Sitting in the office, pleased as punch, because I finally realized I can use the fleece beanie I bought secondhand as a tea cozy as well. My tea now stays warm longer. And my hair sometimes smells like Earl Grey. Small victories in a little life...
Finally done with the second installation of the big translation, the one that makes me hate all philosophers and the people who write about them. I have a life again, one filled with time that I'm not quite sure how to fill yet, seeing as I don't "work" outside of work right now. It's strange to wake up and not see a stack of papers in the process of being graded on the coffee table, kitchen table, at the foot of the bed and on the floor next to the sofa. It's strange for the moment to not measure my life in terms of how many inches high the stack of essays sitting next to me is. There is no stack of essays. I imagine an(other) identity crisis will arise soon.
Naturally, I have a proofreading session on one past translation to finish, and the proofs of another book are coming in from someone else, and I should finish them by January, start with a clean slate. We'll see how I do. But first, I wish to take a breather for a couple of days.
The first part of my breather was taking advantage of the market across the street from me in Erfurt, at Domplatz, which is also the current location for the bulk of the Christmas Market. There's a market Monday through Saturday, unbelievably, in the mornings, and they sell most of the things I need: bacon, butter, sausage. Oh yeah...vegetables. I try to go there first, spend more money than I should so that I can buy what I think are quasi-sustainable goods, and of course, to go native.
I have always seen a market as an intercultural-competence proving ground, a place that separates the boys from the men. I find myself often still feeling as though someone had strung me upside-down by my toenails over a fire-ant hill and covered me with honey when I am shopping at a market, even in San Francisco. The items are not the ones you find in the supermarket, and tons of people are waiting behind you, impatient, desirous of getting their paws on their goods and getting on about the day's business of being grumpy, or smug, whichever strikes their fancy. Being at a market means knowing what you're doing, at least, that's what it means to me. It means partaking in a practice as old as food itself. It means doing something that should be second nature, but is, alas, no longer. I grew up on military bases with microwave ovens and an African-American culture that (historically justifiably) engenders a wretched fear of trichinosis and a host of other food-borne illnesses. A market was one of the last places we ever went to. If it was hermetically sealed, canned, frozen, dried or nukeable, it was our friend. Otherwise, watch out. That fresh vegetable might kill you. Don't even think about buying meat at an open-air market. That's what 'other' people do.
But markets are great ways to build up your community network, listen to dialects, see what is popular among the community and the culture in general. For example, one stall at the Christmas market right now sells only oranges and Christmas wreaths. What the hell is up with that? Oranges seem to a be a big part of Christmas here. I'll figure out why later.
The markets help me recognize regional differences, such as the preference here in Thuringia for these little round balls of blood sausage. They sort of look like the bombs Wile E. Coyote would order from Acme, blackish softball-sized packets of death, tied up with a string. And it seems there are two types of them, as I found out from the woman in front of me who was asking about the Acme bombs hanging on the wall behind the butcher, a red-faced young man who sort of reminded me of the Shoney's boy, roundy, fat fingers delicately handling slices of Sulze and Leberkäse, as though he'd popped out of the womb with that fork in his hand. I have fantasies of marrying a butcher one day, but he's definitely not my type...
But you can't get too distracted by such things. You are there to learn, and the best way to learn, in my opinion, is to listen to what other people say, see what they order, how much of it , how they order it, which platitudes they use. Before I picked up on this, I used to walk away from deli counters with 1 pound of head cheese and 3 ounces of cheddar. It was horrible. Then, I figured out that other people might have a better idea of what they're doing, so I decided to start paying attention to them. It works. Every once in a while I flub it, like Saturday, when I bought Bauchspeck instead of Früstücksspeck. They are both bacon. Yay! But the former comes with a hard rind on one side that does not make for great breakfast food. The latter, named "breakfast bacon," interestingly enough, serves that purpose. But I didn't have enough time in line to google the difference between the two on my smart phone, so I bought the Bauchspeck. When I got it home, I realized the difference.
And that was okay, because I simply stuffed it into the fresh chicken I picked up from the other stall and roasted it last night. And man, was that good.
But in the time I spent at the market, I learned that here you can order cold cuts by the slice, and I even did it, just to make sure it wasn't some sick joke. I learned that far too many people in this part of the world love blood sausage. I also learned that it will be a long time before I understand much of the Thuringian accent. But I got an awesome chicken, and I didn't die of food poisoning. It's a win-win situation. And I will have much more to report about "my" market soon enough.
And our time is up.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Thursday, November 29, 2012
"A Place Called Home"
It's supposed to start snowing today.
Crap.
The apartment is starting to take on a slight personality, because I am starting to fill it with stuff. Stuff, once again stuff. I devoted four months of my life to getting rid of stuff in the States so I could pay less for storage and move here unfettered. And now I'm starting to pick up stuff. I should stick to the basics, of course, but my kitchen probably now has more stuff than some people acquire in a lifetime. And I'm not even close to being done with the kitchen. It is barely adequate. It must at least become functional.
Things I like about the apartment:
1. It has a kick-ass oven, at least for conventional German standards. I have learned that the back of the oven holds more heat than the front. Pretty typical, but good to know before I start baking in it. Yes, incredible. I have lived in my apartment for two weeks as of today, and the only thing I've managed to bake are some prepared Brötchen and a pizza. Can't wait for the 1st of December to be over, can't wait to get into my kitchen.
2. I like the funky floorplan. The apartment is basically the shape of an isosceles triangle. The Kitchen, interestingly enough, is at the narrowest part. My bedroom at the broadest, which also looks out on the street.
3. My bedroom. I have a bedroom! And not the closet that I crammed my double bed into in SFO. There is space for a larger bed, a place to put my clothes, bookcases if I want, and a desk. And it gets tons of light.
4. The shower stall: low to the ground, large, all glass panels. Towel radiator next to it to keep my towels and bathrobe comfy warm for when I'm done with my shower.
5. The sofa bed I ordered. Not the fanciest, but functional, very red, and large, with a recamiere on one end. I get to lay out like a Grande Dame and watch movies.
6. It's mine. I found it on my own, signed for it on my own, and will pay for it on my own. It's mine.
7. It's the first apartment in Germany I've ever had on my own.
8. The fencing club I'll be going to is literally five minutes by foot from the apartment. Even in the freezing cold it won't be that bad. And I can shower at home if I want.
9. It's not in Weimar, which, though cute, is very, very small. I already know almost all of the commuters by sight, and I've only been commuting a week and a half.
