Halfway to Hotzeplotz

Hot swing and steam trains - does entertainment get any better?

2011-01-03T10:11:00.001+01:00

(With thanks to the Mild Colonial Boy for the tip-off!)

Ultima Thule in the morning

2011-01-03T10:00:00.000+01:00

The view out of a window at about 10 am this morning. Winter in Germany is very dark, the sky can be grey for weeks on end, sunlight is very seldom seen. Even this small break in the clouds gives us a very welcome reprieve.

My late night snack

2011-01-03T09:58:00.000+01:00

I ate this last night. It tasted much better than it looks. The sausage was made by a farmer from meat he'd slaughtered himself. The bread was hearty, the butter creamy. It was delicious!

NYE dinner

2011-01-02T17:22:00.000+01:00

Our new year's eve party was a success! As mentioned earlier, we invited a few of our friends around and I cooked lamb with rosemary potatoes and red cabbage. Fortunately the rosemary was easily found, and Uncle Monty wasn't invited. A situation like this was avoided! Yoicks and V brought a delicious cake for dessert, and Elberry and M (a new colleague from the States) brought an assortment of salads, bread, and nibbles for entree. Not a belly left the table without being filled to capacity.

We ate, chatted, drank, and made merry for several hours. At a quarter to 12 we decided to start a game of Cluedo, which carried us over the threshold of 2011 and well into the early hours of the morning. Beyond a certain point in the game we lost the thread of who had what card (or at least I did, but I don't think I was alone on this score - it was caused by genuine befuddlement; I was drinking alcohol-free Hefeweizen the whole night), but we enjoyed ourselves, made plenty of jokes, and eased into the new year the best way I could have imagined or hoped for.

And so the year starts...

2011-01-02T17:16:00.000+01:00

... with illness all around. I'm still down with the lurgy, no quantity of various potions or unguents seem to bring any lasting relief (and the Chemists are all closed until Monday - except for highly irritable "Emergency Chemists" who will throw things at you through doors opened a crack for the same purpose - on the proviso of course that you slip sufficient quantities of money back at them). C woke me in the middle of the night last night and said that she had to go to the doctor. "Now?!" I asked with groggy incredulity. "Yes", was her unambiguous answer.

So we went to the emergency doctor. It was an interesting experience. I drove through a light snowfall towards The Better Part of Town where the emergency doctors (naturally enough) have their lair. We rang on the doorbell of a nondescript office building (one of many in Ultima Thule, I'll admit) and we were told that the main door was broken, and we were to use the side entrance - which we eventually found and used.

We were buzzed in to a garishly-lit stairwell, tiled entirely in brown with quickly painted concrete walls. The emergency doctors' rooms were on the first floor, and they looked exactly the same as the stairwell - functional and seldom-cleaned. There were footprints in salt all over the stairs and the waiting room floor. We were the only patients there when we arrived, but as soon as C was called into the consulting room, the door buzzed again and a man and a very wretched-looking woman shuffled in. I eavesdropped with every shred of power I could summon to find out what was wrong. It turns out the poor woman had eaten the fish at a restaurant the name of which I didn't hear, and as a result had a severely upset stomach. The nurse told her and her partner (boyfriend? husband?) to "please take a seat" and the woman shuffled in holding her stomach and moaning lightly. "Oho!" I thought to myself, "Now things get interesting." The nurse came back with a cardboard vomit-receptacle and asked the woman if she'd prefer to lie down (!). The ailing woman said that she couldn't really lie down, that it hurt too much, and that she'd be fine as she was. A minute or two later, she asked her boyfriend where the toilet was, and shuffled off at full speed.

C was finished, and we left, before the woman came back from the lavs, and one can only speculate about what happened behind (fortunately) closed doors.

On doctor's orders we stopped at the emergency chemist on the way home to pick up some emergency medication to ease our emergency situation and then returned to the warmth and comfort of C's apartment. Even after taking the first round of the cocktail of tablets the doctor prescribed, C still felt wretched and decided to take a bath to find comfort. I did the only thing possible to show my support under difficult circumstances; I retired to bed and fell back into a fitful sleep - punctuated with odd, and muscle-cramping, dreams which unfortunately I can't remember.

NYE + 1

2010-12-30T17:17:00.000+01:00

Am writing - in haste - from the school's computer room. I just finished my last class of the year and was asked on the spur of the moment to help with the placement of a prospective student. A very interesting conversation ensued, which encompassed topics ranging from why Germans don't like Google Street View (they hate it, but some people seem to really love Google), to the role of new media in manipulating the public, to why the Danes tend not to lower their curtains in the evening. A most interesting conversation; this job certainly has its moments.

Less interestingly, I am labouring under a heavy cold which I've had for about a week. I just want to crawl under the blankets with a hot tea and a good book (the impracticality of this I don't need you to point out, dear reader!) and sleep for a month. That, of course, isn't an option. There's going to be a small gathering at the Frau Doktor's tomorrow night at which my presence is expected. And I'm looking forward to it. So, time for another hot lemon tea mixture and here's hoping I recover enough to enjoy things.

Seasons Greetings &c

2010-12-29T18:56:00.000+01:00

Merry Christmas, and all that, chaps. It's been a while since these pages were updated, for which I apologise. A lot and not much has been happening. Work continues apace, but I find myself just going through the motions. My heart isn't really in it at the moment. I'm sure there'll be an Aufschwung in the new year (think about it - this one's more or less onomatopoeic!) so for the time being I keep putting one foot in front of the other, take the lessons one page at a time, and hope for the best.

The Frau Doktor and I spent Christmas with our friends Yoicks and V. We four repaired to the Lutheran church in the evening to watch the pageant - performed by the bright stars of the Sunday School - and then retired to Y and V's place for an enormous dinner (which the Italian V said wasn't anywhere near as large as she'd have had back in the Old Country. Unbelievable! I was full to bursting after this relatively light meal!). After dinner we played a thrilling round of Cluedo - which the Frau Doktor and I gave to our hosts for Christmas. I was dismayed to find that the characters have been slightly renamed. Gone are all titles and ranks, to wit: Col. Mustard has become simply Mustard (and he's a party planner, or nonsensical job like that) and the Rev Green is just Green. Pshaw! But that didn't thwart our post-prandial fun.

There's been a lot of snow lately. It snowed a lot the weekend before Christmas, and then "warmed up" a bit (to between 1 or 2 degrees above 0), but began snowing again on the morning of the 24th. That evening in church, the Rev Jürgen Schmidt said in his farewell that "... we wanted a white Christmas, and it seems that we got one!" When we stepped out of the church we found ourselves in a real snowstorm which didn't let up the whole night. It was incredibly beautiful and really felt like Christmas.

I hope that wherever you are, dear reader, you had a wonderful Christmas and that the coming year is a splendid one for you!

In the park near my house

Winter sunset in the park

Framed!

2010-10-18T20:48:00.003+02:00

This high technology security arrangement was spotted in the nearby village of Bad H----d on Saturday evening.

Fritz was going to make damn sure that nobody stole his wheels while he paid a social call to the poor widow Schmidt at the end of the street.

Trains

2010-10-18T18:30:00.003+02:00

I went to see a travelling model railway exhibition last week. A chap and his wife have a very large trailer (about 12 m or so, by my very inaccurate reckoning) which they tow around Germany and charge people €3 to get into. Inside is one of the largest model railways I've seen for a long time, and the walls are glass cabinets with extra trains on display.

The layout has everything imaginable - there's a wharf (with anglers lounging nearby); there's a cable car to the mountaintop; there's a small mine which uses another special cable car arrangement to carry the loaded buckets down and the full ones back up; there are tunnels aplenty, lots of stations; a village with a tram; a village with a bus; a small mountain railway - in short everything that a model railway enthusiast could ever possibly want to see!

I spent about an hour in there (fortunately, despite the fact it was a cold day, it was relatively early in the morning and not many people were about - save a brace of grandfathers with their grandchildren in tow). There was a recording commentary running the whole time, which drew viewers' attention to various features, or made comment about various places "the balcony of the -- restaurant is especially crowded today -- and his jazz orchestra are in town!" - and sure enough, if you looked closely at first for, and then at, the restaurant, there on the balcony were a crush of couples dancing a quickstep as the band played.

The best piece of advice that the narrator gave was for adults to crouch down next to their children (I was loath to do this next to someone else's grandchild!) and to see the world "through a child's eyes". I tried this, and it totally changed my perspective, and heightened my enjoyment of the layout.

I'm not entirely sure what the attraction is of model railways. It's almost definitely a chap's pursuit (I'm yet to meet a lady who genuinely likes model railways, although I will say that I've known several who have been polite enough to indulge their husband's or partner's enthusiasm for same) and I would say that the appeal comes from several sides. Firstly, a delight in the models themselves - all of which are works of art (this applies especially to model steam engines, model diesel, or electric, engines are just - as they are in real life - big metal boxes on wheels with very few externally visible moving parts, and definitely nothing as impressive as the pistons, connecting rods, and driving wheels of even the smallest branchline steam engine!); secondly, the thrill of being able to drive the engines yourself (with a dash of imagination, a model railway engineer can imagine himself thundering across Europe by moonlight pulling the Orient Express, or, on the other hand, pootling down an overgrown branch line taking the Sunday School Special to the seaside for a treat) - whatever kind of real life railway piques your interest, a model railway lets you live out your dream!

Below are a couple of pictures I took during a break in the narrative - when visitors were told that they were allowed to take pictures.

It apparently took over 8,000 hours to complete the layout

Autumn

2010-10-18T12:53:00.001+02:00

It's a foggy day today - which of itself isn't uncommon for this time of year, but what makes it special is that the fog has hung around even after the sun has (nominally) risen. The day started early, I went to teach a merry group of engineers at the locomotive factory, but now find myself at a loose end for a couple of hours until I go back to HQ to teach a couple of mild-mannered (but extremely lively) children in the afternoon.

I walked home (in order to go past the post office to pick up a book I'd ordered) and I walked deliberately slowly, watching the fog curl down along the narrow side-streets between the old buildings (of which, fortunately, there are still a couple left in Kassel. They must have been very sturdily constructed!).

On my way back I will walk through the park and take a couple of decent photographs of the fog to try and capture the mood.

**Update**

Of course the fog had lifted by the time I left the house (and hadn't had the courtesy to descend again by the time I left the school) but, not to be deterred, I took these couple of pictures below in the park.

Looking across the park from a vantage point

A tree by the main road

The (not so) Brief Interlude Is Over

2010-10-08T18:17:00.001+02:00

I have committed a grave blogging faux-pas, dear reader. This blog has been inactive for the best part of three months - partly intentionally, partly un-. Life has been continuing apace, experiences are being lived, lessons are being taught, and everything else is more or less taking care of itself. I just deleted a half-written post (from May!) in which I wrote that things were slowing down at the school. That was not the case. Fortunately the classes for the unemployed came to an end (which was foreseen; especially given that Germany was no longer in an election year and the voters had bigger fiscal fish to fry - I don't know the exact figures, but can tell you with certainty that this whole program would have been staggeringly expensive, given that it was run Germany-wide at a number of different language schools. Despite the fact that the government paid a pittance per person for language instruction, the hundreds of thousands of participants must have put the public purse under no small strain), but our fearless leader soon saw to it that she filled the void with corporate contracts. This kept us on our toes (and got us out of our beds) and the last couple of months have slid by in a haze of grammar correction and public transport and automobile trips to parts heretofore unknown.

The gruelling schedule which was set for us by said fearless leader (who herself was late to collect various colleagues and your correspondent because she "didn't want to get out of bed") soon took its toll. In the past week there has been a subtle revolt against this, lead, I'm afraid to say, by your correspondent who objected to weeks of 5 am - or earlier! - wake-up alarms. We sat down at an informal meeting earlier this week at which I explained that these hours were wearing us all out and if she wondered why morale was at an all-time low (and it's never been exactly high in the place) she should begin by examining our schedules. I hastened to add that this didn't mean that we no longer wanted to work, but simply that we couldn't (physically, emotionally) keep this up much longer. The fearless leader took it in her stride, thanked me for my candour, and then, two days later, lied to the head teacher (the inimitable Frau Doktor), telling her that I said if I didn't get enough hours I would leave Ultima Thule. This I may yet do, but it certainly wouldn't be for reasons of insufficient work!

Normal (such as it is around here) service will resume on the blog in the next few days. I have made several noteworthy trips (to Friedrichshafen, and back to Australia) which need to be documented, in addition to reports of sundry other goings-on around here. I promise that I won't post fragments of ill-conceived stories again (having taken the liberty of deleting the beginning of the Military Application of Ice Cream story which emerged from a discussion I had with Elberry and the Frau Doktor over schnitzel at the beginning of summer).

Im Wunderschönen Monat Mai

2010-05-01T18:46:00.001+02:00

An opera subscriber meets two ballerinas

2010-05-01T17:40:00.003+02:00

I just came across this remarkable photo here. The look on the old gentleman's face is so expressive. I can imagine him telling his friends and male relatives again and again about his unlikely good fortune that night at the opera!

An important communique

2010-04-21T11:57:00.005+02:00

My good friend Nottlesby has been back in touch after a long absence. His message was short and oddly succinct for a man as prone to attacks of uncontrollable verbiage as he is. It consisted of a piece of grubby paper crammed into a dirty envelope and shoved with apparent haste into the mailbox of my apartment. A list was scribbled on the paper, the ink from Nottlesby's fountain pen blooming into ornate flowers at the dips and turns of each curlicue he'd added to the letters (a note by Nottlesby, even one written in obvious haste, would delight admirers of calligraphy). There was no salutation, no explanation for his absence, just the list (reproduced below). Here it is, St John Nottlesby's list of

Five Sports a Chap can Reasonably Participate in which will still allow him the Luxury of Smoking his Pipe

Jogging (Provided a chap keeps to a gentlemanly pace: there will be strictly NO running);
Rowing (Taking Gwendolyn around the municipal pond, I mean, rather than taking to the Thames in April to show those Oxbridge blighters what for);
Hiking (Here a pipe is practically mandatory - it helps a chap commune with nature and connect with his Higher Self);
Bicycling (As with jogging, a gentlemanly pace must be maintained. After a short period of practice chap will find he can even light his pipe without stopping and crouching forward over the handlebars in an ungainly manner); and
Tennis (minimal exertion can yield maximum results. Be careful if vigorously side-stepping a careering ball not to shake ash onto your tennis whites).

The Churchwarden has always been Nottlesby's favourite pipe

Things to shock and appall

2010-04-16T22:41:00.006+02:00

I just heard something profoundly alarming. Sitting with friends, drinking wine and talking, welcoming the Bride of Shabbos in our own inimitable Ultima Thule way, it came to light that someone of my acquaintance admitted to having tested the semen of previous boyfriends with litmus paper! Her reason for this is that she had concocted some kind of Self Protection Theorem in which it is posited that a gentleman with a relatively neutral Ph (in his manly essences) would... would what? Be a decent cove and be somehow not only physically - but also spiritually - compatible with her. The assembled topers were thunderstruck. Indeed, finishing this note several weeks later, I still am.

Junker Haus

2010-03-28T23:14:00.006+02:00

I took a trip to the Junker Haus in Lemgo on Saturday. Junker (1850 - 1912) was an architect, painter and sculptor whose most enduring work is the house he ... embellished in Lemgo (a village in Lower Saxony). After the basic structure of the house was built, Junker spent several years finishing the interior and exterior with ornate carving and paintings (inside). Being an eccentric, he naturally enough lived alone in the attic and charged people a small admission to come in and have a look through the lower two floors. Downstairs is the kitchen, his workshop, a kind of atelier and a salon. Upstairs is a formal sitting room, a dining room, a guest bedroom, a child's bedroom (with doors to both the guest and master bedrooms), and the master bedroom.

