowl in the kitchen, but it was worth it. Amy, you were right: the best way to do it is just to make your own.

It had been so nice to see Nigel, and to speak my language again, and laugh about old times that I was kinda sad to see him go on Sunday evening... :(

But not three days went by afterward before Bert and I were loading up the car again to go skiing in the Erzgebirge!

Los geht's!

The original plan was to penetrate the snowy mountains of the Czech Republic, but one of us forgot her passport. (A phenomenon which seems to be happening a lot recently. On our Berlin trip, for example, I forgot to pack any underwear. Underwear! Seriously, who does that?? John Cleese would probably tell me to eat more fresh fruit!) Anyway, so instead we settled for the indescribably beautiful Fichtelberg, the highest mountain in eastern Germany. Being March, the towns in the valleys between the hills may get a little dusting of snow in the night, but it usually disappears by late morning. However, in Oberwiesenthal -- right on top of the Fichtelberg -- the snow must have been feet deep! Bert's family fitted me out with his sister Heidi's old cross-country equipment, and we scootched off into the forest.

I wear these on my hands, right?

Cross country skiing is really, really fun. I've never done skiing of any type before, but I imagine that anything where you get to make yourself independently mobile -- sledding, biking, roller blading, ice skating, and now skiing -- is just inherently freeing. You see this vast expanse of soft whiteness, and think to yourself, "I think I'll just fly across this!" and whoosh, away you float over the downy blanket of winter. There was actually a youth competition going on in Oberwiesenthal that day, a biathlon that involves cross-country racing and then dropping down to pick up a rifle and and shoot at targets. The combination seemed startling at first, but apparently this sort of thing is pretty common in snowy areas all over the world! Bert is also a coach at the biathlon summer camp every year, and so it was fun to meet "his kids" and watch their little limbs fly around in determined exertion like so many spandex-and-ski clad eggbeaters.

I, on the other hand, had not quite mastered the technique of either slowing down or stopping, and as a result found myself nearly incapacitated when faced with even the gentlest of declines. Normal rises and falls in landscape which, when on foot, you probably wouldn't even notice, became the Tower of Terror. Consequently, I'm sure the other Erzgebirgler must have gotten quite a chuckle at the sight of a grown female clutching to the back of the training camp coach's jacket as he guided the both of them down a three-foot hill...

As the competition wound down, we left the bustle behind for the silent green forest.

Now, when you think "forest", you might think of tall old trees crowded together to hold up the fallen ones; high branches blocking out the sunlight; a thin deer trail winding through the thick, bristly groundcover. This kind of forest is certainly nice. But the woods that cover the Fichtelberg are so perfect they don't look real!

It was like something out of Narnia. The trees were all the same sort of twelve-foot-tall Christmas tree pine; full and perfectly proportioned and a glossy dark green. They were spaced far enough apart to let in the light and snow, and as a result looked as if they had been deliberately arranged and plumped down onto a big fluffy layer of cotton in some movie set. We wended our way through this landscape of green and white, with no sound but the wind murmuring softly through the boughs and the occasional whisper of a fat snowflake against a sleeve.

A wood between the worlds, indeed.

After that Zen experience, we decided to undo it all by letting me at the wheel of Bert's car. Learning to drive stick was always somewhere on the list next to "read the Complete Works of Shakespeare cover to cover" and "brush up on the plusquamperfekt conjunktiv tense in German grammar"; but in Germany, if you can't drive stick, you just can't drive. (It's true! Even in the way the two types of motors are expressed in language: in the States, it's "to drive automatic or drive stick". Here, it's either "to drive an automatic car", or just, "to drive.") So anyway, I got to mess around with the various ways of killing his engine and spinning wheels futilely in the snowy parking lot. Apparently some other people thought we were just joyriding, because we seemed to inspire followers: after a few minutes, we started to get regularly chased off the parking lot by a dad who thought to delight his kids in the backseat by spinning in crazy loops through the snow (while mom pasted "Help I've Been Kidnapped" notes to the passenger side window).

Having thus frozen our Hintern off, we then decided to thaw in the thermal springs down in the valley. A hot soak followed by a tall Hefeweizen in a tavern made sure that we slept at least twelve hours that night!

Well, so! That's the state of Nikkiland thus far. :) This week has been a whirlwind of teaching and tutoring, and then on Sunday, it's off again to the mid-year Fulbright Seminar in Berlin. I'm really looking forward to "being scholarly" again for a bit... my job is interesting and often rewarding, but it'll be nice to listen to some current event discussion panels and participate in workshops on pedagogical theory without having to prepare them all myself in advance! Plus it'll be a good opportunity to do a little of what Dad terms "gripping and grinning", making some connections with professors from all over Germany. Plus I get to visit Conny during the downtime, plus Casey might be in town for a day or two, as well... oh, the excitements and delightments! As George Costanza might say, my "whole life is a fantasy camp!"

Rabbit food

Bert got back from a routine check-up the other day with the news that his triglycerides were too high. In researching what we could do to lower them, I got to wondering what had happened to my usual health-fanatic eating habits these last few months! Funny how the stereotype is that Americans subsist on nothing but fast food and cola; and yet it took my leaving the country to start eating unhealthfully.

See, in the States, I had a couple of loose guidelines that I just automatically followed when buying groceries or making a menu selection: 1) as natural as possible -- meaning organic where available, whole grain where applicable, and as unprocessed and preservative-free as can be; and 2) lots of fruits and vegetables. This was still feasible even on the limited budget of a U of A German Department teaching assistant: it just included lots of (organic) frozen meals from Trader Joe's, and a lot of buying things in the raw.

However, when you move to a new place and don't own a car, your choices become a bit restricted. For one thing, you start shopping according to weight and distance instead of nutrition; and if you're also too busy (or lazy) to hunt around and figure out all your options, you can end up in a bit of a rut. In addition, since I don't have a freezer, food preparation can't really be done too far in advance and therefore gets a bit time-consuming. I also make (yes, it turns out this is indeed possible) almost a third less than even the pittance I had as a Master's student -- made worse by the fact that, now that I no longer live in The Climate of Constant Summer, fresh produce gets rather pricey in the winter. All this in combination starts to make that pot of beans and rice look pretty appealing.

Add all this onto the fact that, for the first couple of months, people were constantly trying to feed the newcomer -- and as everyone knows, "social food" is not usually a plate of carrot sticks. Especially around here, typical gathering fare usually includes generous portions of cream-sauce-covered pickled meat parts washed down with copious quantities of delicious foamy beer. The result?

I don't even want to know what my triglyceride levels are.

It's a good thing I walk everydamnedwhere or I'd weigh three hundred pounds. As it is, my clothes still (sort of) fit, but I think my poor tissues and arteries were simply crying out for a few phytochemicals. So after Bert came home with this reminder that what you eat means more than just the fit of your waistband, I took it as a wake-up call to get back on the produce cart.

When Nigel was here, we wandered around the Saturday farmer's market in Neustadt's main square and found all sorts of delightful yummies: sweet and crunchy fresh bell peppers, ripe avocados, tender lamb's lettuce, juicy tomatoes, pungent garlic and spicy onions. We made fajitas with pico de gallo and guacamole the next day, and I could just feel my cells swelling out and smacking their little cell lips. Last Monday, I filled my shopping backpack with (granted, the suddenly available) oranges, strawberries, bananas, radishes, spinach, more bell peppers and tomatoes... and have spent the last three days gorging in colorful antioxidant-packed decadence. They weren't even that expensive any more, and so far have lasted half the week! For dinner just now, I covered a pile of tender fresh chopped veggies in an olive oil and mustard dressing, and am chomping it down so gustily I'm probably making horsey noises.

And you know what? Those disturbingly anthropomorphic pieces of cartoon fruit who counseled you as a kid to eat your vegetables ain't lyin'. I feel super. It's been about ten days or so that I've been making this concerted effort to take advantage of the fact that I live in a first-world country that has such bounty available, and I don't think I've felt lethargic or crabby even once. (Okay, maybe a little crabby every now and then. ;) But it's still a noticeable improvement!) Bert's been along for the ride, and so in addition to rabbit food, I've also been cramming fish oil pills down his throat: the omega-3's are not only good for practically everything in your body, but have also been shown to markedly reduce triglyceride levels in your blood.

