Deep Freeze

Do you know what negative 35 Celsius feel like? No, I don't either, because I'm not stupid enough to go out in such weather, but my physicist-husband does, and he says, "It'll freeze your balls off."

For the past week Edmonton has been experiencing extreme winter temperatures: negative 35 Celsius during the day and as low as negative 44 at night. For those of you, like me, who are a little unfamiliar with the Celsius scale, that's about the level at which Celsius and Fahrenheit intersect.

Prior to moving to Canada, the coldest weather I had ever experienced was in the negative single digits (Fahrenheit, that is, or about -10 Celsius), and I broke that record on my very first day in Edmonton. On that day, New Year's Day, Kevin attempted to walk the three blocks to Chinatown to get some lunch. About a block into our journey we had to turn back: My hands and feet were throbbing with pain; my lips were so numb that I couldn't talk; and even though I was wearing a wool hat, the metal posts in my earrings were so cold, it felt like someone was shoving daggers in my ears. I was surprised to learn later that it had been only negative 15 that day.

I have since experienced many days of minus-15 temperatures, but I'm no longer so foolish as to try to walk anywhere in such weather. When I do go outside, it's only to rush to the car and drive to my destination, even if I'm only going a few blocks away. And I always make sure to dress in long john's and a fur-lined coat, with several extra layers of clothing in between.

Yes, living through my first Edmonton winter has been a real education. For instance, did you know that when it gets this cold, you have to plug in the block heater on your car for an hour or two before you can drive it? I didn't even know what a "block heater" was until this week, nor did I know that my car had one. Fortunately for us, our landlord Jack stopped by at the beginning of the cold spell and filled us in on this little secret. Apparently, if you don't heat up the fuel in your engine before you turn on your car, the fuel line will explode. Or something like that. Jack learned that lesson the hard way his very first winter in Edmonton.

Also, did you know that when it's this cold outside, the birds don't feed and the mail doesn't run? Canadian birds -- and mail carriers -- are a hardy lot, but minus 35 is too cold even for them.

When it's this cold outside, all the moisture in the house freezes to the windowpanes. You can't bath regularly for fear of losing precious natural oils, and you can forget about washing your hair. It will just break off. When it's this cold outside and there's no moisture in the house, you wake up every morning with a nosebleed.

But remarkably, when it's this cold outside, you can still open your door in the middle of the day wearing nothing but your bathroom and slippers. I did this at about noon yesterday, to see if the mail had come. (It had not.) I hadn't been able to see out my windows in days (as they were covered in a thick sheet of ice), and I was surprised to find that the sun shining brightly, so brightly in fact that the heat reflecting off the snow created an intense mirage effect, just like you see in the desert, in the movies. I knew it had to be at least negative 30 outside, but the radiant heat on my face felt like a warm spring day, and there was only the slightest breeze on my ankles. But Fanny, the kitten, who has never been out of doors, was horrified by all the white and cold and brightness, and she raised her hackles and insisted I close the door immediately, and so I did.

I have since learned that negative 35 is cold, even by Edmonton standards. Kevin's boss said that this has been the coldest winter he's experienced in the ten years he's lived here. Great, I thought. So glad we didn't miss it. "But don't worry," said Gina, our landlord, who's lived here much longer. "It never lasts more than a couple of weeks."

How to wreck a car -- twice -- in 2 days

I'm not really a "car person." I'm a plant person, a house person, a pet person, a clothes person, but I can't get excited about makes and models and horsepower and the like. However, a new car is pretty exciting. Last week Kevin and I got our first ever new car: a cherry red 2008 Honda Fit. Its exterior -- and we had an extra gloss finish put on -- was as glossy and unblemished as a new marble. And then I wrecked it. Twice. In under a week.

It must be a new record, and I already have a record-breaking history of fender benders. In high school, I managed to involve my hand-me-down Sable in traffic violations a couple of times a year: speeding, speeding in a school zone, running a red light, speeding, rear-ending a parked car, speeding. I was in traffic court so frequently, that the judge warned me that he "never wanted to see my face again" -- and he was a friend of the family.

The anecdote my friends and family never tire of telling is the night I manage to wreck both of my parents' cars. The short version is that on night in the 11th grade, I snuck out of the house to meet my friends at the IHOP. Unbeknownst to me, my parents heard me leaving and followed me in their car. (I think it was my brother who ratted me out.) Somehow, they arrived at the IHOP before I did, and when I finally showed up with my friends, there was nary a parking spot to be had. I tried squeezing into half a parking spot next to an enormous Mercury Grand Marquis, but as it was parked well over the line -- it was over the line, I tell you! -- I nudged it a bit. My friends and I all freaked out, but we didn't think the Grand Marquis had sustained any damage, and so, we left the parking lot, the "scene of the crime" some would call it, parked several blocks away and walked back to the IHOP.

By this time, though, some good Samaritan had taken down my license plate number and gone into the IHOP to find the owner of the damaged Grand Marquis, for it was damaged. Somehow everyone in my car had missed the enormous basketball-sized dent I left in the side of the other car. The owners of the Grand Marquis seemed to recognize the number on the license plate. Turning to my mother, my father asked, "Hey, isn't that Sarah's license plate number?"

And so when my friends and I finally arrived at the IHOP, my parents were out front waiting for me, right in front of their damaged car. Ironically, I was actually lucky the car I damaged belonged to my parents. Had it belonged to someone else, I would have been charged with a fender-bender and "leaving the scene of the crime." I might have had my license revoked. As it was, I was grounded for a month, but thereafter was free to commit several more traffic violations.

