Akkordeon Meet's Gospel

Well, I went back to work on Saturday, a little weak, and slower than normal, but successfully. The weekend was absolutely tropical. The air was moist and warm, and it felt so good to be fraternizing with such degrees of freedom. No pains to report, my body is healing well.

A couple of things to note: Sunday was Landestag, which I am led to believe is voting day in these parts. To celebrate, the town Church held a concert, entitled (and I quote) ‘Akkordeon Meet’s Gospel.’ Entry was free, it being a church, so I simply had to investigate.

Upon entering, I found packed pews, and two different groups of uniformed performers were loitering about; one set with white shirts and blue scarves (these were the accordion players) and one with black shirts and rainbow scarves (these were the German gospel singers, non of whom were black, and one of whom I’m certain was either a transvestite or a hermaphrodite, which I noticed because I just finished reading a novel called ‘Middlesex,’ which I highly recommend). I took my seat, and a few minutes later, someone said something into a microphone (in dialect) and the blue scarves proceeded to the front of the church. Men, women, old, young, nerds, beautys, folks of all types, and about 30 of them, claimed their accordions, and their seats. Some of you may know that I have a certain fondness for accordions, a grahamcracker and orange juice sort of a fondness, an afternoon sort of a fondness. Such a strange invention is the accordion, that I am endeared that it has found popularity in so many different traditions. It is gentle, yet powerful, and I was quite thrilled about the performance that was about to be.

They began with ‘Palladio’ from Karl Jenkins, which I recognized immediately as the piece from the Zale’s diamonds ads on TV. Throbbing and mighty, the accordions filled the church, though I could sense an eager fellow rushing one of the parts along. When that was finished, a lovely Piazzolla piece brought memories of Tango-filled evenings in Oregon, and made me crave the dance and reminded me that I haven’t even been out to Tango since I returned from the West. Also at that moment, the sun shone so brightly through the west window behind the group that there was nothing to be seen but light, and it was indeed an Augenblick of pure magic. So beautiful was the Melodia en la menor! Then things got a bit sketchy.

What followed were two pieces from the film ‘Sister Act,’ by all means not intended to be played by 30 German accordionists. I thought maybe the choir would join in to make it heartfelt and spiritual, but their only contribution was some occasional and rather pathetic rhythm clapping from the back of the church, but since the speed of sound isn’t THAT fast, it sounded offbeat. When the first of these pieces were finished, the whole room burst into an incredible applause that one might expect at a Rolling Stones concert, which I suppose was in order, but I wasn’t emoting in that direction. I applauded the first pieces because they moved me, but I clapped for the others to be nice.

The second part of the show was of course the choir, whose program consisted of 10 traditional and nontraditional American gospel songs. They came marching up the aisle in glorious song, enjoying themselves to be sure, but I recognize a stick up the ass when I see one. I’m sorry to say that I chuckled to myself, just a little. Though so pleased that these folks were singing at all, and enjoying themselves, one has to admit that you gotta be black to sing songs like these (for an audience), or at least you have to be able to FEEL them with your entire being. We white folks do them no justice! It was a little bit painful to listen to the choppy German-English wordage coming out of such highly spiritual songs. The people of Friedlingen loved it though, and that is what matters. They were the intended audience, not a mildly judgemental American with poor German skills (who consequently also has a stick up her ass, and certainly wouldn’t be able to sing the songs any better) who believes that if you’re white and you wanna sing these pieces, you MUST be Joss Stone. You Must. Or else an old blind man who sits in a rocking chair on his front porch observing the world with only his heart. To note though, the piano player was AMAZING.

In other news, yesterday was Rosa’s nephew’s birthday, so we took out the party carriage and brought 6 5-year-olds out for a spin with the horses, which was great fun. Die Kinder sind gut um Deutsch zu lernen. Later, we visited the house for delicious Cherry Torte and cappucino, and watched the kids have races with grain sacks, and then with very colorfully decorated hardboiled eggs.