So pardon me while I go refill my enormous mixing bowl with more Garden of Eden. And I can only say, if you've been feeling a little "blah" recently, I will happily don a puffy felt-covered apple costume and wag a gloved hand at you in a gentle reminder to eat your vegetables!

BARACK OBAMA FOR PRESIDENT!!!!!!!!!!!!

http://www.barackobama.com/

He's announced! Running for president in '08! Here is our hope for the future.

Barack the vote!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fun with translation

You know how fancy shampoos always have both English and French text on the back of the bottle? I'm less convinced that this is for sale in Quebec as much as it is just to look cool: "Our product is so fashionable and sophisticated that half of our customers are French." In much the same vein, English is often used here for a similar effect. Maybe it's the fact that the most famous pop culture icons come out of the American charts; but whatever the reason, the result is that, if a product is in advertised in English, it's considered hip and youthful.

Most of the time, the language is grammatically and contextually fine. But every now and then, you get something cute like this English translation I found on the back of a bottle of aftershave:

"A cooling and alcohol based after shave caring gel with 50 % Aloe Vera Gel. The combination with Panthenol and wheat proteins is notorious for a calming and moisturizing effect."

Heh heh. My first thought was that this is probably what my German sounds like to everyone else. Well, it's still understandable, right? :)

New post below!

I finally finished a mammoth posting about Shauna's visit, but since entries are published according to the date on which they were started, look for it after the "Roman food" entry below. :) Just fyi!

When in Rome, stick to the Roman food

Okay, so I should be getting ready for school. But despite continuously chanting "I am not a snob, I am not a snob" over and over to myself last night, I wake up this morning to the acceptance of the fact that I am, indeed, a snob.

Bert and I went out for a lovely dinner last night. Had a great time: a walk through downtown Ludwigshafen, fantastic conversation, cozy restaurant, the works -- very enjoyable. And despite Shauna's whispered warnings that there appears to be no decent Mexican food outside of the American Southwest and Mexico itself -- even in places which have an otherwise substantial Mexican population -- we thought we'd try a relatively popular place around here which purports to serve a decent enchilada. I almost hesitate to blog about this, because we had such a nice time, not to mention that Bert gallantly bought dinner, and I don't want him to think it wasn't fun. But what made the evening downright funny was the food. It just was too bizarre to keep silent about:

I knew not to expect the same kind of thing I was used to in Arizona. It's only logical. And to be fair, Bert's meal was pretty good, although probably because it didn't depart too far from what they do very well around here: pork covered with a dairy product and some incarnation of potato. (As a side note, German food is awesome. Slab of meat covered in cream sauce and accompanied by a starchy substance? Nothing more satisfying. And when it's done right, it's done right. ) But clearly, the menu wasn't exclusively Mexican-themed, despite the unmistakable decoration and throbbing Daddy Yankee music; and this should have been a tip-off that authenticity was not a priority here. But I couldn't help getting my hopes up just a little, even while reminding myself that this was far from Arizona, and they would probably have their own style. Besides, there's that Chino Bandito place in Phoenix, whose dishes are a shocking mix of Mexican and Chinese food -- and it's good. So this'll just be like, I dunno, Alemáno Bandito.

After perusing the menu, I selected what seemed a relatively safe, well-known, and hard-to-mess-up option: beef fajitas.

Shauna, you were right. The result was almost surreal: it was like the kitchen staff had read something, somewhere, about how to prepare fajitas, but only remembered some arbitrary details and so just filled in the rest by guessing. The pieces of fried beef were brought out in a black pan -- imitation iron skillet? -- though I wondered why, because the pan wasn't hot. There was no other plate; but the pan was accompanied by a single tortilla, which was the size of a plate, and so I was obligated to tear it up into fourths to make the individual fajitas. (Another tip-off here should have been the fact that, when I asked for another tortilla, the waitress didn't even recognize the word until I pointed at it.)

What I found inside the black pan was also an interesting mix of beef (good), bell peppers and onions (very nice)... and zucchini, eggplant slices, and mushrooms? Okayyyy... well, it's their own creation. Be open-minded. I'm not a snob, I'm not a snob...

Load up piece of tortilla. Turn to the plate holding what should have contained beans, sour cream, cheese, guacamole, and salsa.

I blinked. Four identical little containers, each apparently filled with the same puzzingly smooth substance -- except that each one was a different primary color -- sat on a tray next to me. One appeared to be the shiny yellow cheez-sauce that you might pump on cold nachos at the gas station. Another held some kind of pale green-colored dip that might have been guacamole, had the plasticy texture hinted at a content of anything more than 0.03% fresh avocado; another contained shredded mozzarella (now I know the kind of stuff I'm used to is probably Americanized to some extent, but Italian cheese?); and finally, a thing of ketchup. I tasted it. No, not ketchup; barbecue sauce?

I could handle the fact that the odd little assortment didn't seem to include any (even imitation) beans. But how about at least a little salsa? I asked the waitress if they had any.

She pointed at the ketchup. "That's salsa."

I frowned in confusion at the little container, not computing. "No, I mean, like... salsa. You know, with tomatoes, chiles, that kind of thing?"

She gave me the same look I had given her, as if we were speaking with each other in tongues. "Is it not spicy enough? I can add some curry powder if you'd like."

Curry powder. "Uh, no thanks, nevermind, it's fine." I am not a snob, I am not a snob, I am not a... I ate some of the meal anyway, pretending it was just a beef and vegetable sandwich with an assortment of odd squeeze-bottle condiments (though still huffily refused to touch the ketchup or cheez wiz). It was my own fault, I knew. You don't go into a placed called "Hemingway's", which serves feta cheese and french fry dishes, and expect anything resembling even Nico's Taco Shop. I suppose it would be like a Belgian sticking his nose up at the "Belgian waffle" at Denny's. But this place wasn't Denny's; in fact, it was relatively fancy. I just couldn't figure out why they would have something on the menu, call it a "fajita", and then do... this. It was like the "Oktoberfest" in Tucson, which serves Budweiser and hot dogs. Now, to be fair, I am sure there is at least one good Mexican restaurant in Germany. In fact, we had seen a place in Schwetzingen which advertised its head chef as actually coming from Mexico, which I imagine is a good sign. But this cinches it: I am going to the grocery store, finding my own ingredients, and making the damned things myself.

Shauna's visit: castles, cathedrals, and a capitol

Well, now that the pictures are organized and posted, how about a little narrative to accompany them? :)

The rest of Shauna's visit was great. After poking our noses around Burg Berwartstein during her first weekend here, I came home early enough on Wednesday for a little field trip to the nearby town of Speyer. This charming place boasts the largest Romanesque cathedral ever (cute, since the town's name is pronounced "Shpire"), along with the Historic Museum of the Pfalz and a number of cafes and pedestrian shopping streets. It was really cold -- for Arizonans -- but pretty in the light layer of sparkling snow, and we bought a soft pretzel (for which the town is also famous) and ooh'ed and ahh'ed at the sites.

That weekend, we finally went to visit Conny and Nate in Berlin. Berlin is an... interesting city. The first time I visited was just for a couple days during the summer of 2005, and unfortunately have few other memories of the place other than its being very, very big; rather smoggy and hot; and -- much as I hate to admit this, and I ask the other 98% of the world's population, who seems to absolutely adore the city, to please accept my heartfelt apologies -- that it was probably the ugliest German city I'd ever seen. Before you gasp in horror, let me explain:

Most German cities, at least in my experience, always seem to somehow stay amazingly clean and pretty, regardless of size: Munich, Cologne, Dresden, Karlsruhe, Leipzig; I've never been to Hamburg, but have heard it's also quite aesthetic. Granted, surface aestheticism should by no means be the metric for a city's sense of community, or economic, social, or cultural merit; it's just that, when you're used to fascinating cities also being pleasantly picturesque, Berlin can take you by surprise. It may impress a visitor -- oh, who am I kidding, I mean, me -- as overly industrial, dirty, spraypainted, overall unharmonious... and again, very, very big. There, I said it. Whew. I'm a little nervous admitting this to the wide wide world of web, and now I'll probably get tons of indignant messages now protesting that I have overlooked what a great personality Berlin has. That is certainly true. But sorry, I still wouldn't date it.