10. Did I mention it's mine?
Soon, it will be a clean, well-lighted place for books, for cooking, for sitting, for me. I look forward to nesting in December, to going shopping on the 2nd (Verkaufsoffener Sonntag, the one Sunday of the month when they open the stores to shoppers. It's a boon in a retail wilderness.)
I have a home.
And our time is up.
P.J. Harvey's "A Place Called Home"
Crap.
The apartment is starting to take on a slight personality, because I am starting to fill it with stuff. Stuff, once again stuff. I devoted four months of my life to getting rid of stuff in the States so I could pay less for storage and move here unfettered. And now I'm starting to pick up stuff. I should stick to the basics, of course, but my kitchen probably now has more stuff than some people acquire in a lifetime. And I'm not even close to being done with the kitchen. It is barely adequate. It must at least become functional.
Things I like about the apartment:
1. It has a kick-ass oven, at least for conventional German standards. I have learned that the back of the oven holds more heat than the front. Pretty typical, but good to know before I start baking in it. Yes, incredible. I have lived in my apartment for two weeks as of today, and the only thing I've managed to bake are some prepared Brötchen and a pizza. Can't wait for the 1st of December to be over, can't wait to get into my kitchen.
2. I like the funky floorplan. The apartment is basically the shape of an isosceles triangle. The Kitchen, interestingly enough, is at the narrowest part. My bedroom at the broadest, which also looks out on the street.
3. My bedroom. I have a bedroom! And not the closet that I crammed my double bed into in SFO. There is space for a larger bed, a place to put my clothes, bookcases if I want, and a desk. And it gets tons of light.
4. The shower stall: low to the ground, large, all glass panels. Towel radiator next to it to keep my towels and bathrobe comfy warm for when I'm done with my shower.
5. The sofa bed I ordered. Not the fanciest, but functional, very red, and large, with a recamiere on one end. I get to lay out like a Grande Dame and watch movies.
6. It's mine. I found it on my own, signed for it on my own, and will pay for it on my own. It's mine.
7. It's the first apartment in Germany I've ever had on my own.
8. The fencing club I'll be going to is literally five minutes by foot from the apartment. Even in the freezing cold it won't be that bad. And I can shower at home if I want.
9. It's not in Weimar, which, though cute, is very, very small. I already know almost all of the commuters by sight, and I've only been commuting a week and a half.
10. Did I mention it's mine?
Soon, it will be a clean, well-lighted place for books, for cooking, for sitting, for me. I look forward to nesting in December, to going shopping on the 2nd (Verkaufsoffener Sonntag, the one Sunday of the month when they open the stores to shoppers. It's a boon in a retail wilderness.)
I have a home.
And our time is up.
P.J. Harvey's "A Place Called Home"
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
When one door closes...
Forgot to blog yesterday, came into work and got right down to it. When I made notes last night about the blog entry I wanted to write this morning, I noticed the absence and got annoyed at myself. I'm trying to escape the hamster wheel for a minute, not reinvent it on another continent. Tja...
Yesterday I stayed in the office late, because I have this deadline for the second installment of this translation I'm doing for a foundation in the States, and, like I always do, I put off the work until the last minute. I've got three days to go, 4oo footnotes and one last proofreading session, which means I have to work here, not at home. At home, there are too many distractions, like the paint on the wall, or the clean dishes that look like they could use a second washing. So I stay here in the office, which at least has a desk. I check FB every couple of hours to make sure I still have a normal connection to the human sphere.
It occurred to me yesterday while translating that it's hard to have a mid-life crisis and be obsessed by death (that would be me), when your entire being has to concentrate on one specific task. When I'm trying to make a deadline and earn some cash, I have no time to wonder about "the meaning of it all" and what I will think about on my death bed, or why I should bother doing this thing called Life in the first place. Instead, I focus on the minutiae, and forget my mortality for a moment.
But there are always reminders, and they happen in the strangest of ways, like discovering that your friend's dog has gone missing and is most likely dead at this point.
But this is more than a dog.
I don't think she'll mind, my friend Nina, if I write about her for a minute. I met Nina 6 years ago, when we co-taught an orientation course for exchange students in Aachen. At first, I was not crazy about her, with her fuzzy slippers and her incredibly German penchant for taking her dog Josephine--Josy for short--with her everywhere she went. But she served as a real-time example of one of the things I mentioned in the culture segment of class: German's love animals, more often than they love children. The Dutch love children, but somehow the Germans never took a page from their book. Animals are preferred, as a German scholar might say, proud of his use of the passive tense.
But I remember that Nina, after a very quiet meeting of the minds, became one of the dearest people to me that I know, a friend through and through. And I very much remember Josy, a fluffy dark brown mix between an Akita and a Malamut, at least to me. She was a docile dog, sweet, old, and, if I am not mistaken, bilingual, since Nina spent a lot of her time talking to Josy in Spanish. I remember the first time Nina gave out to Josy in Spanish. I wondered if Josy was paying attention, until I saw her tail sink between her legs. If nothing else, she understood intonation. Josy was also the source of one of three major battles we waged with the organizer that summer, since we never went to a restaurant that allowed Josy to come inside.
I didn't see what the fuss was about in those days. But it became clear soon enough. Josy is not simply Nina's dog. Josy is Nina, as essential a part to her as her heart or her brain, as necessary as the blood in her veins. It killed Nina to travel without her, but because travel is so important to her, she went. But she spent hours upon hours figuring out how to take her with her overseas, how to move her to South America with her, where she now lives.
Josy, who was very old and surprised me by surviving the trip, transition, change in climate and overall atmosphere, the absence of the people she'd known most of her life--a testament to how much Nina is Josy--was coming to her end, with heart problems and the other ailments that plague us all, dog or human. But Nina was taking care of her as always, and never, ever, wanting to contemplate what she would do without her.
Josy broke away from the people who were watching her while Nina was away, and despite the efforts of tons of people, days of searching, and what I imagine a hysterical Nina, unable to sleep or eat or do anything except look for Josy, the search was called off. She has disappeared somewhere into the city/countryside, and after that many days without medication or proper care, one can imagine that she is indeed dead.
And this is what I found out when I checked FB during one of my breaks yesterday, when Nina emailed me and told me to check my real email for the full story. We are still trying to connect voice-to-voice.