Tonight, I will go with Rosa and Antonia (the youngest daughter) to see Brokeback Mountain in the theater. I’m certain that it will be dubbed, and I have my reservations about that for purity’s sake, but I do like listening to the German words, and can even get a very impressionistic idea of what is going on. I think it’ll be pretty clear though; these Hollywood films are often very visual stories…

Also, bis spater.

Always Wear a Helmet!

On Monday the weather was so lovely that Peter and Rosa suggested that I ride the bicycle to Hohentwiel. Hohentwiel is the name of both the great geological horn which can be seen in the distance from the farm, as well as the castle on top, built in 914 AD. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the temperature was upwards of 14 degrees celcius, and really everything was just so beautiful that my head exploded, resulting in 6 stitches and a night in a German hospital.
The story goes like this: Per the suggestion, I waited until the air warmed slightly, and around 11am ventured into the barn to retrieve a bike. The day before, I had used an older one and gone for a lovely ride on the dirt roads through the fields and along the river, and I thought it would be fine to use again. Then I had another thought, that I should use the Fancy, Newer, Red Bike, because this trip probably included going up hill, and the more up-to-date bike may suit better. I found an air pump, and attempted to inflate the slightly-under-pressured tires of the red bike, but instead only managed to replace any and all air that had been in there with nothingness. After fussing with the device for a while, using it like I would have used any other air puimp, I was stumped, and used the older bike, whose tires were already well inflated, as originally planned.
So I ventured through the fields into Singen, then over a bridge and under the railroad tracks, and there I was at the base of the mountain. I had been told that there was a museum and restaurant somewhere, so I thought I’d leave the bike there as I climbed to the top. I found a sign indicating that these were located just a little way up, so I walked my bike up a slippery snowy path, and soon came to a road, up which I also walked the bike, and then came to the said commercial venues. I parked the bike, went into the museum and bought a ticket to go inside the castle up top, as well as some information in English, and started walking. It wasn’t very far, though very steep, but soon enough I was walking through a cobblestone tunnel into the yard of a Tolkienesque castle. While remaining fully present, I couldn’t help but pretend that the castle was in full working order. I imagined riding horses and hearing their hooves on the stones. I looked out over the wall to see factories and modern houses (though not the Alps, because the air was thick with moisture), but imagined it was only countryside, over which I was the ruler. Yeah yeah, I suppose it’s a generic and expected fantasy, but it really was incredible.
I entered the castle, which was all open (some because it was meant to be, and some simply because much had been lost to age, but mostly because when Napoleon invaded some years back, he tore down all the 'expendable' parts, whatever that means). I went up furthur, to the highest point, and looked around, and sloshed in mud, and then I spread out on a stone bench and absorbed the sun like a greenhouse, bringing my little SK seedlings back to life. It’s been gray here, so I couldn’t help but worship the sun while it lasted.
When I was ready to go, I did so (the joys of traveling alone), and walked back down to where my bike was parked. I had decided that I could be home in a flash to help Rosa with the horses if I just rode down that road that I had come to before, all the way to the bottom, so I hopped on, and rounded a corner. I started to go down. I was going fast, faster than I wanted to be going. It wasn’t the hill on the White Road, the one that was always a relief because it was the final and easy stretch before arriving home. I knew immediately that I had had a lapse in judgement. I also realized that I was not wearing a helmet (I didn’t even think of it when I had started!), nor was I carrying any form of identificaiton, two things I am usually sure to have on me on my American bike.
I couldn’t put the breaks on because I knew I would fly over the handle bars, and there wasn’t really a decent side-of-the-road to resort to, so my only choice was to keep going down and hope for the best.
Ahead, I saw a vineyard, and a fork in the road. The right side looked like a dirt road that didn’t go very far or to anyplace promising. The left fork was the main road, and I decided to try for it. In retrospect, the right fork probably would have been the better choice, because it led to the Winestube where I picked up the bike the next day. The ground was soft there, but not where I landed.