I am also being supremely unfair, given the city's tumultuous history. In addition, the thought occurs to me that Berlin is not overly beautiful because it's not supposed to be. When people talk about Berlin, they talk about what an exciting city it is, how in-your-face and fast; how the people themselves are in-your-face and fast and exciting, and the in-your-face art galleries and fast nightlife and exciting social undercurrents just combine into one big irresistable swirling whirlpool of inyourfasticitement. Maybe my problem is that I'm just too shallow for all this edgy culture, and find myself more at home in a laid-back Biergarten with a Hefeweizen. Not that I don't dig alternativiness; quite the contrary. I like to think of myself as a very progressive liberal. But maybe my kind of alternative culture aligns more with the hippy Seattle coffee shop than the neon glow of a nightclub.

This is not to say, however, that Berlin can't be really fun to visit -- which we found out during Shauna's last weekend. My friend Conny and her (hilarious, check out his blog on the right) husband, Nate, live near the Technische Universität, where Conny is working on her PhD, and we thought it was high time to go barge in on them. Also, prettiness factor aside, Shauna had never been to the capitol; and oh yeah, Bert's friends have an empty apartment there in which we could stay for free. Decision thus made, we hopped a train on Thursday evening and settled in for a cozy trip eastbound.

It was a really lovely visit. We decided to just chill, and see what there was to see without stressing too much about it. The apartment was adorable and cozy, with high ceilings, hardwood floors, and an assortment of interesting decor that the owners had collected on their many world adventures. So Thursday evening, we took it easy and went to bed early, and then slept in so late that we woke up just in time to run over to Conny's building and bug her at lunchtime. In fulfillment of her prediction, the cafeteria on the 20th floor had awful food but a fantastic view: all of the famous landmarks, like the Reichstag, Victory Tower, Fernsehturm, and Brandenburg Gate, were visible through the huge windows.

After lunch, Shauna and Bert and I decided to just wander around and see what we could find to take pictures of. We walked around the dome of the Reichstag in a snowstorm; noodled around in front of the Brandenburg Gate; had an Amaretto coffee in a cafe on Potsdamer Platz; then went grocery shopping and stocked up for a dinner of fried potatoes, scrambled eggs with veggies, and Gluehwein. In the snow, Berlin was a lot better-looking than I had remembered it, and we Arizonans went crazy stomping through sparkling white drifts and flinging balls of the fluffy white stuff at each other.

Saturday was marvellous. We made a stop at the Hackescher Markt and realized that we could easily eat our way through the entire city. Multicultural doesn't even do it justice... on every corner, there's a Spanish restaurant or Thai grocery store or Indian buffet, not to mention the ubiquitous Turkish Döner. At the Hackescher Markt, Bert, ever the Wurst connoisseur, sampled a Blutwurst with Sauerkraut, which happily met his high expectations. Shauna and I found a crepe stand run by a talkative French guy, who explained his love of Berlin to us as we tried not to drool all over ourselves while consuming the delicious crepes. "See," he said, "Everyone here is completely free to be themselves. Berlin's plurality is exactly what gives it a common culture. In fact, I think it's the city for everyone who doesn't fit in elsewhere." We laughed at his last point, but overall it was an interesting sentiment -- and one I might agree with. So maybe the city is not my particular style; but I was starting to understand some of its quirky, spraypaint-expressed charm. The Hackescher Markt was itself pretty cool: standing in the sun and the brilliantly reflective snow, we stood chewing blissfully on hot crepes filled with Nutella and bananas -- or ham and cheese, in Shauna's case -- and took in the fruit stands, crafts, hawking vendors, and highly various passersby.

After this, we meandered over to a part of the city that actually is highly aesthetic: the Museumsinsel (Museum Island). It's an island in the middle of the river Spree which, true to its name, holds a number of impressive museums, not to mention the Berliner Dom (Cathedral). It's kind of like a big park scattered with huge stately buildings. We wanted to explore the cathedral, but given that it cost 5 Euro just to go inside, we contented ourselves with taking pictures from the outside and then heading over to meet Conny and Nate at the Pergamon Museum. This was awesome. Of course, Shauna and I have always been history geeks. But fortunately, so were the rest of our party, and so we wandered around for hours with our headsets, listening rapt to various explanations of 2500-year-old stone sphinx guardian figures from ancient Mesopotamia, or the looming, blue-glazed Ishtar Gate from Babylon, or the collection of marble frieze figures from a Greek temple in Pergamon (for which the museum is named). They also had a fascinating adjoining museum for Islamic Art, and we were arrested by the detail of brilliantly illuminated pages from a 17th-century copy of the Koran and by the exotic patterns woven into 300-year-old Turkish rugs.

After our brains had had about all they could handle, we went to Conny and Nate's apartment for delicious hot stew, great conversation, and a dignity-robbing game of Cranium, finally leaving around 11 o'clock at night. Conny suggested that next time, we should stay at their place so that we can maximize our time there -- an offer I will happily take her up on! :)

The train back the next day was also cozy and pleasant. We sat at a table for three next to huge windows, and thoroughly enjoyed the smooth ride as we flew through the beautiful, often snow-frosted, countryside. A couple cappuccinos, more great conversation, and we were back in Neustadt.

Now, Shauna had missed out the last two times we'd gone to this Didarius place. Remember, the underground medieval tavern? So that night -- despite the fact that it was Sunday and we all had to get up early the next day -- we paid a little visit to the Ye Olden Dayes and sat at a heavy wooden table, drinking cup after delicious cup of blueberry and strawberry wine and cracking up at the earnest medieval music. Now I hadn't realized it before, but this wine is pretty sneaky. It's cold and sweet, obviously made with geniunely fresh berries, and tastes as if it contains no more alcohol than a lightly fermented cider. You only realize the deception during the stagger home, when it takes the combined effort of all three people to propel everyone in a roughly straight direction, made even more difficult by the fact that you're laughing hysterically at every tiny stumble or uneven cobblestone.

Such an awesome visit made it even harder to say goodbye on Tuesday morning. I had a lot of (hungover) work to do on Monday, and couldn't get away until the evening. Then neither Shauna or I wanted to actually go to sleep, because we knew that once we did, the next thing we'd be conscious of was getting her stuff together for the taxi outside. Which is pretty much how it went. The alarm buzzed at 4:30, and the taxi arrived at 5:20. I went with her to the Neustadt train station, and then couldn't bear to part yet, so hopped the train with her to Mannheim. And then there we were at the exact same platform on which we'd parted in September, her standing in the door of the ICE as the whistle blew; looking back at me through the window as the door closed; and then slowly pulling away and accelerating off into the still-dark. When will I learn that that sucks?? I got ahold of myself again just in time to sprint for the train back to Neustadt.

Luckily, I had time to go back to bed for a couple hours before school; and then was so busy the rest of the day that I didn't have time to sit and dwell about it. We webcammed after she got back to Seattle, so that helped, too. And then I sprained my ankle on Thursday; went out with the teachers anyway on Friday; went to the doctor on Saturday (although by this time, my ankle was so mysteriously better that I could actually put a little weight on it, and the crutches they gave me felt a little superfluous); and then spent a lovely Saturday night with the Hamanns. The kids were over (Andreas is my age, 26, and Uli is 24), and we made homemade Spätzle with salad, followed by Birne Helene (pears with chocolate sauce and cream, mmm!) for dessert. As usual, the evening was so cozy and the company so great that we didn't part ways until after midnight!

Today, Verena -- one of the other teachers -- and I went running (obviously my ankle is practically back to normal. Must be taking my vitamins! :) )... and we're tentatively entertaining the idea of training for a half-marathon! It's in six and a half weeks, though; and right now, we can both run for about forty-five minutes before pooping out. So we'll see. But the marathon & half-marathon are part of the celebrations for the re-opening of the Hambacher Schloss, a fortification here in Hambach (the part of Neustadt where I live), at which the Hambacher Fest took place in 1832. It would be awesome if we could run with a crowd of Neustadter in celebration of the 175th anniversary of German democracy and unity. We shall see. For now, Verena's dog shows us both up by taking off into the woods and and then coming back with an exasperated look at the two gasping, lagging humans in her wake.

