german swings my verge

For many reasons.

One of the main ones being compound words. Which, really, one may make up arbitrarily, contrary to the opinions of traditional grammar purists.

I'm talking about compound words like this:

Aktenkofferverschlussknopfwerkzeugkastenträgermantelkragenhersetellerlieferantenfahrzeugfarbenaussucherin.

= female chooser of color of deliverer's vehicle for producer of collar of coat belonging to carrier of toolbox for briefcase lock button tools.

CRAMAZING.

I heart languages. I really do.

two items of interest (maybe)

First, if you have any interest in language, linguistics, humor, or speaking, you need to read this. Thanks goes to Nate for pointing it out to me and making this linguistics-obsessed cousin's day. ;oD This poem makes me so happy, I could just do the potato wave.

Second, early Thursday afternoon, a cop pulled me over while I was driving north on Penn between Britton and Hefner. My first thought was that I must have been speeding--though I was pretty sure I couldn't have been going more than 36 or 37 in a 35mph zone.

I pulled off at a gas station, and even though I knew I hadn't done anything spectacularly terrible, my heartrate started going up. It only got worse as the officer came to my open car window and asked for my license and registration. As I handed him my license, I realized that my hands were shaking.

Great. I hope he doesn't notice.

That's stupid. He's a cop. Of course he's going to notice.

The trembling only increased when I pulled out the flimsy registration paper, which betrayed me by fluttering madly as I handed it to the cop. It was all I could do not to roll my eyes at myself. *That*, I figured, would not go over well if he misunderstood the gesture.

"Well, Courtney," he said--

--and inwardly, I did a double-take at being addressed by my first name by a Person Of Authority, which would never occur in the formal society I grew up in--

"Well, Courtney, you're not in big trouble today. Just a little trouble."

Oh good. I guess. That's good, right? Does that mean I'm not getting a ticket, I hope?

"You changed lanes kinda fast back there--"

I know. I did it on purpose. I wanted to get in that space before the motorcycle got too close.

"--without signaling--"

I did, too, signal! I just maybe flipped the switch off again before the light actually started blinking. ;o)

"--and in front of that motorcycle."

I knew the bike was there. I was watching him the whole time. I was always aware of exactly where the front and back ends of my car were in relation to the pickup in front of me and the bike behind me.

As the officer spoke, I nodded in what I hoped were the right places and gave him what probably looked like a sheepish smile.***

"I'm sorry," I said. "I thought I signaled..."

Fortunately, his smile and understanding nod saved me from having to elaborate on what I thought I'd done. I trailed off as he handed back my license and registration.

"Just pay better attention, Courtney. And behave yourself."

*gasp* And egad! You know me!!!

"Okay," I said with a laugh that wasn't at all fake in its shakiness.

Zounds! I'm not getting a ticket! How disgawestomely cramazing** is this?!

"Thank you," said I.

"Have a good day," said he, walking back to his cruiser.

He got in and drove away. I grinned like a loon to myself, ignored the residual adrenaline rush, and continued on my merry way to Walmart.

The End.


**Okay, so those weren't my exact words, since those terms had yet to be invented by Your Truly, but I like to think the sentiment was the same.

***For those of you who suspect I might be tempted: No eyelash-batting took place during the course of this incident.

the day my home country started getting bigger again

Hungary remembers picnic that cracked Iron Curtain
AP

SOPRONPUSZTA, Hungary – It was a picnic that changed the course of history.

Twenty years ago Wednesday, members of Hungary's budding opposition organized a picnic at the border with Austria to press for greater political freedom and promote friendship with their Western neighbors.

Some 600 East Germans got word of the event and turned up among the estimated 10,000 participants. They had a plan: to take advantage of an excursion across the border to escape to Austria.

Hungarian President Laszelo Solyom and German Chancellor Angela Merkel were taking part Wednesday in festivities Wednesday marking the 20th anniversary of the "Pan-European Picnic," which helped precipitate the fall nearly three months later of the Berlin Wall.

One of the key factors allowing the Germans to escape: the decision by a Hungarian border guard commander not to stop them as they pushed through to freedom.

Lt. Col. Arpad Bella and five of his men had been expecting a Hungarian delegation to cross the border at Sopronpuszta by bus, visit a nearby Austrian town as a symbol of the new era of glasnost — or openness — under reformist Soviet leader Mikail Gorbachev, and return to Hungary.