When I finally got done with work, I took the train back to Erfurt. In the streetcar, I was fortunate enough to lift my head from my smart phone for a minute and notice that the Christmas market, which is spread throughout the Altstadt, had begun. And, instead of riding the last two stops to my apartment, which is across from the Erfurt Cathedral, I got out, bought a bag of candied almonds (there goes the diet), and strolled through the neighborhood back to my apartment.
I had an hour to go before I had to get on Skype and try to call Nina, so I took my time, enjoyed the lights, the smell of candy and Glühwein, the still-pristine look of it all, the people before they get drunk and red-nosed, and make me hate Christmas all over again. I ran into the woman who runs the shop below my apartment, her grumpy husband, running a booth in the market. Amazing that the grumpy husband is a wonderful artist, someone who paints landscapes, probably because humanity is too annoying to capture. Maybe he'll warm up to me, maybe not.
Coming around the corner, I saw everything lit up like, well, a Christmas tree, the kitschy neon colors of the Ferris wheel, the hundreds of booths selling arts and crafts, more Glühwein, stuffed animals, the people standing around and talking, laughing, behaving themselves. The weather was perfect, the pictures on the "real" camera fantastic, the night, as my downstairs neighbor had said, "was playing along with us."
And still, there was Nina and Josy.
Staring at the Ferris wheel, munching on my almonds, done with translation for the day and not knowing what to do with myself, I remembered that this is the whole point of it, to enjoy this, just this little moment, as much as I could, because, we all go through loss, we all lose, we all get lost, in one way or another. I am proud of Nina for having moved to South America, for having taken Josy with her. I am happy, as is Nina, that she did not have to "decide" what to do with Josy when it got to a crucial point. I am saddened that Josy had to leave at all, but glad that Nina had her as long as she did.
I remember hating Christmas with a passion known only to axe-murderers after my partner of 12 years left me--at the beginning of December, walking out the day after he said he wanted to leave, disappearing, as though he died--for the first 5 years after. I hate that Nina has to experience loss at this time of year. I hate that I can offer no comfort other than the usual platitudes, that I can not help her move more quickly through her mourning any more than I can help myself. And yet, there will be another Ferris wheel, another Christmas, eventually, another dog to love.
Just never another Josy.
And our time is up.
-Tschö, wa!
Yesterday I stayed in the office late, because I have this deadline for the second installment of this translation I'm doing for a foundation in the States, and, like I always do, I put off the work until the last minute. I've got three days to go, 4oo footnotes and one last proofreading session, which means I have to work here, not at home. At home, there are too many distractions, like the paint on the wall, or the clean dishes that look like they could use a second washing. So I stay here in the office, which at least has a desk. I check FB every couple of hours to make sure I still have a normal connection to the human sphere.
It occurred to me yesterday while translating that it's hard to have a mid-life crisis and be obsessed by death (that would be me), when your entire being has to concentrate on one specific task. When I'm trying to make a deadline and earn some cash, I have no time to wonder about "the meaning of it all" and what I will think about on my death bed, or why I should bother doing this thing called Life in the first place. Instead, I focus on the minutiae, and forget my mortality for a moment.
But there are always reminders, and they happen in the strangest of ways, like discovering that your friend's dog has gone missing and is most likely dead at this point.
But this is more than a dog.
I don't think she'll mind, my friend Nina, if I write about her for a minute. I met Nina 6 years ago, when we co-taught an orientation course for exchange students in Aachen. At first, I was not crazy about her, with her fuzzy slippers and her incredibly German penchant for taking her dog Josephine--Josy for short--with her everywhere she went. But she served as a real-time example of one of the things I mentioned in the culture segment of class: German's love animals, more often than they love children. The Dutch love children, but somehow the Germans never took a page from their book. Animals are preferred, as a German scholar might say, proud of his use of the passive tense.
But I remember that Nina, after a very quiet meeting of the minds, became one of the dearest people to me that I know, a friend through and through. And I very much remember Josy, a fluffy dark brown mix between an Akita and a Malamut, at least to me. She was a docile dog, sweet, old, and, if I am not mistaken, bilingual, since Nina spent a lot of her time talking to Josy in Spanish. I remember the first time Nina gave out to Josy in Spanish. I wondered if Josy was paying attention, until I saw her tail sink between her legs. If nothing else, she understood intonation. Josy was also the source of one of three major battles we waged with the organizer that summer, since we never went to a restaurant that allowed Josy to come inside.
I didn't see what the fuss was about in those days. But it became clear soon enough. Josy is not simply Nina's dog. Josy is Nina, as essential a part to her as her heart or her brain, as necessary as the blood in her veins. It killed Nina to travel without her, but because travel is so important to her, she went. But she spent hours upon hours figuring out how to take her with her overseas, how to move her to South America with her, where she now lives.
Josy, who was very old and surprised me by surviving the trip, transition, change in climate and overall atmosphere, the absence of the people she'd known most of her life--a testament to how much Nina is Josy--was coming to her end, with heart problems and the other ailments that plague us all, dog or human. But Nina was taking care of her as always, and never, ever, wanting to contemplate what she would do without her.
Josy broke away from the people who were watching her while Nina was away, and despite the efforts of tons of people, days of searching, and what I imagine a hysterical Nina, unable to sleep or eat or do anything except look for Josy, the search was called off. She has disappeared somewhere into the city/countryside, and after that many days without medication or proper care, one can imagine that she is indeed dead.
And this is what I found out when I checked FB during one of my breaks yesterday, when Nina emailed me and told me to check my real email for the full story. We are still trying to connect voice-to-voice.
When I finally got done with work, I took the train back to Erfurt. In the streetcar, I was fortunate enough to lift my head from my smart phone for a minute and notice that the Christmas market, which is spread throughout the Altstadt, had begun. And, instead of riding the last two stops to my apartment, which is across from the Erfurt Cathedral, I got out, bought a bag of candied almonds (there goes the diet), and strolled through the neighborhood back to my apartment.
I had an hour to go before I had to get on Skype and try to call Nina, so I took my time, enjoyed the lights, the smell of candy and Glühwein, the still-pristine look of it all, the people before they get drunk and red-nosed, and make me hate Christmas all over again. I ran into the woman who runs the shop below my apartment, her grumpy husband, running a booth in the market. Amazing that the grumpy husband is a wonderful artist, someone who paints landscapes, probably because humanity is too annoying to capture. Maybe he'll warm up to me, maybe not.
