Fridays are for Lists

In case any of our few, but cherished, readers are under the impression that we’ve moved the authorship of this blog entirely to the half of our family residing in Germany—–I’m still here. I even read Dale’s posts and think about writing my own. Obviously I do not actually write these posts. However, I will share with you a list of the things I have thought about blogging but have not:

• Benadryl. If you plan on taking a small person on a transatlantic flight, get some NOW. One dose, 45 minutes before takeoff, and voila! Kid sleeps, you rest, and everyone shows up on the other side of the pond in good humor and ready to play.
• Kids skiing. Small people, bundled up in snow gear and ski goggles, hitting the small slopes and practicing on moving-walkway-style ski lifts and t-bar carousels. Awesomeness.
• Emigrating. Should we?
• Dog. Should we?
• On being a pedestrian. Where there are sidewalks and storefronts, I will gladly walk. Open expanses of ick (being defined as parking lot, industrial area, empty lot) reduce the psychological comfort of walking through a city.
• On being a pedestrian in the snow. Walking in a snowy city is easier than driving in a snowy city. Added features–you know where every dog in town does their business; the slush on the floors of public transport is deep enough for kids to drown in. You have an excuse to wear every knitted item you packed.
• Tenure: lookin’ good.

Life on the East Coast

The Devil's Gear - New Haven, CT

Jennifer and I had the great fortune to spend three years living in New Haven, Connecticut, although formulating it like this gives me a moment of pause. The reason for this is that I am not sad that I no longer live there. On the one hand, we met wonderful people and made many friends, saw and did new things, ate more shellfish and lobster than ever before or since, and in general got to know a very different part of the country than the one we call more or less home.

On the other hand, I do not miss living in a city nor raising children in a city where within three hundred yards of our house, the following activities regularly took place: prostitution, drug dealing, assault, burglary, vandalism, and intravenous drug use on playgrounds. Expand the scope a little bit, and I could add mugging, murder, and random shootings. At one point, a dead john surfaced in a car less than a block away from our house (tip: never solicit a hooker when you have a weak heart, and certainly not in the back seat of your car), and in the context of living in New Haven, this was more a source for bemusement than alarm.

Recently, I  heard from a friend there (who still works in New Haven, but lives elsewhere) that The Devil’s Gear, my favorite bike shop in New Haven and a candidate for favorite anywhere, was just looted. This had nothing to do with some larger protest or riot getting out of hand, just a bunch of high school kids out for “teen night” at a bar. One can only hope that those who were arrested get punished and are the better for it.

What makes me particularly sad about this senseless act is that The Devil’s Gear is exactly what New Haven needs, a locally owned business that exists to better the community. The owner, Matt Feiner, is by anyone’s definition a mensch, and tries really hard to help out any customer, large or small, rich or poor. Whether he knows it or not, he strongly influenced my behavior on a bike for the better (and I was an experienced cyclist when I met him) and particularly how I behave towards those not on bikes. He is an urban and urbane fellow, whose business deserves nothing but respect, not looting.

Matt sold me my current and much beloved road bike, and when I ride it, I occasionally glance down and see his shop sticker. I feel like a better person for having purchased my bike from a shop that supports cycling as a means to better cities, and to have supported the kind of businessperson we need to have, no matter where we live. New Haven is a rough place, but The Devil’s Gear should be a source of civic pride.

Twenty years ago

On Tuesday, Germany will mark the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall. There has been a nearly nonstop succession of television documentaries, events, interviews, and speeches to mark this event, and as one would expect one hears mostly that it was a joyous occasion beyond anyone’s dreams, but there is often a note of bitterness mixed in about the ways that unification, twenty years on, has left behind a lot of carnage and wounds, but psychic and financial, that have yet to heal.

Tonight I was sitting in front of the television watching one of those documentaries. 20 years ago on November 9, I sat, utterly speechless and weeping uncontrollably as I recall, before my television in Dillon, Colorado watching news that I thought would never come in my lifetime. Just two years earlier a West Berlin bureaucrat had told us, a visiting group of college students, that things had normalized and that the Wall was simply a reality one must accept. As he put it, the goal of his government was to find ways to make it more permeable–travel permits, exchanges, etc.–but that its existence was no longer really in question. He said this was no perceptible emotion and, in general, in those days there was certainly little or no unification urge or spirit in the Federal Republic.