However, these mishaps were in a 10-year-old Mercury Sable. Nothing could add significant damage to its spotty exterior, while this was a brand-new, shiny red Fit. Kevin and I had owned it for less than a week. Also, I was a teenager back then. I like to think that I have gotten over those trying years and developed better driving skills.

But driving in the far North is a lot harder than driving in Arkansas or Boston or even England, which I've managed to traverse twice without a single scratch.The problem is the snow. There's just so much of it, at least 10 inches on the ground right now, and it snows a little more every day. Also, Edmonton is very hilly, and snow and hills -- they just don't mix. As a new-comer, I had to relearn how to drive in order to cope with these treacherous conditions, and I still slide around like a fish. Remarkably, the old-timers don't seem to be any better. I have seen more wrecks, more rear-endings, more insane driving in Edmonton than in Boston -- and any one who's been to Boston knows its drivers have a death wish.

Mohamed, the Middle-Eastern cab driver who rear-ended us on Monday, must have a death wish as well. We were coming down a very steep hill, that leads into a sharp turn, just before a pin turn onto a very frozen bridge, when a jogger suddenly darted out in front of us. Now, why the city of Edmonton would put a cross walk at the foot of a hill on a major highway just before a pin-turn onto a bridge is anyone's guess. (As I have written here before, I don't think the city of Edmonton has any city planners.) Why a jogger would run out into the road in rush-hour traffic without looking both ways, is also anyone's guess. But it was a crosswalk. She had the right-of-way, and so I stopped. Very suddenly. But not so suddenly that I fish-tailed, nor so suddenly that my anti-breaking system started to grind. In fact, I stopped in enough time to collect myself and wave through the startled jogger. And then I was reared ended. Hard. About 30 mph, which makes me think Mohamed was actually accelerating down that snowy hill.

Now, having been involved in many traffic accidents in my life, I am well aware that the one who does the rear-ending is always at fault. Mohamed, though he seems to be new to this country and to cab driving in general, was aware of this rule as well, and he graciously agreed to pay for the cost of repairs to our rear bumper, which was sporting an enormous crack and busted rebar, out of pocket, so long as we didn't report it to our insurance companies. Our sentiments exactly. But I felt really bad for Mohamed. Cab drivers don't make a lot of money, and $1,000 must be a real pinch for him. It's a real pinch for a college professor and his wife, too. Also, Mohamed seemed to have been so familiar with this procedure that I think he must have been through this many times before. That, and the fact that he has to squint to see through his bottle-cap glasses makes me sure he's been through this many times before.

Well, two days later, Mohamed, Kevin and I meet up at the dealership body shop at 7:00 am to get an estimate on the damages. Now what you need to remember is that at 7:00 am in Edmonton it is black as midnight outside. The sun doesn't rise this far North until closer ten. What you also need to remember is that when it is -15 outside and snowing, as it was on this particular morning, visibility is very poor. The exhaust from your car creates such a plume of smoke that it positively envelopes you. If you remember these two things, it will not be so hard to imagine how I could have backed right into that enormous metal fence, especially when I tell you that that fence was never closed on the half-a-dozen other occasions I've visited the dealership.

Of course, these details didn't much impress Mohamed, who witnessed the whole thing. Still, "the one who does the rear-ending is always at fault" is an immutable rule, and grumbling, he still agreed to pay the $1,000 in damages he caused to our brand-new Fit. But "the mirror has two faces," as they also say, and as I "rear-ended" that motionless fence, I will have to pay those damages, about $800 all told. The worst part is that the car will have to be repaired on two separate occasions lasting about a week each, and so, in the near future I am looking at two whole weeks without wheels, which, when considering my driving history, is probably a good thing.

Remainders: First Impressions of Home

Back in October, I went home to Arkansas for a week. Although it was my first time back in the States since I had left ten months earlier, I wasn’t expecting much culture shock. After all, what is ten months abroad in the grand scheme of things? And yet, there were a few things that surprised me upon my return to the U.S., during those seven hours I was stuck in the Charlotte Airport and getting reacquainted with my country.

For starters, everyone seemed really large, and by large I mean extremely fat. I don’t mean to be unkind. They just were bigger. Much bigger. Germany has one of the highest rates of obesity in Europe, yet even the roly-poly Germans are nothing compared to the cross-section of America that I saw walking through the Charlotte Airport. I’m talking about people so large they needed to be pushed around in wheelchairs, even though they were only in their 40s. You just don’t see that in Europe, and I guess I had forgotten how common in was in America.

Diet alone can’t explain the difference in girth. The German diet is mostly meat and potatoes, just like the American diet, and the Germans have an incorrigible sweet tooth, e.g. Strüdel, Pfannkuchen, and chocolate, chocolate, chocolate. In warmer months they’ll even eat ice cream every single day. I suppose the difference comes down to their exercising more. Germans do walk a lot. Most downtown shopping districts here are completely off-limits to cars, and then there’s the whole Nordic walking craze. But I seem to remember the Nordic Track being very popular in the U.S. about 15 years ago, and I don’t remember that it did much to minimize the national waistline.

Then there was the beer. The Germans invented beer, or, rather, the Germans are know for their Bier, but would you believe that it was actually the Egyptians who invented it? Anyway, I’ve always been fond of a good beer. Offer me the choice between a nice glass of wine and a good beer, and I’ll almost always choose the beer. I wouldn’t call myself a connoisseur, but I’d always found that there were plenty of good American-brewed beers: There’s the Abita Purple Haze from New Orleans, or Rogue Dead Guy Ale from Oregon, or the amazing line of ales from Unibroue in Quebec: Trois Pistoles, Maudite, Fin du Monde – too die for! And then there were perfectly good fall-back beers, available all over the U.S., such as the Massachusetts-brewed and bottled Sam Adams.