Coming around the corner, I saw everything lit up like, well, a Christmas tree, the kitschy neon colors of the Ferris wheel, the hundreds of booths selling arts and crafts, more Glühwein, stuffed animals, the people standing around and talking, laughing, behaving themselves. The weather was perfect, the pictures on the "real" camera fantastic, the night, as my downstairs neighbor had said, "was playing along with us."
And still, there was Nina and Josy.
Staring at the Ferris wheel, munching on my almonds, done with translation for the day and not knowing what to do with myself, I remembered that this is the whole point of it, to enjoy this, just this little moment, as much as I could, because, we all go through loss, we all lose, we all get lost, in one way or another. I am proud of Nina for having moved to South America, for having taken Josy with her. I am happy, as is Nina, that she did not have to "decide" what to do with Josy when it got to a crucial point. I am saddened that Josy had to leave at all, but glad that Nina had her as long as she did.
I remember hating Christmas with a passion known only to axe-murderers after my partner of 12 years left me--at the beginning of December, walking out the day after he said he wanted to leave, disappearing, as though he died--for the first 5 years after. I hate that Nina has to experience loss at this time of year. I hate that I can offer no comfort other than the usual platitudes, that I can not help her move more quickly through her mourning any more than I can help myself. And yet, there will be another Ferris wheel, another Christmas, eventually, another dog to love.
Just never another Josy.
-Tschö, wa!
Monday, November 26, 2012
Turkey Trot
Back at work, with Ikea blisters and a full stomach. a little too full, and the jeans are a little too tight. Time to get back on the food wagon, especially before people start hauling out the Christmas cookies and Glühwein.
The stomach is full because I went to a Thanksgiving dinner this weekend at an acquaintance's house about three hours from Erfurt. True to life, the acquaintance, who has a penchant for generating drama by the simple act of breathing, misinformed me and my traveling partner about the day of the dinner. He said Friday, but it turned out it was Saturday. So we ended up staying an extra day, going "Outlet shopping" in a nearby town. My traveling partner (Let's call him T, since I assume I'll mention him from time to time--coworker, likes boys, don't get your hopes up.) promised me that there are larger, more impressive outlets in Germany, one that is a "village," in his words. We'll see. It's hard to beat the American penchant for name brands and bargain hunting. Outlets are still a relatively new concept here, I think, and the prices often are not much different from the retail stores. But I do love the names of the brand names here: Bruno Banani, Marco Polo, desigual, anything, as long as it doesn't sound German. Naturally, there are Levis, Addidas, Puma, and the others, including a Le Creuset, which of course soothed my bruised little soul.
The soul is bruised because I ended up needing to celebrate Thanksgiving so badly that I went to the acquaintance's place, a choice I would not have made if I hadn't needed the identification, the celebration of something that is just a part of who I am. But the other American, the guy who hosted the dinner, really left me standing in the rain a couple of months ago when I was looking for a job. I had helped him (read: I did it myself) put together a PowerPoint presentation for his dissertation defense, since he could not work with PowerPoint at all. I got his pictures, text, music samples, everything, to not only look fantastic, but to work. Fade-ins, fade-outs, different visual effects. I helped him narrow his outline down to a manageable and comprehensible 30 minutes, went to two rehearsals with others to provide feedback, being the only other person in the room with a PhD, I think. There might have been one other person who has been grilled at that level and lived to tell the tale. I devoted a ton of hours to help him get what he came for, because that is what I do in principle and for a living. I work in education.
And the professors especially noted how fantastic his PowerPoint was. You may now call him Dr.
But when I was looking for a job, and needed to work on my German letter-of-app skills, he was nowhere to be found, and then later told me that he'd had "other priorities." Of course. You need a PhD in order to earn more money and crawl out of the crushing debt you have. I need a job so I can get a resident permit and a work permit, which is not the easiest thing in the world, or at least, that's what I've been told. Sure, of course you have priorities, but I get kicked out of the country in exactly three weeks if I don't get it together and prove I'm at least looking and have prospects. But no, make sure you take care of that make-up exam (No, really, that was his excuse, after not answering the email and then calling three days later.) No, really, after I keep mum about your multiple attempts to cheat on your sweet, loving, yet highly insecure partner, after I cook every day so you can study, after I put up with your egotism...no, just ignore the one thing I really need and will ever need from you.
The Germans I asked to proof my letter and help me with editing sent back feedback immediately. T basically wrote it for me, truth be told. The American sent feedback about a letter that didn't exist anymore, four days later, after I'd already turned in my application. And the feedback was as weak as a cheap Soju cocktail.
Yes, yes, it balanced out. Yes, yes, I can't expect anything and this is not a world of tit for tat. Yes, I get that. Yes, I understand, but when someone who has experienced the same thing you are experiencing and knows how important the situation is, how much it's a do-or-die moment, when they have been enriched by your help because you simply want to help someone succeed, and they dick you over, it stings. No matter how you package it.
After I'd eaten my fill Saturday, after going shopping and not helping in the kitchen, other than to put my peach cobbler together, after watching the acquaintance and his partner rush madly through the house, after listening to boring people talk about boring crap in their boring clothes and their boring tosses of the head, I went to bed early, not thinking for a minute that I should help with the intense cleanup that would take place in another few hours. I lifted no finger, drank, ate, talked with T and a few other nice people, and wished for Thanksgiving in Morgan Hill, in Oakland, in San Francisco, in Davis, the beauty of conversation led by intelligent people, a sense of community where I know everyone has my back. And I have theirs. And we have all earned it.
My 20 minutes are up.
The stomach is full because I went to a Thanksgiving dinner this weekend at an acquaintance's house about three hours from Erfurt. True to life, the acquaintance, who has a penchant for generating drama by the simple act of breathing, misinformed me and my traveling partner about the day of the dinner. He said Friday, but it turned out it was Saturday. So we ended up staying an extra day, going "Outlet shopping" in a nearby town. My traveling partner (Let's call him T, since I assume I'll mention him from time to time--coworker, likes boys, don't get your hopes up.) promised me that there are larger, more impressive outlets in Germany, one that is a "village," in his words. We'll see. It's hard to beat the American penchant for name brands and bargain hunting. Outlets are still a relatively new concept here, I think, and the prices often are not much different from the retail stores. But I do love the names of the brand names here: Bruno Banani, Marco Polo, desigual, anything, as long as it doesn't sound German. Naturally, there are Levis, Addidas, Puma, and the others, including a Le Creuset, which of course soothed my bruised little soul.
