For people who live in another country or culture for a while and then return home, there's a thing called "re-entry shock."
If you've been gone long enough that you've in any way adapted to another culture and/or language, then you've begun to think different or operate differently. Thus, returning home is actually going through culture shock all over again, but it's more unsettling because it's your home where you're supposed to feel most comfortable.
When we took classes to prepare us for living overseas, we of course studied culture shock and re-entry shock. However, everyone experiences different discomforts, so the class was mostly about generalities. So, even though you think you're prepared for the discomforts, you're still "shocked" about the specific things that bother you.
You can't prepare for surprise.
Last year, we went home for Christmas for several weeks. We had only been gone about a year, so we didn't think returning to the United States would involve any discomforts. All we could think about was what we had missed over the past year: chiles rellenos, live TV, English radio stations, buffalo wings, Starbucks coffee that doesn't cost $10, moms' homecooking, our cat and, oh yeah, our families.
What could there be that would shock us?
Our insurance coverage for living overseas doesn't include dental. So we hadn't had a cleaning in over a year. Being that we work for a nonprofit, we also don't have much extra spending money for things like cleanings, since we spent most of it on our plane tickets to go home. When we heard on the radio that a local dental care center would offer free services to anyone in the community between 8 a.m. and noon one day, it seemed like a great idea to take advantage of this.
We got up at 6 a.m., groggily threw on some clothes, ate a couple of granola bars and drove in the pre-dawn light across town to the clinic, thinking we could beat the crowd. As my husband eased our borrowed car into the parking lot, we were dismayed to see a line of people wrapped around three sides of the building.
I am not a morning person. Neither is my husband. We stood in frozen silence, trying not to let our teeth chatter too loudly, leaning close to one another for warmth as we joined the back of the line.
Apparently, everyone else in line were morning people.
All around us, people were talking up a storm, and doing it loudly. From every side, it seemed, we were bombarded with inane conversation. Each person seemed to feel it necessary to vocalize the stream-of-consciousness thoughts in their heads. Some turned to face behind them in the line, hoping to engage the next person in conversation about the cold, the line, whether the nearest gas station had good coffee, the cold and the line.
As more people streamed through the parking lot to join the lengthening queue, they had to ask the same questions that the people in front of them had asked when THEY joined the line: How long had we been here? When would they open the doors to the clinic? Do you think everyone will be served or is there a cutoff? I heard they only take the first 100 people. How many people do you think are in line already?
I was ready to slap someone. It felt like my brain was going to explode. I couldn't shut out the voices and what they were saying. No matter how hard I tried to drift off into my own thoughts, the bombardment of conversation seemed to batter my head.
Suddenly, I realized something. For a year, I'd been surrounded by people in every public place who were speaking German and Swiss-German. Sometimes they spoke French; occasionally it was Italian. Even the random Arabic or Ukrainian. And there had been something blissfully peaceful about not being able to understand any of these languages. It meant that on a train, a subway car, a sidewalk, a grocery line, at a restaurant table, or strolling around a tourism site, the voices around me had been nothing more than a background buzz, leaving me plenty of space for my own meandering thoughts.
For a year, I'd experienced the peace and quiet of my own inner world because I couldn't understand the conversations around me. And now, I no longer had the ability to tune out other conversations. It was like I was Supergirl; I had super-hearing and could hear every one of the 500,000 people in the city. My brain seemed to latch onto every English word spoken within a 10-mile radius.
My husband was having the same experience. No matter how enticing was the thought of free dental care, after only 30 minutes we looked at one another and non-verbally agreed it was time to get the heck out of here. We couldn't take it. One more year with dirty teeth was worth it to get away from all the voices butting up against our heads.
This is re-entry shock. You don't know what it'll be. You can't prepare yourself. It'll shock you.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Christmas markets
One thing I look forward to every year in Germany and Switzerland are the Christmas markets.
Christmas seems fairly understated here compared to in America -- and I like that. Our family doesn't have TV or radios here, and we don't get a newspaper or even go shopping very much. So commercials and advertising aren't crammed down our throats throughout the holidays in Europe, which is a very nice change of pace.
I suppose the Christmas markets that take place in almost every village, town and city in Germany, Switzerland and Austria would be this culture's version of commercializing the Advent season. It just seems more tasteful here, somehow.
Last year was my first Christmas in Europe, and due to inclement weather, I only got to visit the market in Rothenburg ob der Tauber. This year, I'm hitting four markets. I've been to Heidelberg and Frankfurt so far. Basel is this weekend.
Here are a few photos of the experiences:
Christmas seems fairly understated here compared to in America -- and I like that. Our family doesn't have TV or radios here, and we don't get a newspaper or even go shopping very much. So commercials and advertising aren't crammed down our throats throughout the holidays in Europe, which is a very nice change of pace.
I suppose the Christmas markets that take place in almost every village, town and city in Germany, Switzerland and Austria would be this culture's version of commercializing the Advent season. It just seems more tasteful here, somehow.
Last year was my first Christmas in Europe, and due to inclement weather, I only got to visit the market in Rothenburg ob der Tauber. This year, I'm hitting four markets. I've been to Heidelberg and Frankfurt so far. Basel is this weekend.
Here are a few photos of the experiences:
These are called "schneeballen," or snow balls. They're pie dough deep fried and covered in all kinds of toppings. Here's how they're made: http://rileyquinnauthor.blogspot.com/2010/10/rothenburg-schneeballen.html.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Chickens at midnight
The phone rang, and when I answered it, a voice said, "The Chicken Mother say you come at midnight, and come alone."
It sounds like the opening to a mystery or mob movie, or a weird dream I might have. But it actually happened.
One of the people in the English class I teach each week is named Harald. He patches together a variety of odd jobs. Two weeks ago he was telling me about one of them, in which he spends 1-2 hours in the middle of the night at a nearby farm helping to move sleeping chickens into crates and onto a truck so they can be sent off to slaughter; the meat is then prepared and packaged for a chain of Swiss grocery stores.
He mentioned how the farmer, who was a woman, would serve cake, fruit and drinks to all her workers following each night's work. I thought it was cute that, not knowing an English word for a female farmer, he kept calling her "The Chicken Mother."
"It pay very good," he added. "One hundred Swiss Francs an hour!"
My ears perked up. That's about 90 or 95 USD. We could certainly use 100 bucks every couple of weeks. And then there's the fact that I secretly harbor a romantic fascination with farm and ranch work, and always wished I could quit my career just for a summer to work on a ranch or farm to see what it would be like
"Do they need any extra hands?" I asked Harald.
I remembered one of my coworkers has also been looking for ways to earn a few extra bucks, so I added that I had a friend who might be interested in this job, too. He said he would find out.
A week later he called our flat and, in his limited English, said, "The Chicken Mother say you come at midnight, and come alone." The "come alone" part indicated that they only needed one additional person, so I would have to leave my friend behind. Still, I had to laugh at the mafia-like way he had used to tell me this.
At 11:30 p.m. the next day, I met Harald in front of an enormous, long building, about a football field (American football) in width and length. Two university-aged girls and three Swiss men in their 20s or 30s waited there, as well. They showed me where to get gloves and a mask to cover my nose and mouth.
After everyone was suited up, we were led into a small room where we had to step in a pan of something soapy they said was disinfectant. Then we went through a door into the massive building.
There were no lights on, but the full moonlight filtered inside. My jaw hung open as I surveyed the gently undulating carpet of white chickens covering every square inch of the vast floor. I have never seen so many animals in one place in my entire life. Harald said there were 10,000 chickens in this room.
"We have to move 5,092 chickens tonight," he said. I counted how many of us there were: seven. Seven of us were going to crate up more than 5,000 chickens in one night?
We carefully stepped between the drowsy chickens that were settled quietly on the floor. In the dark, the guys began hauling in large, rectangular, plastic crates, each with a sliding opening on the top. Harald explained that we had to get 15 chickens in each crate. I watched as the girls laid the crates flat, sat on one end and just started grabbing the chickens nearest to them, stuffing them in the holes in the crates.
I followed suit, counting out loud as I grabbed the warm, soft chickens around their wings to prevent them from flapping. I laid them in the crate, shoving them to either edge to make room for more chickens through the opening.
The chickens must have been pretty groggy because they only protested a little bit, and most didn't even bother to move as we worked our way deeper into the building, shuffling through the soft, mulchy floor.
It was only about 10 minutes before my back became so sore that I was afraid it would go into spasms. Even though I exercise four to five times a week, my legs began trembling from the intensity of this work, and the rapid movements of dipping down to grab a chicken and swinging it around to the crate beside me was making me dizzy. As I got shakier, I worried that I couldn't do this after all. But 10 minutes later, I stopped feeling the pain in my back and learned to sit on the crate instead of trying to squat and bend over.
We worked as fast as we could in the dark. As the crates were filled and closed, the guys would stack them onto a forklift, which carried them out of the chicken house and to a tractor trailer parked outside. Then the forklift would come back with more empty crates, and the guys would drag them toward us as we went further and further into the building.
Sweat was running down my face and in my eyes; I tasted salt on my lip. I ignored it and kept going.
I rather enjoyed the work -- it was like getting paid to do aerobic exercise for an hour, and also to get to handle animals, which I always like (even though we were sending them to their deaths).
During the entire hour, story plotlines about the chickens ran around in my head.
I imagined the chickens' fears as they were packed into crates; I wondered whether we were separating family members, and what the chickens who were in the far end of the warehouse thought about all the noise and commotion on our end. I also thought to myself that if the chickens weren't so docile -- if they decided to revolt en masse -- there would be no way we could finish crating them up. But they didn't. They just calmly squatted in the mulch until we grabbed them.
Before I knew it, we were done. I looked around and couldn't believe that we were halfway down the huge room, and that behind us the entire floor was empty.
Out in the air, away from the stench of chicken and chicken poop, I noticed a few chickens had had accidents on my sweatshirt and torn, old jeans. Yuck. We washed up at a big sink and then were led into a makeshift kitchen area where a table had been set up with drinks, a bowl of muesli and yogurt, a home-made chocolate quick bread, a bowl of clementines, cookies and rolls and butter. I had eaten a pretty big dinner in anticipation of the work so I just peeled a clementine and listened to everyone talking in Swiss German.
The "Chicken Mother" -- a rather young woman -- invited me to come again to crate up the remaining 5,000 chickens, and to bring my friend if she still wanted to come with me. Then the lady had us each sign a piece of paper and handed us a 100-Franc bill. It was about 1:15 a.m. when I drove home.
Boxing up 5,000 chickens had only taken 60 minutes.
That was my first-ever farm work experience, and I have to say it was pretty interesting and fun. It's a great workout; it only takes an hour and, fortunately, I am a night owl, so doing it at midnight is not a problem for me.
And, I will never look at that package of chicken breasts in the store the same way again.
It sounds like the opening to a mystery or mob movie, or a weird dream I might have. But it actually happened.