While I sat there speechless that day in 1989, I also thought about two other more personal aspects of this stunning turn of events. First, I longed to be in Leipzig on that day. I had applied for but not received one of the rare Fulbright grants for East Germany, and had it been successful, I would have been a student at the then Karl Marx University in Leipzig and likely, due to my burning Americanness, taken part in the marches. The other thought was that my recently submitted application for a Fulbright to West Germany based on a topic concerning authors who had either left or been expelled from East Germany, was pretty much now bound for the circular file. As it turned out, it was successful, but that’s another story.

While watching tonight, perhaps as a result of having been bombarded with reminisces for the last two months, it finally dawned on me that one of the main forces behind 1989 in East Germany was the wish for Reisefreiheit, the freedom to travel, to determine one’s locale. Tonight, however, for the first time, it became clear to me that there was an aspect of the events of 1989 that I had never really considered, that being that the brave people who brought down the East German regime also gained me my Reisefreiheit.

In 1982, as a fairly naive 15 year-old high school student, I spent the better part of a summer living with a family in Berlin within a stone’s throw of the border to East Germany in far southwestern West Berlin. Transiting East Germany by rail and living within an island city made an indelible impression on me, and I sought every opportunity I could to spend time in East Berlin and Potsdam. Those trips are burned into my memory like little else from that age, and the impressions remain fresh and palpable and likely always will. It was a mix of fear, hatred (for smug border types and oppressive regimes), curiosity, and adventure that quickened the pulse and sharpened the senses.

Ironically, that was all I ever saw of the DDR. Although I read much about cities such as Dresden and Leipzig, it was impossible to visit them as an American without being on an organized group visa. I tried in 1987 while living in West Germany and was rejected, and ended up transiting East Germany to visit Poland. In 1990, after the Wall was opened, I even tried to bribe, outright, an agent for the East German state travel agency’s office in Bratislava so that I could visit what was left of the DDR before reunification.

I had spent considerable time in Eastern Europe at that point, and longed to visit the “other” Germany. My passport was littered with stamps that said DDR in that peculiar blue and orange ink, but all I knew of it were the signs I could say as the train rolled toward Berlin: Wittenberge, Staaken, etc. In college I had developed an interest in East German literature and read everything I could. While others read Mann’s Buddenbrooks or Frisch, Dürrenmatt, et al., I devoured Wolf, de Bruyn, Braun, and Becher. I wrote my senior thesis on Jurij Brezan, and had hoped to visit the grand old man of Sorb literature if I had gotten the grant for Leipzig. In fact, visiting the Sorb homeland in the Lausitz was one of my main motivations for seeking a visa to East Germany.

And so, in 1989, I now realize, I, too, was granted my freedom to travel to East Germany, and am now fortunate enough to live in a grand city such as Leipzig. I cannot express how much I admire and appreciate those people who took to the streets in 1989 to topple a decrepit but still dangerous regime, some of whom are my neighbors now. It is a mistaken assumption on the part of many Americans and Europeans that we are “free” while others live under the yoke of dictatorships. As an American, my government prohibits me from travelling to any number of lands with whom we have chosen to pick quixotic fights that have nothing whatsoever to do with citizens of either nation as individual human beings. Our foreign policy and incessant use of military force makes other regions simply too dangerous to visit, merely by dint of having an American passport and regardless of my personal views on the matters. I have no general Reisefreiheit.

Freedom, so oft on the tongues of American presidents, German chancellors, and others of their ilk, has many aspects and meanings, and while certainly much was gained in 1989, it is equally clear that some things were also lost. Nevertheless, on Tuesday, I hope to take a moment to reflect quietly on the events of 20 years ago, and silently weep in gratitude for those who stood up for my freedom, too. May I be so bold someday.