The soul is bruised because I ended up needing to celebrate Thanksgiving so badly that I went to the acquaintance's place, a choice I would not have made if I hadn't needed the identification, the celebration of something that is just a part of who I am. But the other American, the guy who hosted the dinner, really left me standing in the rain a couple of months ago when I was looking for a job. I had helped him (read: I did it myself) put together a PowerPoint presentation for his dissertation defense, since he could not work with PowerPoint at all. I got his pictures, text, music samples, everything, to not only look fantastic, but to work. Fade-ins, fade-outs, different visual effects. I helped him narrow his outline down to a manageable and comprehensible 30 minutes, went to two rehearsals with others to provide feedback, being the only other person in the room with a PhD, I think. There might have been one other person who has been grilled at that level and lived to tell the tale. I devoted a ton of hours to help him get what he came for, because that is what I do in principle and for a living. I work in education.
And the professors especially noted how fantastic his PowerPoint was. You may now call him Dr.
But when I was looking for a job, and needed to work on my German letter-of-app skills, he was nowhere to be found, and then later told me that he'd had "other priorities." Of course. You need a PhD in order to earn more money and crawl out of the crushing debt you have. I need a job so I can get a resident permit and a work permit, which is not the easiest thing in the world, or at least, that's what I've been told. Sure, of course you have priorities, but I get kicked out of the country in exactly three weeks if I don't get it together and prove I'm at least looking and have prospects. But no, make sure you take care of that make-up exam (No, really, that was his excuse, after not answering the email and then calling three days later.) No, really, after I keep mum about your multiple attempts to cheat on your sweet, loving, yet highly insecure partner, after I cook every day so you can study, after I put up with your egotism...no, just ignore the one thing I really need and will ever need from you.
The Germans I asked to proof my letter and help me with editing sent back feedback immediately. T basically wrote it for me, truth be told. The American sent feedback about a letter that didn't exist anymore, four days later, after I'd already turned in my application. And the feedback was as weak as a cheap Soju cocktail.
Yes, yes, it balanced out. Yes, yes, I can't expect anything and this is not a world of tit for tat. Yes, I get that. Yes, I understand, but when someone who has experienced the same thing you are experiencing and knows how important the situation is, how much it's a do-or-die moment, when they have been enriched by your help because you simply want to help someone succeed, and they dick you over, it stings. No matter how you package it.
After I'd eaten my fill Saturday, after going shopping and not helping in the kitchen, other than to put my peach cobbler together, after watching the acquaintance and his partner rush madly through the house, after listening to boring people talk about boring crap in their boring clothes and their boring tosses of the head, I went to bed early, not thinking for a minute that I should help with the intense cleanup that would take place in another few hours. I lifted no finger, drank, ate, talked with T and a few other nice people, and wished for Thanksgiving in Morgan Hill, in Oakland, in San Francisco, in Davis, the beauty of conversation led by intelligent people, a sense of community where I know everyone has my back. And I have theirs. And we have all earned it.
My 20 minutes are up.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Tower of Babel
Day two of the attempt at spontaneity. This is hard.
I almost forgot that I had a blogging appointment with myself this morning. Daily writing is hard until you fall (back) into the habit. I miss the days when I could spend hours a day just writing, just screwing around with one word, one expression, twisting and shaping it until it became a new creature. Now, I'm lucky if I squeeze out a sentence from my constipated brain once every two months.
But enough of my meta-bitching.
It is a disturbing 36 degrees outside, disturbing because it is supposed to get colder, disturbing because I don't find it "that bad." I'm sure I'll be squawking a different tune altogether soon enough. The office is warm, the park across the street is losing its frosty sheen, a man plays with his dog, tugging at the soft Frisbee, giving the dog a run for his money. It is another bucolic day in Weimar. And me with no automatic weapon. Pity, that.
The urge to stop and come back to this later, when I can "really" write, is overwhelming. My brain is sluggish, I feel like I have nothing to say. Anyone who knows me knows I must be ill if I have nothing to say, or someone cut out my tongue. Fine.
So I finally moved into my own apartment last Thursday in Erfurt, thank the heavens above. And, true to form, I had everything arranged with clockwork precision before the day of mobilization. I had sorted out what to do about electricity, had ordered my furniture from Ikea for delivery on the same day, had the appointment for telephone and internet set up for the same day. The only thing I failed to do was take measurements in order to create my typical scaled rendition of the apartment and the furniture to go into it so I could plan where everything went ahead of time. But I thought I should loosen up. I was proud of myself for letting that one go.
And then, the day before mobilization, I get a phone call from the cable company, or what I thought was the cable company, telling me that they had come by earlier that day and no one was home, so I would have to reschedule my appointment.
--What? I clearly said I needed an appointment for the 15th, not the 14th.
--Well, here it says you wanted the 14th.
--There's no way that's true.
And then I realize, his "14" and "15" sound exactly the same. I probably agreed to the date because of the confusion. Why don't these people speak more clearly? What is up with this Thüringen accent, which sounds a lot like a combination of Austrian and Platt Deutsch spoken by someone with a speech impediment?
So I ask what time they will come tomorrow, since there's obviously a mix-up. And the man on the other end of the phone, who is obviously Satan's bastard third cousin twice removed, tells me that the next available appointment is Wednesday of the next week. After the blinding red before my eyes faded away, I told him that he must be joking. No, no. It's next Wednesday, some time between 8 a.m. and noon. Until then, smoke signals and semaphore.
Oh, and by the way, they have to go into the cellar of the store below me before they can do what's necessary in my apartment. Someone obviously needs to be dug up, ritually reburied, and danced over before civilization can bless my abode.
Fine.
Then, I realize there is no point in the cable guy coming before 10:00, since the store, and the cellar underneath it, do not open until 10. So I had to call the cable company and let them know. And thus began the odyssey. Two hours over two days and an ability to recite all the messages played while you're on hold later, I finally reach a human being who knows what she's doing. She informs me that I need to contact the contractor to inform them of my problem. She gives me a phone number, I instead dial another one in my phone, try again, and reach the contractor. He gives me the number of the sub-contractor that he's passed the work onto. And the subcontractor, once I tell him about the installation, tells me that it is impossible to change the appointment, because the cable guy has someone scheduled after me. (And Germania forbid that they might actually switch the appointments around, since we are all obviously in the same time window--Oh God, that would be, like, logical.) So I will have to wait until the next Wednesday.
I did not wait for the red to fade this time, and by the time the conversation was over, a long, protracted sigh of frustration preceded the sentence, " Fine, I will tell him to be at your place at 10."
