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.

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 politics of walking

Two posts in one day, oh my.

Walking down the street in many places is a fraught experience. In New York, it’s a mad mix of tourists and amped-up New Yorkers, but somehow it all seems to work. In Chicago, there’s so much real estate that everyone just sort of drifts around. On college campuses there’s the school of being polite and nodding and saying hello to many people one vaguely recognizes, or not, all out of fear of looking aloof. In many European cities, there is the “straight line between two points” syndrome. When walking, pick a point off in the distance and head straight for it ignoring anything in your path: children, old ladies, small people, dogs, etc.

That this is so occurred to me years ago while living in Berlin (if not earlier), and was hilariously described just this past weekend on a German TV show about Paris, where two young Canadian women demonstrated it.

I learned to loathe this syndrome living in Berlin, because it’s very masculine and exceedingly Darwinian. If I am bigger than you, you get out of my way. Given that I am an average-sized American, I qualify as diminutive in this pituitarily active nation, so the expectation was that I yield to the larger vehicles on the sidewalk. The problem with this? Well, I played too much hockey and way too much rugby in my life to think that size has anything to do with a man’s mettle, so I made it a habit to literally walk straight into the chest of these two-meter giants, look up slightly, and ask “na, und?” Ah, making friends one at a time. If you do it right, i.e.- walk straight, never deviate, never glance left or right, even the tallest guys get the signal and dodge. It’s a neverending game of chicken.

Not that one has to walk like this every day. I think of this as my “need to get somewhere and am foul-tempered” strut. There are plenty of days where I dodge for anyone.

Which brings me to today’s episode of sidewalk fun in Germany. While returning to the building where I work, two female students approached in the opposite direction. I was “driving” right, or more or less walking straight down the right side of the sidewalk about 30 cm from the building. They were barrelling down the middle, with about 1.5 m of sidewalk to their right where they could have easily avoided me by casually drifting a mere 10-15 cm to their right. I noted at about 30 m that they were playing the straight line game, so my testosterone-addled brain kicked into straight line mode. Besides, they had 5x as much space to maneuver, and no bricks to run into.

At the last possible second, the woman nearest to me dodged her arm out of the collision path; as she did, her bag, which I had not seen, shifted slightly into my path and banged loudly on my hip. She wheels around and barks at me with that “jackass” tone in her voice, which I completely ignored (part of the straight line game rules–never show remorse). Ugh. So sorry I didn’t flatten myself on the building to dodge your train.

Resistable

 

soft ears, originally uploaded by jda127.

I am possessed of an iron will.
We snuggled not only this adorable spotted (parti-colored?) cocker spaniel pup at the Wamego Tulip Festival on Saturday, but his three adorable, soft siblings, as well. All four pups were tired from a morning playing in the grass at the fair. When we got to them, they were simply overjoyed at the prospect of having Greta or me hold them so they could drift off to sleep and make cute little schnorflly dog noises.
I did not inquire as to whether the pups were up for adoption. My will is strong.
Plus, I know, and you do, too, that this adorable pup will grow up to be a lovable, but rather dim-witted, canine with a tendency toward wet ears, soggy paws, and shedding on my couch.

Richard Quest

While I was in Austria and Italy earlier this year on a pleasure (and pain) junket, I happened to stumble across CNN International one night on the TV, and the friend traveling with me said, oh look, it’s Richard Quest. I had never seen Richard Quest before, but right away I noticed he was a bit different than the folks on US CNN (not that I watch all that much). People like Anderson Cooper, Wolf “I’m a scary mean dwarf” Blitzer, and Christiane Aman …, good lord, can’t say it or spell it, just annoy me with their pomposity and self-declared rock-starness. Cooper’s the worst, a posing, preening pretty boy.

Quest is something else. He’s quite pleased with himself, too; I don’t think it’s possible to stand so much in front of a camera if you’re not. What saves him from the other’s fate is that he’s kind of a geek, loud, funny, and clearly pretty stoked that he landed such a sweet job. While I was abroad he was in Davos for that silly world summit thingy where everyone goes and grandstands, and the way he says Davos is now forever etched into my brain. Take your hardest British accent, make the a as hard and short as you can, and scream it into a microphone in every other sentence–DAVOS!!!–and you’ll almost be there. Thanks, Richard.

