I had sworn that I would end my blog after that last post when I had been back in the US for a little while, and I had intended on keeping that promise; however, it has come to my attention that several people were unhappy with my portrayal of Giessen and of Germany. With this post I want to make my positions perfectly clear, so please read carefully! I did not hate Giessen. I did not hate Germany. I did not hate Europe.
Yes, I did complain a bit in this blog. In particular, the ranting post about life in Eichendorffring comes to mind. To be fair, I warned you all about the caustic nature of that post. I was very upset about a number of aspects of life in that dorm, in that hall—my food had been stolen numerous times; the common area/kitchen was always a mess because people didn’t clean up after themselves; people would run and yell down the hall in the middle of the night on weeknights when I had classes the next morning, as well as throwing parties that, and I exaggerate not, were heard by residents living five floors above and that lasted past 4AM, on weeknights when I had classes the next day. And on top of it all, despite my attempts to say “hi”, wave to, and smile at the people in that dorm, I was essentially shunned; with one resident in particular always giving me the dirtiest looks you could ever imagine…that is, on the times he would acknowledge that I’d said anything. Sometimes he would just look away immediately, as if he had looked upon something foul that he did not want to see again. Please, please, PLEASE do not think that I somehow brought this upon myself by acting stuck up or aloof toward these people first. I really did make an honest effort to be friendly and say hi to them. But except for one girl and the guy who offered me a Capri Sun, no one ever made any effort to return my smiles, waves, or greetings of “hallo.” What was I supposed to think?
Perhaps someone may misconstrue my rantings on my dorm mates as a criticism on all Germans. I wish to debunk this myth. Never did I say that I had a problem with the Germans. In fact, I can think of several posts in which I described the fun times I had with both my German friends and my ERASMUS friends. Some people did things that I (and others around me for that matter) didn’t fully understand and which just seemed silly, and thus "crazy" (this is "crazy" in the "strange" or "funny" sense, not "crazy" as in literally crazy in the negative sense). (I’m thinking of that guy who sat down in the middle of the road.) But never did my respect for Germans on the whole drop due to these silly little events. Furthermore, I would like to add that practically none of my dorm mates were Germans and that although they came from various countries, I do not hold other citizens of these countries accountable for the actions of their fellow countrymen. That would be like if you were to hold me accountable for the behavior of “Snooki” from “Jersey Shore.” I just somehow got stuck on the asshole floor, and so tried to avoid those who were jerks, occasionally venting my frustrations in my blog. I did not, however, try to avoid my friends and cannot imagine how any of them could have gotten the idea that I was.
But really, other than that one post, I have struggled to find posts that portrayed Giessen or Germany in a negative light. Every so often, I found a critique on some aspect of German life, but I always strived to understand it within the context, and sometimes I even used it to level a criticism toward the US. For example, I criticized the German take on American food, but then questioned why it is that fast food is held up as an example of American cuisine, blaming it on the overly aggressive nature of the American fast food industry, as well as criticizing American fast food in general. Maybe it would have helped if I had actually eaten at an American fast food restaurant in Germany. It could very well be that McDonald’s in Germany is of better quality than McDonald’s in the United States. After all, as I posted before, the vast majority of food in Germany is of rather high quality. In most cases, food in Germany is better and cheaper than similar products in the US. To be fair, I had originally planned to visit the McDonald’s in Giessen (as well as other American-themed restaurants and fast food places), and strangely enough, one of my regrets is that I never did visit those places. I just never got around to going those restaurants, partially because I wanted to experience Germany, not Americana in Germany, and partially because eating out is expensive and when you only have 500 Euros/month to live on, with 230 of that going toward rent, and 60 going toward insurance, you really have to save every nickel and penny you get.
Some of my critiques were silly; for instance, the critique that milk in Germany is too rich and creamy. Does it really matter how something as trivial as the taste of milk or the price of peanut butter seems to me? Of course not! And they were not at all meant to be serious critiques. Rather, I wrote them down as observations. Everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion; I merely shared my opinion through the internet, with the intention of my family members back home reading it. There was no disrespect at all towards the Germans or the Giesseners in those posts. And I even tried to spin some of those silly, stupid, trivial critiques around to try to imagine how someone coming from the opposite side would feel—just as an example, I wrote that to me German milk was too creamy, but to a German, I would imagine that American milk is very bland. Indeed, among foreigners I’ve known who have lived in the US—Germans, Russians, Indians, etc; it doesn’t matter—one of their biggest complaints is about how bland and flavorless our food is. Maybe they meant it to offend me when they said it, but I never took any offense to it, because tastes are personal and differ from individual to individual. And why on earth should the taste or cost of any food ever be used as an insult? I think there are far more important issues to worry about.
Other posts in my blog vented some of my frustrations; for instance, having to constantly go visit various government offices, setting up a bank account, and having to buy German insurance. These hassles, as I already mentioned in a previous post, are dealt with by any immigrant to nearly any country in the world. They are in no way shape or form unique to Germany or to Giessen. In fact, I would venture to guess that immigrants to the US experience far more complicated and frustrating immigration procedures, simply given the US’s history of trying to prevent immigrants from “overrunning” the country. The only difference is that having been born in the US, I’ve never had to immigrate to this country, so I do not have much for a basis of comparison other than relying on stories I’ve heard from people who have immigrated. And so, although these frustrations were critiques on German bureaucracy, they were really critiques on bureaucracies in general, and could have theoretically been leveled against any country in the world, and thus Germans should not take offense at this, as this is not a uniquely German “problem”. (And really, they’re not even huge problems; it’s just a lot of little hassles which, when added up and put together with other minor frustrations, such as the terrible weather, are compounded and cause frustration. But once you know how to deal with all of these mini-hassles, they become not a big problem at all.)