Besides the ornate beauty of the elaborate, gothic interior, the first sense to be awakened when you walk into the house (through a glass walkway from a newly-built reception area and small museum on the grounds) is the strong scent of wood. It's a comforting and embracing smell. You become aware that you're stepping into something living. The house embraces you - not only with the delicate tendrils and curlicues of the woodwork, but it also envelops you in its scent.

I was the only visitor in the house and the guide, a gnomish - but very friendly local woman - chatted with me about the place, and looked with bemusement as I wandered from room to room gasping with amazement and making strange humming noises of appreciation and delight. I guess she sees this a lot.

Dubious entertainments in Ultima Thule

2010-03-23T00:52:00.002+01:00

Sadly enough I missed both bands...

Proof of my Sunday stroll around Ultima Thule

2010-03-23T00:37:00.004+01:00

The Orphanage

Near the Train Station on the Main Line

A Restaurant (but at night you can hear unsettling screams issue from within)

The Oracle of Ultima Thule

Wild revels

2010-03-21T13:12:00.001+01:00

The MCB found video evidence of the kind of wild revels Elberry and I have been having 'round at the Frau Doktor's haus this weekend. Check it out for yourselves... if you're brave!

From the classroom

2010-03-20T17:25:00.002+01:00

I taught The Kindly Professor this morning. I'd lingered long at the Frau Doktor's Revels the night before (Elberry's quite an accomplished lutanist) and was feeling less than chipper, but the Professor's experiments with the coffee machine proved restorative and the class soon proceeded apace.

In the midst of the discussion, the professor was telling me about a colleague of his. The conversation went like this:

Kindly Professor: A colleague of mine came to visit sometime last week. She's a woman. Not a young woman, but ... a woman.

Me: ... !

I guess you just had to have been there.

Another day's TEFL-ing

2010-03-18T19:13:00.004+01:00

I had that class again today, but the culprit, the bumbling old chap in a (I kid you not, dear reader) brown cardigan, had absented himself. He had an "appointment" of some kind.

It was my embarrassing duty to teach them Job Search Training - in short, how to get a job in the English-speaking world. If I knew this I'd still bally well be there, making a packet, and buying books to line the crumbling townhouse I'd bought myself wherein I'd live with said books, a cat called Robert Schumann and pipe ash all over the place. But not to worry. I put on my most authoritative voice and talked to them about The Need to Research The Company. It went like this:

Me: Why do you need to research the company before your interview?

One of them: So we don't look like dicks in the interview?

Me: Well, yes. Exactly.

[Prolonged silence. What more is there to say after such a frank acknowledgement of the truth?]

The day actually began when one of them asked me what kind of business they could all go into together. My immediate suggestion was: "Why not deal drugs? It's a quick way to a good profit, and I'm sure the market in Ultima Thule must be booming!" They actually seemed to consider it for a moment, before one of them said that it seemed "perhaps a little risky". To which I reminded them of the ancient economists' mantra: Opportunity Cost = Opportunity Lost. I'm only vaguely sure of what this means, but it sounded very, very good and they all nodded appreciatively.

We kicked a few other ideas around, including: making electric cars (which lead to a discussion of politicians working on the side as "consultants" to Big Business, an idea which one of them summed up as "fucking bullshit". I couldn't but agree); pulling off a massive jewelry heist (and selling the goods in Amsterdam, or better yet, taking it back and saying that we "found it on a class trip to the woods"); knocking over a few of the local banks and then using the money to somehow set up our own bank and then asking Angie Merkel for more startup money and getting it and getting rich and moving away. Odd stuff.

I dragged the "practice" out for a while and even got them to roleplay some stuff towards the end of the day. One of the students, a jovial, portly fellow (who has a remarkably good sense of humour) said, in earnest, during his roleplay that he "only smokes a joint in the morning and then the day's your friend". I snickered. Then one or two others realised he was joking (his roleplay partner barely cracked a smile). Mild laughter ensued.

And that, I think, will be the title of my TEFL-ing memoirs (and perhaps should be the title of this very blog): Mild Laughter May Ensue.

An interesting article #239

2010-03-17T23:54:00.002+01:00

This article was suggested to me by one Baron von Elberry, Master of the Frau Doktor's Revels. It's an interesting read.

In Kiel

2010-03-17T21:55:00.005+01:00

The view from my hotel window on Saturday morning. I arrived in the middle of a heavy snowstorm the night before and woke to find such a beautiful clear sky. The very size of it was staggering. I forgot what a truly open sky is like, Ultima Thule being, as it is, surrounded by hills and sitting at the bottom of a ditch.

None of our party were brave enough to try and find out what they sell here.

A beautiful lamp post in the the middle of town.

Monday

2010-03-15T22:55:00.004+01:00

So another week starts. I have been feeling homesick lately and have been quite out of sorts. It's taking a concerted effort to get into the classroom every day and to be chipped and lively and to play the role of teacher for hours at a stretch. The lunatic director of our school apparently said recently that she doesn't want to be "dependent" on teachers, and so wants to swell the ranks of the teaching corps in the tower of Babel so she can pick and choose whichever greasy sycophant manages to ingratiate himself into her favour in any given week. She was - thankfully - overruled in the matter, but we're still understaffed and everyone's been stretched to capacity lately. My day tomorrow is indicative of what it's like:

0800 - 9.30. A 90-minute demo lesson for Important Corporate People (a hell of a lot is riding on this one, so I'd better not fuck it up).

09.30 - 15.00. Regular teaching gig (unemployed anti-Semites, cretins, and scabrous loons a-go-go).

15.00 - 16.45. Drive with colleagues to a company in the middle of nowhere.

16.45 - 19.00. Teach a class to tired and dispirited people who've been working since 7am and don't want to learn the appalling Business English twaddle we have to teach.

Afterwards we drive back to Ultima Thule and are home by about 8.30. If we're lucky.

On Wednesday a colleague and I have to leave at 06.30 to begin teaching in a remote town (again at a large company) by 0800. We'll be back in Ultima Thule around 15.00, whereupon I'll tutor a boy, then go and pay my weekly housecall for another lesson. I'll be home around 20.30.

And so it goes.

I do still enjoy my work, but I feel worn down a the moment by a deep (and seemingly unshakable) melancholy which makes even getting out of bed in the morning a wrenching effort. I think it could be due in large part to the fact that this has been a very long and very cold winter, which still isn't over. And partly due to the fact that I'm working so much lately that I have no time to myself. Teaching is great fun, I enjoy my work very much, but being on stage for 12 hours a day, thinking as sharply at 19.00 as I did at 08.00, takes such a concerted effort that when I come home at night (on the days when I can still remember where I live well enough to find my way back) I eat a meagre supper, look over my lessons for the next day, and then collapse into bed. And so the weeks go, melting in to each other, gradually becoming indistinguishable. I don't remember the last time I had nothing to do and could just sit around and read and listen to music and be at peace with myself. I must urgently find my centre again. Find my balance and get back in touch with the things that make life enjoyable.

Some good news, though. I got my first writing assignments back from my journalism course, and I got an A! Huzzah!

Something to chuckle over

2010-03-15T22:49:00.005+01:00

Some music for Saturday afternoon

2010-03-13T13:35:00.000+01:00

A brief respite

2010-03-12T18:52:00.003+01:00

Another day's TEFL-ing draws to a close. It's evensong as I'm sitting in the library with a glass of Slivovitz and a smile on my face. It was another gruelling day today, but the students held up well and I put on a good show if I do say so (after all, teaching is at least 80% theatre and 20% really knowing stuff).

It was an especially taxing program today: three-and-a-bit chapters of the Company Material in one day, as opposed to the usual one. The reason being that this was meant to be "review" for the students, but their levels of ability varied so widely (one could barely say "hello" in English, and had very little idea of what was going on the whole day - no matter how much I prompted her with very easy questions and wrote scripts on the board for her to read back to me - and other students were cracking jokes - not anti-Semitic ones, thank G-d - and telling me in detail about their working lives). Somehow we got through it all, and I think that a little bit even have stuck in their heads. We'll see.

I had an odd encounter with one of them in the toilets during the morning break (!). I was washing my hands when this chap asked me if my surname was R---. I told him very warily in a tone of voice that screamed "so what of it?" that it was. He said that it sounds German. I said that it is German, and then gave him a potted history of my family. Great grandparents came from Germany to America, my father went from America to Australia, and I completed the circle and returned to the Glorious German Fatherland. He seemed bemused, but at least had to the good sense not to ask me if it's a Jewish name.

Before I left Australia my father mentioned that I might think of changing my name, or giving people an assumed name. His logic being that it wouldn't be prudent to reveal one's Jewish ancestry in the Fatherland. I count many Germans among my friends, and not one of them had ever said anything about my name, only perhaps to ask where the Germans were in my family. Judaism had never entered the question. So I thought that my father was being unnecessarily cautious. I still do think so, but realise that in the provinces (which Ultima Thule most definitely is, despite it's self-awarded title of Kulturstadt - City of Culture) the old ways haven't entirely died out.

I want to stay in Germany, but I have to get out of this town.

In a dark tunnel

2010-03-11T19:06:00.004+01:00

This has been an especially long week. I don't know why, it's really just the same procedure as every week. To wit: days spent speaking at half-speed and a quarter of my usual vocabulary, hoping that my students (the more astute, less anti-Semitic ones, at least) can gather enough to cobble their own sentences together and haltingly express themselves in English (and, of course, clear the hurdle of the company-imposed test which nearly all of them will take at the end of their courses). But for some reason the time has dragged and I have found this an especially difficult week. The hours are still long (and maniacal acceptance of every scrap of work which falls from the master's table is the only way to get by as a freelancer on what are essentially starvation wages. These spats and cufflinks don't come cheaply, my dear Miss Snodgrass! Nor does food and shelter, come to think of it) and I find that I have little time for anything else besides teaching, lesson preparation, and sleep. I feel this lack of centre quite acutely, and plan on spending the majority of the weekend in seclusion: meditating, reading, writing, and cleaning. I hope that order in my physical world will bring order and peace to my inner world.

Someone's going to get a good bollocking tomorrow - and for once it won't be me!

2010-03-09T23:01:00.002+01:00

A rather shit thing happened today. I'd been teaching a really good class. I've known most of the students since they were in a much lower level and had heretofore thought them a bunch of talentless apes. The bottom of the Arbeitsamt barrel. The gristle in the cheeseburger of life. But today they shone. They showed wit, facility in speech and writing, and even (such a rare commodity for a Kraut) a sense of humour!

Things were really going along apace. I felt alive, vital, and as though I was doing good work. In the afternoon break I wandered out to get a cup of tea and strolled the hallways looking for someone to chat to.

I happened to go back into the classroom a little early and heard one of the students telling a joke (in German). I bent an ear and was appalled to hear the following (translated):

Q: What's the definition of an accident?

A: When a boatload of Jews sinks.

Q: What's the definition of a tragedy?

A: When it turns out that they can swim.

I went white with rage and managed to hiss: "That was NOT funny." The class went silent. I sat down heavily and glared out the window. They went back to their work (very quietly).

A few minutes later I cleared my throat thunderously and said that I want to say "a few words about jokes in the classroom" and I told them that jokes are good. Jokes in English are better (which some of them had made earlier in the day - to my utter amazement) and the ability to make a joke shows great proficiency in the target language &c &c, but racist and anti-Semitic jokes are not acceptable in my - or anyone else's - classroom.

There was a stunned silence.

I spoke to the Doktor tonight, about other things but this came up, and I have it on good authority that they're going to get it tomorrow. Oho, they'll know they're alive!

Children with badly taxidermied animals

2010-03-09T20:20:00.004+01:00

Could this be Tiny Enid out for a riparian adventure?

Kiel

2010-03-08T21:53:00.003+01:00

I had a good weekend in Kiel with Elberry and the Frau Doktor. Time constraints (and decorum!) prohibit me from writing too much about it, suffice to say that although it was bitterly cold - I arrived in the middle of a fine snowstorm on Friday night, we had a clear day on Saturday, and then it was snowing again on Sunday - I like the town very much and find that architecturally no worse than Ultima Thule (in fact in many ways much nicer) and the inhabitants (at least the few barkeepers and waiters we saw) were actually friendly in a way that people here just aren't.

I'll post a picture of the view from my hotel room, and a very unusual shoppe, as soon as I can.

Art Imitating Life (or: Elberry's Moving Day)

2010-03-08T21:39:00.006+01:00

This, from here. Elberry will move to Ultima Thule next Monday (all going to plan...) and it should be very interesting indeed. Is the town ready for him? Is he ready for the town? Only time will tell!

Kieling over

2010-03-04T22:30:00.001+01:00

I'm heading off to Kiel tomorrow to meet Elberry (in anticipation of his triumphal entry to Ultima Thule). It promises to be a very interesting weekend indeed. Before that much-anticipated meeting, however, I still have to teach a 10-hour day, the vast majority of which will be spent in the company of my dear Railway Lummoxes.

Elberry's triumphal entry to Ultima Thule - as forseen by local artist Warren Nibbs

General oddities # 431

2010-03-02T21:08:00.004+01:00

I just found this strange article on the English edition of Pravda. Proof (if we needed it) that it pays to be well-read.

Classroom oddities #29

2010-03-02T20:42:00.002+01:00

In a discussion of houses, rooms and their uses, and all matters pertaining to one's domiciliary arrangements today a student asked me in deadly earnest what the spider room is. I stared at him blankly. The others looked at me expectantly. I shrugged slightly. Spider room? I thought to myself. Wtf? One of the larger of the fellows gestured towards my Company-issue Illustration Book. I handed it over. He grabbed it in his meaty paws and leafed roughly through its heavy card pages. I guessed he was looking for the cutaway picture of a house. He was. Flourishing the book towards me he pointed at the appropriate room.

"Ahh!" I cried, "You mean the attic!"

General laughter ensued and a good lesson was had by all.

Grandmother bludgeons Bavarian bakers

2010-02-28T21:58:00.006+01:00

Goldberg denies wrongdoing: "I was only following ... recipes!"

MUNICH: Local grandmother, Mrs Ethel Goldberg, 57, singlehandedly stormed a private meeting of commercial bakers in an inner-city beer hall last night. Armed with only a shillelagh made from blackened baked goods, Mrs Goldberg was heard to cry: "This, from a moderate oven, you shysters?!" before belabouring several attendees about the head and shoulders. A short scuffle ensued during which the incensed grandmother was wrestled to the floor and subdued by the head waiter, Lars Backpulver. The injured bakers, who requested anonymity, said they declined to press charges and blamed "mitigating circumstances" including a "colder-than-expected winter" and "severe baking soda rationing" for the apparent substandard performance of their 'Little Adolf' brand of bake-at-home ginger-flavoured snacks.

A spokesman for Mrs Goldberg, Mordechai Snodgrass QC, said that it was a dark day indeed when the sweet tooth of an honest German family couldn't be faithfully sated by products produced solely in the German Fatherland. He called on the Grand Master of the League of Teutonic Bakers, Dr Fritz Mühlstein, to commission an immediate enquiry into what he referred to as "widespread and appalling malpractice across the entire prepackaged baked goods industry".

Both Mühlstein and Munich Chief of Police, Otto Eisbein were unavailable for comment. Mrs Goldberg was released into the care of friends and family in the early hours of the morning, vowing that "never again" would she purchase or consume any of the 'Little Adolf' range of products.