Now, was that so hard?
The day after I was graced with 110,000 bits per second, I went to work, bought coffee and a pastry at the train station before cramming myself into the rolling sardine tin. The woman said 5 Euro. That's bloody expensive. Then I looked at the register to see the total. It read 4 Euro.
And I realized I'm screwed.
I almost forgot that I had a blogging appointment with myself this morning. Daily writing is hard until you fall (back) into the habit. I miss the days when I could spend hours a day just writing, just screwing around with one word, one expression, twisting and shaping it until it became a new creature. Now, I'm lucky if I squeeze out a sentence from my constipated brain once every two months.
But enough of my meta-bitching.
It is a disturbing 36 degrees outside, disturbing because it is supposed to get colder, disturbing because I don't find it "that bad." I'm sure I'll be squawking a different tune altogether soon enough. The office is warm, the park across the street is losing its frosty sheen, a man plays with his dog, tugging at the soft Frisbee, giving the dog a run for his money. It is another bucolic day in Weimar. And me with no automatic weapon. Pity, that.
The urge to stop and come back to this later, when I can "really" write, is overwhelming. My brain is sluggish, I feel like I have nothing to say. Anyone who knows me knows I must be ill if I have nothing to say, or someone cut out my tongue. Fine.
So I finally moved into my own apartment last Thursday in Erfurt, thank the heavens above. And, true to form, I had everything arranged with clockwork precision before the day of mobilization. I had sorted out what to do about electricity, had ordered my furniture from Ikea for delivery on the same day, had the appointment for telephone and internet set up for the same day. The only thing I failed to do was take measurements in order to create my typical scaled rendition of the apartment and the furniture to go into it so I could plan where everything went ahead of time. But I thought I should loosen up. I was proud of myself for letting that one go.
And then, the day before mobilization, I get a phone call from the cable company, or what I thought was the cable company, telling me that they had come by earlier that day and no one was home, so I would have to reschedule my appointment.
--What? I clearly said I needed an appointment for the 15th, not the 14th.
--Well, here it says you wanted the 14th.
--There's no way that's true.
And then I realize, his "14" and "15" sound exactly the same. I probably agreed to the date because of the confusion. Why don't these people speak more clearly? What is up with this Thüringen accent, which sounds a lot like a combination of Austrian and Platt Deutsch spoken by someone with a speech impediment?
So I ask what time they will come tomorrow, since there's obviously a mix-up. And the man on the other end of the phone, who is obviously Satan's bastard third cousin twice removed, tells me that the next available appointment is Wednesday of the next week. After the blinding red before my eyes faded away, I told him that he must be joking. No, no. It's next Wednesday, some time between 8 a.m. and noon. Until then, smoke signals and semaphore.
Oh, and by the way, they have to go into the cellar of the store below me before they can do what's necessary in my apartment. Someone obviously needs to be dug up, ritually reburied, and danced over before civilization can bless my abode.
Fine.
Then, I realize there is no point in the cable guy coming before 10:00, since the store, and the cellar underneath it, do not open until 10. So I had to call the cable company and let them know. And thus began the odyssey. Two hours over two days and an ability to recite all the messages played while you're on hold later, I finally reach a human being who knows what she's doing. She informs me that I need to contact the contractor to inform them of my problem. She gives me a phone number, I instead dial another one in my phone, try again, and reach the contractor. He gives me the number of the sub-contractor that he's passed the work onto. And the subcontractor, once I tell him about the installation, tells me that it is impossible to change the appointment, because the cable guy has someone scheduled after me. (And Germania forbid that they might actually switch the appointments around, since we are all obviously in the same time window--Oh God, that would be, like, logical.) So I will have to wait until the next Wednesday.
I did not wait for the red to fade this time, and by the time the conversation was over, a long, protracted sigh of frustration preceded the sentence, " Fine, I will tell him to be at your place at 10."
Now, was that so hard?
The day after I was graced with 110,000 bits per second, I went to work, bought coffee and a pastry at the train station before cramming myself into the rolling sardine tin. The woman said 5 Euro. That's bloody expensive. Then I looked at the register to see the total. It read 4 Euro.
And I realized I'm screwed.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Spontaneity--What's That?
Transcript, Skype conversation with a friend:
Me: I'm trying to get up my blog posts so everyone can see what I've been up to.
Friend: What's taking so long?
Me: I want to revise a couple of pieces.
Friend: I thought blogs were about being spontaneous, stream-of-consciousness, not flowery prose that you slave over and turn into a masterpiece.
Me: That's not really my style...
But she has a point, so here goes.
Since I have to be at work on a regular basis now, at a desk, of all things, instead of in front of a chalkboard, I am going to devote the first few minutes of work to the blog. Who knows, maybe I'll get better at writing on the fly.
There is too much to catch up on in the last four months. Suffice it to say that I have been enjoying a combination of the life of Riley and intense work. It's pretty much been like this: translate madly for one month, piss around for a month or 6 weeks, translate madly again. Spend way too much money because I'm having such an awesome time.
Trips I've taken: Hamburg, Amsterdam, Paris, Toulon, Nice, Reims, Epernay. Weimar, Erfurt, a couple of other places that I can't remember. Oh yeah, Dresden, Leipzig.
Experiences: I've been to the immigration office more times than I wish to remember, have been deliberately ignored by a sales associate in a department store, been stared at by children and adults in the East, eaten some really fine food and some really bad food, laughed, cried, thrown my hands up and said "fuck it," and then put them down and started all over again. I have had buyer's remorse, homesickness, peace and joy. I am happy to have my own apartment again. I have realized that someone used the bathtub at the house I was living before as a bidet. I have caught people in terrible lies, realized some people I thought were my friends were not, and have been happy to discover even better ones took their place. I have fought with my former "roommate," have made up with her, and have moved into my own place. I have ordered a ceiling light that is a ceramic teapot. I have put together more Ikea furniture than I ever wanted to again. I have driven a Mercedes C-180 on the Autobahn at 200 km/hour, and crapped myself in the process. But the adrenaline rush was great. I have missed everyone, especially my fencing club, my coach, my "Delta Time" with some of the best ladies in the world. I have cooked, baked, learned how to make layer cakes in an oven that looks more like Easy Bake than Viking. I have found the Germans, as usual, incredibly frustrating and ingenious all at the same time. I am fascinated still by their naivete on so many levels, combined with a prickly practicality that makes kittens want to commit suicide.