However, while sitting in the airport Chilli’s, I order a Sam Adam’s Oktoberfest, one of their line of seasonal beers and a former favorite of mine from my years in Boston. I nearly spit out my first sip. It just tasted weird – not like beer at all. Perhaps it was just that I had recently been to the original Oktoberfest and the comparison was too stark. Of course, after drinking half of my “super-sized” beer – a full liter – it tasted just fine, but the initial taste was incredibly strange and unappealing, indeed.

On the other hand, I had forgotten how nice Americans are, at least in comparison to Germans. It’s not that the Germans are cold, per se. They are incredibly warm with one another. When they meet each other on the street they’ll kiss each other on the cheek and hold hands while they catch up on family events, but they will rarely acknowledge even the presence of a stranger. I often go for long walks around the old Würzburg castle, a narrow road that winds through the vineyards and is only wide enough for one person. When I meet a German on the road and do that delicate dance of inching past them, they rarely say “Hallo” or “Servus” or “grüß Gott,” let alone "hi" or "hello." I’m never sure if it’s because they can tell right away that I’m foreign, or if it’s just because I’m foreign to them. But I always acknowledge their presence with a nod or a word or greeting, and it makes me feel very slighted not to get so much as glance in return.

But back in Charlotte, back in the South, everyone is friendly and familiar, everyone acted like they were my long-lost friend – the barista at Starbucks, the cashier at the bookstore, the waitress at Chilli’s. And oh, what a difference it makes! I noticed this on our recent trip to England as well. The waitress complimented me on my coat, the janitress made jokes with me, the bus driver gave me the student discount even though he knew I wasn’t a student. Probably it’s an Anglo-Saxon thing. Or maybe it’s about speaking the local language like a native, but little charities like this make all the difference in the world. And boy, how they make you feel at home!

Politiks

Although it’s not a topic I deal with often on this blog, politics play an important and often uncomfortable roll (think root canal) in my daily life in Germany. It’s a difficult time right now to be an American living in Europe, particularly during this presidential administration. And it’s not just the war in Iraq that divides us. It’s everything from foreign policy to economic policy, education to health care.

Hardly a week goes by in which I don’t feel called upon to “answer for” some policy of my country that makes my classmates, my teachers and the European community in general spitting-mad. And although I didn’t make the policy – Hell, most of the time, I’m completely against it – I still feel the need to try to explain where we’re coming lest these constituencies continue to think of America as a reckless, selfish, immature teenager at best, or at worst, an outright conniving super-villain, hell bent on world domination.

And so I do my best to explain policy that sometimes I don’t even understand, in a language I haven’t mastered, and I feel very acutely that I am falling far short. Even when the language is not a barrier, the politics are.

So how exactly do Americans and Europeans misunderstand each other? Oh, let me count the ways…

Take for instance, my recent class to a field trip to an “environmental outreach center” here in Würzburg. (The name alone should give you some insight into the local politics.) Now, having already suffered through an entire “Climate Change” month on the BBC World, I already knew that Europe doesn’t hold a very high opinion of American environmental policy. So, when the director of the center asked if there were any Americans in the audience, I hid my head in shame – and I also hid, literally, behind a display board on wind energy. Unfortunately, one of my fellow students pointed me out as being a real red-blooded American.

“Ah, eine echte Amerikanerin,” he began. “Can you please tell me, American, which country is the world’s worst polluter?”

Now, as I had actually watched the full month of climate change programming on the BBC, I knew that the correct answer was China, which just this year has overtaken the U.S. in carbon emissions. However, I guessed that “China” was not the answer he was looking for.

“I dunno,” I said, “Perhaps its America?”

“You are right!” he said triumphantly. (I wondered if I’d be getting a prize.) “The U.S. is the worst polluter in the world. However, they are also the world’s biggest producer of Ethanol, which is a very good thing.”

Actually, I’m up on my Ethanol research these days, and I happen to know that Ethanol is actually not such a very good thing, but I bit my lip. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

“But the problem is,” he continued, “that in order to make their Ethanol, the Americans steal corn from the mouths of the starving Mexicans, and that, meine Damen und Herren, is a very bad thing.”

Wah?! I was dumbfounded, actually slack-jawed in disbelief. Not only did he have the gall to single me out for insult in front of my entire class, he truly believes these gross inaccuracies. Sadly, I was not witty enough, neither in German nor in English, to come up with a biting retort.

Such misunderstandings work both ways, though.

A few months ago, I was at a dinner party with a bunch of Germans – Germans who all spoke perfect English – when the conversation turned to the planned release from prison of members of the Baader-Meinhof Gang. It case you’ve forgotten (or like me, weren’t even born yet), they were the left-wing militants who unleashed a series of attacks in West Germany in the ’70s on individuals they identified as tools of “capitalist oppression and U.S. imperialism.” At the end of their little “reign of terror” more than 30 people were dead – among them a bank president, but also numerous “secondary figures” like bodyguards and chauffeurs. Several people were convicted of planning and carrying out the attacks, and this year, after more than 20 years in prison, two of them were granted parole. This created a minor scandal here in Germany, as the criminals, both women, have expressed no remorse for the murders. But it wasn’t as much of a scandal as I would have thought.

Much to my surprise, the Germans at this dinner party were all in agreement that these unrepentant murderers should be released. “It’s high time they were let go,” said one guest. “It was such a small thing after all.”

“Yes, and they were practically children anyway,” said another.

“Yeah,” I replied, “Children who kill and don’t even say ‘I’m sorry.’”