Instead, at the planned time of 3 p.m., Bella suddenly found himself face to face with 150 East Germans marching up the road to the border gate, which had been closed since 1948.

"I had about 20 seconds to think about it until they got here," said Bella, 63, during an interview where the gate once stood.

"Had the five of us confronted the Germans, they would have (overwhelmed us)."

Once the initial group got through hundreds more East Germans joined them. Still vivid in Bella's mind was the reactions of the Germans, including many young people and families with small children, once they were on the other side.

"They embraced, they kissed, they cried and laughed in their joy. Some sat down right across the border, others had to be stopped by the Austrian guards because they kept running and didn't believe they were in Austria," Bella said. "It was in incredible experience for them."

Laszlo Nagy, one of the organizers of the picnic, was startled by the East Germans' actions, who left behind hundreds of cars and other possessions near the border for the chance to make the short walk to a new life in the West.

"Some of them were waiting for this moment for 20 or 30 years," Nagy said. "They left behind everything ... because freedom has the greatest value."

Dirk Mennenga was one the "Ossies," a nickname for East Germans, who made it to Austria on that day. He had come to Hungary from Dresden.

"We had planned beforehand that we would try to cross the border through Hungary," Mennenga said. "We didn't know how easy or difficult it would be."

After seeing flyers promoting the picnic, Mennenga thought the event could provide an opportunity to escape West.

"It was a very emotional situation," Mennenga said. "There was a sole border guard. A young Hungarian man kept pointing the way and before we knew it we were in Austria."

While Bella was unaware of the East Germans' intentions, behind the scenes the Hungarian government had already decided that it would somehow let them go West.

Miklos Nemeth, Hungary's last prime minister of the communist era, said the picnic and the East Germans' breakthrough on that day was one in a series of steps that brought democracy to most of the Soviet bloc within a year.

"It was a planned process on behalf of the government, but it was a transition where everyone was also seeking to secure their own future," Nemeth said.

With 80,000 Soviet troops stationed in Hungary, Nemeth said it was difficult to know how Moscow would react to the unprecedented events.

"In my mind this was an important event, a test," Nemeth said. "And fortunately, Arpad Bella ... although he did not get any information, he decided in the right way."

Tens of thousands of East Germans had traveled to Hungary as expectations mounted that the more moderate Communist country might open its borders to the West.

They lived in makeshift shelters in Budapest on the grounds of the West German Embassy and at a tent city set up by a Catholic parish.

In the weeks after the picnic, East Germans continued to make attempts to cross the border, although many were still turned back. Then, on Sept. 11, Hungary began allowing all East Germans to travel West.

Bella continued his career as a border guard for several more years before retiring in 1996, later even working as a consultant on developing aspects of the Schengen agreement, which now allows for borderless travel within 25 European countries.

"I didn't think of myself as a hero. How could I? I wasn't even sure I'd be around for another week," Bella said. "If the Russians had wanted to come, they would have swept us aside like nothing."

For Nagy, the significance of the events of Aug. 19 has grown over the past 20 years.

"At the time, we didn't feel like we were making history," Nagy said. "It was the world's greatest garden party."

good grief, people. free your minds, wouldja?!?

This morning, I read two articles in "Newsweek" that annoyed the poo out of me.

The first concerned white supremacy beliefs in the USA. Apparently, the popularity of white supremacist groups has started going up since Obama was elected. Perfect. The article was complete with pictures of good ol' home folks with swastikas on their T-shirts. Their new party line, it seems, is "preach love of white, not hate of black, don't come on radical, be quiet and subtle, or you'll scare people off before you can get them to come around to the right way of thinking." "Right way," meaning: deportation of all immigrants and incarcerated non-whites. Ad infinitum ad nauseam.

There are a lot of names I'd like to apply to people who think this way. But instead of using those names, I'll just say this: I grew up visiting concentration camps in Germany. You wear a swastika and come within twenty feet of me, and I am deaf to you before the first word exits your white supremacist mouth.

Ugh. Utterly revolting.

The other annoyance was in an article about new apps (read: applications) for cell phones, specifically apps of the Bible. The author was presenting differing viewpoints. Apparently, there are people out there who disapprove of having the Bible on a hand-held electronic device, because having the Bible accessible this way "takes away from the sacredness of scripture." Or somesuch.

Huh? Am I understanding them right? They're saying it's a bad thing to have access to the Bible no matter where you are?