And my 20 minutes are up.
Me: I'm trying to get up my blog posts so everyone can see what I've been up to.
Friend: What's taking so long?
Me: I want to revise a couple of pieces.
Friend: I thought blogs were about being spontaneous, stream-of-consciousness, not flowery prose that you slave over and turn into a masterpiece.
Me: That's not really my style...
But she has a point, so here goes.
Since I have to be at work on a regular basis now, at a desk, of all things, instead of in front of a chalkboard, I am going to devote the first few minutes of work to the blog. Who knows, maybe I'll get better at writing on the fly.
There is too much to catch up on in the last four months. Suffice it to say that I have been enjoying a combination of the life of Riley and intense work. It's pretty much been like this: translate madly for one month, piss around for a month or 6 weeks, translate madly again. Spend way too much money because I'm having such an awesome time.
Trips I've taken: Hamburg, Amsterdam, Paris, Toulon, Nice, Reims, Epernay. Weimar, Erfurt, a couple of other places that I can't remember. Oh yeah, Dresden, Leipzig.
Experiences: I've been to the immigration office more times than I wish to remember, have been deliberately ignored by a sales associate in a department store, been stared at by children and adults in the East, eaten some really fine food and some really bad food, laughed, cried, thrown my hands up and said "fuck it," and then put them down and started all over again. I have had buyer's remorse, homesickness, peace and joy. I am happy to have my own apartment again. I have realized that someone used the bathtub at the house I was living before as a bidet. I have caught people in terrible lies, realized some people I thought were my friends were not, and have been happy to discover even better ones took their place. I have fought with my former "roommate," have made up with her, and have moved into my own place. I have ordered a ceiling light that is a ceramic teapot. I have put together more Ikea furniture than I ever wanted to again. I have driven a Mercedes C-180 on the Autobahn at 200 km/hour, and crapped myself in the process. But the adrenaline rush was great. I have missed everyone, especially my fencing club, my coach, my "Delta Time" with some of the best ladies in the world. I have cooked, baked, learned how to make layer cakes in an oven that looks more like Easy Bake than Viking. I have found the Germans, as usual, incredibly frustrating and ingenious all at the same time. I am fascinated still by their naivete on so many levels, combined with a prickly practicality that makes kittens want to commit suicide.
And my 20 minutes are up.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Independence Day
I am in row 93, as though such a row could exist on a plane. I think this is the A 380, the super-huge tribute to man's affinity for carbon footprints. I can't say it's much different from the sardine tins usually reserved for economy, but there is more legroom and since it's Lufthansa, the food is actually halfway decent for us poor plebeians down here on the main level.
For the entire flight, one of a set of twin babies has been voicing its intense discomfort--something like colic, that's what it sounds like. We receive reprieves of anywhere between 2 minutes to half an hour, enough time to fall asleep, and then sweet baby reminds us that if he can't have peace, then neither can we. After all these years, I am still amazed at the amount of noise such a tiny packet of humanity can make. They (I am assuming the scientific community as distilled through a kind of urban-legend game of telephone) say that a baby's cry is of such a pitch that it can't be ignored, at least not for long. Pity that nature couldn't distinguish between one who needs to pay attention to a baby's cry, and one who doesn't. Let's not get into that whole "it takes a village..." thing. Every once in a while, the baby upsets his former zygote partner, who then chimes in and creates a chorus of crying children. It's been special. They are about five rows in front of me.
At the beginning of the flight, when the baby started crying, I spent a moment in intellectual wankery, thinking about the opening of Die Ehe der Maria Braun, Fassbinder's film about a woman who strikes out on her own after the second world war, becomes quite prosperous, losing her humanity in the process, all, ironically enough, in order to maintain a marriage that actually never existed, despite the piece of paper that says otherwise. Typisch deutsch. During the opening credits, which pop up in a kind of Wiederaufbau brick-laying pattern, we hear a baby cry, which some interpret as a sign of new beginnings, of untapped potential, of starting over from scratch, from the ground up, on a Tabula Rasa, but with the options of making the "right" choice this time. The desire to seek meaning is sometimes really annoying, that I want somehow to link my "new beginning" to the wailing, pooping Petrie dish five rows in front of me. Don't get me wrong. I like kids. I used to be one. But sometimes...
It's not really a new beginning but a continuation of something I started six years ago. Only, now older and more apprehensive thanks to watching the economy bottom out, suffering through four years of underemployment but the same amount of debt as before, I take it all a bit more seriously, see myself as having a bit more at stake this time around. The last time I moved to Germany, it was a lark, something I wanted, needed to do, to recover from a pretty horrific separation and it's attendant nervous breakdown. I always go to Germany or Austria when I need to recover. Normal people choose warmer climes, Tahiti, Mexico, Paris. I choose the land of sausage and embittered, anxious people who tell each other that their gardens are overgrown and they really should tend to that.
Growth has always been a nice by-product of such trips. Now, the trip is about growth, with recovery being a necessary part. I've got about four years of sleep to catch up on.
In the last four years, I have worked as a commercial baker, a pastry chef for a restaurant, an English teacher in "the 'hood" (at the end of the semester, one girl came up and apologized to me for originally wanting to jump me in the parking lot), a German Studies Lecturer, a Composition teacher, a writing in the sciences instructor, honors adviser, language instructor. I have consistently held at least two jobs for the last 7 years, holding three jobs for a year or two of that. I am, as the Germans say, "erschöpft."
After waking up day after day at 4:30, 5:00 in the morning so that I can work as wage slave and academic whipping boy, and realizing that nothing had changed for me financially or job-security wise in five years, I decided it was time to go, to try something new, to change.
They (again) say that Freud defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over but expecting different results. If this is the case, I should have been 51-50'd a long, long time ago. The country should have been 51-50'd a long time ago. We are doing it wrong, and we keep doing it wrong but keep hoping for it to somehow work out.
I chose to land in Germany on Independence Day. While all my friends are going to enjoy a nice day off, eat well-grilled Bay Area food, drink lovely wine and beer, consume other products that make them giddy, be they "edibles" or Serrano ham, I am going to topple jet-lagged and punch-drunk off a plane, one of the last people off the plane probably, and make my way to Aachen, schlepping two suitcases and a fencing bag. I chose to land on the fourth because leaving on the fourth would be too hard. I wouldn't make it to any cookouts anyway. Even if I did, I would sit there and wonder, in the idyllic weather and on a comfortable chaise lounge, if I really need to go to Germany, if I really need to move there. I had to be gone before one of the nicest days in the year for me.