Okay okay, this entry is long enough. I hope everyone's February is off to a good start, and if you come visit me in the spring, we can celebrate the Hambacher Fest together!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KATIE!!!

Happy birthday to my little sister, Kaitlyn Grace, who turned 5 on Sunday! I hope your day was perfect and sunny, Katiedid. And keep an eye on the mail! ;)

An American in Germany, Part Zwei

Well, I had a very long to-do list this morning. However, the mere fact of taking a shower proved an exercise in balance, flexibility, and strength as I attempted to keep from applying any pressure whatsoever to my left ankle. Even so, after turning off the water with an accomplished sigh, I pivoted around on my right heel only to come face to face with the ledge separating the shower from the bathroom floor, looming up as aggressive and challenging as Hadrian's wall. How does a person hop on one foot over three inches of obstruction, when the surface being sprung out of is soapily slippery, and the only things to cling to are two flimsy shower doors that would probably come down at the application of the slightest bit of weight? Solution: bend slowly down onto your hands and knees, left foot still held carefully out of the way, and crawl out of said shower. At this rate, doing laundry and dishes, much less grocery shopping, seem quite out of the question! So instead, I think I'll just continue a bit in the blog. :)

So anyway! Now that I've sort of touched on the American's perspective, let's talk a bit about:

How Germans deal with said American.

Looking back, it's interesting to note the various ways people here react to my nationality when they discover it. The typical reaction in the States to foreigners seems to be either, "Cool accent, where are you from? Aren't you just loving our fabulous country?" or "You aren't one of them ter-or-ists, is ya?" (This is assuming the hapless foreigner in question isn't Hispanic. In that case, the usual reaction would probably be, "Hey you, speak American!")

But strangely enough, despite the almost overwhelming friendliness of people here in general, I find myself hesitant to own up to my American citizenship. I'm sure a lot of this has to do with simple shame at our current leadership; unfortunately, that seems to be the only prevailing impression of America abroad, is that we have a xenophobic cowboy at the helm of a nation whose people's general attitude is one of ignorant, nationalistic arrogance. I gotta tell you, it's tough work trying to emphasize to my students the true multifaceted, multicolored, multireligioned, often-conflicted nature of the 300 million people who call themselves Americans, and the impossibility of trying to characterize all of them under a single descriptive umbrella. Here's a brief survey of various reactions I get when people find out where I'm from:

- Girl in the video store: "Oh my god. That's so awesome. I've always wanted to go to America." She giggled at me as if I were a movie star.

- My younger students: "Have you been to New York? Have you been to Hollywood? Do you know any stars?"

- My older students: "Is it true you have to be 21 in order to drink??"

- Guy at restaurant who came over and talked to us because he knew the Hamanns: "You don't look like an American."
Me: "Really? How am I supposed to look?"
Him: "You're not fat, for one thing. And where are your sports shoes?"

- Bert's dad: "We don't meet many Americans around here. It's nice to find out that they're not all raving Bush fans."

- Bert's aunt: "Isn't Thanksgiving a Christmas celebration of some sort?"

And various other little telling encounters, among which are:

- Bert himself, looking at a picture book of the States that Mom gave him for Christmas. He was vastly absorbed in the spreading photographs of canyons, praries, tundra, Rocky Mountains, everglades, and desert. "Huh," he observed. "It really does look like there are a lot of various and interesting things to see. No wonder people travel there -- there's more to the place than just Hollywood and President Bush." Not having realized that that had been his image of my country beforehand, I was enormously gratified to hear this. :)

- Some not-so-positive encounters, like the guy at the repair shop the other day. Shauna and I walked in and the first thing the older man behind the counter did was to use the informal address of "du" (instead of "Sie"). As customers at a shop, this is considered quite rude and patronizing, and tipped us off that we weren't dealing with a gentleman, here. After talking with us for a few minutes, he asked where I was from, and I hesitated a little before saying. He just seemed like the xenophobic type who didn't take well to foreigners, particularly American ones; and sure enough, his response was, "No, you're no American."

I was suprised. "I'm not?"

"No, you're not."

Since he didn't offer any further explanation, I couldn't help pressing a little further. "Um... is that a good or a bad thing?"

He smirked through his enormous waxed moustache. "It's a good thing."

Of course, this was a guy who was going out of his way to insult us, especially by continuing with the remark that "women and technology don't go together." (My sister, a brilliant computer programmer, didn't say a word. We exchanged knowing smiles and chalked the tasteless comment up to the idiosyncrasies of an older generation.) We left the shop without buying any services; but the one thing that stuck in my head was the man's lack of any sort of hesitation to tell me that "not being an American" was a good thing.

- Some of my coworkers don't really seem to know what to make of me. Not all of them, to be sure; many are supremely cool and interesting. However, perhaps some of the others haven't ever traveled to another country -- or at least outside of Europe -- themselves, and consequently don't have much of a concept of exactly how different the two countries are or are not. I speak relatively decent German, and would imagine that that would be a tip-off that I have some experience with the country. However, I have gotten some well-meaning but flabbergasting questions such as, "Have you ever had a baguette before? It's bread from France," or "We should take you out sometime to experience typical German food. Have you tried a Bratwurst yet?" Again, these inquiries are sweet and well-intentioned, and there's no way for them to know otherwise; it would be ungrateful and classless indeed of me to ruffle my feathers about it. After all, if I were talking to a Vietnamese girl fresh off the plane, I'd probably ask if she'd had good old fashioned American barbecue, yet. It's not the innocently ignorant questions that bother me. But maybe this does have something to do with why I find myself less and less inclined to hang out socially with many of the other teachers at the school: kind as they are, whenever these deliberate and careful invitations are extended to do something social, it is under the overt pretext of showing the lost and helpless foreigner around. Even if it is partly impelled by actual personal interest on their part, the whole interaction is still permeated with the view of me as the Outsider -- after all, my status as the Outsider was the whole reason for the invitation to begin with. (And believe me, I'm not falsely imbuing the situation with my own paranoid impressions. It is quite literally a matter of, "Have you been to a Christmas market before? You should taste some Gluehwein. Why don't you come with so-and-so and me this Friday and we'll introduce you to this tradition?") Again, I feel enormously ill-mannered to be complaining about such kindness. I'm sure that, had I fallen off the boat from China and found myself suddenly in a totally alien setting, I would be enormously grateful for such overtures. But as it is, I smile politely and accept, and don't mention that I know a Gluehwein recipe that's probably better than the weak stuff at the local Christmas market.

I should point out that this is not the majority attitude among the teachers. Many of them I like very much, and I don't get the feeling that they only want to hang out with me out of duty to the Token Foreigner. But on the whole, I personally enjoy socializing much more with (whom I've come to call) the Ludwigshafen crowd. There, I'm just another member of the group, and I can blend in and be "me" without sitting through the formal, interview-like setting of, "So, what brings an American to Germany? Have you had cappuccino before? We should go out for one." And even if you want to talk in terms of being truly being The Foreigner -- which of course I still am, technically -- one learns much more as a fly on the wall, and by being acknowledged and taken in as a member of the group, than by being formally presented with traditions and customs like so many attractions on a tour. All the experiences I've had by now with sitting around at a Gasthaus, drinking local beer and pounding a fist on the table to emphasize a point in a political argument, have not come about as a result of being formally shown around by a well-meaning colleague.