Pedro on the Mound

[Inspired, obviously, by Ernest Thayer's "Casey at the Bat"]

The outlook wasn’t stellar for the Philly nine that day:
The series stood three-two, with the Yanks one win away.
But Sabathia lost his start, and Burnett he did the same,
So the fans in red just thought, hey, that we can win one game.

A feckless few thought their team beyond all repair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Pedro could but go just one more round -
We’d put up even money, now, with Pedro on the mound.

Cliff Lee preceded Pedro, as did that Blanton Joe,
And the former threw a lulu, while the latter he did show;
So inside that spellbound Philly crowd high expectations grew,
For Pedro now would take the ball; we know what he can do.

That Lee he won a tough one, to the great delight of all,
But Lidge, he so untrusted, hit Teixeira with the ball;
And then the infield shifted, and that Damon he spied third,
So with Johnny safe on base, the A-Rod name was heard.

So from the Yankee bosses, there arose a hearty cheer;
It irked the huddled masses, who grabbed another beer.
Hope was dim that much was true, but we hearkened to the sound,
That Pedro, yes that Pedro, would so soon ascend the mound.

There was grace in Pedro’s manner as he stepped up to the mike;
There was joy in Pedro’s visage as he said this game I like.
And then, responding to reporters, he let the s word slip.
So sorry he said, but who did care, it was a stellar quip.

A thousand cameras spied him as he spoke of his life’s work;
I hope that you, he stated, find me not to be a jerk.
And while the balls fly slower, as they leave his well honed grip,
They take paths that few can follow as they weave and dip.

And now the much awaited game came thrust onto our screens,
And Pedro, ah, well let’s just say, he bore the Phillies dreams.
Three thousands Ks, two hundred wins, that stellar ERA;
Who better then, who could be found, to start on such a day.

Now from the Bronx, full of pinstripes, came the usual refrain,
Come on you baseball nation, bow before the Yankee train.
“Never! Down with George’s team!” shouted all not wearing blue;
We have Utley, Howard, Werth, those Phillies know what to do.

With a smile on his face, the great Pedro took the ball;
Hope springs in us eternal, after surgeries and all.
His velocity is down, crafty still he labors on;
His legacy is certain, we’ll still miss him when he’s gone.

“Pedro!” cheered the nation, as the game was to be played;
A great arm’s date with destiny was not to be delayed.
The hall of fame is certain, as is glory and renown;
Still we wanted, still we wished, that brave Pedro not go down.

The smile is gone from Pedro’s mien, his head hangs just a bit;
Somehow one gets the feeling, that this just might be it.
Matsui saw the ball, and did he ever hit it hard,
He smacked it not once, but twice, and four runs the Yankees scored.

Everywhere in baseball lands, fans of the game are saddened;
When they see pinstripes rejoice, most hearts are not so gladdened.
And somewhere teams are scheming, hoping for that one great shot;
But there is no joy in Philly, mighty Pedro he was not.

Long distance runner

Clearly too cheap to pay for photos

That title is a weak bridge from my last post, obvious only to the most diehard Dead fans, I suppose. It seemed necessary to post something here before wordpress.com decided this blog had been abandoned and deleted it.

A few weeks ago, I ran my first marathon. Why did I do this? Part of me is still wondering about that, but most of it has to do with setting goals and challenging oneself. Also, J has dreamed for years of running a marathon and not done it yet, so I hope by blazing the trail I can light a small fire under her motivation.

I also happened to have a window where I had no teaching obligations. Sure, I had a ton of other work to do, but everyone has free time and I needed something to fill mine while living far from home and away from my usual time filling activities such as gardening, cycling, house repairs, UU activities, etc. Marathon training fit the bill.

Next I had to find a marathon in late September or early October. The obvious choices were either Bremen or Cologne, but the Cologne marathon is larger, and running with crowds in front of crowds is supposed to help with motivation (it does). Plus, I spent a year in Bremen, and using the words October and Bremen in the same sentence brings to mind visions of being wet to the undies and cold to the bone. Yuck. As it turned out, the weather in Cologne wasn’t exactly fab, but it only rained for about ten minutes, and the sun even made an appearance for the better part of an hour.