“So, what?” said the first, “You think we should have executed them all, they way you do in America?”

This really got under my skin, as I have been anti-death penalty for about as long as I’ve been breathing. “No,” I said, “but this was premeditated murder carried out by adults. They’ve admitted they’re guilty, and yet, they’re not the least bit sorry what they’ve done. And so I think they’re still a threat to society and should stay in prison until they rot.”

Although I felt I expressed myself clearly this time (we were speaking in English after all), I wasn’t any better understood. At first they merely assumed I didn’t understand the full history. (I did.) And then they thought that I held such opinions because several of the victims were Americans. (I don’t.) Yet despite my clear political beliefs on the topic, and my firm command of the English language, we were at a complete impasse. Ultimately, I think they left that night thinking me some trigger-happy, bloodthirsty American conservative. (I’m not.) And I left thinking they were lily-livered, pinko communists, or whatever that tired old slur is.

Anyway, from now on I plan to take a page from my mother’s Southern Lady handbook, and I will refrain from discussing politics at school or at the dinner table – in any language. I just hope the Germans will grant me the same privilege.

A Few Minor Differences

Recently Kevin was asked to meet with two young German students who plan on undertaking Masters degrees in the U.S. next year. Being the only one in his department who received his degree in the States, he was asked to speak to them about the differences between the two countries and what they might expect from their time abroad. Here’s a rough approximation of what transpired*:

Student #1: I am very concerned that we will not be able to make ends meet in America. The rent there is so expensive! I read on-line where they expect you to pay $1,600 for a one-bedroom apartment in New York. We would never pay more than 300 euro for a one-bedroom apartment in Würzburg. And anyway, everyone I know still lives with their parents. How can I afford to pay such high rent on a graduate student salary?

Kevin: Um, O.K., well, New York is a lot more desirable a destination than, um, Würzburg, so naturally it costs more. But almost every salary is enough to afford housing of some sort. You just might have to take a room in a big house with a bunch of other graduate students, but that’s just part of the fun of being a graduate student. In general, American 30-year-olds don’t still with their parents.

Student #2: But how will we ever furnish this apartment? Is everything there as over-priced as the rent?

Kevin: No, actually, everything in America is much, much cheaper than in Germany. Not only do you guys have this outrageous 20% value added tax (V.A.T.) tacked on to everything, but the same things also just cost more in Germany than they do in America. For instance, a pair of Converse sneakers costs $35 in the U.S.; in Germany, the same shoes cost 65 euro, or about $90. Part of that is the V.A.T., but part of it is that all the cool stuff is imported and is subject to an additional import tax.

And then, even the stuff that you make yourselves just costs more because every factory worker and cashier gets four weeks of paid vacation, 30 paid holidays and a mandatory 35-hour workweek. In America, you’ve got poor saps working for $5.25 an hour – no benefits. That makes stuff insanely cheap. Take advantage of that!

(Students #1 and #2 scratch their heads. Is Kevin perhaps one of these greedy North American capitalist pigs they have been reading about? Student #1 continues, warily.)

Student #1: But what about food? They cannot make the food cheaper than we do.

Kevin: Ohmygod! Don’t even get me started on the food. No one grows more expensive food than you guys do. I went to the grocery store the other day to buy some chicken breasts, and I couldn’t believe it: 8,50 euro for two chicken breasts! That’s nearly $12 for one part of a single chicken. What do you raise your chickens on? The golden kernels of freedom? In America, chickens live lives that are mean, nasty, brutish and short, and their plump juicy breasts will only set you back about $3.50.

Student #2: But what about health care? I have never had to pay for health care before, and in America, the health care is supposedly very bad and very expensive. The University recommended that we sign up for health insurance through the school, but they expected us to pay $500 a year! What should I do?

Kevin: Are you sure they said $500 a year, and not $500 a quarter, or a month or something like that?

Student #2: No, it was $500 a year. I’m sure. And I refuse to be cheated like that!

Kevin: (Long pause.) OK, look: That is an insanely good deal. You will never find better insurance for less money anywhere in the whole country. It just doesn’t exist. Most people, even those in good health, would have to pay about $500 a month if they couldn’t get health care through their employer. And some employers will even make you pay about $100-$200 a month of your health insurance from your own salary, and that’s in addition to the co-pay you’ll have to fork over every time you visit the doctor. That adds up to way more than $500 a year.

Besides university-sponsored health insurance is actually pretty good. They might even pay all your contraceptive costs, which is really the only health-related expense that most young people have. So please, just take it and be grateful.

Student #1: OK, fine, but what about the work obligations? I heard that Americans work all day long – 10, 12 hours a day sometimes and often on weekends, too. And the school has said it will pay us $30,000 a year to help teach undergraduate classes. But if they are going to pay us so much, they must expect us to work like slaves. And if we have to spend all our time teaching undergraduates, how will we have time for our own research?

Kevin: Yes, that is the dirty secret of an American university education. Quite simply: They don’t expect you to spend all your time teaching the undergraduates, just about three or four hours a week. They just make you work because there has to be a good tax-reason why they’re paying you $30,000 a year, which is really just a living stipend while you continue your research. And since none of the professors want to teach the undergraduates, they make grad students do it. It’s a pretty good deal actually. You’ll be getting paid about $500 an hour. As a scientist, that's probably be the best salary you'll ever make!

Yes, I think you are really going to enjoy your time in America. Now, run along, students, and don’t forget to sign up for the health care!

(And the German students leave, more confused than ever.)

*Obviously, none of this has been reported verbatim. Kevin might even claim that I have embellished some parts of his speech. But I’m the one with the blog!