One of the people in the English class I teach each week is named Harald. He patches together a variety of odd jobs. Two weeks ago he was telling me about one of them, in which he spends 1-2 hours in the middle of the night at a nearby farm helping to move sleeping chickens into crates and onto a truck so they can be sent off to slaughter; the meat is then prepared and packaged for a chain of Swiss grocery stores.
He mentioned how the farmer, who was a woman, would serve cake, fruit and drinks to all her workers following each night's work. I thought it was cute that, not knowing an English word for a female farmer, he kept calling her "The Chicken Mother."
"It pay very good," he added. "One hundred Swiss Francs an hour!"
My ears perked up. That's about 90 or 95 USD. We could certainly use 100 bucks every couple of weeks. And then there's the fact that I secretly harbor a romantic fascination with farm and ranch work, and always wished I could quit my career just for a summer to work on a ranch or farm to see what it would be like
"Do they need any extra hands?" I asked Harald.
I remembered one of my coworkers has also been looking for ways to earn a few extra bucks, so I added that I had a friend who might be interested in this job, too. He said he would find out.
A week later he called our flat and, in his limited English, said, "The Chicken Mother say you come at midnight, and come alone." The "come alone" part indicated that they only needed one additional person, so I would have to leave my friend behind. Still, I had to laugh at the mafia-like way he had used to tell me this.
At 11:30 p.m. the next day, I met Harald in front of an enormous, long building, about a football field (American football) in width and length. Two university-aged girls and three Swiss men in their 20s or 30s waited there, as well. They showed me where to get gloves and a mask to cover my nose and mouth.
After everyone was suited up, we were led into a small room where we had to step in a pan of something soapy they said was disinfectant. Then we went through a door into the massive building.
There were no lights on, but the full moonlight filtered inside. My jaw hung open as I surveyed the gently undulating carpet of white chickens covering every square inch of the vast floor. I have never seen so many animals in one place in my entire life. Harald said there were 10,000 chickens in this room.
"We have to move 5,092 chickens tonight," he said. I counted how many of us there were: seven. Seven of us were going to crate up more than 5,000 chickens in one night?
We carefully stepped between the drowsy chickens that were settled quietly on the floor. In the dark, the guys began hauling in large, rectangular, plastic crates, each with a sliding opening on the top. Harald explained that we had to get 15 chickens in each crate. I watched as the girls laid the crates flat, sat on one end and just started grabbing the chickens nearest to them, stuffing them in the holes in the crates.
I followed suit, counting out loud as I grabbed the warm, soft chickens around their wings to prevent them from flapping. I laid them in the crate, shoving them to either edge to make room for more chickens through the opening.
The chickens must have been pretty groggy because they only protested a little bit, and most didn't even bother to move as we worked our way deeper into the building, shuffling through the soft, mulchy floor.
It was only about 10 minutes before my back became so sore that I was afraid it would go into spasms. Even though I exercise four to five times a week, my legs began trembling from the intensity of this work, and the rapid movements of dipping down to grab a chicken and swinging it around to the crate beside me was making me dizzy. As I got shakier, I worried that I couldn't do this after all. But 10 minutes later, I stopped feeling the pain in my back and learned to sit on the crate instead of trying to squat and bend over.
We worked as fast as we could in the dark. As the crates were filled and closed, the guys would stack them onto a forklift, which carried them out of the chicken house and to a tractor trailer parked outside. Then the forklift would come back with more empty crates, and the guys would drag them toward us as we went further and further into the building.Sweat was running down my face and in my eyes; I tasted salt on my lip. I ignored it and kept going.
I rather enjoyed the work -- it was like getting paid to do aerobic exercise for an hour, and also to get to handle animals, which I always like (even though we were sending them to their deaths).
During the entire hour, story plotlines about the chickens ran around in my head.
I imagined the chickens' fears as they were packed into crates; I wondered whether we were separating family members, and what the chickens who were in the far end of the warehouse thought about all the noise and commotion on our end. I also thought to myself that if the chickens weren't so docile -- if they decided to revolt en masse -- there would be no way we could finish crating them up. But they didn't. They just calmly squatted in the mulch until we grabbed them.
Before I knew it, we were done. I looked around and couldn't believe that we were halfway down the huge room, and that behind us the entire floor was empty.
Out in the air, away from the stench of chicken and chicken poop, I noticed a few chickens had had accidents on my sweatshirt and torn, old jeans. Yuck. We washed up at a big sink and then were led into a makeshift kitchen area where a table had been set up with drinks, a bowl of muesli and yogurt, a home-made chocolate quick bread, a bowl of clementines, cookies and rolls and butter. I had eaten a pretty big dinner in anticipation of the work so I just peeled a clementine and listened to everyone talking in Swiss German.
The "Chicken Mother" -- a rather young woman -- invited me to come again to crate up the remaining 5,000 chickens, and to bring my friend if she still wanted to come with me. Then the lady had us each sign a piece of paper and handed us a 100-Franc bill. It was about 1:15 a.m. when I drove home.
Boxing up 5,000 chickens had only taken 60 minutes.
That was my first-ever farm work experience, and I have to say it was pretty interesting and fun. It's a great workout; it only takes an hour and, fortunately, I am a night owl, so doing it at midnight is not a problem for me.
And, I will never look at that package of chicken breasts in the store the same way again.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Daytrip heaven
One of the best things about living in Switzerland is its central location in Europe (8 hours in any direction to any major European city) as well as its small size. On a $50 tank of gas, we can drive almost from one end of the country to the other and back in a day (we're Americans, we don't mind the driving).
That allows you to take a leisurely Saturday to see things like this:
And this:
And this:
And this:
Yep, being landlocked in the center of Western Europe is not so bad at all.
That allows you to take a leisurely Saturday to see things like this:
And this:
And this:
And this:
Yep, being landlocked in the center of Western Europe is not so bad at all.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Let them eat cake!
Before we moved to Switzerland, I was obsessed with making Amish Friendship Bread. I love sweet, quick breads -- banana chocolate chip bread, pumpkin bread, zucchini bread, pineapple coconut bread, chocolate cherry bread and my new obsession, banana coconut bread.
I whipped up a yeast starter for the Amish Friendship Bread a few weeks ago and baked a couple loaves of pineapple coconut bread for new friends we've made here. I thought it would be fun to share a little American dessert tradition.
When I presented them the foil-wrapped loaf with the Sharpie label reading, "Ananas-Cocos," I said proudly, "This is pineapple coconut Amish Friendship Bread."
Smiling happily, they paused over the label, then asked, "It's pineapple BREAD?"
"Yeah, it's a popular kind of bread that people make in the States and give to friends."
"So, it's sweet or ...?" they continued, in growing confusion. "Do you make sandwiches from it?"
"No, no," I quickly corrected, surprised. "You eat it with coffee or for a snack."
"OH, so it's cake!" they replied.
"It's actually bre--, uh, yeah, it's cake."
This is how I stopped to reflect that in America, we call a dessert "bread" if it's shaped in a loaf (unless it's "pound cake"); if it's a rectangle in a pan, it's "cake" and if it's in a round dish, cut into triangles, it's "pie."
Over here, it is much simpler. Everything is just cake.
I whipped up a yeast starter for the Amish Friendship Bread a few weeks ago and baked a couple loaves of pineapple coconut bread for new friends we've made here. I thought it would be fun to share a little American dessert tradition.
When I presented them the foil-wrapped loaf with the Sharpie label reading, "Ananas-Cocos," I said proudly, "This is pineapple coconut Amish Friendship Bread."
Smiling happily, they paused over the label, then asked, "It's pineapple BREAD?"
"Yeah, it's a popular kind of bread that people make in the States and give to friends."
"So, it's sweet or ...?" they continued, in growing confusion. "Do you make sandwiches from it?"
"No, no," I quickly corrected, surprised. "You eat it with coffee or for a snack."
"OH, so it's cake!" they replied.
"It's actually bre--, uh, yeah, it's cake."
This is how I stopped to reflect that in America, we call a dessert "bread" if it's shaped in a loaf (unless it's "pound cake"); if it's a rectangle in a pan, it's "cake" and if it's in a round dish, cut into triangles, it's "pie."
Over here, it is much simpler. Everything is just cake.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Why Americans and Europeans vacation differently
Now that we've been here for a while, I've been studying the differences between how Americans and Europeans vacation. I am not sure I fully understand all the factors, but from what Swiss and German people have explained to me, this is what I have seen and heard so far:
1. First off, the minimum amount of vacation time that Europeans are given is usually 3 weeks. Even if you just started a new job, you can expect to begin at the company with 3 weeks of vacation. The longer you work there, the more you earn. It's very common to have 5 weeks of vacation that you are allowed to take.
2. Unlike Americans, they will take it all at once. During the summer, usually in August, they'll just leave for an entire three weeks. Sometimes in August it actually feels like the apocalypse has occurred, or that you're in the beginning of the movie 28 Days Later. Post offices, restaurants and businesses will be shuttered up and locked. On July 31, it's a good idea to have lots of toilet paper stored, a vegetable garden you can eat out of, and probably a cow or a goat for milk, or you might run out of household necessities, as well as starve, before they all come back.
3. The other thing is that they will go just one place and spend the entire three weeks there, or divide up their time between maybe two locations. So, they'll rent a cabin on a lake or in the mountains or something and just stay put. They might go out during the days and hike or mountain climb or fish or whatever, but they're going back to the same hotel or cabin or RV or their relative's house every night. The idea of moving from hotel to hotel and from city to city every few days, like Americans do when we're in Europe, seems to exhaust them. It is not their idea of a holiday. It's like they think a vacation is for rest or something. Whatever.
4. Now, obviously, taking more days in a row of your vacation makes for a more expensive vacation. That is why Americans will take just two or three days at a time, or if we're really lucky, a whole week -- we blow our limited travel budget on that long weekend and have to scrimp and save up for two or three months (or a year) before we can afford another three-day weekend trip. Europeans are committed to their three weeks, and seem to find ways to offset the cost.
5. The other thing is that since Europeans LIVE in Europe, it's not like they have this pressure to see as much as they can over a limited period of time. Therefore, they might go back to the same vacation place year after year after year. They know they can always go to Berlin or London or Rome next year.
OK, so with all that as context, Europeans, and especially the Swiss, think American tourists are insane. They don't understand some basic differences:
1. We don't get 3 weeks of vacation. Heck, we're lucky if we get a whole week. Even if we have 3 weeks, we usually aren't allowed by our jobs to take that much time off in a row or else our company will collapse without us. Our bosses make us talk to all our other fellow employees to coordinate our vacations so that somebody is there every day of the year, so that the lights are on and the doors are open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, especially Christmas and Thanksgiving. In Europe, the entire restaurant or grocery store is closed for 3 weeks and everyone is gone. For whatever reason, there is no looting.
2. The price of the airline ticket just to get to Europe is equal to the cost of a human kidney. Europeans don't have that expense.
3. If we are going to sell our kidney to afford a freaking plane ticket, we better make the trip worth it. Therefore, we are going to see a different country every day; maybe two countries in one day.