The same sort of story goes for the criticism I had of weather in Germany. I’m not going to lie—the weather in Giessen during the time of year in which I was there was awful…in my opinion, anyway. It was always cloudy and rained nearly every day for the first three months or so, and the temperature rarely went much past 70F, even in the summer. I had heard about how people up north often get depressed from the lack of sunlight, and many have to buy special lamps to help them deal with their depression. But never had I seen how true that depression can be until I had to deal with it myself. But although that kind of chilly, damp, dark weather got to me the first few months in Germany, by the time I got back, I found myself getting excited when “Giessen weather” would show up in Illinois or Ohio, which leads me to believe that one (or at least I) can get accustomed to different weather patterns and climates. And really, it’s all relative. Too hot and dry for one person is too cold and wet for another. And with time, we can better acclimate ourselves to different climates. So perhaps if I had had the opportunity to spend more than just 5 months in Giessen, I would have become more acclimated and wouldn’t have been so upset by a little extra rain and cold here and there. And furthermore, are my complaints about the weather really the biggest problem in the world right now?
One interesting thing I have noticed, however, is that several of the people who have accused this blog of having an unfairly negative outlook on Germany were mostly Germans themselves. I found it somewhat strange that a country that has generally been regarded as being able to critically look at itself and its past (Vergangenheitsbewältigung, anyone?) would be so terribly insulted by my own humble opinions. After all, who am I but a simple girl who went to another country for a few months and wrote about what she experienced? This was especially strange to me, considering that neither I nor my American friends and family members particularly found much negativity in this blog. I just wonder where the difference in mentality comes from. Maybe it was simply a matter of misunderstandings: the Americans will understand the subtle nuances of my stories, but for a German whose native language is German and not American English it may have been slightly more difficult to pick up on the little things and understand when I was joking versus when I was completely serious. And so a post that to an American came across as a mild poke at German culture will seem like complete disrespect to a German. Maybe it would have helped if I had tried to write this blog in German. The only problem with that is that my family for the most part doesn't speak German, and some of them even got frustrated from having to look up the numerous German words I would throw into my posts whenever I wanted to spice up the language or in the rare instance that I couldn't immediately recall the English word (yes, it happened a few times). Furthermore, it would have taken me a lot longer to write these posts in German and further still, although my German is pretty decent (or so the tests and my grades in German classes tell me), it is still really difficult to say a whole lot when you don't feel that you have enough words to be as expressive as you want to be...which is partially the reason why I also didn't say very much. Combine the quietness of a girl like me with the insecurity of feeling that you don't have a sufficient vocabulary, and I guarantee you that the conversations will be short and that I'll do more listening than talking. It doesn't mean I didn't understand you or that I was unhappy in Giessen or whatever.
Or maybe the reason for the different mentality is that Germans don’t like to laugh at their country as much as Americans and foreigners alike laugh at or even outright ridicule ours (could Green Day ever write a song called “German Idiot”? Could Werner Herzog’s “Stroszek” have featured an American who goes to Germany and eventually kills himself because life is too difficult there?)… though I would hate to think that this was the case, since it would confirm the stereotype that Germans don’t have a sense of humor or even know what laughter is. Furthermore, this would assume that all Germans are the same, which is just as silly as saying all Americans are the same. Or maybe there is some other reason for this discord that I’m not seeing.
But regardless of the reason, feelings were hurt, and for that I sincerely apologize. It was never my intention to hurt anyone’s feelings or to portray Germany or Giessen as negatively as some people thought I did. In fact, there were a number of things that I found to be better in Germany. And most of the negatives probably could have been remedied by simply having spent more than 5 months in a strange land. Now let's all have a Capri Sun, forget about our differences, and have some fun! Life, like study abroad semesters, is too short to spend wallowing in sorrow or getting upset about misunderstandings. :)
Monday, February 21, 2011
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Amerikanerin in Giessen no longer
I took a walk around the world to ease my troubled mind.
~3 Doors Down – “Kryptonite”
Or more like a train ride around Europe. With classes over, I put my EuRail Pass to good use, and began going everywhere from Rome to Stockholm. But even though I saw a lot, there was still so much I just didn’t get to see. Europe looks small on a map, but there is just not enough time to see it all. And it was a bit of a shock when my pass expired and I was once again limited to free travel within Hesse. Though I theoretically could have traveled around Hesse, I was busy with other things.
With just under two weeks since returning home, it seemed like the right time for an update on my life—a post about the last few days in Germany, my first few days in the U.S., and the process of readjustment to my old life.
My last few days in Germany were filled with a mad dash to get everything packed up, shipped off, or otherwise ready to be thrown out or sent home. Though my room was small, it held a surprising amount of things that needed to be sorted through. And of course, I had to clean the entire room—windows and everything. Because you know those Germans love cleanliness and wouldn’t be giving me back my deposit on the room (a whopping 200€) unless I did. (I’m not joking—the letter I got said they charge 10€ for dirty windows, 30€ for “normal” Verschmutzung, and 60€ for really dirty rooms. That’s a buttload of money just to clean those tiny things, and I wasn’t prepared to be handing back even one cent of that ridiculous deposit.) Unfortunately for me, those bastards at the student housing office don’t give you back your 200€ in cash; only through Überweisung (transfer of money to a bank account). And since I had to close my German bank account that day, they obviously couldn’t send the money there. So instead I had to give them my email where they could tell me my options of how to get my money back. Having had a very limited internet connection since being home, I haven’t been able to check my emails on a regular basis. Though when I did log on to my emails today, I was dismayed to find that I had not yet received any note from the Studentenwerk, and now I’m worried I’ll never get my damn money back—yet another way the Germans have managed to screw me over. But I digress.