Running 26.2 miles takes a long time. When you do it in kilometers, it seems even longer, because 42 is a big number. On the other hand, you knock out the Ks faster, so maybe it is a wash. At any rate, it starts to hurt at some point, and around 36K it was like I lost fifth gear in my transmission. I could maintain my pace fine, but acceleration left the building.

I had trained like a laser–always timing myself and carefully measuring my distances, a rare moment of such athletic exactness for me–and got to the point that I can run a mile or kilometer and more or less tell within ± five seconds how fast I went. Doing the math, I knew that if I ran just a tad under five minutes per kilometer, a 3:30 marathon was possible. Ran that pace in my longer training runs and didn’t die, either, so felt optimistic.

Ended up with a 3:31:22, which over that distance counts for me as pretty much dead on target, so was very satisfied. Good to know that one can dole out one’s energy over such long distance with some degree of control.

Not sure I am eager to run another one anytime soon, although J and I are tossing around running one next June with me as her pacer, but am pretty glad to have figured out how one does such things without injury or drama. Had always wondered what it felt like, too, to run that far.

Bands I’ve Seen

Saw a list like this over on dchud’s blog, and wondered if, for one, I could actually remember all of the bands I’ve seen in the last quarter century or so, and if I could, if my list could even begin to hold a candle to his. I have to try. Here goes, in no particular order other than the random recall mechanism known as human memory:

Grateful Dead
Leftover Salmon
The Minutemen
Porno for Pyros
Morphine
Midnight Oil
They Might Be Giants
Lyle Lovett
Willie Nelson
Beau Soleil
The Blasters
The Beat Farmers
Billy Bragg
Echo and the Bunnymen
The Producers
Modern English
Extrabreit
Abwärts
Morgenrot
Mason Williams
Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch (oh yeah)
Ziggy Marley
Alex de Grassi
X

Surely I have forgotten some, but there is likely a reason for that. It’s a pretty modest list, and I realized while making it that I have never been to one of those massive stadium or arena concerts, which explains the absence of certain mega-artists from the list, since those are the only venues they play. I am likely just too cheap to shell out the dough and always have been. I may be the only kid ever to graduate from high school in Denver without seeing a show at Red Rocks.

Regrets are few. I am still pissed about missing the 1984 Talking Heads show at Red Rocks. May the ticket window wench who wanted me to get in line behind the guppies lined up for Stevie Nicks/Joe Walsh tickets (it didn’t even sell out!–I have forgiven Joe Walsh, but Stevie Nicks is still on my list) suffer from terrible gas all her days. When I came back after the Nicks line had dissipated, Talking Heads had sold out. Yes, that was the Stop Making Sense tour. Yes, I am bitter.

Also regret refusing an offer of free tickets to see U2 at the Rainbow Music Hall in Denver in 1982. They were unknown back then, and a guy in my ninth grade class got grounded and offered them to me (I seem to recall they were $4). I said, who are they, and passed. May I also suffer from terrible gas for being so damn stupid.

Last, but not least, the leisurely breakfast Jennifer and I had back in 1998 instead of getting our butts out the door to buy tickets to Die Roten Rosen (Die Toten Hosen doing their Christmas jag–priceless) in Berlin is still stuck in my throat. How did I possibly think that would not sell out in, like, 30 seconds, which it more or less did. May my gas be compounded by piles, whatever they are. Sound nasty.

So, at the ripe old age I have now achieved, something to make these past disappointments melt away: I just scored tickets to see the Leningrad Cowboys in Leipzig. They are playing three blocks from my house. It is a dream come true.

Oh, and that Dead show in Telluride in 1987 was a good call, too.

The enduring brown cloud

One of the constants of my many sojourns in Germany, whether one speaks of 1982 or 2009, is the enduring presence and influence of the radical right. Back in the 1980s it was the Republikaner, today it is largely the NPD, but whatever they call themselves, they are neonazi fascists and truly despicable.