4. America is big. It is nothing to drive 16 hours in a day to go skiing and then drive 16 hours back two days later. So we think it's a fantastic idea to ride a train 4 hours from Paris to Zurich and then, the evening after seeing Zurich, to catch the 8-hour train ride for Rome, continuing like this for one or two weeks.
Europeans think that is insane. You can cross the entire country of Switzerland in three hours. So, for a Swiss person, the idea of driving even 30 minutes somewhere on a Saturday is exhausting, let alone driving the 6 hours from Zurich to Paris for a two-week vacation. If you are a Swiss person going a distance of six hours, you are going to stop and spend the night three times on the way to break it up into manageable two-hour chunks of driving.
And that's why Americans and Europeans vacation differently.
1. First off, the minimum amount of vacation time that Europeans are given is usually 3 weeks. Even if you just started a new job, you can expect to begin at the company with 3 weeks of vacation. The longer you work there, the more you earn. It's very common to have 5 weeks of vacation that you are allowed to take.
2. Unlike Americans, they will take it all at once. During the summer, usually in August, they'll just leave for an entire three weeks. Sometimes in August it actually feels like the apocalypse has occurred, or that you're in the beginning of the movie 28 Days Later. Post offices, restaurants and businesses will be shuttered up and locked. On July 31, it's a good idea to have lots of toilet paper stored, a vegetable garden you can eat out of, and probably a cow or a goat for milk, or you might run out of household necessities, as well as starve, before they all come back.
3. The other thing is that they will go just one place and spend the entire three weeks there, or divide up their time between maybe two locations. So, they'll rent a cabin on a lake or in the mountains or something and just stay put. They might go out during the days and hike or mountain climb or fish or whatever, but they're going back to the same hotel or cabin or RV or their relative's house every night. The idea of moving from hotel to hotel and from city to city every few days, like Americans do when we're in Europe, seems to exhaust them. It is not their idea of a holiday. It's like they think a vacation is for rest or something. Whatever.
4. Now, obviously, taking more days in a row of your vacation makes for a more expensive vacation. That is why Americans will take just two or three days at a time, or if we're really lucky, a whole week -- we blow our limited travel budget on that long weekend and have to scrimp and save up for two or three months (or a year) before we can afford another three-day weekend trip. Europeans are committed to their three weeks, and seem to find ways to offset the cost.
5. The other thing is that since Europeans LIVE in Europe, it's not like they have this pressure to see as much as they can over a limited period of time. Therefore, they might go back to the same vacation place year after year after year. They know they can always go to Berlin or London or Rome next year.
OK, so with all that as context, Europeans, and especially the Swiss, think American tourists are insane. They don't understand some basic differences:
1. We don't get 3 weeks of vacation. Heck, we're lucky if we get a whole week. Even if we have 3 weeks, we usually aren't allowed by our jobs to take that much time off in a row or else our company will collapse without us. Our bosses make us talk to all our other fellow employees to coordinate our vacations so that somebody is there every day of the year, so that the lights are on and the doors are open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, especially Christmas and Thanksgiving. In Europe, the entire restaurant or grocery store is closed for 3 weeks and everyone is gone. For whatever reason, there is no looting.
2. The price of the airline ticket just to get to Europe is equal to the cost of a human kidney. Europeans don't have that expense.
3. If we are going to sell our kidney to afford a freaking plane ticket, we better make the trip worth it. Therefore, we are going to see a different country every day; maybe two countries in one day.
4. America is big. It is nothing to drive 16 hours in a day to go skiing and then drive 16 hours back two days later. So we think it's a fantastic idea to ride a train 4 hours from Paris to Zurich and then, the evening after seeing Zurich, to catch the 8-hour train ride for Rome, continuing like this for one or two weeks.
Europeans think that is insane. You can cross the entire country of Switzerland in three hours. So, for a Swiss person, the idea of driving even 30 minutes somewhere on a Saturday is exhausting, let alone driving the 6 hours from Zurich to Paris for a two-week vacation. If you are a Swiss person going a distance of six hours, you are going to stop and spend the night three times on the way to break it up into manageable two-hour chunks of driving.
And that's why Americans and Europeans vacation differently.
Monday, September 5, 2011
The Stages of Culture Shock
Having been here about 18 months, I would like to give a concrete example of the Stages of Culture Shock.
Directly across the street from my office window is the village church. Every village church has a steeple and bells that mark every quarter hour, every half hour and every hour. Twice a day, these bells (plural) clang continuously at 11 a.m. and 6 p.m., for at least one minute.
It feels like an hour. It's so loud that all phone calls or Skype meetings (or YouTube videos) must come to a screeching halt until said bells are done.
When I first arrived in this quaint little rural village, I was enchanted by this church and its lovely European bells.
Now, not so much.
Culture Shock Stage 1: The Honeymoon.
Everything in the Honeymoon Stage is new, fresh and exciting. Every experience is rich and euphoric. You feel that you could enjoy these things forever.
In my first week at my new office in Switzerland, at precisely 11 a.m., the bells begin their sweet music. I stop work on my computer and rush to the window, throwing it open to get the full effect of the pure, pealing sounds. I lean out with my Canon Digital ELPH to record video of this authentic Swiss experience and post it to my blog for all my friends and family at home so they can share in my enthusiasm for its novelty and charm.
Culture Shock Stage 2: Distress
What at first seemed new and exciting becomes increasingly irritating and confusing.
At 6 p.m. during my third month at my office in Switzerland, I am in the middle of a video call with a news source in Russia. It's tough enough to understand through his accent over the bad connection. But now, the bells burst into an explosion of seemingly discordant clanging.
Russian guy: "What is going (unintelligible) there?"
Me: "Uh, sorry, hold on," I say, frantically trying to lower the volume on my microphone and leaning over to close the open window.
Me: "THERE'S A CHURCH ACROSS THE STREET," I shout at the computer.
Russian guy: "WHA --" he yells back, and I can hear the clanging reverberating from his computer speakers and back into my mine.
Me: "IT'S A CHURCH. ACROSS THE STREET," I try to explain. I think the bells might be triggering a migraine.
Russian guy: "THAT'S A (garbled) CHURCH?"
Me: "YES, CHURCH BELLS. IF YOU COULD WAIT JUST A MOMENT..." I beg.
Russian guy: "I (garbled static because of too much noise going into my microphone) HEAR YOU--(static)."
Culture Shock Stage 3: Withdrawal
You refuse to accept what is new and different in the culture. You're frustrated, irritable, and feel hostile to the place and the people.
It's 11 a.m., and I'm working hard on a complicated article, humming to songs on iTunes. When the steeple bells begin their shrill, mocking laughter at me, I slam the window shut and crank up the computer speakers as loud as they will go, singing off-key at the top of my lungs. When that doesn't work, I plug my ears and yell, "I CAN'T HEAR YOU. I CAN'T HEAR YOU."
(OK, I don't actually do that. But I feel like it.) I go downstairs to get a coffee and wait it out.
If there were a hunchback, there is nowhere he could run that I would not find him.
Culture Shock Stage 4: Adjustment
You learn to accept the culture, and your negative feelings toward the differences become more positive.
A friend is visiting Switzerland and stops by my office to see where I work. We're sharing coffee at my desk when the steeple clock strikes 11 a.m., and the daily musical announcement of the time begins.
Friend: "THAT IS SOOOO COOL," she enthuses in a loud voice to get above the resonating metal striking metal. "DO YOU GET TO HEAR THAT EVERY DAY?"
Me: "YEAH," I affirm, hesitant. "DON'T YOU THINK IT'S LOUD?"
Friend: "I GUESS SO. BUT IT'S SOOOO EUROPEAN!"
Me: "IT'S KIND OF A NUISANCE WHEN I'M ON THE PHONE, THOUGH," I feel it necessary to point out.
Friend: "SURE. BUT, IT'S EUROPE, YOU KNOW?"
Me: "AND I DON'T NEED TO WEAR A WATCH ANYMORE."
Culture Shock Stage 5: Acceptance
You feel at home and may even adopt some of the country's customs.
During a video call at 6 p.m. with U.S. based office team back home, they suddenly stop.
Coworker: "Are those church bells going off?"
Me: "What?" I ask, confused. Then I realize I hadn't noticed the steeple bells across the street this time. "Oh, sorry about that. They do that every day at 11 in the morning and 6 in the evening. Let me turn the volume down."
Coworker: "That's pretty neat. A Swiss church right across the street!"
Coworker 2: "I'd love to hear that every so often. I sure miss those European churches."
Me: "I will, too," I say, knowing my contract here won't last forever.
Directly across the street from my office window is the village church. Every village church has a steeple and bells that mark every quarter hour, every half hour and every hour. Twice a day, these bells (plural) clang continuously at 11 a.m. and 6 p.m., for at least one minute.
It feels like an hour. It's so loud that all phone calls or Skype meetings (or YouTube videos) must come to a screeching halt until said bells are done.
When I first arrived in this quaint little rural village, I was enchanted by this church and its lovely European bells.
Now, not so much.
Culture Shock Stage 1: The Honeymoon.
Everything in the Honeymoon Stage is new, fresh and exciting. Every experience is rich and euphoric. You feel that you could enjoy these things forever.
In my first week at my new office in Switzerland, at precisely 11 a.m., the bells begin their sweet music. I stop work on my computer and rush to the window, throwing it open to get the full effect of the pure, pealing sounds. I lean out with my Canon Digital ELPH to record video of this authentic Swiss experience and post it to my blog for all my friends and family at home so they can share in my enthusiasm for its novelty and charm.
Culture Shock Stage 2: Distress
What at first seemed new and exciting becomes increasingly irritating and confusing.
At 6 p.m. during my third month at my office in Switzerland, I am in the middle of a video call with a news source in Russia. It's tough enough to understand through his accent over the bad connection. But now, the bells burst into an explosion of seemingly discordant clanging.
Russian guy: "What is going (unintelligible) there?"
Me: "Uh, sorry, hold on," I say, frantically trying to lower the volume on my microphone and leaning over to close the open window.
Me: "THERE'S A CHURCH ACROSS THE STREET," I shout at the computer.
Russian guy: "WHA --" he yells back, and I can hear the clanging reverberating from his computer speakers and back into my mine.
Me: "IT'S A CHURCH. ACROSS THE STREET," I try to explain. I think the bells might be triggering a migraine.
Russian guy: "THAT'S A (garbled) CHURCH?"
Me: "YES, CHURCH BELLS. IF YOU COULD WAIT JUST A MOMENT..." I beg.
Russian guy: "I (garbled static because of too much noise going into my microphone) HEAR YOU--(static)."
Culture Shock Stage 3: Withdrawal
You refuse to accept what is new and different in the culture. You're frustrated, irritable, and feel hostile to the place and the people.
It's 11 a.m., and I'm working hard on a complicated article, humming to songs on iTunes. When the steeple bells begin their shrill, mocking laughter at me, I slam the window shut and crank up the computer speakers as loud as they will go, singing off-key at the top of my lungs. When that doesn't work, I plug my ears and yell, "I CAN'T HEAR YOU. I CAN'T HEAR YOU."