Another short note about teaching

2010-02-28T18:36:00.004+01:00

A few weeks ago I posted an impassioned lament about the railway lummoxes. What a difference a few weeks (under the wise tutelage of the Frau Doktor) make! I got through the end of the first course with them, had a couple of weeks' respite (during which time I taught other classes and was generally busy) and then they returned.

This time I was ready for them.

The school has quite prescriptive lesson plans and one needs simply to follow the score, as it were, and the grand symphony of Learning (Opus 1) will play itself. At least that's the theory. I suppose I had been lulled into a false sense of security by the fact that most of the other classes I have ever taught were more motivated and could see at least some purpose to what they were doing. The railway chaps, however, don't really want to be there, they derive no great pleasure from learning for its own sake, and generally are happy when they can talk about beer and their wives and make jokes (in German) to each other.

With a little bit of creativity on my part, I got them through a few more chapters of the material, and found out some interesting facts about trains as well - which is a definite fringe benefit for me! Did you know, dear reader, that railwaymen also carry atlases? Like the motorist-of-yore's constant companion, apparently locomotive drivers never leave home without a copy of an atlas of all railway lines in Germany. I learned this when one of them got an urgent phonecall in the middle of a class one day. He apologised to me, rummaged in his bag, and withdrew the slim volume. He leafed quickly through the pages and then gave some instructions to the caller about how he could get from Hagen to ... [wherever].

Needless to say this was much more interesting than Mr and Mrs Brown would like to reserve a room at the Dago Inn for three nights. Practice a conversation in which they call to enquire about room rates and are told that a double room costs $185 (with a shower) and is available from the 25th to the 28th.

A Sunday musical interlude...

2010-02-28T18:30:00.001+01:00

A peculiar situation

2010-02-23T22:35:00.003+01:00

I paid my first professional housecall last Saturday. I have not taken up doctoring, nor have I stooped to making myself available to dowagers as an especially exotic gigolo. The truth is, as always, far more mundane. I was scheduled by the Powers That Be to go and teach English to a woman and her son - in their private residence. Needless to say they live in the big end of town, and I wore least shiny trousers.

Two trams later, and a brief walk through the melting snow, and I was standing in front of their door. The doorbell was broken and a note had been written in pen and taped over the defective button, advising the visitor to BITTE KLOPFEN. So I knocked. The wood was solid, and I doubted whether my knock would be heard and wondered who it would summon. I had brief visions of finding myself confronted by a monocled count who would (of course) click his heels, bow stiffly in the Prussian style and usher me into a cavernous library, where I would be offered Turkish coffee and told to wait while his wife and son finished their breakfast. Or would it be a negligee-wearing seductress who'd be smoking a fragrant cigarette in an ivory holder (animal rights activists be damned!) and who would beckon me into her sitting room and whisper that I should make myself comfortable by the fire while she made sure Rolf had already left for his shooting trip with Heinz and Dietrich, his two "business partners".

I'd failed to notice the two small children who were playing in the front garden, but who suddenly appeared behind me, staring, but still keeping a polite Teutonic distance. The door was thrown open and a grinning (and very normal, and completely dressed) woman said "Ahh, hallo! Sind Sie Herr R--?" I was thrown. Official School Policy is that speaking German to the paying customers is VERBOTEN, so I stammered in a pathetic mixture of German and English that yes, indeed I was, before I gave it up and answered her in German.

I offered to take my shoes off (which is the custom here - not only the offering, but the actual removal of shoes at the front door) and I was assured (in English) that "the floors are very warm". Oho, I though, sure. Tiles stretched as far as the eye could see (the house is extremely large). I slipped my clodhoppers off and lo! the floors were indeed warm: they had under-floor heating! It was a strange feeling, at first I was gripped with the urge to pass water (which, oddly, I always am when my feet get unexpectedly warmed. I don't know why this is, and have never really known how to bring it up on the rare occasions I'm in a doctor's office). This feeling passed, so to say, and I was shown into the kitchen.

We three sat around the table and had a very lively and convivial lesson. Their English is remarkably good, but they chose to start from the very beginning level. So we skated through the preliminary nonsense at top speed and had a wonderful time.

At the end of the lesson they asked if I would be their regular teacher. Buoyed by bonhomie, and with scant regard to the sanctity of Shabbos, I said "Yes, by Jove, I will!" And so I am.

There go my Saturday mornings for the foreseeable future. But a loss of free time brings a gain not only of work but also of interesting people, which sounds like a fair swap to me.

A mitzvah

2010-02-23T22:25:00.003+01:00

One thing has lead to another, connections have been made, the planets were in alignment and through my humble intercession, Elberry has landed himself a job at my school here in Ultima Thule. I'm yet to make his acquaintance in any tangible way (a slew of emails notwithstanding), but I am looking forward to welcoming him to these bland and crumbling streets.

Oy!

2010-02-14T18:32:00.005+01:00

I booked a ticket to Australia today. I'm not going back for good, but will pop by from the end of August until around the middle of September, to celebrate my father's and sister's birthdays and to generally check up on how the country's being run in my absence.

The best priced ticket I could find was flying Scandinavian Airlines. This means that I have to take a rather circuitous route - from Frankfurt to Copenhagen, to Bangkok, to Sydney (and the reverse for the return trip). I'll be sure to take a good book.

What is of especial note, however, is the registration of all Danish aircraft. In Australia the prefix VH is used (for reasons no one has ever been able to explain, the best I've heard is that someone forgot to send the application forms in in time and A had already been given away. This is believable. I can see it now...

{exterior shot of dusty airfield. A Tiger Moth comes in for a very bumpy landing. A cow is grazing beside the dirt airstrip. The camera pans the length of the runway and zooms in on a dilapidated hangar, the broken and rusted sign of which reads: AIRCRAFT REGISTRATION OFFICE}

{Interior shot: two desks piled high with papers, behind which sit two stereotypical pilots, big moustaches, leather helmets still on their heads, leather jackets hanging on nails behind them}

Pilot One: [looking askance at an Official Form] By Jove, Lofty, I don't know what the chaps down in Canberra want us to do with this one!

Pilot Two: [putting down the 40s porn magazine he was reading, lighting his pipe, peering over at the papers PILOT ONE is waving in his general direction] Ra-ther. I'll be dashed if I know!

etc).

The German planes are registered D (for Deutschland, one would assume), the American planes N, the UK aircraft G (for Great Britain? or Gosh, that's a fast one!). The Danish planes, I was pleased to find out, are registered OY! It's going to be a great trip, of that I'm sure.

A new hat

2010-02-14T17:50:00.002+01:00

A Jewish joke

2010-02-12T23:25:00.004+01:00

Back in the cowboy days, the westbound wagon train was lost and low on food. No other humans had been seen for days. And then they saw an old Jew sitting beneath a tree.

The leader rushed to him and said, "We're lost and running out of food. Is there someplace ahead where we can get food?"

"Vell," the old Jew said, "I vouldn't go up dat hill und down de other side. Somevun told me you'll run into a big bacon tree."

"A bacon tree?" asked the wagon train leader.

"Yes, a bacon tree. Trust me. For nuttin vud I lie."

The leader goes back and tells his people that if nothing else, they might be able to find food on the other side of the next ridge.

"So why did he say not to go there?" some pioneers asked.

"Oh, you know those Jews - they don't eat bacon."

So the wagon train goes up the hill and down the other side. Suddenly, Indians attack and massacre everyone except the leader, who manages to escape back to the old Jew, who's enjoying "ein glessele tea".

The near-dead man starts shouting. "You old fool! You sent us to our deaths! We followed your instructions, but there was no bacon tree. Just hundreds of Indians, who killed everyone."

The old Jew holds up his hand and says "Oy, vait a minute."

He then gets out an English-Yiddish dictionary, and begins thumbing through it. "Oy gevalt! I made myself ah big mistake. It vuz not a bacon tree. It vuz a ham bush!"

Guten Shabbos!

Seen on the Cambridge University Press website...

2010-02-01T21:14:00.000+01:00

"Please use the 'Back' button on your browser to return whence you came, or choose a new area to browse from the left-hand navigation."

Things from the classroom

2010-01-25T20:33:00.004+01:00

I taught, among other classes today, a bunch of apprentices at a local company. They're a motley bunch of unmotivated scoundrels, but fortunately today was the Review Chapter (in which the hapless ESL teacher is meant to recap, recover and revise everything the class has covered in the first five chapters) - so naturally I got through as much as both I and they could force ourselves we were interested in before I played several short rounds of word games with them (nothing too thrilling, but bound to be more interesting for them than the "set up a follow-up meeting" twaddle that was prescribed). I learned, among other things, that in German slang a brothel is referred to as a der Puff (which is also, interestingly, the Bosch word for a buffet. No great leaps of logic required for this one).

Tomorrow will be hellish. The Akademie has taken on a bunch of railwaymen (not the merry coterie of engineers whom I had the pleasure to teach last Friday), but a gang of workers, the smartest of whom holds - by my estimation - nothing weightier than a junior highschool education. Somebody has decided that this roomful of meat is going to get from precisely zero English to a low intermediate level in a fortnight. That "somebody" is clearly a dangerous optimist. One of the features of their torture, sorry, I mean education is that they have the pleasure of lessons from 8am until 5pm. Bear in mind, sensitive reader, that these are working men. Men for whom sitting on their arses all day - thinking, no less! - is not only anathema, but, I suspect, looked down on as being slightly fruity.

These men are not scholars.

These men are not motivated.

Sometimes these men are not even awake (the snoring of one caused great mirth among the group, until the largest fellow, let's call him Fists von der Hölle, slapped the table so hard I thought he'd cleave the thing in two and the recalcitrant woke with a start, a trail of saliva darkening the front of his stained pullover).

I was speaking to another teacher this evening, the chap who'd had them all day, and we were expressing grave doubts about whether or not they'd pass the test (which is coming up Friday week). Apparently one of them didn't even know his own postcode when someone asked him in German.

I despair. And I am nervous. This is the first real test of my teaching ability (such as it is. Such as it can be after the short training we were given, and several months of muddling my way through things, with reasonable success I should add). My mood swings between optimism that "it'll all work out in the end", pessimism - "it's not my fault they're as thick as shit, I'm doing the best I can with what's in front of me", and scorching fear "what if I fuck this up and get myself fired for incompetence?" I don't think that the last eventuality is really likely. I have had several official monitorings by the Kommandant and so far things are in order. But what if... what if...?

Short note

2010-01-23T17:17:00.003+01:00

I am working on a longer piece for these pages about the events of new year's eve, which were remarkable indeed. But I just wanted to jot a quick something about my current status - " all my faughts and stuff".

Teaching is mainly going well, my students seem to like me, I get along with my colleagues and the crazed half-Romanian directrix. This is definitely not a job for the long haul, but for the foreseeable future, it's quite rewarding, and certainly offers a wealth of experiences. (One of which being teaching in all kinds of different places - not while walking on the wing of a biplane, or riding a horse off a high jump into a shallow pool, but in various companies and locales. My favourite of which was the local Reich Lokomotive-Werk - I've been promised a tour of the workshop if I can get rostered to teach them again, which I will certainly angle to do.)

My social life in Ultima Thule remains extremely limited. My good friend the Frau Doktor and I spend a lot of time together, and I am constantly grateful that I have made such a good friend in such an unlikely place. My flatmates are strange, and I still don't talk to them, nor, of course, they to me. The locals really are a scrofulous bunch. For a University town (which Ultima Thule, surprisingly enough, is), there is a disheartening lack of ... life, colour, vitality, call it what you will. By comparison, Gö---, which is 40 km on the Autobahn from here is the exact opposite. This ancient university town has beautiful Fachwerkhäuser, beautiful undergraduates (who all seem to be bicycling around the town at once), and general collegiate atmosphere, which all make it quite a civilised and interesting place to visit. I don't know who the benighted person was who chose Ultima Thule as a decent place to set up a language school, I'm sure the business would thrive just as well in Gö--.

So life goes on. I have sent off a letter of inquiry about a journalism course (run from London) which sounds quite interesting. I still want to stay in Europe, and teaching ESL is not really a ticket to: long-term job satisfaction, a living wage, or career advancement. Ideally I'd make money from my pen, travel around the Fatherland, and see more of Life. I'm confident that things will work out well in this area and maybe then I can earn my passage (as a social, rather than financial, debt) out of Ultima Thule - and other places of its ilk - forever.

I'll keep these pages appraised of my own Rake's Progress in the coming months, and will endeavour to write more, and hone my skills of observation on this, the best platform I currently have at my disposal!

What are you doing new year's eve?

2009-12-31T00:06:00.004+01:00

I'll be setting off in a few hours with my good friend the Frau Doktor for a secret place high in the Thüringer Wald whereat we shall take the waters - Thomas Mann-style - for a weekend of bathing and restoration in the mineral springs.

I've been checking the weather avidly for the last couple of days, and even had a look at a couple of local webcams tonight, and it looks like the village is under a good cover of snow. With any luck it won't rain there tonight (as it has been all day here in Ultima Thule - the snow last night has entirely melted away) and the weekend promises to be not only restorative but also picturesque.

Details and pictures to come. In the meantime, I wish everyone ein guten Rutsch ins Neue Jahr and a happy and healthy year to come!

Winter Dispatches

2009-12-14T19:56:00.003+01:00

Things are proceeding apace here in Ultima Thule. Work is coming thick and fast, and your correspondent has been adjusting himself (reluctantly, to be sure) to rising at 6 and retiring around midnight.

I've had several routine lesson inspections recently (fortunately not at midnight nor in the snow) with the Frau Doktor and I am pleased to say that I've passed them all with reasonably flying colours. By "reasonably flying" I mean that I am doing well, but there are always elements which one can improve. And improve them I shall!

I don't have much to report to these pages. The dark winter days appeal to me, and I enjoy spending my weekend days strolling the town. The Christmas Markets are in full swing, and the scrofulous gimps of the neighbourhood are out in droves. I had the good fortune to observe a drunkard being carried off by several ambulance officers the other day. It was quite an interesting scene. Picture this:

Tram stop. Cold winter's night. People milling around, arms laden with packages of awkward sizes. Man lying on a bench. Slightly blue about the lips. Worried-looking sidekick paces nervously about, periodically places the back of his hand over the nose and mouth of the recumbent gentleman. A faintly unpleasant whiff pervades the night air. In the distance a siren can be heard. People can be seen nodding in appreciation of Professor Doppler's noted Effect. The ambulance arrives, and people make way. Indeed, they had already been withdrawing from what we all - surely! - assumed to be a corpse for some minutes. By the time the ambulance arrived and the paramedics leapt out (one of whom was a diminutive, but astoundingly pretty woman) there was a good 5 meter radius around the body. The paramedics bustled over to the corpse, shook it once roughly, and lo! its eyes opened and a torrent of incoherent babble poured forth. That was fortunately all that poured forth. Your correspondent wondered where he'd be able to get his spats cleaned so close to Christmas, but this was (as it so often is) worry in vain.

The ambulance officers bustled the now-recovered deadman over to their vehicle. They gave him two choices. He could leave with them, or he could leave with the police. At the mention of the police, the shifty sidekick melted away into the crowd, but the paramedics noticed this and asked the drunkard if he'd taken any drugs that evening. The man replied, in typical fashion, "Yes. No. Yes. I don't remember." The elfin paramedic woman (who had the strength of Atlas himself - the mythological one, not Charles, the friend of the 98-pound weakling) rolled her eyes. I tired of the scene and wandered slowly home. So this is Christmas?

Good news!