- At the doctor's office with Anna was another interesting culture clash. I had gone to a particular "women's doctor" (Frauenarzt -- haha, German is such a wonderfully practical language!) for my annual female brouhaha, and found him kindly, competent, and easy to be around. So when Anna needed to see someone about her mysterious stomach problems, I therefore made an appointment with the doctor's wife, who was a general practitioner in the same office where he had his. She was... intelligent and approachable, but much less easygoing. And definitely had no idea what she sounded like when making the following statements:

Anna started to explain that she'd had some mysterious digestive complaints off and on for the last three months, involving puzzingly conflicting symptoms, and not seeming to respond to experiments like avoiding dairy products or gluten. The doctor seemed to listen to this, but her first suggestion was, "Well, you're American, right? The Americans aren't known to eat a particularly nourishing diet. Perhaps that's the problem." I can't even begin to express the absurdity -- not to mention ignorance and basis in uninformed stereotype -- of this statement. First of all, the trouble began after Anna came to Germany; and even if it hadn't, and if we pretend that her assumption regarding the typical American diet is correct, then why aren't all Americans experiencing this problem? Secondly, how on earth does she even know how we eat at all? She admitted that she'd never been to the States herself. And even if that were the general stereotype, she didn't even ask what Anna herself ate. Many Americans, myself included, are actually verifiable health-food nuts. Even more ridiculous is the fact that German cuisine is not necessarily based on wheatgrass and bran, either. I would hardly call pig stomach stuffed with greasy and questionable pork parts, covered with heavy cream sauce, served with salted cabbage -- all vitamins having been leached out in the pickling process -- and washed down with unfiltered beer a balanced diet. Anna and I just kind of stared at the doctor and said, no, that wasn't it.

Minutes later, the doctor had Anna remove her sweater and lie down on her back so that she could palpitate her stomach. She did so, and the doctor exclaimed in surprise at Anna's slender torso: "Why, you're so trim!" As if she shouldn't be...? But no matter, Anna does indeed have a most impressive six-pack; perhaps the doctor was simply admiring the apparent health of a good human specimen. The likelihood of this, however, seemed to diminish when the doctor later called a colleague to whom she referred us: "I have a young American woman here to whom I'm referring you. But don't worry, she's quite slender and easy to examine."

It didn't stop there. I took the opportunity to also ask the doctor for a refill of the prescription I had obtained every summer from the UA Health Center (I get a natural mottling on the skin of my back when it gets humid, and a simple tablet taken every six months takes care of it quite well). She had a look at my back, also expressing surprise at my apparent lack of obesity, and offered me a lotion. I explained that I'd tried the lotion before; unfortunately, it was only a temporary solution, and the internal medication worked much more effectively. "You Americans!" she snapped irritably, "Popping pills for everything!" ...Huh? What was her problem? Did she think I was trying to tell her how to do her job, and so responded with annoyance? How is one type of pharmaceutical administration different from another, except in degrees of effectiveness? What did she know about the American medical community, anyway? Anna and I should have said something, but we were taken so off guard, and weren't immediately sure that we really could be hearing such ignorance and prejudice from an relatively young, educated professional, that we simply took the reference and our prescriptions and left. It was later that it all sort of sunk in, and I had to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of the whole interaction.

Happily, there have been many more positive encounters than negative ones. But perhaps it is the latter which stick in your head, as they give more cause for retrospection, while the former are simply enjoyed as lovely bits of hospitality from a people for whom the majority are naturally friendly and curious. I can't tell you how often I've asked a stranger on the street for directions, and have been practically personally walked to said location; how many waiters have brought us extra slices of pie because they hear we're exploring the city as tourists and are interested in the local cuisine; or the lady behind the counter at the winery, who slipped two bottles of sparkling red wine gratis into our bag, because she had overheard me tell Shauna that she should try Dornfelder Sekt in addition to the usual array of sparkling whites.

Okay, well, like the last one, this post is way too long. Maybe my ankle feels up to tackling the dishes again... I'll ask it and see what it says.

Not an Englishman in New York, but a legal alien nonetheless

So, after five months of hanging out on the other side of the world, I figured it was time for an "impressions" survey. Not really sure where to start; there are a number of semi-connected ideas banging around in my head that I'm just too lazy to organize into any kind of premeditated structure, so I think I'll just start typing and see what makes its way out and what gets lost in the mad rush to escape the narrow confines of my brain. ;)

Living as opposed to visiting...
...has been one of the greatest experiences of my life. To be sure, I'd lived in Germany for six years before, but it was as a child: and needless to say, your perspective as such is much more limited. Excepting the excellent efforts of our parents to take us out to explore Europe, a kid's normal daily encounters are usually Home, Schoolbus, Neighborhood Kids, and the Half-Mile Radius Around Your House. Although we did benefit greatly from our parents' determination to see as much as possible of the area and surrounding countries, and to integrate themselves as much as two foreigners could into the culture -- Dad was stationed at Ramstein Air Force Base, but we lived off-base, in a village, and our friends consisted of equal parts Germans and Americans -- a person's recollections 14 years later of their life from age seven to twelve is bound to be a little hazy. Of course we were deeply imprinted with the basic feel and smell of German language and culture; that's the age when humans are still growing, and their surroundings become as much absorbed into their cells and subconscious as does the food they eat and the parenting they receive. Right now, church bells are calling outside from the distant Innenstadt below, and the stately, deep, arrhythmic "bong" is setting off answering rings from one of the inner chambers of my heart (maybe it's the left ventricle). It was this slow steeping in Germanness -- the absorption of the warm, dark brown language and the smell of Lebkuchen at a Weihnachtsmarkt, the high view of treetops from the wall of a castle ruin, the dim memory of a cozy Gasthaus that served Jaegerschnitzel (my favorite) and the comforting aroma of my dad's beer -- that drew me inexhorably to German Studies much later at the university. (Huh, funny, maybe that's why I love the smell of good beer on men. I have, probably certifiably, the best dad anyone could possibly wish for; and so my associations with beer are not only happy, but also somehow connected to the conviction that beer is How a Man Should Smell.)

Anyway, studying German at the university opened up a whole array of complicated currents (politics, culture, history, literature, and other various Zeitgeists) that had been swirling around us unnoticed as we played with our friends or stopped at a roadside stand for a Bratwurst. Kids just kind of accept their surroundings without too much consideration: sure, there was the field behind my friend's house where we weren't allowed to play, because authorities couldn't be sure if they'd ever really cleared out the landmines from WWII; and yeah, there were some cities where the ground was noticeably higher in some spots due to newer structures having been built on top of rubble, also from the war. But that was a background detail: real, but (to a child) long ago and irrelevant. What was realer to me was the fact that this particular cathedral was -- whoa! -- a thousand years old! I would wonder who had wandered down this nave before me. Or take for granted that the look and feel of some of the older villages as something from a fairytale, the surrounding forests cool and green and probably populated by witches in gingerbread houses or Tolkeinish folk. I loved Germany. But we were imaginative kids, and my impressions of it were thoroughly mixed with the whimsical world of childhood.

When you grow up a little, though, and start to study mindsets and literature, you gain, needless to say, a much more enriched perspective. I still think of Germany as the place of gingerbread, forests, and far-off church bells. But now I also think of the land of the Romantics and the Englightenment; before that, a medieval world just as full of discovery and struggle as the 21st century; religious conflict; an only recently politically unified country -- Germany became an actual nation only in 1871! -- from what was before a collection of highly factional principalities, each with their own dialect and culture and interests.

The struggle to define a national identity continues today: am I Bavarian first, German second? Or the other way around? What about my neighbor, whose parents are Turkish? She wears a headscarf and speaks Turkish to her family, but she was born and raised here; is she really "a German"? See, in the States, we're used to this: most of us are decendants of some immigrant wave or another, some more historically distant than others. But until recently, your average German was a part of the very soil he tilled. There isn't really a direct or even adequate English translation for the word Heimat: it's more than just "home". It means the land of your roots, of all your family, probably since the Middle Ages or before. Bert goes back to the Erzgebirge, and that's where he belongs. This is not to say he isn't a well-traveled and broad-minded individual; he is indeed. But being the vagabond I and all of my family are and have been, it took me a little while to realize that the Erzgebirge isn't just the place his family happened to buy a house a couple generations ago (like many of us gypsy Americans); no, in fact, you could almost call it his ancestral home. Bert will call himself a Saxon before he identifies himself with the more general term "German."