As American as Apple Pie

So, last week was the “International Food Party” at my German school. Everyone was asked to bring a traditional dish from their homelands, and as the token American, I chose apple pie. What could be easier or more American than that?

Of course, the Germans would never deign to sell pre-made pastry dough (which is all I have ever used), and so I had to attempt my first-ever homemade piecrust. Only, I couldn’t find any vegetable shortening in the supermarket. According to my German-English dictionary the equivalent German word is “Schmalz,” but the only kind of Schmalz they stock is Schweinschmalz – essentially, pork drippings. Maybe that’s what the German use for their piecrusts, I thought. In the end it was all I had to work with, so it would have to do.

Unfortunately, when my pie came out of the oven, it smelled distinctly of bacon. I couldn’t stomach a single bite, but the students in my class seemed to like it well enough. Some even came back for seconds. The only person I didn’t fool was my German teacher. She asked after the crust, and I confessed that I had used Schweinschmalz. “Well, I don’t know what you use to make Äpfelstrudel in America,” she said, “But in Germany we use Margarine.”

It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye ...

Last weekend Kevin and I paid a visit to a fun fair that had recently set up on the Würzburg riverfront. It was pretty much just like any American fun fair, with carousels, cotton candy, and games of skill meant to rob you of all your hard-earned money. The only differences I observed were: one, a category of ride that would never pass U.S. safety standards (something called “The Revolution,” a double-pendulum contraption in which riders are tossed into the air on a giant rolling pin); and two, a local delicacy called “fish on a stick,” and by that I don’t mean fishsticks, but an honest to goodness fish – head and all – on a stick.

Anyway, Kevin and I had a blast reliving our youths. We went inside the ghost house, rode the Ferris wheel, and ate ice cream and hot-out-of-the-oven pretzels until we thought we would burst. But then we got a little carried away by our youthful exuberance and made the unfortunate decision of riding something called “The Break Dance,” like the "Teacups" but on crack. At first we congratulated ourselves for being young at heart – we were the oldest people on the ride by about 10 years – but as soon as the ride started up, with its intense, erratic spinning, we realized why we were the only adults onboard: Adult bodies just cannot stand to be thrown around like that. Kevin and I screamed for mercy, but the kids in the car next to us, all smiles, begged the conductor to go faster and faster, which he happily obliged. It was the longest five minutes of my life, and when it was finally over, we staggered off the platform like a pair of drunken sailors, while several of the kids who had ridden it with us hopped back in line to ride it again.

The whole experience was yet another reminder that here in Würzburg, Kevin and I inhabit a strange netherworld between old and young. We're too old to be young and too young to be old. Most of Kevin’s colleagues are in their late 30s or early 40s, with a house, a spouse, and a couple of kids to boot. And though I love playing with the children and participating in the fascinating conversations of their worldly parents, the evening always ends quietly at about 10 p.m.

On the other hand, I don’t quite have the stamina to keep with the undergrads in my German class. I’ve recently made friends with a group of international students at the university, and a couple times a week I’ll go out with them to a club or a party. But their outings don’t begin until 11 p.m. (on account of a large Spanish contingent) and often stretch out until five or six in the mornig, even though we all have to be in class by nine. I just can’t keep hours like that any more. I don’t even want to.

In addition, their ideas about the world strike me as a little naïve sometimes. I hate to sound like a world-weary 25 year old, but I want to laugh when they say things like, “I know I don’t do my homework like I should, but I just don’t feel challenged in this class. If I were really challenged, I would work harder.” I’m sure I said stuff like that when I was twenty, but I hope no one ever reminds me of it.

I'm sure there must be other 25 year olds somewhere in Würzburg, but I don’t know how to meet them. So, unless I stumble upon a sympathetic group of English-speaking young professionals at a bar somewhere, Kevin and I will keep rotating between groups of friends who are either too old or too young. And fortunately, the ride isn't as nauseating as “The Break Dance.”

Bull in a China Museum

The week I was in Dresden it rained all day, every day, so there was nothing for me to do but visit museums all day long. Fortunately, Dresden has dozens of world-class museums, so it wasn’t much of a sacrifice on my part. I spent my third day there exploring the rambling collections of the Zwinger. Originally built as a pleasure palace for Augustus the Strong (he kept his concubines in the galleries and held tournaments in the courtyard), it now houses several museums: the Gemäldegalerie Alte Meisters (Renaissance and Baroque paintings), the Rüstkammer (armory), the Porzellensammlung (porcelain collection), among many others.

The Gemäldegalerie has a reputation of being one of the best museums in Europe, with important works by Raphael, Botticelli, Titian, Dürer, Holbien, Vermeer, Rembrandt, and basically anyone else who ever achieved a modicum of fame, but it was it was a less famous work – Ruben’s Leda and the Swan – that really took my breath away.I have long been a fan of this painting, which depicts the maiden Leda being seduced by Zeus in the form of a swan, and I used to keep a postcard-size version of it on my bulletin board when I was in college.


I loved how Leda’s pale skin and the swan’s snowy white feathers glow against the solid black background. And I always found the graceful arch of the swan’s neck as it reach up to give Leda a kiss right on the lips terribly erotic. But it wasn’t until I saw the 10-by-12 foot original, that I realized the painting it positively pornographic! Leda and the Swan were actually “doin’ it,” and the evidence is right their in front of you in all its glory. Needless to say, I bought a new, larger copy of the painting to take home with me.