I spent the rest of that last day going to the post office to send off the packages of things I couldn’t fit in my suitcase, going to my advisor’s office to hand in my grades, and going to the Ausländerbehörde, only to find out that I was supposed to have gone to the Stadtbüro in order to tell them I was leaving Germany. I needed to go to that office, because, in the words of the guy who was working with me, “If you evah come beck to Chermany, you need zis pay-pah.” I don’t know why he decided to say that one sentence in English when everything else we were saying was in German, but his accent was so cute, that I had to share it.
Even when he handed me the green sheet of paper that I was supposed to hang on to, the reality of leaving Europe hadn’t fully set in. That could have very well been the last time I ever have to deal with German bureaucracy, but in my mind, I somehow felt that sooner or later I would return.
As I could no longer return to my room, I wound up spending much of that evening in my hall’s kitchen, where I watched a lot of TV and took a lot of naps on the couch, just waiting until I could leave for my 4:30 AM train to Frankfurt.
I got to the airport with time enough for the guy at the Air India counter to ask me if I was sure I was on the Air India flight to Chicago, and not the United Airlines flight (what, just because I’m not Indian, I can’t fly Air India and would somehow confuse United for Air India?!), and for the two passport controllers to take their good old time looking through my passport and comment that the pictures in my passport and Aufenthaltserlaubnis were “sweet” (I don’t know if they meant “sweet” in the American form, as in “cool,” or “sweet” in the German form, as in “cute,” but either way I was flattered). Even after checking in, getting through passport and baggage control, and sitting in the waiting area, it still hadn’t hit me that I would soon be in yet another country—and this time, I wouldn’t be coming back via the Deutsche Bahn.
Luckily for me, I hadn’t really gotten much sleep the previous two days, what with all the packing and cleaning, and so I easily fell asleep and stayed asleep for most of the 9 hour flight, waking up more or less refreshed, and ready to start the day and my new life back in my Old Country. I didn’t even have a major jet-lag problem…though it was weird that time seemed to have been suspended or at least really slowed down for about seven hours between the time that I left Germany to the time I arrived in Chicago. The plane left at almost 9 AM German time and got in at around 11 AM Chicago time. So you can imagine the weird tricks such a flight plays on one’s mind.
When I finally got in, I had to wait an hour and a half to get my damn bags back, and go through the passport controller who looked bored out of his skull and the customs agent who didn’t seem to understand English. It struck me as odd that in all the places I went in Europe, people actually spoke a lot of English, but in a country where English is supposed to be a major language, even the customs agents couldn’t seem to understand what I was telling them. This is Chicago O’Hare, is it not? I didn’t oversleep and wind up in India or something, like the guy at the ticket counter in Frankfurt seemed to suggest I might do, did I? Anyway… once I got through the American security people, I was home free, no more to roam, and greeted with the hugs and smiles of loved ones.
It seemed strange to be surrounded by English (well, and Spanish too) again. I had gotten used to being surrounded by either German or foreign languages I didn’t understand, with English only used sparingly in advertisements, and by hostel owners, train personnel, and the like. But even so, it seemed more that I was just temporarily stopping by, than home to stay—like it was another one of my trips.
The reverse culture shock didn’t even really hit me until a few days ago. Though I call it “shock,” I don’t know that that word really classifies what I felt. I don’t know if it was shock or if it was just plain acceptance, moving on to a different stage of life without even thinking much about it. Or perhaps it’s even denial. And it was the same story with coming to Germany. To be honest, I didn’t really think about where I would be going—not before I went to Germany and not now that I’m back at start. I didn’t start thinking about my semester in Germany until the day before I left for the airport. And it’s the same way now. I never really got to the point where I was going crazy with anticipation over all the fun I was supposed to have in my semester abroad, nor did I get really excited about going home.
I’ve had my fair share of ups and downs on this journey in Giessen, which I suppose doesn’t make it any better or worse than anywhere else I’ve lived. People often talk about their study abroad experiences as though they were magically enlightened over the course of a semester and had a hell of a time in the process. So why don’t I feel the same?
I can’t say I hated Germany, though I often let on as if I did. When asked if I would want to come back, I most often said no. Now that I’ve left, I don’t know that I feel the same. It’s as if the two lives, the two worlds, have fused together, and now it’s difficult to sort out where one ends and the other begins. Maybe this was the enlightenment people always talk about? I don’t know… Was this the best semester of my college career? No. But would I do it again? Probably. This poor wayfaring stranger has returned home, and yet longs for the open road once more. Auf Wiedersehen, dear Readers; auf Wiedersehen, Deutschland.
Oh that I was where I would be
Then I would be where I am not
Here I am where I must be
Go where I would, I can not
Oh diddle day, oh diddle lie o day
~American folk song, “Katie Cruel”
~3 Doors Down – “Kryptonite”
Or more like a train ride around Europe. With classes over, I put my EuRail Pass to good use, and began going everywhere from Rome to Stockholm. But even though I saw a lot, there was still so much I just didn’t get to see. Europe looks small on a map, but there is just not enough time to see it all. And it was a bit of a shock when my pass expired and I was once again limited to free travel within Hesse. Though I theoretically could have traveled around Hesse, I was busy with other things.