I briefly woke up to find myself lying the road, and I saw some blood. The next eyeblink revealed a red-haired woman holding my hand and speaking German. Then there were two men, and a big red truck, which I assume was the ambulance. It turns out that I was only 50 meters from the hospital.
Next I remember laying in the ambulance, and the sun was shining in. There was a man speaking broken English to me, and I told him my name and address immediately, I think, because that was all I could remember. I didn’t know where I was, not the city, and certainly not the country, nor did I know why I was there, or anywhere. He was saying stuff, but I don’t know what, but then I remembered the names Peter and Rosa, so I said them out loud. Then I remembered their last name and that they lived on a street called Im Zinken in Friedingin. I said I was staying with them, and I think I even said it in German, because of course, this is the sort of stuff they teach you in first year German class, how to say your name, where you’re from and where you’re staying, perhaps for just such an occasion.
I lay there trying to remember things. It was the feeling of taking a nap at an irregular time of day, and not remembering that you had even taken a nap, because it simply felt like the next day, and the next life. It lasted a while, then it went away, and I knew exactly what had happened, and I remembered more and more details everytime someone asked, which many people did. They could mostly understand English, but not speak it so well.
There were 2 policemen, and they questioned me, in German I think, and then when they left, one of them was so pleased when he managed to say ‘Good Bye’ that he became giddy and smiled, like a kid proud of himself for remembering all the capitals of all the states. Or, like me when I finally can say something right in German. I guess it really is a phenomenon of language learning to return to a child-like state, of both excitement and vulnerability.
Rosa showed up eventually and said ‘Oh Kate!’ in an understanding way, because she is a nurse. We waited for a while in the hallway, and were soon (or not so soon) brought to the Xray room, where they took pictures of my head and shoulders. Then I went to another room, where there was a doctor who spoke fairly good English. I appreciated that so many people were trying to speak English to me (even Rosa) because my head was a bit shaken, and even broken English is easier to understand than German, sometimes.
The doctor moved my matted, blood-soaked hair to reveal a wound, which Rosa said was ‘commisch’ because it looked like lightning. The doctor put some mind-numbing cream in my head, and sewed it up. They also had to take some blood, but soon found out about my other identity, Miss Difficult Veins. I told them about her, so they were aware, and eventually managed to find a good candidate, and poked it successfully. The nurses cleaned some of the scrapes on my face and hands. They told me I could go home, since I didn’t feel sick or naseus, and since I had come to my senses. Rosa helped me up. My leg had a big bruise, so I had to sit back down, but within seconds, I felt sick, so my freedom was revoked and I had to stay in the hospital for the night.
They brought me a bed and wheeled me to my room. I had a male nurse, Fabian, because he spoke pretty good English. In Germany, a ‘nurse’ is a ‘Krankenschwester,’ which translates to ‘sick-sister’. So, I asked Fabien if a male nurse was a ‘Krankenbruder,’ which seemed logical to me, but he said no, he was called a ‘Pfleger,’ which means ‘carer.’
Fabien brought me tea and a paper to sign. He said it was about the German Social health care system, and told me all about it in English. It was very interesting, and meant that my bill will not be nearly as high as it would be in America (600 Euro instead of $7483579430547825849036489036478690.50 ) (but still, it’s a good think I took out travel insurance!). Then he left and I heard him repeating, in English, what he had just told me, to his collegues, because he was so pleased that he was able to explain all of it in a foreign language. They, of course, applauded.
I slept the night, and came back to the farm the next day, and have been resting ever since. The diagnosis was nothing severe, just the external wounds, thank God. My leg feels better now, and I don’t have a headache, but my hands are quite scraped, making everyday maneuvering difficult, and my head and face hurt if I move to quickly. So, I won’t work for a few days. But now I am faced with an issue: the deal is that I work in exchange for room and board. The stitches don’t come out for another 10 days, so what is the fair thing to do? I must discuss it with the family. Perhaps I can cook or something, but I can’t really do much until my hands heal. Even typing is taking it’s toll.
But, that’s my story, and I’m fine, lucky enough to have avoided brain damage. But the moral of the story is…