2009-12-02T17:55:00.002+01:00

I am sitting in my friend the (newly minted) Frau Doktor's Haus, working our way through a Magnum of eminently drinkable Champage, toasting her recent success with the oral defense of her PhD thesis. Tonight she was awarded Summa Cum Laude by the wise Professors of this scabrous and derelict city. But let the the civic hideousness not disturb you, nay, let it not sow the seeds of doubt. I have it on good authority that the academic tradition is alive and well here (although living somewhat underground in this ignorant and plebian Stadt).

So, apropos all that, I propose a toast to my good friend, a hearty Mazel Tov, and my very best wishes!

A New Phrase

2009-12-01T13:02:00.003+01:00

I have it on equally good authority that the German equivalent of "tally ho!" is frisch voran! This, too, will be used liberally.

Posting has been a bit slow here of late, although I admit that it's erratic at the best of times. The deuce of a lot of things are afoot, all of which is being anchored by long hours instructing the locals at the Ultima Thule Sprachen-Akademie. More details shall grace these pages soon.

Sunday's moral conundrum ...

2009-11-29T13:08:00.001+01:00

... is here:

Trafficking with the devil

2009-11-18T21:35:00.003+01:00

I realised when I was walking home tonight that my constant auditory companion here in Ultima Thule is traffic. My crumbling garret is on a main road (I can't leave the window open for any appreciable amount of time, otherwise everything in my room will be coated with a fine layer of soot) and the rocky and dangerous path I must crawl along to get to the Akademie runs parallel to said main road, with its attendant tramway. I crave peace and quiet. I crave solitude. I think I might go and sleep in the park.

Intelligence Just To Hand: Art is dead. Long live Art!

2009-11-18T12:56:00.008+01:00

I'm writing this urgent update sitting in a darkened grotto under the stairs in my lunch break at the Ultima Thule Akademie of Foreign Languages. Today's lesson is about houses, neighbourhoods, and the description of same. The students are proving to be an untamable rabble and I have had to remind several of them, several times, to please not conduct their own conversations across the room when other students (or in the most egregious case, yours truly) are trying to speak.

My mood these past days has plummeted from my usual bleak-but-servicable to what can only be described in the strictest medical terms as: Galloping Despair. Among many things that have been dragging my brain in ceaseless, wearing circles is the the fact that Ultima Thule is a hideous shithole which is not increasing in beauty as the winter lowers itself over the roofs of this town about as gracefully a flatulent and overweight taxi driver lowering his pale and quivering buttocks over a cracked bowl in order to void himself of last night's cheap curry.

I am not alone in this opinon (although I claim full responsibility for the somewhat colourful image above). One of my students told me that the most shining example of hideousness in this blighted hole, the town square, was twenty years ago alive with fountains and flowerbeds, icecream shoppes and kiosks selling sweetmeats and fancies of all imaginable flavour. He described in terms poetical how in summer, laughter to warm one's heart rang across the cobblestones as children frolicked, lovers nibbled each other's earlobes, and old-timers sat reminiscing about the great day when Hitler gave a speech here.

This has all gone, but unlike Adolf it went not with a bang, but with a whimper. The square was smothered under acres of bland tarmacadam for a Documenta some years ago. What manner of cretin would consider the removal of fountains and benches and neat little kiosks progress? How was it even allowed? Well may the parvenu art-types howl and wail and genuflect before Progress and her sordid cronies, but by God I'd like to see them try and live here for even a month!

Königsplatz, Kassel, in better days

On the blogs

2009-11-13T11:06:00.002+01:00

I just read this post on Will Type For Food and offer it for your perusal.

The Inhabitants of this Town, or: Characters Abroad in Ultima Thule

2009-11-13T10:27:00.009+01:00

As the more astute readers of these pages would know (if Matron still lets you browse the internet from your dark and cool room at Doctor Throckmorton's Home for Neurasthenics), the social life here in Ultima Thule is shrivelled and scrawny, to say the least. My good friend the Frau Doktor remains a shining beacon of civilisation among the teeming masses of the scabrous, shuffling, and slackjawed. To walk the streets here on a Saturday morning (the nominal "market day" in which entire families pile into their jalopies and roar into town to shop, carouse, and peruse) is to thrust yourself into the rank and file of one of the most alarming freakshows your twisted and fatigued minds could conceive of.

Needless to say that I spend a lot of time behind closed doors, with the curtains drawn, thinking, reading, and looking at maps.

Of course contact with the inhabitants is inevitable from time to time. Especially in my new pedagogical line of work. It is my sombre duty to stand before them day in and day out and instruct them in the nuances and subtleties of my beloved mother-tongue. I do this with aplomb (or an apple, if they're in season) and, if I may make so bold, a reasonable degree of success. To wit: I was sitting in the "teacher's lounge" at the Academy yesterday (wishing I could smoke my pipe), while a colleague was browsing his Farcebook page. After a few minutes of amicable silence, a student shuffled nervously in and thrust his writing task towards my colleague to be checked. A few hems and haws later, my colleague mumbled something and the student bent closer. The question was "Who taught you this word?" Ye gods! I thought, what could it be? Could I have accidentally let something slip in class that they took too seriously to heart, and, God forbid, were reproducing? The student thought for a minute and then said the offending teacher's name! It was me! I slid a little lower in my seat. My colleague laughed and said he thought it probably was. My curiosity was burning, and I forced myself to ask - most casually - what the word was. It turns out it was "tawdry". The alarming thing is that I have no recollection of ever having taught this student, nor anyone else in his class (or indeed in any other class) the meaning and usage of the word. But not to worry, the student used it appropriately, and what harm can it really do if I give my students a little filigree to their language learning?

I find that there is a very great disconnect between the people who present themselves to the Academy, bright eyed and eager to learn, and the offensive louts, dolts, poltroons and mountebanks who trawl the streets and fill the bars and cafes in the evenings. I have found nearly all my students to be Good People (with a lifetime limited warranty issued by yours truly) - indeed they are quite surprisingly good people. Some examples:

There is a gruff old buffer in one of the classes who complained incessantly that I speak to quickly and that he doesn't understand me. I have assured him that not only do I speak incredibly slowly in his class, I also speak very clearly at all times. This was a bone of contention between us - not least because he sat there grumbling through every class I taught, but also because he seemed unwilling to accept my assurance that I speak both slowly and clearly. But he did not sour too permanently, and it's now become a joke between us, and he accepts (or seems to) my claims of clarity and tempo. And our acquaintanceship was furthered when we discovered a mutual interest in old films, and in Agatha Christie. He lent me the '74 film of Murder on the Orient Express (with Albert Finney, Lauren Bacall, Sean Connery, John Gielgud &c) which it will be my pleasure to watch on Sunday night.
There are various other students with whom I can share a quip, havea chat, or just generally get a good vibe from. They make the days quite fun and I hope also that such a convivial atmosphere makes their learning somewhat easier too.

There was one odd fellow though. He seems (like so many of the people in this town) to have a problem with pax Judaica and by way of a peace offering after I was recently offended by several comments he made, has suggested that we take a trip to Auschwitz together next summer. There are lots of places I want to see in Europe, one of the blackest examples of the Nazi death machine is categorically not one of them. Also, and perhaps most confusingly, he left an anonymous "present" for me other day. It's a copy of the film Zug des Lebens - the Train of Life - a story of some Jewish villagers in France who try and outsmart the Huns by stealing (or at least acquiring by questionable methods) a bunch of SS uniforms and then "deporting" themselves - to safety. A cute story, and one I admit I am looking forward to seeing, but as a further peace offering from this chap, it's a decidedly strange choice. Enough with the Nazis already! Is he trying to tell me that it was a funny time in which madcap Jewish people did zany things while trying to outfox comical Germans with monocles and heavy accents?! Strange indeed.

I am really at a loss to work out ways to meet people here. My colleagues are a decent bunch, and acquaintanceships are already blooming, but friends? Here in Ultima Thule? I have found the edelweiss of this rarefied climate in the person of the aforementioned Frau Doktor - who will be defending her thesis on December 2 (presumably after first nailing it to the door, as is the custom in this land). It will be my honour and privilege to be in the audience to witness this august event. I have promised to let fly the occasional "Genau! Genau!" ("Exactly! Exactly!") as the situation warrants. Now I just have to find myself a monocle...

Things I Have (Finally) Learned #57

2009-11-12T22:08:00.005+01:00

The German equivalent of "chocks away!" (a phrase sadly lacking from my vocabulary) is: Leinen los!

This new treasure will be well used, I can assure you.

Teaching

2009-11-12T19:29:00.005+01:00

My (in)glorious new career is bounding ahead apace. I am the scourge of errors and the student's friend (in the broadest sense - more on this in a related post). One of the merrie band of job-seekers told me yesterday that I am quite strong. I looked at her agog. I am many things, but not even the most enthusiastic sycophant would describe me as "strong". I raised an eyebrow. The student looked me fair in the eye and said: "Oh no, not strong. That's not what I meant." She consulted with her cronies, dictionary pages were leafed through at top speed and then a burst of nervous giggles from the coterie of Mädels. Then the proper verdict was handed down: "You're very strict!" she said, and her sidekicks all laughed again. There were nods of solidarity from around the room. The students were all grinning. "Well," I replied, affecting gruffness, but secretly very pleased, "it is surely better than I am strict now and train you well, then when you all get jobs your new bosses will be very happy with how well you can speak English." This was met by a room full of bobbing heads. Ah, complete accord, how seldom you appear in my life, but how welcome you are when you do drop by.

I have it on good authority...

2009-11-05T21:48:00.004+01:00

... that the reason the trees were cut back is because they are preparing them to be strung with Christmas lights (which might make the town square somewhat presentable again, like a gangrenous slattern who slathers eyeshadow over sagging lids before going out to work the cheap end of the waterfront).

Herewith, some pictures:

Some favourite words of mine lately

2009-11-03T22:07:00.002+01:00

(In no particular order)

desuetude;
mores;
rue;
bibulousness;
panegyric;
apoplexy (a perennial favourite, I must admit); and
... many others.

The trees

2009-11-03T21:57:00.003+01:00

I haven't had my camera with me these last two mornings, but something appalling has happened to the main square of this hideous town which needs to be documented. A civic uglification program is well underway. The blighters are cutting the trees right back to sticks - in preparation for winter, I suppose. I will take my camera with me to the school tomorrow to photograph the bleak horror of the town square. I only wish that I'd thought to photograph it when it was at the height of its summery splendour. People will find it hard to believe that the town was, however fleetingly, somewhat beautiful (like a mustachioed and scrofulous peasant-girl wearing a discarded dress, passed down to her, fourteenth-hand from the lady of the manor).

But yes, all that's left now are grey sticks poking out of the slimy macadamized square. The odd leaf clings tenaciously to a withered and scabbed bough, and the people walk past a little faster. Their eyes are downcast. Their lips are drawn tight.

The Wit and Wisdom of the Classroom #1

2009-10-27T00:12:00.007+01:00

It is my duty, nay honour, nay curse, nay privilege to spend the vast majority of my working hours in the company of unemployed Germans. Let me hasten to add that they are Germans first, and are only unemployed (to a man!) through cruel twists of fate.

Last week I taught a lesson about borrowing and lending. Let me assure you that this was not the sole content of the lesson (after all, how could any but the most creative of creative geniuses stretch such thin material over six hours?). Some notable dialogues emerged from the last exercise I gave them. My instruction was this:

Me: You are to ask your partner to lend you something that they don't want to part with. This is something that is very dear to them, and they may have some trouble coming up with a reason. You will be polite - at all times! - but persistent. You really want to borrow this thing. Whatever it is.

Some noteworthy examples of the students' creative efforts were:

The two chaps, one of whom wanted to borrow the other's washing machine. But this was not possible because the second fellow was about to leave for two months' holiday in Australia (they picked this themselves! Honestly!) and he needed to wash a lot of clothes before he left. "Alright," said the first student, "then perhaps I can borrow your wife for a little while?"

Indeed.

The second example which, I admit, had me flabbergasted went like this:

Male Student: Hello, --- how are you?

Female Student: I am well thank you, how are you?

MS: Oh, fine thanks.

FS: --- I would like you to meet my children. -- is six, and her brother, --, is 10.

MS: Oh, hello there, how do you do?

FS: [imitating the voices of children] Oh, fine thank you, Uncle --, how are you?

MS: Very well thank you. [to FS]. So -- I was wondering if I could borrow your son please.

FS, Me, Class: !!!

MS: Ja, you see I like playing football on the weekend and I want to win for once.

FS: ?!

MS: Ja, haha, I need to play with a little boy.

{Me: [to self] !!!!}

FS: No, -- I'm afraid that would not be possible. You can not borrow him.

MS: Oh... please?

FS: [aside to "son"] So, --, tell me, would you like to play football with Uncle --? [falsetto] Noooooo. [To MS] See, so ja, there is I'm afraid your answer.

MS: Oh. Ok then. Thanks. Bye!

{Thin, nervous, slightly shocked applause}

I love my job!

Sunday night

2009-10-25T23:08:00.005+01:00

It's been a busy few days. And they have flown by, leaving me feeling both depleted and adrift. I just got back from a weekend visiting the Gräfin in Germania, and although I dozed fitfully on the train (after finishing my lesson planning for tomorrow - of course) I spent far too long brooding (a habit which I will readily admit to, and which I know serves me no benefit). I feel as though my life is without a centre of gravity, without anything to anchor it or give it meaning. I realised afresh the need to find something which will fill my life with meaning, and will provide me with an unassailable stronghold from which I can better survey the landscape of my inner life, and plot a brave and optimistic course.

My railway brooding tonight did turn up at least one worthwhile insight, to wit: I must not expect other people to be the foundation of the above-mentioned emotional and intellectual stronghold. This is both unfair and unrealistic.

I don't really know how to proceed, though. I still think that there's a purpose to my being here in Germany, and I am still generally enjoying being here (although the absolute lack of manners I see every day in public life has gone beyond being amusingly astonishing and is becoming irritating and a little depressing). I am going to put myself on a rigorous diet - both culinary and intellectual - to see if I can draw myself out of this funk (by eating and thinking things of only the highest quality) and I will, of course, report the outcome on these pages.

Join the Army, my ... girl?

2009-10-21T21:17:00.015+02:00

I recently read of Elberry's experiences teaching English to the lads of the Bundeswehr and a shudder shook my frame. My merrie band of jobless whiners don't seem anywhere near as bad - nor, I'll admit, as misanthropic - as his erstwhile squad of trained killers. (Indeed I find myself warming to my new lot: they show early signs of wit and even seem to be inclined towards co-operation.)

While strolling the bleak and windy streets of Berlin with with Gräfin a fortnight ago, I happened upon this billboard, tucked away in a large alcove, and thought once more of Elberry and his soldiers. It seemed to me as though the Bundies are proud, but not too proud to be the first line of defence for the glorious Reich. And what's this I see? They've let women in? By God! What would Bismarck say?

Note the huge world map behind this woman's steely eyes. I find this to be in especially bad taste because we all remember what happened the last time Jerry took out his world map. Should all we be alarmed that the Bosch have mobilised and are currently storming language schools? Your correspondent will keep a keen eye on the situation!

Careers with [a] future the caption promises. Just what kind of future that is, though, remains unspecified.

Arbeitsamt

2009-10-20T16:23:00.007+02:00

The majority of my teaching to date has been of unemployed Germans who are put into courses run by the school, but funded by the Arbeitsamt (the unemployment office). I have it on good authority that these courses are beloved of the politicians because when otherwise jobless people are packed off to our Institute of Learning, they slip off the official unemployment figures. So do I for that matter, so it's fine with me.

They're a very mixed bunch, these jobless types. The school is running several classes for them at the moment at a variety of levels (into which the students are placed - theoretically depending on their level of ability) and I have taught a day here and there in all the classes we have now.