That's almost the dumbest thing I've read all day. (For the dumbest, see the second and third paragraphs of this post.) Do you really think God cares in what medium his Word appears? When you carry the Bible in book form, there is absolutely nothing sacred about the paper, ink, leather, plastic, and glue with which that book is put together. There is not one iota of holiness inherent in a printed copy of the Bible--or a audio copy, or an electronic copy, or a copy written in the sky with airplane vapor trails. The medium doesn't matter.

I would even venture to say that the words themselves don't matter. A word is merely a symbol we use to convey an idea or a set of ideas. House, Haus, and maison are different symbols that convey the same idea. Same goes for cat, Katze, and gato. Same for ichthys, Fisch, and pesce. Symbols for ideas/concepts/specific meanings.

When it comes to sacredness and holiness of the Bible, all that signifies are the concepts behind the symbols. Aletheia, Wahrheit, truth. Symbols which, in themselves, are not sacred. Heaven, Himmel, ouranos. The sacredness belongs solely to the concept, the reality, behind the symbols.

It matters not what form those symbols take. Whether printed or electronic, the symbols convey concepts that have unlimited power to work on the human heart and change it. Consuming those symbols--and, through them, the bedrock reality concepts--through an electronic medium doesn't dilute their effect in the least.

Come on, people. Have a little faith!

growing up in bowel town: random memory

I know I said in my last post that I was going to blog about a certain adventure I had that is now 12 days in the past, but I haven't blogged about it yet, so now I'm going to write about something else instead. Namely, this:

I grew up in the city of Darmstadt, which literally translates into "Bowel City," which I choose to render as "Bowel Town" because it sounds funnier. My first home in Darmstadt was an apartment building at Roßdörferstraße 55 (which loosely translates to "Horse-Village Street"--I swear I am not making this up). We lived for eight years in a two-bedroom apartment on what Americans would call the third floor but Germans call the second.

The building's first floor housed a "Konditorei," which I guess would be a pastry shop or confectioner's shop to those of the English-speaking persuasion. The presence of said pastry shop resulted in the most amazing scents that drifted daily up the stairwell and into all the apartments, making everyone in the building crave Butterhörnchen a whole lot more often than fortnightly, lemme tell ya.

The baker's names was Herr Gibis, and before I started 1st grade, he took to wife a younger woman with two children. Their names were Marcus and Sylvie. Marcus was my age, and Sylvie was a year younger, and they lived with Herr and Frau Gibis in the only apartment on the first floor, behind the pastry shop.

Marcus and Sylvie and I became fast and great friends. I could tell oodles of stories of our many outside adventures, including the ones about how Marcus chased me and his sister with daddy longlegs. But that is another story and shall be told another time.

The story on my mind right now is The One Where We Got Into The Bug Spray. You see, adjacent to the back of our apartment complex and beyond a low chainlink fence brooded this squat, square, white building with a fire escape. (The fire escape figures into yet another tale, as does the chainlink fence, but again, that is neither here nor there right now.) In this squat, square, white building lived an old woman. I suppose now that she must not have been very old at all--probably between 40 and 50 years of age--but to us children (we were now 10, 10, and 9, respectively), she seemed ancient. I only ever caught a couple of glimpses of her, and my only memory of her is long, dark hair in a bun, and shoulders wrapped in a fringed shawl. But Marcus and Sylvie must have seen her more often than I did, because they said her name was Maria and she didn't like children.

It quite possible that Marcus and Sylvie were making this up.

Anyway, we were fascinated and terrified. Maria didn't like children; ergo, we
qualified as unlikeable. There was a chainlink fence--obviously, a barrier we were not meant to cross. Mystery, darkness, and danger lurked at this far end of the apartment complex. The lure of the squat, square, white building was irresistible.

I don't know where Sylvie was on that fateful day. I don't remember that she was with us when Marcus and I climbed over the chainlink fence, our hearts thudding wildly in our small chests, our eyes darting over our shoulders again and again in case A Parent should suddenly appear. But, undaunted by fear or threat of parental disapproval, Marcus and I scaled the fence (it was all of four feet high) and found ourselves on terra incognita: Maria's backyard.

Eerie light filtered down through leaves overhead. An unnatural hush descended, as though even the birds were shocked into silence by our audacity. We were shocked into silence by our audacity. The air felt heavy.

The shed beckoned.