The 3-pronged Pitchfork is for food, not S$%&

Here is the deep south. It's rural, it's far away, and I can't understand a bloody word of the dialect. That's not true. Rosa, the matron of the family with whom I am staying here in Friedlingen, usually speaks slowly and loudly for my benefit, so that I have a little more than just intuition guiding me as I learn the great art of shoveling horseshit, my primary function as an inhabitant of the farm. For 2 or 3 hours everyday, I employ myself with a shovel and a rake, or a 4-pronged pitchfork, depending on the behavior of the terrain. The horses aren't stupid; they don't shit where they eat, so it's usually all in one pile, which is convenient for everyone. When that's done, Rosa and I haul out the Kutsche (the carriage) and harness up 2 of the 9 horses, who are all of German heritage, and go for a charming jaunt along the countryside. Indeed, it's just as cold as it is beautiful.

The first night I was here, Monday, Peter (the head of the household) came in and asked me if I wanted to come with him to milch die Kuh, whose name is Emily, and of course I jumped at the oppotunity. My job was to hold the flashlight, since the barn has no electricity. It was interesting, to be sure, and then we returned to the house for supper, which is a small meal. The warm meal of the day is Lunch, which suits me just fine. But this first night, I watched a real German eat. Peter is a large and strong fellow, with a beard and overalls. He spends his days working with metal, his nights fighting fire, and all the time in between tending to the animals. He cut himself a long strip of miscellaneous dry meat that was in the house, probably something he slaughtered himself. He held a boule of bread near his heart and cut a large slice for me and one for himself, the way I always wanted to cut bread, but the way that parents always tell you not to use the knife. He ate pickled cucumbers and pickled peppers. He used a wooden plate, and but his food into cubes as he ate them. The Germans, I have found, always hold their knife while they eat. They use it to cut, to spread, and to push the food around on the plate and on the fork so it is just the right size and shape to put in the mouth, no strings of kraut ambling about. When he was finished eating, there were crumbs everywhere, and he had created a royal mess, but a German one. His air is that of a woodsman, Herr Nägele, and he carries himself proud.

This, my friends, in an experience to be had! Despite the fact that communication is so difficult, I'm very content here for the time being. I enjoy the manual labor, the fresh air, and especially the animals. You must understand, that this is practically a childhood dream becoming fulfilled. My childhood play was always based around animals, farms, stables, and secret adventures, and this satisfies each one of those fantasies. And too, I have many times thought that I wanted to be a world traveler, but I am beginning to understand that it is actually time travel for which I yearn, and this is practically the same thing.

Today I have a free day, so I have come to Konstanz, a larger city by the lake Bodensee, which is 9 miles wide and 46 miles long. I am not sure what is here, but there is activity, so I must explore. Signing off.