Next, I visited the Rüstkammer. Now, I’ve never cared much for the history of warfare, but the elaborate gold and silver and jewel-encrusted suits of armor were pretty cool, and so I did like everyone else in the museum was doing and whipped out my digital camera to take a picture. Two seconds later an angry female guard was all over me, yelling in that angry guttural voice that Germans always have in the movies. It turns out that you had to pay an extra 5 euros in order to be able to take pictures in the museum. Who knew?

Anyway, I hated to come across as “the ugly American,” but I wasn’t about to pay 5 euros when all I wanted was a single picture, so I just packed up my camera and moved on. But not five minutes later, I was yelled at again for leaning in too closely to a suit of armor. Yikes! And I wasn’t the only one: Visitors were getting chewed out left and right by the museum’s staff of very severe-looking female guards and for relatively minor offenses. Dresden’s numerous museums are overrun with these dower-looking middle-aged women, about one every 10 feet. It makes absolutely no sense that the museum should employ hoards of people for such a useless task since it already has a thoroughly modern security system – until you consider that the unemployment rate in Eastern Germany is even higher than Germany’s national unemployment rate of 14 percent. People have to earn their daily bread somehow, and I guess the government would rather employ them in useless jobs in the state’s art museums than just putting them on the dole.

This thought softened my heart for a moment, but then, a short while later, I was yelled at yet again, this time for talking to Kevin on my cell phone. Now, normally I would say that talking on a cell phones in an art museum was the height of rudeness (I used to work in an art museum, after all), but I had had the ringer turned off and took the call in a secluded corner of the museum, where I never spoke above a whisper. Besides it’s not like I could have gone outside to take the call – it was raining cats and dogs! Despite my precautions, one of them hunted me down and nearly bit my head off. I was about to give her a piece of my mind, but fortunately, my German wasn’t up to the task. So, I just left.

I wanted nothing more than to go back to the hotel and nurse my wounded pride, but it was still raining, so I decided to take my chances with the guards one more time and went next door to the Porzellensammlung. Now, I’ve never cared much for porcelain – it’s much too frilly and fragile for my tastes – but even I have to admit that the museum’s collection was pretty cool. One large white room contains dozens of nearly life size porcelain animals, all in white. The rest of the museum’s long, narrow galleries display almost two thousand years’ of Asian porcelain in arrangements 20-feet high and set against brightly painted walls in orange and red and purple. The effect on the viewer is like being a tiny figurine in a giant curio cabinet. Or maybe just a “bull in a china shop.”

Anyway, I desperately wanted to take a picture, but again I was too cheap to pony up the 5 euros for a photo-pass. Still, I figured it never hurt to ask, so I mustered up my courage – and my recently acquired knowledge of the German subjunctive – and said to the little old lady guard in my politest voice: “Would it be possible for me to take a picture here, just one?” Of course, her response was, “Do you have a photo-pass?” I shook my head and started to move on. But I guess my use of the subjunctive must have had its affect on her. Or maybe she was just amused that someone my age would want to take a picture of the collection – I was the youngest person in the museum by about 50 years – so she relented and let me take my picture. She even led me over to the one spot in the tight little wing where I could get the best shot!

From the mouthes of babes

Today was a great day. The weather was warm, and the sun was shining. It was also my next to last day of having to wake up at 5:30 am and race through the darkened streets of Würzburg to catch the 6:50 am train to my German class in Frankfurt. However, I'll actually miss some aspects of this horrendous commute, because more than any class, it's the repetition of this routine that brings me into contact with regular Germans and forces me to practice my newfound German skills.

For instance, yesterday, while waiting for the train, which was already 35 minutes late (don't believe what you here about German punctuality), I overheard a mother and her son arguing about the location of their train, which was missing from its regular track. I quickly explained (in German) that their train had been transferred to another track. Apparently, they hadn't heard the conductor's recent announcement to that effect. But I had. I had even understood it.

Later that day, a woman stopped me on the subway and asked me for directions to the Hauptbahnhof. Well, if there's one thing I know, it's how to get to the main train station. So I gave her directions (again, in German), and even reminded her when it was time to get off at our stop.

That very same afternoon, my train back to Würzburg was overcrowded, and the only empty seat I could find was underneath a sign that said, "Schwerbehinderte." I had no idea what this meant, so I asked the young man sitting in the next seat over. He looked at me like I had worms crawling out of my eyes. Had I said it wrong? So I repeated myself, "I'm sorry but my German isn't very good. Could you please tell me what this word means and if I can sit here?" He relaxed and sweetly explained that the word meant "disabled persons," but I was welcomed to sit next to him -- the "hard-hindered" be damned.

It turns out, I hadn't said anything wrong at all, but my German accent had been so good that he didn't realize at first that I wasn't German. Of course, any illusions about my fluency were quickly shattered once we got into a longer conversation and I began botching verb tense and adjective endings, but no matter. We had a real conversation. In German. For, like, 40 minutes! It also happens that he is moving to New York next week to start an internship, so I gave him all kinds of helpful information about the best neighborhoods and the best blogs to read for Manhattan news, gossip, and nightlife. Like I really know, but it was nice to feel useful for a change.

But don't let these successes fool you. My German is still, on the whole, really terrible. It's just that by having to do the same things everyday -- commute to Frankfurt, buy a subway pass, order breakfast -- I've become kind good at them. By the sheer force of hundreds of repetitions, I've learned how to say a few words perfectly, not unlike a small child who's learning to speak for the first time. And it turns out that this is the best practice of all, more than any German class.

For instance, every day I spend the hour between my train's arrival in Frankfurt and the start of my class sitting in the Bäckerei Eifler in Sachsenhausen. And every day I order my second breakfast from the funny couple who runs it. (At least I think they're a couple -- they work so closely together, and their movements are perfectly synchronized -- although it's hard to imagine them being married. She is as plump and rosy as he is thin and gray. Every time I see them, I can't help thinking of that old nursery rhyme: "Jack Sprat could eat no fat ... .")