It was squat, square, and wooden, with a tin roof and all sorts of gardening implements leaning against its rickety frame. My memories progress as though I'm flipping through photographs, and the next picture shows Marcus and me, not entering the shed, but inside the shed, and Marcus is holding a sort of pressurized pump can, and we're deep in the fantasy of marauders surrounding us, barring our escape, shouting for us to give up and come out, there's nowhere left to run, and Marcus and I are looking at each other with huge, excited eyes, and we know that this moment is The Grandest Adventure EVER.

Meanwhile, the marauders were advancing. They were at the door. They were breaking in. We defended ourselves with the only weapons available: magic sleep-dust spray guns--what else?

Of course, when we got back to our side of the backyard universe (not having had the guts to approach the squat, square, white building proper, defeated marauders notwithstanding), the fantasy quickly broke into smithereens when The Parents smelled not magic sleep-dust on our clothes but insecticide, with which we had sprayed not only the imaginary marauders, but also each other, and generously. Because, as anyone with half a brain can tell you, magic sleep-dust magically turns into a restorative and palliative powder when used on a friend instead of against a slavering, primitive marauder.

I don't remember what happened to Marcus, but I got a spanking and an afternoon in the bathtub, being scrubbed down with great vigor by my mother, who was not impressed.

That was our first adventure centered around Maria's squat, square, white house...but it was not to be our last.

in which i discover why i hate commercials

It's because I didn't grow up watching or listening to them.

Growing up in Germany, I watched AFN: the American Forces Network. For various and sundry reasons--most, I'm sure, having to do with copyrights and trade agreements and the Geneva convention or somesuch--AFN doesn't air commercials for products on the US market. AFN airs commercials for the US Armed forces: Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force.

So, growing up, I never saw commercials for Cheerios and Windex and Chevy and Atari. (Aye, I hearken back to the '80s, y'all.) Now that I'm an adult, I feel that most TV commercials do little more than insult my intelligence. That probably makes me a snob, but c'est la vie. I can't think of one product I own as a result of seeing a commercial on television. My instinctive reaction to commercials is: "Go away. When I want something, I'll ask for it." (This is also my instinctive reaction to salespersons in department stores, but that is another rant and shall be ranted another time.)

Come to think of it, since I grew up watching info-spots for military service, it's a wonder I didn't join the Army or something. Of course, they wouldn't have taken me anyway, what with the arrhythmia and all. Anyway, here are some of the "jingles" from *my* childhood. You other TCKs out there, feel free to chime in! ;o)

Be all that you can be!
Find your future in the Army!
We're looking for a few good men.
The few. The proud. The Marines.
You shoulda had a sponsor.
Practice good OP-SEC.
Fly Space-A.
Report fraud, waste, and abuse.
Dial 1-1-0. A Polizei emergency team will respond when you need it.
Be a designated driver.
Visit your Recreation Center.
Shop AAFES.
No "jingle" per se, but there were the warnings about suspicious briefcases or packages that might be bombs.
How to marry a local national.
Gasthaus!
Follow the chain-of-command.
Don't accept gifts from subordinates.
Life. Be in it.
Assorted food-pyramid spots.

Oh, and don't even get me started on some of the random kids' shows on Saturday mornings! Jem & the Holograms, Bravestar, Galaxy Rangers....some great ones like The Electric Company, Big Blue Marble, 3-2-1 Contact....ahh, those were the days. ;o)

cultural transitions do funny things...

...for instance: Recently, I have discovered in myself a penchant for listening to loud, fast, hard music. Not at home, where I would bother the neighbors, but pretty much anytime I'm in the car by myself. Thanks to my dear friend who prefers I don't broadcast her generosity, I have a car--did I tell people that?--for which I had to pay only $1.00, and this car not only has more horsepower than I've ever driven regularly before, but it's also equipped with a lovely stereo system.

On top of that, I've found myself becoming more open to creative influences--including influences in music--lately, partially due to culture shock reactivity, and partially due to some of the insights I gained by working through Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way."

All of which is how I found myself driving south at 70mph on I-35 yesterday, rocking out to Metallica (Stefan, you'll be interested to know it was that "Sandman" song ;o) and AC/DC and REO Speedwagon.

Understatement: It was fun.

Understatement: I miss the Autobahn. ;o)

The International Friendship Song...

...courtesy of The Animaniacs and Professor Otto von Schnitzelpusskrankengescheitmeier

It's a wundervoll day in ze neighborhood, ja?
Now, let's do ze International Friendship Song, ja?

Ja!