With just under two weeks since returning home, it seemed like the right time for an update on my life—a post about the last few days in Germany, my first few days in the U.S., and the process of readjustment to my old life.
My last few days in Germany were filled with a mad dash to get everything packed up, shipped off, or otherwise ready to be thrown out or sent home. Though my room was small, it held a surprising amount of things that needed to be sorted through. And of course, I had to clean the entire room—windows and everything. Because you know those Germans love cleanliness and wouldn’t be giving me back my deposit on the room (a whopping 200€) unless I did. (I’m not joking—the letter I got said they charge 10€ for dirty windows, 30€ for “normal” Verschmutzung, and 60€ for really dirty rooms. That’s a buttload of money just to clean those tiny things, and I wasn’t prepared to be handing back even one cent of that ridiculous deposit.) Unfortunately for me, those bastards at the student housing office don’t give you back your 200€ in cash; only through Überweisung (transfer of money to a bank account). And since I had to close my German bank account that day, they obviously couldn’t send the money there. So instead I had to give them my email where they could tell me my options of how to get my money back. Having had a very limited internet connection since being home, I haven’t been able to check my emails on a regular basis. Though when I did log on to my emails today, I was dismayed to find that I had not yet received any note from the Studentenwerk, and now I’m worried I’ll never get my damn money back—yet another way the Germans have managed to screw me over. But I digress.
I spent the rest of that last day going to the post office to send off the packages of things I couldn’t fit in my suitcase, going to my advisor’s office to hand in my grades, and going to the Ausländerbehörde, only to find out that I was supposed to have gone to the Stadtbüro in order to tell them I was leaving Germany. I needed to go to that office, because, in the words of the guy who was working with me, “If you evah come beck to Chermany, you need zis pay-pah.” I don’t know why he decided to say that one sentence in English when everything else we were saying was in German, but his accent was so cute, that I had to share it.
Even when he handed me the green sheet of paper that I was supposed to hang on to, the reality of leaving Europe hadn’t fully set in. That could have very well been the last time I ever have to deal with German bureaucracy, but in my mind, I somehow felt that sooner or later I would return.
As I could no longer return to my room, I wound up spending much of that evening in my hall’s kitchen, where I watched a lot of TV and took a lot of naps on the couch, just waiting until I could leave for my 4:30 AM train to Frankfurt.
I got to the airport with time enough for the guy at the Air India counter to ask me if I was sure I was on the Air India flight to Chicago, and not the United Airlines flight (what, just because I’m not Indian, I can’t fly Air India and would somehow confuse United for Air India?!), and for the two passport controllers to take their good old time looking through my passport and comment that the pictures in my passport and Aufenthaltserlaubnis were “sweet” (I don’t know if they meant “sweet” in the American form, as in “cool,” or “sweet” in the German form, as in “cute,” but either way I was flattered). Even after checking in, getting through passport and baggage control, and sitting in the waiting area, it still hadn’t hit me that I would soon be in yet another country—and this time, I wouldn’t be coming back via the Deutsche Bahn.
Luckily for me, I hadn’t really gotten much sleep the previous two days, what with all the packing and cleaning, and so I easily fell asleep and stayed asleep for most of the 9 hour flight, waking up more or less refreshed, and ready to start the day and my new life back in my Old Country. I didn’t even have a major jet-lag problem…though it was weird that time seemed to have been suspended or at least really slowed down for about seven hours between the time that I left Germany to the time I arrived in Chicago. The plane left at almost 9 AM German time and got in at around 11 AM Chicago time. So you can imagine the weird tricks such a flight plays on one’s mind.
When I finally got in, I had to wait an hour and a half to get my damn bags back, and go through the passport controller who looked bored out of his skull and the customs agent who didn’t seem to understand English. It struck me as odd that in all the places I went in Europe, people actually spoke a lot of English, but in a country where English is supposed to be a major language, even the customs agents couldn’t seem to understand what I was telling them. This is Chicago O’Hare, is it not? I didn’t oversleep and wind up in India or something, like the guy at the ticket counter in Frankfurt seemed to suggest I might do, did I? Anyway… once I got through the American security people, I was home free, no more to roam, and greeted with the hugs and smiles of loved ones.
It seemed strange to be surrounded by English (well, and Spanish too) again. I had gotten used to being surrounded by either German or foreign languages I didn’t understand, with English only used sparingly in advertisements, and by hostel owners, train personnel, and the like. But even so, it seemed more that I was just temporarily stopping by, than home to stay—like it was another one of my trips.
The reverse culture shock didn’t even really hit me until a few days ago. Though I call it “shock,” I don’t know that that word really classifies what I felt. I don’t know if it was shock or if it was just plain acceptance, moving on to a different stage of life without even thinking much about it. Or perhaps it’s even denial. And it was the same story with coming to Germany. To be honest, I didn’t really think about where I would be going—not before I went to Germany and not now that I’m back at start. I didn’t start thinking about my semester in Germany until the day before I left for the airport. And it’s the same way now. I never really got to the point where I was going crazy with anticipation over all the fun I was supposed to have in my semester abroad, nor did I get really excited about going home.
I’ve had my fair share of ups and downs on this journey in Giessen, which I suppose doesn’t make it any better or worse than anywhere else I’ve lived. People often talk about their study abroad experiences as though they were magically enlightened over the course of a semester and had a hell of a time in the process. So why don’t I feel the same?