The other day I watched a ZDF documentary “Neue braune Welle” and was deeply disturbed by it. In many ways, it just reported what we already know, which is that the NPD and their ilk have a strong hold on disillusioned young men and remain prepared to commit violent acts. The disturbing part was that it reinforced my not-so-vague impression that the German police, in general, turn a blind eye to these pinheads, or go further and actually help support their activities. There is even a saying in Germany that the police are auf dem rechte Auge blind (blind in the right eye).

The Bavarian town of Gräfenberg has the misfortune to have become something of a magnet for this trash, likely due to the presence of a large war memorial. The NPD routinely organizes loud, ugly marches to the memorial, poking their finger squarely in the residents’ eyes. The townspeople got sick of it, organized themselves into a civic forum, and organized a counter protest in the form of a sit in blocking the approved path of the NPD march. Not only did the police assist the NPD with finding an alternate route, some of the organizers of the local counter protest received fines for blocking the march and others are being brought up on charges of obstructing a legal demonstration.

Given that the NPD is always on the cusp of being declared illegal (verfassungswidrig–unconstitutional–Germany’s constitution forbids neonazi activities), and since Bavaria’s interior minister has spoken loudly and forcefully of his support for such a ban, one would think that the events in Gräfenberg would motivate the politicians to take this final step and outlaw the NPD. Instead they choose to fine and prosecute people who want to defend their town against bigoted and hateful young men.

That this is shameful and disgusting would seem to be obvious. Alas, one sees so much latent anti-foreigner sentiment here that one suspects the NPD remains legal out of fear of a backlash.

[Note: I refrain from linking to the NPD. Remember that Google ranks pages based in part on how many times they are linked, so be cautious with links to noxious content.]

The power of proper translation

Balloon helicopter

We have surely all purchased products that come with manuals where the original language was rendered into English by a semi-literate person armed with a cheap dictionary. Even expensive products, such as cars, sometimes arrive with such manuals, and you wonder why the firms couldn’t spend a few more dollars on a decent translation. Really, compared to R&D, translators come cheap.

But this one takes the cake. A friend here in Germany sent G-girl a Chinese balloon helicopter, the kind where you put three blades in the hub, blow up a balloon, and set it loose, as in the picture. (I love how the shop where I got this picture lists it under annoying toys–quite apt.) She picked it up the other day and wanted to put it together. I was trying to figure out how to rig the balloon valve, so consulted the instructions. They read:

1. Assemble the propellor
2. Make the ball entangle the sebific duct
3. Blow the ball and close the mouth
4. Connect the propellor with the sealed ball
5. Now hold the balloon-helicopter horizontally and let it fly

Sebific duct? WTF? I think they meant “stick the fat end of the plastic thingy into the balloon,” but now I have the word sebific stuck in my head and have for days.

As if that weren’t enough, apparently it helps to have Popeye arms when assembling this thing, anchor tattoo included. Check out step four!

Get your Popeye arms ready!

Oooh, fashion!

Apologies to Mr. Bowie for cribbing his lyrics for a title, but when I saw the sight captured in the photograph below, this song shot into my head like a lightning bolt. Let me set the scene.

This picture was taken at the new school year celebration for the new first graders (German school starts with first grade, not K), and this man was standing in front of me. I was there because G-girl was in the theater piece performed for the kiddos. Yes, my daughter spoke German in front of a large audience, four times, no less. Anyway, it was a warm and somewhat muggy day, and the cafeteria building where this was happening is a GDR relic with impaired air circulation. It was hot in that room, and any sane person was wearing light clothing.

Not this fashion icon whose foot is here immortalized. Although it was August 8th, he was dressed from head to toe in black. Jet black, and not one little thing was any other color. Even the buttons on his shirt were onyx black.

Socks with sandals - fab!

Black long-sleeve shirt (with little epaulatte thingies a la a Members Only jacket circa 1988), black balloon cargo pants tied at the ankles, black socks, black sandals, as you can see. Nice guy, friendly smile, but, wow, dressed like the Grim Reaper on summer vacation, not to mention the dark sock in sandal thing for which Germans are known worldwide.