Ist das nicht ein piece of chalk?
Ja das ist ein piece of chalk.
Ist das nicht ein key and lock?
Ja das ist ein key and lock.
Piece of chalk, key and lock
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Schnitzelbank!

Are we having fun yet?

Ist das nicht ein cuckoo clock?
Ja das ist ein cuckoo clock.
Does it nicht go tick tick tock?
Ja it does go tick tick tock.
Cuckoo clock, tick tick tock
Piece of chalk, key and lock
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Schnitzelbank!

You see, it's a very easy song. Would you like to try?
Oh, gee, professor, that'd be great! What should I sing about?
Anything that you want. The secret is to just have fun, okay?
Okay!

Ist das nicht ein piece of bread?
Ja das ist ein piece of bread.
Does it fit in Wakko's head?
Ja it fits in Wakko's head.
Piece of bread, Wakko's head
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Schnitzelbank!

Here, let me try!

Is he not a cute man this?
Ja he is a cute man this.
Is this not a great big kiss? Mmmwah!
Ja das ist ein great big kiss.
Cute man this, great big kiss
Piece of bread, Wakko's head
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Schnitzelbank!

Here, I've got one!

Ist das nicht Otto von Schnitzelpusskrankengescheitmeier?
Ja das ist Otto von Schnitzelpusskrankengescheitmeier.
Ist das nicht ein incredibly long name to have to try and say?
Ja das ist ein incredibly long name to have to try and say.
Cute man this, Great big kiss
Piece of bread, Wakko's head
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Schnitzelbank!

Hey, you kids is pretty good!

We're just gettin' warmed up!

Ist das nicht ein Otto's gut?
Ja dis ist ein Otto's gut.
Ist das nicht ein Otto's butt?
Ja das ist ein Otto's butt.
Otto's gut, Otto's butt
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Schnitzelbank!

Okay, I think you got the idea....

Ist das nicht ein pair of pants?
Ja das ist ein pair of pants.
Ist das underwear from France?
Ja dat's underwear from France.
Pair of pants, shorts from France
Otto's gut, Otto's butt
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Schnitzelbank!

Ist das nicht ein hairy chest?
Ja das ist ein hairy chest.
Ist this man no longer dressed?
Ja this man's no longer dressed.
Hairy chest, he's not dressed
Pair of pants, shorts from France
Otto's gut, Otto's butt
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Oh, du schöne
Schnitzelbank!

in which i don't know whether or not locusts and cicadas are the same thing

I intended to write about this weeks ago but forgot.

A few weeks ago, on a warm spring evening (as opposed to the hot spring evening we are currently experiencing--25 degrees Celsius at 22:00!), Ed and I were sitting in the office with the windows open, doing the kind of nothing that people do in their offices at home on warm spring evenings.

(An aside: I just now sneezed and hit my head on the edge of my laptop. Ow.)

As we sat there, doing nothing, I gradually became aware of a noise. I'd been hearing it for quite some time but hadn't consciously taken note of it. When I finally did begin paying attention to it, I knew immediately what it was: a locust!

Some people find them creepy. Some find them annoying. I find locusts completely fascinating, both in appearance and in lifestyle. ("Lifestyles of the Green and Bug-Eyed!")
As I told Ed on that do-nothing evening of a few weeks ago, the sound of locusts takes me back to childhood summers in Oklahoma, lying awake at night, sweltering in the heat, listening to the locusts as they sang me to sleep.

I've been a lot of places and heard a lot of things, but so far, for me, the sound of locust song is unique to Oklahoma. There's just no other sound like it. And because I associate it with the wonderful, boisterous, adventurous summers of my childhood, it's a sound that is very dear to me. I love walking out into a warm, humid summer evening in Oklahoma and hearing the locusts as they "sing" so loudly, they're almost deafening. Every time I hear them, there's a split second when I'm a kid again.

"Reeeeeeeeeeeeee!" said Ed, imitating the locust. "How would you like it," he asked me, "if your whole purpose in life were to crawl out of the ground in the spring, stretch, look around, and then start making that noise?!"

I laughed.

Oh, and speaking of humid, tonight is definitely the night for that! Earlier, I walked outside, and I could smell the heat and moisture rolling through the air. Like the locust song, this smell is unique to this place. No other place I've been smells quite like this. Germany has its share of humid summers, but they smell different: woodsier somehow, scented with tree mold and green, deep and dark and growing.