Great Expectations

In the middle of the 15th century, Johann Gutenberg perfected the printing press. In Mainz, the sister city of Wiesbaden, located just across the Rhein, and accessable by the linea 6 bus, there is a museum devoted to his work, as well as to the history of writing. I traveled there yesterday with great enthusiasm, which I often have for some things, but not all things. Writing, the written word, the way words look on the page, these are intrinsically magical to me, (iconified most beautifully in a book by the name of Codex Seriphinianus (http://www.almaleh.com/serafini-e.htm)). Needless to say, I had high expectations for the very museum devoted to the origin of a few of my favorite things. Expectations. When will I ever learn? The creation of high expectation only sets one up for disappointment.
To make a long story short, my critique of the museum is this: The captions on the exhibits were very inconsistent. All were in German, but only some had English translations, and some had Chinese translations instead, and some had only German. This was incredibly frustrating! I tried to read the German, but the language was very specialized, and therefore very difficult for a Kindergarten-level German speaker like myself to understand. I asked for an English guide booklet to the museum, but they had none, and instead sold me a booklet with general information about Gutenberg and writing and printing and such. Interesting to read, but not helpful in the museum.
The old books were, understandably, encased in glass. They were to be touched only with the eyes. But, I realized, it is neither entertaining or interesting to me to only be able to see the books from the outside of an orb. It created a real sense of inferiority, which I am finding is a trait of all things German anyway. Always there is a heirarchy, someone or something who is the best, and someone who is lesser. I do believe it is a cheap high. But I like to hold books, to touch them, and to READ them.
There was 4-part diarama detailing Korean book printing in the 14th century, which was thankfully in English, and very much of interest to me. They used wax to make casts for the letters. There was also a little exhibit where kids could type on typewriters and draw on newspaper to make Zeitungs, so I sat and drew for a while, which is ever fun.
I guess it is that I simply felt helpless at this museum. It must be how children feel when they must go to such an establishment, intended for adults. Learning a language, whether it's first or second, is so frustrating, because there is much on the inside that cannot get out, as well as much on the outside that cannot get in. To know what it is that you don't know is equally a powerful motivator, pacifier and infuriator. I'm thirsty to learn this language, but I yearn to speak in English, and I find myself thinking of people in cafes and on the streets, why don't they just speak English? It's so much easier. blublubluelueglbuelube. That's what it sounds like. A radio station in the Arctic Circle.

But, Mainz is a very beautiful city, though I like the Bavarian towns better. This is a very wealthy part of the country, and everybody wears fur coats and shoes with pointy toes. Frivolous, it seems to me, and pround of it. I went to the Kaiser Friedrich thermal bath the otherday, 4 hours for 17.50 Euros, a really good deal considering that Daniel and I pay 20$ a piece to spend 30 minutes in the hot tub at Urban Oasis in Somerville. At the Therme, there is a cold pool, a series of hot pools that range from 37 degrees celcius to 42, which is quite hot. There are also a few different saunas, steam rooms, foot baths, showers, a cafe, and so on. I felt very relaxed afterwards, and found entertainment in seeing so many wealthy naked bodies. hehe!

I head south on either Monday or Wednesday, into the Hegau Mountains, near the Bodensee and just north of Switzerland. The farm I'll be staying at is indeed a horse farm, and they told me I'd be learning to ride as well as driving the carriage...Sounds thrilling! There are sheep in the pasture, but they are not for cheesemaking.

Ah, I've lost my train of thought, so I'll end here before I write to many non sequitorial sentences. Au revoir!

classic German Conclusion

Today marks the end of a very fulfilling stay in Bamberg. I have made some wonderful friends and enjoyed the very quirky teachers of TreffPunkt, and will remember fondly my stay here. Every morning up at 7:45 for an 8:00 breakfast of Nulecta, toast and coffee, followed by my morning walk to school, everyday passingby and Gutenmorganing a beautiful young man with rounded glasses and a long black coat smoking in front of the antique bookstore. Over the oberebrüke, which doubles as the Rathaus, and into the Markt Platz where dogs and people set up fruits, flowers and vegetables in the light and fantastic snow, which has been precipitating all week. Mornings are lovely.

Daytime has been conducted auf Deutsch, of course, and I am better than I was, but now I am super paranoid about my Grammar. I think, though, that is probably a necessary step in becoming comfortable in another language, being uncomfortable. Most days I have been Lunching with folks from school, and occasionally there is an afternoon activity, a tour or a movie or the like. FaschingsDienstag, of course, was this week, and is was a bit tired, like a funeral with candy.

I will head back to Wiesbaden tomorrow by train. Sian (pronounced 'Shaan') from England is flying back to her home from Frankfurt, so we will venture west together and part there. I'm a little sad to have this end, as I usually am, but alas, the trip really just keeps getting better. There were a few moments last week, I admit, that I was not so happy with the course and thought I could do better on my own, but sometimes it isn't IN the course where the learning takes place, but BECAUSE. This is a new lesson...I'll explore it further.

But so, since this is an ending sort of a time, I shall end this post with a classic German conclusion and live sort of happily ever after. The end.