Being unemployed is no great joy, I realise, and the majority of the people are quite friendly and nice, despite being in what must be pretty bad personal circumstances. In some way I see it being a bit like prison. The new inmates - who still remember their old lives - are cheery enough and will put some extra effort in to working out roleplays and generally finishing the tasks I give them, but the old hands, the inmates with low numbers, will grumble and complain and only do it if they feel like it.

I taught one middle-level class recently wherein a new student had the audacity to challenge my correction of another student - in front of the class. It wasn't done subtly either. It went more or less like this:

Student: ... haha, ja, on ze veekend I go in ze cinema viz my friends.

Me: Ok, thank you [student], but we'd say that we go to the cinema.

Wiseacre student: [interjecting, apparently checking his notes] Well, you didn't correct [another student] when he said he likes to go in the theatre. You must be consistent. What is right?

Me: You will find that I did correct [another student - who nodded and shrugged as I said this] and I will correct all grammatical mistakes. That's what I'm here to do. So. Who's next?

After this, The Wiseacre mumbled things to his sidekick for the rest of the day (why do loudmouth putzes always have a sidekick?), and a couple of times I asked him archly if he wouldn't mind addressing the class if he has something to say. He immediately stopped speaking and glared at me. This, from a grown man. Feh!

I was relieved to see that he's not coming back for another round *ding! ding!* and actually enjoyed teaching the same class today - which took on quite a few new members at the start of the week (and the start of a new level). My class today was hived off into its own group and there's a really good feeling among the students. We had a lot of fun, we got through all the work, and I think that they actually enjoyed themselves.

It's interesting to see different personalities emerging as well. The Wiseacre had been in either sales or marketing (it fits - he was pushy, aggressive, and highly divisive), one of my new students today had been a technical writer (his horn-rimmed glasses and constant blinking gave it away), and another student had worked in some kind of social work field (he's very warm and friendly, somewhat philosophical, and is always ready with a joke or a quip).

I like teaching, my students seem to like me, and on the whole things are going well. But, as mentioned below, I have the deuce of a lot of preparation to do. I'd best get back to work. Tomorrow is Meetings & Presentations. Onward ho, Jobseekers!

Hobbies: We all need one or two

2009-10-19T20:19:00.004+02:00

I think I've found a new one! I was given a pipe for my birthday by the Gräfin, which I smoked a fairly often during the summer, but now that winter's well on its way (and I live in a non-smoking apartment) I might have to shelve it until the spring thaw and I can once more stroll through the park smoking it contemplatively - and by then perhaps even reciting poetry softly to myself.

I've decided to cultivate another hobby too - memorising poetry. This hobby piqued my interest for several reasons: not only to keep the ganglionic organ in top working order, but hopefully also to develop an appreciation for, and an interest in, poetry. I was inspired by this article, but admit that I've been off to a slow start. I have precisely zero lines of Shakespeare, and a half-dozen half-remembered songs (in German) from the Comedian Harmonists (songs about the asparagus waking up [such delicate imagery!], hiding out in a hayloft, the benefits of having a best friend [he'll be there even if your girlfriend dumps you], etc). A shaky beginning, to be sure, but it's a beginning nonetheless!

Bar none!

2009-10-19T18:15:00.006+02:00

I need to add a brief addendum to my recent complaint about the locals. In addition to my being told that I speak terrible German, the Frau Doktor and I had another remarkable experience in a local bar not forty-eight hours later. I was at home on a rainy Monday night several weeks ago, when the Doktor called at about 10pm. She was drinking in B--'s (a local bar with acute pretensions, not really my kind of place, but they do a very edible weekend breakfast buffet, so I can forgive them their vain and shalllow clientele during the week). The call was urgent. The Directrix of the school was going home, and the Frau Doktor did not want to go home herself and wondered if I would care to join her for a beer or two - she'd pay. It was pouring rain outside, but - I confess - the moment I heard the words "... I'll pay" I was grabbing my jacket and clamping a hat upon my head. I slipped my wallet into my pocket for appearances, although these days it serves more as a moth transportation and breeding ground than as a receptacle for coin of the realm, and took off through the driving rain as fast as my legs would carry me.

I eventually found the good Doktor in a kind of marquee around the side of the bar, deep in conversation with a grinning oaf whom she introduced to me as ... as ... let's call him Helmut. I was greeted with the customary cheek-kiss and hug from the Doktor, and Helmut raised an eyebrow at me but condescended to shake my hand. Helmut was an off-duty barman at the same establishment, and so he spoke little English, so I - after several beers - tried a bit more German (bear in mind, I was still smarting from the accusation - made not forty-eight hours before - that my German was terrible). It worked. We made ourselves understood, and Helmut seemed to be enjoying himself well enough. I suspected that he rather fancied his chances with the Doktor, and perhaps, to a small degree, resented the presence of your correspondent who indubitably had the Doktor's ear - to Helmut's definite chagrin.

The night unfolded merrily, the good Doktor ensured that your correspondent was never without a drink, and even Helmut was decent enough to supply us with a tequila on the house. As such nights go, it was a very fine one in the temple of Bacchus. At one point, an extremely odd-looking young fellow attached himself to us, and regaled the Doktor and I with slurred stories about his friends and their collective lack of ability at drinking, while all the while pouring the contents of various glasses of white wine into his own glass. He insisted on punctuating his sentences by shaking my hand, and telling me how glad he was to meet me. He stared at me. A lot. And not once did he acknowledge the Doktor's presence. After quite some time of this, he peeled away from us, claiming that he had to go and find his friends. And we only saw him again right at the end of the night, trying to speak to two girls who'd been herded together by a very odd photographer who'd been working the room the whole night. I suspect that his camera was just a ruse and that he was really just on the prowl (like most of the other nimrods there), but I can't be sure. Reading his body language alone, it seemed as though he was having a very earnest "do you want to come home and see my photo albums" discussion with both of the girls.

At about this same late point, Helmut rejoined the Doktor and me at the very moment we were at the punchline of something funny one or the other of us was saying. The punchline was, unfortunately, something like "Oy gevalt, you vant I should be bankrupt?" Whatever. It was very funny in the moment. Helmut looked nonplussed. The good Doktor mentioned something about your correspondent being of Jewish heritage. Helmut suddenly looked as though he'd simultaneously stepped in dog crap with bare feet and taken a good pull from a glass of lemon and grapefruit juice. The Doktor and I immediately stopped laughing. In my imagination the music stopped playing, and people froze, with their drinks halfway raised to their lips. Passing sirens suddenly whispered, and the lights dimmed. We asked Helmut if he had a problem with that. To which he replied: "No, of course not." Then took his jacket, motorcycle helmet and bag and left the bar.

Astounding.

Another Nazi on the loose? Who can say, but on the evidence, if he wasn't one of the Kameraden then he definitely has some hang ups about Yiddishkeit. So as a result of this, I've decided to keep The Jewish Question under wraps. I think it's best that way.

It's not so bad after all

2009-10-19T18:10:00.004+02:00

After my recent bad experiences with the locals here (being told that I speak terrible German etc etc), I have a had a couple of very pleasant experiences. I went to buy some paracetamol today, and asked for it in German. The woman looked at me quizzically and then said "Oh, yes of course" in English, and got it for me with a chuckle. The rest of our conversation was in German and it was fine.

I also bought myself a winter cap today - I had two last winter, one of which was of brown corduroy (my father said it made me look like a member of the International Brotherhood of Workers) which sadly fell apart in the wash this summer. So I got myself a new black woollen cap and was served in the small local hat shoppe by a very friendly woman who told me that I looked "Unheimlich gut" (uncannily good, or better: incredibly good) in the hat which I - surprise! - eventually chose. And no, it wasn't the most expensive one I tried on.

Friendly Krauts about? Who'd've thought?!

The author in his new hat. "I say, Madam, are you flirting with me?"

Blogs

2009-10-18T22:14:00.009+02:00

I read this quote just now on a blog:

Don't be limited by an inability or refusal to reach beyond your vocabulary. In other words, don't let your vocabulary define you.

It's quite appropriate, given the liminal position I still find myself in. I've been here nearly 18 months and while my German has improved a lot, I still feel quite embarrassed speaking it (unless I've had a glass or two of any one of the fine German beers, or the equivalent in wine, neither of which do I want to come to rely on as regular crutches). I have seen other students of the language who charge ahead, using every word in their command to express themselves any way they can, while your author hangs back, ever on the fringes, waiting until he has memorised a dictionary before he dares speak.

I was in a local bar recently with the Frau Doktor whereupon I struck up conversation with a local cove. Seconds into what I thought was a pretty good Unterhaltung (conversation) this individual said to me, in English, that I speak "terrible German" and stalked off, losing themselves in the crowd. It took me a week to get over this slight, my already shaky confidence with the language took an undeserved bludgeoning.

But practice makes, if not perfect, than at least not-as-bad-as-before, and as I mentioned below, the Gräfin and I have been speaking a lot of German recently, which has bolstered my confidence somewhat, and renewed my faith in my own ability to speak the tongue of the Kaiser (which is usually served at breakfast, potted, with pepper on the side).

My main concern about vocabulary is that, because I rely on my mother tongue for wit, charm, and higher forms of self-expression, my German is still lurking in the linguistic cupboard-under-the-stairs, like the horrifically maimed cousin that nobody speaks about. It's a limping, lumbering, mouth-breathing creature, barely able to express itself, and which often resorts to flailing arms, pointing and grunting to convey its meaning. Whereas by comparison, my English could be seen as a debonair urbanite whose witty banter and sharp repartee enthralls the ladies and amuses the chaps in between activities at the Chief Justice's wife's garden party and gymkhana on Saturday afternoon. The astute reader will be aware of the disparities I must confront.

My only hope is that in time (and with more reading, and pleasant German conversation) my Teutonic vocabulary (called a Wortschatz - literally: word-treasury!) will expand, be enriched and deepen into something I can be dashed proud of, rather than something I need to keep apologising for, and hoping that nobody notices! And I should, of course, effective immediately, stop judging my own worth as as citizen and a person on how deftly I can spin an elegant phrase. I need to let go of my dependence on the artifice and elegance of language, and express myself more humbly and more honestly. I think I will be surprised at how differently I see myself, and the how I see the world. I also expect that I will start meeting more people, and that these people will reflect these qualities that I am going to cultivate. I might even become a better writer.

As always, I will report the developments on these pages.

In which I learn a new phrase...

2009-10-17T23:52:00.003+02:00

I was looking for the translation of something else on Leo.org but found, by happy accident, the German expression for "the agony of choice". One says: Qual der Wahl haben.

I will have to use this in conversation.

Radiating warmth and conviviality

2009-10-17T23:03:00.006+02:00

My (by not now not-so-) new flatmates haven't turned the apartment heating on yet. As a result of this, or perhaps because I now spend my days in relatively small rooms with lots of other people, I have caught a fine head cold. Don't panic! I am almost certain it's not the H1N1 come to say what ho! But it has meant that I've spent all today - and will spend all tomorrow - cooped up in my room, guzzling Erkältungstee (a special cold-remedy tea that the Germans quaff when they're feeling ill. It's a mixture of elder bush flowers, thyme and willow bark - and it tastes quite good) and waiting for it to run its course. My desk is becoming cluttered with the accoutrement of my illness. A bag of used tissues is full to almost overflowing beside my seat, and I look (and feel) as though I haven't left the room in a fortnight. Open bags of Biodynamisch snacks of varying kinds are strewn about with careless abandon, making it easy for me to eat straight from the desktop. I really need to clean up. Maybe the cold is caused by a lack of order?

I'm rugged up tightly as I write this. I'm wearing a singlet, a t-shirt, a jumper, a scarf, a fleece jacket and a beanie. And the room's so cold that my breath steams slightly. I feel as though I'm stuck in a very bad amateur theatrical production of La Boheme (an especially puerile opera) - although fortunately Mimi hasn't come shivering and staggering up from downstairs yet. But it's only a matter of time.

I'll have to lie in wait for the flatmates and ambush them in the kitchen and then ask in enthusiastic, but flawed German just how cold it has to get before we can turn the heating on.

Test day

2009-10-16T19:36:00.004+02:00

So today was the end of one course for the German jobseekers. "My" level two class took their end of level exam and I'm pleased to say that results were pretty much what I expected. All passed except for one, who is by far the weakest student in the class, and really should have been placed a level below.

Teaching has been keeping me extremely busy these last couple of weeks. My lessons are going smoothly, but that's due almost entirely to the staggering amount of time I spend preparing them. I am told that this time will reduce as I become more proficient at preparation and teaching, and of course, more familiar with the course materials.

The Gräfin and I have been speaking a lot more German, indeed, since I was there last weekend every conversation we've had has been in German - with the occasional English word or phrase thrown in by me when I just can't complete the sentence in German. But it feels good. It feels good not only to speak to the Gräfin in her own language, but also to exercise my own German. It's a strange experience being between two languages. At the school I can only speak very limited English (even to students in the higher levels. I tried a few more, shall we say embellished phrases, on an advanced class, and they looked at me blankly. Very well, chaps, I said to myself, it's back to Student English for now) and in my private life I spent a lot of time speaking to the Gräfin in German (but I gleefully read English whenever I have a moment free).

So these are my days. Autumn has arrived, with wind and rain and low temperatures. It was -2 degrees when I went to the school on Wednesday morning. Quite brisk indeed. There was talk of there being snow in the town before the end of the week. There wasn't. But there was a lot of rain. The first snow's already fallen in Bavaria, and apparently also in the mountains in the East. I like this time of year. Things are slowing down. People are drawing into themselves. The pace of life changes noticeably. And it feels good.

Autumn in the Berlin botanical gardens

Music for a mellow autumn afternoon

2009-09-26T18:39:00.004+02:00

I'm taking a break from lesson preparation - I've got a whole week of teaching coming up, and I'm alternately nervous and very excited. I owe these pages a tremendous update of things that have happened, are happening, and will happen. Not the least of which is that I have (finally!) had my work permit renewed, and am allowed to stay for another year, after which time my earnings will be assessed, and, assuming I'm not going to be a burden on the Kaiser's purse, I'll be allowed to stay longer. I don't envisage that it will be a problem, and anyway, it's far better to concern myself with hard work now to ensure my lessons are at a good standard to ensure I get more work to ensure... you the idea.

Here's a little something that fits my mood nicely today. It's autumn, the leaves on the trees have begun to change colour, there's a crispness to the evenings which wasn't there a fortnight ago and I am looking forward to the coming of my favourite months of the year.

For now, though, some Schubert:

An autumn leaf I found on my way home this afternoon

Autumn

2009-09-25T12:49:00.002+02:00

Herbsttag (Rilke)

Herr, es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren laß die Winde los.

Befiehl den letzten Früchten, voll zu sein;
gib ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin, und jage
die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.

*****

I'll take some pictures around the town as the leaves start to change colour and nature slows herself down for winter. As I've said on these pages before, the middle of the town is nothing to be proud of, but it's set in a very green area, so autumnal strolls will be quite pleasant I think!

... and this is what's wrong with America

2009-08-19T22:52:00.005+02:00

I'll let this little clip speak for itself:

Shortly afterwards I found this:

Now that's how you stop these cretins in their tracks!

What, a joke?

2009-08-11T10:30:00.018+02:00

I went to the Ausländerbehörde this morning (but that's not the joke), and was told that it will take some more weeks for my work permit to be approved. Thoroughly disheartened, but not wanting Jerry to get the best of me, I repaired to my room and plumbed the depths of the internet, looking for jokes about the Germans. Surely, I thought, if I can find something to laugh about I won't feel so bad. The only German jokes I could find were crap in the extreme. Like this one:

Three boys argue whose father is the fastest. The first one says: "My father is a race driver, he is the fastest." The second one contradicts: "No, my father is a Luftwaffe pilot, surely the fastest one." "That's nothing," says the third one. "My father is a Beamter [a Civil Servant], he is so fast that when work ends at 5pm, he's already home at 1pm!"