Which leads of course into all the other complications of a German identity. What about the reunification in 1990? Germans were just starting to figure out who they might be as a nation before a moustachioed maniac came to power and took it way too far. Immediately afterward, the young country was divided into a communist Eastern half and a capitalist Western half -- both of whom weren't even independent states themselves, occupied as they were by, respectively, the Russians and (eventually exclusively) the Americans. What's it like, to have a foreign air base next to your village? Foreign soldiers walking down your street in their uniforms, loudly speaking their own language and complaining that your doorhandles are handles instead of knobs? Or worse, on the other side, not to be allowed to leave your own half of the country, or even listen to radio broadcasts from the other half? Then suddenly, after forty years -- two generations -- the two halves try to fit themselves back together again. Try to turn that into a sense of national identity. To say nothing of the difficulty of coming to terms with a piece of the past that most of the younger generation would prefer to pretend had never happened, and yet it's there in front of their faces every way they turn. How do you answer for the crimes of your grandparents? Should you? How can we learn from the past if we don't remember it, study it, look it in the eye; but what if doing so comes with an almost crushing sense of blame which you feel you haven't personally earned? For sixty years, Germans have been practically allergic to any hint of nationalistic pride. One simply does not play or sing the national anthem, except maybe at the Olympics. Until last summer, no one flew the flag out their window, the way we Americans do at seemingly every opportunity -- at home, at school, in the workplace, in our back windshields. And yet... since the World Cup was held in Germany last summer 2006, there has been a shy attempt to maybe not stash all the "Go Krauts!" paraphernalia away again. Sometimes someone will wear a red-black-and-gold sock, or even more daringly, have not put away the flag hanging off their apartment balcony. I like this. It seems a much healthier balance. And maybe it's just the Germanistik student in me, but as I said before, I love Germany. The large black stain in the middle of the 20th century is indeed glaring and horrible; but there is so much more to the country than just that, and I personally believe it's high time we allow a nation to redeem itself and be a nation again. Go, Krauts. :)

All righty, well, to return to the heading of this little chunk, let me just reiterate that these are all things you can't get just by visiting a place. After all this study, it's wonderful to actually get to come and live it for once. To not view a people and country from the distance of a classroom or through the pages of great, but static, literature; instead, to once again sit in a cozy Gasthaus, and this time, smell more than just the beer. It seems like every weekend, I'm sitting around another table with someone new and discussing philosophy and history; exploring a new town; making dinner in someone's kitchen and arguing about comparative school systems or the future of higher education; world politics; American politics; cultural idiosyncrasies; unemployment; the chasm between East and West; dealing with the past; the list is endless. I think I had kind of intended this blog to be a record of such conversations and impressions, but perhaps I haven't been as conscientious as I meant to be. This entry alone has taken over an hour and a half, and there is still so much to say... sometimes the most I can do is a hasty listing of all the things we've done and seen, just to record them for the indistinct Future when I do have a chance to imbue it with the better retrospection that such experiences deserve. Ah well, my coffee's waiting, and there are lessons to be planned... auf Wiedersehen, for now. :)

Oh, de leg bone connected to de hip bone...

Because a blog often consists, simply by nature, of self-indulgent ramblings, I'll start this post by observing that I have weird joints. Specifically, I think my bones might somehow be more loosely connected than most peoples'... For example, I remember doing crescent kicks in Taekwondo when I was seventeen -- an action requiring one to swing one's entire extended leg in an arc from the hip joint -- and having to subtly twitch my hip afterward in order to "click" the femur back in place. A year later, I sprained an ankle after a jump side-kick because the foot I landed on bent sideways toward my leg, and ended up on crutches for three weeks. Two years after that, I fell off a scooter and landed front down on both elbows, the result of which being that my right shoulder popped clean out of the socket. (It has never since rightly healed; the tendons in that joint have gotten so weak, in fact, that I am incapable of the simple motion of extending my right arm up and back without the shoulder slipping again -- to the accompaniment of excruciating pain. I know I need surgery, but what's a TA with minimal health insurance to do?) And actually, now that I think about it, even sometimes when chewing something especially crunchy, my jaw clicks slightly sideways and I have to un-stick it before proceeding. Does this herald a mass of joint problems in forty years? Am I going to get up from my rocking chair one day and collapse to the floor in a heap of disjointed skeleton? Just this afternoon, I stepped out of the drugstore and landed slightly unevenly on the same foot that was sprained eight years ago; by this evening, the danged ankle is swollen up and I can hardly put weight on it. That's not good. I walk everywhere. Well, lemme sleep on it and see how it is in the morning...

Anybody know any good remedies for too-elastic joints? :)

Through the wind and weather

Germany isn't particularly rife with the "traditional" natural disasters -- tornado, earthquake, flood, apocalyptic horsemen -- but man, can it whip up a heck of a windstorm. Last Thursday morning, earnest newsbroadcasters ("toupee alarm!" one warned) urged everyone to stay inside come afternoon, as they were expecting winds of up to 120 km/hr. But since I was only teaching two classes early in the morning, I thought I'd brave the mere 40 km/hr winds to valiantly bring English to some German schoolchildren. Not rain nor snow nor hail nor monstrous wind will keep this foreign language assistant from showing her 5th graders a silly Rowan Atkinson movie!

All was well until I decided to walk home, at which point my umbrella was promptly turned inside-out, my hood was blasted off my head, and the wind carefully parted the back of my hair so as to allow a more direct rain-pelting of my scalp (and shortly thereafter, my eyeballs and ear canals). I was bent nearly double by the time I stomped up to the door. This in turn was thrown open by a concerned sister, armed with a cup of hot tea -- and who then promptly burst out laughing at the apparition before her. We spent the rest of the day with the Rollladen pulled down against the increasing battering of the world outside, making pot after pot of exotic tea and snuggled up with books.

A more snuggled Shauna, the world has never seen.

Oh yeah! I should mention, Shauna is here! YAYY! I feel like me again. :) She flew in last Tuesday morning, and we have had a great last week or so. After Thursday night's Sturm und Drang, the world was sparkling and fresh on Friday morning. We got up early; hung out; made more tea; hung out some more; then went for a long walk through the wine fields where we, quite literally, chased a rainbow. We were just walking along and spotted a bright one: then, seeing that its end appeared to be no more than a hundred feet away, we just kind of started walking toward it. Everyone knows that the illusion will never let you get closer than it already looks -- but it was RIGHT THERE! We had to try. We squelched through the muddy fields until we were almost at the foot of the hill that proudly displays the Hambacher Schloss, before turning back down into the town and wending our way through some cobblestones.

That night, Bert came over, and we made an American Dinner: chili con carne, salad, and even a dessert of chocolate chip cookies. These cookies are incredible!! Sarah sent them with Shauna from Wisconsin: a huge tupperware box full of moist, thick, nutty, chocolatey goodness surrounding a gallon-sized bag of walnut-strewn fudge. I just about ran around in circles when she produced them from her bag. Thank you, Sarah!!! What a marvelous surprise! I in no way exaggerate when I inform the Internet Community that the best baked goods ever are to be found in my stepmom's kitchen. Bert was awfully impressed, and we gobbled the rest of them hiking the next day through the Pfaelzer Wald. Sarah, I've told this nice German man that I will try to obtain the recipe from you and make my own lame attempt at these divine things. Might I impose...?

Saturday was lovely. The weather was kinda icky, but we were all in an adventurous mood when we took off through the Pfaelzer Wald in search of its secrets. We drove almost all the way down the Weinstrasse, deep into the forest, and through old wine villages before we reached the top of a misty wooded hill, crowned with a 12th-century fortress carved right out of the rock: Burg Berwartstein.

You can find some pretty comprehensive information about the castle on this site. It's a fascinating place, rife with legends and even ghost stories!

Before storming the castle, however, we first took a stroll through the forest. But as Amy can tell you, hiking is really just an excuse to eat hiking food. We walked through the rainy woods just long enough to finish Sarah's cookies before heading back to sit on a wide stump in the shadow of the castle, and make a picnic of hard boiled eggs, cheese sandwiches, and coffee from Bert's old army thermos.