I can’t say I hated Germany, though I often let on as if I did. When asked if I would want to come back, I most often said no. Now that I’ve left, I don’t know that I feel the same. It’s as if the two lives, the two worlds, have fused together, and now it’s difficult to sort out where one ends and the other begins. Maybe this was the enlightenment people always talk about? I don’t know… Was this the best semester of my college career? No. But would I do it again? Probably. This poor wayfaring stranger has returned home, and yet longs for the open road once more. Auf Wiedersehen, dear Readers; auf Wiedersehen, Deutschland.
Oh that I was where I would be
Then I would be where I am not
Here I am where I must be
Go where I would, I can not
Oh diddle day, oh diddle lie o day
~American folk song, “Katie Cruel”
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Memories
As the school year here in Giessen comes to a close and we start taking our final exams, as I begin to pack up my things and everyone begins with their goodbyes, I find myself here once again writing my observations and perhaps baring a small part of my soul.
In the weeks leading up to this post, I have not been online as much as I normally am. In fact, I have tried to stay away from the computer altogether. I would rather not divulge the sordid details of my life and the reasons for my absence, but I will say it was a painful series of situations that attacked from more than one angle. A painful series of situations that on my worst days, still seem will never end. And maybe they never will. But at least I’ve somewhat come to accept that. As a friend of mine very recently told me, the Russians have a saying. It goes something like “if someone has a knife to your back, it means you’re ahead.”
It was one part of the situation that prompted someone to urge me to just “go home.” And go “home,” I shall. Go home, I must. For even though it’s sad to go, if one never leaves, it is impossible to come back. And therein lies the bigger tragedy. (Besides, I don’t really have $22,000 just lying around to pay back the scholarships and grants that funded my time here in Germany, but were contingent upon me finishing my time at Denison.)
I will admit I am to blame for the pain caused from a few of those angles. And for that, I am truly sorry. I am sorry for everything from the truths I’ve not revealed to the scars I’ve etched on another’s cheek. Maybe in America I’ll get a second chance. After all, it is the land of opportunity and second chances, is it not?
Several people have asked me if I am happy to be going home. I don’t know what to tell them. Strange as it may seem, I don’t want to go back. But on the other hand, I don’t want to stay here. Though I don’t have any particular love of Germany, and couldn’t see myself as willingly coming back for more than a few weeks, there’s something about the thought of leaving one of my adopted second “homes” that strikes a bit of sadness in my heart. (And if this is hard, I hate to imagine what it will be like this time next year when I’m leaving Denison.) And though I’ll be going back to a land where milk doesn’t taste like coffee creamer, where one doesn’t have to pay to go to the bathroom, and where the skies are not cloudy all day, it was in Germany where I met people, forged memories, and complained about crazy Germans being their crazy German selves. And to have to leave all of that behind and start over again will be tough. It seems I have caught myself in the classic “you-can’t-go-home-but-you-can’t-stay-here” syndrome. (That’s not a real disorder; I made it up.) I may have messed up in Europe, but if there’s one lesson I’ve learned from The Great Gatsby and from life, it’s that you can’t run away from, cover up, or forget your past. It’s a part of you, for better or worse. And maybe that’s where some of my sorrow at my impending departure from Germany stems from. It’s the bittersweet memories that bind me to this place.
In the weeks leading up to this post, I have not been online as much as I normally am. In fact, I have tried to stay away from the computer altogether. I would rather not divulge the sordid details of my life and the reasons for my absence, but I will say it was a painful series of situations that attacked from more than one angle. A painful series of situations that on my worst days, still seem will never end. And maybe they never will. But at least I’ve somewhat come to accept that. As a friend of mine very recently told me, the Russians have a saying. It goes something like “if someone has a knife to your back, it means you’re ahead.”
It was one part of the situation that prompted someone to urge me to just “go home.” And go “home,” I shall. Go home, I must. For even though it’s sad to go, if one never leaves, it is impossible to come back. And therein lies the bigger tragedy. (Besides, I don’t really have $22,000 just lying around to pay back the scholarships and grants that funded my time here in Germany, but were contingent upon me finishing my time at Denison.)
I will admit I am to blame for the pain caused from a few of those angles. And for that, I am truly sorry. I am sorry for everything from the truths I’ve not revealed to the scars I’ve etched on another’s cheek. Maybe in America I’ll get a second chance. After all, it is the land of opportunity and second chances, is it not?