(OK, I don't actually do that. But I feel like it.) I go downstairs to get a coffee and wait it out.
If there were a hunchback, there is nowhere he could run that I would not find him.
Culture Shock Stage 4: Adjustment
You learn to accept the culture, and your negative feelings toward the differences become more positive.
A friend is visiting Switzerland and stops by my office to see where I work. We're sharing coffee at my desk when the steeple clock strikes 11 a.m., and the daily musical announcement of the time begins.
Friend: "THAT IS SOOOO COOL," she enthuses in a loud voice to get above the resonating metal striking metal. "DO YOU GET TO HEAR THAT EVERY DAY?"
Me: "YEAH," I affirm, hesitant. "DON'T YOU THINK IT'S LOUD?"
Friend: "I GUESS SO. BUT IT'S SOOOO EUROPEAN!"
Me: "IT'S KIND OF A NUISANCE WHEN I'M ON THE PHONE, THOUGH," I feel it necessary to point out.
Friend: "SURE. BUT, IT'S EUROPE, YOU KNOW?"
Me: "AND I DON'T NEED TO WEAR A WATCH ANYMORE."
Culture Shock Stage 5: Acceptance
You feel at home and may even adopt some of the country's customs.
During a video call at 6 p.m. with U.S. based office team back home, they suddenly stop.
Coworker: "Are those church bells going off?"
Me: "What?" I ask, confused. Then I realize I hadn't noticed the steeple bells across the street this time. "Oh, sorry about that. They do that every day at 11 in the morning and 6 in the evening. Let me turn the volume down."
Coworker: "That's pretty neat. A Swiss church right across the street!"
Coworker 2: "I'd love to hear that every so often. I sure miss those European churches."
Me: "I will, too," I say, knowing my contract here won't last forever.
Friday, August 12, 2011
A walk in the clouds
It was awesome.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Dieting in Europe
Nutritional labels are different in Europe than those in the States. Unlike U.S. labels, which break down the calories per tablespoon, ounce or serving of something (although I often take umbrage with what measly amounts are considered a serving), the labels in Europe tell you how many calories you would eat if you ate 100 grams of something.
Well, nobody eats 100 grams of butter or 100 grams of salad dressing (i.e. a tub of butter might be 200 grams). So I've had to learn to do things differently when it comes to counting calories every day.
Here's a lunch-time attempt at calorie counting:
A bottle of salad dressing contains 250 milliliters of dressing, but the label says that there are 302 calories in 100 grams of dressing.
How many milliliters are in a gram?
I learned through a Google search that it is a one-to-one ratio. So I multiplied 302 by 2.5, to come up with 755 = the bottle contains 755 calories total.
I usually measure out dressing in tablespoons, so I needed to figure out how many calories are in one tablespoon.
The tricky thing is that a tablespoon measures volume whereas grams measure weight. A tablespoon of something thick and heavy will be more grams than a tablespoon of something light, like flour or powdered sugar.
Therefore I Internet searched how much a tablespoon of salad dressing would weigh. I couldn't find it, but found the weight of a tablespoon of oil -- 13.65 grams.
Next, I divided 250 by 13.65 grams, which gave me the result of 18.13 -- roughly 18 tablespoons per bottle. Then I divide 755 by 18 = 41 calories per tablespoon.
I wonder how many calories I burned just trying to figure that out.
Well, nobody eats 100 grams of butter or 100 grams of salad dressing (i.e. a tub of butter might be 200 grams). So I've had to learn to do things differently when it comes to counting calories every day.
Here's a lunch-time attempt at calorie counting:
A bottle of salad dressing contains 250 milliliters of dressing, but the label says that there are 302 calories in 100 grams of dressing.
How many milliliters are in a gram?
I learned through a Google search that it is a one-to-one ratio. So I multiplied 302 by 2.5, to come up with 755 = the bottle contains 755 calories total.
I usually measure out dressing in tablespoons, so I needed to figure out how many calories are in one tablespoon.
The tricky thing is that a tablespoon measures volume whereas grams measure weight. A tablespoon of something thick and heavy will be more grams than a tablespoon of something light, like flour or powdered sugar.
Therefore I Internet searched how much a tablespoon of salad dressing would weigh. I couldn't find it, but found the weight of a tablespoon of oil -- 13.65 grams.
Next, I divided 250 by 13.65 grams, which gave me the result of 18.13 -- roughly 18 tablespoons per bottle. Then I divide 755 by 18 = 41 calories per tablespoon.
I wonder how many calories I burned just trying to figure that out.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Happy Anniversary, Switzerland
Today is Switzerland's National Day, an equivalent of my American July 4th -- a day to celebrate the country's "birth" or founding. Most Swiss are off work, many businesses are closed and there will be city celebrations, friends and families gathering for barbecues, and many towns will have fireworks at dusk.
As an American, it's interesting to think about the difference between how our countries got their start. When it comes to our national birthdays, Americans celebrate a "breaking away" while the Swiss celebrate a "coming together."
Nearly 500 years before the British colonists challenged their faraway king's taxation policies, on August 1, 1291, three "cantons," or fully sovereign states, in the Alps swore an "oath of confederation" -- a bond of brotherhood, a promise to work together if they were ever threatened by outside forces.
By the 1500s, there were 13 canton members of this confederation. Switzerland was officially formed as a country in the 19th century, but it wasn't until 1993 that National Day became a federal holiday.
As an American, it's interesting to see how the different foundings of our two countries have shaped our cultures.
Rebellion, freedom and independent-thinking are part of America's national psyche, traceable all the way back to the seeds planted during our revolution. Our cultural personality has only been reinforced over the years by the millions of immigrants who, fleeing hardship or oppression, grafted themselves into our culture. The very act of leaving behind language, tradition and family was, for many, a rebellion against poverty, caste systems or authority in one form or another.
The first seeds that grew into what is now Switzerland were planted in an act of peace, an agreement of interdependence. While the country is also fiercely independent -- not joining the United Nations until 2002 and still not a member of the European Union -- its philosophy of neutrality is quite different from the United States' tendency toward active intervention.
This is all quite oversimplified and generalized. But my main point is that it's interesting to observe Switzerland's unusual history in a world in which nations are more likely to be born of violence and blood and conquest than in an amicable spirit of brotherhood and peace.
Cheers, Switzerland.
As an American, it's interesting to think about the difference between how our countries got their start. When it comes to our national birthdays, Americans celebrate a "breaking away" while the Swiss celebrate a "coming together."
Nearly 500 years before the British colonists challenged their faraway king's taxation policies, on August 1, 1291, three "cantons," or fully sovereign states, in the Alps swore an "oath of confederation" -- a bond of brotherhood, a promise to work together if they were ever threatened by outside forces.
By the 1500s, there were 13 canton members of this confederation. Switzerland was officially formed as a country in the 19th century, but it wasn't until 1993 that National Day became a federal holiday.
As an American, it's interesting to see how the different foundings of our two countries have shaped our cultures.
Rebellion, freedom and independent-thinking are part of America's national psyche, traceable all the way back to the seeds planted during our revolution. Our cultural personality has only been reinforced over the years by the millions of immigrants who, fleeing hardship or oppression, grafted themselves into our culture. The very act of leaving behind language, tradition and family was, for many, a rebellion against poverty, caste systems or authority in one form or another.
The first seeds that grew into what is now Switzerland were planted in an act of peace, an agreement of interdependence. While the country is also fiercely independent -- not joining the United Nations until 2002 and still not a member of the European Union -- its philosophy of neutrality is quite different from the United States' tendency toward active intervention.
This is all quite oversimplified and generalized. But my main point is that it's interesting to observe Switzerland's unusual history in a world in which nations are more likely to be born of violence and blood and conquest than in an amicable spirit of brotherhood and peace.
Cheers, Switzerland.
Friday, July 29, 2011
"Have it our way"
American fast food restaurants compete for business by claiming that they cater to the customer's every craving. Burger King's mantra is "Have it your way." At McDonald's you can order a cheeseburger but ask them to hold the onions, pickles and ketchup.
Granted, it doesn't mean you'll actually get what you ordered. (I always factor in extra time to go back and point out that I got a McChicken instead of a McRib and two orders are fries are missing.) But they quickly agree to whatever customization you might desire.
One of my fellow reporters at our city newspaper once tested this marketing claim by visiting every brand of fast food restaurant in town to order the most bizarre customizations he could think of. He wanted to see if all of them would actually do it "your way." (That's how he learned there's a reason no restaurant has ever tried to sell a burger-fish patty combo.)
The Germans and Swiss approach customization differently: What customization?
Our local McDonald's has a beautifully extensive breakfast menu. They even sell a McGriddle breakfast sandwich. I love the McGriddle's delicate balance of sweet and salty flavors. In the U.S. you can have the McGriddle with sausage or bacon. In Germany, the McGriddle only comes with sausage.
I don't like breakfast sausage.
On my past three visits to our McDonald's, I've tried with my limited German to ask if they could swap out the sausage for bacon. I know they have bacon in stock. It's on most of their other breakfast sandwiches.
"Koennen Sie McGriddle mit bacon machen?" I ask. (Can you McGriddle with bacon make?)
Each time the cashier's face reflects confusion. And it's not because of my German. Then she glances back at the lighted menu board as if to remember what comes on the McGriddle. She explains to me something in German that I usually don't understand, affirmed by a negative shake of the head.
"Nicht bacon?" I repeat, just to be sure.
"Nein," she replies regretfully. And so I order an Egg McMuffin.
If I knew more German, I would be able to distinguish whether the cashier of the day is saying she is sorry they don't have a bacon option on the menu, or if she means that they are absolutely not able to make it differently, even with a slight upcharge.
This morning, as I ate my Egg McMuffin a little sadly, I tried to see the bright side. I said to my husband, "Ok, you can't have it 'your way' in Germany. But, in spite of the fact that here I'm ordering in a different language, at least I always get what I order. They haven't messed it up once."
"In America you have to order in a different language, too," he pointed out.
Granted, it doesn't mean you'll actually get what you ordered. (I always factor in extra time to go back and point out that I got a McChicken instead of a McRib and two orders are fries are missing.) But they quickly agree to whatever customization you might desire.
One of my fellow reporters at our city newspaper once tested this marketing claim by visiting every brand of fast food restaurant in town to order the most bizarre customizations he could think of. He wanted to see if all of them would actually do it "your way." (That's how he learned there's a reason no restaurant has ever tried to sell a burger-fish patty combo.)
The Germans and Swiss approach customization differently: What customization?
Our local McDonald's has a beautifully extensive breakfast menu. They even sell a McGriddle breakfast sandwich. I love the McGriddle's delicate balance of sweet and salty flavors. In the U.S. you can have the McGriddle with sausage or bacon. In Germany, the McGriddle only comes with sausage.
I don't like breakfast sausage.
On my past three visits to our McDonald's, I've tried with my limited German to ask if they could swap out the sausage for bacon. I know they have bacon in stock. It's on most of their other breakfast sandwiches.
"Koennen Sie McGriddle mit bacon machen?" I ask. (Can you McGriddle with bacon make?)