Thus fueled for our attack, we scaled the steps and ferociously joined a small guided tour. The guide was a university student who has loved the castle since his childhood, and his enthusiasm for it was infectious as he told us stories and described medieval fortress life. We poked our heads into old bedrooms, goggled the armor and obligatory torture devices, peeked up a narrow vertical tunnel that used to be the only entrance into the castle (which apparently made the place completely impenetrable, as hot oil and such could be poured down this stone tube!) and clutched at each other as we were led down a dark secret passageway that the castle inhabitants had used to escape enemies. There was also a 100-meter deep well, into which the guide tipped a bucket of water; and we held our breath for nine long seconds before we heard the distant splash at the bottom. Cool! And yet another interesting feature were the numerous round dents peppering the rock on one side of the structure. Apparently these were made by American aircraft during World War II! I felt an unpatriotic surge of indignance that someone would open fire with modern weaponry on such a stately marvel of medieval history, regardless of what was being hidden inside. (You're not going to get at it by firing at the cliffside, anyway. Might as well try the oil tunnel!)

After exploring the place, we had a cup of Gluehwein in the restaurant down below, and then drove across the French border to a charming little town called Wissembourg. Somehow, doing so imbued me with a funny familiar feeling that I couldn't quite put my finger on... until I started to say something loudly in English, and Shauna whispered jokingly, "Shh! Somebody is going to know we're gringos!" Hahaha! Yeah, last time I drove south to cross a border, we ate enchiladas instead of crepes. :)

That night, Shauna succumbed to jetlag while Bert and I went out to continue our medieval-themed day at a medieval-themed tavern with some of the Ludwigshafen folks. It's this so-cheesy-it's-awesomely-cool underground place called Didarius, with arching stone ceilings and torches on the walls, and you drink your mead out of wooden cups while stridently medieval music plays in the background. Thus sated on dark beer and blueberry wine, we prepared to sleep in until noon on Sunday.

Yesterday (Sunday), we expended more gasoline by driving to Schwetzingen, another pretty town with huge gardens that you can get lost in. However, being quite cold outside, we chose not to pay the six Euros to get lost, spending them instead on Bratwurst and coffee before heading back to freak out the Ludwigshafen crowd with my red-headed Doppelgaengerin. We watched The Simpsons in German, ate some pizza, and then turned in early so that I could arrive as tired and unprepared as possible for school today. :) Ahh! What a weekend!

Michael's Blog!

Check out Michael's online musings to the right... the lovelily-titled, "Wood Between the Worlds"! :)

Sad news

A dear friend just received some very sad family news. Please send him your prayers...

Hang in there, du.

New old pics

Just posted some pictures from last September, when Mom and Shauna and I went to the airport for our Germany send-off. They're pretty funny, mainly due to the sheer amount of baggage we are attempting to transport! See the "And More Pix" link to the right...

There and back again

Well, good middle of the night, Interweblandworld! It's 1.13 in the morning, and my alarm will go off in about four and a half hours, and I've slept all of nine of the last sixty hours... and I am wide awake. Too exhausted to sleep? Could be. Funny how jetlag seems to get reliably and noticeably stronger every time. It took me almost the entire two-week visit home to Tucson to not fall asleep at 7.3o on the couch every evening, only to then be awake for good at 3 am; and now, regardless of total, burning-eyed, achy-bodied exhaustion, my fingers are typing merrily away. Betrayers!

Some of it -- check that, all of it -- has to do with the fact that my luggage took a little vacation in Denver while I continued on to Frankfurt. At first, this was exasperating: "Great, just what I need after 20 hours of travel." But then I remembered that the two bags, densely loaded as they were with Christmas goodies for myself and others, weighed in at a hefty 50 lbs each; and that I was also about to take two trains and a taxi to get home. Which can be quite an adventure, with two anvil-like bags, two bursting-at-the-seams carryons (I could actually hear them groaning), and arms already full of wool coat and purse and pillow. (Yeah yeah, I bring a pillow on international flights. I will do this until I am eighty. After which I'll bring the bedspread, too. ;o) ) Anyway, so after being assured by the highly apologetic Lufthansa clerk that my bags would be delivered right to my front door the very next day after work, I lightly skipped aboard the respective trains and arrived home to my bright apartment, thoroughly tired but relieved, on Monday afternoon. Too bad my bags wouldn't come until the next evening; I was excited to give out the gifts I'd packed. But hey, free delivery service! That was worth a little wait.

Well, without going into further details, suffice to say they did finally arrive... but not before Tuesday night had become Wednesday morning. And because I didn't want to miss the delivery guy and face the prospect of making a trip to the Frankfurt airport, and then having to lug all the stuff home after all, I resisted the strong urge to fall asleep at 6 in the evening, though I was pretty sure I could easily have slept through to the next morning.

So here I am, at now 1.30 in the morning, still in the world of the waking. Dang second wind. Er, seventh wind. Whatever. I'll just fall asleep in front of the ninth-graders tomorrow, and they can spend an amusing class period drawing things on my sleeping face with a ballpoint pen. At least I'll get some rest!

The holidays were great, though. Really great. After the initial flightmare of finding myself heading, not from Frankfurt to Tucson as planned, but instead from Munich to Los Angeles -- where I then made a Chariots-of-Fire, 1.5-mile dead sprint, comically bulging and bouncing luggage in tow, to catch a chancy new connection via Southwest -- I collapsed gratefully onto one of mom's couches with her, Michael, and Shauna. Yay! Amy arrived the next day, and the five of us spent a lovely holiday together. Steve flew in on the 26th, and we all spent the next week running around trying to visit everyone in the entire city, run stateside errands, do more Christmas shopping for some folks here in Germany, collect some sunlight to take back to our northern latitudes, see as much of Mom as possible in her free time, and eat as much Mexican food as we could cram into our guacamole-starved bodies. Gallucci came down for a whirlwind overnight visit (after much schedule-juggling and other hitches -- thanks, Matt!), and then, for the last day and a half, mom and I actually had some time to spend just one-on-one. There is never enough of that! It was so great to be able to see everyone. But sometimes, in order to see all the people you want to see, you sacrifice spending any real quality time with any of them. Thanks for understanding, guys. I promise there's less going on over here -- come visit me on this side of the pond! :)

Speaking of visits, though, Shauna arrives in less than a week! Huzzah! That really eased the pain of leaving. We have all these grand designs of trying to get to Denmark or maybe France while she's here; but I kinda get the feeling that, once she gets here, all we're really going to want to do is while away the hours at a cafe. Though a weekend trip to the Erzgebirge would be cool. I'm trying to finagle a way to visit Conny and Nate in Berlin while she's here, too; we shall see!

All right, I'm sure there are more riveting details from these last few weeks that are just not surfacing in my dried up, sleep-deprived brain; but it's now almost two, and I really really should try to get some more sleep before another long day at school tomorrow. Happy New Year, everybody. As they say at Rosh Hashanah:

Let the new year and its blessings begin. :)

Homeward bound!

As beautiful as Neustadt is, it's missing a key element or two. So I think I'll hop a plane tomorrow and see what they're all up to in Arizona for Christmas! :)

A new roommate

My cozy apartment just got cozier, thanks to my new roommate from Dresden. He's quiet, doesn't eat much, and he sure smells good!

Lemme explain. The Erzgebirge is a mountain range near the eastern German border, which is famous for its woodcarving: especially around Christmastime, the area's hand-carved wooden figures, finely-cut Christmas tree decorations, Pyramiden (diaramas in which the figures spin around by means of a candles and wooden fans), and especially the characteristic Schwibbogen (arched candle holders with traditional images underneath) are staples even in western Christmas markets.

Pyramide:
Schwibbogen:


The most famous of the hand-carved figures, however, are the Räuchermännchen: "little smoking men". These are hollow, often wearing miners' costumes -- "Erzgebirge" literally translates into "ore mountains"-- and have round holes for mouths. When you place an incense cone inside one, the scented smoke comes drifting out of his mouth. Eeee! If ever smoking could be made adorable..! Anyway, they range anywhere in size from a couple inches to a couple feet. The problem is that, no matter how simple or detailed, their fame and quality make them pretty pricey. I was coveting every Räuchermännchen I saw when Bert and I visited the Annaberg Christmas market a couple weeks ago. Alas, they were too cute for my pocketbook.