Several people have asked me if I am happy to be going home. I don’t know what to tell them. Strange as it may seem, I don’t want to go back. But on the other hand, I don’t want to stay here. Though I don’t have any particular love of Germany, and couldn’t see myself as willingly coming back for more than a few weeks, there’s something about the thought of leaving one of my adopted second “homes” that strikes a bit of sadness in my heart. (And if this is hard, I hate to imagine what it will be like this time next year when I’m leaving Denison.) And though I’ll be going back to a land where milk doesn’t taste like coffee creamer, where one doesn’t have to pay to go to the bathroom, and where the skies are not cloudy all day, it was in Germany where I met people, forged memories, and complained about crazy Germans being their crazy German selves. And to have to leave all of that behind and start over again will be tough. It seems I have caught myself in the classic “you-can’t-go-home-but-you-can’t-stay-here” syndrome. (That’s not a real disorder; I made it up.) I may have messed up in Europe, but if there’s one lesson I’ve learned from The Great Gatsby and from life, it’s that you can’t run away from, cover up, or forget your past. It’s a part of you, for better or worse. And maybe that’s where some of my sorrow at my impending departure from Germany stems from. It’s the bittersweet memories that bind me to this place.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tiger Juice Solves Everything
This evening I was in the kitchen making soup for dinner, and the one guy who last week asked me why I don't hang out with anyone on the floor came into the kitchen. And although I was snippy with him just a few days ago, you'll never guess what he did. He came into the kitchen and went to the refrigerator, where he pulled out two Capri Suns. Then he set one down on the counter next to where my soup had been cooking (at that moment, I was just washing out the pot), and asked me in a somewhat timid voice, "Excuse me, do you want this?" I was just shocked a little. Here I was, just washing out a pan after having snubbed him just a few days earlier, and he offered me a drink! "Oh no, it's ok," I said. But he insisted, saying "I've got two. You can have this one." I immediately felt bad for having been so rude to him earlier. It seems he really is a good guy. Maybe a bit loud at times, but at least he's not a jerk. I accepted the drink and we smiled at each other, and he left to go back to his room, while I stayed to finish washing the pot.
On a side note, either German Capri Suns aren't as tasty as the American variety, they've changed the recipe a lot since I last had them, or my tastes have changed radically since the days when I would refer to them as "tiger juice."
On a side note, either German Capri Suns aren't as tasty as the American variety, they've changed the recipe a lot since I last had them, or my tastes have changed radically since the days when I would refer to them as "tiger juice."
Monday, June 14, 2010
Toooooooor!
It's World Cup (that's like the Super Bowl of soccer) season in Germany and everyone's catching the fever. And with the American team tying against England in the match on Saturday evening, even Americans are getting into it. I myself was ready to cheer on the American team on Saturday, then turn around the next day and cheer on the German team to a stunning 4:0 victory over Australia. Well done, Germany!
watching the game on a big screen outdoors at Ulenspiegel
Probably the best part of the Germans winning Sunday night, was the huge, spontaneous "party" everyone decided to throw in the middle of the street. It was like going through a Puerto Rican neighborhood on Puerto Rican Independence Day times ten. I can't even imagine what it would be like here if Germany won the whole competition. Probably annoying for the people who don't like that sort of thing, but as for me, I like the company.
Watch as the Germans go crazy over a simple qualifying game. It's beautiful:
Saturday, June 12, 2010
*Really* Crazy German
A week ago today, I posted about a so-called "crazy German" who sat down square in the middle of a busy intersection.
Well, I may have found someone crazier. Today, I decided to take the bus into town to go shopping. As I was getting on the bus, I saw a crazy bag lady walking down the street, yelling at a group of young boys (about 10 years old, I'd say), calling them "assholes." I thought it was weird, but got on the bus, and found an empty seat...which was pretty easy to do, since there were only like 5 people on the bus. Then I heard the crazy lady getting closer and closer, and finally, to my horror and amusement, I saw her climbing on the bus. And she really did have to climb; she had so many bags attached to various parts of her body, I don't know how she moved at all.
And of course, as all crazy people seem to do, she sat down in the seat across the aisle from me. Figures. Though, I can't say I was too upset about it. Although she scared me a little, I think I was more intrigued by her, and was glad to have the opportunity to see her up close. She eventually got up to go back outside and try to chase those boys who were staring and pointing at her. In the meantime, some other girl got on the bus and sat in the bag lady's seat. So where do you think the bag lady sat when she finally got back on the bus? That's right. She moved even closer to me. This time, she sat in the seat facing me. So from Eichendorffring to Berliner Platz, I got to listen to her crazy ramblings about dentists. At some point, she was rambling about how lines in dentist offices are unbearably long. "You wait for hours and hours...and sometimes two!" It was quite an experience. One which I'm sure you'd like to share with me. Lucky for me I again had my handy-dandy Handy and was able to record some of her ramblings for you...though remember, this is Germany and this woman was rambling in German. So sorry if you can't understand it. I'd translate for you, but that would take too much time, and I don't feel like doing the work. =P
SM_A0002.mp3
SM_A0003.mp3
SM_A0004.mp3
SM_A0006.mp3
SM_A0007.mp3
**Edit: I'm not saying I didn't feel sorry for the woman. Really I did...but it wasn't something you see every day, so it was a bit shocking and scary (seeing her chasing after the boys and yelling that she'd kill them, how was I to know how she would react toward me?) but also intriguing.
Well, I may have found someone crazier. Today, I decided to take the bus into town to go shopping. As I was getting on the bus, I saw a crazy bag lady walking down the street, yelling at a group of young boys (about 10 years old, I'd say), calling them "assholes." I thought it was weird, but got on the bus, and found an empty seat...which was pretty easy to do, since there were only like 5 people on the bus. Then I heard the crazy lady getting closer and closer, and finally, to my horror and amusement, I saw her climbing on the bus. And she really did have to climb; she had so many bags attached to various parts of her body, I don't know how she moved at all.