Each time the cashier's face reflects confusion. And it's not because of my German. Then she glances back at the lighted menu board as if to remember what comes on the McGriddle. She explains to me something in German that I usually don't understand, affirmed by a negative shake of the head.
"Nicht bacon?" I repeat, just to be sure.
"Nein," she replies regretfully. And so I order an Egg McMuffin.
If I knew more German, I would be able to distinguish whether the cashier of the day is saying she is sorry they don't have a bacon option on the menu, or if she means that they are absolutely not able to make it differently, even with a slight upcharge.
This morning, as I ate my Egg McMuffin a little sadly, I tried to see the bright side. I said to my husband, "Ok, you can't have it 'your way' in Germany. But, in spite of the fact that here I'm ordering in a different language, at least I always get what I order. They haven't messed it up once."
"In America you have to order in a different language, too," he pointed out.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
How do you say "layering" in German?
Most women would agree that it's hard enough to get the haircut you want at a salon where the hairdresser speaks your language. Imagine the difficulty in communicating a new hairstyle you want with someone in another language altogether.
My few German classes covered things like greetings (Gruss Gott!), commenting on the weather (Es ist regnet!), how to order in a restaurant (Ich moechte eine pizza mit salami, bitte) and how to talk about your family (Ich habe einen Katze). They didn't teach me how to ask for the bottom to be trimmed, layers throughout and angled bangs. I know Germany has its share of cows, but do they have a word for cowlick?
The danger of trying to prepare your requests through something like Google Translate is that if you put in the phrase "bottom to be trimmed" it might spit out a phrase that has you asking for your butt to be made smaller. I'm terrified of how it might translate "bangs."
Fortunately, I have found a fantastic salon where a picture really is worth a thousand words. The hairdressers speak almost no English, and my German is still embarrassing. So I simply sift through Internet photos of the hairstyle I want, print them out and show them to the stylist. And she gets it exactly right -- usually better -- every time.
I'm certainly not paying Fantastic Sam's prices. But a really good haircut that's going to last me 3-4 months is more than worth 40 euros ($58).
Well, it was more than worth 40 euros a few months ago.
Dang dollar.
My few German classes covered things like greetings (Gruss Gott!), commenting on the weather (Es ist regnet!), how to order in a restaurant (Ich moechte eine pizza mit salami, bitte) and how to talk about your family (Ich habe einen Katze). They didn't teach me how to ask for the bottom to be trimmed, layers throughout and angled bangs. I know Germany has its share of cows, but do they have a word for cowlick?
The danger of trying to prepare your requests through something like Google Translate is that if you put in the phrase "bottom to be trimmed" it might spit out a phrase that has you asking for your butt to be made smaller. I'm terrified of how it might translate "bangs."
Fortunately, I have found a fantastic salon where a picture really is worth a thousand words. The hairdressers speak almost no English, and my German is still embarrassing. So I simply sift through Internet photos of the hairstyle I want, print them out and show them to the stylist. And she gets it exactly right -- usually better -- every time.
I'm certainly not paying Fantastic Sam's prices. But a really good haircut that's going to last me 3-4 months is more than worth 40 euros ($58).
Well, it was more than worth 40 euros a few months ago.
Dang dollar.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
A perfect moment
Saturday was just an all-around perfect weekend day: slept in, enjoyed coffee and news headlines while I gradually woke up; dropped off two cakes to the family of a lady who is in ICU b/c of head trauma from a bad fall; made a home-made pizza for lunch (brie and prosciutto with mushrooms); worked out while watching Lost Season 4, and then housecleaned with A. until everything was spotless; changing out all the linens to fresh, crisp ones.
But the afternoon reached an absolutely perfect climax when I stepped outside to take out some trash and a cat ran up and rubbed herself against my legs. Then she followed me into the foyer of my building, so I grabbed A. We took turns sitting on the stairs with her rolling around on our laps in an ecstasy of petting.
Later, I sat outside on the front step, and the cat lunged into my lap and settled in for a good long while, resting her chin on my arm. In the shelter of the porch, we stayed dry as it rained and got blustery. It might have been cold, but the chubby cat kept my lap nice and warm. We sat there for a while as I watched the different kinds of trees wave and shiver in the sudden wind. Some lightning streaked across the sky, and the cat only looked up for a second as thunder rolled over us.
After a few minutes, the sun came out and a complete, perfect rainbow arced across the sky in colorful brilliance.
It was one of those rare, restful and richly sensory moments that I hardly ever have time to experience. I just looked up into the sky and said, "Thanks, God."
But the afternoon reached an absolutely perfect climax when I stepped outside to take out some trash and a cat ran up and rubbed herself against my legs. Then she followed me into the foyer of my building, so I grabbed A. We took turns sitting on the stairs with her rolling around on our laps in an ecstasy of petting. Later, I sat outside on the front step, and the cat lunged into my lap and settled in for a good long while, resting her chin on my arm. In the shelter of the porch, we stayed dry as it rained and got blustery. It might have been cold, but the chubby cat kept my lap nice and warm. We sat there for a while as I watched the different kinds of trees wave and shiver in the sudden wind. Some lightning streaked across the sky, and the cat only looked up for a second as thunder rolled over us.
After a few minutes, the sun came out and a complete, perfect rainbow arced across the sky in colorful brilliance.It was one of those rare, restful and richly sensory moments that I hardly ever have time to experience. I just looked up into the sky and said, "Thanks, God."
Friday, June 17, 2011
Black Forest Ham
So, I learned recently that Black Forest ham, in Germany, (here it is called Schwarzwälder Schinken) is NOT the same thing as Black Forest ham in the United States. Back home, when you get Black Forest ham, it's a cooked and smoked ham, often with a kind of very thin rind on the edges.
Here, it is raw.
OK, it is smoke cured. But it's transparent and stringy like raw meat. They don't cook it first. It looks a lot like raw bacon.
It's very salty and tasty, but when you first take a bite of your sandwich and are surprised to realize you are eating raw meat, it's a little unsettling.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Forest_ham
Here, it is raw.
It's very salty and tasty, but when you first take a bite of your sandwich and are surprised to realize you are eating raw meat, it's a little unsettling.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Forest_ham
Monday, June 6, 2011
Cherries!
I don't know how I didn't notice this before, but there are so many cherry trees around here that I'm surprised they haven't been dropping on my head. There are two behind the dorm on campus, and one in the garden of a home that butts up against the small driveway entering campus. There's also two hanging over the fence of a woman's house next to my office. And quite a few line the walking path from our village to the next bigger town.
The cherries are ruby red now, and about 1/3 smaller than the ones you usually get from Washington.
I've been lusting after those cherries, particularly the ones by the office. I love cherries and in the States they're usually so expensive in the Midwest that I only get 2-3 bags a summer.
I saw the neighbor today. After we asked each other how we're both doing, I asked, "Koennen wir nehman kirsche?" Literally, this means, "Can we take cherry?"
She got visibly excited and I thought she said something to the effect that a friend was coming to help her pick the fruit and that she would bring us something. I didn't know if that meant just the raw cherries or something she was baking.
A few hours later, a huge bucket heaping with jewel colored cherries sat on the doorstep with a note from her. Now I understand -- her friend came before and they had picked all these cherries. I guess they had more than she knew what to do with -- her trees looked like they'd never been picked, there's still so many. She has at least 3 trees. I was quite happy to help her with this problem. :-)
I split them with the couple living in the apartment in the office building.
So now I have an enormous bowl of cherries I need to figure out what to do with. I just baked a heavy raspberry pie, using frozen raspberries, on Sunday. I guess I'll pit these and leave some to eat and freeze the rest until I have empty casserole dishes to bake with again.
The cherries are ruby red now, and about 1/3 smaller than the ones you usually get from Washington.
I've been lusting after those cherries, particularly the ones by the office. I love cherries and in the States they're usually so expensive in the Midwest that I only get 2-3 bags a summer.
I saw the neighbor today. After we asked each other how we're both doing, I asked, "Koennen wir nehman kirsche?" Literally, this means, "Can we take cherry?"
She got visibly excited and I thought she said something to the effect that a friend was coming to help her pick the fruit and that she would bring us something. I didn't know if that meant just the raw cherries or something she was baking.
A few hours later, a huge bucket heaping with jewel colored cherries sat on the doorstep with a note from her. Now I understand -- her friend came before and they had picked all these cherries. I guess they had more than she knew what to do with -- her trees looked like they'd never been picked, there's still so many. She has at least 3 trees. I was quite happy to help her with this problem. :-)I split them with the couple living in the apartment in the office building.
So now I have an enormous bowl of cherries I need to figure out what to do with. I just baked a heavy raspberry pie, using frozen raspberries, on Sunday. I guess I'll pit these and leave some to eat and freeze the rest until I have empty casserole dishes to bake with again.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Comfort food
As you have probably noticed, when you are an expatriate, food from home becomes particularly important, more so than usual. Comfort food goes to a whole new level.
I had a bad day today. And suddenly I was in the mood for breakfast for dinner. So, we had bacon, eggs, blueberry pancakes, hot coffee and pineapple juice.
By candlelight.
And now we're on the couch watching a movie.
The day just got better.
I had a bad day today. And suddenly I was in the mood for breakfast for dinner. So, we had bacon, eggs, blueberry pancakes, hot coffee and pineapple juice.
By candlelight.
And now we're on the couch watching a movie.
The day just got better.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
13 Things That Are Different Here
I keep discovering things that are done differently here in Germany/Switzerland. Mostly with food, but a few other things, too. Some of these things I may have written about already. Just smile and pretend you haven't heard it before.
1. You can buy tomato paste in a tube, like toothpaste. Genius! You squirt out what you want, recap it and return it to the fridge for next time. This is unlike a can of tomato paste: For most recipes you only need a few tablespoons and I always end up throwing away the other half of the container.
2. Eggs. Eggs are sold in packages of 10 instead of 12. They don't refrigerate them in the store. Mine often come with a few chicken feathers attached, as if to remind you that these are fresh from CHICKENS, not some other animal.
3. Shelf stable milk. Hardly anyone here buys refrigerated milk. I know they have it but I don't even know where it is in the store. This is one of the things I really like here. You buy very small packages of milk that don't go bad for months. You can store them in your cabinet in batches of 5 or 6 containers, so they're on hand when you need them, kind of like flour or canned tomatoes. When you empty the carton in your fridge, you just pull another one out of the cabinet. They're such small packages that you use them up before they can spoil. You don't have to stand there in the store, glaring at the refrigerated wall units, agonizing for 30 minutes over whether you need a 1/2 gallon or a gallon, and if you can use it up before it spoils. We NEVER waste milk anymore. I have also found butter, creams, whipped cream and some other dairy products just sitting out on room temperature shelves.
4. Baking soda. They sell baking soda in tiny envelopes instead of boxes. You tear off the top and measure out up to 2 tablespoons. But what if you don't need a tablespoon? What do you do with the rest? You have to store it in your pantry and hope you don't knock it over so that it spills all over your cabinet. I DON'T like this. I'd much rather have a larger container with a lid instead of a bunch of little sugar-packet sized envelopes.
