Karnival!

Today is the very last day of Faschings, the German equivalent of Mardi Gras. I am sporting green hair, striped leggings and some obscenely unatural 'makeup' (that's Deutsch for 'makeup') and I shall head to the Bamberg parade with my classmates in a few minutes. We went on a fieldtrip to Würtzberg on Sunday and experienced 190 floats worth of celebration, plus an extremely friendly (and drunk) Viking and some mysterious German aliens, with whom we had our photos taken. The excursion was supposed to be for learning about the fancy churches, the Residence and other sorts of historical curiosities, but the excitment, color, and alcohol of Karnival was simply unavoidable, thank Gott. (I can only bear so many golden crucifixes in one day).

Bamberg is not quite so enthusiastic about this holiday time (which began 11 November) as Würtzberg, so we'll see how the parade plays out. I'm certain there will be candy tossed towards the sparsely populated streets, and perhaps perhaps perhaps at least a small number of beer bottles smashed on the cobblestones, but uncomparable to the eccentricity and drunkeness experienced the other day.

On Saturday, I traveled to Nürnberg with a woman from school. We went to see the old rallygrounds and the document center, which is a Huge museum about WWII. I learned so much there that I hadn't picked up on before, and saw a brief film interviewing older folks who were young at the time that Hitler had the Congress hall built in their city. The perspectives were Extremely interesting for someone like me, who has heard only the American version of the events. For these people, the whole situation was about 'fitting in', and acting as a community. Hitler united the people by making them feel special (through alienation, among other tactics), and of course that's what one seeks when they are young, so OF COURSE they marched in the displays, with pride! I thought of American politics several times in the exhibit. Very unnerving, the whole experience, but could it happen again? Not exactly, but almost, I believe. Shudder.

The Bluest Eye

The Germans have eyes like the sea. Rich blue, dark blue, glass blue, clear blue, grey blue, green blue, all shades of luminescent beauty. They peek out from behind personalities which I find average, normal, without flourish, some more rigid than others, quite serious, VERY concerned about jaywalking. They are hidden by the Coca-colonialism that seems to dictate this German life as much as it does American. These eyes of such color, they are a treat, an überraschen, unexpected like a wish, and are perfect for gazing, should one get the chance.

My teachers here in Bamberg, they do not necessarily have the same ideas about language learning as I do, but I think their way works for intensive learning, as is advertised for this school. I have class from 9 to 12:30, with a pause for 30 minutes in the middle, and all morning every morning, the teacher lectures to the students auf Deutsch, about grammar in particular, asking questions of us, allowing us a brief chance to spit out a broken sentence or two using the new knowledge. The students, however, do not speak with one another in the class; always our attention is on the teacher. We do speak a lot out of class though, naturlich.

Beate is the first teacher, with tiger-red hair and the definative yet soft air of a potter. Hers are a pair of light greenbeigeblue eyes, and they are framed rectangularly by metallic lavender glasses. Norbert teaches the second 90-minute section. He always wears a pinstriped suit, and I told him he looked like a Betrüger, a swindler. He has a small ponytail and little dots of white dandruff in his sideburns and on his eyebrows. But his are a very thick grey, his eyes, the texture of cake batter.
My host family is also indigo-eyed, but the sister has the bluest, and they are like fresh marbles anointed with ambrosia. I have eaten dinner with she and her boyfriend for the last two nights. He is a folk-rock musician and sometimes plays at the local Blues Bar. He likes very much Dar Williams and James Taylor, and gave me cds to listen to, but I couldn't bear them for the sake of emotions, both pleasant and not. I travel to make new memories, because the old ones have too much sentiment, whether from the best of times or the worst of times. I am a sponge; I intake everything, and when I am wrung out, something always stays, stinking with mildew.

BUT, all is well, I must say. My German grammar is improving, though my vocabulary is still rawther small. I can recognize what people say when they talk to me, but that is not to say that I understand. It is an impressionistic world when ones language isn't all there, akin to modern art, which I like. So.

Gastronomy

'Scuse me while I get this out of my system:


Ireland's food's not the finest of ilks.
The butter is great, and so are the milks,
but black and white pudding, so salty and strange
and bacon cooked slightly too long on the range;
the fruit and the veg, soft brown or unripe;
the usual order of kidney-stuffed tripe;
(it's all unidentified sections of meat
cooked over a flame made of freshly-dug peat.)

It's true that old Eire is not known for cuisine
but this is the funniest I've ever seen.
Serve anything, though, with such a warm heart
as I've seen here each day since Wednesday, the start,
and I'll eat it with pleasure yet unseen by man,
and then run to the toilet as fast as I can.


Other than that, all is well. There are some fairly delicious items to be eaten, such as Hazelnut Yogurt and Cadbury Creme eggs (much better than the ones in America); but a girl needs real sustenance, too. Last night and the night before, I stayed on Malcolm's couch and yesterday morning we fried up some fresh fish and ate it with home-fried chips. Very yummy. It was a welcome break from the hostel downtown. I've been staying near O'Connell street, which is the main drag of Dublin, but really it is just a bit too cityish sometimes. Malcolm lives in Cabra, a region of the city that is more realistic, and all the little children go around swearing their little mouths to shreds, and it warms my heart like a good, hot whiskey with lemon and cloves.

I've been hitting the pubs, since they are everywhere, but only played tunes in the Old Time session at the Cobblestone on Saturday. The Irish sessions are more strict; they require that one either knows the tunes (which I don't) or can pick them up and make them sound good right away (which I can't). So, I'm happy listening in the pubs. Malcolm and I played a bit together yesterday, and he taught me a couple tunes. I also went set dancing one night with a Japanese girl from my dorm. There was live music, a guitar and a buttonbox. The dancing is akin to square dancing, but with a constant sort of polka step, though that's not exactly what it is; there's a kick in there somewhere. I also happened to meet a guy there who works with Malcolm (the only person I know in the entire city) at Dublin City University.

Hiking on Howth was beautiful on Friday. Howth is a peninsula just north of Dublin, accessible by DART. The cliffs are high and promote spectacular views of the Irish sea, and supposedly you can see Wales on a clear day, but I don't expect there will be a clear day around here for a while. The climate is very much Pacific Northwest; rainy, gray, but with fairly moderate temperatures. There are, in fact, palm trees, and I even spotted a couple of Monkey Puzzle trees, imported from South America.

I must be off for now. Lots has been happening, and I'm getting used to the slightly smaller and much more efficient scale of things around here. The houses, the cars, the tvs, the sinks, and the people are all tiny; the personalities, however, are mighty, and full of stories and laughter. I will return to Ireland, I am certain of it.