While walking to school with G-girl today, I saw him again walking his kid to school. Today’s ensemble was much lighter in tone (khaki – so why wear funereal black to a kid program?), but his shoes, socks, pants, and jacket all matched in tone. I so wanted to take him by the shoulders and suggest, kindly, that it is OK to mix colors.

I will now return to my glass house and pretend that I have never worn stripes with plaid. Ever. Nor did I have bright green leather shoes in the late 1980s. That is a nasty rumor.

Eating with kids

G-girl and I are spending a rather wet and dreary vacation up on Germany’s Baltic coast, trying to find ways to amuse ourselves in between the biblical downpours. Yesterday we went in to Lübeck to see a movie (Ice Age 3D, which was pretty neat with the 3D glasses and all, and didn’t give me a headache as I had feared) and to buy a new antenna for our hosts’ television. Turns out that the new antenna provided worse reception than the somewhat broken old antenna, so we had to head back into Lübeck today to return it. Joy.

As we were walking out of Saturn–Germany’s answer to Best Buy–G-girl said the words parents love to hear at inopportune times: I’m hungry. In a rare display of both adaptive parenting and quick thinking, I spotted a Vietnamese restaurant across the street, devised a plan to sell it to her, and put the plan into immediate action before she could issue further demands. Taking a knee (eye level always helps when selling to kids), I said in my most enthusiastic voice, hey, you know how Asian restaurants … but before I could finish the sentence she said “dumplings,” to which I said no, it’s Vietnamese, which means rolls, which she got. Miraculously, she assented to this choice without a word of protest. It was a good omen, and it only got better.

The restaurant was Yam Yam, directly across from the Lübeck train station. They seem a tad bit confused about whether they want to be a Vietnamese place or a Chinese place, but who cares. It was fabulous, and sort of a successful Asian fusion experiment, at a price that anyone can afford. Turns out we were lucky to get in, as it’s a small place and all of the reviews I read after the fact note that a reservation is a good idea.

It seems unlikely that an Asian restaurant across from a train station in northern Germany would light my fire, but it certainly did so, and I am rather picky about these things. At G-girl’s request, we nabbed a table that faced the open kitchen (high glass wall keeps the scents and vapors at bay), so she got to interact with the chefs making her food. I can recommend this to any parents who want a way to get their kids to sit still in a restaurant. She was transfixed (as was I) by their skill and some of the ingenuity they displayed. Great knife skills, great detail work on the presentation, and lots of creativity in the menu. Highlights:

• Their hot and sour soup was, by far, the best I have had in my life. No close second. I am now ruined for life.
• G-girl ordered their “spring in Hanoi” rolls. The presentation made her eyes pop out of her head, and they were, well, the best tasting fried rolls I have ever had. The filling was nearly all fresh vegetables (no noodle filler), and they dredged them in sesame seeds before frying. To die for.
• I had a dish they called “wind and water.” It was a turkey meatball wrapped in egg paper with a shrimp popped in the middle, cut with fringe so when fried it ended up looking like a comet, or rather cluster of comets since there were four of these. The presentation was outrageous for a dish under ten Euros, with carrots cut to look like flames and fresh beans creating the explosive tail coming from the comets. The sauce underneath was a peanut curry that I had to resist licking from the plate when done.
• Dessert – I nearly never order dessert in Asian restaurants, since the dessert menu is often short and not terribly creative. Yam Yam had only three on the menu (plus a basic ice cream and fruit for the boring), but we watched them making one and both agreed that we were having dessert. They called it almond banana pralines. I wasn’t sure what to make of the description, but it was unique and satisfying. Take a chunk of banana, bread it with sweet dough, roll it in crushed almonds, fry it, and then set them on a lovely citrusy reduction of some sort. The banana was nearly liquified. It was like bananas foster on steroids in terms of bananaey goodness.

Total bill for dad and daughter: 26 Euros. G-girl, for the first time in her life, said of a restaurant exactly what was on my mind: we are so going back there.