5. Sparkling water. Carbonated water is 19 cents for a 1 liter bottle. In the States, that would cost almost $2. I will definitely miss this. I have cut way back on my soda intake by replacing it with ice cold carbonated water.
6. The windows here open two ways: straight out into the room, like your front door, with the hinges on one side or the other; or with the top of the window tilting inward to let in just a bit of air. Most windows can do both, and you can alternate it by turning a handle to open it one way or turning it another way to open the second way. I really like this. Additionally, the blinds aren't things you buy at Home Depot and hang on the inside, getting the cord tangled up, or collecting dust on the flimsy horizontal plastic thingys that let in 90% of the daylight as if the sun were standing directly outside your window, peeking in like a pervert. No, these blinds are like super, space program, military grade metal blinds that are BUILT IN to the wall outside the glass of your window. There is a cord attached to the side of the wall by the window and it goes into holes in your wall. You pull the cord one way or the other to lift these rather heavy blinds. When you close them, they block out every speck of light (and I suspect all air particles as well) so that you think the sun has been devoured by some space monster and it will never be light again. Take a nap? You'll think it's midnight when you wake up. Wake up at 7? You'll think it's still midnight. LOVE these, too.
7. Friendliness. Here, it is customary to greet every person when you enter a room. For instance, you enter a doctor's office, so you say "Hello" to everyone, and they all look up from their magazines and say "Hello" back. Now at a more intimate gathering, like a housewarming party, you are expected, when you enter, to go around the room and say hello to each person in turn, and introduce yourself to anyone you don't know. When it's time to leave, you go around to each person and shake their hand again. Sometimes even in a restaurant when there are only a few people, the other diners will say goodbye to us when we leave. It's something of an introvert's nightmare, but I also kind of like this expectation that people include everyone when they enter a room and greet people.
8. "Coffee with cream" here is a cup of very dense coffee with a huge dollop of homemade whipped cream -- made with heavy whipping cream. Not those cute little tubs of thick milk.
9. Grocery shopping. Grocery stores don't give you bags for your groceries, and no one bags them for you while you stand there and wait for your total. You have to bring your own bags and do it yourself. If you forget your bags, you can buy some. They have varying thicknesses of plastic bags -- most intended to be used multiple times -- or big vinyl shopping bags that you can use forever, I think.
10. I haven't really seen fruit pies here. I don't know why German people don't seem to eat them -- especially not the two crust kind. They either eat a huge variety of cake, or things rolled into flaky pastry dough, but that's about it.
11. Honor system. In this immediate area, a lot of people sell things outside their homes on the honor system. There's one cabinet standing across the street from EuNC which has pots full of water and then gorgeous fresh roses in them. You can pay $10 or $15 francs into a box in the wall and take the roses. There's no one there to take your money or to prevent you from just stealing the roses. There's another thing like that with eggs; you pick out how many eggs you want, drop your money in the box and go. I also saw a big milk dispenser at someone else's house; presumably they have a dairy farm or something: you bring your jug, put in so much money and then collect your milk from a spigot. Can you imagine how long something like this would last back home, even in one of our small towns? A day. Maybe.
12. Toy cars. Apparently, European auto makers don't build cars to actually be driven. Or I should say, they don't build them to go long distances, or to be driven on the autobahn. I'm not talking about cute little toy electric cars that fit one person in a reclining position, and look like they could take off into space, or even tiny Smart cars (a car that you can't fit other passengers, or any luggage, or even your groceries into? If you're going to do that, just ride a bicycle, which doesn't use gasoline. Not so "smart" if you ask me). I'm talking about your average size BMW sedan. We keep trying to drive different cars that look perfectly normal to us, and take them to, say, Zurich, or a few hours south in Switzerland, or a few hours east in Germany. People keep telling us, "Oh, you can't take that car. It's not built for the highway." Or, "That car isn't made to travel in. You need to stay around here." No explanation has been so far forthcoming as to what distinguishes these apparently toy cars from "real" cars, and why anyone would build or purchase a car that you don't intend to drive.
13. Washable paper towels. They sell these things here -- napkin-sized thin cloths that you use to clean surfaces in your house. They're really soft and washable. You wipe up the counter in the kitchen, or dust all the wood surfaces, or clean the bathroom sink and shower. Then you just wad it up and throw it in your laundry. A few days later -- Voila! A clean, dry paper towel, all ready to use again. I LIKE these. I'm totally bringing some home with me.
1. You can buy tomato paste in a tube, like toothpaste. Genius! You squirt out what you want, recap it and return it to the fridge for next time. This is unlike a can of tomato paste: For most recipes you only need a few tablespoons and I always end up throwing away the other half of the container.
2. Eggs. Eggs are sold in packages of 10 instead of 12. They don't refrigerate them in the store. Mine often come with a few chicken feathers attached, as if to remind you that these are fresh from CHICKENS, not some other animal.
3. Shelf stable milk. Hardly anyone here buys refrigerated milk. I know they have it but I don't even know where it is in the store. This is one of the things I really like here. You buy very small packages of milk that don't go bad for months. You can store them in your cabinet in batches of 5 or 6 containers, so they're on hand when you need them, kind of like flour or canned tomatoes. When you empty the carton in your fridge, you just pull another one out of the cabinet. They're such small packages that you use them up before they can spoil. You don't have to stand there in the store, glaring at the refrigerated wall units, agonizing for 30 minutes over whether you need a 1/2 gallon or a gallon, and if you can use it up before it spoils. We NEVER waste milk anymore. I have also found butter, creams, whipped cream and some other dairy products just sitting out on room temperature shelves.
4. Baking soda. They sell baking soda in tiny envelopes instead of boxes. You tear off the top and measure out up to 2 tablespoons. But what if you don't need a tablespoon? What do you do with the rest? You have to store it in your pantry and hope you don't knock it over so that it spills all over your cabinet. I DON'T like this. I'd much rather have a larger container with a lid instead of a bunch of little sugar-packet sized envelopes.
5. Sparkling water. Carbonated water is 19 cents for a 1 liter bottle. In the States, that would cost almost $2. I will definitely miss this. I have cut way back on my soda intake by replacing it with ice cold carbonated water.
6. The windows here open two ways: straight out into the room, like your front door, with the hinges on one side or the other; or with the top of the window tilting inward to let in just a bit of air. Most windows can do both, and you can alternate it by turning a handle to open it one way or turning it another way to open the second way. I really like this. Additionally, the blinds aren't things you buy at Home Depot and hang on the inside, getting the cord tangled up, or collecting dust on the flimsy horizontal plastic thingys that let in 90% of the daylight as if the sun were standing directly outside your window, peeking in like a pervert. No, these blinds are like super, space program, military grade metal blinds that are BUILT IN to the wall outside the glass of your window. There is a cord attached to the side of the wall by the window and it goes into holes in your wall. You pull the cord one way or the other to lift these rather heavy blinds. When you close them, they block out every speck of light (and I suspect all air particles as well) so that you think the sun has been devoured by some space monster and it will never be light again. Take a nap? You'll think it's midnight when you wake up. Wake up at 7? You'll think it's still midnight. LOVE these, too.
7. Friendliness. Here, it is customary to greet every person when you enter a room. For instance, you enter a doctor's office, so you say "Hello" to everyone, and they all look up from their magazines and say "Hello" back. Now at a more intimate gathering, like a housewarming party, you are expected, when you enter, to go around the room and say hello to each person in turn, and introduce yourself to anyone you don't know. When it's time to leave, you go around to each person and shake their hand again. Sometimes even in a restaurant when there are only a few people, the other diners will say goodbye to us when we leave. It's something of an introvert's nightmare, but I also kind of like this expectation that people include everyone when they enter a room and greet people.
8. "Coffee with cream" here is a cup of very dense coffee with a huge dollop of homemade whipped cream -- made with heavy whipping cream. Not those cute little tubs of thick milk.
9. Grocery shopping. Grocery stores don't give you bags for your groceries, and no one bags them for you while you stand there and wait for your total. You have to bring your own bags and do it yourself. If you forget your bags, you can buy some. They have varying thicknesses of plastic bags -- most intended to be used multiple times -- or big vinyl shopping bags that you can use forever, I think.
10. I haven't really seen fruit pies here. I don't know why German people don't seem to eat them -- especially not the two crust kind. They either eat a huge variety of cake, or things rolled into flaky pastry dough, but that's about it.
11. Honor system. In this immediate area, a lot of people sell things outside their homes on the honor system. There's one cabinet standing across the street from EuNC which has pots full of water and then gorgeous fresh roses in them. You can pay $10 or $15 francs into a box in the wall and take the roses. There's no one there to take your money or to prevent you from just stealing the roses. There's another thing like that with eggs; you pick out how many eggs you want, drop your money in the box and go. I also saw a big milk dispenser at someone else's house; presumably they have a dairy farm or something: you bring your jug, put in so much money and then collect your milk from a spigot. Can you imagine how long something like this would last back home, even in one of our small towns? A day. Maybe.
12. Toy cars. Apparently, European auto makers don't build cars to actually be driven. Or I should say, they don't build them to go long distances, or to be driven on the autobahn. I'm not talking about cute little toy electric cars that fit one person in a reclining position, and look like they could take off into space, or even tiny Smart cars (a car that you can't fit other passengers, or any luggage, or even your groceries into? If you're going to do that, just ride a bicycle, which doesn't use gasoline. Not so "smart" if you ask me). I'm talking about your average size BMW sedan. We keep trying to drive different cars that look perfectly normal to us, and take them to, say, Zurich, or a few hours south in Switzerland, or a few hours east in Germany. People keep telling us, "Oh, you can't take that car. It's not built for the highway." Or, "That car isn't made to travel in. You need to stay around here." No explanation has been so far forthcoming as to what distinguishes these apparently toy cars from "real" cars, and why anyone would build or purchase a car that you don't intend to drive.
13. Washable paper towels. They sell these things here -- napkin-sized thin cloths that you use to clean surfaces in your house. They're really soft and washable. You wipe up the counter in the kitchen, or dust all the wood surfaces, or clean the bathroom sink and shower. Then you just wad it up and throw it in your laundry. A few days later -- Voila! A clean, dry paper towel, all ready to use again. I LIKE these. I'm totally bringing some home with me.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Bomb shelter
It's surreal to see history alive and in front of you like that, instead of just in a book or movie -- the only way we Americans get to experience it usually.
Friday, May 13, 2011
English class on summer break
I stepped in to teach the last three English classes for J., who was teaching English in Russia the past few months. Tonight was the final class before they take a summer break, then resume in September.
Two of the teachers won't be doing it again in the fall, so I was asked to become a regular teacher. I was really excited to be asked to do this. I know I am not as good as J. (who is a certified ESL instructor), but I hope that I can still do a good enough job so that the attendees feel they are learning.
Yesterday evening, instead of normal class, the 30 or so people who are usually broken out into three different levels, met together to play a group card game that would help them practice a bit of English while mingling and having fun. They seemed apprehensive about it, because the game was a little complicated, and of course it used a lot of words they didn't know. But in the end I think they had fun.