This is one of the hardest German exercises I do all day because they speak very quickly and mostly in slang -- and she speaks with a thick Bavarian accent! It took me weeks to perfect our little exchange: ein Buttercroissant oder Schneebälle, einen Milchkaffee oder ein doppelter Espresso, für heir oder mitnehmen. And then I have to do the quick backwards mental calculation to arrive at the exact change: "Drei Euro funfundvierzig" becomes 3,45.

I also try to change my order every day so that I can learn the gender of each item on the menu, even though I can tell the couple would prefer that I stick to the same old thing. The Germans are very regelmäßig (regular), and I can tell it gives them great pleasure when they've prepared your order before you've even asked for it. Still, as a native English speaker, memorizing the gender of otherwise sexless objects is the bane of my existence, and I've found that this is the best way for me to learn. (David Sedaris had the perfect antidote to this dilemma when he was learning French: just order more than one. In French, as in German, when you ask for multiples of something you can drop the indefinite article and ignore its gender. But I thinking Mrs. Sprat would think it odd if I ordered two Milchkaffes for myself, since I can't seem to finish one.)

Rather than cheating at the gender rule or even memorize the elaborate declination charts, I'm just going to try to learn by osmosis, to learn by heart the rhythm of indefinite articles for everything, just like a child. There are a lot of combinations, which may take me hundreds of thousands of repetitions before I can learn them. But I've got time. And when I've learned something straight from the mouth of my buxom Bavarian baker, I know that I'll always say it perfectly.

The Barbarians at the Gates

When you move to a foreign country, you become suddenly afraid that everything you do is wrong and gives great offense to the locals. Take too long bagging your own groceries at the supermarket checkout line, and you start to think that everyone behind you is rolling their eyes. Leave only pocket change for a tip at the neighborhood café (as is said to be the custom here), and you’ll spend the next twenty minutes agonizing over whether the waitress thinks you’re generous or a cheapskate. And that time when you were late for your train and had to run through the station and that woman followed you out onto the platform shouting “Rudi! Rudi!” … Was she yelling at you in German for being “rude” or did she just have a son named Rudy who’d suddenly gone missing?

To help right the perceived slights, you may even go out of your way to offer your seat on the streetcar to some decrepit old lady, but she’ll grunt and sniff and walk on by. Has the word already gotten around about your rudeness? Do you smell? I’m sure most of these mix-ups are merely internal insecurities playing themselves out as paranoid delusions – but not all. Some are very, very real.

For instance, my shortcomings were made abundantly clear to me the other day by my landlord, Herr Hartmann. At the appointed time (every first and third Monday between 7:00 and 8:00 pm) Kevin and I went down to the basement to exchange our linens, having taken great care to separate the hand towels from the bath towels from the sheets and duvets, placing each category of laundry in its own clear plastic bag, thinking this is the way the Germans would do it – this is, after all, how they sort their trash – but to no avail!

After exchanging the soiled linens for fresh ones, we started back up the stairs when Herr Hartmann ran after us waving a dishtowel. “Die handtüche sind für die Gläse trocknen, nicht fur wippen,” he said angrily, fanning each side of our stained dishtowels in our faces. For once, I understood German perfectly: “The hand towels are for drying glasses, not for wiping things.”

I apologized profusely, “Es tut mir leid. Es tut mir leid” (“I’m so sorry”). And Kevin, who seemed to get his meaning as well, tried explaining what had happened: “Der Kaffee, der Kaffee hat ...” But Herr Hartmann didn’t seem satisfied. He sighed and shook his head as if to say, “What do you expect of dirty Americans?” and then he walked back into the laundry room. I’m quiet sure that he would have taken back the pristine linens he had just given us if we hadn’t already beat our retreat up the stairs.

I know that I’m too sensitive – these people will have forgotten my mistakes long before I will. And I know that my bad behavior is hardly the worst they’ll see. I’ve watched American tourists walk into gift shops in Frankfurt, speak only in English, and insist on paying the cashier in American dollars, without thinking for a second about how rude they’re being. Still, I can’t seem to ignore the trouble I think I’m causing.

At dinner with Cissy and Sanders the other night, I explained my anxiety about all of this, to which Cissy replied something along the lines of: “Honey, you can’t let that bother you. Locals always look on foreigners as complete barbarians no matter what they do.” Then she and Sanders told of their experiences living in Japan, which has perhaps the strictest code of social behavior on the plane: “Step on someone’s foot on a crowded subway, and they’ll bow to you and apologize for getting stepped on, but what they’re really saying is, ‘I’m so sorry you are a stupid barbarian and can’t be Japanese like me.’”

“We’re all like that,” Sanders explained, and right then and there, in the middle of a crowded restaurant, he began grunting and hooting like a chimpanzee – his impersonation of the barbarian invaders. I laughed so hard that I nearly spewed my wine all over the table, just like they do in the movies – and yet, not once did I feel embarrassed.

Since then, I’ve tried to think on this whenever I’m feeling insecure. But occasionally, when I forget and start pouting over some mix-up on the train or in the grocery store, Kevin will stick out his bottom lip, jump around the apartment, and holler like an ape, until I'm laughing so hard that I'm quiet sure Herr Hartmann will be at our door any minute to see what mischief the barbarians are into now.