Oklahoma humidity smells like earth and rain and wind. It's a wild smell, scented with power barely restrained, occasionally threatening with a hint of ozone. This, too, takes me back to childhood, when storms meant running out into the rain for the sheer joy of getting drenched and seeing the lighting; when climbing water towers didn't seem foolish; when simply everything was possible.

my transition meltdown. let me show you it.

I ought to be getting in bed right now. I've actually not been doing half bad about keeping to a regular sleep schedule lately. I'd hate to mess it up just because of a little case of RRRCS. Reverse Reverse Reverse Culture Shock. But as I was about to shut down the taplop, I realized I simply didn't want to go to sleep without blogging about this first.

Don't let the sun go down on your culture shock. Isn't that how the scripture goes?

Anyway...

I've been feeling edgy the last few days. Partially because of hormones--I'll spare you those details. But even if it is hormone-related, that doesn't make the emotions any less valid.

So. Edginess. Still, okay. Then came a couple of phone calls yesterday. Well-meant, and ordinarily not something I'd react to adversely. But I came away from them feeling inadequate, untrustworthy, weak, and foolish (notably, not by the callers' doing). I don't need to say that this did nothing to take the edge off the edge. So I won't say it.

Today, I got an email from our dear friend Elsa, reporting on the latest ETM class that took place last week. And there was a photo, too. Not only that, but there was a meeting over the past weekend for *all* the ETM participants *ever*.

I took one look at that photo, read the first line of Elsa's email, and promptly started bawling.

I should have been there, was what I was thinking. I wanted to be there. Desperately. But I couldn't be there. And I suddenly felt like I was wholly and irrevocably in the wrong place.

Shortly thereafter, I called my parents to talk about something totally unrelated, ended up misunderstanding something Daddy said and getting upset all over again, and then bawling to both him and Mama. Later, Jennifer came for coffee, and I bawled to her. Then Isaac arrived, and I bawled to him, too.

By the time Ed got home, I was all cried out. Besides, just seeing him made me feel better. Later, Jennifer and I went for a walk and a talk, and that helped a lot, too.

I don't *really* think I'm in the wrong place. I'm not *truly* dissatisfied with where I am in life and why and whatnot. That might be how I feel right now, but I know it's not so. The feelings are valid, but they aren't a reflection of reality. They're simply part of the transition process.

So eventually, I'll be okay. Today was just a rough day. I've known for awhile it was coming. But, like the day I cried in Buy-for-Less, I didn't expect it on a particular day. It's impossible to predict what will trigger it.

Tomorrow evening, I'm supposed to substitute teach a Ladies' Class. On personal evangelism. You know, that thing I did fulltime in Chemnitz. That thing I believe is part of the definition of "Christian." I hope I can get through the class. With God's help, I know I can. But only if I let him take care of the transition-emotions. And I'm not sure I'm ready to let go of them and let him, yet.

Blech.

I don't like this.

I think I might do some painting this week.

That's all. I feel better now. :o)

some culture shock thoughts

Before I begin, here's another caveat emptor (I've been using that phrase so often lately, I really should make it a tag): I am not bitter; I am not trying to criticize; I am not complaining; I am meaning no offense. I am venting, and I am feeling frustrated, and I am making observations. So there are your grains of salt with which to take the following:

One. If you ever really want to annoy me: ask me a question, give me twenty seconds of your attention, and then, as I am answering YOUR question, either walk away from me or turn away and start talking to someone else.

This has happened numerous times since we arrived here in November. And the culprits are not inattentive children or flighty teenagers. The culprits are allegedly friendly, allegedly sensitive, and allegedly well-adjusted adults who ought to know better.

Forgive me my intolerance and closed-mindedness, but that is rude no matter what culture you're in. Please spare me your alleged interest in who I really am.

I know this sounds bitter, but I'm really not bitter. Frustrated. Annoyed.

Two. A lot of people here profess to be very proud to be American, proud to be part of this country. And yet I observe the same people, littering and wasting natural resources (leaving water running, leaving lights on, leaving cars running while the drivers duck into the store for 15 minutes...). Germans are, for the most part, lukewarm when it comes to patriotism. And yet they will drive you nuts with everything they insist on doing to protect the environment, to take care of their land (like separating trash into four different types for disposal and recycling; I am so brainwashed, I *still* feel guilty about putting everything into one trash can!).

So of the two cultures, which is really more patriotic?

Annoyed. Not bitter. Frustrated. And ***confused***.

dream #145

Drowning People of All Nations, Unite!