We all brought snacks and desserts (I made pumpkin bars) and then sat around and talked afterward. I met a new girl I hadn't seen before, although apparently she's a regular. There are only two attendees who are under 40, and she is one of them -- Sandra. We had a good long talk, and I'm disappointed that I only met her now, since we won't see each other all summer. Also, she is planning to begin school in the fall and doesn't know if she'll be able to fit in the English classes anymore. So that was a bummer. I thought about asking her for her contact information, but wasn't confident enough to do so since I'd only just met her.
I did get an e-mail address for a lady in my class named Cornelia. She is really sweet, and I've gotten to know her a bit here and there when I've substitute taught. Cornelia mentioned that she really enjoys playing card games. So I hesitantly ventured to ask if she might teach me a Swiss card game this summer. She gave me her email and I gave her mine, and I hope that we can get together once or twice. Another lady also gave me a flyer for a barbecue she's having in July.
So, I made some new acquaintances at the last minute and hope that they can turn into friends over time.
I felt genuinely sorry tonight that we won't see each other again for several months. But I know it will go by fast.
Two of the teachers won't be doing it again in the fall, so I was asked to become a regular teacher. I was really excited to be asked to do this. I know I am not as good as J. (who is a certified ESL instructor), but I hope that I can still do a good enough job so that the attendees feel they are learning.
Yesterday evening, instead of normal class, the 30 or so people who are usually broken out into three different levels, met together to play a group card game that would help them practice a bit of English while mingling and having fun. They seemed apprehensive about it, because the game was a little complicated, and of course it used a lot of words they didn't know. But in the end I think they had fun.
We all brought snacks and desserts (I made pumpkin bars) and then sat around and talked afterward. I met a new girl I hadn't seen before, although apparently she's a regular. There are only two attendees who are under 40, and she is one of them -- Sandra. We had a good long talk, and I'm disappointed that I only met her now, since we won't see each other all summer. Also, she is planning to begin school in the fall and doesn't know if she'll be able to fit in the English classes anymore. So that was a bummer. I thought about asking her for her contact information, but wasn't confident enough to do so since I'd only just met her.
I did get an e-mail address for a lady in my class named Cornelia. She is really sweet, and I've gotten to know her a bit here and there when I've substitute taught. Cornelia mentioned that she really enjoys playing card games. So I hesitantly ventured to ask if she might teach me a Swiss card game this summer. She gave me her email and I gave her mine, and I hope that we can get together once or twice. Another lady also gave me a flyer for a barbecue she's having in July.
So, I made some new acquaintances at the last minute and hope that they can turn into friends over time.
I felt genuinely sorry tonight that we won't see each other again for several months. But I know it will go by fast.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Drought
We walked out of our apartment on Monday to see all the cars in our little parking lot coated in a brown sheet of dust.
We haven't had a solid shower of rain here in weeks, maybe more than 2 months. Normally this region is more rainy than sunny during the spring. The winter was abnormally dry, too. Temperatures have regularly been in the high 60s and 70s, instead of the 50s where they should be. One friend told me that this has been the region's warmest spring since they started keeping records here, in the mid-1800s.
Over the weekend I noticed my hair felt dirty every day; I realized it was from all the dust being kicked up in the air. When you look toward the horizon or up into the sky, you see haze. It's from the dusty atmosphere.
http://thewatchers.adorraeli.com/2011/04/24/europe-is-facing-the-worst-drought-in-century/
According to this article, in Zurich officials had to start moving trout out of the Toess river before it becomes uninhabitable.
While I love a good spring or summer storm, I'm less enthusiastic about the more typical cold, drizzly weather that is common here. So I haven't minded all the unseasonable warmth and sunshine. But we live in an agricultural area. Farms and fields completely surround our little village. You are more likely to get creamed by a tractor while crossing the street than to be hit by a car.
It's an immediate reality to me that Europe needs rain.
It needs spiritual rain, as well. It needs the live-giving, thirst-quenching, refreshing, reviving Living Water that God wants to pour out on His children.
We pray for both kinds.
We haven't had a solid shower of rain here in weeks, maybe more than 2 months. Normally this region is more rainy than sunny during the spring. The winter was abnormally dry, too. Temperatures have regularly been in the high 60s and 70s, instead of the 50s where they should be. One friend told me that this has been the region's warmest spring since they started keeping records here, in the mid-1800s.
Over the weekend I noticed my hair felt dirty every day; I realized it was from all the dust being kicked up in the air. When you look toward the horizon or up into the sky, you see haze. It's from the dusty atmosphere.
http://thewatchers.adorraeli.com/2011/04/24/europe-is-facing-the-worst-drought-in-century/
According to this article, in Zurich officials had to start moving trout out of the Toess river before it becomes uninhabitable.
While I love a good spring or summer storm, I'm less enthusiastic about the more typical cold, drizzly weather that is common here. So I haven't minded all the unseasonable warmth and sunshine. But we live in an agricultural area. Farms and fields completely surround our little village. You are more likely to get creamed by a tractor while crossing the street than to be hit by a car.
It's an immediate reality to me that Europe needs rain.
It needs spiritual rain, as well. It needs the live-giving, thirst-quenching, refreshing, reviving Living Water that God wants to pour out on His children.
We pray for both kinds.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Back from Berlin
We got back safely yesterday from our long weekend in Berlin. We had a fantastic time and enjoyed the company of two friends we've made in our village.
The weather was fantastic -- clear blue skies and moderate temperatures in the high 60s or low 70s every day. We hit almost everything on our list except 2-3 museums that were lower priorities, and a nearby town with two palaces that maybe we'll see sometime in the future.
Took lots of pictures and in the next few days we'll be blogging about everything. We saw a concentration camp, the Checkpoint Charlie museum, a couple chunks of the Berlin Wall, the ruins of the SS headquarters, the building where Colonel Stauffenberg launched Operation Valkyrie to assassinate Hitler and where he was executed, the Brandenburg Gate, a Memorial to the Murdered Jews, the plaza where the Nazis held a big book burning, as well as some fun stuff, like hitting several Starbucks, Madame Tussaud's wax museum and seeing a movie.
The things we saw and read gave me a lot to reflect on in the coming days. I think I'll still be processing for a while. It was completely unintended, but the order in which we saw things seemed to follow the same emotional trajectory of Easter weekend. It was interesting to immerse ourselves in a hellish period of Jewish history during Passover/Easter, and to think about the implications of the Easter story against the context of the Holocaust. I think going to Berlin on this particular weekend added something for me.
It also was interesting to have recently seen some WWII movies that added a lot of imagery in my imagination to what I was reading and seeing. Some great movies I have seen recently that were on my mind while we were in Berlin:
The Pianist
Life is Beautiful
Schindler's List
Valkyrie
The Longest Day
Empire of the Sun
The Lives of Others
Movies I'm planning to watch now:
To End All Wars
Anne Frank: The Whole Story
Enemy at the Gate
The Boy in the Striped Pajamas
Jakob the Liar
The weather was fantastic -- clear blue skies and moderate temperatures in the high 60s or low 70s every day. We hit almost everything on our list except 2-3 museums that were lower priorities, and a nearby town with two palaces that maybe we'll see sometime in the future.
Took lots of pictures and in the next few days we'll be blogging about everything. We saw a concentration camp, the Checkpoint Charlie museum, a couple chunks of the Berlin Wall, the ruins of the SS headquarters, the building where Colonel Stauffenberg launched Operation Valkyrie to assassinate Hitler and where he was executed, the Brandenburg Gate, a Memorial to the Murdered Jews, the plaza where the Nazis held a big book burning, as well as some fun stuff, like hitting several Starbucks, Madame Tussaud's wax museum and seeing a movie.
The things we saw and read gave me a lot to reflect on in the coming days. I think I'll still be processing for a while. It was completely unintended, but the order in which we saw things seemed to follow the same emotional trajectory of Easter weekend. It was interesting to immerse ourselves in a hellish period of Jewish history during Passover/Easter, and to think about the implications of the Easter story against the context of the Holocaust. I think going to Berlin on this particular weekend added something for me.
It also was interesting to have recently seen some WWII movies that added a lot of imagery in my imagination to what I was reading and seeing. Some great movies I have seen recently that were on my mind while we were in Berlin:
The Pianist
Life is Beautiful
Schindler's List
Valkyrie
The Longest Day
Empire of the Sun
The Lives of Others
Movies I'm planning to watch now:
To End All Wars
Anne Frank: The Whole Story
Enemy at the Gate
The Boy in the Striped Pajamas
Jakob the Liar
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
My new best friend
It's sleek, sexy, lightweight and efficient. Oh yeah, and it's red.
Our new Dirt Devil is wonderful. A missionary got a new vacuum cleaner and gave us his old one. Not having to walk outside to another part of the building to get a shared vacuum cleaner (which is occasionally coated with long, black hairs from other residents) is a fabulous new development.
Our new Dirt Devil is wonderful. A missionary got a new vacuum cleaner and gave us his old one. Not having to walk outside to another part of the building to get a shared vacuum cleaner (which is occasionally coated with long, black hairs from other residents) is a fabulous new development.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Glorious bike ride
I went on this absolutely glorious bike ride, about 9 miles, with my former German teacher and now friend, with her daughter. It was an afternoon of discovery, because we kept stopping along the way to check out a couple of churches at old monasteries and exploring parks and trails along the river. The weather was in the 70s with a cloudless blue sky, and everything is in bloom earlier than it normally would be.
Amazing.
Amazing.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Ich bin lerne Deutsch
A. and I have been in German classes for about 3 weeks, 5 hours a week, and I have to admit, I'm amazed at how much progress you can make in a new language in that short amount of time. Particularly when your attention is as divided as mine has been.
We have a great teacher who mixes up our activities to give us a variety of ways to speak and hear German. She's actually Swiss, so we're learning German from a Swiss-German speaker.
The obvious bonus is that there are so many opportunities outside of class to practice what you just learned: going to the grocery, to a cafe, meeting German speakers who work with you or attend classes on campus. It's extremely rewarding, after the frustration you experience in a challenging class, to successfully remember and use a new word or grammatical principle just a few hours later.
The other setting I practice in is the most fun. It's the free English classes on Thursday nights. I don't teach, but I arrive after the hour-long lesson for the 45-minute fellowship in which the students get to practice their English in an informal setting. There are only three English teachers and there are about 20 students, so I just go to meet people and to give them another person to talk with.
Tonight I met three women who are new to the class, so they just have a handful of English words and phrases they can use. Two of them are from Italy; the third one is Swiss but married an Italian man. Two of them speak fluent Spanish, for some reason that wasn't clear to me. But because my German is so limited (although I was surprised at how much I got to use tonight to further the conversation), I would switch to Spanish, because that was the language in which we had the most vocabulary in common.