And of course, as all crazy people seem to do, she sat down in the seat across the aisle from me. Figures. Though, I can't say I was too upset about it. Although she scared me a little, I think I was more intrigued by her, and was glad to have the opportunity to see her up close. She eventually got up to go back outside and try to chase those boys who were staring and pointing at her. In the meantime, some other girl got on the bus and sat in the bag lady's seat. So where do you think the bag lady sat when she finally got back on the bus? That's right. She moved even closer to me. This time, she sat in the seat facing me. So from Eichendorffring to Berliner Platz, I got to listen to her crazy ramblings about dentists. At some point, she was rambling about how lines in dentist offices are unbearably long. "You wait for hours and hours...and sometimes two!" It was quite an experience. One which I'm sure you'd like to share with me. Lucky for me I again had my handy-dandy Handy and was able to record some of her ramblings for you...though remember, this is Germany and this woman was rambling in German. So sorry if you can't understand it. I'd translate for you, but that would take too much time, and I don't feel like doing the work. =P
SM_A0002.mp3
SM_A0003.mp3
SM_A0004.mp3
SM_A0006.mp3
SM_A0007.mp3
**Edit: I'm not saying I didn't feel sorry for the woman. Really I did...but it wasn't something you see every day, so it was a bit shocking and scary (seeing her chasing after the boys and yelling that she'd kill them, how was I to know how she would react toward me?) but also intriguing.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Life in Scheissendorffring
**Caution: the contents of this blog post are caustic in nature. Do not let contents come into contact with skin. If you do come into contact with the subject matter, rinse affected area in cool water and contact a poison control center immediately... i.e. this post might have some foul language because I'm kinda irritated right now. I generally try to keep my cool and keep my blog posts clean for the Kinder and faint-of-heart in my reading audience, but at the moment, I can't take it anymore. Maybe it's the weather. Just warning you all, so you don't call the FCC on me for poisoning your children's minds with (gasp!) swear words, or whatever.**
So, I went into the kitchen to get the last of my apple juice from the fridge, and there was a guy there who was opening a can of tuna. He turned to me, and the following dialogue ensued (I've translated it to English; it was in German originally):
Maybe I wouldn't have been so snippy with him if it hadn't already been a rough night for me. See, there's this one guy on my floor who kinda bothers the hell out of me...well they all kinda bother the hell out of me. But this guy kinda intimidates me too. It's like this: at the beginning of the semester when I first moved in here, I tried to be friendly toward my new neighbors. When I saw them in the kitchen or in the hallway or whatever, I'd smile and wave or say "hi," and most of them would do the same. Or at least they'd fucking nod or show some sort of acknowledgment that I had greeted them. Well this one dude who lives on my floor and whom I've seen since the very beginning (when I first moved in here, there weren't so many people, so I didn't see many people) must hate me or something, because every time I would try to be friendly and smile/wave/say "hi" to him, he never said or did anything other than give me a look like he was disgusted I would dare try to be friendly to my new neighbor (heaven forbid!). But still I persisted, hoping that one day he'd come to accept me as fellow resident and neighbor, if not friend, in this shitty excuse for a dorm, we call Eichendorffring. Because Lord knows it can be rough when you have to live next to, and share common living space with, people who apparently think you're the scum of the earth.
Well eventually, we had to have a floor meeting, because the retards on my floor didn't seem to understand the fact that they are not the only ones who use the kitchen. i.e. you need to clean up after yourself when you're done in the kitchen, dumbasses; neither I nor anyone else wants to deal with your dirty shit laying everywhere. And so there were fliers posted on the door leading outside and the door leading into the kitchen and the door to the bathroom and even inside the kitchen itself. Well, one day, I was going into the kitchen to get something from the refrigerator, and that dude that always gives me dirty looks, along with a few other residents of the floor, was in there. They were all doing various things; I think our local shithead was cooking dinner or something. And when he sees me, he gets all pissy with me: "Did you see the fliers about the meeting this Wednesday?" he demanded to know (not asked; demanded). What a stupid question! Of course I'd seen them, fuckwad; I'm not blind. I was taken aback by the forcefulness of his voice and face, and I just answered that yes, I had seen them. And he continued to harass me: "You MUST be there!"
"Ok," I answered. "I'll be there."
He continued, even more forcefully, with such anger in his voice and on his face: "Do you understand me??! You MUST be there!!!"
What part of "Ok, I'll be there" do you not understand, shitbag? And doing this in front of several people who could have potentially been friends of mine? Obviously this was some sort of intimidation tactic. Or some stupid dick-waving contest.
So, I've avoided that stupid motherfucker like the plague when I can help it--I don't go in and cook dinner when he's in the kitchen; hell, I don't even go into the kitchen when he's there, if I can at all help it. And when I can't help it, I either ignore him or act rude to him. Once, during that stupid floor party that I wouldn't have condescended to attend even had I not had to give a presentation the next day, I made sure to elbow him out of the way when he was blocking my access to the refrigerator. Serves him right, the shitfucker! Think you can fuck with me and get away with it? Think again, fuck face.
Anyway...so, that guy was in the kitchen tonight when I wanted to make dinner... and when he's in the goddamned kitchen, he's in there for hours. Takes his sweet old time cooking a shit ton of food and then gleefully eating it in front of the TV, while yelling "SCHEISSE!!!" at the top of his lungs. So I didn't eat much tonight. Therefore I'm hungry because of idiots on this floor who piss me off, and when I finally go back to kitchen to get something from the fridge, and some little shit (who I'm 95% sure is responsible for at least a third of the noise that goes on at unreasonable hours in this hall) has the balls to ask me why I'm so quiet and why I don't hang out with the other people in this hall, how the fuck do you think I was going to respond???
Let's see...someone from this floor has stolen from me, not once, but TWICE; the fridge and practically everything else here is a piece of crap that doesn't work properly; I get yelled at by an asshole for not even doing anything; you fuckers threw a huge party that could be heard from 5 floors above and that lasted until at least 4 in the morning on the night before I had to give a presentation; and random people go screaming down the halls. Yeah, I don't like you. You people piss me the fuck off like no other. I hate this overpriced, tiny-ass shitbox of a room (two-fucking-hundred-and-thirty euros a month for this kennel...and look, it comes with its own dog shit!!!). You can all shove this building up your ugly asses and go fuck yourselves in Hell.