Last night, I dreamed that I was in Communist East Germany, and the Stasi were chasing me. I tried to hide in a skyscraper that was an apartment building. But as luck would have it, the Stasi had chosen that particular building in which to kill all of the occupants by drowning. I was caught up in the chaos of fleeing people and Stasi officers’ giving orders.

Somehow, I ended up pushing myself through a crowd on the stairs and getting into the basement. I thought I could find some loose boards among the panels that covered all the windows. But somehow the Stasi had managed to make the whole building watertight. They began pumping water in, and the basement started to fill up. Together with a few others who had kept their heads, I found a section of boarding that was loose. By holding our breaths and diving down to the floor of the basement, we managed to pry the boards away, let some of the water out, and help a few people escape before swimming to safety ourselves.

When I emerged from the basement, I found the streets full of people and Communist troops. A full-scale revolt had erupted, and the citizens were taking up arms and fighting back. I joined a crowd that was standing on some crumbling concrete steps, listening to a man give a revolutionary speech. A lot of the people had weapons that looked like shotguns. Then the dream ended.

tonight i cried at buy for less

Tonight, I had my first intense moment of homesickness since we arrived here three weeks ago.

Ed and I went grocery shopping at Buy For Less after eating dinner at Zorba's. Zorba's is Greek fast food, and the homesicknessfeeling started while we were there, because I started thinking of Palas Athen, our favorite Greek place in Chemnitz, where we've spent so many wonderful hours and had so many great laughs (not to mention spectacular food!!!) with great friends and with the jovial owner. Zorba's, with its hectic atmosphere and high-decibel noise level, didn't exactly measure up to what we're used to. (The food was good, but their idea of gyros isn't what we've gotten to know at Palas Athen, either. However, we're remaining open enough to give Zorba's another chance. We'll just have to put our minds in a different gear beforehand. Or would that be 'beforefood'? ;o)

Anyway, by the time we got to Buy For Less, I was already feeling somewhat melancholy from missing Palas Athen and the fun times we've had there--and especially the people we had those times with (you know who you are). Then, at Buy For Less, Ed ducked into the bathroom for a few minutes, and I found myself in the foreign/specialty foods aisle.

And suddenly, I saw it: German food.

Buy For Less has Klöße. And Rotkraut. And Sauerkraut. And Rittersport and Lindt! And Spätzle! And Semmelknödel! And Bratkartoffeln! And Gurken pickled in Thüringen! And Buy For Less even has pickled herring, which I absolutely despise, but it's a staple of Saxon kitchens, and it all reminded me so much of home that I suddenly found myself standing in the middle of Buy For Less, crying and thinking that I probably looked absolutely ridiculous but not caring whether or not I looked ridiculous, and then Ed came back and just hugged me, and I took him to see the German food, and slowly I started to feel okay again.

Oh, and Ed and I also spent the evening speaking German with each other, and that probably added to the sudden burst of homesickfeelingyness as well.

I think what helps is that I knew this was coming. It had to happen at some point, and I'm kind of relieved that it happened. It needs to happen--and it will happen again and again for awhile--so that I can acknowledge my feelings, accept them, and move on.

Coolly enough, Buy For Less also has Twinings (Erin!) and PG Tips (Ed!) and Branston Pickle (Boynses!). And Turkish Delight, which I don't eat, but I still think it's keen that they have it!

*sigh* I probably don't sound like it, but I do feel better now. :o)

something random i think i'm going to miss

Most nights around this time, if I'm awake (which I frequently--okay, usually--am), I hear the street cleaner go by. The street cleaner is this little, boxy, orange vehicle that comes out at night to clean the streets of Chemnitz (kind of like the robot mice in the house in the nuclear disaster area in one of Ray Bradbury's short stories, but a lot less morbid).

The street cleaner has a huge, round brush and an assortment of other cleansing nozzles, gizmos and whatsits attached to its underside. So at night, when all the good little children are asleep, and naughty little Courtney is yet again putting off going to bed, the street cleaner whirs and whines its way up our street and then, awhile later, back down again on the other side.

The whirring and whining kind of make for a melancholy sound. I wish I could say that the thing chuckles to itself or something equally quirky, but it doesn't. It just whines and whirs and sounds kind of like a big, sad vacuum cleaner from a distance. This is one of those sounds that, for me, is distinctly Germany. It's a sound I think I'm going to miss.