Anyway, the point of all this is that he’s obsessed with Twitter. He sends tweets from the set, for heaven’s sake. In one tweet, he’ll mention his interview with someone major and famous, but just that same morning he tweeted about the blueberries on his oatmeal. I never quite got Twitter before, but the way he uses it kind of makes sense. Some of the funniest tweets I’ve ever read come from him, including some priceless gem about what he ordered for lunch one day. I don’t think he meant it to be funny even, but I still laugh about it.

Never thought I’d be a fan of a media star, let alone a British one (I have this thing about British men, and it’s not positive), but so it goes.

For the love of crap

I like to consider myself an active and informed citizen. I have been a registered voter in every community I’ve lived in since turning 18. I inform myself about candidates before elections. I vote. This year I have even had yard signs.

But what on earth gives with the county jury board people????? Why are they obsessed with me??? Today I received my FOURTH jury summons of the quarter. Each time they send me a letter, I dutifully check with my colleagues to see if they can cover my classes; I inform my students of homework due way in advance; I write up lesson plans for those colleagues helping me out; and generally prepare to do my civic duty. Then, the jury pool folks call me the night before I’m scheduled to appear and cancel the call. Ok, so I don’t have to report for jury duty, but the hassle isn’t really all that different than if I did. So, tomorrow I am going to fax them a letter saying: sorry folks, I just can’t do it again.

The 12 Joys of Single Parenting

storage cube, originally uploaded by jda127.

Sung to the tune of “Twelve Days of Christmas”

The first few days of temporary single parenting have brought with them some. . . challenges. I don’t have a full list of twelve that I can put into song and verse this very moment. At this rate, though, you should just wait a week or so and see what I come up with.

The picture–a totem to my organizational craze on Sunday–will be the #3: a three-tiered shelf. It helped us put Greta’s room in order and clear out some of the clutter.
(sing along in your head: “A threeeee-tiered shelf”)

“Two dead bunnies”
Photo NOT forthcoming. Something broke into our rabbit hutch Friday night, bent the door open, killed the bunnies but did not eat them, and left their frozen carcasses to rigormoritize in my back yard. Saturday, for those of you keeping score at home, is the day Dale left for Germany. So we all awake to Papa’s imminent departure and the violent end of our bunnies’ short existence on this earthly plane. Awesome, no?

“And an eeeeeaaaar infection!”
Ingrid is sick, though thankfully not too sick to go to school and play.

I’ll work on 4-6 over the rest of the week, mkay? (four new gutters? need those; how do I work a leaky tub drain into the song? anyone want to collaborate?)

Just Breathe

alternately: how one small breathing exercise can send me on a jaunt through my life in sound bites.

In corpse pose in yoga today, we were told to relax our ujjayi breathing and just breathe “normally” in through our noses and out through our mouths. This requires, for me anyway, conscious thought. That got me to thinking: have I made the yoga breath more automatic? Is that slight constriction at the back of the throat easier and more natural for me now?

Which then got me to thinking: huh–if the constriction at the back of my throat is coming more naturally, does that, then, account for the “grunt-sigh” noise Dale insists I keep making when I’m stressed out or responding negatively to something?

The “grunt-sigh” got me to thinking about the “woof-shrug” that Daniel Coyle wrote about in Lance Armstrong’s War. “Woof-shrug” is the sound and body language combo emitted by Belgian cycling gurus who don’t want to humor you with an answer.

Coyle’s book inspired me to think about the book I am currently reading and loving, Michael Chabon’s The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, which, aside from being specatcularly well-written and enjoyable to read, is full of fun yiddish words, rendered in the American.

Yiddish, and how I pronounce it in my head while I read, led me to ponder German (since, duh, they’re related), whereby I wound up back at my job.

Do we all see why I sometimes have a hard time falling asleep at night?

The Bike Commute

The world goes by slower when you go to work on your bike. Today, for example, I got not one but TWO up-close visions of roadkill. The first one was of the fur-and-parts-all-over-the-road variety. Can we get an “ewwwww”? The second victim was more intact. Looked kind of like a flattened stuffed animal, actually.

I think I’ll take a different road to work tomorrow.

Thus begins the descent into old age

Lookin’ Good, originally uploaded by jda127.

The next thing you know, he’ll start wearing them with sandals and out of the house–not just to take out the garbage. And then he’ll start talking about Kids These Days and their Horrible Music and relating how Back in His Day the country was a better, safer place.
Harumph.