The great thing about saying goodbye to people in this fashion, last dinners and outings before my departure, is how wonderful everything is. How much typical Bay Area stuff you get to do: drinking Chardonnay in the Los Gatos Hills at 2,400 feet, looking at the little winery tucked into the valley below; receiving farm-fresh eggs from someone's coop in Los Altos Hills; doing elderflower-liqueur-champagne shots and eating like kings during my going-away fencing tournament; French meals at tiny bistros, perfectly fashioned cappuccinos by our favorite baristas, sampling barley wine and eating tapas, cocktail bar crawls and gourmet fusion French fries. A ridiculously comfortable life. It's deceptive. Because you get this false impression that your life is always like this, but it's not. Mostly friends don't have or make the time for such outings on a regular basis. We have jobs, spouses, children, pets, plants. I only have the jobs, and I don't even have those anymore. These perfect Bay Area days before I leave, something I've experienced before, can be real red herrings.
We land soon, time to go brush my teeth, freshen up, figure out if I'm going to get a "Navi" for my rental car. I probably should. But the idea of some polite female German voice telling me hours in advance that I should prepare to turn right might be a little too much.
Tja...
-manchmal reicht ein Blickwechsel.
For the entire flight, one of a set of twin babies has been voicing its intense discomfort--something like colic, that's what it sounds like. We receive reprieves of anywhere between 2 minutes to half an hour, enough time to fall asleep, and then sweet baby reminds us that if he can't have peace, then neither can we. After all these years, I am still amazed at the amount of noise such a tiny packet of humanity can make. They (I am assuming the scientific community as distilled through a kind of urban-legend game of telephone) say that a baby's cry is of such a pitch that it can't be ignored, at least not for long. Pity that nature couldn't distinguish between one who needs to pay attention to a baby's cry, and one who doesn't. Let's not get into that whole "it takes a village..." thing. Every once in a while, the baby upsets his former zygote partner, who then chimes in and creates a chorus of crying children. It's been special. They are about five rows in front of me.
At the beginning of the flight, when the baby started crying, I spent a moment in intellectual wankery, thinking about the opening of Die Ehe der Maria Braun, Fassbinder's film about a woman who strikes out on her own after the second world war, becomes quite prosperous, losing her humanity in the process, all, ironically enough, in order to maintain a marriage that actually never existed, despite the piece of paper that says otherwise. Typisch deutsch. During the opening credits, which pop up in a kind of Wiederaufbau brick-laying pattern, we hear a baby cry, which some interpret as a sign of new beginnings, of untapped potential, of starting over from scratch, from the ground up, on a Tabula Rasa, but with the options of making the "right" choice this time. The desire to seek meaning is sometimes really annoying, that I want somehow to link my "new beginning" to the wailing, pooping Petrie dish five rows in front of me. Don't get me wrong. I like kids. I used to be one. But sometimes...
It's not really a new beginning but a continuation of something I started six years ago. Only, now older and more apprehensive thanks to watching the economy bottom out, suffering through four years of underemployment but the same amount of debt as before, I take it all a bit more seriously, see myself as having a bit more at stake this time around. The last time I moved to Germany, it was a lark, something I wanted, needed to do, to recover from a pretty horrific separation and it's attendant nervous breakdown. I always go to Germany or Austria when I need to recover. Normal people choose warmer climes, Tahiti, Mexico, Paris. I choose the land of sausage and embittered, anxious people who tell each other that their gardens are overgrown and they really should tend to that.
Growth has always been a nice by-product of such trips. Now, the trip is about growth, with recovery being a necessary part. I've got about four years of sleep to catch up on.
In the last four years, I have worked as a commercial baker, a pastry chef for a restaurant, an English teacher in "the 'hood" (at the end of the semester, one girl came up and apologized to me for originally wanting to jump me in the parking lot), a German Studies Lecturer, a Composition teacher, a writing in the sciences instructor, honors adviser, language instructor. I have consistently held at least two jobs for the last 7 years, holding three jobs for a year or two of that. I am, as the Germans say, "erschöpft."
After waking up day after day at 4:30, 5:00 in the morning so that I can work as wage slave and academic whipping boy, and realizing that nothing had changed for me financially or job-security wise in five years, I decided it was time to go, to try something new, to change.
They (again) say that Freud defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over but expecting different results. If this is the case, I should have been 51-50'd a long, long time ago. The country should have been 51-50'd a long time ago. We are doing it wrong, and we keep doing it wrong but keep hoping for it to somehow work out.
I chose to land in Germany on Independence Day. While all my friends are going to enjoy a nice day off, eat well-grilled Bay Area food, drink lovely wine and beer, consume other products that make them giddy, be they "edibles" or Serrano ham, I am going to topple jet-lagged and punch-drunk off a plane, one of the last people off the plane probably, and make my way to Aachen, schlepping two suitcases and a fencing bag. I chose to land on the fourth because leaving on the fourth would be too hard. I wouldn't make it to any cookouts anyway. Even if I did, I would sit there and wonder, in the idyllic weather and on a comfortable chaise lounge, if I really need to go to Germany, if I really need to move there. I had to be gone before one of the nicest days in the year for me.
The great thing about saying goodbye to people in this fashion, last dinners and outings before my departure, is how wonderful everything is. How much typical Bay Area stuff you get to do: drinking Chardonnay in the Los Gatos Hills at 2,400 feet, looking at the little winery tucked into the valley below; receiving farm-fresh eggs from someone's coop in Los Altos Hills; doing elderflower-liqueur-champagne shots and eating like kings during my going-away fencing tournament; French meals at tiny bistros, perfectly fashioned cappuccinos by our favorite baristas, sampling barley wine and eating tapas, cocktail bar crawls and gourmet fusion French fries. A ridiculously comfortable life. It's deceptive. Because you get this false impression that your life is always like this, but it's not. Mostly friends don't have or make the time for such outings on a regular basis. We have jobs, spouses, children, pets, plants. I only have the jobs, and I don't even have those anymore. These perfect Bay Area days before I leave, something I've experienced before, can be real red herrings.
We land soon, time to go brush my teeth, freshen up, figure out if I'm going to get a "Navi" for my rental car. I probably should. But the idea of some polite female German voice telling me hours in advance that I should prepare to turn right might be a little too much.
Tja...
-manchmal reicht ein Blickwechsel.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