What was interesting, though, is that on the same website they have a file of Jewish jokes as well. Want to know the score? Jokes about Germans: 18; jokes about Jews 1,647. Oy gevalt!

Here's a couple of good ones:

Abe was one of the best talent spotters in the USA. One day, a young fellow walks into Abe’s office and says he wants to break into show-biz, so Abe says "Okay kid, show me what you do."
The kid tells some jokes, does a little soft shoe shuffle, sings a bit, does an acrobatic act and is good enough to impress Abe.

"Great kid! Just great!," says Abe. "I can do things for ya! I think I can get you a show on T.V." (This was the early sixties.) "By the way, what`s your name?"

The young man, proud and excited, exclaims "Penis Van Lesbian!"

"S’cuse me?," questions Abe.

"My name is Penis Van Lesbian" again replies the young man.

"Hey I'm sorry kid, you're gonna have to change your name, nobody is gonna hire you with a name like Penis Van Lesbian."

Well the young man is crestfallen but steadfastly refuses to change his name, so he leaves to find another agent.

A few months later he returns to Abe.
"Hey kid! Good to see ya again" says Abe, "Are ya still looking for work? Have ya changed yer name?"

With his head hanging low the young man replies "Yes. Every agent in town turned me down because of my name, Penis Van Lesbian. So I've changed it."

"Great kid, great! What's your new name?"

"Dick Van Dyke."

(*ba-dum-tish*)

*****

'A German comes to London and stays with Maurice and his family. The first morning they all have breakfast together and bagels are served. The German exclaims: "Wow we don't have bagels like this in Germany." To which Maurice stands up and yells, "And whose fault is that?!"

(Oy gevalt!)

*****

My cousin Moishe owned one of the biggest and fastest-growing businesses in North West London, a furniture store.

I convinced him that he needed to take a trip to Italy to check out the merchandise himself and because he was still single, he could check out all the hot Italian women, and maybe get lucky.

As Moishe was checking into a hotel, he struck up an acquaintance with a beautiful young lady. She only spoke Italian and he only spoke English, so neither understood a word the other spoke.

He took out a pencil and a notebook and drew a picture of a taxi. She smiled, nodded her head and they went for a ride in the park. Later, he drew a picture of a table in a restaurant with a question mark and she nodded, so they went to dinner. After dinner he sketched two dancers and she was delighted. They went to several nightclubs, drank champagne, danced and had a glorious evening. It had gotten quite late when she motioned for the pencil and drew a picture of a four-poster bed.

Moishe was dumbfounded, and to this day remarks to me that he's never been able to understand how she knew he was in the furniture business.

(Thanks! I'm here all week. Try the veal!)

Languishing

2009-08-10T14:12:00.002+02:00

The Ausländerbehörde is dragging its heels, and I still don't have a work permit. I'm going quietly crazy. Cabin fever (village-fever?) has set in, and I am considering taking up jogging as not only an antidote to irritability arising from inaction, but also, just maybe, as a Path to Health. Stranger things have happened.

I have kept many details of my recent movements (social movements, gentle reader!) from these pages, large duely to a galloping dose of ennui. Stay tuned for more news soon of The German Sauna, A Recent Wedding, and, maybe, just maybe, My First Searing Foray Into the World of Jogging (Is there blood in my lungs, or is it meant to feel like that?)!

Correct me if I'm wrong...

2009-07-22T17:56:00.004+02:00

The Germans are a wonderful people. My most recent delight in them comes from the fact that they will subtly correct one's misuse of their ancient and sacred language. I was just now talking to one of the flatmates here - The Boy - and I asked if he knew when the quasi-landlord would be coming back to the house (he said yesterday that he'd be back to fix a broken cupboard door in the kitchen). In the course of the conversation I made a small grammatical error. I asked: "Weißt Du wenn F- kommt wieder vorbei" (wanting to know when F- would be here again) and, without missing a beat, The Boy questioned: "Wenn er wieder vorbei kommt? Keine Ahnung" ("When he comes here again? No idea".) I learned something, and got the information I needed.

Brilliant!

This was, of course, a small thing, and it has been my pleasure (although it was definitely hard to get used to at first) to be corrected on other occasions, when I made more, and more serious, errors (although, fortunately, I am yet to use a word which sounds like another word but has a terrible/rude/lewd/offensive other meaning). Onward and upward!

Germany... land of complication

2009-07-14T13:28:00.002+02:00

I need to get my visa renewed. To do this, I need health insurance. I thought that it would be a simple case of going in, stumping up the cash, and being insured. Not so. I found out today that I need to go to the doctor for a checkup (and he'll need to take blood!), and I also have to go to the dentist for a similar checkup (but hopefully without blood).

I've made a doctor's appointment for next week - fortunately with a doctor who speaks English, and am now casting about for a suitable dentist. There are two in the area who definitely speak English - according to the US Consulate website for the Frankfurt region. One of these fine practitioners is on holidays until the end of the month, the other is booked out until August. I will try my luck with a dentist I pick at random and see how that goes. Sure, my German is probably up to the challenge, but it will be interesting to see what kind of situation I find myself in when someone is rummaging around in my mouth and I'm trying to mumble out answers in a foreign language.

Details to come soon!

Kassel, it's a (car)boom town

2009-07-14T00:41:00.004+02:00

A car blew up near my place today.

The cops don't know what happened, but they suspect foul play.

What a town.

Getting Organ-ised*

2009-07-09T13:38:00.015+02:00

Last Saturday night, the Gräfin and I went to church. This is a remarkable occurrence - as anyone with even a passing acquaintance with either of us would appreciate.

But there was good reason; it's the 4th Internationaler Orgelsommer! The Gräfin's Gothic curiosity was piqued (there is, after all, no instrument more Gothic than the pipe organ!), and the casual reader knows that I need little or no prodding to present myself at a concert. Especially when Smetana's 'Vltava' is on the bill. 'Vltava' - also known in German as 'Die Moldau' - is the second musical poem in Smetana's cycle 'Ma Vlast' ('My Land') and is, I think, one of the best musical representations of water - on par with Wagner's invocation of the Rhine in the beginning of 'Das Rheingold', and Schumann's 'Rhenisch' symphony (his fourth symphony, I believe). This was the only piece on the bill I was familiar with, and was looking forward to hearing it played on a pipe organ.

Among the other composers the organist chose was Miloslav Kabeláč's Fantasie in G. I'm probably not alone in saying that I'd never heard of Kabeláč before - due, I'm sure, entirely to his marginalisation during the totalitarian regime, and not at all to my own lack of exposure to fine music. For whatever reason, and it's really of no consequence, I have made a new musical discovery!

The Gräfin and I sat utterly transfixed during the Fantasie. To say that the piece is haunting is as illuminating as saying that the Brandenburg Gate is old. The music was so rich with images and emotions and it twisted and turned and flew around the cathedral like a bat caught in a thunderstorm.

This was the first time I had ever heard the cathedral's organ played. I took the photograph below in the cathedral last October.

The organ, built by the firm of Sauer, in Frankfurt an der Oder, in eastern Germany, is the country's biggest organ. It has four manual console (so four keyboards) and 7,269 pipes. The cathedral was damaged by bombing in WWII, and the organ was exposed to the elements for quite a number of years, until reconstruction began in 1975.

The organ sounds sweet, but I guess that's the work of Sauer

* Sorry. The puns are getting worse. Although they haven't yet gone from bad to verse.

From the archive

2009-07-09T01:17:00.007+02:00

I was looking around online for something else tonight and found this article. It raises a few questions, not the least of which is why a gentleman with two university degrees would work for 45 years (!) as a waiter. Admittedly, my American dining experiences are limited in the extreme, but it seems to me (and perhaps I just never ate in the right places) that waiters in the States are somewhat unctuous, and that a well-rounded education and an ability to expound upon "matters animal, vegetable and mineral" - not to mention knowing "what is meant by 'commissariat'" would be considered if not useless, then at least a definite hindrance to one's professional and social development.

Or maybe not.

The Palmer House Hotel in Chicago has a very interesting history. It opened on 26 September 1871 but burned down thirteen days later in the Great Chicago fire. A tremendously large loan was secured forthwith and rebuilding commenced immediately. It reopened in 1875 and was billed as "The World's Only Fireproof Hotel". So one would hope!

It was rebuilt as a 25-story hotel on the same site between 1923-25, in such a way that business could continue more or less as usual and was sold to Conrad Hilton in December 1945 - from which time it's been the Palmer House Hilton.

Interestingly, Oscar Wilde, Rudyard Kipling, and Charles Dickens (the author, one would assume, not Charles "What the" Dickens - industrial lubricant salesman from Boise, Idaho) have all been guests there.*

So maybe having a brace of degrees would indeed work to a chap's advantage.

* Update: There is no way Dickens could have stayed there. He died in 1870, and the hotel was opened for the first time in 1871. I've a good mind to write to the woman who wrote the article about Palmer House in which she claimed Dickens was a guest.

** Update on the update. I went back to the erroneous article but, conveniently enough, there are no author or editor details available. Never mind, you read it here first: Charles Dickens, author, never stayed there!

*** Final update for tonight, and also final proof of my persnickety pedantry: I wrote to the website which published this erroneous "fact" and asked them to change it. Further research, though, shows that even on a "Palmer House Backgrounder" issued by the company which now owns the hotel, Dickens really is purported to have stayed there. I will find an email address for these people and write to them, asking for an explanation - proof, if they will furnish it - that a dead man was allowed to check into the hotel. Surely that contravenes some kind of protocol.

In-Kassel-rated (or: Grime and Punishment in Provincial Germany)

2009-07-09T01:06:00.012+02:00

The astute among you would have already realised that I am not back in Australia. As mentioned on these pages, I managed to find a job at the last minute and have been able to extend my time in the Glorious Fatherland (more or less indefinitely, I hope. But that will be largely subject to the whims and vicissitudes of the public servants in the Immigration Department).

There was one small catch, though. To begin my job as an English teacher, peddling instruction in the ancient tongue of Shakespere, Wordsworth, and Walter Winchell, I had to move to Kassel. This itself wasn't such a terrible proposition, despite the fact that this fine town will not be winning any civic beauty prizes in the next eternity or so. (Not wanting to break the fine camera my father gave me before I left the Wide Brown Land, I have taken minimal photos of my new environs: I promise that as soon as I invent some kind of a filter which is more powerful than putting a paper bag over the lens, I'll take some pictures and get them uploaded.) What was both appalling and vexing was finding somewhere to live (and later, finding signs of life amongst the ruins of civilisation).

Finding a room in Kassel was not easy. I made several day trips from Berlin in late May to meet potential flatmates and reconnoitre possible rooms. I was depressed and dismayed by the experience (and I would like to publicly salute the Gräfin and thank her for remaining encouraging and optimistic in the face of my despair). Some highlights - if we can call them that - of the experience were:

The very nice fellow who was renting a room in an artistically shabby apartment. The only downside to this was that the building is on a main road - so the room is loud - and it also gets direct sun; so it was loud and hot. I thanked him and left as fast as I could. Then went to meet;

A strange pair of friends who were renting a room in their showroom. Well, it was really an apartment, but I am sure that the nervous girl was wiping things after I touched them (door handles, the floor, etc). We three sat awkwardly around the kitchen table and they interrogated me. Really, they did. Questions were fired. Point blank. Then the next question. So what are my hobbies? What music do I like? (Where to begin? Wagner wouldn't have impressed them, and they looked too normal to be thrilled by the haunting melodies of my favourite klezmorim. I bluffed my way through with a bland answer which hinted at interests below the surface.) After a few more minutes of interrogation (during which the girl-flatmate was developing quite a noticeable nervous tick; her hand was twitching and she was trying valiantly to hide it) they told me "a little bit about themselves". And what I heard was both alarming and too cute for words. They both made a point of asking if I noticed how clean the apartment was. I said yes, I had noticed and I was very impressed - and like a clean apartment myself. Good, they replied, we don't want people thinking that this is just because we are having people to come in a check out the room - we live like this all the time. Fine with me. Then they told me about how they make sure they eat together once a week and how they're great friends with the people who live in the apartment below them and they all like to go into the yard and have barbecues together and the nervous girl-flatmate brings her guitar and they all sing. Ye gods. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. But there was more to come. The Perfect Kids were having a washing machine delivered and it just so happened that my visit coincided with the arrival of the device itself (it didn't come alone, two repairmen had to carry it upstairs. Damned decadent, if you want my opinion! In my day machines knew their place and considered themselves fortunate if they didn't have to walk all the way home from the workshop. But I digress...). Despite the odd conversation that had dragged on for some time before this, I was still considering the possibility of moving in with these people - it was a room, at a a good price, and I figured that I could keep more or less to myself anyway, and not get inveigled into their cuter-than-cute social life (leaving this grey and crumbling town most Fridays for the Gräfin's welcoming arms in Berlin helps a lot too). But I happened to carefully observe the Nervous Girl as the workmen were very carefully carrying their washing machine into the kitchen (this is not so unusual; a lot of apartments in Germany - perhaps throughout Europe? - have washing machines in the kitchen, space is at a premium!). The Girl's nervous tick was in full flight and her anxiety was palpable. It go so bad that she actually walked away from the scene of the horror (while the workmen knelt carefully by the washing machine, and took great care to make sure that it was clean, and carefully installed). I took my leave of the twoshortly afterwards and knew that I could never, ever, live in such a place.

So were my first two apartment visits. Before I went to see the first place, I dropped by the school and spoke to Frau Doktor S, my new boss. She was a little surprised that I had only arranged to see two apartments that day - I would have seen more, but there weren't any more available; another bugbear I have with the whole experience is that people did not bother to reply to my emails of enquiry (sent through the website where the rooms were listed). Not even a courtesy "thanks for your interest, but the room's full". Nothing. So two rooms were the most I could arrange to see. The Frau Doktor's advice was to check out the room postings at the University. As with Unis everywhere, the notice boards in the library were overflowing with request for flatmates, tutoring help, or offers of cheap furniture. I perused the lists but found nothing that wasn't already advertised online (and the Perfect Kids had also placed several ads there - my magnanimity was so great that I didn't tear their notices down; the room would appeal to someone. Maybe a Psychiatry graduate student?).

I went back to Berlin with fear chilling my heart. I had to move house. And fast. And there was nothing on the horizon. I redoubled my search of the web and found several more suitable places - again, I sent out another 10 enquiry emails or sms and got but three replies. One of which I got on the train on my way back down two days later.

One of the apartments I was especially interested in seeing was a two person WG (WG, as you'll no doubt remember, means aWohngemeinschaft - literally, a living society). A gentleman named Frank was advertising room near the University (which, in Kassel is also near the middle of the town). I was interested. I sent Frank an sms and asked if I could see the room on Thursday. He replied that I certainly could and that I should let him know, when I was on my way down, what time I'd be there. The other room was with a bunch of students, and the third was with a German guy and a Japanese guy - an interesting mix, or so I thought.
I sent Frank an sms from the train and suggested a time to meet. He replied that it was fine, but that I should go to S--- Straße - not to the address he'd advertised online. Very well. More about this later.