So, I went into the kitchen to get the last of my apple juice from the fridge, and there was a guy there who was opening a can of tuna. He turned to me, and the following dialogue ensued (I've translated it to English; it was in German originally):
He: Can I speak with you briefly?Ok, so I didn't say the "dickweed" part. But I definitely thought it, and all the rest of the dialogue actually happened.
I: (blank look that said, "really, bitch?") ...um, yeah.
He: Why are you so quiet?
I: Why should I be loud?
He: I mean, why do you never hang out in the kitchen with the other people on this floor?
I: ("bitch, please" look) ...
He: I mean, you're never here with the other people on this floor. Do you not like us or something?
I: Actually no.
He: I mean, so, the people on this floor--you don't like them or what?
I: No, actually, I don't like the majority of people on this floor. They make me mad. (I start to walk out the door)
He: Ok, just wanted to ask. Have a good night.
I: (walking out the door) Yeah, you too, dickweed.
Maybe I wouldn't have been so snippy with him if it hadn't already been a rough night for me. See, there's this one guy on my floor who kinda bothers the hell out of me...well they all kinda bother the hell out of me. But this guy kinda intimidates me too. It's like this: at the beginning of the semester when I first moved in here, I tried to be friendly toward my new neighbors. When I saw them in the kitchen or in the hallway or whatever, I'd smile and wave or say "hi," and most of them would do the same. Or at least they'd fucking nod or show some sort of acknowledgment that I had greeted them. Well this one dude who lives on my floor and whom I've seen since the very beginning (when I first moved in here, there weren't so many people, so I didn't see many people) must hate me or something, because every time I would try to be friendly and smile/wave/say "hi" to him, he never said or did anything other than give me a look like he was disgusted I would dare try to be friendly to my new neighbor (heaven forbid!). But still I persisted, hoping that one day he'd come to accept me as fellow resident and neighbor, if not friend, in this shitty excuse for a dorm, we call Eichendorffring. Because Lord knows it can be rough when you have to live next to, and share common living space with, people who apparently think you're the scum of the earth.
Well eventually, we had to have a floor meeting, because the retards on my floor didn't seem to understand the fact that they are not the only ones who use the kitchen. i.e. you need to clean up after yourself when you're done in the kitchen, dumbasses; neither I nor anyone else wants to deal with your dirty shit laying everywhere. And so there were fliers posted on the door leading outside and the door leading into the kitchen and the door to the bathroom and even inside the kitchen itself. Well, one day, I was going into the kitchen to get something from the refrigerator, and that dude that always gives me dirty looks, along with a few other residents of the floor, was in there. They were all doing various things; I think our local shithead was cooking dinner or something. And when he sees me, he gets all pissy with me: "Did you see the fliers about the meeting this Wednesday?" he demanded to know (not asked; demanded). What a stupid question! Of course I'd seen them, fuckwad; I'm not blind. I was taken aback by the forcefulness of his voice and face, and I just answered that yes, I had seen them. And he continued to harass me: "You MUST be there!"
"Ok," I answered. "I'll be there."
He continued, even more forcefully, with such anger in his voice and on his face: "Do you understand me??! You MUST be there!!!"
What part of "Ok, I'll be there" do you not understand, shitbag? And doing this in front of several people who could have potentially been friends of mine? Obviously this was some sort of intimidation tactic. Or some stupid dick-waving contest.
So, I've avoided that stupid motherfucker like the plague when I can help it--I don't go in and cook dinner when he's in the kitchen; hell, I don't even go into the kitchen when he's there, if I can at all help it. And when I can't help it, I either ignore him or act rude to him. Once, during that stupid floor party that I wouldn't have condescended to attend even had I not had to give a presentation the next day, I made sure to elbow him out of the way when he was blocking my access to the refrigerator. Serves him right, the shitfucker! Think you can fuck with me and get away with it? Think again, fuck face.
Anyway...so, that guy was in the kitchen tonight when I wanted to make dinner... and when he's in the goddamned kitchen, he's in there for hours. Takes his sweet old time cooking a shit ton of food and then gleefully eating it in front of the TV, while yelling "SCHEISSE!!!" at the top of his lungs. So I didn't eat much tonight. Therefore I'm hungry because of idiots on this floor who piss me off, and when I finally go back to kitchen to get something from the fridge, and some little shit (who I'm 95% sure is responsible for at least a third of the noise that goes on at unreasonable hours in this hall) has the balls to ask me why I'm so quiet and why I don't hang out with the other people in this hall, how the fuck do you think I was going to respond???
Let's see...someone from this floor has stolen from me, not once, but TWICE; the fridge and practically everything else here is a piece of crap that doesn't work properly; I get yelled at by an asshole for not even doing anything; you fuckers threw a huge party that could be heard from 5 floors above and that lasted until at least 4 in the morning on the night before I had to give a presentation; and random people go screaming down the halls. Yeah, I don't like you. You people piss me the fuck off like no other. I hate this overpriced, tiny-ass shitbox of a room (two-fucking-hundred-and-thirty euros a month for this kennel...and look, it comes with its own dog shit!!!). You can all shove this building up your ugly asses and go fuck yourselves in Hell.
Fuck you, Scheissendorffring!
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