"Now is the time on Sprockets ven wee dance"

I fancy myself a fairly sophisticated consumer of the arts (I mean, I go to museums and stuff, and I’ve even been to hear Handel’s Messiah, like, four times) – but man, the German art world is whole other kettle of fish. Perhaps it would be trite to compare it to Sprockets, Mike Meyers' brilliant spoof of pre-unification German scene that used to run on SNL -- so I’ll be trite. Sprockets doesn’t even come close …

Last night, our new friends Fakher and Christine took us to a modern dance performance at the Kulturspeicher, a multi-purpose center for contemporary art and dance here in Würzburg. I was pretty excited. I love going to the ballet, and I can even appreciate some modern dance (although, I must admit that sometimes I have to stifle a laugh when the dancers are being particularly “expressive” ), but right away, I could tell that we were in for something very different, something “high concept.”

The printed program explained the different “frames” through which we were meant to view the performance, including “deprivation, self-abuse, aging, the decay of the body, fitness, and the desire to be forever young.” It asked viewers to ponder the question “What do we do with our bodies, and what do our bodies do to us?” Still, I was a little unsure how to approach this intellectual exercise. Fortunately, the artistic director and the choreographer tried to set the tone with a half hour introduction about the dancers’ “motivation.” But of course, the whole lecture was in a very high fa-lutin’ German, so the only words I could make out were “Autismus” (Autism) and “Wolfkind” (the “wolf child”). The rest was just static.

Then, faster that I could say “Casper Hauser,” the theater went dark and three very athletic women in street clothes materialized beneath a single spot light. Some generic techno music began playing over the sound system, and then, as the beat picked up and the bass deepened, the women began to abuse themselves – and I don’t mean the fun way. One girl started slapping herself across the face. Another shook her head and yanked at her hair. And a third collapsed into a pile on the floor, got up, and repeated this every 15 seconds or so.

After several very uncomfortable minutes, the performers finally ceased their flagellation and began wrapping Scotch Tape around their heads – hair and all! I can’t say for certain, but I think this was supposed to symbolize plastic surgery and the other superficial alterations we do to ward off aging, because next, our healthy young dancers grew increasingly decrepit, shaking with palsy and bending with scoliosis. And just when you started to worry that they might imitate Death itself, the aging-process reversed. The techno morphed into the 80’s classic “Forever Young,” and as if revitalized by some Elixir of Youth, the dancers started jogging in place – the picture of health. The lights grew brighter and brighter until they nearly blinded you, obliterating everything. And when the lights returned to normal, the dancers were gone.

The audience sat around very silently for what seemed like an eternity. I began to fidget nervously. What was I supposed to do? Was this intermission or something? After all, the performance had lasted only 15 minutes – half the time of the introduction. But soon the dancers returned and began taking their bows. They got a standing ovation.

“But what about the dancing?” I wanted to protest. “Where were the people in tights, doing synchronized pirouettes?” But of course, I said nothing of the sort. Christine seemed to like it a lot, and I didn’t want to insult our hosts or seem completely uncultured. But still, call me uncultured: I was looking forward to the time “ven wee dance.”

It’s a small, small, small, small world

Last Saturday night, Kevin and I walked across the nearby Löwenbrücke (Lion’s Bridge) to the Würzburg home of Cissy and Sanders W., two people whom we had never met before, but to whom we seemed already intimately linked.

For starters, I was given Cissy’s name and contact information by my high school German teacher, Frau Kearney, who knows Cissy from God-knows-where. At first I think she was a little wary of me. After all, I had called her up out-out-of-the-blue, and, although we had never been formally introduced, I began addressing her as “Cissy,” a childhood name that she no longer uses. However, once she ferreted out who “my people are,” we discovered quite a number of connections. Back when Cissy was a dental hygienist, my great-grandparents were patients of hers. Later, she and her first husband were good friends with my Aunt Matilda and her first husband (“my son still has a scar from when he fell out of her tree”). And she even grew up in my hometown of Warren, Arkansas (pop. 6,000). I guess after my genealogy was carefully scrutinized, I passed muster, so she invited Kevin and me over to her apartment for drinks and dinner.

And what an apartment it is! Situated right on the riverfront, the building has stunning views of the Main and all of the altstadt, as well as large, antique chandeliers in every room. Her own apartment, on the third floor, is made up of at least eight enormous rooms – each larger than our entire apartment back in Boston. And unlike the rest of us, who must buy cheap new furniture when we move abroad, Cissy is an employee of the U.S. military, so she’s able to bring all of her belongings with her for free wherever she is transferred. With previous stints in Japan and South Korea, she has amassed quiet a collection of Eastern bureaus and tapestries and object d’art, and her apartment is a veritable wunderkammer in which you could spend hours exploring.

Sanders, her husband, is equally interesting: A Texan of the old school variety, he’s been a cowboy and an inventor, traveled the world, done two tours of duty in Vietnam, and even in middle age remains a motorcycle aficionado (BMWs, of course). Together, they are a hoot, having polished their fish-out-of-water stories into a perfect comedy routine: such as the time Sanders ordered a Hefeweissen and got gassy water instead. “Now how do you get ‘gassy water’ out of ‘Hefeweissen?’” he wondered. Although they’ve lived in Germany for many years, they long ago gave up trying to learn the language, and I am greatly encouraged by the fact that they can live so well in Würzburg using only English and pantomime.

Before the evening was over, they had given us all kinds of pointers from where to shop and travel, to finding an apartment and navigating the expansive German bureaucracy. And as if she could hear the question working it’s way off the tip of my tongue, Cissy offered to take me “antiquing” when it comes time to furnish our new apartment. They even have a pick-up truck!

Although on the exterior, you could not find two couples more dissimilar, I think Kevin and I have found some very kindred spirits more than 3,000 miles from home.