My first appointment was at the student house. My heart sank the closer I got to it. It's in a light industrial area of town, and the building itself is a large box, badly painted, with cracked concrete and rusting bits of metal strewn around behind it. This is the "garden". I was buzzed in to the building, and had to breathe through my mouth going up the stairs. The smell wasn't so offensive, it was just ... odd. I was met at the door by a jovial enough guy who showed my into the room he was renting. It was through another room (!) and was the size of a large cupboard. For €230 a month.

I drank a coffee with the guy and then beat a hasty retreat, promising to call him the next day (I wanted to hedge my bets, just in case the other rooms were even more appalling. At this late point I really needed to find somewhere to live and would have settled for that place, even for a couple of months, just to have a roof over my head - the idea of sleeping under the desks at the school didn't seem like a very appealing option).

My next appointment was with Frank, at the address he'd sent me by sms when I was on the train (not the room that was advertised on the internet). When I got there a young guy, B--, met me and showed me the room. It looked good. It was clean, but somewhat full of stuff. Not to worry, I thought, rooms are always empty when you move in.

We drank another coffee in the kitchen (which, at the time, was quite clean). B-- seemed quite nice, and we chatted about all kinds of things. I had to take my leave after 20 minutes because I had another appointment - to see the room with the Japanese guy and the German (which was entirely by chance; the German guy had also sent me an sms and said the best time to view the room was on Friday after 7pm. When I told him that I was only in Kassel that day, he agreed to be there for me to come around at 4).

So at 4 I presented myself at the door to the building. I pressed the button and was let in. It's common practice here, when receiving visitors of guests to (obviously) let them in to the building, but then open the door of your apartment - especially for first-time visitors, because it lets them do rather necessary things... like actually find where you live. I trawled up and down the staircase twice (it was a four-floor apartment). All the doors were shut, and I couldn't see the name of my contact on any of the doorbells. Great. I was just about to leave the building and write the whole thing off as a fool's errand, when suddenly a grinning (and unmistakably) Japanese face appeared beaming into the stairwell two floors above me. I jogged back up (no mean feat for someone whose idea of gruelling exercise is getting out of bed and having a shower in the morning) and shook hands with the oriental gentleman. Suddenly, and entirely unexpectedly, a middle aged German chap lumbered out of a side room and asked to see my Studentenausweis (basically my student card). I said I didn't have one. He looked at me askance. What did I mean by saying zat I did not have one? Zis room vill be only for students available!

Oh. I said, glad to have an excuse to get out of there. Well gee, that's just too bad.
The big guy glared at me, then at the Japanese fellow, and asked me where I'd read about the room. On (a reputable website, more or less like RealEstate.com.au) was my answer. The German guy snorted and asked the Japanese fellow just where he'd posted the ads, and did he - as intstructed - stipulate that the room was to be for students only? Stammering his apologies, the Japanese guy said that he'd forgotten to write that and he blushed deeply. This was no problem for me, I was happy to get out of there as soon as I could.

The German guy told me to called Frau --- and that she would be able to set me up with a room. No problems. I went as far as writing her name and telephone number, even though I knew that there was no chance in hell I was going to get involved with these people.
I made my excuses and got out of there. On my way back to the train station I texted Frank and told him that I was interested in the room and that I'd call him the next morning from Berlin and get some details.

That was the beginning of a string of very interesting experiences, which will be retold in my next posting. It's now 1am and with eyes burning and heavy I will take myself to bed. More details to come soon.

TTFN!

Finding a room of one's own can be fraught with difficulty!

Oy! Kids and Yiddish?

2009-07-08T16:16:00.003+02:00

I thought I'd gone mad too!

... with thanks and a tip o' the yamulke to Mitzi G Burger.

The Absolute Last Word on German Pig Breeding (Or Indeed Any Other Kind of Pig Breeding) (I Promise!)

2009-05-31T23:18:00.004+02:00

This has gone from the mildly interesting to, for me at least, the mildly obsessive, by way of the lewd, suggestive, crass, and frankly-in-poor-taste. I will now clear matters up on the proceedings at the Eros Centre at breeding time. (Which will be of more interest to my readers than what happens at the Eros Centre when it isn't breeding time, because I think things would be rather quiet there indeed.)

The boar is lead among the sows, like a pool boy strutting through a nightclub heaving with bored housewives, to get them all into the mood. Apocryphal evidence also suggest that some farmers like to play soothing music (Mozart, more so than Barry White) to the sows, to help ease their worried minds. The day of this processional is picked carefully, so that the farm workers will be able to have their weekends off (and any public holidays which may fall at the time) and that the sows will then be in sufficient heat to be inseminated at a time which is convenient for the labour laws, or general convenience of the farmer.

The farmer-sitting-test involves, literally, the farmer sitting on the back of the sow. This is done to ensure that she is sufficiently relaxed (apparently a sexually aroused sow is a calm sow, and this can be most easily tested by trying her out as a seat). When she makes a good sofa (a sowfa?), the farmer can then tie her down and slide the old syringe o' sperm deep into her inner grottoes and fire away. Why is she tied down if she's so relaxed? I don't know for sure, but I imagine that even the most sanguine sow would become a little vexed if her, shall we say, beaches were stormed by a grinning farmhand with a bottle of lube and a really long syringe.

The insemination is performed on all mothers-to-be on the same day and this day is calculated so that the sows will all deliver at more or less the same time, and the farmer can then also schedule the birthing, the neutering (where necessary) and the eventual despatch of all suitable candidates for the breakfast table or sausage factory.

As for throughput per day (in either numbers of sows eingespritzed, or litres of stock-semen depleted) I cannot venture a number, and would assume it's more or less a trade secret, but a lot would depend, I suppose, on how long the farmer lingered over his work. Taking the time to stroke the hairy flanks of his little moneymakers, before warming the shaft of the syringe in his armpit, smearing a little lubricant around and sliding it deep inside his beloved sows, perhaps also while nibbling an earlobe or two and muttering soft, sweet words of consolation. Who can say?

My jokes about the joys of German efficiency were met with polite chuckles before I was quickly assured that this is indeed the case for all pig farms and indeed the Danes have even more pigs than the Germans. Be that as it may, the image of the precision-inseminating German farmer is an enduring (and, dare I say, endearing) one indeed!

Modesty, and a desire to maintain the convivial mood at table, prohibited me from canvassing my interlocutors for their opinions about the moral and ethical treatment of pigs in such farms (some images I have seen from US pig farms are appalling and horrifying in the extreme), but one can only assume that a trip to the Eros Centre would be the highlight of a sow's life on a modern pig farm, even if it means that her body is being used as a factory-within-a-factory.

A Porking We Shall Go (Again!) Or: The Commercialisation of the Copulatory Habits of German Swine, A Thrilling Redux

2009-05-22T11:34:00.015+02:00

New information has come to light, my meaty mates, about the ins and outs of pig breeding in the Fatherland. I mentioned to the Gräfin last night that I had written a short note about this, and she was kind enough to elaborate on the process. I promise that all of the following is actual practice.

The procedure, the same as every year, is thus:

The female pigs are in their pens. You must imagine that they are like a nightclub full of bored housewives. They are in the mood, ready for action. The farmer knows this, and parades the male pig along the passageways, letting the females smell him and reach a state of arousal. The farmer knows a female pig is aroused when she will let him sit on her back (! - Ed.). The female pigs are then lead (one at a time, we can only assume - Ed.) into the Eros-Centre whereupon they are strapped in place and the male pig is then introduced, and nature is allowed to take its course (!! - Ed.).

How this introduction takes place remains a matter for conjecture. Knowing the Germans as I do, I can only imagine that the intercession of friends and interested acquaintances is required, and that both parties must be allowed sufficient time to become familiar with each other, and after the expiration of an unofficial, but clearly understood, time the proceedings are allowed to follow their natural course.

This must indeed be the case, and it must be quite successful, because pork remains (despite the smear campaign in the international media about swine flu) astoundingly popular here. In fact, it can sometimes be quite difficult to beef if you shop too late in the day. The scant supplies of same often sell out, and no matter how reduced the pork stocks are, they still outnumber beef by a good four-to-one.

The informative illustration on this van, which I saw in the western town of Krefeld last year, provides a graphic illustration of the processes to which I alluded to with technical terms and circuitous references in these articles. The text reads: "This is how pork is made". As if there was any doubt as to the artist's educational aim!

Being well... bread

2009-05-19T14:40:00.011+02:00

This has been some time in the making, Food Friends (about 10 minutes in a moderate oven, none of those Right-wing ovens for me thanks!). But the time is now ripe for me to admit my latest in a string of harmlessly eccentric addictions (so far limited to: wanting to live in Germany; saying "what ho" with rather tiresome regularity; looking - fruitlessly most of the time - for references to the works of Wagner in popular culture).

I have discovered canned bread!

The premise of this beautiful marriage between engineering and the culinary arts is that the bread dough is ready-made and then sealed in the can!

There is no kneading required! Indeed, all you need is about €1 or so to buy the can, and an oven to put it in.

The process is also quite simple.

Firstly you open the can (thus triggering the pressure-release of the contents, but not at a velocity which leaves you scraping dough from the walls).

The red triangle leaves the astute chef with no doubt

what (or where-)soever to begin pulling

Your author is seconds away from releasing the viands

Arrows and clear instructions (in Englisch!) leave nothing to chance

Then unroll the packaging, revealing six of the baker's finest, top-to-tail.

The Brötchen (little bread rolls, in German) emerge from their pupal casing somewhat reluctantly. Forceps, or a good, manly, twist-and-pull is advised to remove the last vestiges of the hard exterior

The dough, exposed on the operating table

The Brötchen, prepared for the oven

Once the dough has been scored across the top (I give it a solid 8.5, but the Norwegians gave it a 6 and the French 9), the tray is put into the oven for about 10 minutes - or until the bread's golden brown. Not Gordon Brown. That would require moistening the dough to a grey pallor, removing the back bone from it, and ensuring the majority of its colleagues were corrupt and had fleeced the taxpayers to get their moats dredged and light bulbs replaced.

But I digress.

The finished product will look like this:

The final step is to butter 'em when they're hot, and eat - in copious quantity. Best if consumed with black coffee.

Enjoy!

Curiouser and curiouser

2009-05-19T14:07:00.005+02:00

At breakfast with the Gräfin on Saturday, one of her cats managed to knock over each of our coffee cups in quick succession, soaking a good half of her kitchen in the process. When we went to the local shoppes (for local people!), we found that the lower floor had been flooded by a leaking fire sprinkler. On our way home, we witnessed a car accident by the train station. A blonde girl and a car full of young guys were involved, the blonde was alone and collapsed as soon as she got out of the car. Someone helped her over to the side of the road, and I heard the accident remarked upon in no fewer than three languages. A dubious honour indeed for the protagonists.

Heavy grey clouds were swirling over the neighbourhood and we were glad to get home safely.

It was a very strange day

Makin' bacon

2009-05-10T15:47:00.004+02:00

On Friday night I hoisted several glasses of beer with a convivial group of Veterinary Medicine students. The conversation was free-range indeed, but at an early point took an alarming turn towards the ins and outs of artificial insemination. I have it on good authority, dear reader, that, were we all to become German pig farmers (don't tell the rabbi!), the technical name of the facility we would use to have the procedure performed on our herds is the Eros-Centre.

And that's no pork pie!

Brünnhilde and Hans-Dieter bide their time in Farmer Schmidt's bottom paddock waiting for their room at the Eros-Centre to be made ready

One thing leads to another

2009-05-07T13:20:00.007+02:00

I was casting about for some examples of German noble family names, as one does, and came across this line in the Wikipedia article about the House of Windsor (which became so, largely to pander to public opinion, something about a war on the Continent at the time..., upon Royal Proclamation in 1917):

"Upon hearing that his cousin had changed the name of the British royal house to Windsor, German Emperor Wilhelm II remarked jokingly that he planned to see Shakespeare's play The Merry Wives of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha."

Huzzah! Who says Kaiser Bill had no sense of humour?

"I did! Do you sink zat just any joker can wear ein helmet like zis?"

On a whim...

2009-05-07T12:50:00.002+02:00

... I thought I'd check out the cost and availability of tickets to the annual Wagner festival at Bayreuth. Imagine my surprise (and if you can't, I'll tell you it was great indeed) when I found there were tickets still available. So, I said to myself, what'll it be? Maybe Die Meistersinger? Very well. I clicked through to the booking page and then nearly fell off my seat when I read the prices. The cheap seats for that performance are €690!

I'll do a bit of research and see if they're screening anything in the town square again this year. If they are, I'll take my beer and sausage and bread and mustard and go down to rub shoulders with the poor but cultured folk (my people indeed!).

On the Bummel

2009-05-06T12:54:00.004+02:00

I have just finished reading Jerome K Jerome's "Three Men on the Bummel", the seqeul, of sorts, to his "Three Men in a Boat". What made this book so interesting to me at this point in my career is that the infamous three men take themselves off for a bicycling tour of Germany. Of course the exploits of George, Harris and J are colourful and involve the usual number of scrapes and close escapes, but what made it especially good reading were the many observations J makes of Germany and the Germans (many which had me nodding in agreement, it seems not much has changed in the Fatherland in 109 years). I'd encourage anyone with a taste for whimsy and a love of a ripping yarn to pick themselves up a copy.

But for now I will leave you, dear Reader, with this quote:

The Germans are a good people. On the whole, the best people perhaps in the world; an amiable, unselfish, kindly people. I am positive that the vast majority of them go to heaven. Indeed, comparing them with the other Christian nations of the earth, one is forced to the conclusion that heaven will be chiefly of German manufacture. But I cannot understand how they get there. That the soul of any single individual German has sufficient initiative to fly up by itself and knock on St Peter's door, I cannot believe. My own opinion is that they are taken there in small companies, and passed in under the charge of a dead policeman.

All the news that's Fritz to print

2009-04-29T12:49:00.002+02:00

I would like to be able to say that when I was four years old, a wizened gypsy woman took me onto her lap, made an arcane symbol with sacred water on my forehead, and sent me running along with the wish that I have "an interesting life".

But that would be utter bunkum.

Life is, however, boundlessly interesting. I have, at the absolute last minute, found a job (my visa ran out on the 25th, and I got a job offer on the 22nd!). And have made a swathe of new German friends. And have an appointment at the Auslanderbehörde on the 14th of May (the getting of which proved quite interesting. More about that below).

I have variously discovered the manifold delights of Gothic nightclubs, the writing of HP Lovecraft, lightly-spiced Frischkäse, and have renewed my appreciation of Neil Gaiman's writing, I still fail to feel anything but lumbering boredom from the writing of Poe, and have turned the first sod on several of my own short stories.

The job I have found is a humble position teaching English in Kassel. To which town I will move in the coming weeks - finding a shared apartment &c is of rather great importance at the moment. But I have heard that the living there is, with a nod to the brothers Gershwin, easy. And cheap. Which suits my somewhat straitened means.

I went to the AB last week to try and inveigle them into giving me an extension to the visa, knowing full well that I would have to do the main administrative work in Kassel. The very nice lady at the information desk, a Frau Lehmann, told me that I need to register myself at the Bürgeramt (the City Hall, which I knew I should have done, but pleaded my lack of a fixed address and peripatetic tendencies in general as reasons why I hadn't). The good Frau L sent me on my way, and said that I should go with all speed to Rathaus Wedding and do it there. Ye gods, and all that's sacred! What an experience that was! Not only did I have to sit on demonically-crafted slippery plastic chairs for three hours, but I saw such a spectacle of Humanity that I feel myself kept in good writing material for at least a year!

After waiting three hours, periodically sliding off the seat and onto the floor, where children cavorted, several dogs slept, and many a boot had trod, my number came up and I timidly pushed through the heavy doors into the inner sanctum and found the numbered desk to which I was to report.