Well! Bert went back to the Erzgebirge last weekend for his sister's birthday. And what did he return with? My very own Räuchermännchen! Except this guy isn't a miner -- he's a rockin' wizard. Delicately stained, with a long beard, walking stick, dark red hood, and heavy-lidded eyes, he is cool indeed. We lit him up (with appropriately-scented "wood moss" incense), and the long tube of smoke curling out of his mouth made him look strange and sorcerous. I wonder if he comes alive at night and casts spells? We shall see. I might wake up tomorrow morning in a forest of mushrooms.

staring:


smoking (while contemplating some spells):


Dunno about you, but I hear a men's choir when I look at him. Ahh, AAHHH, aaah!

So! What should I name him? Merdalf? Gandlin?

How to make Feuerzangenbowle

Step One: fill a pot with mulled wine.

Step Two: suspend a cone of sugar above the pot.


Step Three: douse the sugar in something tasty and flammable, like rum.


Step Four: fire!


Step Five: watch the sugar burn, until Step Six....


...when it has almost entiredly melted down and dripped, caramelized, into the wine.


Step Seven: Enjoy!

Step Eight: Enjoy again.

Step Nine: Apply Christmas wreath to head. Dance around a little. Pour more Feuerzangenbowle. Sing off-key and loudly along to Burl Ives' "Holly Jolly Christmas."

Step Ten: Spend entire next day in your pajamas, eating Nutella straight out of the jar because getting up and making real food sounds like too much effort! ;o)

Happy Hanukkah!

Last night was the first night of Hanukkah, which means that Temple Emanu-El back in Tucson is enjoying a flurry of activity. To Rabbi and Marjorie, and all the Temple staff: I hope you had a fun and successful first-night service! Wish I could have been there to sing this year. To everyone else who lit the first candle last night: chag sameach!

Slate magazine posted a lovely series today of photos taken of Hanukkah observances over the last fifty years. Some are quite introspective; others make an impact. Have a looksee!

http://todayspictures.slate.com/20061215/

Neustadt at Christmastime

Ooh, speaking of Weihnachten: went for a lovely long walk today with the camera. Check out this Rheinland Christmas paradise! :)

(The above album can also be found under a new link to the right: "And More Pix". The pictures have finally overflowed onto another picasa page!)

Eine kleine Nachtmusik

Well, this week has just been brimming with culture! Some high, some not so high... though I suppose it all depends on your perspective. ;)

First of all, I should mention that Frau Griesemer is a champ at making sure I have access to all the yummy little cultural tidbits around Neustadt: clipping out newspaper articles on exhibitions and concerts, finagling me free tickets for various excellent performances... a couple weeks ago, it was a Klezmer concert by a world-famous Jewish music trio! That was awesome. Last night, we saw an operetta: "Madame Pompadour". If you haven't seen/heard it, I'd recommend it! Although my enjoyment was probably exclusively the doing of the fantastic cast. I've been to operas before where the players could sing... and that was pretty much it. Mom and Shauna, remember when we saw "Romeo et Juliette," and during the death scene, the two expressed their undying love for each other by standing stiffly on opposite sides of the stage and reciting their arias like dutiful human clarinets? Or Ron, remember when we saw "Carmen", and the set consisted entirely of a single chair and an abstract, sloping wall? Not this troupe! They could not only sing, they could act. They were funny, creative, engaging -- and the sets and costumes were so sumptuous that sometimes I had trouble focusing my ears on the music, my eyes were so preoccupied! And to top it all off, Frau Griesemer treated me to a glass of sparkling wine at intermission -- and as you can imagine, sparkling wine in this region is almost as good as an entire opera. All in all, 'twas a lovely evening.

...And quite different from Monday night, when Bert and I went to a metal concert! It was in Mannheim, with a band called "In Extremo" (hahaha, love that name). I'd enjoyed a couple of their songs before, and Bert had gotten me a ticket to accompany him that night with some of the other Ludwigshafen crowd; so, always open to new sounds, I went gamely. And it rocked! Their music is pretty hard, but also surprisingly melodic at times. And get this -- they have bagpipes! Three bagpipers stalk about the stage while the lead singer sings his studded dog collar off, occasionally punctuated by the Standard Bursts of Flame, Without Which No Metal Concert Would Be Complete. Actually, at some point the drummer even lit his sticks on fire, and proceeded to play almost a whole song with these fireballs on the end of his drumsticks. Awesome. Oh, but no worries, family: I think we were not only sweaty enough from dancing to be pretty flame-retardant, but we also stood near the back, anyway, 'cause Bert forgot his earplugs (though weirdly enough, I just happened to have some floating around in my purse; however, he insisted I keep them for my virgin American ears). It was really fun. The music was good, and I don't think there was a single person there who wasn't all decked out in black... though the band's reputation for using bagpipes brought a funny array of SCA-types, too. Haha! So now I can say I went to a German metal concert.

(Here are some of the girlies from Ludwigshafen, at the concert.
L to R: Anne, Nadia, Julia, me):



Ooh, and now I jusht got back from a -- hic! -- Chrishmash party with some of the teachers from shcool. It wash fun... more tomorrow! ;oP

Cookery

As a side note, cooking/baking is always fun in my apartment. My "mixing bowls" consist of various saucepans, and a plastic bucket that must have originally come with a brightly-colored sand shovel. The "cookie sheet" is that pot roast pan -- you know, the one which comes standard in every oven? -- luxuriously covered with a fine layer of brown wax paper. (Only as they do in the finest bakeries, of course.) And Nigel discovered for himself the joys of making an omelette with a wooden spatula in a non-nonstick pan. Oh yeah!

But hey, it all still works. :) And thanks to Mom's piemaking tools, Dad & Sarah's measuring cups, and Brigitte Hamann's electric mixer, my first attempt at self-made piecrusts for Thanksgiving actually came out pretty well! :)

A proud display of two rootin' tootin' all-Amurrican punkin pahs.

Ach, du lieber Dezember!

Yayyy! I love this time of year. Especially when it's in such a beautiful place... went for a long walk yesterday, and kept stopping to look around and pinch myself that I get to live here until at least next summer. It's been three months, and I still do that on a pretty regular basis!

Gosh, so much to catch up on, and so little time before I have to pack up and catch a train to Ludwigshafen (where I'm meeting Bert to drive to the Erzgebirge today). So I'll try to just hit the highlights real quick:

Thanksgiving: marvellous! Cooked a dinner on the evening of Friday the 24th with a bunch of other English teachers at the high school. My coworkers are so great. Funny, friendly, open... and brave! Mom (bless her!) had sent me a bunch of ingredients for various holiday goodies that I just can't find here in Germany, some of which being pureed canned pumpkin and pie tins. So most of the teachers were able to try pumpkin pie for the first time... a leap of faith, given that my description of it was "sweetened, spiced squash filling in a dessert crust". And then they proved themselves even more valiant when I ceremoniously removed the lid from the Watergate Salad: pistachio pudding, whipped cream, crushed pineapple, multicolored minimarshmallows, and coconut, all blended up into a radioactive green goo. Yum! Everyone at the table peered into the bowl, glanced surreptitiously at each other, and then dug right in. And happily, both desserts appeared to be quite the hit! :)

The next weekend, Nigel came to visit, and we had a nice, chill (heh heh, get it?) start to December. On Friday evening, he and Anna and I, along with Annette (another new English teacher at my school) checked out the Christmas market in Landau. Then we went to see the new James Bond; and the next day, Nigel and I hopped a train to Heidelberg to see what it has to offer during the Adventszeit. Answer: an even bigger Christmas market! We had a lovely time... strolling around in the low winter sunlight, sampling gingerbread and candied almonds... and about three cups each of various forms of Gluehwein (mulled wine). Mmm! That made for a very merry trip back on the train! :)

That night, I went to a party in Ludwigshafen with some of Bert's friends; and like everything else, it was a blast. We listened to music, made dinner, and exchanged gifts. Bert was the "Weihnachtsmann", and he even showed up in a white beard and Santa cap. At some point, he pulled his beard down to take a drink of something... and one of the other guys pretends to burst into tears, yelling, "There is no Weihnachtsmann!! It's only Bert!" Hahahaha! Oh man, I like the Ludwigshafen folks.

Oops, I gotta wrap this up. Long story short: December has been fantastic so far. :) Will take lots of pictures this weekend! Huggles aus Deutschland...