It was astonishing to walk away tonight and realize I held a lengthy conversation in three different languages. Wow. I have for so long wanted to improve my Spanish and learn a third language. I can't believe it's finally happening. It's also been so long since I learned Spanish (three years in high school) that I had not remembered the wonder that comes with the transition from looking at the words of a foreign language and seeing just nonsense to the moment when you can read whole sentences and instantly translate them in your mind.
I had that moment Tuesday when a friend mentioned one of her favorite German desserts is Heisse Liebe, and I blurted out the translation, "Hot love?"
Attending German classes myself gives me a new understanding for the way the English students trip and stumble over English on Thursday nights. They have a lot of hesitance and embarrassment at being so limited, and now I know how they feel.
We have a great teacher who mixes up our activities to give us a variety of ways to speak and hear German. She's actually Swiss, so we're learning German from a Swiss-German speaker.
The obvious bonus is that there are so many opportunities outside of class to practice what you just learned: going to the grocery, to a cafe, meeting German speakers who work with you or attend classes on campus. It's extremely rewarding, after the frustration you experience in a challenging class, to successfully remember and use a new word or grammatical principle just a few hours later.
The other setting I practice in is the most fun. It's the free English classes on Thursday nights. I don't teach, but I arrive after the hour-long lesson for the 45-minute fellowship in which the students get to practice their English in an informal setting. There are only three English teachers and there are about 20 students, so I just go to meet people and to give them another person to talk with.
Tonight I met three women who are new to the class, so they just have a handful of English words and phrases they can use. Two of them are from Italy; the third one is Swiss but married an Italian man. Two of them speak fluent Spanish, for some reason that wasn't clear to me. But because my German is so limited (although I was surprised at how much I got to use tonight to further the conversation), I would switch to Spanish, because that was the language in which we had the most vocabulary in common.
It was astonishing to walk away tonight and realize I held a lengthy conversation in three different languages. Wow. I have for so long wanted to improve my Spanish and learn a third language. I can't believe it's finally happening. It's also been so long since I learned Spanish (three years in high school) that I had not remembered the wonder that comes with the transition from looking at the words of a foreign language and seeing just nonsense to the moment when you can read whole sentences and instantly translate them in your mind.
I had that moment Tuesday when a friend mentioned one of her favorite German desserts is Heisse Liebe, and I blurted out the translation, "Hot love?"
Attending German classes myself gives me a new understanding for the way the English students trip and stumble over English on Thursday nights. They have a lot of hesitance and embarrassment at being so limited, and now I know how they feel.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Killer, mutant, giant insects
I've been getting desperate for some adult social interaction in the last week or two. So I was really happy when a friend from church, Steffi (pronounced Shtehfee), invited me to join her and her husband, Alec, on a day trip to a butterfly/rain forest habitat thingy in Freiburg.
We met and became friends through church and the Monday night Bible study, but then they moved in October about 2 hours south and west in Switzerland to Solothurn, where Steffi got a job as a dental hygienist a few months after graduating from dental school. I haven't seen them since well before Christmas, and I've missed them both.
Today I took the train for about 2 hours to Solothurn, where they met me at the station and took me out to an Italian lunch in the old town area. Then they drove us about 40 minutes to the Freiburg area where this sort of nature habitat is located out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by low mountains and lots of fields.
It has three main sections: the butterfly room; a "nocturne" or exhibit of nocturnal animals in simulated night-time darkness so you can see them when they're active; and a rain forest room.
I've never seen a night time exhibit before, and that was really fascinating. I think my favorite part was that they had bats everywhere and they flew so close around you that you could feel the tiny wisps of air on your face from their beating wings. They even had a faux cave with a low ceiling, and you had to bend over so as not to bump your head on the tiny bats jiggling from their upside down ceiling perches, or swooping suddenly down over your head.
The butterfly room was exactly like two other similar exhibits I've seen in Germany and in Colorado. This one, however, also had a sectioned off dark room with small glass cases in which they had exotic and very large insects. They seriously reminded me of the monster-sized bugs in Peter Jackson's "King Kong," which is the only movie scene that -- as an adult -- I still have to watch with my eyes closed so I don't get nauseated. But these bugs -- smaller, behind glass and not slurpily devouring anyone -- didn't bother me. Mostly because they were behind glass.
That's why, when we had been in the butterfly room for about an hour and were just about to leave, it was quite disturbing when Alec spotted one of the "walking stick scorpions" hanging from a vine just over our heads, and just outside the door of the sectioned off insect room.
I must note here that this thing was about 6 inches long, and had dinosaur or reptile-like scales and sharp, pointy spines all over it's body. This was no dinky little cockroach. We're talking big, thick and dangerous looking..
We discussed whether these things were supposed to be roaming loose in the butterfly room, or if this one had escaped the insect room. Previously we'd run into a young British man who was feeding all the butterflies and stopping to tell us bits of trivia and insights about the different species of butterflies and hummingbirds diving and dancing around the room. Now he was nowhere to be seen. Shrugging, we left to see the other exhibits.
A few hours later, it was near closing, but Steffi wanted to see the butterflies one more time. We re-entered the butterfly room and strolled the bushy paths, stopping to see if the walking stick scorpion was still dangling from the vine. It was.
This time the British guy was standing right there, with a cluster of Japanese tourists behind him, snapping their Nikons while he spritzed water inside a case of chrysalises. Alec got his attention and pointed to the walking stick.
The British guy peered at it, then said, "Oh no."
"I hate these things," he added. "They have a stinger on the back."
He cautiously poked it and sure enough, the long abdomen curled up in defense. The British guy jerked back.
OK, I know I'm one of those wildly squeamish and ridiculously-easily-freaked-out-by-very-harmless-and-tiny-insects type of female. But even I know it's not a good thing when the insect keeper jerks back from the big, juicy, scaly insects.
The Japanese tourists were quickly entranced by this display of live, wildlife action, so they clustered around him and frenetically snapped their shutters.
Meantime, a cloud of very large, white butterflies settled onto the British staff guy's head, glasses, arms and nose, vying for the perfect landing spot. He carefully swatted at them, gently removing them from his glasses and face. With one hand he poked at the walking stick scorpion, which attached itself to his hand, and with the other he waved off the attack butterflies that wouldn't leave his face alone.
The staff guy had realized that the scorpion had just molted. As a result, all its limbs were very soft, including the stinger, which made it temporarily harmless. But he had trouble balancing the scorpion, which was trying to crawl upside down on his hand, while keeping the persistent, and now apparently carnivorous, white butterflies out of his face.
At this point, I couldn't decide whether this display was horrifying or hilarious. I settled on hilarious when the staff guy headed into the insect room with the scorpion, still hounded by my video camera and the Japanese photographers, and he begged us not to put this video of him on the Internet.
I turned horrified when he admitted that a couple of these scorpions had once gotten out and now there were thousands of them in the butterfly room.
Steffi and I stared at each other. She said, "I'm really glad we didn't hear about that until we were leaving anyway."
See my video of this close encounter with exotic wildlife now.
We met and became friends through church and the Monday night Bible study, but then they moved in October about 2 hours south and west in Switzerland to Solothurn, where Steffi got a job as a dental hygienist a few months after graduating from dental school. I haven't seen them since well before Christmas, and I've missed them both.
Today I took the train for about 2 hours to Solothurn, where they met me at the station and took me out to an Italian lunch in the old town area. Then they drove us about 40 minutes to the Freiburg area where this sort of nature habitat is located out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by low mountains and lots of fields.
It has three main sections: the butterfly room; a "nocturne" or exhibit of nocturnal animals in simulated night-time darkness so you can see them when they're active; and a rain forest room.
I've never seen a night time exhibit before, and that was really fascinating. I think my favorite part was that they had bats everywhere and they flew so close around you that you could feel the tiny wisps of air on your face from their beating wings. They even had a faux cave with a low ceiling, and you had to bend over so as not to bump your head on the tiny bats jiggling from their upside down ceiling perches, or swooping suddenly down over your head.
The butterfly room was exactly like two other similar exhibits I've seen in Germany and in Colorado. This one, however, also had a sectioned off dark room with small glass cases in which they had exotic and very large insects. They seriously reminded me of the monster-sized bugs in Peter Jackson's "King Kong," which is the only movie scene that -- as an adult -- I still have to watch with my eyes closed so I don't get nauseated. But these bugs -- smaller, behind glass and not slurpily devouring anyone -- didn't bother me. Mostly because they were behind glass.
That's why, when we had been in the butterfly room for about an hour and were just about to leave, it was quite disturbing when Alec spotted one of the "walking stick scorpions" hanging from a vine just over our heads, and just outside the door of the sectioned off insect room.
I must note here that this thing was about 6 inches long, and had dinosaur or reptile-like scales and sharp, pointy spines all over it's body. This was no dinky little cockroach. We're talking big, thick and dangerous looking..
We discussed whether these things were supposed to be roaming loose in the butterfly room, or if this one had escaped the insect room. Previously we'd run into a young British man who was feeding all the butterflies and stopping to tell us bits of trivia and insights about the different species of butterflies and hummingbirds diving and dancing around the room. Now he was nowhere to be seen. Shrugging, we left to see the other exhibits.
A few hours later, it was near closing, but Steffi wanted to see the butterflies one more time. We re-entered the butterfly room and strolled the bushy paths, stopping to see if the walking stick scorpion was still dangling from the vine. It was.
This time the British guy was standing right there, with a cluster of Japanese tourists behind him, snapping their Nikons while he spritzed water inside a case of chrysalises. Alec got his attention and pointed to the walking stick.
The British guy peered at it, then said, "Oh no."
"I hate these things," he added. "They have a stinger on the back."
He cautiously poked it and sure enough, the long abdomen curled up in defense. The British guy jerked back.
OK, I know I'm one of those wildly squeamish and ridiculously-easily-freaked-out-by-very-harmless-and-tiny-insects type of female. But even I know it's not a good thing when the insect keeper jerks back from the big, juicy, scaly insects.
The Japanese tourists were quickly entranced by this display of live, wildlife action, so they clustered around him and frenetically snapped their shutters.
Meantime, a cloud of very large, white butterflies settled onto the British staff guy's head, glasses, arms and nose, vying for the perfect landing spot. He carefully swatted at them, gently removing them from his glasses and face. With one hand he poked at the walking stick scorpion, which attached itself to his hand, and with the other he waved off the attack butterflies that wouldn't leave his face alone.
The staff guy had realized that the scorpion had just molted. As a result, all its limbs were very soft, including the stinger, which made it temporarily harmless. But he had trouble balancing the scorpion, which was trying to crawl upside down on his hand, while keeping the persistent, and now apparently carnivorous, white butterflies out of his face.
At this point, I couldn't decide whether this display was horrifying or hilarious. I settled on hilarious when the staff guy headed into the insect room with the scorpion, still hounded by my video camera and the Japanese photographers, and he begged us not to put this video of him on the Internet.
I turned horrified when he admitted that a couple of these scorpions had once gotten out and now there were thousands of them in the butterfly room.
Steffi and I stared at each other. She said, "I'm really glad we didn't hear about that until we were leaving anyway."
See my video of this close encounter with exotic wildlife now.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
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