A woman lay in wait for me there, and immediately let fly with a flurry of German commands. I gave her all the papers I had, but she only wanted the Wartenummer (the ticket with the number on it, which also – as proof of someone’s grim sense of humour – has the number of people waiting before you. There were 98 in my case). Ok. Fine. Take it. You can even take my wife! Just let me get out of here!

She asked me a few questions, one of which I got embarrassingly wrong – is your apartment to the left, or right of the treppenhaus (staircase). I said left, and she raised an eyebrow at me, shook her head as one does when regarding an especially dim cretin, and asked me if I wasn't sure it was the right? Yes, I murmured. It's to the right.

I embarrassed myself in a similar way several more times and she let me go; having registered my whereabouts for whatever nefarious purpose The Powers That Be collect such information.

I hove back to the AB as fast as my legs would carry me, and I made it back at 5.30. The AB closes at 6.

The good Frau Lehmann had given me a little slip of paper which allowed me to return to her counter "ohne Wartezeit". The apoplectic little fellow who guards the queue (he's about 5 feet nothing tall, and as pompous as they come) interrogated me, and made a great flourish of getting his reading glasses out and peering at Frau L's promissory note. Looking at me askance, he gestured for me to proceed and showed me exactly where I was to wait - in order to be within eyesight of Frau L, but to preserve the privacy of the gesticulating Spaniards who were negotiating something with that good woman.

Of course it would not do to have Frau L, that kindly, good woman take care of the whole matter, and let me leave, the ink wet on my visa, singing a hymn of praise to the Fatherland and its honest public servants. No. I had to go to the Third Floor.

Somewhere a large, shirtless, and very primitive group of men started beating enormous drums.

Or maybe it was just my own heartbeat.

Quaking in me boots, I began the forced march upstairs. Almost as soon as I got there and had taken a seat in what was left of the afternoon sunlight, I shrill little creature propelled herself from a dark doorway and rasped out my number. Einhundert achtundsiebzig!

I leapt up, clicked my heels, and marched over to her. Or at least tried to, but the strap of my shoulder bag got caught, and I stumbled a bit and got quickly reeled back to the seat. It took me a second of burning embarrassment to untangle myself, and I finally, sheepishly, got to the woman. Whose patience and tolerance and kindness hadn't matured over time.

To make a long story short, this grizzled little campaigner started straight away yelling at me. What do you want? An extension? IMPOSSIBLE! You've left this too late! Have you registered? What? Today? Don't you know it's the law in Germany to register yourself immediately upon moving into a new apartment? I don't care if you've been travelling for a year! You've had a whole year! And what do you mean by getting a job at the last minute? Don't you know how inconvenient that is for me? An extension? IMPOSSIBLE! You need more documentation! And an appointment! I can't do anything about this now! Do you have insurance? You need an appointment! You've had a whole year! And that's a long time!

And more in this vein.

It took (to employ an ill-advised double-negative) a not-inconsiderable effort of will on my part to not: yell back at her; speak English; wet myself from the fear that I would be kicked out of Germany on the whim of this nasty little creature; cry and beg for mercy.

I hope I maintained manly dignity, and the upshot of the whole thing was that I got an appointment for the 14th, and a list of things I need to prepare and bring with me (proof of my university degree being among them!) Yikes.

Beholden to the Behörden

2009-04-17T07:59:00.006+02:00

It is not only Gregor Samsa who wakes from "troubled dreams" to realise that he's, well, buggered. Yours truly has just had what is now safely classifiable as "The Dream" about visiting the Auslanderbehörde to get my visa extended. First, the reasons why I want to extend my visa: I have, at long last, not one, not two, but indeed three job interviews arranged for the coming weeks. On Monday I am going to Kassel, the following week to Augsburg, and at the end of the first week in May I have an interview in Stuttgart. I hope, for many reasons - proximity to Berlin being among them - that I get the job in Kassel. But whichever of these positions I am offered (and they're all for English teachers) I will need to get a temporary extension for my visa, which expires on the 25th.

To get the extension I need to go to the Auslanderbehörde, the Immigraton Department. The arcane rituals of the place are daunting to say the least (justification for this wariness is borne out by the fact that the Germans themselves always want to avoid the various Behörden). One can only visit between certain hours on Monday, Tuesday or Thursday. I have heard horror stories wherein hundreds of people queue and are dealt with by irritable and overworked public servants on a seemingly arbitrary basis. My greatest fear is, of course, twofold (a onefold fear just wouldn't be terrifying enough), firstly, that I won't speak enough German to navigate my way through (which is probably unfounded, I can hold my own in the local tongue, although bureaucratic German is another matter), and secondly, and this is the root of my recurring nightmare, that my visa is not extended and I have to leave, forthwith. And not just the office, but indeed, the country.

I doubt this will happen.

I am making sure that my papers are in order and, well, the rest is out of my control. Although I don't see why, with travel insurance and job interviews coming up, I shouldn't be allowed the extension.

But when have nightmares ever faded in the face of rationality? The rational, sensible, daylight way of seeing things is always twisted and contorted and the horrible, unthinkable opposite is given free reign in the nightmare kingdom. So it comes as no surprise that I woke at an early hour this morning having had the same blasted dream as the last three nights about being wrestled to the ground by a heavy and strong man and then being kicked out ... of wherever I was. The locations always vary, as does the appearance of the man, but the elements of being overwhelmed, overpowered, and evicted remains.

There is hope! Of the most tenuous kind, to be sure, but there's hope. And it takes the strangest form. After my mother died in 2005, a friend of mine told me about a strange phenomenon whereby the recently bereaved person is shown some kind of sign from the departed that things are fine. The sign takes the specific form of a white feather in an incongruous location - so the aviary section of the zoo would not be the place to start announcing one had received signs from Beyond, nor would the seaside, with its attendant flocks of seagulls, be that ideal either. I have actually experienced this on a number of occasions. Once, shortly after my mother died, I was returning to the metrop. after a rather maudlin weekend at the family manor, when lo!, there on the floor of the train was a 6-inch long pure white feather. I also found one of about equal length in Austria, sitting atop a chopped-up pavement by a construction site. And most recently, I was strolling my neighbourhood last night, thinking about my visa, and getting a job, and going back to Australia (perish the thought!) and my mother, and, well, things... and there, in the middle of an intersection, was another long, white feather. I nearly caused an accident with the cyclist who was coming along apace behind me when I did a double-take, stopped, and walked back to look at it. Luckily I wasn't in too consuming a daze and sidestepped with a murmured apology at the last possible moment. But there it was, undeniably large, pure white, and in the most unlikely place.

So, does this mean I will get a visa and then a job and live happily in the Fatherland, teaching English to eager students and honing my own writing skills in the evenings? I definitely hope so, but I suspect that the success of this venture has a little more to do with getting my papers in order and being competent in the interview, and a little less to do with plumulary findings!

On the train

2009-03-15T09:01:00.002+01:00

A strange thing happened on the way back from Amsterdam on Friday. At the border between Holland and Germany the train stopped and several German policemen got on board. The walked the length of the carriage and came over to my seat and asked to see my identification. I took out my passport and the police officer made a call on his mobile phone, and then got off the train with my passport. As he was leaving the carriage I heard him say to someone, in German, that "... he's an Australian", and then the voices became too muffled to hear. Several people stared at me when this happened, and I wondered what was going on. I hadn't brought any souvenirs of a green and bagged variety back from Amsterdam, and I had sat quietly the whole trip reading a strange and interesting book. Just quietly: my heart was pounding and I wondered what was going on!

Several minutes later, Herr von Plod got back on board and gave me my passport back. Muttering his thanks he lumbered away down the aisle to harass another innocent passenger.

We were soon on our way again, and for the rest of the trip the eleven-minute delay was only explained by the fact that the police needed to find a "certain Auslander." Who fortunately was not me.

A First Foray Into German Federal Politics (A True Story)

2008-12-29T00:01:00.007+01:00

I've made my fair share of jokes about governance in Germany. Admittedly, most of these jokes have consisted of my imitating a toothbrush moustache by holding my index and middle fingers under my nose and using that voice to exhort "... meine Kameraden! Wir bleiben Tot-aaaaaaal in Krieg!" - in a manner suggestive of Germany's first-ever Gastarbeiter (a certain Austrian demagogue - you all know who he is! - one of whose catch-cries to his "Comrades" was that should stay "totally at war". I guess nobody ever had the chutzpah to ask if it was possible to stay only partly at war, say Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Friday mornings. I'd imagine the answer would have been swift and unequivocal).

Anyway, as luck would have it, my friend CA was visiting Berlin and the Young Master and I thought we'd take her somewhere "indicative of the people and their culture". So it came to pass that we were standing in a very dubious pub called "Kumpelnest 3000" (which translates as "Mates' Nest 3000") a week or so ago. At an advanced stage of the evening, it was brought to my attention that the General Secretary of the SPD (the Social Democrats) was standing just there! But don't look!

Feh!

Of course I looked! And then caught his eye. And raised my glass in a toast. Which, naturally enough, lead to a conversation opening between your correspondent and the Generalsekretär and his sidekicks. Modesty forbids me from recounting the most interesting parts of the evening, but one thing lead to another and, after a manly round or three of beers courtesy of the SPD, your correspondent found himself with an application form before him, and a pen being thrust into his hand. Ye gods, I managed to stammer, surely you don't want me... a foreigner... but I can't vote here... and have no money to donate... what? ... why? The cheering grew louder as I stumbled my way through writing out my particulars. Foolishly (a thousand curses!) I gave the blighters my real name, address, and mobile number (but writing under the influence, in the dark, leaning against a less-than-perfectly-smooth wall might well have - and hopefully had - reduced my already dubious handwriting to a thoroughly illegible scrawl)!

I have not heard a word from the Party since, and indeed it must have been nothing more than a sly trick to get more members because as soon as I signed on the line, the party moved on to other dark and sticky corners of the public house, leaving yours truly with a slightly bilious taste in his mouth and the sinking feeling he'd been used. Indeed, the Gen Sec and Gang threw only a handful more comments in my direction for the rest of the night. And these were cut somewhat short when I asked the personal secretary to the Gen Sec if they were working the room or if it was out of convivial optimism about my political future that they wanted me to join. The whole lot of them up and left within five minutes.

In all, it was a very strange night - and one that endeared the 'Nest to me no end. In fact CA and I went back there the next night, and on our way befriended a Hungarian Buddhist and then in the course of the evening met all kinds of new people - a large African man with an aversion to wearing shirts, a chap who makes false teeth for a living, and, as luck would have it, an Australian Psychology student who had just moved to Berlin form Melbourne to be with her German boyfriend (physician, heal thyself! - I restrained myself from bellowing). Another memorable night ensued, but you just can't beat the SPD to get the Partei, or rather, the party, started!

The Philosophical Appliances In My Apartment

2008-12-20T19:17:00.007+01:00

The Young Master and I observed last week that all the appliances in our apartment are in conversation with each other. The hot water heater ticks and clatters on the wall in the bathroom, the oven groans its complaint whenever it's pressed into service, the fridge loiters in the corner of the kitchen coughing and wheezing and, most astonishingly, the kettle offers its opinion about everything discussed within its hearing by springing its lid up of its own accord!

This really is a most remarkable thing: it works almost without fail.

Whenever we are having a heated conversation and either the Young Master or I make a good point about something, the general enthusiasm is usually doubled by the support of the kettle popping up his lid - with a loud noise - in agreement. Because of his unfailing good sense and manly reason, we even have, on occasion, deferred to the kettle, letting him give us the benefit of his wisdom for our guidance and enlightenment.

And he has not let us down! The kettle's grasp of current affairs is second only to the BBC World Service (where, I suspect, he gets most of his information), and the diplomatic aplomb with which he guides and corrects us makes it almost an insult to heat mere water in his inner chambers. I sometimes feel as though we should fill him with a pulp made from the best newspapers and scholarly Journals and let the accumulated wisdom of the world boil within him for a bit longer, if only so that his expert commentary might be that little bit more salient.

Of course the kettle also keeps tabs on the running discussion of all the other appliances, even the inane gurgling of water in the pipes doesn't escape its notice, and it occasionally lets its feelings be known on various other matters, but truly, its ability to agree with our conversations is unique indeed.

Our resident philosopher, the kettle

The most German of German Captains

2008-11-24T22:24:00.015+01:00

While doing some research for a short story I'm going to write, I discovered that there was an airship captain called Ernst August Lehmann. He was a protégé of the great Dr Eckener, and was eventually the commander of the ill-fated Hindenburg (of bursting into flames and "oh the humanity!" fame). He came into conflict with the Doktor when he, Lehmann, once crashed an airship when he took off for a Nazi propaganda flight in a wind that was too strong. Dr E was apoplectic, berating Lehmann for wanting to appease Herr Goebbels at the expense of "their enterprise".

The Captain was also an accomplished accordion player and would entertain his passengers with (I *promise* I'm not making this up) "renditions of Wagner pieces or German folk songs". Now that is travelling in style!

Captain Lehmann takes a break from

playing an unabridged Tannhäuser

to pose for our photographers

A short note about names: I just realised what a singular name the good Captain has. In German, "Ernst" means serious, grave, solemn etc (the Germans are generally fond of what they call "Ernst reden", ie serious conversation, as differentiated from "unterhalten" chatting, or making light conversation), and "August" means the month and, by extension to the English-speaker at least, august in the sense of gravitas, might, "his august presence" etc. And yet, being German, and thus being contradictory in the extreme, Lehmann was a risk-taker and an accordionist! Down with conformity! Long live individuality!

The Doors

2008-11-22T19:42:00.005+01:00

Have no fear dear reader, my music taste hasn't changed radically in the last... well, ever. But I've just uploaded pictures I've taken of some doorways I've seen during my travels. Click the mysterious portal below to be transported...

The Amazing One-man Act! Coming Soon to a Sanatorium Near You!

2008-11-21T17:37:00.006+01:00

Sometimes it's fun to tell yourself a joke (especially if you're home alone and feeling sad). So I did.

Man 1: I say! I say! I say! My wife went to the West Indies this morning!

Man 2: Oh really? Jamaica?

Man 1: No, she went of her own accord!

(Given that this morning's euphoria has worn off, I think the weather may be getting to me. I even did all the voices myself, given the lack of an Abbott to my Costello, or a Laurie to my Fry. Yikes.)

In which an Antipodean gent shows an acute lack of specific Meteorological knowledge

2008-11-21T11:03:00.013+01:00

There is something falling from the sky. It is white, and soft, and melts when it hits the ground. It's happening now, and I am dashing from the keyboard to my window back to the keyboard. Whatever this is, and I don't think it's snow, it's beautiful to watch, but doesn't turn out well in a photograph. Could it be sleet? The temperature here is about 3 deg, so I think it's too warm (!) for snow. And I had always (perhaps erroneously) believed that sleet was hard and driven into your face like nails when you ventured out in a heavy storm to take bad news to someone. I may also have read too many 19th C novels.

Updates - and perhaps pictures of this phenomenon? - to come.

*** UPDATE ***

It is snow! Hurrah!

The first pictures of what has now been confirmed as being real snow, taken from your reporter's bedroom window:

(Yes, I think I will have to wear every stitch of clothing I own and go out and walk around the city for a bit and take photographs.)

*** FURTHER (and probably final) UPDATE ***

It's stopped snowing (about an hour after it began), and as far as I can see the only bits that remain are odd patches on various bicycle seats (which will alarm and dismay anyone who leaps onto said conveyance without taking due care), and there may be a little pile of snow in a crevice somewhere down near our garbage bins. Oh well, more's forecast for the weekend!